One of the biggest shifts in this version of the world was Minato's little crusade to sanitize the shinobi system.
The man meant well, I'll give him that.
No Nine-Tails meant no massacre, no chaos, no scramble to refill the corps. That gave him breathing room to look at the system and go, "Hey, maybe turning traumatized toddlers into killers isn't the peak of civilization." So, boom—academy age pushed up. Graduation at fifteen. No more child soldiers.
And of course, that change came wrapped with a bow. A minimum age for the Chūnin Exams. If you're going to give them time to be kids, you have to delay the next step, too, right? Let them live a little before they start dying for the village.
Very noble.
I respect that, despite sounding so sarcastic. Reason being, it had put me in a bind.
See, I wasn't just some kid. I was carrying the weight of two lifetimes, one of which included knowing how grim this world really was. Not just from books or bloody lectures, but in that awful, bone-deep way that only comes from experience.
Worse, my memory was a spoiler-filled roadmap of what should happen… and knowing things that should happen, did not fucking happen, made the future feel like a loaded gun with a hair trigger.
The war wasn't here yet, but the shadows of it were already long.
So yeah, I was conflicted. On one hand, I agreed with the man. Let the kids laugh a little longer.
On the other hand, I didn't have time to wait.
I couldn't afford to sit still and grow up at their pace. I needed advancement. Not because I had some blind loyalty to the shinobi system or wanted to wear a flak vest with pride, but because each step up the ladder came with something I did care about: access. Clearance. Forbidden scrolls. Banned jutsu. Ancient texts. More training space, more resources, more fuel for the fire that kept me from going numb.
So, if I couldn't walk the usual path — well, I'd much choice then walk the unusual one.
With the chunin exam restricted for me, I had to force a promotion.
It was simple political theater, really. The shinobi system runs on perception as much as power.
First, I'd build my legend. Cultivate carefully selected missions with high visibility among the right people. Border patrols where jōnin commanders could "happen" to see my skills. Protection details where feudal lords and merchants would witness a genin performing beyond his rank.
Then, I'd crafted the narrative. Let the rumors spread through the right channels. The key is making others ask the question before you do. Let the clan heads and council elders wonder why such talent remains untapped at lower ranks.
When someone finally says, "Perhaps we should reconsider his rank," I'd appear humbly surprised. "I'm only serving Konoha as best I can." Politics is about making others believe promoting you was their idea all along.
The beauty of forcing a promotion this way? No one can call it ambition. It's just natural recognition of value. And by the time they pinned that jounin vest on my back, they'd wonder how I ever wasn't wearing one.
Red Claw of Konoha or something else, it never mattered. The title was simply a tool, a crafted echo that would resonate through mission reports and council chambers without my presence. A memorable brand that worked while I slept, whispering into the right ears.
Sometimes the loudest statement is the one you let others make for you.
"Hmm," I glanced at the bandit leader's crumpled form. He'd live, probably. "You worked so hard to protect this road — time to get some rest."
Then I turned to the stunned lot—their makeshift uniforms, ill-balanced weapons, eyes wide like children seeing war for the first time.
"Anyone else feel the thirst for knowledge?" I asked mildly. "I've got plenty of lessons to go around."
They shifted around but hesitated and didn't go for a charge.
That gave me room to study.
Seven men. Three swords. One axe. One glaive. One bo-staff, more of a club. One…. was that a Kusarigama? Nice. Only three of them had the fluidity of shinobi — the rest stood like anxious villagers pressed into roleplay and extortion.
The shinobi-thin one on the right kept shifting his weight — that's the guy with the poisoned short blade. His footwork screamed assassin. Light steps. One twitchy hand hovering behind him, probably baiting with a hidden jutsu already prepped.
The other shinobi, taller with a thick scar across his neck, had gear strapped high on his back—likely explosive notes or chakra thread weapons or merely stolen goods.
The rest?
Shrine raiders wearing flak too stiff for combat. Likely trained just enough to die second. Even the third shinoni could be barely considered one. Perhaps Sakura could…. no, she had struggled with the untrained, starved farmer, let alone this.
I could drop them.
If I'd spent the time I wasted on theatrics executing, I could've easily trimmed the numbers. Senbon tight to the throat. Shuriken to the ankle.
It's the common pattern. Kill the distractions. Then crush the real threat.
The opposite of what I did.
Because everyone expects it.
When you're on a hunt, you go weak-to-strong, narrow the playing field.
But no one, not even trained shinobi, expects their leader to be obliterated in the first five seconds.
That was psychology. It unraveled their courage as much as their formation.
The sidelong glances they were exchanging now, instead of attacking, were proof of that. That was doubt. And doubt kills armies faster than weapons kill soldiers.
Another reason for using Firehand was—
"WHOA!" Naruto exploded from behind, eyes gleaming and mouth half-open. "That was sick, Eishin! I mean—BOOM! You were like FWOOM, and that red fire hand thing—did that come from a paper or—IS IT LIKE A SUMMONING OF YOUR ANGER MANIFESTED AS A PUNCH?!"
I didn't turn to face him.
"If you actually listen," I said, "you'd know you could do that too. Maybe more."
Firehand require an absurd amount of chakra manipulation and that after the formulae on the paper metigated most of it. But still.
If he needed a clone for the Rasingan, Firehand was probably not for him. Even if I were to break my brain to adjust the formulae affinity from fire to Naruto's wind.
Sakura probably could. She had a potential for chakra manipulation, but the fact that I didn't even know her chakra nature did not fill me with optimism.
Naruto laughed, rubbing the back of his neck with his classic goofy grin. "Heh-heh… yeahhh, I mean—listening's one way to learn. B-but, can't I just wing it and let my awesomeinstincts handle the rest?"
"Oh sure," I said flatly. "Let me know how that goes when your instincts get your spleen on the outside."
He gave a sheepish little hehe again.
Sai didn't laugh, but he did cock his head very slightly. He was sketching something on the back of his palm. I'd seen that look before. The one he used when confronted with emotions he couldn't name.
Sakura was watching with narrowed eyes… measuring. Mentally rewriting whatever file she had on me.
I gave her a slow, lazy wink. I expected the usual, the scoff, the twist of her pink head, the haughty breath through her nose like I was a bug she didn't want to squish.
But she didn't. Her gaze meekly dropped. And swear her cheeks faintly colored. Barely a degree above normal, but that must be the heat.
Still, that flicker of compliance, of unexpected softness, of attention. She was coming along well.
I turned back to the half-frozen circle of enemies.
"Well?" I said, sweeping my glowing firehand lazily through the air. "Do you guys still want to be paid for this protection gig?" I nodded toward their leader's downed body, head still planted in cracked clay. "I feel like what I just gave him counts as a pretty steep compensation already. One lesson, on the house."
Need to keep them stalled.
The Fire Hand pulsed warmer—building. Glowing. Ribbons of red heated the gaps between finger joints as I guided and charged the technique.
It wasn't the scarred one or the poisoned blade… it was the youngest and weakest of the three actual shinobi. Barely twenty, if that. His voice was too smooth for the dirt-track bravado they all played at.
He stepped forward just slightly, palm open in false diplomacy.
"Well said… and well played, stranger," he said with an oily calmness. "For someone with such precision, you certainly know how to command presence. Kakito-san always said he could judge a man in a second. Seems he read you right."
Kakito? Ahh. That'd be the guy with his head still in a heated handshake with the road.
"Did he?" I murmured. I didn't stop charging the firehand. "Well, I hope I lived up to those lofty expectations."
"Oh, more than that. Truly. This road is safer with you traveling it. Still—can't say we're not impressed by the work you do."
What an odd bunch.
That earned the ghost of a grin across my lips. "Oh no, no, don't make this about me. I'm just the student here. You boys—you're the real masters of security and civil service."
The chakra dripping from my hand hummed louder, heat distorting the edges of the air. With the distance between us, I needed to calculate how much chakra to charge the hand, for the explosion to take most of them, but not reach them.
A muttered voice caught my ear, low and sharp, our client, he sidled up beside Sai and whispered with entitled irritation, just loud enough to be heard. "What the hell are your shinobi doing? Why isn't he killing them? This isn't in the deal, they're stalling—"
Sai didn't answer. Didn't move either. I liked that about him.
"Kakito-san was a good judge." The young fake-protector nodded, not giving sign he heard the merchant. "And… well, you clearly don't need our humble services anymore. You've out-protected the protectors." He bowed his head a little, still smiling. "We'll trouble you no longer."
Then he gestured sharply, and they showed no hesitation as their formation broke immediately. The half-circle melted apart. They stepped off the road, leaving the path free.
I raised a brow.
Narrowing my eyes, I scanned the brush, the trees. These bastards weren't dumb enough to use this as a bluff escape… were they?
A cluck of wheels broke the moment.
The damned merchant, red-faced and twitching with mounting self-importance, yelled not waiting for my signal.
"We're leaving! Move the carts! Now!" The coachmen obeyed, snapping leather reins, the two oxen hauling both carts rattling forward.
Stupid, jowly, impatient…..
Naruto puffed up. "Wait, are we just gonna let these jerks—?"
"Naruto." My voice didn't rise.
"Tch." He clenched his fists. "You're telling me we just leave 'em after that?"
"Follow the client," I said, eyes not leaving the regrouping bandits. "Guard the carts. I'll watch the rear."
He opened his mouth to argue again, but my glare stopped him.
"Hmph." Naruto threw his hands up in frustration, muttering something about "stupid stupid rules" and "what's the point of being strong if you don't throw 'em off the road," before sulking off after the caravan.
I wondered if he would have still listened had I not shown him some skills.
Sai and I locked glances for a brief, passing beat. He gave a tiny, precise nod and turned, drifting into motion.
Sakura lingered. Her head was turned slightly downward. Chin angling like she wanted to say something. But she didn't. Just kept walking after the others, arms tight over her stomach, legs just one pace too fast to be casual.
"You know," I said, turning to the charming little not-bandits, "now that I think about it… you said I out-protected the protectors." I raised the Fire Hand slightly, the glow warping the air a bitter orange. "But I also gave something—a lesson. A rather expensive one, I might add."
The new leader's brow furrowed, just slightly. A fleeting glance at the passed out Kakito.
"And considering I wasn't using your services," I went on, shrugging with unrelated innocence, "wouldn't that make me a client… who handed out pay for a job not done?"
He frowned now. Realizing where I was heading.
The slow smile spread back across my face, and I opened the fingers of my Fire Hand just slightly—let the chakra knit between flaming knuckles in seductive trails of red.
"I'd like to take my payment back." I added, "Please."
One of the older bandits in the back muttered something sharp under his breath.
They started this game. They should not be angry if I outplayed their shamelessness.
The young leader exhaled through his nostrils. His smile turned brittle around the edges.
"We'd love to," he said. "But we're just humble farmers." His voice played sincere with nasty subtext. "We lack your… refined tastes. I'm afraid anything we offer would be far too crude for someone of your philosophy. Or your calibre — I mean, you are the Red Claw. It would only offend your sensibilities as a learned man."
"Touché," I said, voice smooth as silk dragged across steel. "Tell you what then…"
I let my eyes roam, lazily, across the group. I stopped on the kusarigama.
"…since you're all out of cultural currency," I said with a smirk, "that looks like it'll do."
The wielder stiffened. But the young leader gave a slow, stoic nod.
The kusarigama user ground his teeth but obeyed. He unhooked the weapon with sharp, jerky motions, then threw it down skipping across the dirt, not at me, barely beside me.
Just far enough that I couldn't call it an attack. I pity. Now I just wasted chakra on an explosion I couldn't detonate.
I picked the weapon.
Disappointing. They did not bait.
I gave a brief two-fingered salute, spun the kusarigama smoothly in my hand, and stalked after the convoy.
I hoped they would still attack when I showed them my back, but they didn't.
What an odd bunch.