Tama Akimichi awoke to the smell of breakfast and the familiar sound of his father snoring through walls.
His room, painted with old food posters and cluttered with half-finished notebooks, lit up in the morning sun. He rolled off his futon, stretched with a yawn that threatened to dislocate his jaw, and scratched at his belly. A few scribbled notes clung to his legs where he'd fallen asleep mid-thought.
Downstairs, the kitchen was bustling. His cousin Renga was already slicing vegetables with the speed of a Chūnin on caffeine. Tama's mother stirred a massive pot of soup, humming softly. A stack of bento boxes sat on the counter, each carefully labeled and color-coded.
"Morning, hazard boy," Renga grinned, not pausing his rhythmic chopping.
"That nickname is gaining traction, huh?" Tama yawned again, rubbing his eyes.
"Like rice on wet sandals," his mom said without missing a beat.
They all laughed. It was a good sound—full and warm, like miso before the boil.
---
The Akimichi Soup Hall was nestled near the edge of the civilian district, its giant wooden signage decorated with a smiling pig and a steaming bowl of miso.—it had started with Tama. When he realized he could stretch a single rice ball into two, turn stale rations into warm meals, and make carrots taste like candy, he begged his parents to open a kitchen. Not a restaurant. A place where anyone—anyone—could eat.
He didn't just want to help cook. He wanted to fix the problem.
Food shortage. Runaway prices. Stale rations. All things he could tweak.
He touched a rice pot. "Elastic Reality: Portion Extension—Double Trouble!"
The mound inside multiplied like eager rabbits. Beans stretched. Dumplings doubled. Cabbage thickened into hearty stew.
He carefully layered his effects on vegetables: increased spice for the shinobi crowd, softer texture for the elders, higher saturation so the food filled more bellies. A simple bowl of soup could become dinner and breakfast with the right tweaks.
By mid-morning, a line stretched down the street. Civilians and retired shinobi smiled and joked and waited.
Inside the kitchen, Tama danced between pots. He was soaked in sweat, beaming, shouting measurements to the walls as if they could hear him.
---
Tama stood behind the counter, wearing a too-big apron and a too-proud grin. Every time someone said "thank you," he tried to pretend he didn't love it.
When a little boy tugged his sleeve and whispered, "You made the carrots taste good," Tama almost cried.
Rika—tall, serious, always judging—showed up halfway through. She sat at the corner table and glared at her bowl like it owed her money.
Tama sauntered over, ladle in hand.
"You came for seconds?"
"I came to make sure you didn't set fire to the dumplings."
"I don't even have fire powers."
"Exactly."
She didn't say thank you. But she finished her plate.
A kunoichi from the western patrol unit stopped by and ruffled Tama's hair. "If anyone gives you trouble, tell 'em western patrol owes you one."
By the time cleanup began, Tama had heard a dozen different nicknames. "Kitchen King," "Miso Magician," and, of course, "Walking Hazard."
He liked that last one best.
---
Later, Tama wandered the rooftops, tired but happy. He took the long way home, hopping tiles, sometimes adjusting his weight to soften a landing or bounce a bit higher. Just for fun.
Below, people were still chatting about the food. Kids waved. A baker shouted, "You made my wife cry, you rascal!"—which Tama took as a compliment.
He climbed to the Hokage Monument's eyebrow ridge—his usual perch. A breeze played with his hair. The village stretched out below him like a bowl ready to be filled.
Unseen, eyes watched him.
---
Hiruzen Sarutobi, Third Hokage:
From behind his crystal ball, he stroked his beard.
"He's growing into a leader. Not through power. Through presence."
He scribbled a note.
Protective observation to continue. No intervention yet.
"Let the boy cook," he murmured with a smile.
---
Danzo Shimura, Root Leader:
Deep underground, Danzo glared at a dossier. A grainy photo of Tama with carrot juice on his cheek was clipped to the top.
"This child will disrupt balance. No jutsu. No allegiance. A foreign power encased in a round body."
He tapped the edge of the folder.
"Too dangerous to ignore. Too beloved to eliminate… yet."
Behind him, a Root operative shifted nervously.
"Prepare shadow assets. Observation only—for now."
---
Rika's Father, Civilian Committee:
"He made dinner stretch three days longer last week. The market's stabilizing. People are smiling again. The boy's doing more than the mission system ever could."
Another man grumbled. "It's unnatural."
"Maybe. But unnatural isn't always bad."
He sipped his tea. "Sometimes, a strange gift is exactly what a village needs."
---
Akimichi Clan Elder:
"He brings pride to our name. And risk. Others will envy what he can do."
Someone else murmured, "He's a target in waiting."
The elder sighed.
"Then we make sure he has no blind spots."
They lit a ceremonial lantern. "We will keep him safe."
---
Tama, legs dangling over the village, leaned back with a satisfied sigh.
He didn't know who was watching.
Didn't need to.
He'd keep doing what felt right.
Because not everything needed to be measured.
Not everything needed to be balanced.
Some things just needed to be kind.
And kindness… tasted better than anything.