Renjiro exhaled sharply through his nose and grunted. "Tch."
"There's no point wasting time thinking about Nakada," he muttered to himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Or this whole marriage situation."
With a slow breath, Renjiro closed his eyes, steadying his racing thoughts and heartbeat. He had fought, trained, and dodged a kunoichi's ambush, all within a span of hours—but none of that would help him now. The words she left behind still scratched at his brain, but he shoved them down, sealed them beneath the mental layers he'd learned to compartmentalize as a shinobi.
He needed to focus on something he could control.
His bo staff.
He crouched down, bringing the staff closer to eye level.
He then rolled it over in his palms, his thumb tracing the grain of the sturdy wood and the faint lines of the embedded seal at its core.
"Where was I, Yeah I was thinking it was about time I changed the core material that it is made of," he muttered trying to recollect the train of thought he had right before Nakada had distracted him.
His voice barely rose above the soft hum of the wind rustling through the tall training posts behind him. He turned the staff in his hands again, this time slower, more contemplative. "If I'm going to add weight modulation and real size-changing functionality, this wooden skeleton won't cut it."
He stood, spinning the staff once in a lazy arc over his shoulders. It responded fluidly, moving like a natural extension of his body, but the flaw was there—minute, but present. If he moved any faster or infused it with high-level chakra during a clash, the stress on the wood might cause it to splinter. That wasn't acceptable. Not anymore.
"Reinforced ironwood?" he muttered aloud, imagining the structure of the weapon in his mind—replacing the core, shifting the balance, strengthening the outer casing. "Too brittle under high-speed rotation. Might hold for a week. Maybe two."
He dismissed the thought and kept going, ticking through alternatives.
"Tempered alloy? Solid under pressure, but… too heavy. Would throw off my stance when switching to reverse grip. And channelling chakra through it would bleed energy with every strike."
Then, like a distant bell tolling through fog, another idea flickered into view—subtle, but undeniable.
Chakra metal.
The thought made his fingers twitch with anticipation, the staff clutched tighter in his grip.
Chakra metal was more than just a material—it was a marvel. It was the pinnacle of shinobi weaponcraft. It was prized not just for its durability, but for its chakra-conductive properties. Not just store or hold it, but channel it—shape it. In the hands of someone skilled in both weaponry and chakra control, it could act as a multiplier. A seamless extension of will.
But it wasn't just rare—it was precious.
And expensive.
Absurdly expensive.
The supply was limited, regulated by the Daimyō himself, and doled out only under request by the Hokage's office. Even then, it wasn't guaranteed. Most requests were denied unless the shinobi in question had a mission profile critical enough to warrant it.
He sighed, his jaw tightening.
"Still…" he murmured, turning the bo staff upright and resting it lightly against his shoulder, "it would solve everything. I could embed seals directly into the metal. Reduce loss, increase modulation speed, maybe even add adaptive density functions."
The possibilities began to spread like roots through his thoughts. He imagined the modified weapon—chakra threads pulsing through etched fuinjutsu channels, the staff reacting to his movements before he even fully decided them. Swift weight shifts mid-swing. Maybe even blade extensions forming from raw chakra. Deflecting lightning-based jutsu through the weapon itself.
He nodded to himself. "Yeah. That's the upgrade I need."
A pause.
Then came the bitter aftertaste of reality.
"…But how do I get it?"
He paced the edge of the training grounds slowly, the tips of his fingers brushing against the body of the staff with absent thought. He could try to barter, maybe call in a favour. But chakra metal wasn't something you could just trade for—not even with a mountain of ryo or a black-market connection. It required clearance. Authorization. A mission-relevant justification.
"I'll have to talk to the Hokage," he said, slowing to a stop. "Maybe… maybe if I frame it right. If I pitch it as a mission-essential upgrade tied to the next infiltration assignment…"
He was still formulating how he would word that request when a sudden pulse ran down his spine.
A tingle at the edge of his consciousness.
A ripple. No, a flare. Like the sudden tremor of a spider's web when touched by an unseen hand.
Renjiro's hand tightened on the staff.
His chakra field had just picked up movement. The air had changed.
His eyes narrowed. He pivoted subtly, angling his body sideways in a stance ready to react.
"So now my chakra field decides to work?" he hissed through his teeth, voice low. The irony wasn't lost on him. "Convenient."
His mind flashed back—Nakada. Her presence had been like a shadow woven from nothing. No ripple. No warning. Not even the faintest prickle of instinct.
'How the hell had she done that?'
Before the thought could fully form, something dropped behind him.
"Thud!"
In the blink of an eye, a figure dropped in front of him, crouching in a crouched ANBU landing stance.
Renjiro didn't flinch.
He turned slowly to face the newcomer— sleek, minimalist, adorned with the insignia of the Hokage's personal ANBU. The ivory-white mask was shaped like a hawk's head, stylized with red lines curling from the eye sockets.
The figure straightened and spoke, the voice echoing with emotionless efficiency through the mask.
"Uzumaki Renjiro. Lord Third requests your presence. He wants a report on your mission to Kirigakure."
Renjiro blinked. "Now?" His tone held surprise—not because he didn't expect the summons, but because he knew for a fact that the Hokage was still in a council meeting at this hour.
"Yes," the ANBU affirmed, giving a slight nod. "Immediately." Then, with a swirl of leaves and a faint rustle, the ANBU vanished as quickly as he appeared.
Renjiro stared at the space where the man had been. Then he sighed, exasperated. "Couldn't even let me clean up first."
He stored his staff into the seal with a flick of his fingers, sealing it away neatly before flickering to his house.
The flicker was smooth, his form vanishing into a blur of motion that whispered through the trees. He appeared on the wooden floor of his small home moments later, the air slightly musty and tinged with the faint aroma of sandalwood. He tugged off his sweat-drenched tank top, tossing it aside, revealing his Anbu tattoo and walking to his wash basin, quickly splashing cold water onto his face and neck. His hands passed through his hair with practised ease, combing it back while muttering to himself.
"I need to at least look like I didn't just come out of a war zone."
He changed into a black long-sleeved shirt and dark shinobi pants—simple but clean—and fastened his Konoha hitai-ate around his bicep. His crimson hair now tied back neatly, Renjiro looked into the mirror, his Sharingan fading back to normal. For a moment, he saw the fatigue in his eyes. Then he blinked it away.
He stepped outside, night fully fallen now, the moon cutting through the clouds like a sentinel in the sky.
Renjiro moved like a shadow across the rooftops, quiet and purposeful, until he reached the Hokage's tower.
The corridors inside were dim, Renjiro walked through them slowly, each footfall soft and deliberate, echoing faintly in the quiet hall. The large door to the Hokage's office stood ahead, slightly ajar, a candlelit glow spilling from inside.
He stepped into the office and stood in front of the desk. The large window behind it gave a view of the entire village below. The wind stirred the papers on the desk, and Renjiro found himself standing in thoughtful silence.
The door creaked.
The familiar scent of tobacco wafted into the room a moment before the figure entered.
Hiruzen Sarutobi walked in, his expression unreadable as always. He wore his usual robes and hat.
Renjiro straightened. "Hokage-sama."
Hiruzen gave a slow nod and moved to sit behind his desk. He exhaled smoke from his pipe, the tendrils curling into the air between them.
"So," the Third Hokage said quietly, folding his hands. "How did your mission to Kirigakure go?"
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