Geniuses are lonely.
And those who are too self-aware? Even lonelier.
As she passed through the street, an enthusiastic shopkeeper called out, "Naori, want some dumplings?"
Naori gave a soft nod, then shook her head politely. "No thank you, Aunt Ina. I've already eaten."
"Ah, I see. Are you enjoying ninja school?"
"I am. It's been a lot of fun," Naori replied with a bright smile.
"I hope my little one can join next year."
"I'm sure he will!" Naori encouraged her warmly.
"I just worry... Ichiraku's not exactly cut out for this ninja stuff."
"The school lessons aren't hard," Naori reassured. "He'll do just fine."
"Now that you've said that, I feel a bit better." Aunt Ina chuckled.
After parting ways with Maki, Naori wandered through the village, casually chatting with villagers along the way. It looked like idle conversation—but it wasn't. There was purpose behind every word.
Before she realized it, her feet had carried her to the ninja training grounds.
Today's route had been longer than usual, but this kind of quiet detour was routine for Naori. Her daily life hadn't changed much.
Fortunately, one of the training addicts hadn't left yet.
Sometimes the field had five or six people, sometimes only one or two. Civilian ninjas relied on this public space to train—unlike the prestigious clans, who had private dojos.
Why not watch the clan kids train, then? Because frankly, there wasn't much to learn from them. But civilian ninjas? They often came up with unique techniques that even Naori hadn't seen before.
And when that happened—she watched. Carefully.
Today, only one person was on the field.
A boy. And from the looks of it, he was developing ninjutsu.
Naori paused. Her two-tomoe Sharingan quietly flickered to life.
There were countless jutsu in the village—some she hadn't seen, many she had. Basic jutsu, secret techniques, chakra nature transformations—most were easy to identify at a glance.
But this boy… he wasn't forming any hand seals.
Was he using nature transformation? Shape manipulation?
A legendary no-seal technique?
Intrigued, Naori moved closer, slipping silently into the shadows of the trees, her breath and chakra suppressed.
The boy had striking white hair.
Her first thought wasn't Jiraiya—but Tobirama Senju.
Same hair color, wildly different reputations. Genius and fool didn't mix.
He looked eleven or twelve at most, wearing an ANBU uniform and a comically oversized dog mask. Of course, there was always the off-chance he was just a really short adult.
On the field, the boy was trying to contain wild arcs of lightning dancing across his body.
Naori tilted her head. Most people focused on making their jutsu stronger—why was he trying to suppress it?
Then she saw it. Through the Sharingan, she noticed: if he didn't hold back, he'd electrocute himself. Instantly.
A sharp, ozone scent drifted on the wind, carried to her nose.
This kid's insane…
She'd never seen anyone subject themselves to lightning chakra like this.
But it wasn't random. He had clearly practiced this countless times. And now, he was close—so close—to control.
Just as Naori thought this, the boy moved.
He mumbled something with excitement: "Konoha's secret flowing technique—A Thousand Years of Death!!"
A flash of lightning sparked from his mask. The next second, he vanished.
Naori's pupils dilated sharply.
Fast.
Faster than anything she'd ever seen.
He reappeared on the far end of the training ground, short sword in hand, the blade angled upward in a familiar motion.
Naori recognized the taijutsu technique instantly.
The boys at school always played like this during recess.
She didn't know who had invented it.
But that didn't matter.
This kid had taken a prank—and turned it into a high-speed, deadly assassination technique.
It had become something of a tradition among the boys at school.
The infamous technique—"A Thousand Years of Death."
"Despicable. Shameless. Absolutely obscene," Naori muttered under her breath.
That white-haired ANBU boy was clearly bad news.
Most used just their fingers for that ridiculous technique—but he had pulled out a short sword.
If he'd actually struck there with it… Naori could already imagine the pain. Worse than death.
Brutal. Completely overkill.
But also—powerful. That technique… using lightning to stimulate the body and enhance speed?
Naori had never seen anything like it.
And now, she had.
It was hers.
Suddenly, a sharp voice called out, alert and defensive:
"Who's there?!"
The boy had sensed her.
Naori stepped out from the shadows, her Sharingan eyes quietly fading to black. She smiled warmly, feigning innocence.
"Big brother is so amazing."
The boy looked at her for a moment, then simply shook his head. Without a word, he sheathed his short blade and walked off.
To most people, he probably looked like a cold, silent prodigy—just another serious ninja with a stern, distant personality.
But not to Naori.
If it hadn't been for that absurd 'Thousand Years of Death' move, she might've believed the act.
Only the school's most mischievous boys used that technique.
So Naori came to a conclusion.
This white-haired ANBU boy? He was definitely a weirdo. A skinny, prank-loving type.
Just like Jiraiya.
…No. Jiraiya wouldn't go that far.
Even he wouldn't pull out a knife for that kind of taijutsu.
Once the boy disappeared, Naori stepped onto the field, eager to try what she'd just seen.
She mimicked the motions. Once, twice, three times.
Eventually, she managed it.
But her limbs tingled, numb from the electric backlash.
"Harder than I thought…"
Normally, she'd master things in one try. This time was different.
Still, she pressed her numb hands and legs and walked it off.
Back to wandering.
By the time she looked up again, the sky had gone dark.
She'd returned home without even realizing it.
The little house was closed. No lights inside.
Every home around hers was bright and full of life. Laughter, dinner, voices.
A sharp contrast to her own quiet, empty house.
Naori looked up at her door, then sighed.
She didn't want to go in.
So she didn't.
It wasn't the first time. And there wasn't anyone inside to nag her, anyway.
Where to now?
She didn't know.
So she kept walking.
Eventually, she ended up at a small park on the edge of the village.
She sat down on a swing and began to gently sway.
"Create my own ninjutsu, huh?" she mused aloud.
"That sounds kind of fun…"
"But now that I've learned that lightning trick, I'll definitely be top of the class."
Naori didn't like to fight—but she still had a competitive streak.
Even just secretly.
"Maki wouldn't be able to dodge that attack. Tsunade might. But… stabbing Tsunade seems like a bad idea. Getting hit back would hurt."
She thought for a moment.
"Against Tsunade… genjutsu is probably better."
"Let's try it out."
"Creating your own jutsu…"
She raised her hands and formed a seal.
"Like this?"
"And this?"
"That's it?"
"Huh… it's actually pretty easy."
And it was at that moment… that Maki met Naori.
Under the moonlight.
A lone swing creaked in the empty park, swaying with a quiet rhythm.
The girl on it moved like a ghost, bathed in silver light.
Around her, glowing butterflies danced.
Luminous wings shimmered, fluttering softly in the cold night air—like fairies, like spirits, like a dream.
A cluster of light, flitting joyfully around the girl in the swing.
"Ah! Naori!" Maki called out.
The girl stopped swinging and hopped lightly off the seat.
She landed gracefully, her cloak fluttering.
"That… what was that?" Maki asked, her eyes wide.
"What?" Naori blinked.
"The butterflies. They were glowing."
"Oh. That's just an illusion," Naori replied with a faint smile.
And just like that—the butterflies vanished.
An illusion?
But when did she cast it?
Maki frowned slightly. "You're not someone to be underestimated."
Naori chuckled. "You're the class chief. You're the one not to be underestimated."
She hadn't noticed her presence at all—Maki had just appeared, like a whisper in the dark.
A ghost.
Maki stared at her.
Naori stared back.
Maki tilted her head slightly, puzzled.
…How long are we going to keep looking at each other like this?
________
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