Ichiraku Ramen, Konohagakure.
The shop curtains swayed as Jiraiya ducked inside, followed closely by two boys—Minato with his calm composure, and Indra with his usual restless energy. They slid onto the stools, the air filled with the savory scent of broth.
"Teuchi-san!" Indra's voice rang out eagerly.
The man behind the counter looked up, smiling warmly. "Indra! Been a while. How are you?"
"Fine, fine!" Indra grinned before dramatically pointing at the tall white-haired man beside him. "Look! He's my new teacher—Jiraiya of the Sannin! He's about to teach me real jutsus!"
Teuchi froze, then quickly bowed. "Jiraiya-sama! It's an honor!"
Jiraiya waved lazily. "No need for all the formalities. Just bring us some good ramen."
"Of course." Teuchi straightened as Indra leaned forward, eyes gleaming like a predator who'd spotted prey. "Teuchi-san! Lamb ramen! I'll eat till I break!"
Jiraiya almost choked. Lamb? That's three hundred ryō a bowl! He felt a twinge in his gut but held back a lecture.
Minato, polite as always, ordered, "One miso ramen, please."
As Teuchi left, Jiraiya leaned toward Indra, frowning. "Why lamb? You couldn't just pick something normal?"
Indra shrugged, all innocence. "Well, I'm a kid, right? I need nutrients to grow stronger faster! If I become strong enough, I can end wars with brute force!"
The conviction in his tone made Jiraiya pause. Minato, however, watched Indra with sharp eyes. "If you gain that kind of strength, you'll probably run for Hokage someday… unify the nations under one banner."
Indra chuckled, leaning closer. "You're not wrong, but you are wrong."
"Oh?" Minato raised a brow.
"The Hokage will be you," Indra declared, his grin widening. "I'll be something else—the strongest Shadow Hokage in history."
"Shadow Hokage?" Minato echoed softly, as if trying the words for the first time.
Jiraiya narrowed his eyes. This kid… did Renji put these ideas in his head?
Before he could question further, steaming bowls were set in front of them. Indra clapped his hands together. "Itadakimasu!" He dug in like a starving wolf.
Minutes turned to hours, bowls stacking dangerously beside him. By the time the thirteenth empty bowl landed with a soft clack, Indra leaned back, patting his stomach with pride. "I'm full, Jiraiya-sensei!" He gave a satisfied burp.
Minato could only stare, dumbfounded. ' and I was called an eater...heh'
Jiraiya slowly opened his wallet, eyes hollow, lips trembling. Inside was nothing but devastation.
This kid … he's bankrupting me.
"Bill… please." Jiraiya's voice echoed, strained, heavy with the weight of despair.
Teuchi's calm reply came instantly, like a blade through the sannin's heart.
"Jiraiya-sama, Indra has eaten thirteen bowls of lamb ramen, and Minato has eaten four bowls of miso ramen. And yours were seven bowls of miso ramen."
He leaned forward with a warm smile. "Your bill is a total of 6,100 ryō. You can give me 6,000."
Jiraiya's hand trembled as he pulled out his pouch of coins. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes.
I'll get you for this… Indra.
The money clinked against the counter, his soul leaving with it.
A whole month of rations… gone in one dinner.
---
Later that evening, Indra slipped into the Uchiha-exclusive training grounds. Stretching his arms overhead, he breathed deeply, satisfaction still lingering in his chest. Today had been… bountiful. Watching Jiraiya's wallet empty, hearing the sannin's quiet weeping—it had been music to the ears.
But indulgence had its place. Tonight was about discipline.
He replayed the day's battle in his mind—the jutsu he had used, the pressure of clashing elements, the openings he had caught. His understanding was rough, incomplete, but sharper than before. He knew where each jutsu might fit in battle, where he had faltered, and how he could evolve.
Indra moved swiftly toward a training dummy, fist cocked high.
Thud!
The blow slammed into its chest. The wooden figure didn't fall—it stayed rooted in place. Indra's lips tightened. Again. Again.
The dull strikes filled the clearing until time itself seemed to slip away.
Hours later, Indra lay sprawled across the ground, chest heaving, his body slick with sweat. Above, the sun bled red into the horizon as the moon rose pale and cold in its wake.
He steadied his breathing, eyes tracing the darkening skies. A quiet smile tugged at his lips.
When his strength returned, he pushed himself up and walked home. As usual, his first stop was the bathroom—cool water washing away fatigue, leaving him clear-headed and sharp.
And then came the best part.
"Fried chicken… ninja style!"
Rolling up the sleeves of his clan robe, Indra surveyed the ingredients neatly lined across the counter: chicken thighs, a small bowl of flour, an egg, and oil simmering in a shallow pan.
"…Renji would've laughed if he saw me cooking this," he muttered, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
The process began—dip in egg, coat with flour, shake the excess. His movements were stiff at first, unrefined, but grew smoother as his rhythm found him.
The first piece touched the hot oil with a violent sizzle. Steam curled upward, filling the kitchen with savory warmth.
Indra leaned back instantly, wincing as droplets of oil spat outward like shuriken. He quickly adjusted the flame, letting the chicken cook slowly.
His Sharingan twitched, begging to awaken, to track the subtle dance of bubbles in the oil, the faint shift in the meat's color. He resisted. Forcing it down, he caught himself thinking—
"Wait… why am I being like Itachi?"
A snap of oil kissed his skin. "Ah!" he hissed, face twisting.
—
At last, golden-brown perfection emerged from the pan. Indra lifted the chicken, crisp and fragrant, laying each piece gently on paper towels. He stared at them too long, then plated them with care—beside steaming white rice and a small bowl of miso soup.
He sat cross-legged at the low table, pressing his palms together softly.
"Itadakimasu."
The first bite crunched, a sound as satisfying as steel striking true. The chicken was tender, juicy, simple but flawless. His lips quivered, a smile sneaking out unbidden.
Silence filled the house. Then, a tear slid down his cheek.
"THIS IS FOCKING DELICIOUS!"
He shoveled rice into his mouth between bites, groaning in satisfaction. The taste, the warmth, the sheer comfort of the meal—it wrapped him like armor.
As his hunger dulled, his gaze lingered on the plate. Thoughts intruded.
For the next several days, they wouldn't be returning to the academy. Instead, they would be under their sensei's watch.
But his sensei? He hadn't even wanted Indra as a student.
It was all a conspiracy.
——
I feel like expanding the plot a little to other people as well, so it has a touch of world building.
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