Fū Itō wanted to stand at the top.
Not just strong. Not just respected. He wanted to be like Hashirama Senju—the kind of shinobi whose name alone ended wars. The kind who stood so far above everyone else that challengers gave up before they even tried.
That was the dream.
He had the tools for it. Decent talent. Relentless work ethic. And most importantly—he'd been born as the Seven-Tails Jinchūriki.
That was his ticket.
What most people saw as a curse—the isolation, the fear, the monster sealed inside—Fū saw as opportunity. He threw himself into training with obsessive focus. Day after day. Night after night. Learning to feel Chōmei's chakra. Learning to control it.
By sixteen, he could manage partial transformations.
By twenty, he'd mastered the full power.
It helped that Chōmei liked him. The Seven-Tails respected drive. Ambition. The refusal to quit. So it gave Fū its strength willingly—a partnership, not a prison.
But Takigakure was small.
Isolated behind its waterfall. Cut off from the wider world. And as the village's "strategic asset," Fū couldn't leave without Amemiya's approval. So he set a smaller goal first:
Dominate Takigakure.
He achieved it on his twentieth birthday.
The opponent: Miyamoto, Taki's top jōnin. Fourth place in the World Ninja Tournament. The village's undisputed best.
Fū crushed him.
But Miyamoto didn't seem upset. He just looked at Fū with something like pity and said:
"Beyond this waterfall is a river. Beyond the river, an ocean. The ninja world is vast, kid. Being first in Takigakure?" He shook his head. "That doesn't even register out there."
The words hit like a punch.
"Then who does register?" Fū demanded.
Miyamoto considered. "Hiruzen Sarutobi. The Third Raikage. Murasaki of Iwa. Yagura of Kiri. Those are the real monsters." He paused. "But if you're asking who's number one?"
"Jinghang. The Third Kazekage."
From that moment, the name burned in Fū's mind.
If I beat him, I become number one.
The title wasn't even official. Yamashita's propaganda team had manufactured it after the Five Kage Summit—psychological warfare to intimidate rivals and buy Suna breathing room. But Jinghang's record backed it up. He'd beaten Ōnoki. Fought Murasaki to a draw. Defeated the Third Raikage in single combat at the tournament.
The reputation was earned.
And now, Fū was going to take it.
Present - Aerial Combat
Thirty minutes.
They'd been fighting for thirty minutes, and Fū was holding his own.
His advantage was simple: flight. Most shinobi couldn't touch him up here. He could strike and retreat, peppering Jinghang with Insect Flame Orbs while staying out of melee range.
Hit-and-run. Wear him down. Outlast him with Chōmei's chakra reserves.
It was working.
Jinghang's expression darkened.
This kid's fast. Slippery. And he's not committing—just chipping away.
A war of attrition. Jinghang could win that. But it would take time. Time he didn't have with a full-scale battle raging below.
Jinghang stopped moving. His iron orbs froze mid-flight, holding him suspended.
He reached into his pouch. Pulled out two kunai. Both marked with seals.
"Two should do it."
Fū saw the throw. Laughed.
"That's your move?!"
He spun—graceful, effortless—dodging both kunai with ease.
The kunai curved.
Mid-flight. Impossible trajectory. One slammed into his shoulder. The other punched straight through his wing.
Pain exploded. The shoulder kunai kept drilling, burrowing deeper. Fū screamed, grabbed it, ripped it out—
White smoke erupted in his face.
A hand clamped around his throat.
Jinghang stared at him. Cold. Furious.
"Keep talking, kid. Go on."
Fū's hand shot to Jinghang's wrist. Tried to pry it off. The grip was iron—literally, probably, given the chakra reinforcement. His other hand stabbed with a kunai. Jinghang caught his wrist effortlessly.
His wing hung limp. Useless.
Breathing became harder. Vision blurred at the edges.
No. Not like this. I can't—
It started in his chest. Spread outward. His skin began to glow—red, then orange, like metal in a forge.
Jinghang's hand jerked back. "Shit—"
Fū's body changed.
His wings split—one pair becoming three. His torso expanded, chitin plates forming across his chest. His legs fused, elongating into segmented insect limbs. Antennae burst from his skull.
Consciousness slipped away.
Chōmei took over.
Jinghang teleported clear, putting distance between himself and the transformation.
Full Bijū mode.
The Seven-Tails Chōmei hovered in the sky—a massive fusion of rhinoceros beetle and dragonfly, thirty meters long, wings buzzing with chakra-infused speed.
Jinghang pulled a mask over his face. Goggles over his eyes.
Desert essentials.
He'd studied the Seven-Tails. Limited intel—it barely appeared in records. Kurama's "more tails = more power" rule didn't seem to apply here. Chōmei's combat showings were... underwhelming.
Fast? Yes. Evasive? Absolutely.
But raw destructive power? It was the support Bijū. Utility over offense.
Jinghang's iron sand swirled around him, forming a defensive sphere.
Chōmei's compound eyes locked onto him.
Its wings blurred.
The battle wasn't over.
It was just getting started.
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