Ever since the Third Hokage had visited his ward, Mizuki felt oddly content with his life. If Orochimaru had simply stayed underground and focused on research instead of aiming for godhood, Mizuki might have offered to send him some lab assistants. Eternal youth, immortality, creation of life—why not? Compared to that, people like Pain, Obito, and even Madara Uchiha were in such a rush to play savior. They should've learned that being a "savior" is the kind of career that gets you killed without anyone bothering to mourn you.
It's not like people in this world want to be saved anyway. As long as you don't mess with their lives, no one cares if you become immortal or declare yourself a god.
Where did that old saying come from again? "Suffering tempers the self, while prosperity blesses the world"? What a joke. Mizuki had never heard of any ninja-world philosophers spouting wisdom like that—no Confucius, no Mencius, just lunatics who thought getting strong meant they had to "change the world," whether the world liked it or not.
He glanced behind him. "Tsubaki, that hot pot is ours—don't forget to bring it. Iruka, that chair over there looks decent, right? Take it too."
"Shuimu, we didn't bring that chair," Tsubaki said, a little flustered. "And, uh, the vase in your hand is hospital property… and the blanket, too—look…"
"You're mistaken, Tsubaki. All of this belongs to me. No need to feel guilty." Mizuki turned to Iruka, pointing at the wall. "That painting too—it's grown on me over the weeks. Might fetch a few ryo, who knows?"
The medical-nin guarding the room could only glare silently as Mizuki, finally discharged, prepared to leave. Truthfully, he'd been fine for days—weak, yes, and still stuck in a wheelchair—but functional enough. In less than a month, he and Tsubaki had turned the hospital room into a full-on suite: a study, a bedroom, and a kitchen. Packing it all was too much, so Iruka got dragged in for a full morning of unpaid labor.
"Tsubaki, we should get a bigger house," Mizuki said dreamily. "These tiny apartments don't cut it. Look at the big clans—they've got compounds with multiple wings, trees, little ponds… it's nice."
"But we can't afford it," she replied, flustered. "That kind of real estate is way out of reach."
Iruka had barely opened his mouth before Mizuki pointed a finger at him. "You've been single for years. You've got savings. No big expenses. Lend me the money—you weren't using it anyway."
"Absolutely not," Iruka deadpanned. "Even single people have to spend money. Besides, who says you'll pay me back?"
"Wow. Greedy. And here I thought we were old friends," Mizuki muttered, offended. "Is money stronger than friendship now?"
Iruka raised an eyebrow. "Oh, now we're friends? Where were you when I was eating instant noodles last month?"
Tsubaki quickly stepped in to defuse the tension. "Let's not fight. We really can't afford a mansion, Mizuki."
"…So what? We'll just Transformation Jutsu ourselves into someone rich and borrow from loan sharks. They'll never find us. I say we turn into Iruka—put it on his tab. He's good for it."
Iruka's eye twitched. "You do realize I'm right here, Mizuki."
"If I'd known this would be so hard, I would've asked the Third Hokage to get us a house," Mizuki muttered. "Forget it. Let's start collecting wedding gifts. The ceremony's not far off. Let's raise some funds."
"We're returning all those gifts, Mizuki," said Tsubaki firmly.
"You're too honest, Tsubaki. If someone gives you money, just say thank you and don't look back. Who's shameless enough to ask for their gift back from an injured man fresh out of the hospital?"
As they packed, Mizuki continued daydreaming about making a fortune. That's when the door knocked.
"Why are you two here?" Mizuki asked, eyeing Yamashiro Aoba and Moonlight Gale entering.
"The Third sent us to deliver your things," said Aoba, setting down a large stack of scrolls.
"That's… a lot," Mizuki mused. "Hey, since you're here, why not help tidy up? Free labor's still labor."
The five of them cleaned until dinner. As the others wiped their brows, expecting to stay for food, Mizuki opened the door.
"Thanks for your hard work. You can go now."
"…No dinner?" Gale asked, stunned.
"Do I look like I have a catering budget?"
As they trudged out, Mizuki shouted after them, "Aoba! Weren't you going to treat me to breakfast for a month? Just send me the deluxe package rate from the hotel. I'm swamped lately. Can't make time."
The door slammed before Aoba could object.
"Mizuki, that was kind of harsh," Tsubaki said, concerned.
"They'll live. Let's eat—I'm starving."
"What are you having?"
"Assorted sushi."
"Perfect. Haven't made that in a while. I was starting to think your taste changed."
—
Late at night, with Tsubaki gone, Mizuki lay in bed, unable to sleep. He opened the scroll the Third Hokage had sent and reviewed the research. Bored, he took out one of the sealed scrolls containing his experimental samples. Though his chakra was weak, he could still manage light sealing work.
He examined the odd chunks of flesh suspended in nutrient solution. His brow furrowed. He even unsealed a small monster—grown from his own hair, on a whim.
"…So that's what happened," he whispered. His body trembled—not from fear, or joy, or anger, but something stranger.
"I really messed up."
He pulled out a tube of his green potion—the so-called "Omnipotent Medicine." He'd only ever meant it as a powerful regenerative treatment, a battlefield trump card. It was derived from protease enzymes that activated cellular totipotency. Heal faster. Recover better. That was the idea. As long as you didn't overuse it, it should've been safe—any side effects could be dealt with using the world's abundant chakra resources.
But Mizuki had misunderstood its true nature.
The potion didn't just repair. It activated everything—including hidden or recessive genetic traits. In theory, it could rebuild a person from a drop of blood. But not all genes were dominant. Some were ancient, vestigial, long-buried. This potion didn't discriminate—it awakened everything.
Even minor wounds treated with it could result in strange mutations. Skin might grow coarse… or sprout fur.
During early tests with insects, Mizuki had noticed irregularities—but insects mutate quickly, and who pays close attention to bugs? They all looked weird. The signs were easy to ignore. And insect genes are simple compared to mammals.
So why had Yamashiro Aoba, Moonlight Gale, and even Mizuki himself not suffered those effects?
Because of one thing he'd overlooked: chakra.
He laughed bitterly. All this time, he'd mocked the so-called superstitions of the ninja world, only to forget the most important part. Chakra wasn't just energy—it was a metaphysical force, blending body and spirit. It mapped to a person's self. It kept the body aligned with the mind.
Lightning chakra stimulated cells, like in Kakashi or Sasuke. Fire chakra matched intense, impulsive personalities—Madara, Jiraiya, even Mizuki himself. Earth chakra brought endurance. Water chakra granted adaptability. Wind chakra produced sharp, decisive force—like Naruto or Asuma.
These weren't just metaphors. Chakra maintained identity at a cellular level. It prevented the random mutations his potion should've caused.
So no—Aoba, Gale, and Mizuki weren't lucky. They weren't chosen by fate. They were simply saturated with chakra strong enough to suppress the chaos.
And Mizuki finally understood: in the ninja world, there was no such thing as coincidence.