A week after the encounter with Danzō, Asahi had incorporated the 'patriot's' teachings into his daily life. Which was, in itself, madness.
'Bend your knees,' he reminded himself as he scrubbed the dining room floor, the smell of bleach and damp wood stinging his nose. 'Twist from the core. Don't strain your back.'
He had tried doing it "wrong" on purpose the first day, just to prove that the man with the cane was mistaken — that his advice was as twisted as his reputation.
But the sharp pain in his lower back after ten minutes was an irrefutable argument.
His child's body couldn't handle bad technique.
To his immense frustration, Asahi discovered that Danzō Shimura — the alleged butcher of Konoha — was right. It was far less tiring. Efficiency was real.
'Great,' he thought as he wrung out the rag with a grimace, dirty water splashing onto his feet. 'Just great. My first mentor in this world isn't a kind sage like Jiraiya, but the shinobi equivalent of a workplace safety officer. What's next? Orochimaru giving me skincare and exfoliation tips? Kisame explaining the benefits of omega-3 fatty acids? Akatsuki running a charity fundraiser?'
His mental world was fractured.
The pillars of evil (Danzō, Orochimaru, Akatsuki) were absent, benign, or obsessed with ergonomic micromanagement. The pillars of good (Minato, Kushina) were alive and happy, untouchable in their tower of familial perfection, existing in a plane of domestic bliss that made him feel like a ghost peering through a window.
The revelation at the park hadn't lessened his paranoia.
It had simply left it directionless.
What was the point of staying alert if everything was a potential threat — even a kind old man offering candy? His canonical knowledge was no longer a map; it was a maze leading only to dead ends. If he couldn't trust his knowledge, and couldn't trust the villains to be villains, then the only person he could trust was himself. And 'himself' needed to be much, much faster.
His training changed. Basic strength was fine, a prerequisite, but Danzō's advice about 'efficiency' resonated with him.
Ninjas didn't win through brute force; they won through speed, stealth, and stabbing people in the back. It was a predator's game, not a bodybuilder's. It was about applying force at the exact point, at the exact moment.
'So,' Asahi decided that afternoon, looking at the orphanage's perimeter wall (two meters tall, old splintered wood), 'I have to become the Road Runner. Meep meep.' If he couldn't predict danger, he had to be faster than it. He had to be able to vanish.
He began practicing jumps.
'Land,' he thought, leaping off an old barrel.
He remembered the classic "superhero landing" from the movies of his past life — crouched with one knee down.
'Terrible for the knees. The kneecap would disintegrate. Inefficient. You lose all momentum. You get stuck on the ground.' He hit the dirt floor with a dull thud, the impact shooting up his ankles and spine.
'No. Absorb the impact. Spread the force. Like a cat. Like water, I think.' He tried again.
He jumped, but this time, instead of landing on both feet, he rolled smoothly over his shoulder, using the momentum to spring back up in one fluid motion, ready to keep running.
'Parkour,' he realized. 'What I need is parkour.' His past life had given him the theory; now he just needed the practice.
He spent the next hour practicing jumps over crates, speed vaults over a broken railing, and finally, trying to climb the shed wall.
'Hands here, foot there, push…' He propelled himself upward, his fingers grazing the edge of the roof, but failing to grab hold. The wood was damp and slick with morning dew.
He fell backward onto the wet grass, the air whooshing out of his lungs.
'Damn gravity. You're really cruel.' He tried again, smacking his shin against the edge of a crate during a failed jump. The pain was sharp, blinding, and he clenched his teeth to avoid screaming.
His body was the weak link. His mind knew what to do, but his arms lacked grip strength, and his legs lacked explosive power.
It was like being a race car driver trapped on a tricycle.
He was panting, covered in dirt and splinters, the skin on his palms raw, when a soft, elderly voice broke his focus.
"That was an admirable attempt, young man. But you're using too much arm strength. You're trying to pull the wall toward you."
Asahi spun around so fast he tripped over his own feet.
His heart lurched, pounding so hard against his ribs it hurt — lightning in his chest.
It was Hiruzen Sarutobi. The Third Hokage. Retired, but still a legend. The God of Shinobi. Standing by the shed, calmly smoking his pipe.
The smoke smelled of sweet cherry — a strangely comforting scent clashing with Asahi's panic. He was dressed in a simple brown civilian robe. No Hokage robes, just those of a grandfather out for a walk.
He watched Asahi with kind eyes, wrinkled at the corners, and a small smile. There was no threat in his stance. And that was the most terrifying part. Asahi froze. His brain short-circuited.
'Okay,' he thought frantically, his mind racing. 'Okay, stay calm. Take stock. World logic: Danzō, the number-one bad guy, gave me efficiency tips and left. A grumpy bureaucrat. Now Hiruzen, the good grandpa of canon, the one who let Orochimaru escape, who failed to protect Naruto… he's here. Following the twisted logic of this world… does that mean he's the villain? Is this the kind face of evil? Is he going to kidnap me? Reveal he's the true mastermind behind my parents' deaths? Lecture me about the "Will of Fire" before wiping my memory?'
Asahi tensed, ready to bolt. His parkour training was about to be tested.
"Why such a hurry to climb that wall, hmm?" Hiruzen asked, taking a puff from his pipe. The smoke swirled lazily around him.
'The question! The trick question! It's a psychological test! He's measuring my motivation!' Asahi panicked. What should he say? 'I'm training to escape imaginary threats that only exist in my head.' No. 'I'm training to survive in this peaceful world because I'm fundamentally broken.' Double no. "…I like the view," Asahi lied, vaguely pointing toward the single-story shed roof.
It was a pathetic lie.
Hiruzen chuckled. "Ah, a good reason. The view from the top is always better. But you're wasting energy. You're trying to climb the wall. A ninja uses the wall only as a step." The Third Hokage walked toward the shed wall. He was an old man, much older than Minato. He moved slowly, almost shuffling. It looked like a gust of wind could knock him over.
"Watch," he said. With no visible effort, no running start, no buildup of chakra, Hiruzen took one step, then another, and a third — vertically, up the wall.
His feet adhered to the wood as if gravity were merely a polite suggestion he chose to ignore.
He reached the roof, sat on the edge, and took another puff from his pipe as if he had just sat on a couch. Asahi's jaw dropped.
'Tree walking. Well… wall walking. Chakra control. Obviously.' It was the first time he'd seen it in person. It was as impossible as magic. A slap in the face to physics.
"But," Hiruzen continued from the roof, his voice calm, "that's for when you have chakra, and you know how to use it. For when you don't…" He stood at the edge, a dark silhouette against the bright sky — and simply stepped off.
Asahi braced for impact, the wet crunch of an old man breaking his hip. But the Third landed in front of him as softly as a leaf, without making a sound.
His knees flexed, absorbing everything. Not even a puff of dust.
"For when you don't," Hiruzen repeated, "use your legs. Power comes from the ground. Push up, not against the wall. It's less climbing and more… jumping." Asahi blinked.
'That's just like what Danzō said. Use your legs. Twist from the core. Power comes from the ground.'
'Are they friends? Are they playing bingo together? What the hell is going on in this damn village? Is everyone competing to be the best fitness instructor? Is this some kind of fitness conspiracy?'
Hiruzen reached into his robe, frowning. He pulled out a small metal lighter. Clicked it.
'Click. Click. Click.' No spark.
The Third sighed. "Ah, these modern gadgets. Always failing. In my time, we used flint stones."
Asahi watched, dumbfounded, as the God of Shinobi shook the useless lighter and tapped it against his palm.
Hiruzen brought the pipe to his lips.
He raised a finger. "Katon…"
Asahi instinctively stepped back so fast he tripped, landing on his backside in the grass.
His heart stopped.
'He's going to use a fire jutsu! Here? In a wooden orphanage? Is he insane? Is this the real villain!? Is he going to burn us all down!?' He covered his face.
"…Hokuchi." (Fire Ignition).
A small, tiny, almost pathetic flame — the size of a match head — appeared at the tip of his finger. It made a faint pop.
Hiruzen carefully lit the tobacco in his pipe with the little flame, then blew it out as if extinguishing a birthday candle.
The 'God of Shinobi.' The man said to know a thousand jutsu.
The leader who fought in multiple wars. The 'Professor.' He had just used a D-Rank jutsu, the most basic of the Katon arsenal… because his lighter broke.
Silence stretched.
Asahi slowly lowered his hands. The only sound was the soft bubbling of the pipe. Hiruzen smiled at him, seemingly unaware of the existential crisis and near heart attack he had just caused the boy.
"Much better." He reached into his robe again and pulled out a small hard candy wrapped in cellophane. "You work hard, young man," he said, offering the sweet. "That's good. Dedication is the seed of success. But don't forget to enjoy being a child. There's time for everything."
Asahi looked at the candy.
Then at the Third Hokage. Slowly — very slowly — Asahi took the candy. The wrapper crinkled in the silence.
'That's it,' he decided, unwrapping the sweet with trembling hands. 'It's official.' He popped the candy into his mouth. It was lemon-flavored — sweet and sour. 'There are no villains in this story. The world isn't in danger. The Third Hokage is a grandpa who uses jutsu to light his pipe. Danzō is a workplace ergonomics officer. The world isn't crazy.'
'The only person completely insane here… is me.'