Chapter 5: A Feast of Power and Promise
The afternoon sun still clung stubbornly to the sidewalks of Metropolis, and Clark Kent—mild-mannered reporter by day, superhero by secret—walked with the kind of anxious shuffle one might expect from someone who definitely had a secret but hoped no one would notice.
Beside him strode Lois Lane: brilliant, unstoppable, occasionally terrifying. A woman who, had she been born a shinobi, would've been ANBU by thirteen, Kage by fifteen, and ruling the Five Nations by breakfast.
"So, what do you make of the situation?" Clark asked as he caught up, notebook in hand, pretending not to know anything about the explosion that had rattled LexCorp's pristine tower like an angry ghost.
Lois didn't stop walking. Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement, echoing the rhythm of a mind already six paragraphs deep into her next exposé.
"Too early to say. But one thing's clear—whoever did this isn't a run-of-the-mill meta." Her eyes narrowed as they approached the still-smoking perimeter. "The building was gutted, and yet no casualties. No alarms. No witnesses. No CCTV footage. Someone wanted it that way."
Clark nodded thoughtfully, his glasses sliding a little down his nose. He pushed them back up with a finger, just enough to stop the heat vision from accidentally triggering out of sheer emotional restraint.
"Who would do this?"
"Clark, you've lived here three years. You should know the list of people with grudges against Lex Luthor reads like the guest list to Arkham's charity gala."
That was true.
Supervillains, corrupt CEOs, even disgruntled coffee interns—everyone had a reason to want Lex out of the picture.
"Could it be a meta who controls explosions? Like the one Flash apprehended last winter?" Clark offered.
Lois stopped. Turned. Stared.
"Clark… that guy could barely manage to blow up a lamppost, and Flash had to rescue him from his own shoelaces. And besides—he didn't have speed. Or invisibility. Or the ability to casually level a floor of LexCorp without harming a soul."
Clark looked sheepish.
"Right. Good point."
Lois gave a sigh that suggested she wanted to believe her partner was clever, but was now having serious doubts.
"No. Whoever this is—they're new. Or they've never wanted attention until now." She tapped her lip with a pen, eyes dancing with speculation. "Honestly, between the explosion and the earlier incident with the runaway truck, I'd bet my press pass both are connected."
"You think it's the same person?" Clark asked, intrigued.
"I think we might have a magician on our hands. Maybe not the stage kind. The real kind. I'll ask Zatara once I get a chance. He still owes me for not publishing that story about him accidentally turning the mayor into a frog."
Clark blinked. "Wait, what?"
"Long story. Anyway." She resumed walking. "Now my question is… what's got your journalism senses tingling all of a sudden?"
Clark froze, just a beat too long.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," Lois said, spinning around and poking his chest with her pen, "you've been following my lead for months like a duckling in plaid, and suddenly you're asking actual investigative questions. Are you finally ready to graduate from fetching coffee?"
Clark chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.
"Maybe. Or maybe I just think this story's going to be big."
Lois's eyes twinkled. There was that Kent charm again. Or maybe it was just the farm boy honesty that somehow survived in a city that chewed up truth and spat out headlines.
"Fine. But if we're doing this together, you better keep up. And no disappearing mid-interview again. That's twice this week."
"I had to… uh… use the bathroom."
"For thirty-five minutes?"
"Bad sushi?"
Lois rolled her eyes so hard they nearly achieved orbit.
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Uzumaki family:
The dinner table was not, by any means, an ordinary one. For starters, it had exactly one chair that remained perpetually empty (because Boruto had been suspended from it for mischief just hours earlier), and secondly, it currently hosted one of the most powerful men in the multiverse casually serving vegetable stew while delivering life lessons.
Kawaki, who had been quiet for most of the meal, finally spoke up. His voice was steady, but his hands trembled slightly as they gripped the edge of the table.
"Father… I have also stolen."
The words dropped like a shuriken in a silent room. Himawari paused mid-chew, and even the wind outside seemed to hush for dramatic effect.
Naruto didn't look surprised. In fact, he remained perfectly calm, as if he'd known all along—which, of course, he had.
"I know," he said, gently setting down his spoon. "But unlike your brother, you didn't know any better."
Boruto—hanging upside down from the pillar outside, wrapped in chakra-infused ropes, now thoroughly chilled and with bits of leaf stuck to his face—sneezed violently in response, probably sensing he was being talked about.
Kawaki looked down, expecting disappointment, punishment, a cold look—the sort he'd seen in Amado's lab. But instead, Naruto's voice carried only patient firmness.
"Boruto already knew the difference and still acted carelessly. But you… you've never had someone to teach you. That's my job now."
Something in Kawaki's chest, long locked away under steel and trauma, uncoiled just a little. He gave a quiet nod, the kind that meant I hear you… and thank you.
"Now," Naruto continued, brushing a scroll onto the table with a flick of his fingers, "I'm going to share with you two things. First, the language of this country. Second, a brief overview of the major threats."
As soon as he finished, a soft golden light burst gently from the scroll like steam from a teapot. Symbols, shapes, letters—all flowing in a warm wave—drifted toward Boruto and Kawaki and were absorbed gently through their foreheads.
Boruto, now back inside (and sulking), rubbed his temples. "Ow. You couldn't have made that more… gentle?"
"It was gentle," Himawari chirped. "You're just bad at learning."
Naruto coughed politely to keep a chuckle from escaping.
"Now that you understand the basics, there's something else you need to see." Naruto waved a hand, and images floated in the air like genjutsu mirages.
The first was of a man in blue and red, hovering in the air like a demigod with a cape. His eyes gleamed like twin stars, and his jawline could cut through steel. Next came a man in red, standing mid-run with lightning curling around his limbs. Then a green-suited man with a glowing ring. And then, even darker shapes—lank-haired tricksters, scowling billionaires, mad scientists, and armored warlords.
"These people," Naruto said, voice calm but charged, "are not to be trifled with. Some are heroes. Some are villains. All of them… are dangerous. Some might even make me serious if they truly fought at full power."
This time, all three children stopped eating entirely. Boruto's chopsticks trembled midair. Himawari blinked. Kawaki stared at Superman's image longer than necessary, clearly sizing him up like a boy trying to guess if his father could win in a fight.
"So what do we do?" Kawaki asked.
Naruto smiled and poured more stew. "Simple. Be smart. Be quiet. Don't start fights unless I tell you to. And if someone floats in the air glowing like a miniature sun—run. Or call me."
"You're making it sound like a horror story," Boruto grumbled.
"It's not," Naruto said. "It's a learning experience."
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Himawari, always the one to speak from the heart, raised her voice with a gentle seriousness that only made her all the more adorable.
"Father, are we going to continue hiding?"
Naruto blinked, the question catching him mid-sip of tea. He set his cup down and smiled, not with the broad grin of the Hokage, but the softer, gentler smile only a father could give.
"No, we're going to live in the open. Hiding's not for us—we came here to enjoy life, not spend it under a blanket."
Himawari's face lit up with joy, but just as quickly she furrowed her brows—a clear sign she'd been thinking deeper than anyone expected.
"But... are we living openly, or are we supposed to hide this place?"
Naruto tilted his head, curious.
"I mean," she went on, fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve, "a ninja doesn't usually let people know where they sleep. Once a place is shared, it's no longer safe."
Naruto was about to answer when Kawaki chimed in, voice steady and thoughtful as always.
"She's right. If we're not careful, this will become just like back home. People will come looking… and they won't stop."
Boruto, never one to stay silent when it came to tactics—or mischief—added from where he was sprawled upside-down across an armrest:
"Stay hidden, old man. I want a challenge. Don't go scaring off the prey."
It wasn't said with venom, but with a smirk and the glint of excitement in his eyes. It was the most Uzumaki thing Naruto had seen all day.
Naruto looked at his children—his lovely, spirited children—and felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with tea or chakra. These were his legacies, his pride, his purpose. And they were already thinking like shinobi.
"Then," he said, nodding with mock gravity, "this place will stay hidden. To everyone, except those we allow. And if I do go out there"—his grin widened mischievously—"we won't be associated."
Boruto gave him a thumbs-up. Kawaki gave a satisfied nod. Himawari giggled and clapped her hands.
"Can we go on some missions together?" she asked hopefully, turning toward her father with that starry-eyed look no dad could ever resist.
Before Naruto could even answer, Hinata leaned over and gently kissed her daughter on the cheek.
"Of course, sweetheart. But first… you need to show us you can handle missions on your own."
Himawari nodded, determined. Kawaki straightened his back, as if ready for deployment. Boruto yawned dramatically, though the twinkle in his eyes betrayed his excitement.
Naruto looked around the room, taking in the sight of his odd little army—bright, bold, brave, and utterly his—and couldn't help but smile again.
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The dining table glowed. Not just because of the warm lighting overhead or the polished wooden surface—but because of the food.
No, really. The food glowed.
Golden rice steamed gently in bowls carved from smooth stone, shimmering with threads of chakra-light. Sizzling meats and roasted vegetables sparkled faintly, their scents thick with earthy spice and something… otherworldly. It was the sort of meal that made your stomach rumble and your soul tingle.
Naruto, with sleeves rolled up and an apron still draped around his neck like a scarf of victory, clapped his hands together.
"Since your first mission's been completed and we've settled into our new home," he began, looking far too proud for someone who just made dinner by snapping his fingers, "you get to eat food made by us."
He gestured grandly to the table.
Boruto's mouth hung open. Himawari blinked rapidly. Even Kawaki—who usually wore the expression of someone perpetually unimpressed—raised an eyebrow.
"Wait… you cooked this?" Boruto asked suspiciously.
"Technically, yes," Naruto replied with a chuckle, "but I cheated with chakra and summoned ingredients from a place even I don't fully understand. So if your hair turns purple temporarily, don't panic."
"Naruto." Hinata gave him the look.
Naruto held up both hands. "I'm kidding. Probably."
Hinata, far more elegantly and a little more seriously, added:
"This food is different from what you're used to. It's filled with concentrated natural energy and pure chakra. It will help cleanse your body, strengthen your chakra coils, and stabilize your growth."
As she spoke, the air around the table began to shimmer gently—almost as if the food were singing in a language only the soul could understand. Birds fluttered outside the window, chirping excitedly. Somewhere in the forest, a fox howled approvingly.
"We hadn't finished studying the right recipes before, so you were eating the beginner-tier meals," Hinata admitted with a sheepish smile. "But now… you'll be dining like proper chakra cultivators."
Boruto's jaw had officially dropped. Himawari looked like she might cry from happiness. Kawaki had already picked up his chopsticks.
Naruto stood beside them now, arms crossed and face warm.
"From now on," he said, "I'll be passing on my skills to you personally. Missions will get tougher. Training will be exhausting. But… don't stress yourselves."
He knelt slightly so he was level with them.
"I believe in you. I always have. Even if the whole world doubts you, I won't. I want you to surpass me—not the Hokage or the legend, but the boy I used to be. The one who had nothing, but never gave up."
Silence. Just for a moment.
Then—
"T-Then what are we waiting for?" Boruto suddenly blurted out, already reaching for a glowing dumpling.
"Yeah! Before it cools down!" Himawari beamed as she joined him.
"This smells better than most things I've stolen," Kawaki muttered, already chewing.
Naruto laughed heartily, and even Hinata giggled behind her sleeve.
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The night sky above the quiet ghost town was painted with starlight. A single wooden house, nestled beneath a canopy of chakra-infused trees, glowed warmly from within like a hidden sanctuary in a fairy tale.
Inside, Naruto Uzumaki sat cross-legged in a sunken corner of the house—a room built for silence and secrets.
The shelves around him were already filling with scrolls. Blank ones. New ones. Some were sealed tightly, others fluttered slightly as if restless to be used. A brush hovered in midair beside him, tip soaked in golden ink that pulsed faintly with life.
He didn't move. Not yet.
He was thinking.
Not the kind of thinking that comes with solving math problems or working out enemy battle strategy. No, this was the heavy, quiet sort. The kind that slithered in when the house had gone quiet, when the children were sleeping and Hinata was humming somewhere upstairs.
Naruto wasn't just a father anymore, or a legend, or a shinobi. Here, right now, in this stillness, he was just… Naruto. A man with an old dream and a strange, new chance to chase it.
"What have I really created?" he whispered aloud, to no one in particular. His voice echoed slightly in the silent scroll room.
For all his power, for all the jutsu he'd mastered and the villains he'd defeated, Naruto couldn't help but feel a quiet truth: many of his greatest techniques weren't truly his.
He was a patchwork of other people's teachings. A rasengan passed down from Jiraiya. Shadow clones from his academy days. Sage Mode from the toads. Kurama. Six Paths. Gifts from gods, ancestors, enemies—even aliens. Borrowed power, as Sasuke used to call it.
Now, for the first time in decades, Naruto had no war to fight. No summit to lead. No Hokage paperwork. He had… time.
And time, he realized, was the most powerful jutsu of them all.
It had been ten years since he'd uncovered the ashes of the once-mighty Uzumaki. He'd arrived too late. The inheritance chamber of the clan—whatever knowledge, techniques, or final messages they'd hoped to leave behind—had already been ransacked. Only broken seals remained, like forgotten tombstones.
"The last of us…" Naruto had murmured that day, standing knee-deep in the dust of a lost people.
The others were gone—crushed beneath the Shinju's fall, their chakra fed to a hungry tree in a war too big for anyone to win. They'd died without song or memory.
Now, as he dipped his brush again and began forming a glowing spiral seal on the scroll before him, Naruto made himself a quiet vow.
"No more copies. No more borrowed power. From now on… we create."
He would build new fuinjutsu. Strange ones. Beautiful ones. Seals that could fold space like origami or stitch a broken soul back together. Seals to protect, to teach, to store laughter and sorrow and everything in between. He'd make them with joy, like a craftsman—not a warrior.
Because that's what the Uzumaki were supposed to be: creators.
But Naruto didn't stop there.
He had seen what the Ōtsutsuki could do. Immortals who traveled worlds and feasted on chakra like it was cake at a summer festival. He'd fought them, beaten them—but even now, something in their legacy bothered him.
They lived too long.
And he—he would be lucky to see two centuries, if that. His body, even reinforced by cosmic forces, wouldn't last forever.
He hadn't cared at first. Death was inevitable. It had never scared him. But lately…
Lately, he thought about them.
About Boruto, still growing into his wild, tangled path. About Kawaki, trying so hard to believe he wasn't cursed. About Himawari, bright-eyed and still untouched by battle.
"If I go," he whispered, "who will teach them the rest?"
So he began experimenting.
In between cooking dinner and sealing garden weeds, he researched life force extension alongside Hinata. It became their hobby—no, their fun. She took notes, laughed at his wild theories, and offered quiet, brilliant suggestions when he got stuck.
They worked in chakra circles and drank tea while discussing soul-theory and genetic rejuvenation.
"You know," Naruto said once, "we're technically trying to out-science a race of alien tree vampires."
"I know," Hinata giggled, "but we are Uzumaki."
And that made all the difference.
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The ghost town slept under a star-splattered sky, blanketed in silence so thick you could almost hear your own thoughts. Somewhere in the distance, the cold wind howled across the empty streets like a mournful spirit searching for a friend.
And hanging upside down from a wooden post outside the family's newly built home was one Boruto Uzumaki, arms crossed, eyebrows twitching with fury, and nose slightly blue from the cold.
"I am going to die," he muttered, teeth chattering. "My father is trying to kill me. This is it. This is the end."
The chakra-suppressed ropes held firm despite his best attempts. He'd tried biting, burning, yelling—none of it worked. Not even begging. And worst of all? No one had come to check on him.
"Mom's probably making tea," he growled. "Kawaki's probably meditating. And Himawari's probably painting flower patterns on her kunai!"
A gust of wind slammed into him, freezing his lips into a pout.
This was training, apparently. Character-building. Focus strengthening, his father had said.
Boruto rolled his eyes. "Focus? All I'm focused on is my frozen spleen."
Meanwhile, inside the warmth of the wooden house—a home so infused with chakra and wood release that it practically purred with safety—Hinata was experiencing a different kind of night.
A much warmer one.
Naruto, ever the overachiever, had decided that now was the time to make up for everything. Every missed birthday, every late-night meeting, every battle-worn silence from the old days. And with the help of time control (a very convenient gift he'd acquired from Momoshiki, refined and polished like a craftsman's favorite blade), their night was—how should one put it?—generously extended.
Hinata had once read that time was the greatest luxury. Tonight, she found that quite true.
"You're not tired yet?" she whispered, giggling.
"I've mastered infinite clones, time loops, and planetary survival," Naruto whispered back with a grin, "but your smile still beats everything."
He wasn't the boy who once fell asleep mid-mission anymore. He was… something else entirely now. Powerful, yes—but playful, present, and most importantly, hers.
And so, as the town outside lay cloaked in wind and moonlight, the house hummed with chakra, laughter, and the creaking of newly built furniture. It was a night both restful and ridiculous in equal measure.