I pushed open the heavy wooden door to Akimichi's barbecue restaurant, the bell above it jingling like it was welcoming us back from war instead of just a morning spar. The sound was cheerful, almost mocking in its ordinariness, like the world outside hadn't just witnessed two special jonin trying to tear each other apart. The smell hit me first—thick, smoky, mouthwatering waves of grilling meat mixed with garlic, soy, and that sweet-charred edge from the special Akimichi sauce they slathered on everything. It was the kind of smell that wrapped around you like a warm blanket, that made your stomach forget it had ever been full. The sauce recipe was a clan secret, passed down through generations of Akimichi chefs who guarded it like a forbidden jutsu, and it showed in every whiff.
It was loud inside, too, the kind of lively chaos you got in Konoha's better spots. Laughter rolled from a big table of off-duty chunin in the corner, their vests slung over the backs of their chairs, their faces flushed with sake and good food. Someone was telling a story about a mission gone wrong—something about a missing cat that turned out to be a transformed ninja from another village—and the table erupted in guffaws that made their shoulders shake. The sizzle of fat hitting hot grills at the open kitchen counter created a constant backdrop, a rhythm of cooking that never quite stopped. And under it all, the low hum of conversation from every corner, a hundred small stories being told at once, a hundred lives intersecting for a few hours over shared meals.
Sunlight streamed through the paper-screen windows, catching on the polished wooden tables and making the steam from the food rise in lazy spirals that twisted and danced before dissipating into the warm air. The floor was worn smooth in places from decades of feet, the wooden planks polished to a soft gleam by the passage of countless shinobi and civilians. My stomach growled loud enough that I hoped nobody heard it over the noise, but after that spar my body was demanding fuel, even if the yokai part of me could've gone days without eating if I pushed it. The fox inside me was perfectly content to run on chakra and spite, but the human part—the part that remembered microwave dinners and takeout containers—wanted something real.
Sakumo held the door for us like it was no big deal, his white hair still a little windswept from the training ground, that easy grin on his face like he hadn't just casually stopped a mid-air death clash between me and Mikoto. He looked like he'd just finished a light jog, not like he'd inserted himself between two shinobi at full power and plucked them out of the sky. His jonin vest was unzipped now, revealing a simple dark shirt underneath, and his sword was probably already stored somewhere safe because the Akimichi clan didn't allow weapons inside the dining area. Even the White Fang had to follow the rules.
Mikoto slipped in right behind me, her ponytail finally retied but still messy from the fight, a few dark strands sticking to her forehead where sweat had dried. She'd wiped most of the dirt off her face with a wet cloth from the training ground's washing station, but there was still a smudge of ash on her cheekbone that she'd missed. Her eyes were bright, the Sharingan faded back to normal, and she was already scanning the menu options like she hadn't just been trying to fry me with lightning ten minutes ago.
Kira brought up the rear, silent as always, her pale Hyuga eyes scanning the room like she was cataloging escape routes out of habit. The bandage on her forehead was fresh—she'd changed it before we left the training ground, probably to hide the cursed seal from curious civilians. Her movements were precise, economical, the way she slid into her seat and adjusted her sleeves speaking to years of clan discipline. She didn't look at the menu. She didn't need to. She already knew what she was going to order.
We found a table near the back wall, away from the rowdiest groups, and slid into the low cushioned seats around it. The seats were wide and comfortable, designed to accommodate the larger frames of the Akimichi clan but perfect for letting us spread out after a hard morning. The wood was warm from the afternoon sun that slanted through the windows, and the menu scrolls were already laid out, handwritten in bold ink with little drawings of sizzling platters that made my mouth water even more. The ink was slightly smudged in places, evidence of countless fingers pointing at the same dishes day after day.
Sakumo: Order whatever you want. It's on me today. You three earned it after that show on the field.
He waved off the waitress who appeared almost instantly with a stack of small plates and dipping sauces—ponzu, sesame, spicy miso, and the secret Akimichi blend that came in a tiny ceramic pot. His voice was casual, but there was that steady kindness underneath it again, the same one that had made me swear to myself back at the training ground that I'd protect him no matter what. I could sense it in his chakra—clear, untwisted, no hidden barbs or calculations. It flowed off him like a calm river, steady and deep, without the eddies and whirlpools that marked deception in lesser men.
As a yokai, I picked up on that stuff like breathing, the subtle flavors of intent that most humans missed. Chakra carried emotional residue like water carried sediment, and with my senses, I could taste the difference between genuine warmth and political calculation. From Sakumo, there was nothing deceptive. Just genuine. Just good. It still floored me every time I felt it, because in a world of spies and assassins and clan politics, someone like him shouldn't exist. But here he was, buying us barbecue and smiling like he didn't have a care in the world.
I grabbed the menu and scanned it quick, trying not to look too eager. My eyes landed on the Deluxe Grill Platter—listed as a "shinobi-sized feast" with a small illustration of a smiling shinobi giving a thumbs up next to a pile of meat. The description promised short ribs marinated in miso and ginger, thick slices of pork belly that would crisp up perfectly on the table grill, chicken thighs glazed with that signature Akimichi honey-soy glaze, spicy sausages threaded on bamboo skewers, a mountain of mixed vegetables for balance, steaming white rice in a separate bowl, and a side of pan-fried dumplings stuffed with pork and scallions and served with a vinegar dipping sauce.
It sounded like a lot, way more than the average chunin would tackle after a light mission, but after burning through all those clones and layered jutsu—even if my infinite reserves meant I wasn't actually tired—I figured I deserved it. The fox inside me was already salivating, imagining the taste of the pork belly as it rendered on the hot grill.
Ryusei: I'll take the Deluxe Grill Platter. And extra rice if that's okay.
I handed the scroll back to the waitress, who nodded and scribbled it down with a small wooden stylus on a paper order pad. Her handwriting was quick but neat, the characters flowing smoothly as she added our orders to the kitchen's queue.
Mikoto went for the standard Uchiha favorite—grilled beef strips with a side of fire-release spiced sauce that probably matched her personality. The sauce was bright red, almost glowing, and came with a warning on the menu about "Uchiha-level heat tolerance recommended." She grinned when she ordered it, like she was daring the kitchen to make it spicy enough for her.
Kira didn't even glance at the menu long. Her pale eyes swept across it once, twice, and then she spoke in that flat, composed voice of hers.
Kira: The Akimichi Grand Feast, double portion.
Double. I blinked. The waitress didn't bat an eye, just smiled and headed off toward the kitchen, her sandals clicking softly on the wooden floor. I stared at Kira for a moment, waiting for her to crack a smile or admit she was joking, but her expression remained perfectly neutral. She sipped her water like she'd just ordered a salad.
We chatted light while we waited, mostly Mikoto ribbing me about the rivalry she'd declared back on the field. She leaned forward on her elbows, her dark eyes sparkling with that competitive fire that seemed to be standard issue for anyone born with the Sharingan.
Mikoto: Don't think I'm going easy next time, Ryusei. You caught me off guard with those clones and the way you layered the wind into your fire. But I've got some new lightning tricks I've been holding back.
She grinned, showing just a hint of fang, and I couldn't help laughing a little. It was genuine laughter, the kind that came without thinking, and it surprised me. I hadn't expected to like her this much. In the anime, she was just "Sasuke's mom," a background character who existed to be pretty and tragic. But here, in person, she was sharp and funny and competitive, and I could see why the Uchiha clan had produced so many strong shinobi. The fire wasn't just in their techniques. It was in their personalities.
Ryusei: Yeah, well, I'm counting on it. Keeps me sharp. Wouldn't want to get complacent like sensei warned.
I rubbed the back of my neck where a phantom ache from her blade still lingered in memory. The spot wasn't actually sore—my regeneration had handled it—but the memory of how close she'd come to landing a solid hit was still fresh.
Kira just watched us quietly, sipping water from a clay cup, her expression unreadable but not unfriendly. Her pale eyes moved between me and Mikoto like she was studying us, cataloging our mannerisms, our tells. The tension from the spar had melted into something warmer, easier, like we were already starting to click as a team even if it was only our first day together. It felt fragile, that warmth, like something that could be broken by the wrong word or the wrong mission. But for now, sitting in the sun-drenched restaurant with the smell of grilling meat in the air, it felt real.
The food arrived faster than I expected, carried out on massive wooden trays by two servers who made it look effortless. They wove between tables with practiced grace, balancing the heavy loads like they'd been doing it for years. My platter hit the table with a solid thunk—the grill already heating up in the center, r,aw meat arranged in neat rows glistening with marinade, the vegetables piled high beside bowls of rice and those plump dumplings steaming like little clouds. The short ribs were a deep reddish-brown from the miso marinade, the pork belly was striped with perfect layers of fat and meat, and the chicken thighs glistened with the honey-soy glaze that caught the light.
It looked huge to me, enough for two or three normal people, and I thought, damn, this is gonna be good. I could already picture the sizzle when I tossed the short ribs on, the way the pork belly would curl at the edges and release that perfect smoky fat, the way the dumplings would burst with savory juice when I bit into them. My stomach growled again, louder this time, and I didn't even bother to be embarrassed.
Sakumo's plate was more modest—a balanced mix of fish and veggies, with a small portion of rice and a bowl of miso soup—but he dug in without ceremony, flipping pieces on his personal grill with practiced ease. The fish was sea bream, scored on the skin so it would crisp up evenly, and he seasoned it with just a pinch of salt and a squeeze of lemon.
Then Kira's order slid in front of her, and my chopsticks froze halfway to my mouth.
It wasn't just bigger. It was absurd. Two full platters stacked with what looked like triple the meat—towering piles of ribs, pork, chicken, and sausages that spilled over the edges of the plates, extra bowls of rice that created a small mountain range of carbs, a whole separate tray of dumplings arranged in neat rows like little edible soldiers, and sides I couldn't even name piled on top of everything else. There was something that looked like pickled vegetables, something that looked like fermented soybeans, and a whole bowl of something that might have been kimchi but smelled spicier. The table actually creaked a little under the weight.
I stared, completely shocked, my brain short-circuiting for a second. How the hell was she going to put all that away? She was slim, pale-eyed, the picture of Hyuga elegance, not some barrel-chested Akimichi built for endless feasts. Her wrists were slender, her collarbones visible above her vest, and she looked like she'd never eaten a full meal in her life.
But Mikoto and Sakumo didn't even pause. Mikoto just kept flipping her beef strips, muttering something about the sauce being perfect today, and Sakumo chuckled low like he'd seen this a hundred times before. He didn't even glance at Kira's mountain of food, just reached for his teacup and took a slow sip.
I forced myself to look away and start grilling my own short ribs, the meat hitting the hot surface with a satisfying hiss that sent fragrant smoke curling up. The sound was almost musical, the way the fat rendered and dripped onto the flames, creating little bursts of fire that licked at the meat and gave it that perfect char. But my mind was racing. I remembered something from the canon knowledge still rattling around in my head—Hinata's record of beating Naruto in an eating contest once, back during some festival or training thing. She'd packed away enough to make the nine-tails host look like a lightweight, and nobody had ever explained how.
Maybe this was a Hyuga thing? Some clan secret about burning through calories with their gentle fist training or whatever. The Byakugan required immense chakra control, and chakra control required energy, and energy required fuel. Or maybe Kira just had a metabolism that laughed at normal limits, the kind of genetic quirk that made other shinobi throw their hands up in despair. Either way, I watched out of the corner of my eye as she methodically started loading her grill, stacking meats like it was a tactical operation, her movements precise and unhurried. She placed each piece with surgical accuracy, flipping them at exactly the right moment, rotating them to ensure even cooking.
The shock faded into quiet admiration mixed with a flicker of that old Derek-from-another-world wonder. This village was full of surprises, even the small ones. Back in my old life, I'd never have believed that a slim Hyuga girl could out-eat me. Now I was watching it happen in real time, and all I could do was respect the hustle.
We ate in comfortable rhythm for a while, the conversation flowing natural between bites. The short ribs were perfect—tender and smoky, the miso marinade caramelizing on the surface into something sweet and savory that made my eyes roll back. The pork belly czrisped up just the way I'd imagined, the fat rendering into golden perfection, the meat underneath staying juicy and flavorful. I dipped it in the spicy miso sauce and nearly groaned out loud.
Mikoto asked me about the spirit flames again, curious but not prying too deep.
Mikoto: How long have you had them? The flames, I mean. They seemed… different. Like they were alive.
Ryusei: Awakened during the Suna ambush. Still figuring out the limits. The Hokage thinks it's some kind of advanced yin-fire release.
I gave her the rehearsed kekkei genkai line—awakened under pressure, still figuring out the limits, don't worry about it too much—while inside I felt that familiar guilt twist in my gut. Wearing Ryusei's skin, stealing his place at this table, pretending like I belonged when every laugh I shared felt one part genuine and two parts performance.
Still, I pushed another dumpling into my mouth, the savory filling exploding with flavor, and told myself to enjoy it. For now. For this moment, sitting here with people who didn't know what I was, I could pretend to be human. I could pretend to be Ryusei. And maybe, if I pretended long enough, the lines would blur and I wouldn't have to remember the difference.
Sakumo waited until we were all halfway through our plates before he set his chopsticks down and leaned back a little, his posture shifting from relaxed mentor to squad leader. The change was subtle—a straightening of his spine, a slight narrowing of his eyes—but it was unmistakable. The noise of the restaurant faded into the background as he spoke, his voice carrying that calm authority that made you listen without realizing it. The chunin at the corner table stopped laughing for a moment, instinctively responding to the shift in the room, before resuming their conversation at a lower volume.
Sakumo: Alright, team. I've been thinking about our setup since the Hokage assigned you all to me. We're going to take on a series of missions over the next few weeks—nothing suicidal, but each one designed to test us. Build how we fight together. Coordination, trust, covering each other's weaknesses. That spar this morning showed me the raw potential, but potential without synergy is just flash.
He paused, picking up a piece of grilled fish and popping it in his mouth before continuing. The sea bream had crisped up perfectly, the skin golden and the flesh flaky and white. He chewed thoughtfully, giving us time to absorb his words.
Sakumo: The first one's in two days. Hunting a chakra beast. Reports from the border patrols say there's a big one stirring up trouble near the Land of Fire's eastern forests—mutated, aggressive, causing havoc with local caravans. We'll head out at dawn, track it, neutralize it, and bring back proof for the mission log. Should be good practice for real-field teamwork.
My chopsticks slowed as the words sank in. Chakra beasts. I knew about them from the memories I'd absorbed . They weren't your average animals. These things had mutated thanks to the activation of their tenketsu points—those tiny chakra nodes that most wildlife never tapped into. Once awakened, usually by some environmental chakra surge or old sage influence leaking into the wild, they could wield chakra like shinobi did.
The sentient ones were basically the summoning animals—foxes, dogs, toads, snakes—that could talk, form contracts, and had personalities sharper than most humans. They lived in hidden enclaves, trained their own arts, and you didn't mess with them unless you wanted a contract or a war. The toads had Mount Myoboku, the snakes had Ryuchi Cave, the slugs had Shikkotsu Forest. They were ancient powers, older than the shinobi villages, and they didn't appreciate being hunted.
But the others? The wild ones? Those were just beasts that had gone feral with power. Mutations let them use their own forms of jutsu—no hand signs, no seals, just raw instinct. A boar might shoot fireballs straight from its tusks, the flames laced with earth chakra to make them molten and sticky. A wolf pack could channel wind to howl gale-force slashes that shredded trees like paper. Birds with lightning in their feathers diving like living storms, their talons crackling with enough voltage to stop a heart. They were dangerous because they didn't follow human rules; their jutsu came from the body itself, twisted and primal, and they got stronger the more chakra they absorbed from the land.
Then there were the outliers—the sage beasts from the sage lands. Toads, snakes, slugs… but the slugs were just the one big one, Katsuyu, tied to the first Hokage's summoner line. The others had their own territories, ancient and powerful, way beyond normal hunting. You didn't go after a sage beast unless you wanted to learn sage mode or start an inter-species war that would make the shinobi world wars look like playground scuff
Hunting a chakra beast wasn't just pest control; it was stepping into a world where nature itself fought back with techniques that could level squads if you weren't careful. I'd hunted smaller ones back in the wilderness phase, right after the reincarnation, when I was still all fox and survival. Eaten them too—the youki in me craved that raw spiritual energy they carried, the way their mutated flesh tasted like concentrated chakra with a wild, electric tang that made my senses sing. Their meat was denser than normal animals, richer, and it left a warmth in my stomach that lasted for days.
But this one sounded bigger, meaner. The border patrols didn't send warnings for small fries. If they were requesting a team with a special jonin and two clan heirs, this beast was something serious. Part of me thrilled at the challenge, the fox instincts sharpening like claws, the youki stirring in anticipation of the hunt. The other part—the human one—wondered how much of my cover I'd have to risk to keep the team safe. Sakumo's life was on the line in every mission now, in my book. I'd sworn to protect him, and that meant not holding back if things got ugly. But not holding back meant revealing more of what I could do, and revealing more meant risking exposure.
I swallowed a bite of pork belly, the crisp fat melting on my tongue, and kept my face neutral while my mind raced through all that. The fox inside me paced, restless, eager for the chase. Out loud, I just nodded.
Ryusei: Sounds solid, sensei. I'm in. Been a while since I tracked anything bigger than a couple of stray Suna scouts.
The words came easy, layered with Ryusei's old mission logs to make them sound real. He'd tracked bandits and missing-nin, but never anything like this. But they didn't need to know that.
Mikoto leaned in, her plate already half-cleared despite her smaller order. She wiped her mouth with a napkin and set her chopsticks down, her eyes sharp and focused.
Mikoto: Chakra beast hunt? I've taken down a few mid-tier ones with my clan before. Lightning works wonders on their hides if they've got fire or earth mutations. We'll need to coordinate—my Sharingan for spotting weak points, Ryusei's clones for distractions, Kira's Byakugan for the full layout.
She glanced at Kira, who was methodically demolishing her second platter without breaking stride, the pile of meat slowly but surely shrinking under her relentless assault. A small stack of clean bones was already growing on the side of her plate.
Mikoto: You good with point on sensory?
Kira nodded once, not looking up from her grill. She flipped a piece of pork belly with surgical precision, waiting for it to crisp to exactly the right shade of golden brown before transferring it to her plate.
Kira: Mn. Gentle Fist can disrupt their tenketsu flow once we close in. But the beast's mutations might resist standard chakra disruption. We adapt on site.
Sakumo smiled, that proud glint in his eye as he watched us already brainstorming, already falling into our roles. He looked like a father watching his children figure out a puzzle, and for a moment, I understood why his team was so loyal to him. He didn't just lead. He trusted.
Sakumo: Exactly. That's why we're doing this series—each mission layers on the last. By the time we hit the higher-rank ones, we'll move like one unit. No hesitation, no second-guessing who covers what. Eat up, all of you. Two days isn't long, but we'll drill the basics tomorrow morning before the real thing.
I poked at the last dumpling on my plate, the conversation swirling around me while the restaurant noise rose and fell in waves. The weight of the upcoming hunt settled in my chest—not fear, exactly, but a focused tension that made the food taste even better, sharper. Every bite felt like fuel for what was coming, every sip of tea a reminder that these quiet moments wouldn't last.
I'd protect this team. Protect Sakumo. Even if it meant letting a little more of the yokai slip out under the guise of my "kekkei genkai." The fox inside stirred again, hungry for the chase, for the taste of mutated chakra on the wind, for the thrill of the hunt that had been buried since my wilderness days. But I kept it leashed, smiling across the table as Mikoto cracked a joke about not letting the beast barbecue us first.
Mikoto: Just don't expect me to save you if it tries to cook you instead. You're on your own, rival.
Kira actually let out a small huff that might've been a laugh, the sound so quiet I almost missed it. Her pale eyes crinkled at the corners for just a moment before her expression smoothed back to neutral. Sakumo topped off our tea cups with a steady hand, the amber liquid steaming in the afternoon light. The moment stretched, warm and alive, the sizzle of fresh meat hitting the grills punctuating every word like a promise of what was coming.
Sakumo: Tomorrow we start light drills on formation shifts.
He leaned forward again, his voice dropping into that planning tone that made everything feel possible, like the future was something we could build together instead of just surviving.
Sakumo: Ryusei, I want you practicing those flame layers with Mikoto's lightning in mind—see if you can absorb and redirect in a controlled way. Kira, you'll run point on the tracking simulations. We'll make this hunt our first real win as a squad.
I met his eyes and nodded, the decision from the training ground burning brighter than ever. The warmth of the restaurant, the laughter of the chunin, the smell of grilling meat—it all faded into the background for a moment, leaving just the two of us, mentor and student, making a promise.
Ryusei: Count on it, sensei. We've got this.