Chapter 10: The Speed of Loyalty
The house smelled like heaven.
Not the abstract, fluffy-cloud kind—but the kind where garlic sizzles in a pan, soy glazes something tender, and warmth wraps around your heart like a favorite blanket. Naruto stood in the doorway for a moment, caught off guard by how alive their home suddenly felt.
The music drifting from the kitchen wasn't the usual peppy pop Boruto liked to blast during his workouts. No, this was different.
"Open up wide, swallow down deep
No spoon full of sugar could make it sweet..."
Naruto recognized the voice—raspy, aching—and the words pierced him deeper than any sword ever had. His eyes softened, watching the lone figure in the kitchen.
Hinata.
Her lavender hair shimmered in the warm kitchen light as she stood at the stove, one hand expertly flipping something in a pan, the other rhythmically tapping to the beat. She hadn't noticed him yet, which gave Naruto a moment to simply… admire her.
"The secrets I keep
Are tearing me up inside..."
His breath caught.
Silently, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. Hinata let out a small gasp, startled—until she felt the unmistakable warmth of him against her back.
"Dear?" she whispered, smiling gently.
"Just missed your touch," Naruto murmured, burying his face in her shoulder, lips grazing the side of her neck. His voice was low, almost apologetic—haunted, maybe, by the words of the song.
Hinata leaned into him for a heartbeat longer, letting his warmth melt into her own.
Then—giggle.
"Hehe, this is nice… but for now—shoo, you'll make me burn the rice."
Reluctantly, Naruto pulled back, pretending to sulk as he slinked to the dining room.
"You're still by my side
When all the things I've done have left you bleeding..."
The lyrics still floated in the air, tugging on the edges of his soul. He knew Hinata understood. She always had. And somehow, this song—these confessions set to melody—had said the words he never could. Words for the sins he carried, for the guilt, the exhaustion, the scars hidden behind golden light and laughter.
And she was still here. Still cooking dinner.
"Dad… don't forget about me…"
A weak groan snapped Naruto out of his thoughts.
On the floor—looking like a soggy towel after a fight with a tsunami—was Boruto. His hair was matted, clothes dusty, his expression equal parts pitiful and melodramatic. With great effort, he was crawling—crawling—across the floor like a worm who just discovered hardwood existed.
Naruto didn't even blink.
He turned back to Hinata, eyes soft as he watched her stir the soup. This was his reward after a long day. A moment of peace. He wasn't going to let it go to waste—not even for the blonde pancake flopping around on the floor.
Boruto groaned louder.
"The floor hurts, Dad… it's so cold… the light… it burns…"
Still no response.
This was training. The kind that didn't involve punches or Rasengans—but the kind that taught consequences. Naruto didn't need to say a word. The message was clear: "You chose a fight with Superman. You live with the results."
Eventually, Boruto flopped his way onto the carpet with the grace of a dying walrus and let out a contented sigh. "Ahhh… finally. Softness."
He looked at his dad.
Nothing.
Naruto was watching Hinata stir soup with a dreamy expression that said, This is peace. This is home.
"We all want love, we all want honour
Nobody wants to pay the asking price..."
Boruto sighed, curled up like a beaten-up cat, and mumbled, "Why is emotional damage worse than the heat beam?"
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Himawari:
In the shadow-laced alleys of Gotham, under a sky still humming with emerald afterglow, Selina Kyle—better known as Catwoman—was ready to make her move. The strange green flare had pulled everyone's attention skyward, lighting up the night like an alien aurora. Police scanners were quiet, criminals were frozen, and Gotham—for once—was holding its breath.
Which made it the perfect moment for a little light thievery.
Dressed in her sleekest stealth suit, Selina darted between rooftops like a shadow given legs. She'd scoped out her target—an obscenely wealthy arms dealer who thought security meant gold-plated cameras and guards more concerned with lunch breaks than patrols. It was going to be easy money.
That is—until she heard the voice.
"What are you doing?"
Selina's instincts fired faster than her brain could register. She twisted in midair, flipped backward, and landed crouched—claws out, ready to strike.
Only to find herself staring at…
A ten-year-old girl.
Short purple hair in neat twin buns, pale white eyes, and the kind of frilly white sundress that belonged in a summer picnic ad, not on a Gotham rooftop. She was even wearing cute little sandals. Sandals. On a roof.
Selina blinked.
'Okay,' she thought, mentally tallying up the situation like a bingo card of red flags. Appeared from nowhere. No sound. Defenseless appearance. Angelic smile.
Yep. She checked every "magical creepy child" box there was.
"Window shopping," Selina said coolly, rising to her full height. "Want to join me, cutie?"
The girl tilted her head, and the grin widened.
"Is that so? I thought you wanted to borrow them for some time and check them out personally."
Selina froze.
There was a playful lilt to the voice, but also a teasing edge that sent a very real chill down her spine. Her muscles tensed—and failed to move. Something invisible held her in place. Her body just… stopped listening.
'What the hell is this kid?'
The girl took a step forward, eyes twinkling. "You know, most people get a little nervous when they meet me. Or cry. Or run." She shrugged. "You're not crying, so you're doing great!"
Selina, despite every internal alarm screaming, gave her most charming smile. "How can I help you, young miss?"
"Come with me. I have need for you."
"Can I decline?"
"Do you?"
"…Of course not. How could I say no to such a cute girl?"
The child giggled like she'd just been offered extra dessert. "Hehe, good choice."
And with that, Selina felt control return to her limbs—but only enough to follow the girl like a cat on a leash of chakra. Her steps felt like they weren't entirely her own. She had the sense that if she tried to run… she wouldn't like what happened next.
'What even is she? A metahuman? Mutant? Miniature goddess of mischief?'
The girl hummed as she walked, her sandals somehow not making a single sound even on cracked metal roofs.
"By the way," she said suddenly, without turning around, "you can call me Hima."
Selina blinked again. "Like… short for Himawari?"
Hima paused mid-step and turned, smiling over her shoulder like the sweetest little doll from a haunted house. "Yup! My name means sunflower. I bring light to dark places."
Selina, held hostage by a ten-year-old and several megatons of casual power, managed a dry chuckle.
"Well, Gotham's definitely a dark place."
"Exactly!" Hima chirped. "So you're going to help me brighten it up a bit."
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Batman:
Bruce adjusted the satellite lens again, zooming in on the rooftop where the arrow had originated. Standing there, framed by the rising sun and entirely too cheerful for someone with divine weaponry, was a small girl—perhaps twelve, if that.
She was holding a glowing white bow that looked far too heavy for someone her size. But she held it with ease, grace even, her long violet hair fluttering slightly in the morning wind. She wore a neat white dress and sandals, and, most troubling of all, was smiling as if she hadn't just launched what might've been an anti-industrial purification warhead.
"Cheerful children with apocalyptic firepower," Bruce muttered. "Wonderful."
He typed in a command, pulling up her file. It was almost insulting.
Himawari Uzumaki, age twelve. Parents: Naruto Uzumaki and Hinata Uzumaki, both thirty-six. Two brothers, Boruto and Kawaki, both fifteen. Moved to the U.S. from Osaka. Currently residing in Metropolis. American citizens.
Bruce snorted.
"Fake. Very fake," he murmured.
This wasn't a case of some high-IQ kid getting lucky with a fake ID. No, this data looked perfect. It was so clean and precisely constructed that it practically screamed deliberate misinformation. Whoever had made this file had wanted it to pass every background check, and would've succeeded… if the girl hadn't literally set off a heavenly light show on top of his building.
Bruce flicked his gaze to the satellite feeds from Metropolis. As if scripted by cosmic irony, a fresh clip of Boruto Uzumaki popped up—flying through the sky like a thunderbolt, sword in hand, shouting something about "Hell Thrust."
"Well," Bruce said flatly, "so much for subtlety."
He leaned back in his chair, linking the clips side-by-side. Brother in Metropolis, sister in Gotham. Their movements were calculated, coordinated… and strangely benevolent. Boruto had saved people during a disaster. Himawari had purified the sky and taken down criminals from afar.
Wait—criminals?
Bruce clicked another tab, pulling up local police dispatches. It took only moments before a pattern emerged. The strange, glowing arrows hadn't just cleared the air. They'd targeted people—dozens of them. People with records. Ugly ones. Repeat offenders, career criminals. Some were petty, but others were the kinds of monsters who slipped through the legal cracks thanks to expensive lawyers and threats against witnesses.
And they were all… crippled.
Non-lethal injuries. Knees shattered, arms cleanly severed and instantly cauterized. Some had even received minor healing. Healing. The arrows, as it turned out, had been precise instruments of justice—swift, merciful (debatably), and oddly poetic.
The internet was already in a frenzy. Dozens of shaky videos were uploaded in real time. News headlines buzzed across the world:
"Arrow of Judgment Strikes Gotham: Divine Intervention or Vigilante?"
"Green Glow Cleanses City—Miracle or Message?"
"Unknown Girl Disarms Dozens of Criminals in a Night."
Bruce tapped a button, rewinding to zoom in on one particularly smug arrow recipient. His name was in Bruce's personal files—an oil baron tied to a dozen poisoning cases, all dismissed due to "lack of evidence." Now he was curled in an alley, howling and clutching a leg that no longer existed.
The public had already begun to connect the dots. The arrows weren't random. They had targets.
And the world had already named their new phenomenon:
The Arrow of Judgment.
Bruce folded his arms, staring at the girl on the rooftop.
"She's not just playing hero," he muttered. "She's sending a message."
But to whom? The criminals? The city? Himself?
A soft rustle behind him signaled Alfred's approach. "More tea, Master Wayne?"
Bruce didn't answer at first. He was watching the girl vanish—just blink out of existence, leaving no trace but a streak of white wind.
He finally nodded.
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Bruce Wayne prided himself on many things—his intellect, his reflexes, his unparalleled capacity to brood in silence for hours on end. But above all, he prided himself on never being surprised.
Which is why, when Alfred calmly announced, "Master Bruce, it seems we have a guest," Bruce simply nodded and glanced at the surveillance feed—expecting, perhaps, Commissioner Gordon, or some journalist with a death wish.
Instead, he nearly choked on his tea.
There, standing at the front gate of Wayne Manor in the morning mist, was the very girl he'd just been researching. Her. The miniature storm-in-a-dress. The archer of Gotham's purification, the sniper of sin.
And standing beside her—equally confusing but at least marginally expected—was Selina Kyle, aka Catwoman, who looked as though she'd just come from a very awkward parent-teacher conference she hadn't meant to attend.
The little girl looked straight at the camera—no, through it—and waved. Cheerfully. As though Bruce had invited her for cookies and apple juice.
"She's waving," Bruce muttered, blinking at the monitor.
"Yes, sir," Alfred replied smoothly. "As if she knows where the camera is."
"She does know where the camera is."
"Indeed. Would you like me to open the gate?"
Bruce stared at the screen, watching the girl smile, bounce slightly on her heels, then lean in to whisper something to Selina—who visibly flinched.
'Damn supernaturals,' Bruce thought grimly.
"Let them in," he sighed, setting the tea down before he spilled it on the keyboard.
The heavy iron gate of Wayne Manor creaked open with all the dramatic gravitas it could muster. The girl practically skipped forward, dragging Selina along with her like an enthusiastic child bringing home a new friend—except this child had a bow capable of planetary destruction and a fashion sense that screamed "chaos in ribbons."
As they reached the front steps, Bruce was already waiting at the top, arms folded and expression set to "intimidating billionaire bat."
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Kawaki:
Kawaki stood tall on the spire of Central City's highest tower, his coat flapping in the wind like a banner of silent defiance. The city sprawled beneath him in neat grids and weaving avenues, humming with energy and life, none of which interested him—except for the pulse of unnatural speed streaking across the city.
His violet eyes flickered with calculation as he stared into the distance. He wasn't here for sightseeing.
Himawari had turned Gotham into a garden party for environmental rehab and criminal knee-capping. Boruto had brawled with Superman—and lived to drag himself home like a sunburnt snail.
Naturally, Kawaki couldn't sit around doing nothing. He wasn't a tagalong little brother. He had pride.
And more importantly…
"Fastest man alive"?
Flash?
Flash?!
No.
That title had once belonged to his father, and even if Naruto had retired from flashy titles and propaganda headlines, Kawaki hadn't forgotten. Nobody took anything from his old man. Especially not some jittery lightning bolt in red spandex.
"I'll fix the record," Kawaki muttered, adjusting his collar and narrowing his eyes. "Starting now."
He scanned the city with practiced ease. His dojutsu didn't grant him divine insight like Himawari's or space-time vision like Boruto's Jougan, but it worked. His perception extended nearly ten miles in every direction—enough to spot ripples in the street where criminals ran, shots were fired, or one very poorly-dressed hero zipped around.
There you are, he thought, spotting a red blur zipping between two armored trucks.
A robbery. Predictable.
He watched the blur dart, tumble, and then skid—almost crashing into a light pole.
Kawaki's brow twitched. "This guy's supposed to be fastest alive? My clones are faster than that on a bad day."
He dropped from the building like a meteor—feet-first, landing with enough force to crack the pavement below. The impact sent nearby birds fluttering into the sky as if they, too, feared what was coming.
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Kawaki had never been one for dramatic entrances—unless they helped make a point.
And right now, he had one.
Central City bustled beneath his feet, glistening in the orange afternoon sun like a sprawling circuit board, humming with life and unpredictable surges of chaos. Unlike Gotham's filth or Metropolis's polished skyline, this city was wired—a constant dance of energy, motion, and silent thunder. Perfect for a lightning-fast headache called The Flash.
Kawaki had heard the rumors. Metahumans. Energy storms. An entire museum dedicated to a man who could barely keep his boots on the ground without tripping over them.
But the article was what did it.
"The Fastest Man Alive."
"No, you're not," Kawaki muttered, narrowing his crimson-ringed eyes. "My dad is."
Standing atop a radio tower like a dark statue of judgment, Kawaki scouted the city. His karma mark flickered faintly beneath his sleeve, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. Unlike Boruto's flashy eyes or Himawari's sky-painting arrows, Kawaki was surgical. Quiet. Efficient.
But just as deadly.
He scanned every corner within ten miles—his vision slicing through crowds, cars, buildings like a scalpel. His ears picked up whispers of petty theft, brawls behind clubs, carjackings—and dealt with them before they could escalate. He didn't bother with announcements. No hero slogans. Just earth—rising beneath crooks and swallowing them whole.
Then came the flare.
A flash of explosive amber tore through a marketplace. Kawaki's eyes narrowed as he zoomed in on the woman responsible—red-orange hair flowing like a firestorm, eyes wide with panic and defiance. Her touch turned pebbles into bombs.
And behind her?
Flash. All red suit and blurred limbs, zipping through the chaos with nervous energy.
Kawaki's jaw tensed.
'She's being hunted…' he thought. A sharp memory pierced through his chest—cold tiles, white coats, scalpels.
Then he saw it.
She aimed a rock at him—her face twisted not with fear, but thrill. She wanted a fight.
The blast hit.
Dust flew.
And Kawaki stood still, eyes unimpressed as the smoke curled around him. His cloak fluttered, but not a scratch marred his skin.
"…Not a good person," he said coldly.
The earth answered his call—roots surged from below and gripped the woman's ankles, knees, hips—locked her down like a statue in a museum of regrets. She struggled, but her expression shifted from smug to terrified.
She wasn't immune.
Which meant she'd never intended to go down with her own blasts. She was just another villain who liked to play victim.
Flash skidded into view, lightning cracking behind his steps, only to be shoved aside by a strange force—an arm that extended like liquid steel. He blinked in disbelief as the figure in black landed in front of him with a light thud.
"You okay?" Barry asked, instinctively defensive.
Kawaki tilted his head.
"You call that full speed?" he asked bluntly.
Barry squinted. "Excuse me?"
"I've been watching. You're new to this," Kawaki said, crossing his arms. "Sloppy turns. Wasted acceleration. You're not syncing with the lightning yet."
"…You watched me?"
"For an hour," Kawaki said without a hint of apology.
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Central City was used to strange occurrences. Yellow lightning storms, mirror clones, speed ghosts—it had seen them all. But nothing quite like the boy who showed up out of nowhere, shoved Flash aside like yesterday's headline, and threatened to break his legs.
Barry Allen—scarlet speedster, forensic nerd, and reluctant metahuman magnet—stared at the earth-shackled villain in stunned silence. The red-and-black stranger stood with the casual arrogance of someone who knew he could ruin your life before breakfast.
"Keep out, Flash," the boy growled, his voice smooth but laced with venom. "She's mine. Also—change your title from the Fastest Man Alive, or I'll break your dog legs next time."
Barry's brain hiccupped. Dog legs?!
That was the last thing he heard before a dome of reinforced earth sealed over the bomb-throwing woman. Before Barry could process it, the stranger's body shifted—his arm stretched unnaturally, launching a needle-thin bolt of organic matter that grazed Barry's shoulder like it had been waiting for him to dodge.
"Ah—what the—?!" Barry winced as pain flared through his suit.
He caught a glimpse of the boy's hand forming into a cannon-like barrel, then twisting into claws. Organic transformation. Not metahuman. Augmented maybe?
The boy plunged his finger into the villain's neck with surgical precision, knocking her unconscious instantly.
Barry wasn't sure what horrified him more—the fact that he'd seen the pulse of chakra that did it, or that the kid looked bored while doing it.
Then came the kicker.
With a quiet hum, Kawaki activated something ancient—his Karma marks flaring to life like molten tattoos across his skin. The moment they glowed, his body blurred into a new form. Rocket-boosted, metallic limbs pulsed with raw energy, launching him forward with enough force to shatter sound itself.
"NOPE!" Barry barked, vanishing in a streak of red lightning.
He was on Kawaki's tail in milliseconds. Trees blurred, skyscrapers flashed by like falling dominoes, and the sky itself seemed to buckle around their speed. But Kawaki wasn't done.
The ground beneath Barry exploded—again and again—as the boy manipulated stone like water, creating sinkholes and jagged pillars that forced Flash to dodge or risk snapping an ankle. But Barry kept pace. He had to. This kid was dangerous. Strategic. And really, really needed an attitude adjustment.
"You're fast, I'll give you that!" Barry shouted through the wind.
Kawaki didn't answer.
Instead, he did something completely insane.
His eyes glowed—and for a split second, the world twitched. Kawaki vanished—not in a blur, but in a blink. Gone. Completely.
Barry ground to a halt, his lightning dissipating as he frantically searched the field.
"What the...?"
He blinked. His radar—his connection to the Speed Force—wasn't picking anything up. No trace of motion. No trail.
Just—gone.
Far beneath his feet, tucked into the atoms of a stray leaf, Kawaki stood motionless in a glowing world of subatomic chaos.
"Amateur," he muttered, before disappearing again.