One reason Mizuhara Aran had just unleashed such a high-level Fire Style was to test the strength of his ninjutsu.
The other—arguably more important—reason was… fishing.
After flailing around in the water for so long without catching a single fish, frustration had set in. Then, a flash of inspiration struck. It wasn't exactly a refined idea—only someone as hapless as Aran would think of it—but it was simple: use an overwhelming burst of fire to… blow the fish up.
Judging by the results, it had worked. He was exhausted, but the outcome wasn't bad at all.
Grinning at his proud catch, Aran—head running hot with triumph—leapt straight back into the river.
Unfortunately, the moment his foot touched the water, it turned bright red in an instant.
Only then did he remember that, thanks to his own jutsu, the temperature of the water here had long since risen to a level far beyond what a human body could endure.
But it was too late—he was already airborne.
Splash!
He hit the water before he could even think.
A heartbeat later—
"Aaauuuuuugh!!!"
A piercing, almost animalistic cry echoed over the river.
It took quite a while before a drenched, thoroughly miserable Aran's head bobbed back up to the surface.
Dragging himself to the bank, he collapsed, skin flushed an alarming red and giving off a faint aroma of… roasted meat. His eyes stung with unshed tears.
So much for being "the smartest, most prepared" shinobi around. This was a rookie mistake if ever there was one.
The fish were right there—he could have just waited to collect them. But no, he just had to jump in after them… and nearly boiled himself alive.
If not for the way his chakra had instinctively surged to coat his body, the damage would have been much worse.
He lay sprawled on the ground for a while before finally forcing himself up. As his chakra circulated, the pain ebbed, and he felt far better than before.
By now, his chakra reserves had also recovered to about seventy percent.
Picking up a long branch, Aran began fishing out all the unconscious catches from the river—dozens of them.
Then, with another burst of Fire Style, he roasted them all to a perfect golden brown.
Snatching one up, he took a huge bite.
Before long, more than a dozen fish had been devoured, leaving only piles of bare bones. Aran leaned back, belly stretched tight, lying flat on the ground with a satisfied groan.
His full stomach made him drowsy.
The saying was true—eat well, and you'll sleep well.
Before long, he drifted into a deep slumber.
But he had barely been asleep for a short while when an urgent, panicked female voice rang out:
"Help! Somebody, please!"
Aran's eyes flew open, and he sprang to his feet.
Could it be? Was he about to stumble into one of those "hero rescues the maiden" moments?
Blood pumping, he tore off toward the sound.
When he arrived, the sight before him made his jaw clench.
A young woman—strikingly beautiful, with fair skin and delicate features—was cornered by two hulking, bald men with lecherous grins plastered across their faces.
Her long, glossy black hair was tied loosely at the ends with a ribbon. She wore a soft lavender dress, her demeanor pure and untainted—so much so that even Aran felt his heart stir.
If she could have that effect on him, then these two thugs were surely thinking far worse.
The girl's face was pale with fear, her voice trembling as she called for help again and again. She looked so helpless—like a wounded little white rabbit caught between wolves.