After the story time, Eichi dismissed the training session earlier than expected.
Not out of mercy. Not because they were tired. But because he knew exactly what he had just done—he had dropped a truth too heavy to ignore.
His origins. His world. The shadows that chased him into this one.
That kind of truth didn't just echo in the ears—it rewrote how people looked at him, how they looked at themselves. And if they continued training now, without letting that weight settle, it could poison their focus, make their bodies betray them in the heat of action.
Because once the mind cracks, the body follows. And in their line of work, a distracted mind could mean death.
Eichi knew this all too well. He understood the fragility of human nature—the way it spiraled, the way it rebelled against sense. He didn't just understand it. He was a product of it.
By every tactical measure, helping his pursuers return to their world would have been the smart move. It would eliminate the lingering threat, ease tension, and earn him political leverage. After all, he was the only one in this world with a deep-rooted, living knowledge of chakra—something considered fantasy here, but fundamental in his old world.
He could've been a bridge. A scholar. A hero.
And yet... he refused.
Not just because he lacked the knowledge to open a portal back home—though he could learn—but because he wouldn't.
Because he didn't want to.
The wounds they left behind weren't superficial. They were carved deep into the marrow of his past—the loss of comrades, the cold reality of being hunted by those they didn't harm. Villages that claimed to serve the greater good, yet labeled him and others like him as monsters the moment they strayed from their path.
They called it precaution. He called it fear.
They wore their loyalty like a uniform. He wore his trauma like armor.
Even now, the logical side of his mind whispered that helping them might prevent chaos. That sending them home would stop the rise of rogue factions, or at least slow down the integration of chakra into this world—a power it wasn't ready to wield.
But emotions don't answer to logic.
And what Eichi wanted... what he truly wanted...
Was for them to feel what he felt. The same crushing loneliness. The same exile. To be trapped in a foreign world, constantly watched, always judged. To understand what it meant to be unwanted by both the world you left, and the one you landed in.
So no—he wouldn't help them.
Yes, he had knowledge on stealth, seals, water release, and honed his Genjutsu and kenjutsu to razor-edge precision. No, he hadn't yet fully grasped the other elements—Wind, Fire, Lightning, Yin—but his strength was never in flash or spectacle.
His strength was in his resolve.
In the unyielding, relentless will of an Uzumaki. A stubbornness that had survived nations burning and names being erased from history.
That was something they could never take from him.
If his fellow Shinobi wanted to go home, they would have to crawl back under their own power.
And if they dared to drag this world into a war it didn't understand?
He would be waiting for them.
With Tanto in hand—and no mercy left to give.
---
Nestled between a pawn shop with flickering neon signage and a ramen stand that never seemed to close, the apartment sat like a forgotten relic—half-sunken into the spine of Musutafu's ghetto district.
The building itself was old, likely pre-quirk era judging by the rusted iron railings and cracked brick façade. Paint peeled like dead skin from the concrete walls, exposing water stains and weather damage from years of neglect. The stairwell creaked with every step, and the motion-sensor lights—when they worked—buzzed with an unholy fluorescent hum.
Up on the fourth floor, apartment 4-C told a different story from the outside.
The moment the door opened, a wave of fresh air mixed with an elegant hint of expensive cologne greeted someone.
A white-haired man stepped through the threshold, his expression one of mild irritation as he kicked off his boots.
"Fuck me," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face as he walked into the lit space.
Inside, the mood was far less refined.
A small table sat beneath the ceiling light, surrounded by cigarette smoke, ramen cups, and the unmistakable stench of beer that had long since gone warm. At the table sat two men.
One was massive—bald with skin like iron, literally. His metallic sheen reflected the low light, each muscle twitch catching the glint like a living weapon.
The other was scrawny, wiry with wild eyes and a grin that said he enjoyed trouble a little too much. His fingers slapped down a hand of cards with a triumphant flourish.
"Got'cha! I fuckin' gotcha!" he cackled, slamming the winning hand onto the table.
Across from him, the iron-skinned giant grunted, not amused but not upset either. "You finally got lucky, eh?"
The white-haired man walked past them without a word, loosening the collar of his jacket. The place was chaotic, a mess of personality and tension, but he didn't seem to mind.
He'd been in worse.
He glanced over his shoulder at the game, eyebrows raising. "You two done blowing off steam, or should I come back when one of you's bleeding?"
The grinning man looked up, unfazed. "Depends. You bring booze or bad news?"
"Neither," he replied flatly. "Nothing to rob."
The giant leaned back, arms folding with a groan of metal-on-metal. "...Well, shit."
There was a short silence, thick with frustration. The kind born not from boredom, but from stagnation.
Then the scrawny one scoffed, pushing a cigarette butt into a dented ashtray. "At this rate, with all the money we've stashed... maybe it's better to just say 'fuck it' and head to the States. Fresh start. Less capes. More chaos."
The iron man snorted. "Yeah, until we get picked off by some overseas hero with laser eyes and a six-digit bounty on quirked offenders."
The white-haired man didn't respond right away. He simply stared out the grimy window, watching the dim glow of the city's underbelly flicker in the rain-slicked streets below.
"You think the States are better?" he asked quietly. "You think it's easier over there? Just because our heroes are idealistic and they shoud be the same?"
He turned back toward them, eyes sharp beneath the tired weight of experience.
"There's nowhere left for people like us. Doesn't matter what side of the ocean you're on."
The room fell silent.
Then, the iron giant chuckled. "Damn, man. You're depressing when you don't bring booze."
The white-haired man cracked the faintest smile. "Then maybe one of you should get off your ass and buy some."
"Nah, I'll go," said the scrawny man, pushing up from the floor. "Kazuki would just draw too much attention to himself."
He stepped out into the hallway—only for his vision to blacken, and his consciousness to vanish in an instant.
Before his body could hit the floor, a figure caught him with silently.
Eichi.
One precise strike to the base of the neck paralyzed him instantly—death followed seconds later. No pain, no sound.
He placed a tag on the corpse. It ignited with a subtle flash, reducing the body to ashes.
Wasting no time, Eichi slammed the door shut behind him.
"God damn it! Is it your father's door or sum?!" a voice snapped from inside.
"Let it be, Botan. That dumbass never listens anyway," came another, gruffer voice.
As the conversation resumed without a hint of suspicion, Eichi remained still, eyes scanning the room.
The intel had claimed Botan acted alone during the robberies. But lately, signs pointed to outside interference. And now, with the iron-skinned brute lounging across from his target, the picture was much clearer.
He activated his sensory technique and linked it with the clarity of Kagura's Mind Eye. And what he saw confirmed it.
Strange.
The giant was constantly pumping chakra into his body to sustain his current state. Which, in itself, was strange.
Eichi found it improbable that this guy had the chakra reserves for that or an imbalance that couldn't stop the flow, even if he wanted to. Maybe... his body is on overdrive of producing Yang chakra of his own will.
Probably didn't fully trust his little rag tag of a gang.
And he could also add possible variables to the strenght of the Iron, or thickness of it.
But that gave Eichi a few more clues to this mind fuck: The strength of the iron skin might vary. The thickness could be different across the body. And maintaining it must be taxing on the Yin-Yang production of Chakra.
He cursed himself quietly. If only I'd trained Raiton or Katon...
No use regretting. Silently, he reached for a seal already prepared in his sleeve—a silencing seal.
With a quiet sigh, he placed the blank white mask over his face and raised the hood of his black coat.
"Seriously... what I would do for a peaceful life."
He set the seal softly on the floor. But before activating it, he pulled a scroll from his side and tore off a blank tag, then immediately started writing.
This seal was one of the early prototypes from his more advanced Fuinjutsu studies—designed to mess with the chakra network.
It wouldn't do much against real shinobi. But here, in this world? It was extremely efficient.
He had already prepared one for the smoker, but alas, he needed another one—right now.
It was a complex seal. One that required surgical precision in calligraphy, deep knowledge of Fuinjutsu mechanics, and near-perfect chakra control to keep the ink from activating prematurely.
Fortunately, he was a Genjutsu specialist. Which meant he had good chakra control—especially for an Uzumaki, which was a feat in itself.
But as he was engrossed in his work, the gruff voice spoke again.
"Damn it, where the hell is he?"
"Just check on him already and stop whining. I hope he got mugged at least."
Tch.
Eichi cursed internally. The tag wasn't done.
So he adjusted. Modified it to only target the placement point instead of full-body disruption. It meant less chakra was needed, and less effect overall—but it would still hit where it counted.
He heard the steps approach the door.
Moving quickly, Eichi stuck himself to the ceiling above the genkan, the traditional Japanese entryway where people changed their shoes to slippers.
As the iron brute reached the door and began twisting the handle, his body tensed slightly.
He felt it—something was off.
The moment he entered the genkan, sound vanished.
But by then, it was already too late.
Eichi dropped down silently and slapped the tag onto the back of his neck. The sudden chakra interference startled the giant.
But before he could react, something pierced his throat.
Eichi's black market tanto had struck true.
The pain was enough to disrupt the giant's control, forcing his body out of its iron state—at least partially.
Without hesitation, Eichi pulled the blade back, blood spraying across his mask and black coat.
Still, he didn't relent.
He immediately spun to the side, locked the brute's arm, and used the leverage to twist himself beneath the man's chest.
Now facing his front, Eichi struck again—this time severing the spine from below.
The brute collapsed in a loud thud. If not for the silence seal, it would've woken the whole damn building—except maybe the apartment below whom with or without it, heard the commotion.
Covered in blood, Eichi turned around, preparing for the hunt.
Only to see his target standing there, eyes wide and Chakra already being produced.
"Sigh, can't have something going right, eh?"
---
In a park near the beach, three men sat in silence on a weathered bench, their backs to the world, eyes fixed on the endless sway of the tide.
The salty wind tousled their coats, tugging at the hems like a restless spirit, but none of them moved.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
From a distance, they looked like any other trio of strangers—shadows cast long by the sinking sun, faces obscured beneath low hoods and the orange hue of dusk.
Yet there was weight in the silence.
Not boredom. Not peace.
Nostalgia.
"Remember when you confessed here, with me on the other end of the headset?"
"Can't believe I followed the advice of a virgin."
"Nah, that's just virgin intuition."
A quiet chuckle escaped the one in the middle—low, tired, but genuine. Like laughter drawn up from old, buried places.
"Some things don't change," he muttered, his gaze never leaving the horizon. Waves rolled in with a slow rhythm, the ocean breathing in sync with the silence that followed.
"You used to be more fun before all the killing," the one on the left said, voice light but brittle at the edges.
"I'm still fun," came the deadpan reply. "Y'all just got soft."
The one on the right leaned back on the bench, arms crossed, hood dipping lower over his face. "We got tired," he said simply. "There's a difference."
For a long moment, the only sound was the wind, and the soft crash of waves breaking against the sand. A gull cried in the distance, carried away by the wind.
"You ever think about going back?" the left one asked, quieter this time.
"To what?" the middle one asked.
"To the life before."
The question hovered between them, unwelcome but familiar. Like a scar they'd all chosen not to look at for years.
"...No," the one on the right answered eventually. "What's left to go back to?"
"Graves," the middle one said.
"Ghosts," the left added.
And silence returned. Heavy again, but somehow warmer. Like the world had paused just long enough for them to remember why they'd come here.
Not to plan.
Not to mourn.
Just to feel—if only for a moment—what it was like to be human again.
"I still have that photo," the one on the left muttered, almost to himself.
The middle one turned slightly. "...The one by the food stall?"
He nodded. "We looked like idiots."
"We were," the right one replied.
And finally, for the first time in what felt like years—
They laughed. Quiet. Real. Painful.
The wind carried it out to sea.
"By the way," the one on the right said, voice easing back into something more casual, "what did you want to show me again?"
The middle one leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, eyes still locked on the water. "Just an interesting fella. Might help with the cleanup."
"Cleanup, huh?" the one on the left replied, skeptical. "What's that got to do with me? You know I just dig for info."
"Exactly," the middle one said with a shrug. "Figured it'd help if you knew what he's capable of. Might even make your job easier."
"That much, huh?" He tilted his head slightly. "So when's this mystery man showing up?"
"Patience," the middle one exhaled. "Can't wait for a bi—"
Before he could finish, a voice dropped from above them. Casual. Unbothered.
"Yo."
For a split-second, all three froze.
Then moved.
Each stepping away from the bench with a subtle shift in posture, like the laugh from before had never happened.
Perched in the tree above them was Eichi—bloodied, masked, and silent. One leg dangled carelessly off the branch, his head tilted, resting on a gloved hand like he had all the time in the world.
"We really need to talk, Akuma Kuro," he said flatly.
The name hit like a trigger. The man in the middle—Kraken—felt it first. His tentacles twitched without his permission, reacting before his brain could. Not out of aggression.
Out of instinct.
Pure, animal dread.
"Kuro?" the one on the right asked, his voice unsteady.
But Kraken didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the glint of blood smeared across Eichi's mask and coat—crimson catching the moonlight like wet paint. The silence that followed was not ordinary.
It was warning.
"Ei—" Kuro tried to speak, but the words died in his throat as something unexplainable washed over him.
A pressure.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Eichi dropped from the tree in a single motion—graceful, soundless, and far too composed for someone soaked in fresh blood. His footsteps hit the grass with unnatural weight, each one cracking the dirt below, like the earth itself recoiled beneath him.
He stopped a few feet in front of Kraken.
"You seem to be misunderstanding something again, Kuro," Eichi said, voice low, steady, and unmistakably final. "I came to deal with you. And you alone."
He didn't spare the others a glance.
"To me, they're irrelevant. Background noise. You, however... like I told you, you're useful. Or you were."
"If you breach our contract again—if you bring in any third parties like this—I will kill you. I'll let you speak, since technically I didn't forbid it... but you and I both damn know how this works. You knew what involving them would look like to me."
A moment passed. The wind shifted.
Eichi's tone didn't rise. He didn't shout. He didn't need to.
Because everything about him in that moment—the blood, the calm, the silence.
He wasn't asking.
The others didn't move, didn't breathe too loud. Whatever smugness they carried earlier had dissolved into the night air, replaced by the cold realization that this wasn't a conversation they were part of.
"...Tch." Kraken exhaled through his nose, finally speaking. His voice was low, careful—measured in a way that betrayed the effort it took to keep it even. "You think I'd be stupid enough to rat you out?"
Eichi didn't respond.
Kraken glanced at the blood again—still wet. Still dripping from the hem of the coat.
"I wanted them to learn something," he continued. "Temporary. And for a price, of course."
Eichi's eyes didn't waver behind the mask. He didn't flinch. Didn't twitch.
He waited.
"I didn't give them your name. I didn't even let them get near your trail. You think I'd risk everything I did over one sloppy move?" Kraken's voice sharpened slightly, but not too much—like someone trying to keep from waking a sleeping beast.
"You didn't have to say my name tho," Eichi said finally, his voice softer now, almost conversational. "You involved people. Strangers. Variables."
He took a small step forward, just enough to make Kraken lean ever so slightly back.
"In our world, intent matters less than outcome. And the outcome here?" His head tilted. "You brought the very variables to my path. Even if by accident."
The silence returned, this time pulsing like a heartbeat between them.
"You're right," Kraken muttered, lowering his gaze for a moment. "You didn't say it outright. But I should've known."
He raised his head again, jaw tight. "It won't happen again."
Eichi looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"We'll see 'bout that."
The tension didn't break—it shifted.
He turned his back to Kraken, deliberately. A show of confidence. Or maybe just control.
The one on the right—the shaky one—finally found his voice again. "You gonna tell us who the hell you are, or...?"
Eichi stopped mid-step.
He didn't turn. Didn't flinch. Just stood there for a breath too long. Long enough to make the man regret ever opening his mouth.
Then, without a word, Eichi reached into his coat and pulled out a scroll. He unraveled it slowly, kneeling to place it on the bench with care. A sharp pulse of chakra surged through his fingers—subtle, controlled.
Poof.
Ten empty vials unsealed from the scroll, scattering across the bench with faint clinks.
Still ignoring the two men, Eichi stood and faced Kraken again. His mask caught the moonlight, streaked with dried blood that shimmered faintly in silver.
"I fulfilled the contract," he said, voice even but cold. "Despite the faulty intel, so add two to it."
He let that hang in the air for a moment before continuing.
"I got the guy. But there were... collaterals."
The word hit the others like a gunshot.
"Collaterals?" the man on the left echoed, a nervous edge in his tone.
The implications sank in fast—had the kid killed civilians? Innocent bystanders? Had they, by association, just become witnesses to something that could land them neck-deep in problems they never signed up for?
Panic was a quiet thing. It bloomed in the silence, behind narrowed eyes and clenched jaws.
Both of them were already cursing Kraken silently.
Kuro, meanwhile, felt something colder than fear settle into his chest. Not because he was worried for himself—but because he knew what that kind of slip could mean.
His hands curled into fists. Not a threat—just a reaction. A man trying to control what he couldn't.
"Tell me," he muttered, voice low. "You didn't harm civilians... right?"
At that, Eichi tilted his head slightly. A pause.
"...What?"
Even with the mask on, you could feel the squint in his eyes, the subtle are you serious? vibe radiating from his body.
"Did you take me for a lunatic or something?" he asked flatly.
Then he sighed, dragging a gloved hand down his coat, flicking a bit of dried blood off the edge.
"No," he said. "Fuck no. The collaterals were his crew—tag-alongs. Not on the original file. They joined him recently."
A quiet, honest explanation. But not comforting.
The damage was done.
Kraken closed his eyes for a brief moment, nodding. He didn't apologize—he never did.
The waves crashed against the nearby shore, rhythmic and indifferent to the fuck up unraveling beside them.
"I can do—" Kuro began, but Eichi cut him off without looking.
"And now," Eichi said, his voice calm but sharp enough to cut through bone, "I need an extra five of your juicy ink... for the fuck-up you just caused."
His tone didn't leave room for negotiation.
And no one dared argue.
"...And Smoker?" Kuro finally asked.
At that, Eichi pulled another scroll from his coat and casually tossed it toward him. The roll of parchment sailed through and slapped into Kuro's open palm.
"He's inside," Eichi said flatly. "Alive and well."
Kuro's brows furrowed beneath his hood. The man he'd intended to finish himself—locked away in a damn scroll like some piece of meat?
Unrolling the parchment, he scanned the intricate sealing formula, the layers of ink twisting and weaving in ways that made his eyes ache.
Kuro didn't fully get how it worked. But he remembered how Eichi had once explained it, in that way he always did—half bored, half genius, like he was explaining how to boil water when really, it was quantum theory.
So he followed instinct. One of his tentacles unfurled and slithered forward, extending toward the center of the scroll's seal. From its tip, a single drop of black ink fell into the formation.
A soft pulse radiated from the paper. Then—poof—a cloud of smoke exploded outward in a ring of pressure and chakra.
And there, crumpled in the grass in front of them, was a white-haired man.
Smoker.
His body was bruised from head to toe, lips cracked, breath shallow. He had a small iron rod pinned on his neck. His once cocky demeanor was gone, replaced with a twitch of pain and the rasp of life barely clinging to his lungs.
The two men who had been sitting earlier looked away, unsure of what to do.
Kuro stared down at him for a long moment.
"...You didn't go easy on him," he said quietly, not looking at Eichi.
Eichi shrugged.
"I'm not a babysitter," he replied. "But I'm not a butcher either. He's intact. You're welcome."
---
As Eichi made his way through the narrow alleys toward the Boss's place, he kept his head low. The city was on edge tonight. He could feel it in the air—too many heroes out, too many eyes watching.
He kept to the shadows, blending in like a ghost. Every few blocks, he spotted patrols sweeping the streets, their lights bouncing off grimy walls. Word had definitely gotten out. The mess he left behind during the hunt must've made some noise—maybe someone heard the scuffle, maybe someone saw the blood.
Sure, he'd cleaned up the bodies before taking off with Smoker, but the blood on the doorstep? That was harder to hide. It had probably been enough to spook the neighbors. Then again, this part of the city wasn't exactly known for being clean or safe. A little blood wasn't out of place. Still, it put people on alert.
When he finally reached the Black Market, he didn't bother with the main entrance. That wasn't his style—not tonight. Instead, he climbed up the back wall, boots pressing silently into the cracks of the old bricks until he reached the window of the Boss's office.
He knocked—three short taps against the glass.
Inside, one of the guards jumped to his feet. The guy moved fast, gun already in his hand as he walked to the window. His eyes widened the second he saw the bloodied mask and hood.
Without thinking, the guard raised his gun and fired.
CRACK! The window shattered, glass spraying everywhere.
"Intruder! Boss, you have to flee!"
The room lit up with chaos, hands reaching for weapons, chairs scraping across the floor—but none of them were fast enough.
Before anyone could move again, Eichi crashed through the broken window.
Shards of glass flew in every direction as he dropped straight onto the guard who'd fired, slamming him hard into the floor. The man's breath left his lungs in a choked gasp, the wind knocked out of him as Eichi pinned him down with one knee.
Eichi leaned in slightly, head tilted, his voice calm but chilling:
"Any last words?"
The guard wheezed beneath him, trying to speak, but all that came out was a strangled cough. His hand twitched, maybe reaching for his weapon—or maybe just a reflex.
Didn't matter.
Eichi's blade slid out in a flash, clean and quiet. No ceremony. No drama.
And then the guard jolted awake, gasping. Sweat clung to his face, heart racing. He looked around, disoriented—until he saw Eichi, now unmasked, calmly sitting across from the Boss. The window wasn't shattered—it was open. Just a quiet breeze drifting through.
A dream?
No—he could still feel the cold of the blade, the weight on his chest. That had been real.
Which meant Eichi had been inside the whole time.
And worse—he hadn't even noticed.
He turned, about to warn his boss, but the man raised a hand, stopping him.
"Quite the entrance you made, little one," the Boss said, voice casual, but his eyes were sharp.
Eichi shrugged, leaning back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other. His coat was still wet with blood, but he didn't seem to care.
"Yeah. I'm in a bit of a hurry."
The Boss gave a slow nod, looking him over. "Judging by the mess, I'd say you're the reason the patrols are stirred up tonight. Am I wrong?"
Eichi glanced out the window for a second, then turned back.
"I cleaned it up."
The Boss raised an eyebrow.
"Could've fooled me."
"Yeah, as a fellow businessmen, I got the package ready."
Puff!
The Boss tapped his fingers slowly on the desk, eyeing the three metal sheets like they might come alive at any second.
"Still not used to that trick of yours," he muttered, then gave a half-smile. "Neat, though. Not flashy—efficient. You don't waste movement."
Eichi didn't reply. He leaned back in the chair, arms still crossed, face unreadable.
"Scary, yeah," the Boss continued, tone more thoughtful now. "You walk in here looking like a goddamn horror story, talk like you're placing a delivery, and act like none of it touches you."
There was a pause.
Then Eichi said, "That's the job."
The Boss gave a dry chuckle, nodding. "Right. The job."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, studying Eichi with a calm, almost tired expression. "Y'know… when I first got into this business, I thought it was all about muscle and loyalty. Guts, fists, maybe a knife in the ribs now and then. But guys like you? You're different. Quiet. Precise. You don't make a mess unless it serves a purpose. It's… surgical."
He paused, then added with a shake of the head, "People like you are the kind of chaos no one sees coming. Makes me wonder how many more ghosts like you are out there."
"There aren't," Eichi replied simply.
The Boss raised an eyebrow, lips twitching like he wanted to question it—but thought better of it. Instead, he leaned back in his chair with a sigh.
Instead, he sighed. "Fair enough. Anyway, I'll have your payment ready by tomorrow. Same BMEPD account?"
Unlike normal banks used by everyday citizens, BMEPD—Black Market of the Eight Precepts of Death—is off the grid entirely. No internet, no trace. All the money's already clean. It's an old-school system built years ago by the Eight Precepts themselves, a counter to the rise of global surveillance and cyber-tracking. No screens. Just people, codes, and blood-won trust.
The world had shifted after governments locked down the net with the exeption lies in the legitimate sites where they have no say or whatsoever. In the early days, crime thrived in crypto. But those golden years ended fast. Firewalls, shutdowns, tracing algorithms—suddenly, every move left a footprint, and the system was hunting shadows like him.
Eichi had read about it in an old history book he snatched from the local library. The book painted it all like some triumph of freedom and civilization.
He remembered scoffing as he turned the pages. So many lies shoved down people's throats.
At one point, he nearly roared with laughter, as he had never seen this much bullshit in his entire life.
Eichi gave a slight nod.
"And for the record," the Boss added, "I didn't bring in the cops. I keep my end tight. Whatever stirred that nest wasn't me."
Eichi stood up.
"Noted," he said.
As he turned to leave, the Boss called after him, voice quieter this time.
"Watch your back, kid. You're good, but this city doesn't like ghosts. Eventually, someone's gonna notice the footprints you leave behind."
Eichi paused, pulling his hood back on and sliding the mask over his face.
"Then I'll just stop leaving any, eh?" he said, glancing over his shoulder for a second.
And as he reached the window frame, his voice turned casual—almost too casual.
"Ja ne!" he said, raising two fingers to his temple in a half-salute.
And like smoke on wind, he was gone in the dead of the night.
The Boss sat there for a while after Eichi vanished, the last syllable of "Ja ne" still echoing in the room like a ghost refusing to leave.
He let out a long breath, leaned back in his chair, and finally let the tension drop from his shoulders.
"Damn kid," he muttered under his breath, staring at the open window.
Outside, the city was buzzing—sirens far off, patrols combing alleys. Heroes looking for trouble. Or answers. Maybe both.
The guard who had dozed off was still pale, sitting in the corner with a bottle of water shaking in his hand. The poor bastard hadn't even seen Eichi move.
"Lesson learned, huh?" the Boss said quietly to him. "Next time he knocks, don't shoot."
The guard gave a stiff nod, eyes still unfocused.
The Boss turned his attention back to the three metal sheets Eichi had dropped on the desk. He didn't know exactly how the trick worked—Fuinjutsu, he'd heard him call it once—but he didn't need to. That was part of why he liked working with Eichi: simple deals, no need to understand the magic, just know it worked.
He tapped a finger on the edge of the sheets, thoughtful.
For a while, he just sat there, letting the city noise drift in through the open window, the night breeze ruffling the papers on his desk.
"Ghosts," he snorted to himself again. "Hell of a thing."
"World's changing too fast. And it's the quiet ones that bring the storms."
He took the Tags, slid it back into the drawer, and lit a cigarette with a small shake of his head.
"Hope I don't end up on the wrong side of that kid."
---
Since that day, Eichi and his group of aspiring heroes pushed forward relentlessly.
Training became more than routine. It became discipline. A way of life.
Every day, Eichi guided them with the same intensity that once shaped him in the shadows of another world. And slowly, his reputation shifted from that of the mysterious transfer student...
Among the teachers, he was dubbed the silent instructor. Among the students, the ghost in the halls. He didn't seek attention, didn't bask in praise—but those who trained under him spoke in quiet awe. About the way he could read people like books. How he stripped away ego and excuses, molding raw potential into something purposeful.
And Haru, once clumsy and overwhelmed, began to step into the light.
Though still rough around the edges, his progress was undeniable. His energy control improved. His stamina multiplied. He no longer collapsed after circuits of training—he adapted.
While he still couldn't perform transformation jutsu or manifest a Genjutsu-based clone, Haru began to earn Eichi's comparisons to the Uchiha. His fighting style, enhanced by his Genjutsu-based Dojutsu, turned him into a nightmare in training spars. Fights against him became infamous—frustratingly one-sided unless you had the will to tear through illusions and the grit to match his endurance.
And slowly, people started noticing. Not as Eichi's shadow... but as Haru.
He earned his own respect.
And like that—six months passed in a blur of sweat, bruises, and silent victories.
For the rest of the school, it was a semester like any other. But for the group under Eichi's guidance, it was a transformation.
They didn't just grow stronger—they grew sharper, more aware, more disciplined. Each day carved them closer to the edge of something great.
As for Eichi himself, his training hadn't slowed either.
He made major strides in his Fuinjutsu studies. While he'd already grasped the fundamentals, now he was diving deep—crafting, experimenting, layering seals with the complexity of programming code and last but not least, Golden Chains. Fuinjutsu wasn't flashy. It wasn't explosive. But it was precise and deadly, and it demanded perfection.
The more he advanced, the more complicated it became. One miscalculation and a seal could implode. Or worse—explode.
In terms of combat, Eichi didn't expand his jutsu repertoire much—he didn't have much. He focused instead on perfecting the weapons he already had. His battle-tested arsenal remained the same, but now it was cleaner.
He also trained Taijutsu religiously.
After all, in real fights, unless you were Kage-level, it wasn't the B-rank jutsu that kept you alive—it was your hands. Your blades. Your instincts.
Flashy techniques drained chakra. But a well-placed kunai? That ended fights before chakra was even needed.
Still, Eichi remained a terrifying Ninjutsu user. His arsenal leaned heavily toward Water and Earth styles—offense and defense, respectively. The balance kept him grounded in fights.
He might not wield firestorms or lightning bolts, but he wielded his jutsu with enough efficiency.
Because he wasn't just a shinobi. He was an Uzumaki.
And Uzumaki didn't need spectacle despite their Chakra reserves.
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Sorry for the wait, I got addicted to a naruto game, "Your Ninja Way." in itchio.
And not gonna lie, it's the closest game released that came close to a normal Shinobi experience in the ninja world.
It's a MMO RPG, thus you have to grind, and I did for this week.
But if not with the help of a Jonin and a Kage, It might take me more.
Thus, if you want to test it out, play it, and if you enjoy it, message me in their discord if you want some help for leaf or sand, name "drovka."