After Tomi said yes, the house felt luckier.
There was more laughter in it. More reasons for Dad to smile at nothing. More evenings where Tomi would be at the table correcting him like she had every right to, and Dad would take it with the dazed gratitude of a man who still could not believe fate had finally handed him something good and not demanded blood for it first.
I liked that.
I liked it a lot.
Which was probably why, when Saturday came bright and cool and Dad looked over at the pig pen with a gleam in his eye, I understood immediately that this was going to be a holiday of sorts.
"My son," he said, hands on his hips, "today justice comes to the wicked."
I looked where he was looking.
The pig looked back at us through the slats with the sharp little eyes of a creature who had committed crimes, learned nothing, and fully intended to do worse if allowed.
It was the chicken-eater.
Bigger now. Thick through the shoulder. Clever in a mean sort of way. Good feed, good handling, and months of subtle alchemy had made him a better pig in every direction. Stronger, denser, quicker to learn.
Unfortunately, it had also made him much too interested in latches.
From the porch, Tomi looked up from tying on her apron and asked, "Are we speaking of butchery or revenge?"
"Yes," I said.
Dad pointed at me. "You see? He understands."
"That is not a comfort," she said.
The truth was, the pig was ready. That was all. A poor house keeps animals for a reason, and eventually that reason becomes meat. You either accept that honestly or you have no business pretending you understand where food comes from.
Still, I was not above enjoying the poetry of this particular animal ending up first.
We got the gate open, and the pig did what I had learned to expect from him.
He did not panic.
He judged.
His little head turned once, then twice. His beady little eyes looked at me. Looked at Dad. Looked at the open yard. Then, instead of charging for freedom like an ordinary pig, he tried to cut back toward the one weak section of fence he had been tearing at for a month.
"See?" I said. "Criminal mind."
Dad barked a laugh. "He's trying to ninja his way out."
He did not get far.
The pig was stronger than an ordinary pig should have been, yes. Smarter too. But Dad and I were not ordinary by any useful standard either. I jumped in, got both hands under him, and lifted.
The pig screamed betrayal at a volume that suggested we had ruined his entire philosophy of life.
Dad grabbed the hind legs as we attempted to calm the pig down with a bucket of feed. If you didn't know, strong adrenaline in an animal before they are killed for meat will hurt the flavor. A calm pig means tasty bacon.
"That was almost disappointing," he said as the pig immediately stopped screaming and started grunting happily in the bucket of feed.
"No," I grunted as the pig kicked uselessly to get deeper. "That was efficient."
Tomi closed the pen gate behind us and said, "If either of you starts gloating in front of the pig, I'm leaving."
"We would never," Dad said, already smiling too hard to be believed.
We did the work quickly and cleanly. That mattered to me. It should matter to everyone who owns their own animals.
There is no point in pretending butchery is not serious work, but it also does not need to be draped in tragedy every time. This pig had been well fed, well tended, and had lived a better life than most animals ever got. Now he was going to become the kind of meal that put strength back into the people who raised him.
That is not sorrow. That is the contract. In this case it also happened to be justice for the chicken and all of the broken fences.
Once the pig breathed its last and we strung it from a T post to drain the blood, Dad, Tomi and I bowed our heads.
Once the real work started, the mood lifted.
Hot water. Sharp blades. Clean cuts. Tomi handling the table like she had been born knowing how to keep men from turning honest labor into chaos. Dad in good spirits. Me watching the flesh come apart and feeling, under my hands, the proof of months of work.
The meat was exceptional.
The shoulder was dense and clean. The fat sat right. The muscle held itself together in a way ordinary pork usually didn't. Not miracle flesh. It was like my alchemy had genetically designed the meat to be consumed by humans.
Dad held up a cut and whistled. "Now that is a pig."
"That," I said, "is good feed, good handling, and the correction of character through destiny."
Tomi gave me a look. "You are making this sound religious. It is only farming."
"Those two things overlap more than they should," I muttered.
We laid the best pieces out in a separate spot.
A poor house does not share indiscriminately. You share with purpose. Gratitude goes somewhere. Respect goes somewhere. Future allies go somewhere too.
That was part of why the whole thing felt joyful instead of grim. We were not just killing an animal. We were winning food. Real food. Good food. The kind that traveled outward from your table into other people's days.
Dad got a look on his face then, the same one he got before saying something that would be either noble or ridiculous, and pointed at the wrapped cuts we set aside.
"Choza's house gets some."
"Yes," I said at once. "His mother fed me when I was running thin."
"Tsunade too," Tomi added. "Or she'll decide she deserves none and then complain when everyone else had some."
"The cut I'm wrapping right now is for Mito."
Dad made a noise pointed again, farther this time, toward the road as if the man in question might appear if named properly enough.
"And Sakumo."
I looked up. "Sakumo?"
Dad nodded once. "A good man should not be left out of good meat."
That was the kind of logic I could not improve.
Sakumo had been around more lately, not constantly, but enough. Dad liked him, which told me a good deal. Dad only truly attached himself to people he felt were solid underneath.
Tomi wiped her hands and said, "Then send him some. And a proper note, not one of your battle cries disguised as stationery."
Dad looked wounded. "My writing is extremely stirring."
"It is," I said. "That is the problem."
He ignored me and went inside for paper anyway.
I finished wrapping one of the better cuts while Tomi salted another and Dad, after scratching out the first version, brought the note back to the table for approval with the eager seriousness of a child who wanted his drawing admired.
I took it first.
It read:
Hatake Sakumo,
My household has today conquered a pig of exceptional spirit and quality. We would be honored if you accepted some of the victory. Also, if your schedule allows, come by next week so we may test ourselves in youthful training and sharpen one another through effort and pork.
—Might Duy
I looked at it.
Then at him.
Then back at it.
"That is better than I expected."
Dad puffed up. "I can be formal."
Tomi took the paper, read it, and smiled despite herself. "Don't change a word."
So we didn't.
I looked down at one of the wrapped cuts and added, "I'd like to give one to Mikoto's household."
Dad looked up. "The Uchiha?"
I shrugged. "Mikoto's family. Not the whole clan."
Tomi's eyes narrowed with interest. "That specific?"
"Yes."
She studied me for a moment, then smiled the way women do when they think they have seen into something you were not trying very hard to hide.
"Ah," she said.
"Do not start."
"I said nothing."
"That's because you're thinking too loudly."
By the time the first meal hit the table, the whole house smelled like hot fat, onion, garlic, salt, and pork.
Dad took the first bite and froze.
Tomi watched him, suspicious. Then she took her own.
Her whole face changed.
She looked down at the bowl, then at me, then back at the bowl.
"This is not normal."
There it was.
The awe I had been waiting for.
Dad swallowed and nodded hard enough to count as emphasis. "It's incredible."
Tomi took another bite, slower this time, like she was trying to figure out where the difference lived. "It settles differently," she said. "Heavier, but not in a bad way. Cleaner. Like—"
"Like the body knows how to use it," I said.
She pointed at me with her chopsticks. "Yes. That."
I set my bowl down and finally said the part out loud.
"This one is different on purpose."
That got both of them looking at me.
Tomi was first to speak. "Different how?"
I hesitated just long enough for them to understand I was choosing how much to say.
Then I said, "You have likely pieced together I have some ability to tell quality in things."
I paused trying to find the words "I call it alchemy. The thing is, I can push some of that energy into things to help it grow. Not directing it like chakra, more like an echo of my desires. The alchemy doesn't just work on eggs. It works on animals too, if I have time and if I don't get greedy with it." I nodded toward the bowl. "Better feed use. Better structure. Better retention. The body keeps more of what it's given. When you eat it, some of that carries forward."
Dad lowered his chopsticks.
Tomi stared at the pork like it had personally insulted her understanding of the natural world.
I went on.
"It won't turn anyone into Hashirama over supper. But if you eat it after training, or while recovering, or when you've been running yourself down, it reinforces the body. Stronger recovery. Better uptake. Less waste."
Dad sat back slowly. "My son."
"Yes?"
"Have you been secretly trying to feed us miracles?"
"No," I said. "Just quality."
Tomi looked at him, then me, then the bowl again. "And you are telling us this now because?"
"Because I need help not being stupid with it."
I pointed at the wrapped cuts on the counter.
"Choza's family gets told because they've fed me and because he is my brother. Mikoto's family gets told because I trust her and because Uchiha police training means they'll notice something is different whether I warn them or not." I paused. "But this does not leave this table as gossip."
Dad nodded at once.
Tomi did too, more slowly.
"I mean it," I said. "If the village starts asking the wrong questions too early, this becomes a problem. People get greedy around anything that strengthens the body."
Tomi's face went thoughtful in a colder way. "Yes. They do."
Dad's expression shifted too. Still warm, but harder underneath. "Then we say nothing."
I looked between them and felt a little of the tension leave my shoulders.
"Good."
After that, half of the deliveries became my job.
Dad handed me the wrapped cloth with the best cuts for Choza's family and another for Mikoto's house.
"You sure you don't want me to do it?" he asked.
"Yes. You have deliveries to make as well. If you think Sakumo is trustworthy tell him the truth so he knows how best to use the meat. Tsunade likely already knows but telling her outright will keep her happy. I'd stop by Mito's first, if she isn't there give her portion to Tsunade."
Tomi was already retying one of the knots more neatly. "Take the finer shoulder cut to the Uchihas," she said. "If you're going to walk into that house and make an impression, do it with quality."
I took both parcels and headed out.
Choza's house first.
That one was easy.
His mother opened the door, saw the parcel in my arms, and immediately stepped aside in the way of women who know good food is at the threshold and intend to get out of its way before men complicate things.
"Tai," she said. "Come in."
Choza appeared from deeper in the house almost at once, moving toward the smell like his soul had been summoned by meat itself.
His eyes widened.
"That's for us?"
"Yes."
He looked at the parcel, then at me, then back at the parcel. "Why do I feel like this is a holy moment?"
"Because you're Akimichi."
"That is fair."
His mother laughed and took the cloth from my hands with proper respect. "Your father and Tomi are too generous."
"No," I said. "This one's from me."
That got both of them looking.
Choza tilted his head. "Specific."
"Yes."
I glanced once toward the kitchen and said, "Can we talk plainly?"
That changed the room just enough.
His mother led us farther in, shut the inner door, and set the parcel down on the table without opening it. She then called for Choza's dad out back.
"Go on," she said.
So I did.
Not everything. Enough.
I told them the pig had been raised well. Better than well. That I had used my special talent on it carefully over time. That the result was meat that reinforced the body much more efficiently than ordinary food did. Stronger recovery. Better use after training. Better restoration if someone was run down. I told them it was real, it was useful, and it was not something I needed discussed outside trusted walls.
Choza's face went completely still.
Not blank. Focused.
His father asked the right question first.
"How strong?"
"Maybe 10 times more effective," I said. "Not enough to make fools immortal."
That got the smallest flicker of amusement out of him.
Choza, meanwhile, was staring at the wrapped cloth like it had just become a sacred relic.
"You gave us the good cut."
"Yes."
"Because I brought you rice cakes?"
"Because you are my brother," I said.
That hit him hard. I could see it.
He straightened a little, then a little more.
His mother laid one hand on his shoulder and said to me, "You have our word."
Choza nodded immediately. "Brother's secret stays in the house."
That pleased me more than I expected it to.
I left them smiling and went on to the Uchiha district.
That part required a little more composure.
The Uchiha compound always felt more arranged than the rest of Konoha, as though every stone and wall had been informed it represented family pride and ought to stand up straighter because of it. I found Mikoto's house without trouble. I had been there before often enough that it no longer felt like trespassing and not often enough that I could forget where I was.
Mikoto's mother answered the door.
She saw me, saw the wrapped cloth in my hands, and brightened so quickly it almost made me laugh.
"Tai!" she said. "Come in."
Then she looked down at the parcel and her whole expression changed into delight. "Did you bring food?"
"Yes."
"That is my favorite kind of visit."
That felt very reasonable.
She let me in with the warmth of someone who had already more or less decided I belonged in the category of children worth feeding. Mikoto appeared from the side room a second later, and whatever calm she had been trying to maintain died the instant she noticed the bundle.
"You brought something," she said.
"I did."
"What is it?"
"Justice."
"Is that from the pig you claim as evil incarnate?" she asked "The one who ate your chicken?"
I said nothing and just nodded.
That got a laugh out of her mother and a resigned little look out of Mikoto that said I was being difficult on purpose.
Then her father came in.
He saw me. Saw the parcel. Saw his wife smiling at both of us. His expression tightened in the way of a man performing several kinds of caution at once.
"Might-san," he said.
"Uchiha-sama."
He looked at the bundle and with a stern voice asked, "What brings you here?"
Now, that tone could have soured a weaker child. I had already been old once and had raised cattle. Men protecting their households rarely offended me unless they were fools about it.
So I set the parcel down on the table gently and said, "I brought the finest cut from our first pig. I wanted Mikoto's family to have it."
That was true.
It just was not all of the truth.
His eyes went to Mikoto then back to me, measuring something. He looked prepared to slit my throat and hide the body.
The room could have gone stiff there.
Instead I made it easier.
"She's my sister," I said simply. "It wouldn't have been right not to bring some."
That changed him.
Not all at once. But enough.
The set in his jaw eased. Just a little. The line of his shoulders lost some of its question. He looked at Mikoto, then at me, and something in him decided he understood the road I was trying to walk.
"Well," he said, much less sharply, "as long as it isn't a dowry at six years old."
Mikoto's mother looked delighted in a way she was trying and failing to hide.
Mikoto herself had gone very still.
I kept going while the ground was good.
"There's something you should know before you cook it."
That got everyone's attention again.
So I told them.
Again, not everything. Enough.
Good feed. Good handling. Good stock work. A special talent of mine applied carefully over time. The result being meat that reinforced the body more strongly than it should. Better recovery. Better support after training. Better use by the body. I told them it was not subtle, definitely useful, and not village business unless I said otherwise.
Mikoto's mother was smiling before I finished.
Her father was not smiling, but he was listening with the hard, practical focus of a man who was still trying to figure out how much sway I had over his daughter.
Mikoto, of course, was watching me instead of the parcel.
"How long have you known?" she asked.
"That it worked this well on pigs?" I shrugged. "Today."
That made her mother laugh again.
Her father did not laugh. He asked, "And why tell us?"
That was a fair question.
I answered him honestly.
"Because she's my sister," I said, nodding toward Mikoto. "Because you'll know something is different once you eat it. Because I trust your house not to make me regret the trust."
He held my gaze a moment longer.
Then, finally, he nodded once.
"It stays here."
Good.
Mikoto's mother reached for the cloth, then stopped and looked at me with wide-eyed delight.
"So this is why your eggs are absurd."
Mikoto looked at her mother. "You knew?"
Her mother lifted her chin. "I have eaten them."
"That seems like information I should have had." Mikoto said with a frown.
That felt like a family argument best left to ripen on its own.
Before I left, Mikoto walked me to the door.
She was quiet for a moment, then said, "Sister?"
I looked at her.
Her mouth twitched.
"I thought that was the easiest way to get your father to stop evaluating my spine."
That got a real laugh out of her and after a moment she said, "It worked."
"Yes," I said. "It did."
She stood in the doorway watching me step back out into the street.
Then she said, in that composed way of hers that made small things land harder, "My brother."
Well.
That sat in my chest a while.
By the time I got home, Dad was back from Sakumo's with the empty parcel cloth and the look of a man who had successfully sent both meat and challenge into the world and been rewarded for it.
"Well?" he asked.
"Choza's house swore secrecy."
"Good."
"Mikoto's family did too."
That got his attention just enough for me to notice.
"And?"
"And her father stopped looking like he might throw me through a wall after I called her my sister."
Dad barked a laugh. Tomi, from the porch, smiled into her tea.
"Smart," she said.
"I know."
I looked over at Dad and asked "How did it go with Mito and Tsunade?"
H smiled a bit and said, "You'll enjoy this. I took Mito-sama her portion and found her on the veranda taking Tsunade's money at cards."
I looked up. "Mito was gambling."
"With perfect dignity," he said. "Tsunade looked like the deck had personally betrayed the Senju. Mito-sama accepted the pork, thanked me, and told Tsunade she could have her own portion, only if she stopped accusing fate of cheating."
Tomi laughed. "And did she stop?"
Dad struck the Nice Guy Pose. "She did not. Apparently losing with pride is a family tradition."
We ate again that evening, smaller portions now, just enough to enjoy it. The meat hit just as well the second time. Tomi still looked faintly offended by how much better it was than ordinary pork had any right to be. Dad kept grinning over every other bite like a man who had been personally vindicated by livestock.
The house felt full.
Not just of food.
Of people I trusted.
That mattered more than the meat, though the meat was admittedly exceptional.
And as I sat there with the yard going dim beyond the window and the smell of broth and pork still in the room, I had the satisfying thought that one good pig had just strengthened half the future I cared about most.