The kitchen smelled of heavy sesame oil and sharp, cold ginger.
Chōji stood on a small wooden step-stool, his calves aching as he balanced on the balls of his feet.
His chin barely cleared the granite countertop.
He watched his mother, Chōharu, move with a terrifying, rhythmic precision.
She didn't look at a clock or use a thermometer; she simply hovered a hand over the shimmering oil, reading the heat through her palm like a pulse.
"Precision, Chōji," she murmured, her voice warm but firm, like a low-burning stove. She gestured to the bowl of batter with her heavy cast-iron ladle. "Lumpy. If you over-stir, you develop the gluten. Gluten makes it tough. Tough food makes your jaw tired, Chōji. If your jaw gets tired before your belly feels full, you've wasted the work of eating. We don't waste work."
Chōji nodded dutifully, though sweat pooled behind his ears from the fryer's radiating heat.
He watched the steam rise, the oil popping and stinging his nose.
To make authentic tempura, he had to stand here for thirty minutes.
He felt the energy leaking out of his heels.
Every minute spent standing felt like a minute stolen from his growth.
He felt the burn: the dull throb in his legs, the repetitive, exhausting motion of the whisk, the way the kitchen's humidity leached the salt from his skin.
The yield? Three small plates of shrimp and lotus root.
The math felt wrong. The work of making the food felt like it was eating the food before he even finished it.
He loved the flavor—the way the light, pale batter shattered against his teeth—but the effort required to reach that reward felt like a hole in his stomach he couldn't fill.
If the goal was to get big, why did the path to getting there make him feel so small and tired?
A sharp tap-tap-tap hit the glass of the kitchen window.
Chōji peered over the counter.
Ino stood outside, her face flushed pink and her blonde ponytail bobbing.
Shikamaru leaned against the wooden frame behind her, looking as though his bones had turned to lead.
"Chōji! Get out here!" Ino called through the glass. "We're going on a mission. We're hunting for sansai."
Chōji's round face fell. He slumped his shoulders, his jaw tightening as he imagined his teeth grinding through overcooked, rubbery protein. "Plants? Like... weeds?"
"Wild greens," Ino corrected, puffing out her chest. "Mountain asparagus, fiddleheads, butterbur buds. It's for my mom."
Chōji looked back at the simmering pork belly on his mother's stove, then back at the window. "Walking all the way to the mountains to eat bitter leaves is a net loss, Ino. I'd burn more in my legs finding them than I'd get in my belly. It's bad math."
Ino scowled, her mouth opening for a lecture, but Shikamaru stepped forward. He caught Chōji's eye, his gaze lazy and half-lidded.
"It's free food, Chōji," Shikamaru said, his voice a low, persuasive drawl. "Just sitting there in the wild. No stores, no tabs, no kitchen prep. Just miles of fuel waiting for someone to walk by and take it. Probably not even guarded. Unless a bear or something got there first. Too much effort for them to move, usually."
Chōji froze. His mind stuttered.
Free food.
The road to the southwest gate: heavy cost.
The climb up the lower slopes: a massive drain.
He felt his throat go dry just thinking about the distance.
But then he ran the recalculation.
If the fuel grew everywhere... if the forest floor was the plate...
He stress-tested the idea, his jaw clenching.
He remembered the sharp, tongue-numbing bitterness Ino had mentioned before.
Bitterness usually meant a low sugar-count.
But then it clicked.
If he chewed while he walked, the road would pay for itself.
He wouldn't have to carry heavy, sweat-inducing rations that slowed him down.
He could refuel as he moved, letting the forest pay for his steps before he even felt the first pang of hunger.
A glorious, terrifying vision bloomed in his mind.
He saw a future version of himself—massive, a mountain of stored power.
He tucked his limbs in, his body swelling into a heavy, rotating sphere.
He didn't just see himself hitting enemies; he felt himself tearing through a vast, lush farm field at high speed.
He imagined his mouth open, stalks of grain snapping against his tongue, dirt and sweetness filling his throat as he rolled.
He would leave a trail of bare, brown earth behind him.
He wouldn't be a boy; he would be a landslide with an appetite, growing heavier and faster with every acre he flattened and swallowed.
The vision made his stomach growl—a deep, hollow sound that vibrated against his ribs.
He didn't think about the coming winter or the fact that things with teeth might be waiting in those same bushes.
He only thought about the harvest.
The lethargy evaporated.
Chōji slammed his palms onto the windowsill, the impact making the glass rattle in its frame.
The sudden movement sent a violent spike of heat through his chest—a metabolic spark that made his vision narrow and his head swim for a second.
"Count me in!"
Chōharu turned from the stove, her orange eye markings crinkling as she watched the spark ignite in her son.
She didn't stop him.
She simply reached over and tucked a small, wrapped bundle of high-protein jerky into his pocket.
"Go on then," she laughed, her voice like a clear spring morning. "But never assume the field wants to feed you, Chōji. If you find any tara-no-me, bring some back for the fryer. I want to see if you can find the good stuff."
Chōji didn't wait.
He scrambled off his stool, his heart drumming against his ribs, already calculating the shortest path to the gate.