The morning sun baked the training ground into a furnace, sweat already gathering at the base of Shohei's neck despite the early hour. Packed dirt stretched between him and the fresh meat they'd dragged out for his entertainment, some Academy graduate who'd apparently kissed the right asses to skip the usual years of grunt work. The kid stood there like he owned the place, twenty meters of yellow earth separating them, while the Third Hokage droned on about responsibilities and advancement.
Shohei cracked his knuckles and studied his target. Average height, black hair hanging in his eyes like he'd rolled out of bed, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The brat looked bored, not nervous. That would change soon enough.
'Three years of being a chunin,' he thought, rotating his shoulder until the joint popped. 'Dozens of missions where I've scraped blood and dirt out from under my fingernails, and now they want me to validate some pretty boy's promotion.'
"Shinji." The Hokage's voice carried easily across the distance. "You've demonstrated the necessary skills to advance in rank. This evaluation will confirm whether you're prepared for the responsibilities of a chunin."
The genin—Shinji—straightened slightly but didn't lose that irritatingly relaxed posture. "I'm ready, Hokage-sama."
Shohei's lip twitched. Ready. The kid had probably never seen real combat, never felt someone else's blood spray across his face or heard the wet sound of steel punching through muscle. Academy sparring matches and supervised missions didn't prepare you for the moment when someone actually wanted to kill you.
"Very well." the jonin beside the Hokage raised his hand. "The match ends when one participant yields or is rendered unable to continue. No fatal injuries."
'No fatal injuries.' Shohei almost laughed out loud. Like this Academy darling could manage that even if he grew a pair and tried. The whole thing reeked of clan politics, some influential family greasing palms to fast-track their golden boy past the years of grunt work that built real shinobi. Another spoiled brat who'd never had to dig graves for his teammates or explain to a widow why her husband wasn't coming home.
Shohei rolled his neck until it cracked like breaking bones. Time to give the kid a proper education.
Both fighters stepped toward the center of the training ground, boots scuffing against dirt. Shohei took his time now, really looking at his opponent. The kid's stance seemed casual at first glance, but his weight was balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to explode in any direction. Those dark eyes held a lazy glint that made Shohei's teeth clench, like this was just another boring afternoon instead of a test that could define his career.
Still just a genin, though. Shohei had been ending lives while this brat was probably still wetting his bed and crying for mommy.
They formed the seal of reconciliation and he felt the familiar rush of adrenaline flooding his system. His muscles coiled as he settled into his battle stance, already calculating how much damage he could inflict without crossing the line into "serious injury." A broken nose here, some cracked ribs there. Nothing that wouldn't heal, but enough to remind this nepo baby that real shinobi earned their ranks through pain and blood.
"Begin!" the jonin shouted.
Shohei grinned and launched himself forward. Twenty meters should've been nothing, close it fast, land a few good hits, wrap this shit up before anyone started timing him.
The kid didn't run.
'What the hell?'
The genin stepped into range like he wanted this fight. Shohei's fist shot toward his gut, aimed to fold him over and—
Something cracked against his wrist. Hard. His punch went wide, elbow screaming as the block sent shockwaves up his arm. Before he could even think, knuckles were already driving at his ribs.
He twisted, felt them scrape his side instead of punching through. His vision blurred as he threw a wild hook, trying to reset, trying to—
The world tilted. His fist hit air. The kid had dropped low, and now there was a knee coming up fast, too fast, aimed right at his exposed ribs.
Shohei slammed his arms down. The impact rattled his bones, shot pain straight to his shoulders. They broke apart and he was breathing hard, too hard for a few seconds of fighting.
'This isn't right.'
Blood sat metallic on his tongue. His forearms throbbed where he'd blocked that knee. Sweat ran cold down his back despite the morning chill.
"Alright," he panted, wiping his mouth. "Maybe you're not completely useless."
But tricks only went so far. Time to remind this brat what real violence looked like.
He surged forward with everything, straight punch, elbow, knee. Pure aggression. Overwhelm him with chunin speed!
The punch missed. Barely. Wind off his knuckles stirred the genin's hair.
His elbow caught shoulder instead of skull, jarring his arm. But the knee was perfect, no genin could—
Hands locked around his knee.
Then the genin's leg snapped up.
Bone met bone just above his ankle. White-hot pain exploded up his leg like lightning. His supporting leg crumpled and he was hopping, balance shot to hell, when the boot hit his stomach.
Air rushed out of him in a wheeze. The kick lifted him off his feet, doubled him over.
Something massive crashed between his shoulder blades, felt like a sledgehammer. The world flipped. Suddenly he was face-first in the dirt, eating packed earth that tasted of old sweat and blood.
His back screamed. Rocks pressed into his cheek. Copper flooded his mouth where he'd bitten his tongue.
'How the fuck—'
He rolled, expecting the finishing blow. But the genin stood exactly where he'd been, hands loose at his sides.
Like he was bored.
'What just happened?' Shohei's mind scrambled to piece together the last few seconds, but it was all fragments—impacts, pain, the blur of movement too fast to follow. He'd thrown everything he had and somehow ended up eating dirt while the genin looked like he hadn't even tried.
"You good?" the genin asked, voice casual as asking about the weather.
Shohei spat dirt and blood, his ribs screaming as he pushed himself up on his elbows. Around the training ground, he could hear the low murmur of the jonin observers, taking bets on how long it would take for an Academy graduate to finish off a chunin. His ears burned with something hotter than the morning sun, and his stomach churned with the sick realization that this wasn't going to be the easy beating he'd planned.
The taste of failure was worse than the dirt coating his tongue.
'Fuck this.' Heat burned Shohei's cheeks as he reached for his weapon pouch. Embarrassment twisted in his gut, but he shoved it down. Sure, the brat had a few taijutsu tricks. But there was more to real fighting than fancy footwork.
His fingers found three kunai. He threw them in a spread, force the kid to dodge into a kill zone. While the blades sailed through the air, his hands moved through seals. Rat, Horse, Tiger.
But Shinji's hands were already moving. Just a simple cross seal, nothing fancy.
'Wait, what—'
Smoke exploded between them. Two kids now, both moving. The original dodged his kunai like they were thrown in slow motion while the copy charged straight at him.
Shohei's jutsu finally sparked to life. Wind blade, sharp enough to cut bone, but he'd pulled the power back, just meat deep. He tracked the dodging genin for half a second before the clone got too close.
Shit. He redirected the jutsu, sent it screaming toward the charging copy.
The wind blade sliced clean through the clone's chest. Should've been over. Should've just popped like a soap bubble.
Instead, the damn thing grinned.
Then it exploded.
The world went white. Sound died except for the ringing in his skull. The blast picked him up and threw him like a rag doll across the training ground. His back hit packed earth hard enough to rattle his teeth.
When his vision cleared, Shinji stood in the exact same spot. Not a hair out of place. Like setting off tactical bombs was Tuesday routine.
"My bad," the genin said, scratching his head. "Thought I dialed it back enough, but guess not."
Shohei stared at him, then at the small crater where the clone had detonated, chunks of earth and concrete scattered like shrapnel across the training ground. Then back at the kid who'd just demonstrated A-rank ninjutsu like he was picking lint off his jacket.
Around the training ground, the observers had gone quiet. They were stunned as though they just watched something that shouldn't have been possible.
'What the hell is wrong with this kid?' Shohei's brain was still trying to process what he'd just witnessed. Some people were born lucky. This kid was apparently born terrifying.
The presiding jonin stood there for a moment like he was waiting for someone to tell him this was all a joke. When nobody did, he finally found his voice.
"Winner... uh, winner is Shinji. Match is over."
"Shit," Shohei breathed, then caught himself glancing around to see if anyone had heard.
The kid—Shinji—was already walking over, not even winded. That was probably the most annoying part. Shohei forced himself to straighten up and meet him halfway for the reconciliation seal.
"Hey, good fight," Shinji said, and he actually sounded like he meant it. No smirk, no false modesty. Just... normal.
"Yeah." he worked his jaw. "You too."
The Hokage approached, his weathered face showing the faintest hint of satisfaction. "Shinji, based on your demonstrated combat ability, you are hereby promoted to the rank of chunin. Report to the office later to handle the paperwork and receive your new credentials."
"Thank you, Hokage-sama." Shinji bowed.
That should have been it. Clean promotion, formal conclusion, everyone goes home and tries to forget they had just watched a genin casually use A-rank ninjutsu. Instead, a blur appeared directly behind the newly minted chunin, and a dainty female hand came crashing down on his head.
THWACK.
The kid's head snapped forward from the impact. He spun around, mouth already forming what was definitely going to be some very colorful language, then froze mid-syllable.
The woman standing there could've stopped traffic just by existing. Blonde ponytail, curves that defied several laws of physics, and a smile that said she was enjoying everyone's sudden speechlessness way too much.
Shinji's mouth worked like a fish pulled from water. No sound came out.
"Go ahead," she said, voice honey-sweet with just a hint of poison. She crossed her arms, which somehow made everything worse for the poor kid. "Finish whatever you were about to say."
Shinji swallowed whatever he'd been about to say so hard his Adam's apple bobbed.
Then his face did a complete flip. The deer-in-headlights look vanished, replaced by a grin that had probably gotten him out of more trouble than it was worth.
"Sensei!" he said, and Shohei could actually hear the relief in his voice. "You're back! I was just telling everyone how much I missed you, and how the team hasn't been the same without you—"
"Save it, brat." Tsunade rolled her eyes. "Nobody's buying that crap."
She turned to the Hokage, dismissing everyone else like furniture. "I'm taking him to the front lines. He's chunin now, right? That makes him mission-ready."
She said it like she was discussing lunch plans. Shinji deflated, and a few jonin frowned at this.
"Tsunade-hime," one of the jonin started, "while we appreciate your... efficiency, there are protocols—"
"Protocols can kiss my ass."
Her tone was downright cheerful. The jonin's eye started twitching.
Another one tried diplomacy. "You only returned from the front three days ago. Perhaps you should rest while Shinji handles his administrative—"
She barked out a laugh. "Rest? Maybe you pencil-pushers need your beauty sleep. Some of us have actual work to do instead of standing around watching kids play dress-up."
The insult hit its mark. Several jonin stiffened, faces darkening with embarrassment and anger. One opened his mouth to fire back, then seemed to remember exactly who he was about to mouth off to, someone who could probably punch him into next week without breaking a sweat.
Smart man.
Danzo finally chimed in. "Tsunade. You can't simply requisition personnel without authorization. There are procedures."
"Is that right?" She didn't even glance his way.
"Yes. As his instructor, you may submit a request. But final approval requires command authorization."
"Sensei," Tsunade turned to Hiruzen, hoisting Shinji over her shoulder, "I'll get you the paperwork later."
And just like that, they were gone. Shinji's indignant "What the hell—" got swallowed by empty air.
Silence.
Danzo's jaw was tight. A couple of the jonin were shaking their heads like they'd seen this before.
"Well," someone muttered, "at least she's consistent."
Hiruzen just sighed, the expression of someone who'd stopped being surprised by Tsunade's antics years ago. "She'll file the paperwork eventually."
"Eventually," Danzo muttered, his grip tightening on his walking stick.
Damn woman. He'd been monitoring that boy for some time, watching his progress, waiting for the right moment to make his approach, and a few days ago, he'd finally made contact, gotten the kid's attention, planted the right seeds. Shinji had exactly the kind of potential the village needed. But now Tsunade had snatched him away, bypassing protocol, ignoring the chain of command, treating village resources like her personal property. And Hiruzen would let her get away with it, just like he always did. The old fool was too soft on his students, too willing to indulge their whims.
Shohei watched this exchange with confusion. The jonin seemed mildly annoyed at worst, like dealing with a colleague who ignored protocols. But Elder Danzo looked genuinely furious.
"Does she do this often?" Shohei asked.
"Define often," one of the jonin replied dryly.
Shohei decided he didn't actually want to know and followed the others toward the office.
...
The world snapped back into focus just in time for me to hit my apartment floor like a sack of potatoes. My knees slammed against the wooden planks, and I barely managed to catch myself before face-planting into the welcome mat.
"Pack your stuff," Tsunade announced. "We're heading to the front lines."
I blinked up at her from the floor, still trying to process the fact that I'd just been kidnapped from my own promotion ceremony. "I'm sorry, what now?"
"Front lines. You know, that charming place where people try to stab you for money and politics." She'd already found my good sake, the bottle I'd been saving for a special occasion, and was reading the label like she owned it. "Chop chop, we leave in an hour."
"Where the hell did this even come from?" I pulled myself up, gesturing at the whole insane situation. "You just... appeared out of nowhere, smacked me around in front of the Hokage, and now you want to drag me off to war? When did you even get back? I thought Suna was still using you for target practice."
Her hand stopped halfway to the sake cup. When she turned, her smile could have put bodies in the ground.
Before I could blink, she had my face in her grip, squishing my cheeks together until I probably looked like a confused pufferfish. "I told you I was back three days ago. Mikoto and Tsume both got the message. Tsume was supposed to pass it along."
"Tsume never—mmph!" The words came out like I was talking through a pillow, thanks to my newly rearranged facial structure.
"Never what?" she asked sweetly, squishing harder.
"She never told me anything!" I forced out through my mashed face.
Meanwhile, across town at the Inuzuka training grounds...
Tsume dragged her arm across her forehead, watching Kuromaru nail another scent trail through the trees. The afternoon sun was doing that nice thing where it made everything look golden, and she was feeling pretty damn satisfied with their progress.
"Good boy." She nodded as the young ninken nailed another track. "One more round and we can call it a-a-a—Achoo!"
The sneeze came out of nowhere, like someone had just flicked her in the brain. She rubbed her nose, getting that nagging feeling she was forgetting something important.
"Eh, whatever," she said, shrugging it off. "If it was important, I'd remember."
Back at my apartment, I found myself doing a full dogeza on my own floor, face turned away from Tsunade's nuclear-grade death stare.
"Not visiting your sensei is one thing." A predatory smile flashed across her face. "But you've got some serious balls, taking the chunin exam and trying for ANBU without telling me."
"How did you even—wait, how do you know about that?"
"The old man told me, obviously." She poured herself a cup of my sake and downed it like water. "Lucky for you he did, because if I'd come home to find out you'd been playing footsie with Danzo..."
She cracked her knuckles meaningfully.
"Look, it's not like I wanted to, the guy basically handed me a promotion and a decent job offer. What was I supposed to do, tell him to shove it? That would've been a waste of a good opportunity."
"Heh, if only you knew. Anyway, stay away from that slimy bastard. Nothing good will come from associating with him, it would only make your life miserable. And not the fun kind of miserable ."
"There's a fun kind of miserable?"
"My kind." She grinned at me. "Now promise me you'll stop being an idiot and do what I tell you."
"What a tyrannical sensei," I muttered.
Her smile turned predatory. "Did you say something?"
I shook my head fast. "Nope. Not a word."
"Good." She settled into my kitchen chair like she'd conquered it. "Now pack. Make it snappy."
I glanced at the bottle in her hand, then at my rapidly emptying liquor cabinet, then back at her expectant face.
"You know, most senseis give their students a little warning before dragging them off to war zones."
"Most students don't need their sensei to bail them out of their own stupid decisions," she shot back. "Think of this as a learning experience."
"What exactly am I learning here?"
"That I'm always right and you should listen to your sensei more." She gave me a look. "Now get moving before I drink the rest of your good stuff."
"You're already drinking my good stuff."
"Exactly. Clock's ticking."
"What a tyrannical sensei."
"Gate. One hour. Don't be late," she called over her shoulder as she headed for the door. "And cook me something decent for the road. War food sucks."
"Of course you want me to cook too," I muttered, but she was already gone. "What am I supposed to whip up in under an hour..."
I stood there staring at my kitchen cabinets, trying to wrap my head around what just happened. One minute I'd been getting promoted in a perfectly normal chunin exam, the next I was getting kidnapped by my own sensei and drafted into active combat duty.
Sighing, I started pulling supplies together, stuffing everything into the storage seals built into my gloves. Thirty soldier pills went in first, I'd been hoarding those things, though my clones were still working on stronger experimental versions without much luck so far. Ration bars, medical supplies, extra weapons, spare clothes.
I grabbed what ingredients I had left and started throwing together something for the road. The dried miso paste in my pantry gave me an idea, so I started rolling it into little balls about the size of marbles. Into each one went dried wakame, tofu powder, and chopped dried scallions, basically everything you'd want in proper miso soup, just concentrated into tiny packages.
Instant comfort food. Just drop one in hot water and you'd have decent soup in a minute. Perfect for those freezing nights when you needed something warm that didn't taste like sadness.
I made enough miso balls to last us a few days.
The whole batch went into storage seals. If I was getting dragged into a war zone, at least I'd eat better than whatever garbage they were serving at the front lines.
So much for my carefully laid plans. I sealed away a bundle of explosive tags, shaking my head. The whole ANBU thing I'd been working on was completely shot to hell. I'd spent days trying to figure out the best way to string Danzo along without actually committing to anything, and now Tsunade had basically grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and hauled me in the opposite direction.
Not that I was complaining. The thought of spending months under Danzo's thumb while he slowly turned me into one of his dead-eyed little puppets sounded about as fun as chewing glass. Still, it would've been nice to have some say in the timing.
The old bastard was probably having a stroke right about now. He'd gone through all that trouble setting up my early promotion, and now his shiny new potential recruit was getting dragged off to the front lines before he could get his hooks in properly.
I kept packing everything into storage seals. Sleeping bag, rain gear, that decent kitchen knife I'd picked up in Kitaura, all of it disappeared into the seals sewn into my glove. My apartment was starting to look weirdly empty with everything packed away.
Tsunade really was like a force of nature, unpredictable, destructive when she wanted to be, and completely impossible to argue with once she'd made up her mind about something. One minute you're minding your own business, the next you're getting swept along in whatever direction she decided to blow. And hey, at least I'd managed to make chunin before getting conscripted. The pay bump had to count for something.
I sealed away the last of my gear and gave the apartment one final look. Everything important was packed away, and I'd left enough supplies for my clones to keep things running while I was gone.
Time to get to the gate. Better not keep her waiting.
Knowing Tsunade, she'd probably find some wonderfully creative way to express her annoyance if I showed up late.
I was double-checking my gear when the door opened without so much as a knock. Tsunade strolled back in like she owned the place, holding something in her hand.
"Catch," she said, tossing it my way.
I snagged it out of the air and held it up. A flak jacket, standard shinobi vest, but in gray instead of canon green. Almost identical to the one she wore, complete with all the pockets and gear loops.
"Does this mean I get to boss around genin now?" I asked, pulling the vest on.
"Kid, you barely look old enough to be a genin yourself." She laughed. "Let's focus on keeping you breathing first."
The vest fit like it was made for me, someone had actually bothered to get my measurements right. Either that, or she just had a good eye for sizing up young men.
"Ready?" she asked.
"As I'll ever be."
We left the apartment together, and I made sure to lock up before following her toward the gates.
The afternoon sun was throwing long shadows across the village streets. A few people waved as we passed, though most greeted her with way more energy than I'd ever seen those lazy old-timers show anyone else. I knew she was famous as the Senju Princess, but damn, I hadn't realized she was this popular.
We cleared the gates and headed west. She set an easy pace, a steady jog that a shinobi could keep up for hours without breaking a sweat. Trees and open ground rolled past, dotted with the occasional stream or pile of rocks.
"So what happens to Mikoto and Tsume while I'm gone?" I asked after we'd been running for about ten minutes. "Are they getting reassigned or what?"
"Already taken care of." she didn't miss a step. "I've got someone lined up to handle their training. They'll stay in Konoha for a while, work on basics, maybe run some local missions. Nothing too exciting."
"Anyone I know?"
"Probably not. Good instructor though, specializes in taijutsu. They'll be fine."
That was a relief. I'd been worried about how Team 7 would handle things without me, especially since we'd just started clicking as a unit. Knowing they'd have real supervision instead of getting dumped into some overcrowded training program or having the team disbanded made this whole thing a lot easier to deal with.
"So that jonin at the training grounds mentioned you got two days of leave from the front lines," I said. "That's practically a vacation by wartime standards."
"Two days," she said absentmindedly, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.
"Wait, two? I thought he said—"
"I said three." she corrected, snapping back to the conversation. "It's three days."
"But you just said two."
"I corrected myself to three."
"So it's three?"
"It's always been three."
"Then why did you say two?"
"I didn't say two, you said two."
"But if it's really three days, then why does everyone complain about short leave times? Three's practically generous."
"Because three days sounds like a lot until you realize day one is sleeping off whatever nightmare you just survived, day two is remembering you're human, and day three is dreading going back."
"So really it's zero days of actual rest."
"Now you're getting it."
"Which means calling it 'three days' is technically fraud."
"That's just how war works."
"Should I file a complaint?"
"Sure, right after you file your will."
We kept running west, the landscape blurring past in shades of green and brown. What had started as a casual jog gradually ramped up, Tsunade pushing the pace bit by bit until we were moving at full shinobi sprint speed. Trees became streaks, the ground disappeared beneath our feet, and my lungs started to burn.
One hour. Two hours. Three.
By the time she finally called a halt, I was operating on pure stubbornness and whatever dignity I had left. My chest felt like someone had set it on fire, sweat was streaming down my face in rivers, and my legs were about two seconds away from staging a mutiny.
Tsunade, meanwhile, had exactly one bead of sweat on her forehead. One. Like she'd been out for a light morning stroll instead of a cross-country death march.
"You're insane," I gasped, hands on my knees, trying to remember how breathing worked. "What if we get ambushed? What if I'm too tired to fight? What if—"
"What if you're too weak for chunin rank?" she interrupted.
"I'm not weak."
"Then why are you wheezing?"
"I'm not wheezing, I'm... breathing efficiently."
"That's wheezing."
"It's strategic oxygen intake."
"From 'simple running'?"
"That wasn't simple running, that was—" I caught myself before I could say something stupid like 'attempted murder by cardio.'
"That was what?"
"Nothing."
"Go on."
"I said nothing." I crossed my arms, which only made me wobble like I might pass out mid-stance.
"You were going to complain."
"I wasn't complaining."
"Sounded like complaining."
"It was... constructive criticism."
"About my pace?"
"About the way this pace violates basic human rights…"
"Maybe," she said sweetly, "you should crawl back to genin rank. Less running involved."
"I'm not going back to genin."
"Then stop whining."
"I wasn't whining."
"You were whining about being tired."
"I was expressing concern about combat readiness after... this perfectly reasonable... slightly brisk jog."
"Slightly brisk?"
"Totally manageable." I gave a thumbs-up that shook like a leaf in the wind.
"This was nothing for you?"
"Nothing at all. I was just... getting warmed up for the real running."
"I see." She leaned back, clearly enjoying herself.
"Yeah."
"So if I speed up—"
"Please don't." My voice cracked like a teenager's, and I coughed to cover it up.
"What was that?"
"I said 'please proceed.' I'm ready for whatever pace you want to set."
She grinned like a shark that had just spotted a particularly juicy swimmer. My stomach dropped.
"Good to hear."
To my complete surprise, she didn't immediately launch into another death march. Instead, she plopped down on a fallen log and gestured at me.
"Lunch time. Feed me."
I sighed in relief, gathering dry branches and kindling from the surrounding area. "Thank god. I thought you were going to run me into the ground."
"I still might. Depends on how good the food is."
I got a small fire going and pulled out my travel pot, filling it with water from my canteen. While it heated, I retrieved the container of miso soup balls from my storage seals.
"What are those?" she asked, peering at the small spheres suspiciously.
"Instant miso soup. Just drop them in hot water."
"They look like rabbit droppings."
"Delicious rabbit droppings."
"That's not better."
"Trust me."
The water came to a boil, and I dropped the balls into the pot. They immediately began dissolving, releasing clouds of umami-rich aroma as the dried wakame expanded and the tofu powder dispersed through the broth. Within moments, we had proper miso soup steaming in the wilderness.
I ladled it into two bowls and handed one to her.
She took a tentative sip, then her eyes went wide. A visible shudder ran through her body, her face flushed, and she let out what could only be described as a deeply inappropriate moan of pleasure.
"This is..." She took another sip, practically melting into the log. "How did you get restaurant-quality miso soup from little brown balls? The wakame has the perfect texture, the miso balance is spot-on, and that hint of scallion—"
"Are you having a religious experience over soup?"
"Maybe."
"Should I leave you two alone?"
"Shut up and let me appreciate good food when I see it." She slurped loudly just to spite me.
After she'd finished moaning over her soup, loud enough that nearby wildlife was probably filing complaints, and definitely making me deeply uncomfortable down there, she finally got down to business.
"Alright," she said, setting the empty bowl on the log with a dramatic thud. "Time to tell you what we're actually doing out here."
"What do you mean 'actually doing'?" I leaned back, wary.
"You think I just dragged you out to the front lines for fun?"
"...Yes?" I offered weakly.
"This is your first chunin assignment before you hit the front lines."
I sighed, setting my bowl across my lap. "What kind of job?"
"The kind where we hunt down enemy squads."
"Enemy squads?"
"Suna teams. They've been hitting our supply lines."
"Ah. And we're going to...?"
"Track them down and eliminate the problem."
I blinked at her. "...Do you know how to track?"
"Of course I know how to track."
"Then why aren't you—" I stopped. "Oh no. You want me to track them."
"Very good."
"I don't know how to track."
"Sure you do."
"When did you teach me tracking?"
"I didn't."
"Then how do I know how to track?"
"Shadow clones."
"That's not tracking." I stared at her. "Let me guess. The old man told you about my clones."
She didn't answer, just smiled that infuriating know-it-all smile.
"He did, didn't he?"
"A good sensei knows everything about their student." She tipped the empty bowl toward me like it was some kind of toast.
...
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