Danzo Shimura's face was a mask of cold fury, a localized storm that seemed to darken the very air around him. He strode through the subterranean corridors of the Root base with a predatory gait, his cane striking the stone floor in a rhythm of suppressed violence. He ignored the kneeling subordinates who bowed like ghosts as he passed, retreating into his most private sanctum.
The heavy iron door groaned shut, severing the connection to the outside world. This room was not a place of rest; it was a cathedral built to enshrine his singular, devouring ambition. On the far wall, illuminated by a flickering, sickly light, hung a meticulously crafted replica of the Hokage's Ceremonial Robe.
The white fabric, adorned with the iconic red flame patterns, shimmered with a luster that felt almost organic. For Danzo, the sight was the most potent of poisons—and the sweetest of nectars. Power, long corroded by the darkness he inhabited, surged through his withered frame with a morbid, electric vitality.
An obsessive light burned in Danzo's single eye. He stepped forward, discarding his cane as his posture straightened, shedding the persona of the frail advisor. He reached for a scarf of the finest silk and approached the robe as if he were approaching a living god.
With agonizing slowness, he wiped the nonexistent dust from the replicated Hokage hat. Every day he performed this ritual, and every day he felt the same desperate need to ensure it remained spotless. He tossed the silk aside and reached out with a trembling left hand, his fingers hovering over the fabric of the robe. He dared not touch it firmly, as if the mere pressure of his reality might shatter the golden illusion.
"When..." a voice escaped his throat, a rasping sound filled with centuries of resentment and longing. "When will I finally be able to wear you openly!"
The next morning, the sun broke through the grey winter clouds, flooding Naruto's room with a pale, cold light.
Naruto changed into his new black winter coat. The fit was perfect—sharp, functional, and authoritative. He looked in the mirror, acknowledging the "Little Sun" persona with a practiced grin before tucking a few ryo notes into his worn wallet. He shoved the remaining bulging envelope under his pillow with a casual flick of his wrist.
He knew it was a symbolic gesture at best. Every corner of this "home" was a stage, observed by the unseen eyes of the Anbu. In this village, he was protected by a paradox: he was so feared and hated as the "Demon Fox" that no common thief would dare cross his threshold. His isolation was his fortress.
Naruto slipped out of the apartment and headed toward a secluded training ground on the village outskirts. He didn't have to wait long before a green blur appeared on the horizon, sprinting with an almost comical level of intensity.
The figure stopped in a cloud of dust, flashing a grin so bright it seemed to rival the sun. He wore the signature green jumpsuit and bowl cut of an elite Jonin, but today, his face was adorned with a long, ridiculously fake white beard that bounced with every breath.
"Yo! Naruto! Punctuality is the bedrock of—ahem!" The newcomer caught himself, vigorously stroking the synthetic beard. "This is the vigor of youth!"
Might Guy was not a man of subtlety, but even he understood the political minefield of training the Nine-Tails Jinchuriki. When Naruto had first approached him, Guy had initially refused. He wasn't a fool; as a direct subordinate of the Hokage, unauthorized contact with the village's "Ultimate Weapon" was a recipe for disaster.
But Naruto had been persistent. He had shown up every day, rain or shine, with a fire in his eyes that Guy could only describe as "youthful." Eventually, Guy had compromised. He donned the world's most transparent disguise and adopted the alias "Cheng Dai," the mysterious Taijutsu master.
In the eyes of the village, it was an open secret. Everyone knew "Cheng Dai" was Might Guy, but as long as the beard was on, the paperwork remained clean.
"Grandpa Cheng Dai, let's get to it!" Naruto shouted, already bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"Excellent! Full of spirit!" Guy gave a signature thumbs-up, his teeth glinting through the white bristles of the beard. But his expression quickly shifted to one of professional gravity. "However, Naruto, your current physique has hit a plateau. To break through, we must increase the gravity of your youth!"
He produced two weighted wraps from behind his back. "These are specially calibrated for your limits. Forty kilograms in total—twenty for each calf."
His tone was casual, as if forty kilograms weren't enough to crush the shins of a normal child. But Naruto was an Uzumaki, a vessel of near-infinite stamina and regenerative potential. He accepted the weights, feeling the immediate, heavy drag on his muscles as he strapped them on.
His movements became sluggish, his center of gravity shifting. Every step felt like wading through deep mud.
"Perfect!" Guy roared, already beginning a light jog. "Today's vigorous training: ten laps around the perimeter of Konoha! If you can't finish the laps, we do three thousand kicks! Let's go!"
Guy vanished into a sprint. Naruto took a deep, steadying breath, the leaden weight of the metal pulling at his legs. He focused his mind, locking into the rhythmic breathing he had practiced in his meditation.
The path ahead was long and heavy, but as he moved, the light in his blue eyes burned with a cold, analytical fire. This is just the beginning, he thought. If forty kilograms is the price of strength, I'll carry a mountain.