"Let's wrap this up," Obito said, his voice flat and utterly done with our existence. "There are still tasks ahead."
Translation: I'm bored of this side quest. Time to wipe the floor with you losers.
Without another word, he threw out a hand and called it:
"Fire Style: Flurry!"
That was B-Rank Ninjutsu. Casual. Bare minimum effort. A warm-up.
But I caught the subtle shift. His chakra twisted around space—Kamui. Just like before. A swirling ripple of power churned through the air.
Oh, he definitely noticed how I entered the battlefield earlier. He was trying to recreate the spatial effect—to test something. To test me.
And then he paired it with Fire Style.
Great. Just great.
Because a Kamui-assisted fire technique? Yeah. That's not just "burn your eyebrows off" fire. That's blender inferno mode.
A massive cyclone whipped through the clearing, pulling oxygen from the atmosphere and feeding the firestorm like a starving beast.
Flames surged, coiling like serpents—alive, wild, merciless.
Itachi flinched. He could feel it too. The heat wasn't just painful—it was oppressive. The sheer pressure made breathing hard.
There was no way he could resist this.
And me?
Well, I was five years old. Still rocking training wheels on my chakra control. My muscles felt like wet noodles. My bones were screaming. Recovery was a theory, not a reality.
I had exactly one card to play.
No dodging. No tanking. No hero speeches.
Just one shot. One gamble.
This wasn't just a test of power. This was psychological warfare.
Break his rhythm. Break his expectations. Break his confidence.
As the flames thundered toward us, I narrowed my eyes, staring into the belly of the beast. Fire swirled violently, like a crimson serpent trying to consume the world.
My mind raced—calculating, analyzing, visualizing. I had to time this perfectly.
The fire swallowed us whole.
Obito crossed his arms, watching the blaze with disinterest. "Hmph," he muttered. "Not even worth the effort."
He turned, ready to walk away.
And then—
"Who are you talking about?"
The flames split open with a deep, ripping sound.
A jagged slash of black energy tore through the inferno like a blade through paper.
The ground trembled. The air shimmered. Space itself seemed to ripple.
I stepped out of the storm, dragging a stunned Uchiha Itachi with me.
My expression?
Cocky. Calm. A little too smug for someone who almost barbecued.
"But that's all it is," I said. "Hot air."
For once, Obito didn't have a snarky comeback.
He just... stared.
Shock.
He'd watched us walk out of his upgraded firestorm without a scratch. Not a singed hair. Not a drop of sweat.
His eyes—those blood-red Sharingan—widened behind the mask.
He felt it. That black energy.
That wasn't fire. That wasn't wind. That wasn't chakra.
That was something else.
I raised my right hand.
Hey, Obito. Look.
The black energy appeared again.
It hissed softly in my palm, swirling like smoke, but sharp—alive. It pulsed with unnatural power.
He could see it now. Clearly. And he didn't like what he saw.
That energy—He—wasn't from this world.
It wasn't chakra.
It wasn't forged in flesh and blood.
It was... other.
And Obito? He could feel how dangerous it was.
Comparable to his Kamui. Similar in spatial nature. But raw. Violent. Unfamiliar.
This wasn't just some flashy ninjutsu.
This was soul-deep annihilation wrapped in mystery.
Even Itachi, who had seen plenty of insanity by age eleven, looked stunned. Eyes wide. Silent.
Because that energy... it didn't emit chakra at all. Just presence. Just force.
I mean, I'd be shocked too if a kid who looked like Kakashi's lovechild just parted a sea of fire with one palm.
But Obito—he took it seriously.
His mask tilted. His Sharingan spun.
The swagger was gone.
He wasn't underestimating me anymore.
Mission risk: increased.
Obito's mind worked fast. Too fast. If he kept analyzing, he'd notice the truth.
That the trick was smoke and mirrors.
That I was bluffing.
That my energy—He—was spent. The first strike had drained me. The second? Barely had any bite left.
I was stalling.
Buying time with theatrics and attitude and one barely-coherent magic trick.
If Obito pushed just a little harder, it would all come crashing down.
He'd see the truth: I wasn't strong. Not yet.
But luck? Luck was on my side.
He made the call.
"Kamui," he muttered.
His Mangekyō spun, and the space beside him warped.
The familiar spiral formed, pulling his body into another dimension.
"I remember you, Goko," he said as he faded. "We'll meet again."
I exhaled hard. So hard I nearly collapsed.
"Finally," I muttered. "I was one second away from keeling over like a puppet with cut strings."
And then—because I have a terrible sense of timing—I couldn't resist.
"Oh, by the way?" I called out. "My full name is Hatake Goko. Don't forget it!"
The vortex twitched—actually twitched—before vanishing completely.
Petty? Yes.
Satisfying? Absolutely.
The moment he was gone, my body gave out. Legs jelly. Chest burning. Arms dead weight.
The truth?
I was done. Cooked. Crispy.
Obito would've obliterated me if he'd been just a bit more cautious. If he'd sniffed too hard, the whole illusion would've cracked.
But he didn't.
Because I sold it.
Because in this world, magic like mine doesn't belong. It's alien. It's terrifying.
And that—that mystery—is what saved me.