The brushwork drills had just ended, the faint tang of fresh ink still lingering in the air. Morning light spilled lazily through the bamboo blinds, striping the tatami floor in golden lines. The silence was only broken by the soft clink of ceramic bowls as Director Kuroha rinsed her calligraphy brushes.
Kazuki stretched, his joints popping like dry twigs, and made his way over to her. She was meticulous, swirling each brush in the water like she was purifying a weapon rather than cleaning art tools.
She didn't greet him right away — just glanced from the corner of her eye, the faintest upturn on her lips. Almost like she was testing whether he'd speak first.
He took the bait.
"I want to be a ninja," he said plainly.
Kuroha set the brush down with deliberate grace, letting one last bead of water roll from the bristles into the bowl before answering.
"Good," she said smoothly. "I'll add your name to the training list."
"…That's all?"
She tilted her head slightly, her eyes dancing like she knew exactly what he was expecting. "You've made a decision. That matters more than pretty speeches at your age. Training starts Monday. You have six days to prepare."
"Prepare for…?"
"Mm." She looked him over slowly, as though measuring his worth in some private calculation. "For me to break your bad habits before you learn worse ones."
That faint, knowing smile again — the kind that might be friendly… or might mean she's planning your funeral.
"Oh, and Kazuki…" she added lightly."…yes?""Next time, if you're going to write me love poetry in calligraphy, at least make it rhyme."
Kazuki decided not to push his luck.
The main hall was alive with motion when he stepped out. Older children — maybe seven or eight — moved about with practiced precision: sweeping tatami mats, folding laundry in crisp stacks, balancing tea trays with surprising grace. The place ran like a well-oiled shuriken factory.
But what caught Kazuki's eye wasn't the chores.
It was the reward system.
Each time a kid finished a task, they were handed a small slip of paper stamped with the Uchiha fan crest and a single bold kanji: 「飴」— candy.
In the far corner stood a modest wooden cupboard with a handwritten sign: Candy Exchange Booth.
One token = one sweet.Choices: glossy red hard candy, fluffy sugar-dusted dango, bite-sized mochi that looked like clouds.
The atmosphere around the booth was… intense. Children clutched their tokens like black market smugglers clutching contraband, whispering deals in the corner. One boy offered to trade two sour plums for a single dango ball. Another had a stash hidden in his sleeve like he was preparing for the candy apocalypse.
Kazuki stared, baffled. The Uchiha clan… has a collective sweet tooth?
He almost laughed aloud. It wasn't really shown much in the anime — just little hints. Sasuke and his thing for tomatoes. Itachi giving Sasuke sweets before leaving on missions. Shisui, Izumi, and Itachi often spotted eating dango in the background like it was a clan-wide inside joke.
But here?This was a cultural institution.
And the more Kazuki thought about it… the more it made sense.
The Sharingan wasn't just a cool eye trick. It was a chakra-draining, hyper-processing ocular monster that demanded fuel. He remembered reading fan theories online — and now, standing in the middle of the Uchiha compound, he could feel those theories solidifying into fact.
It had even been hinted at during Edo Tensei when Tobirama talked about the clan's biology — though anime-only fans probably missed it. The Uchiha brain likely had a specialized chakra gland primed for eventual Sharingan activation, pumping a low but constant stream of chakra to the eyes. Enhanced perception, sharper reflexes, predictive awareness — even before the eyes awakened.
And a high-performance brain and ocular system meant one thing:Glucose. Constant glucose.
Even without the Sharingan active, their bodies were wired for higher energy turnover — so sugar wasn't a guilty pleasure. It was maintenance fuel.
No wonder I've been craving sweets since waking up in this body, Kazuki thought. I'm basically running a sports car engine on idle all the time.
The more he observed, the clearer it became:This wasn't just random snacking.This was biology turned into tradition. Sweets given after training. Treats exchanged for good behavior. Candy gifted after missions.
The Uchiha clan didn't just enjoy sweets.They ran on them.
And judging by the gleam in the eyes of the Candy Exchange Booth's "customers"… some of them were probably plotting to run black market operations.
Kazuki couldn't help the grin creeping across his face.
If the Senju clan was powered by will of fire…The Uchiha were powered by will of sugar.
Helping out around the orphanage was… unexpectedly fun.
Not the work itself — scrubbing floors, folding laundry, carrying buckets of water from the well — that was exhausting in a small five-year-old body.
But the reward system?That was genius.
Every task completed earned a stamped slip — and at the end of the day, those slips could be exchanged for sweets. Some kids had entire strategies: trading two chores for a rare mint candy or saving all week for the Friday strawberry mochi draw.
Kazuki caught on fast.By mid-morning, he was sweeping and folding like a factory worker with tunnel vision.By evening, he sat cross-legged outside with a rice ball in one hand and a small pile of candies beside him, proud and weirdly giddy.
A few kids gathered around."You're new, huh?" one said — a tiny girl with her hair in twin buns and an impish grin. "I'm Azula. How'd you get five tokens already?"
Kazuki shrugged. "Folded all the laundry."