Chapter 6: A Name Worth Saying Aloud
In Metropolis, explosions were about as common as pigeons. The average citizen had grown accustomed to the odd building collapse, a flying man in a cape zooming overhead, or a laser-eyed lunatic declaring world domination over lunch. Frankly, the people had developed a strange sort of urban resilience—half faith, half fatigue—with Superman floating somewhere in the center of it all like a particularly trustworthy weather balloon.
Today, however, was not about capes or chaos. Today was about Bruno Mannheim—businessman, philanthropist, and suspected mob boss with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite and polished with ill intent.
He stood on a grand podium in front of a shiny new park, all polished marble paths and suspiciously cheerful clown statues. Balloons floated. Confetti machines hissed. Children clapped. Somewhere, an old man sold overpriced hot dogs. It was, all things considered, a rather convincing illusion of community.
"This park," Bruno announced grandly, arms spread like an oily preacher, "is my gift to the people of Metropolis. A place for joy, for peace—"
"Sir," Lois Lane's voice cut through like a knife dipped in sarcasm, "aren't you making a loss by building this park?"
Ah, Lois. Dressed in sharp gray slacks and a glint in her eye that could make a dragon blink. She already knew where the money came from—laundered through fake charities, perhaps, or slipped in from less-than-legal arms deals—but she wanted him to say something dumb on camera. So far, Bruno had the sense not to.
He smiled the smile of a man who counted bodyguards instead of blessings and casually marked Lois for future inconvenience. Possibly involving chainsaws.
Then, just as Bruno raised the ceremonial scissors toward the ribbon—
A whirring hum filled the air. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of tiny toy planes zipped into view. They trailed colorful mist, rainbow arcs painting the sky like a deranged fireworks display. At first, the crowd oohed and aahed.
Then the shooting started.
The planes opened fire—actual fire. Not laser shows or party poppers. Bullets.
"GET DOWN!" one of Bruno's men yelled, leaping to block his boss like a loyal pitbull in Kevlar.
Chaos. Absolute chaos. Children screamed. Parents shoved. A balloon stand exploded with a dramatic pop and shower of rubber confetti.
Lois, calm as ever, ducked behind a popcorn cart with Clark Kent in tow. She nibbled a kernel. "Relax, Clark. Superman will take care of it."
Clark, who was Superman, tried not to sigh. It was very hard being both comforted and accused of laziness in the same breath.
He scanned the sky, trying to spot a window to vanish and change clothes, when—
CRACK!
A jagged streak of purple lightning split the sky.
It didn't flash. It slithered, curling through the air like a living serpent of light, crackling with power. In a heartbeat, it struck the toy planes—one, two, ten, twenty—until the sky was raining sizzling plastic.
Gasps rang out. The crowd froze.
Atop a streetlight, standing with his hands in his pockets like he'd just won a fairground prize, was a boy no older than fourteen. Blond hair that glowed like molten gold. Blue eyes sharper than his smirk. And an aura of amusement so palpable, Clark could almost smell the mischief.
"That's not good," Clark muttered under his breath.
Because Clark had seen power like this before. He had once broken tractors in a tantrum. He'd shattered doors and frightened animals before he even knew what restraint meant.
And power—raw, untamed, emotionally charged—was terrifying in children.
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The wind carried dust like gossip as Boruto Uzumaki landed in a crouch, boots cracking a pavement tile with the confidence of someone who wanted to be seen. A gust rolled past, sweeping through the smoke left behind by dozens of miniature planes, turning the aftermath into a scene straight from a comic book—except this wasn't fiction. Not anymore.
He rose slowly, cape fluttering behind him (okay, it wasn't technically a cape, but it moved like one and that's what counted). The bright blue of his jacket caught the sunlight, and for a moment he looked every bit the young savior.
"Everything is fine now," Boruto said, half-grinning, half-posing like he definitely hadn't practiced that line in front of a mirror.
Around him, the crowd began to reappear like squirrels after a storm—timid, twitchy, and unsure if it was really over. Murmurs filled the park.
"Is that a new hero?"
"He's just a kid!"
"Where did he come from?"
Boruto heard them all. And oh, he savored it. After all, hadn't he been waiting for this? Finally a chance to step out of his father's colossal shadow. No longer just the "Hokage's son" or "lazy genius." He could be something more—he would be.
"Make a name for yourself," his father had said with that infuriating calm wisdom, then vanished like he'd just handed Boruto a grocery list instead of a destiny.
Now, here he was. Dust swirling. A city watching. And a rich man approaching.
Bruno Mannheim walked like a man who owned not just the land beneath his feet but the clouds overhead too. He wore a tailored suit and a politician's smile—warm, practiced, and absolutely not to be trusted. Still, he moved with purpose, flanked by guards like slightly less fashionable barn owls.
"Young man," he said, voice smoother than silk over a dagger, "thank you for your help. My name is Bruno Mannheim. I always repay my debts."
He extended a hand and a card, both of which Boruto took, reluctantly. The card felt expensive, like it could buy secrets. A personal number gleamed in gold lettering.
"It was nothing," Boruto said with a shrug, though his voice had the kind of edge that suggested he wanted it to be something.
He studied Bruno carefully—not just with his eyes, but with the Byakugan. The famed Hyūga bloodline limit flared to life, invisible to the crowd, and Boruto watched the subtle quickening of the man's heartbeat. It thumped with the rhythm of evasion, guilt, and secrets held far too close to the chest.
"Do you know the reason for the attack?" Boruto asked, folding the card into his pocket with practiced ease.
Bruno offered a chuckle—charming, hollow. "Unclear. Possibly someone from my... past."
He was lying, of course. Or rather, half-truthing, which was just as bad.
"Did the culprit establish any contact?"
"Toyman," Bruno answered after a pause, the name falling like a sour fruit. "Left a message. Something theatrical."
Boruto narrowed his eyes but nodded. "I'll be watching you."
And just like that, he was gone.
No smoke. No lightning. Just gone. One blink he was there, the next he wasn't. The crowd gasped again, whispering words like "teleportation," "ninja," and "seriously, where do these people keep coming from?"
Bruno, meanwhile, stood still for a long moment, eyes narrowed as he stared at the empty space Boruto had occupied.
'That ghost can't let me rest even in death…' he thought bitterly, clenching his fists. Toyman. The annoying little bug from years past had come back to haunt him through proxies and puppets.
And now, to make matters worse, a golden-haired, blue-eyed child with lightning in his fingertips had stepped in, drawn attention, and offered just enough suspicion to derail Bruno's entire month's worth of perfectly legal business.
"Reschedule everything," he muttered to his assistant. "And double security."
He was starting to get a headache.
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Two figures hovered in the sky above Metropolis, cloaked in clouds and quiet tension. One wore a red cape that rippled like a flag of old ideals. The other—a boy no older than sixteen—wore confidence like armor and the wind like wings.
"Who are you?" Clark Kent—Superman—asked, his voice low, calm, unmistakably firm.
Boruto floated just across from him, arms folded lazily, wind chakra subtly woven into the air beneath his feet. There were no flares, no visual effects. No one below would even notice he existed—unless he wanted them to.
"My name's Boruto," he said, grinning like he knew a secret—and enjoyed knowing it. "And you're Clark. Kent. Works at the Daily Planet. Partners with a woman who's clearly too smart not to know your secret."
Clark's eyes narrowed—just slightly.
"You should take this double identity thing more seriously," Boruto added with a chuckle. "You're glowing with solar energy. You float. Your heartbeat and aura are identical. Come on—I figured it out, and I'm not even trying that hard."
The blunt honesty, delivered with youthful arrogance, hit Clark like a slap of wind chakra to the pride. He blinked.
'He read my life energy? What does that even mean? How much can he see?'
Boruto smirked, sensing the reaction. "You look surprised."
"I didn't know energy signatures were something people could read," Clark admitted, trying not to sound defensive.
'He's not even breaking a sweat. Who is this kid?'
"They're not, usually," Boruto said, casually glancing at his nails. "But I'm not usual."
'Definitely not. Also—yep. That's the most punchable face I've seen today.'
Clark kept a smile off his face, barely.
"Thanks for the... advice," he said diplomatically. "But what are you doing here?"
"Same thing you are," Boruto replied, floating lazily in a circle around him. "Helping people. Punching bad guys. Getting strange looks from civilians. The usual."
Clark watched him, X-ray vision subtly active—though it showed nothing abnormal. Boruto's body read like any normal teenager. Muscles, bone, organs. No armor, no gadgets. Just power humming inside.
'He's... human. But not really. And there's more going on underneath.' Clark frowned slightly. "You're strong," he said, carefully.
Boruto beamed. "I know."
'Ugh. Definitely punchable.'
Still, Clark had dealt with worse. This wasn't the first time a teenage superpowered wildcard had floated into his life with zero context and maximum attitude.
"If you're staying in this city, we could work together," Clark offered. He didn't like unknowns—and Boruto was a walking unknown. But better allies than enemies. "You seem... capable."
Boruto tilted his head. "Who calls the shots?"
That stopped Clark short.
'Of course. Of course that's what this kid would ask.'
There was a beat of silence in the sky.
"We don't call shots," Clark finally replied. "We cooperate."
Boruto grinned wider. "So I'll take that as a no."
And then—crack.
The air sparked around him. Not from anger. From challenge.
Clark felt it—an itch along his skin. The same sensation he felt when he stood too close to lightning just before it struck.
'He wants to fight me. Seriously?'
Clark sighed, glancing toward the sun for strength.
"I don't want to fight a child," he said.
"Good news," Boruto replied, dropping into a ready stance, "I'm not just a child."