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In the end, the Yagami clan accepted the First Raikage A's proposal, surrendering the land around Cloud-Lightning Gorge. That was where Kumogakure was built.
To endure such a harsh environment for generations, to live there and still carry their name forward… that kind of bloodline could only mean one thing: a unique gift of the body.
And the body itself was the outward form of Yang Release.
Seiji guessed that his strong "Yang affinity" most likely came from the Yagami side of his bloodline.
The stronger the body, the more life force it held, which naturally meant faster healing.
Though, he doubted it was on par with the overwhelming vitality of the Senju or the Uzumaki.
When he felt it was safe—no eyes watching—he stretched lazily, pretending to be heading for the bathroom.
Once the door shut, he pulled out the slip of paper.
It was small, no bigger than two thumbnails, with a single neat line of text written in plain script:
"Yagami Seiji, no matter what, you are one of us. Kumogakure will always keep its doors open to you."
Seiji arched a brow.
No codes, no cipher, just ordinary writing. Ninja usually passed messages through encrypted language, but this was as simple as it got.
Clearly, Kumogakure had considered his situation. He hadn't even graduated from the Academy yet—complicated codes would've been useless to him.
He flipped the note over.
On the back was an address, just a normal shop.
"A spy's drop point…" he muttered.
He tore the note into pieces and let them fall into the toilet bowl.
The moment the scraps touched water, the ink began to fade, dissolving until nothing remained.
Expressionless, Seiji pressed the flush. The fragments swirled away with the rushing current.
So Cloud was regretting letting him slip away, was that it?
But he was already in Konoha. At best, they could only use such veiled methods to reach him.
This wasn't the weakened Konoha of the future, the one that Cloud dared to strong-arm into handing over the Hyūga heiress.
Back then, Konoha had been gutted—White Fang dead by his own hand, the Fourth Hokage gone, the Sannin scattered, the village still staggering from the Nine-Tails' attack. In those days, Kumogakure had been bold enough to try kidnapping a Hyūga.
It had forced Konoha to the brink, almost costing Hiashi his life—if not for his twin, Hizashi, stepping in.
Compared to that, this note was Cloud's version of "good faith."
Seiji could report the location to Konoha at any time, earn a reward, and be done with it.
Or… he could use it to bargain for benefits from Kumogakure. Even return there, if it came to that.
But going back would always be the last resort.
If he went to Kumogakure, he'd be the lone heir, their precious "specimen." Freedom would vanish. He'd be watched, managed, and without a doubt—studied.
Not vivisected, maybe, but samples of his blood and cells taken again and again, "within safe limits," fattened up, then drained again, over and over.
And more than that—they'd breed him like livestock.
A stud horse.
In a few years, he'd be bled dry in body and spirit.
Yes, Seiji liked women.
But not that way. Not as if he were cattle.
And Cloud would never allow him to grow strong on his own. That would risk him slipping from their grasp. To them, he'd be nothing but a machine for breeding heirs, while they brainwashed and molded his children into perfect loyal shinobi.
Konoha had its dangers, sure—even the looming shadow of a massacre someday—but at least here he had the chance to learn ninjutsu, to grow stronger, to carve his own path.
Everything in this world already had a hidden price tag.
If you wanted something, you paid for it.
Life was nothing but a series of choices.
Both Konoha and Kumogakure had their pros and cons. But for now, staying in Konoha was safer. It gave him time—time to build strength.
"Seiji, are you home?"
The familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts.
Mikoto.
He knew what this was: Root's routine inspection.
Setting aside the book he'd been reciting from, Seiji went into the kitchen, splashed his face with water, and straightened himself up. He checked his breath in the mirror, slipped on his geta sandals, and went to answer the door.
The Uchiha had their own district within Konoha, an isolated enclave.
Seiji had been given a small, rather shabby house there. Its only merit was the space.
"Mikoto-sama," he greeted, bowing slightly, as if nervous before her.
After all, she was a jōnin. He was only an Academy student.
Even though he carried the mind of an adult through two lives, he couldn't act unnaturally calm for his age.
Sometimes weakness was the best disguise.
"There's no need to be so formal with me," Mikoto said with a soft smile.
Did she really look that intimidating? The boy seemed so timid.
Seiji kept his gaze lowered, his black hair falling across his face, hiding whatever expression he wore.
"I told you before—just call me big sister."
"…Alright then, Mikoto-nee," he said.
She nodded, then gestured to the figure behind her.
The newcomer wore a medic's garb, though her curvaceous figure didn't exactly match the solemn, compassionate expression she wore.
Generous curves and a saintly face made for a strange mix.
"This is Nonō Yakushi, captain of the medical corps," Mikoto introduced.
"Hello," Nonō said with a gentle smile. "I'm Nonō Yakushi. I'd like to check your eyes, if that's alright."
"I'll be in your care, Nonō-sama."
Seiji stepped back and let them in.
Before long, Mikoto and Nonō were seated at the low table on the tatami floor, while Seiji busied himself in the kitchen.
He dragged over a stool, stood on tiptoe to reach a bag of cheap tea, boiled water, and poured two steaming cups.
Nonō watched the thin boy scurrying about and felt a pang of pity.
Perhaps it was because she had spent too many years in Root—years of bloody missions, of erasing the self again and again—that she'd come to cherish these pure, untainted children.
Like gems, each one with their own color and shine.
"Please, have some tea," Seiji said, setting the cups before them before taking a seat on the other side.
"Thank you," Mikoto murmured politely, sipping despite the weak, bitter flavor.
Nonō lifted her cup but kept her sharp green eyes fixed on Seiji through her round glasses, watching every shift of his expression.
Pity aside, she had a job to do.
Her questions came carefully phrased, seemingly harmless, but circling closer and closer, probing for inconsistencies—was he a spy? She even slipped in subtle jutsu, weaving pressure into her words.
Seiji answered each one calmly.
Mikoto sat quietly, saying nothing, her eyes resting on the reflection of the ceiling in her teacup.
The ceiling boards were old, half-rotten. Near the lamp, a moth fluttered lazily.
Then, as she watched, a black spider crawled silently across and sank its fangs into the moth.
Only then did she notice the fine web spread around it, invisible until it caught prey.
"So slow to react," Mikoto murmured under her breath.
When she turned back, Nonō had finished her questions and was now holding up an instrument, carefully checking Seiji's eyes.
"....."