The metal of the new hitai-ate felt heavier than it should've.
I turned it over in my hands, the Cloud symbol catching thin lines of sunlight and throwing them back in sharp little flashes. Around me, the courtyard buzzed—shouts, laughter, someone already crying, someone else bragging about their team assignment.
It all sounded distant.
I did it, I thought, a little numb. I'm actually a genin.
"RAIZEN!"
The world snapped back into focus just in time for a pair of arms to slam into my shoulders and nearly spin me around.
Only one idiot hit that hard on purpose.
"Taro—" I grunted, half-stumbling, half-laughing as he hauled me into a rough headlock.
Taro cackled in my ear. "Look at you! Little Rai, all grown up and legalized to go get stabbed for the village. I'm so proud I could cry."
"You cry and I'm telling everyone," I muttered, elbowing him in the ribs.
A second shadow fell over us. Jairo stepped up beside us, calmer as always, but his eyes were bright in a way I wasn't used to seeing.
"Let him breathe, Taro," Jairo said, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth. "He's supposed to survive his first day, you know."
Taro finally released me, hands immediately going to my headband.
"Hold still," he ordered, already untying the cloth. "You're not walking around with it like that. You look like you lost a fight with your laundry."
"Hey—"
He ignored me, fingers moving with surprising care as he straightened the plate and cloth, brushing a thumb across the Cloud symbol like he was checking it for cracks.
"Feels weird, doesn't it?" Taro said, softer now, almost to himself. "The weight."
I swallowed. "A little."
"Good." He met my eyes, and the joking dropped away for just a heartbeat. "Don't ever let it feel light."
The words sank into me like a seal pressed on wet ink.
Jairo stepped in, taking the cloth from my cousin and looping it around my forehead with practiced efficiency. He tied the knot firm but not painful, then rested his palm briefly on the back of my head.
"There," Jairo said. "Now you look like a real shinobi instead of some academy kid who snuck into the ceremony."
I snorted, but something in my chest twisted.
Jairo's gaze softened. "You remember that night you came back from the hospital?" he asked quietly. "Couldn't see out of your left eye at all. You shoved your face in your pillow and said you'd never catch up. That you'd always be behind."
Taro clicked his tongue. "You were so dramatic."
Heat rushed to my ears. "You're literally the last person allowed to talk about dramatic, Taro."
Jairo pretended not to hear either of us. "You got up the next morning anyway. Went back to drills. Back to chakra control. Back to those thread exercises until your fingers bled." He nodded once, as if confirming something to himself. "This headband isn't luck, Raizen. You clawed your way to it."
Taro slung an arm around my shoulders again, pulling me in close.
"Jairo's right," he said. "And you know how much it pains me to admit that out loud."
A small, wet laugh broke out of me before I could stop it.
Taro's grin softened around the edges. "Your old man is already bragging to the whole clan in his head, you know that? 'That's my boy, the one who turned storms into a weapon,' or some cheesy lightning line like that." His eyes glistened, but he grinned through it. "I'm not letting you slack just because you've got metal on your forehead now. This is the starting line, not the finish."
My throat tightened.
Jairo reached out and rested a hand on the side of my neck, thumb brushing the edge of the cloth.
"We're proud of you, Raizen," he said simply. "No jokes. No conditions. Just that."
For a second, I couldn't answer. The courtyard noise blurred again—but this time it was because my eyes stung.
I forced out a breath and managed, "…Thanks."
Taro squeezed my shoulder so hard it hurt. "Now don't get killed on your first D-rank, alright? That would be really embarrassing for the family image."
"Keep talking like that and I'm trading you for a different cousin," I said, but there was no bite in it.
The hitai-ate sat solid on my forehead, the knot snug at the back of my head.
For the first time, the weight didn't feel like it was pressing me down.
It felt like it was holding me in place.
⸻
That night, the house smelled like soy, ginger, and grilled fish.
Raizen paused in the doorway, the familiar warmth hitting him all at once. The low simmer of miso. The faint crackle of oil. A softer sound—his mother humming under her breath.
Ayame stood at the counter, apron tied around her waist, hair pinned up in a loose knot. Lightning calluses along her fingers moved with precise care as she set out dishes: rice, pickles, perfectly sliced vegetables, the kind of meal that made his stomach twist with a hunger he hadn't realized he was carrying.
She didn't look up immediately.
"Welcome home, Raizen," she said. "Wash your hands."
Her voice was calm. Normal. As if today was just any other day.
He slipped off his sandals, did as she said, and only when he came back into the kitchen did he notice the extra attention to detail on the low table. His favorite cut of fish. A small dish of chocolate squares—the good kind she had to go to the upper district to get.
His chest ached.
Ayame turned then.
Her eyes flicked up to his forehead, and everything else stopped.
For a heartbeat, she didn't move. Didn't speak. Her gaze traced the metal plate, the symbol, the knot Jairo had tied. The room felt full of static, like the air right before a lightning strike.
Slowly, her lips parted.
"Come here," she said.
Raizen stepped closer, suddenly awkward. "It's not… that big a deal," he muttered. "Everyone in my class—"
Ayame reached out and cupped his face in both hands.
Up close, he could see the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the tired shadows that years of missions and worry had carved there. He could also see the way her hands trembled, just slightly, against his skin.
"Don't lie to your mother," she said softly. "Not today."
The knot in his chest snapped.
He exhaled, shaky, and let himself lean into her touch for a second—just a second—like he had when he was little and woke from nightmares, when his left eye still burned and the world felt wrong and uneven.
Ayame smiled, and it was the kind of smile she only used at home. Small, private, meant for him and no one else.
"When they handed you that headband," she said, "I was on patrol near the eastern wall. I felt your chakra spike from across the district." Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones. "Your father looked up at the same time I did. We knew."
Her voice wavered on that last word.
She swallowed, blinked hard, and continued.
"I remember you, you know," she went on. "The boy who couldn't hold a leaf on his forehead without it falling. Who tripped over his own feet trying to run through basic drills. Who cried into my lap because his eye wouldn't stop hurting and he was sure he'd never see properly again."
"Mom—" Raizen started, mortification lighting his face.
She ignored him gently.
"And I remember," she said more firmly, "the boy who got up anyway. Day after day. Who wrapped his own fingers when they bled from thread practice so he wouldn't worry us. Who studied medical scrolls at night until he fell asleep on the table. Who kept going even when no one was watching."
Her hands slid from his cheeks to the sides of his headband.
"This," she said, fingertips resting on the metal, "isn't just the village's symbol. It's proof of how stubborn you are."
A laugh caught in his throat and came out mangled.
Ayame took a step back, studying him like she was committing every line of his face to memory. Then she reached for the knot at the back of his head, untying it with careful fingers.
"Sit," she said.
He obeyed, dropping onto the cushion at the low table. She knelt behind him, the soft rustle of her clothing whispering in his ear.
He felt the cloth lift away, then the cool touch of a damp cloth on the metal.
"You clean your tools before a mission," she murmured. "You clean your headband too. Not because it's sacred, but because you respect what it costs."
She dried it, the gentle scrape of fabric on metal oddly soothing. Then she laid the plate against his forehead again, this time her hands moving slower, almost reverent, as she tied the cloth into a new knot.
The pressure settled, firm and steady.
"There," she said quietly. "Now you look like a genin of Kumogakure."
Raizen stared down at his hands.
Static crawled along his skin, a phantom echo of chakra exercises. His throat felt too tight.
"…Are you mad?" he blurted, before he could stop himself. "That I'm… actually doing this? That I'm going to be on missions now. Real ones."
Ayame circled around to face him.
Mad? her expression seemed to ask.
She knelt and leaned in until their foreheads touched, her hands braced gently on his shoulders.
"I am terrified," she said honestly. "Every part of me that is a mother is screaming. The world out there is cruel. It tried to take your father more than once. It took too many of my friends."
Her breath was warm against his skin.
"But every part of me that is a kunoichi," she continued, "is proud. Because you chose this knowing that cruelty exists. Knowing the risks. And you are going anyway—not to chase glory, but to protect what you can."
Something hot slid down his cheek.
He didn't even realize he was crying until Ayame brushed the tear away with her thumb.
"I will worry about you every day," she said. "When you leave the house. When you're late coming home. When the sky is too quiet, or too loud. That's my burden. I accept it."
She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye—his right eye, then his left, the clouded one that still didn't see like it should.
"Your burden," she said, "is to come back. Again and again and again. No matter how tired. No matter how much it hurts. Come back. Even crawling. Even broken. Until the day you decide you're done."
Her voice softened.
"And until that day… I will be here. With food. With bandages. With scolding when you're stupid, and congratulations when you're not."
A shaky laugh burst out of him, half-sob, half-relief.
Ayame smiled through the wetness in her own eyes.
"Congratulations, Raizen Tsukihana," she said. "My son. My storm-child. My genin."
The words hit harder than any lightning.
Raizen bowed forward until his forehead touched the tatami, breath hitching, hands fisting against the floor.
"Thank you," he whispered. "I'll… I'll make you proud."
Her hand settled on the back of his head, warm and steady.
"You already have," she said.
Outside, distant thunder rolled over the village.
Inside, the weight of the headband on his forehead finally felt like it belonged there.
⸻
Later, they sat around the low dinner table: Raizen, Taro, Jairo, and Ayame.
The house smelled like soy and grilled fish, like miso and pan-fried vegetables. Lantern light painted everything in warm gold—Jairo's lined face, Ayame's tired eyes, Taro's stupidly smug grin.
Raizen's new hitai-ate lay on the table in front of him, the metal plate catching the light every time someone moved.
Taro jabbed his chopsticks at it. "Look at this. My baby cousin's a real genin now," he said, loud and proud. "Next thing you know he'll be stealing my missions."
Jairo snorted. "If he wants your missions, he'll need your rank first. You only just became a jōnin yourself—try not to retire from arrogance before age thirty."
Taro grinned wider. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, old man."
Ayame sighed, but there was a ghost of laughter under it. "If both of you could stop preening long enough to chew, that would be great."
Raizen half-listened, half-drifted.
Over the past three years, he'd watched Taro climb—chūnin, then special assignments, then finally jōnin. He still remembered the night Taro and Jairo had sat at this same table, Taro slamming his promotion letter down like a victory flag.
"You're up next, Raizen," Jairo had said that night.
"Don't tell him that," Ayame had sighed. "His head barely fits through the door as it is."
And Taro had just leaned over and flicked Raizen's forehead. "You hear that? No excuses."
Now, the hitai-ate sitting between his chopsticks said he'd kept up.
Mostly.
He picked it up, running his thumb over the carved Cloud symbol.
Now that I'm a genin… this is where everything gets serious, he thought.
In his mind, timelines unwound like scrolls.
If this world followed the original Naruto exactly, then Team Seven's first C-rank—the Land of Waves mission—should be in about… two months? Give or take. That's what he remembered, anyway.
In canon, it had gone: graduation → D-ranks → Tazuna's escort → Zabuza and Haku → first real taste of the shinobi world.
After that came the Chūnin Exams. He didn't remember the exact gap, but it hadn't been long. A few months at most.
Raizen stared at his reflection in the metal plate, the warped little face looking back at him.
But this isn't that world. This is an AU. People are different. Timing is different. I can't assume everything lines up perfectly.
He needed anchors. Concrete points.
Okay. Step one: confirm Land of Waves happened. Easiest way? The bingo book. As long as Momochi Zabuza is still listed as active, that arc hasn't happened yet. The moment his name disappears or switches to "deceased"… I'll know Team Seven finished their mission.
He drummed his fingers lightly against the edge of the plate, syncing the taps with the rhythm of distant thunder.
From there, in the original timeline, the exams followed pretty fast.
Worst case, that would give him, what—four to six months after Land of Waves until Konoha's Chūnin Exams? Maybe less, maybe more, depending on how twisted this AU's calendar decided to be.
He swallowed a mouthful of rice that suddenly felt dry.
Four to six months to get strong enough that he wasn't just background.
And that's assuming the exams even happen on schedule here…
Then there was the bigger issue.
I'm in Kumo.
In the original story, Kumo hadn't even sent a team to those exams. No Cloud headbands in the stadium. No Kumo genin in the forest.
But this time… maybe that can change.
He glanced around the table.
Jairo was listening to Taro brag about a mission, eyes crinkled, pride buried under mock annoyance.
Ayame was refilling everyone's bowls with the kind of quiet, precise care that said this was how she celebrated—making sure they were fed, warm, together.
Taro clinked his chopsticks against Raizen's headband like it was a toast.
If Team Eleven shows real strength, if they performed well on C-ranks, if they stood out… maybe the Raikage would decide it was worth sending them to Konoha. Maybe he'd want Kumo represented in an exam that big.
The thought sent a little spark through Raizen's chest.
The Chūnin Exams… that would be his best shot at getting close to Naruto and the Konoha Twelve. At nudging things. At building relationships before the bigger storms hit.
He didn't know if the exams would be in six months, a year, or longer. He only knew two things:
1. The Land of Waves arc was his first marker.
2. Whatever time he had before Konoha's exams, he couldn't waste it.
"Raizen?"
He blinked and looked up.
Ayame was watching him with a small smile. "Eat," she said. "Your food's getting cold."
"Right," he said, and shoveled a piece of fish into his mouth. It tasted better than anything he'd had in weeks.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of laughter and bickering—Taro exaggerating his missions until Ayame smacked him with a dish towel, Jairo grumbling about "show-off children," Raizen caught somewhere between feeling like a kid again and like he was standing on the edge of something
Later, in my room, the house quiet around me, I set the headband carefully on my desk.
Lantern light caught the Cloud symbol one last time.
I touched it with two fingers and whispered, more to myself than anyone else:
"From today on… I'm a genin of Kumogakure."
The words settled over me like a weight and a promise at the same time.
Taro's voice echoed in my head: This is the starting line, not the finish.
Outside, distant thunder rolled across the village.
Inside, for the first time, the weight of the headband on my forehead felt not just heavy—
It felt right.