Chapter 292: The Blue Beast's Cub
Ragnar left the Hokage Building with the distinct sensation of having escaped a predator's den. Sarutobi Hiruzen was exhausting in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion. The old man smiled like a grandfather, spoke like a philosopher, and watched everything with eyes that missed nothing. Being in his presence was like playing a game of shogi where your opponent had already seen ten moves ahead and was simply waiting for you to realize you had lost.
Not that Ragnar considered himself outmatched. He was confident in his ability to handle any Kage-level shinobi—Hiruzen included. But fighting the Third Hokage would be pointless. A waste of energy. A risk without reward. The old man's arsenal was deep: all five chakra natures, an unknown number of forbidden techniques, the Dead Demon Consuming Seal, the adamantine staff of the Monkey King. And those were just the abilities Ragnar knew about from the original story. Hiruzen in his prime was a void of unknown depths.
Better to maintain the delicate dance. Mutual respect. Mutual wariness. No sudden moves.
Besides, the system's mechanics had shifted. In the early days, treasure chests had dropped like rain—god-tier outfits, rare items, powerful abilities, all showered upon him with generous frequency. The ninja battlefield had been a bounty of rewards. But as his strength had climbed, the drop rate had plummeted. The pattern was clear. The system no longer rewarded routine victories. Only true life-and-death battles—the kind where survival was genuinely uncertain—would trigger the highest-tier rewards.
And Ragnar had no intention of seeking out such battles without cause. He was no longer dependent on the pirate system's largesse. The Gravity Fruit. The Flame-Flame Fruit. His three-color Haki. The forbidden techniques now stored in his memory. These were tools that would carry him to the pinnacle of the shinobi world even without further gifts. If he could add the Bloodline Snare and Six Paths Senjutsu to his arsenal, there would be nothing left to fear.
He stepped out of the Hokage Building and into the morning sun. The streets of Konoha's central district were already bustling—shinobi heading to missions, merchants hawking their wares, children chasing each other through the crowd. The war was over. Life was returning to normal.
He spotted a familiar figure in the crowd.
A man in a green jumpsuit. A basket looped over one arm. Thick eyebrows. A bowl cut that defied all known laws of aesthetics. He was inspecting a display of vegetables with the intense concentration most people reserved for bomb disposal.
Maito Dai. The Blue Beast of Konoha.
Ragnar blinked. He had not expected to see Dai here—not like this. The man was a training fanatic, a zealot of physical conditioning who spent every waking moment either on missions or pushing his body past its limits. The idea of Dai wandering through a market, comparing the freshness of daikon radishes, was almost surreal.
Curious, Ragnar extended his Observation Haki. His perception washed over Dai's form, mapping the flow of chakra and blood through the man's body. What he found was impressive. Dai's physical condition had improved dramatically in three years. His qi and blood were abundant, his blood flow swift and powerful as a mountain spring. The Eight Inner Gates—that forbidden formation that could turn a man into a god for a few brief moments—sat dormant within him, waiting. If Dai were to release them now, his body would transform into a blazing furnace of energy. He was stronger than he had ever been.
The improvement made sense. Ragnar had arranged for Dai to receive proper recognition—Jōnin-level subsidies, better mission assignments, the respect he had always deserved. With money for adequate nutrition and time to train properly, the Blue Beast had flourished.
Dai's own senses, honed by years of relentless training, were not dull. He felt the weight of someone's attention and turned.
His eyes found Ragnar.
He froze.
Disbelief. Doubt. Recognition. A cascade of emotions flickered across his thick-browed face. Three years was a long time. The young man standing before him was taller, sharper, more imposing than the boy he remembered. But the eyes—those calm, dark, unshakeable eyes—were unmistakable.
Ragnar smiled. "Dai. Long time no see."
"Ra—Ra—" Dai's mouth worked soundlessly, the name that half of Konoha now whispered with awe struggling to escape his throat.
Ragnar gave him a look. A slight shake of the head.
Dai's jaw snapped shut. His eyes cleared with immediate understanding. He might play the fool, but his mind was as sharp as his fists. Ragnar's return was clearly not public knowledge. If it were, the whole village would be in an uproar.
"Ye—Ye Chen!" Dai corrected himself, his voice booming with forced cheer. "It's so good to see you! My youth is burning bright once more!"
He spread his arms wide for an embrace—then remembered the vegetable basket in his hands and aborted the gesture with an awkward laugh.
"How did you end up shopping for groceries?" Ragnar asked, genuinely curious. "I never took you for the domestic type."
Dai's face split into a grin that was equal parts pride and embarrassment. "Well... heh heh heh..."
He grabbed Ragnar's arm with sudden, infectious enthusiasm. "Come, come! You must come to my house! I'll cook for you today. My treat!"
Ragnar hesitated. He had things to do. Training. Planning. The endless work of preparing for threats that lurked beyond the horizon.
But Dai's earnestness was difficult to refuse. And Ragnar was curious. Who—or what—had managed to domesticate the wildest beast in Konoha?
He let Dai lead him through the streets to a modest house on a quiet lane. It was small but well-maintained—a stand-alone structure with a small courtyard, the kind of place a career shinobi might raise a family.
The moment they entered the courtyard, Ragnar's question was answered.
A child was playing in the yard. A boy, barely three years old, wobbling unsteadily on chubby legs. He wore a tiny green jumpsuit—identical in shade and style to his father's—and a pacifier bobbed between his lips. His eyebrows were thick. His eyes were large. His hair, already showing signs of the bowl-cut destiny that awaited him, stuck up in wild tufts.
Maito Gai.
The future Green Beast. The shinobi who would one day open the Eighth Gate and kick a god halfway to oblivion. The man whose taijutsu would be declared the strongest in history by Madara Uchiha himself.
Currently, he was attempting to catch a butterfly and falling face-first into the grass.
Ragnar stared at the toddler. The toddler stared back with enormous, guileless eyes. The pacifier bobbed once. Twice. A thin stream of drool escaped the corner of his mouth.
Thick eyebrows. Bowl cut. Green jumpsuit. It's either Gai or Rock Lee. No need for a paternity test. This child definitely belongs to the man beside me. The neighbor need not be investigated.
Dai scooped up his son with the practiced ease of a man who had done it a thousand times. He held the boy aloft like a trophy, his grin threatening to split his face.
"My son!" he announced, his voice thick with pride. "Maito Gai! Three years old!"
Gai gurgled happily and reached for his father's face with tiny, sticky fingers.
"He's magnificent," Ragnar said. He meant it.
Dai's chest puffed out. He was showing off now—parading around the courtyard, pointing out features of the house, recounting Gai's early milestones with the enthusiasm of a man who had discovered a new religion. The baby's first steps. The baby's first push-ups. The baby's first attempt to wear ankle weights.
"He runs around the village every morning with me," Dai said, his eyes glistening with tears of paternal joy. "He can already do ten laps!"
The child is three, Ragnar thought. Ten laps around the village would kill most adults.
But this was the son of Maito Dai. The grandson—spiritually, if not biologically—of a man who had turned self-improvement into a martial art. Normal expectations did not apply.
Then Dai's expression shifted. A sly, knowing look crept into his eyes.
"Speaking of running every morning," he said, his voice taking on a teasing, almost maternal quality, "I see young Kushina heading toward your house at dawn. Every single morning. For three years. She always seems very... eager."
Ragnar stared at him.
Is this the same man who once screamed about the flames of youth while doing one-fingered push-ups on a cliff edge? Fatherhood has turned him into a village gossip.
"You shouldn't concern yourself with my affairs, Dai."
Dai's grin only widened.
Ragnar turned his attention back to the courtyard, where little Gai had abandoned his butterfly pursuit and was now attempting to stand on his head. The child's green training suit—a miniature replica of his father's—was smeared with grass stains. His bowl cut, already tragically formed, flopped in the dirt. He let out a triumphant squeal as he achieved a wobbly handstand, his pacifier falling from his mouth and dangling from its cord.
Ragnar watched him for a long moment. Then he spoke.
"This child has a full forehead and remarkable bone structure. His body is naturally suited for physical training." He paused, choosing his next words with care. "In the future, he will grow into an exceptional shinobi. His name will be known throughout the world."
It sounded like a blessing. A kind prediction from a family friend. But Ragnar was not making predictions. He was stating facts that he had already witnessed—events that had already happened in a story he remembered. Maito Gai would indeed shake the world. He would open the Eighth Gate of Death and nearly kill a man who had become a god. His name would be spoken with awe by generations yet unborn.
The Eight Inner Gates Formation. The Evening Elephant. Night Guy. One kick that nearly ended the entire ninja world.
It was a feat without equal. A pinnacle that no one before or since would reach.
Of course, Gai had not achieved that alone. Without his companions—without Minato's Flying Thunder God to redirect the Truth-Seeker Orbs, without Kakashi's Kamui to tear open the space-time barrier, without Rock Lee's precise coordination—the Eighth Gate would have been a glorious suicide, not a near-victory. Teamwork. Trust. Bonds. That was Konoha's true strength.
But still. The power. The pure, unadulterated power.
Ragnar looked at the toddler doing handstands in the dirt and felt a rare emotion: respect. Not for what the child was. For what he would become.
Dai's eyes grew misty. He looked at his son—his precious, ridiculous, wonderful son—and his voice trembled with conviction.
"Yes. My boy will become that kind of shinobi. I know it. I've always known it." He turned to Ragnar, his thick brows set with fierce, fatherly pride. "Maybe one day, he'll be even stronger than you."
Ragnar did not refute it.
Maito Gai, with all Eight Gates blazing, was not an opponent Ragnar ever wanted to face. The final gate erased the difference between genius and hard work. It made talent irrelevant. It made bloodlines meaningless. It was the great equalizer, the ultimate proof that a man with nothing but his own two fists could reach the heavens.
The toddler fell over. He landed on his back in the grass, blinked at the sky, and let out a delighted giggle. Then he rolled over, pushed himself up, and tried the handstand again.
Ragnar smiled.
"The youth burns bright," he said.
Dai's tears overflowed. "YES! THE FLAMES OF YOUTH NEVER DIE!"
The baby giggled. The Blue Beast wept. And somewhere in the distance, the Hokage's crystal ball flickered with the image of a strange, wonderful family basking in the afternoon sun.
(End of Chapter)
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