"If you walk through that gate with me," Uchiha Omura warned, arms folded like a bouncer at destiny's door, "there's no Ctrl+Z. The clan will ice you, the village will ghost you, and Grandma Ume will definitely disinherit you."
The five shinobi he'd marched into Hanjo's courtyard stared back—faces half-lit by lantern glow, Sharingan dimmed to ember-red. None of them blinked.
Uchiwa Hiraku scratched the stubble he'd grown during his last unpaid "volunteer" patrol. "Brother, we're already iced. The village gave our last A-rank to Inuzuka rookies with fleas. I'm choosing groceries over pride."
"And diapers," added Genji, three years old but somehow chewing a turkey leg bigger than his head. "Diapers are expensive. Trust me."
Everyone ignored the toddler economist.
Omura exhaled, the sound rattling like a sheathed blade. "Fine. But if we're jumping ship, I want numbers." He spun toward Hanjo. "What's the damage—er, salary?"
Hanjo's grin could've powered half the village. "Glad you asked! Top-tier jonin—like you beautiful disasters—pull a base 20,000 ryō a month. Chūnin get 10k, genin 6k. Every escort, heist-prevention, or 'please-don't-kidnap-our-cargo' gig? Bonus on top. Hazard pay if we actually have to fight."
Silence. Then the sound of five jaws hitting the floor.
For context, Konoha's standard jonin rate was 10k—if you could get a mission at all. And lately the Uchiha couldn't get a mission even if they cosplayed as ramen coupons.
Omura did the mental math twice. "You're doubling village scale?"
"Inflation," Hanjo said cheerfully. "Also spite. Turns out spite is a great business model."
Hiraku whooped loud enough to scare off a flock of crows. "Screw it! I'll guard your spice convoys, your silk caravans, your grandma's porcelain poodles—whatever pays!"
One by one, hands shot up like rebellious fireworks. Omura was last. He stared at his calloused palms—hands that once signed battlefield scrolls, now reduced to charity coupons—then slapped Hanjo's shoulder. "We're in. But if anyone calls us 'employees,' I'm setting their eyebrows on fire."
"Deal," Hanjo laughed. "Welcome to the Uchiha Trade Consortium, guardians of capitalism and dramatic entrances!"
Cue gratuitous celebration: tables buckling under grilled unagi, sake flowing like it had forgotten the law of gravity, and Genji inhaling dumplings at a speed that defied both toddler biology and common decency.
Omura squinted at the kid. "Pretty sure he just ate an entire boar."
"Growth spurt," Hanjo said, waving it off. "Yesterday he told me he wants to take up taijutsu."
Hiraku choked on his drink. "Taijutsu? Kid's legs are basically chopsticks."
"Exactly," Hanjo replied, eyes twinkling. "Need to find him a sensei before he roundhouse-kicks the furniture."
The room exploded into suggestions:
• "Hyuuga Neji—kid's a prodigy!"• "Neji won't teach an Uchiha the Gentle Fist. They think our chakra coils are 'too rowdy.'"• "Rock Lee? He's… enthusiastic?"• "Lee's still genin. We need someone who can bench-press a mountain."
Finally, Omura snapped his fingers. "Guy. Maito Gai. Green spandex, bowl cut forged in the fires of justice. If anyone can turn string-bean toddlers into human wrecking balls, it's him."
Hanjo winced. "Gai's booked solid. Village darling, top jonin, emotional support to Kakashi's existential crisis. We'd need to bribe him with—"
"Three million ryō a month," Hanjo finished, already calculating. "Worth it for the aesthetic alone."
Genji swallowed a chicken wing whole, bones and all. "Don't worry, I got this."
The adults exchanged the universal look of 'oh dear, the toddler's planning something.'
4:57 a.m., Next Morning
The sun wasn't even awake yet, but Genji Uchiha was dressed like a motivational poster: crimson headband screaming BURN, HOT-BLOODED! in blocky kanji, tiny track shorts, and mini-leg weights that clinked like wind chimes made of spite.
His mother, Kushina-clone-in-training, blocked the doorway with a mom-sized glare. "It's still dark, sweetheart. Even the roosters are hitting snooze."
Genji stuffed a pair of emergency onigiri into his cheeks. "Roosters don't have dreams, Mom. I do. They involve roundhouse kicks and unlimited barbecue."
He zipped past her before she could deploy the dreaded cheek-pinching jutsu.
Outside, dawn painted the village in watercolor pinks. Genji hit the perimeter road—Konoha's unofficial treadmill—and settled into a steady jog. Tiny legs, big attitude.
Three laps in, thunderous footsteps approached from behind. Not the polite pitter-patter of civilians—this was the sound of someone sprinting like their playlist had only one song: Eurobeat at 200 BPM.
Enter: Maito Gai, 18, freshly promoted jonin, human green comet. The spandex gleamed; the bowl cut defied physics; the eyebrows had their own chakra signature.
Gai overtook Genji, did a double-take worthy of a sitcom, then matched pace. "Little warrior! The sunrise smiles upon your youthful stride!"
Genji didn't answer—mostly because speaking wastes oxygen, partly because dramatic silence is cooler. He just pushed harder, sandals slapping dirt like tiny applause.
Gai's grin widened. "A worthy challenge!"
They ran.
Lap five: Genji's lungs screamed in toddler Morse code. Gai's teeth sparkled.Lap ten: Genji invented new swear words in his head. Gai started humming power ballads.Lap fifteen: Genji's legs turned to ramen. Gai produced a sweat drop so shiny it could blind an enemy.
Finally, Gai burst out laughing—great, booming, sunrise-shattering laughter. "Magnificent! Your flames of youth burn hotter than my own at your age! Tell me, small hurricane, what drives you?"
Genji staggered to a stop, wheezing like a punctured flute. Between gasps, he managed, "Need… taijutsu… sensei. Someone… who won't… water down… the awesome."
Gai knelt, eyes literally sparkling—like, actual star-shaped reflections in his pupils. "You seek the Springtime of Youth!"
"Sure," Genji rasped. "Also lunch. Preferably together."
Gai stood, struck a pose that probably violated several laws of anatomy, and declared, "Then let us seal this mentor-student bond with—"
"Food?" Genji interrupted hopefully.
"—A THOUSAND PUSH-UPS!"
Genji face-planted. Gai caught him before the dirt could claim his dignity. "Relax, young falcon. We start with twenty. And protein shakes."
Somewhere in the distance, Kakashi paused mid-page-turn of Icha-Icha Paradise, sensing a disturbance in the Force of Youth. He shuddered and kept reading.
Back at Hanjo's estate, the newly minted Consortium guardians were mid-toast when a messenger hawk dive-bombed the sake tray.
The scroll attached read:
Mission Alert – Priority CEscort: 12 spice wagons to Tea CountryThreat Level: Bandits, possible rogue ninPay: 150k bonus split among teamRequested: Uchiha flair (read: scare them silly)Departure: Tomorrow, dawn.Dress code: Optional dramatic cloaks.
Hiraku whooped. "First gig already? Man, spite really does pay."
Omura rolled his shoulders, Sharingan flaring. "Let's give those bandits a free fireworks show. Red-eye special."
Hanjo raised his cup. "To new beginnings, fatter wallets, and the glorious sound of Konoha realizing we just outsourced ourselves."
They clinked wooden cups hard enough to slosh sake onto the tatami—tiny puddles that looked, if you squinted, like miniature Sharingan.
Outside the window, Genji jogged past with Gai on his heels, both yelling youth slogans loud enough to rattle wind chimes. The clan elders on the veranda squinted, confused, mildly horrified, and—though they'd never admit it—curious.
Because for the first time in years, the Uchiha weren't waiting for the village's permission to matter.
They were busy writing their own mission scrolls—inked in fire, stamped in cash, sealed with a middle finger to anyone who said they couldn't.