"Oh, Guy-san, didn't think you'd be this early." Akira, in high spirits, ushered his first guest inside. The taijutsu master hadn't changed his style - the same green jumpsuit, jonin vest thrown over it.
"Only the youthful beast of Konoha is first in everything!" the man boomed with optimism, then added more calmly, "Thank you for the invitation, Akira-san, and sorry to intrude."
Shoes off, he headed in, looking around with curious eyes. Thankfully, Guy didn't seem fresh off training - he'd detoured home to shower. Akira welcomed any guest, under one strict condition: no foot odor.
"Have any trouble finding the place?" he asked as he shut the door.
"No, folks in the district pointed the way. You've got a spacious home, Akira-san. Oh - right there would be the perfect spot for a few kettlebells, and a makiwara…" From Guy's commentary, Akira quickly formed a mental picture of the man's own house: wherever you turned, training gear.
He'd set the "cultural recreation" to mark housewarming at 18:00. Which meant, as host, he'd be responsible for dinner before the sake came out. Guy was twenty minutes early, so Akira took him to the kitchen and sat him down with tea.
Small talk naturally drifted to training, and Akira, unable to resist, asked what a normal day looked like for Guy.
"Well… up at four, five minutes to wash up, quick breakfast of five raw eggs, then out for a run. After two hours I'm fully awake, so I stretch on any open training field. Then two hours of intensive physical work. By the way I've got my own team now - I'll tell you about them later - I spend time with them until lunch. After a quick meal…" In short, Guy rested only when sleeping or eating.
"Rest? But I do rest!" Guy blinked at Akira's question. "For example, after five thousand push-ups, I devote time to legs - during that, my arms recover a bit."
"No transmigrator from China could survive this volume. You have to be insane - in the Guy way - about physical training. And he's not even from a clan… I don't dare imagine the taijutsu monster he'd be with Uzumaki genes. A nuclear reactor in human form - easily holding the Sixth Gate open. With Uzumaki vitality, he could probably open the Eighth for a short burst," Akira thought, quietly admiring Guy's spirit as he listened, nodding here and there.
Just as Akira began sharing his own physical progress, a knock came at the door.
Ten minutes early, Homuri arrived - and not empty-handed. His present, a clay vase from the Tanjī era preceding Sengoku, was expensive by any name. It came boxed in fine wood with red velvet linings.
"A piece like this… at least two hundred thousand ryo. What's his angle? He wants something," Akira mused as he welcomed the man. Gifts like that were never "just because." From another angle, it should've been Akira gifting admin officials to keep tax matters smooth. In Russia, they called it corruption; in America - lobbying; in East Asian cultures - gratitude.
If his teaware wasn't high art, Akira's tea itself was unimpeachable. Tea aficionados might scoff at his method - pour boiling water into a separate pot with the leaves - but the taste never suffered, it simply opened up differently than in a formal ceremony.
"Seems you've been stopping by the administration less. Business is booming?" Homuri asked after a sip, following brief introductions with Guy.
"Truly, I've had little to complain about lately," Akira replied, noting that talk of admin and revenue didn't exactly light Guy up. Not wanting his guest to be bored, Akira flicked a page out from the fūin on his arm and handed it to Guy.
In around five hundred words, it outlined Akira's observations and gains from procedures to expand one's chakra source. To your average shinobi, "you can expand your chakra with these not-too-complicated hospital sessions" wouldn't amount to much. Who wanted to go to the hospital every day, put up with half an hour of chakra-system discomfort, to boost monthly capacity by a barely noticeable three percent?
First, it cost money - no iryōnin would donate time forever. Second, active shinobi were lucky to be in the village fifteen days a month. Third, short-term results were too subtle, and shinobi rarely planned further than tomorrow.
Guy, on the other hand, was exactly the person who'd benefit most. Akira had no doubt he'd do it not once a day but three times. The Eight Gates damaged the body - but also tempered it across the board. You'd only find a more resilient chakra system in jinchuriki, raised since childhood to handle dense, unruly tailed-beast chakra. Certain knowledge matters only to certain people.
Why share it? Simple. The stronger Guy was, the easier Akira would sleep about the future of the village he'd chosen as his base. Plus, sharing a useful method like this fostered goodwill. Today Akira handed him something valuable; tomorrow Guy might return the favor.
Homuri spared the page a cursory glance, then continued, "Good to hear you're well. You're young, secure, and healthy - few can claim all three at once… Incidentally, Akira-san, because of our acquaintance, some in my circle keep asking whether you might be looking for a good bride."
He left one detail out: that "some" was mostly himself. His son was settled; his daughter still sat on his neck. A good father wanted the best match for her - and among "best," Akira stood out clearly.
"With a son-in-law like him, my daughter's future is set," Homuri thought, while Akira weighed his reply.
"Honestly, I'm not thinking of starting a family yet. I've got the energy of youth running through my veins…" On that word Guy's eyes flicked up for a second. "My thoughts are focused on achieving a few worthy things."
"Beautifully said!" Guy grinned, pocketing the paper when Akira's hand motion told him to keep it.
Homuri didn't argue, only nodded in understanding.
At the hour precisely, the lawn out back greeted the heads of three clans: Shikaku, Chōza, and Inoichi. Only Kakashi remained - according to Guy, he ought to show. Akira wisely decided to start the evening without him.
An empty table with no hint of appetizers gave the guests pause, but good manners kept them silent. Even so, Chōza's disappointed look gave away his thoughts about the "empty" banquet.
Of course Akira hadn't planned to starve anyone. It was just a cultural mismatch. Guests should be greeted with home-cooked food, typically prepared by the lady of the house. Akira, unmarried, could only cook himself. Ordering in for something even mildly formal was bad form; but then, if a man cooked for guests, he'd be misunderstood. Not the custom here, even among the Akimichi. Fortunately, Akira had found a way out.
"Oh, now this I approve!" Chōza brightened the instant they stepped into the backyard. Everything was set: a long oak table for six, a grill the length of a sapling, a chest packed with ice and bottles of beer, and containers of marinated meats. Six paces from the table stood a firepit neatly ringed with stones, with sanded stump seats around it - rustic stools.
He'd ordered the meat and handled the marinade himself. Shinobi ate like three men, and Chōza like five shinobi, so the three containers held five kilos of beef, five of pork, five of chicken.
Just in case, he'd left another three kilos in the icebox. The grill was wide enough to host twelve skewers at once - long ones that could fit three chicken thighs apiece with room for a wing.
****
"The key to truly excellent shashlik (BBQ) is the marinade. People split into camps: milk-based marinades, soy-based, classic tomato. After long research and experiment, I've found the ultimate base for the best marinade in the world is—"
"Akira-san, I'm glad you've cut the literary frills, but could you be briefer? At this pace we'll be here till evening," Morino cut in, to Akira's annoyance.
Itachi, contrariwise, listened with pleasure. Akira's soft voice, the shifts in his expression, his hand gestures - all of it helped you slip into the scene. If Morino hadn't spoken up, it never would've crossed her mind to hurry him.
"You're missing out, Morino-san. When else will you interrogate someone who's eager, coherent, and spills without stuttering? Hm?" Akira arched a brow.
*That's the problem… You speak too well. It'll be hard to spot where you spin and where you tell the truth,* Morino thought with a sigh, then waved for him to continue.