Chapter 18: The Smallest Step Forward
The guest house sat quietly beneath the lantern-lit streets of Konoha, its tiled roof catching the moonlight like a patient listener to secrets not yet spoken. By the time Peter and the others reached it, the weight of the meeting had settled fully into their bones—not heavy enough to crush them, but substantial enough to demand care.
They didn't go inside right away.
Instead, they lingered on the path, the village humming softly around them: distant footsteps, the clink of dishes, the murmur of people trying—very bravely—to live normally after the end of the world.
Peter broke the silence first, as he often did, rubbing the back of his neck.
"So," he said, glancing at the others, "we need to give them something useful… but not terrifying."
Logan snorted. "Shame. Terrifying's usually my specialty."
Susan smiled faintly but didn't disagree. "Tsunade's right. Power without trust is how worlds burn."
Rogue folded her arms, leaning against the railing. "So what're we thinkin'? No weapons. No super-soldiers. No 'oops, we accidentally destabilized an entire nation.'"
Peter's eyes lit up—not with brilliance, but with something quieter.
"What about civilians?" he said.
They all looked at him.
"Planes," Peter continued, warming to the idea. "Not war machines. Transportation. Cargo. Medical evacuation. Something that helps people live, not fight."
Susan tilted her head, intrigued. "They already have basic aircraft."
"Barely," Peter said. "And nothing efficient. We could design something simple. Durable. Easy to maintain. No crazy materials, no AI. Just… better."
Logan studied him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
"Kid," he said, "you really do think like a guy who grew up worrying about rent."
Peter winced. "Ouch. Accurate."
Rogue nodded slowly. "It's smart. Shows we're not here to arm them to the teeth."
Susan exhaled, a decision forming. "And it builds trust without changing the balance of power."
Peter brightened. "I can do the designs myself. Keep it clean. Scalable. Let their engineers learn from it instead of relying on us."
"That's the right instinct," Susan said softly.
Logan stretched, joints popping. "Alright. You two play inventors. I'm gonna walk."
Susan raised an eyebrow. "Walk where?"
"Anywhere that doesn't have a desk," Logan replied. "I've got permission. Might as well see what this world's made of."
Rogue hesitated, then pushed off the railing. "I'll go with you."
Logan glanced sideways. "You sure?"
She shrugged. "You're still my teacher. And I don't exactly do well standing around making polite conversation."
He grunted approval and started off without another word, Rogue falling into step beside him. Their silhouettes faded into the village streets—two figures shaped by battles older than most of the buildings they passed.
That left Susan and Peter.
Peter shifted his weight. "You don't have to babysit me."
Susan smiled knowingly. "I know. But I'm not leaving you alone with a civilization that just survived an apocalypse."
He laughed, sheepish. "Fair."
They turned toward the guest house together, plans already forming—not grand, not cosmic, but useful.
And for the first time since being dragged across realities by a bored god, Peter felt something rare and steady settle in his chest.
This wasn't about saving the universe.
This was about helping people get from one place to another—safely.
Sometimes, the smallest steps mattered most.
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Logan:
To Logan, Konoha didn't feel foreign.
That realization settled into his bones as he walked its streets, boots steady against stone that had been rebuilt by hands that knew loss far too well. These weren't civilians pretending the world was safe. These weren't people cushioned by distance and convenience.
These were survivors.
He could smell it on them—not fear, but readiness. Even the shopkeepers. Even the children sweeping debris from doorways. The way shoulders stayed loose but alert. The way eyes tracked movement without staring. The way silence carried meaning instead of discomfort.
"I've been around people like this before," Logan muttered.
Rogue glanced sideways at him. "You say that like it's a compliment."
"It is," he replied. "And it ain't."
These ninja—soldiers, farmers, medics, clerks—felt like the kind of people who could kill if they had to, and live with it afterward. That kind of hardness didn't come from training alone. It came from a world that demanded it.
Earth hadn't been like this in a long time.
Too many safety nets. Too many illusions. Too many people who'd never had to decide whether someone else lived or died.
Logan snorted quietly. "Modern age made our world soft."
Rogue folded her arms, thoughtful. "Not wrong. Still doesn't mean I miss it."
They walked a little farther in silence before Rogue spoke again.
"So what's the plan?" she asked. "Because you didn't exactly come out here to admire the architecture."
Logan's lips twitched.
"I wanna fight."
Rogue blinked. "Of course you do."
"Not murder," he clarified. "Not slaughter. I wanna see how they move. How they hit. How they think when it's just fists and instincts."
He rolled his shoulders, the familiar itch crawling under his skin.
"These people are killers. Trained ones. I wanna know how good."
"And if they're better than you?" Rogue asked lightly.
He grinned, feral and pleased. "Then I learn."
They turned a corner and found it almost immediately.
The only bar still standing.
It wasn't impressive—half the walls had fresh repairs, the sign hung crooked, and the windows glowed with the tired warmth of a place that had reopened too soon because people needed it to. Laughter spilled out, rough and unpolished. The kind that only came after grief had done its worst.
Logan inhaled.
Alcohol. Sweat. Old blood.
"Perfect," he said.
Inside, the place was packed—not crowded, but dense. Shinobi of all kinds leaned against tables, sat on crates, or drank straight from bottles without bothering with cups. Bandages were visible. So were scars.
And right near the counter, boots up on a chair like she owned the place, sat a woman with wild hair, sharp eyes, and a grin that screamed bad decisions.
Anko Mitarashi.
She was halfway through a drink when she noticed them.
Her gaze flicked to Logan first.
Then Rogue.
Then lingered.
"Well," Anko said loudly, setting her bottle down, "you two look like trouble that wandered in without asking permission."
Logan met her stare, amused. "Funny. I was thinkin' the same thing."
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Logan decided almost immediately that he liked Anko.
Not in a polite, social way. Not in the we might get along at a conference sort of way. It was something older than that—recognition, sharp and instinctive, like two predators catching the same scent on the wind.
She had the look.
Not beauty polished smooth by comfort, but the kind forged by fire and poor decisions survived through sheer stubbornness. Wild eyes. Relaxed posture that hid coiled violence. Someone who laughed easily because she'd already seen the worst and decided fear wasn't worth the effort.
Rogue was dangerous too—Logan knew that better than anyone—but Rogue had grown up wanting to be better than the violence that shaped her.
Anko, on the other hand, wore it like a second skin.
They didn't bother with introductions beyond names. No long explanations. No dramatic backstories exchanged over drinks like confessions in a church.
They simply sat.
Anko kicked another chair aside with her boot and leaned back, arms loose, studying Logan with open curiosity. "You fight like someone who doesn't care if he bleeds."
Logan smirked. "You drink like someone who already tried dying and found it boring."
She barked out a laugh, sharp and delighted. "Fair."
Rogue watched them with narrowed eyes, equal parts amused and mildly concerned. "You two realize you're bonding without saying anything meaningful, right?"
"That's the meaningful part," Anko replied easily, grabbing her bottle. "Talking comes later. If at all."
She glanced at Logan again. "So. Outsider. What're you actually doing here? Besides making my bar more interesting."
Logan leaned back, chair creaking under his weight. "Killers recognize killers," he said simply. "Thought I'd see what this village was made of."
Anko's grin widened, but there was no offense in it—only understanding. "Then you came to the right place."
He reached into his jacket, then paused. "You got cigars?"
Anko blinked, then laughed again. "You're kidding."
"Nope."
She turned her head and shouted without looking, "Oi! Bring out the Fire Country stock. The real stuff."
A moment later, a nervous-looking bartender slid over a small wooden case like it was contraband—which, judging by Anko's grin, it probably was.
Logan took one, rolled it between his fingers, and lit it. The smoke curled thick and sharp, carrying heat and spice that made his eyes narrow appreciatively.
"Damn," he muttered. "That's good."
"Land of Fire grows 'em strong," Anko said proudly. "Like everything else here."
Rogue, meanwhile, had tuned out the testosterone-fueled bonding and leaned closer to Anko. "Question," she said. "Do y'all have places to buy clothes? Because I really don't want to wear the same outfit every day like I'm stuck in some post-apocalyptic fashion nightmare."
Anko snorted. "Fair. Market district's still standing, mostly. A lot of shops didn't survive the rebuild though."
Rogue grimaced. "Figures."
"But," Anko added, pointing a finger, "we've got tailors. Good ones. You want custom stuff? Combat-ready? Casual? Dramatic entrances included?"
Rogue's eyes lit up. "Custom?"
"Custom."
Rogue smiled—soft, dangerous, and pleased. "I like this place already."
Logan exhaled smoke and glanced between the two women, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Yeah.
This world was brutal.
But it was honest.
And for the first time since arriving, he didn't feel like a stranger at all.
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Naruto:
The corridor outside the Hokage's office felt quieter than it should have been, as though the village itself were holding its breath.
Naruto stepped out into the open air alongside Shikamaru, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the stone path. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. Silence had always been something they shared easily—back when it meant laziness and clouds, and now when it meant grief and weight.
Shikamaru flicked his lighter, the small flame briefly illuminating his tired eyes before a cigarette settled between his lips. He exhaled slowly, smoke curling upward like a thought he didn't quite want to finish.
Naruto glanced at him but said nothing.
Once, he might have complained. Once, he might have waved his arms and shouted about how bad it was for his health. But this wasn't once. This was after. After Asuma. After Shikaku. After a war that had taken more than it ever gave back.
They walked side by side, footsteps in sync, just like when they were kids sneaking out of class—or when they'd walked toward battles they hadn't been sure they'd survive.
"You know," Shikamaru said at last, voice low and thoughtful, "those outsiders… they're not amateurs."
Naruto nodded. "I know."
"They weren't posturing," Shikamaru continued, eyes half-lidded as he studied the drifting smoke. "Their body language, the way they talked about monsters that make bijuu look like house pets… they've been through worse than us."
Naruto would have bristled at that once. He would have argued that no one had suffered like they had, that no one understood their pain.
But he didn't.
He understood why Shikamaru was saying it.
"So," Shikamaru added, "stay close to them. Learn what you can. Make it… personal."
Naruto tilted his head. "Personal?"
Shikamaru gave a faint, tired smirk. "You're good at that, remember? Making people care. People help more when it's not just 'saving the world'—when it's saving a friend."
Naruto let out a quiet laugh. "You make it sound like manipulation."
"It is," Shikamaru replied calmly. "But the good kind."
They stopped near a railing overlooking the village. Konoha stretched out below them—patched together, scarred, alive. Proof that people endured, even when they shouldn't have.
"And Naruto," Shikamaru said, more serious now, "don't carry this alone anymore."
Naruto stiffened slightly.
"You can't hide it," Shikamaru went on, flicking ash away. "You think you're good at pretending, but you're not. We see it. All of us do."
Naruto swallowed.
"You've got people now," Shikamaru said softly. "People who can help. So let them. Let us."
Naruto stared out over the rooftops, the faces of his friends flashing through his mind—Neji's calm smile, Choji's quiet strength, Kiba's loud loyalty, Lee's burning determination, Gaara's understanding eyes.
"I'll try," Naruto said finally, forcing a lighter tone. "I'll… lighten up a bit."
Shikamaru nodded, satisfied enough.
But Naruto didn't say what lingered beneath his smile.
He didn't know if trying would ever be enough.
Because deep inside, beneath the hope and the bonds and the promises, the image still burned—his hand, stained red; Sasuke's eyes going dull; the moment that could never be undone.
He didn't know what price the world would demand for that sin.
And he didn't know if he would ever truly be free of it.
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Sai:
From the rooftop across the street, Sai watched Naruto and Shikamaru disappear into the folds of the village.
He crouched easily on the tiles, balanced like a brush poised above paper, unmoving except for the quiet rise and fall of his breathing. The war had taught him many things—how to fight beside others, how to risk himself without orders, how to recognize loss even when he could not feel it the way others did.
Pain still puzzled him.
He understood it logically. He could describe it. He could draw it.
But he did not carry it.
And that made him different.
Sai tilted his head slightly, eyes following Naruto's retreating figure. Naruto was subdued today. Quieter. His shoulders were heavier, his smile thinner, as if someone had drawn it with a shaky hand.
Sai did not like that.
Naruto was his closest friend. Not because Naruto had been assigned to him, not because Root had ordered it—but because Naruto had chosen him. Loudly. Repeatedly. Without conditions.
Sai folded his arms and thought.
What did Naruto want?
That question was easier than most.
Naruto wanted people to smile.
He wanted children to grow up without learning how to kill.
He wanted villages without graves that stretched farther than playgrounds.
He wanted peace that did not come from fear.
No tyrants. No chains. No wars.
Sai frowned slightly.
Human nature, as he had studied it, did not cooperate with such wishes.
Humans fought when they were afraid.
They fought when they were greedy.
They fought when they were bored.
They fought even when they were happy.
The war had proven that clearly enough.
So how did one protect Naruto's dream?
Sai's mind, precise and unburdened by emotion, produced an answer that felt… efficient.
Naruto should rule.
Not as a tyrant. Not as a god. But as a presence.
Naruto was kind.
Naruto was fair.
Naruto was powerful enough that no one could challenge him without consequence.
If Naruto stood at the top, visible to all, conflict would diminish. People would hesitate. Fear would be redirected—not toward oppression, but toward restraint.
Peace enforced by certainty.
Sai nodded to himself.
Yes. That would work.
And yet—
He sighed quietly.
Naruto would never want that.
Naruto wanted to be Hokage, yes—but Hokage was still human. A leader among equals. Someone who protected, not dominated.
Naruto was not ready to rule the world.
He was not even ready to rule the village yet.
And worse—he would hate the very idea of becoming something more than Hokage.
That was the dilemma.
Sai remained perched there, contemplating the problem like an unfinished painting.
Then—
"Nee, Sai," a voice called out lightly, almost casually. "You know it's rude to stare, right?"
Sai blinked.
Below him, Naruto had stopped walking. Shikamaru had taken a few more steps before pausing, glancing back with mild curiosity.
Naruto looked up—not guessing, not searching.
Seeing.
Sai felt no fear at being discovered, only mild surprise. He had been careful. But of course—
Sage Mode.
Naruto's presence awareness was like a net cast across the village. Sai had noticed it many times before, but today it felt… constant. As if Naruto no longer allowed himself the luxury of ignorance.
"I was observing," Sai said honestly, dropping down from the rooftop with a soft landing. "Not staring."
Shikamaru snorted. "Troublesome wording."
Naruto scratched the back of his head, offering a small smile. "You've been thinking pretty hard. I could feel it."
Sai studied him closely now.
Naruto's eyes were calm.
Too calm.
Like water covering something deep and sharp underneath.
"I was considering how to make you happy," Sai said.
Naruto blinked. "Eh?"
Shikamaru raised an eyebrow and muttered, "That sounds dangerous."
Sai ignored him.
"You want peace," Sai continued evenly. "A world without war, suffering, or tyranny. Logically, this is improbable."
Naruto chuckled weakly. "You don't have to say it like that."
"But," Sai went on, "there may be a solution."
Naruto's smile faded just a little. "Sai…"
Sai paused.
He looked at Naruto—not as a weapon, not as a symbol, not even as a hero.
But as a friend.
"…You are not ready yet," Sai said instead. "So I will keep thinking."
Naruto exhaled slowly, relief and confusion mingling together. "You really don't know how scary you sound sometimes, you know that?"
Sai tilted his head. "I am still learning."
Shikamaru flicked his cigarette away. "Let's all keep learning—preferably without anyone taking over the world."
Naruto laughed softly, genuine this time, and for a moment the weight on his shoulders seemed lighter.
Sai watched that smile carefully.
And silently promised himself—
One day, he would find a way to protect it.
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Naruto:
They had been walking like ordinary friends.
That, in itself, felt strange.
Naruto, Shikamaru, and Sai moved through the streets of Konoha without urgency, without plans to save the world or dismantle destiny before lunch. Shikamaru complained about paperwork. Sai commented—far too seriously—on the artistic value of clouds. Naruto laughed at both of them, hands behind his head, pretending for a fleeting moment that life could be this simple.
And then—
The world screamed.
Naruto stopped so abruptly that Shikamaru nearly walked into him.
His breath caught. Not from pain—but from absence.
Something was vanishing.
Life force—strong, unstable, tearing itself apart—flickered at the very edge of his awareness. It felt wrong, like watching a candle burn underwater. Fading fast. Too fast.
"Naruto?" Shikamaru began.
Naruto didn't answer.
He was already gone.
Wind howled.
Sea air crashed into him, cold and sharp, carrying the scent of salt and desperation. Naruto reappeared thousands of miles away, boots skidding against wet earth as waves roared somewhere nearby.
The Land of Waves.
He could feel it clearly now—the dying chakra moving toward the Land of Fire. Toward Konoha.
Toward him.
On the road ahead, a horse staggered to a stop, foam gathering at its mouth. Slumped over its neck was a man barely clinging to consciousness, his body riddled with dark, violent chakra that twisted and writhed like something alive.
Juubi chakra.
Naruto's heart dropped.
He caught the man before he could fall, easing him to the ground. The corruption was obvious now—veins blackened, skin cracking in places as if reality itself was rejecting the cells beneath. His body was eating itself from the inside out.
Too much power.
No control.
No compatibility.
Naruto placed both hands on the man's chest without hesitation, golden chakra flaring instinctively as he reached out—not to dominate, but to hold.
"Easy," Naruto murmured, though he wasn't sure the man could hear him. "I've got you. Don't fall apart on me, okay?"
He poured chakra in carefully, delicately, wrapping it around the failing systems like scaffolding holding up a collapsing building. The decay slowed. The man's breathing steadied—just barely.
But Naruto knew.
This wasn't a solution.
It was a delay.
His teeth clenched as the familiar, bitter frustration rose in his chest. Power enough to level continents—and yet, once again, he didn't know how to save someone.
"What good is all this strength," he whispered, "if I don't know what to do with it?"
Inside him, Kurama stirred.
Focus, brat, the fox growled—not unkindly. Panicking won't fix his cells.
"I know that," Naruto snapped back silently. "But knowing that doesn't help!"
You're not useless, Kurama replied firmly. You stabilized him. That alone would be impossible for anyone else.
Naruto swallowed.
"But I can't cure him."
Kurama's voice softened, heavy with experience. Then don't pretend you have to do everything alone.
A pause.
Send a clone. Get the medic.
Naruto's eyes widened slightly.
"Sakura."
Now, Kurama urged.
Naruto didn't hesitate.
A shadow clone burst into existence beside him, already turning to vanish in a flash of chakra toward Konoha.
"Bring Sakura," Naruto ordered, voice tight but controlled. "Tell her it's Juubi-related. Tell her it's bad."
The clone nodded once and was gone.
Naruto returned his full attention to the man in his arms, golden chakra flaring brighter as he fought to keep the corruption from tearing him apart.
"Hang on," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "You made it this far. Don't give up now."
The waves crashed louder, the wind howled harder, and far away—beyond distance and fear—help was already on its way.