As the year drew to a close, the oppressive chill of winter was softened by the rising warmth of the holidays. After several days of relentless snowfall, Konoha was draped in a pristine silver mantle. Thick, untrodden drifts clung to the eaves and treetops, sparkling like ground diamonds under the pale winter sun.
In a charming contrast to the cold white landscape, rows of bright red lanterns had been strung across the village thoroughfares. They hung like plump, glowing rubies against the snow. When night fell, they ignited in unison, casting a soft crimson radiance that intertwined with the silver drifts. The scene was one of breathtaking serenity—a "silver snow accompanying red lanterns" aesthetic that grounded the village in its classical Eastern roots.
The festive atmosphere was infectious. The aroma of New Year's feasts drifted through the alleys, and the laughter of children echoed as they chased each other with small fireworks. Even the shinobi, usually burdened by the weight of their duties, allowed their expressions to soften. The stone faces of the past Hokage seemed to watch over the village with a newfound gentleness, illuminated by the warm glow from below.
Naruto, for once, wanted to immerse himself in this vibrancy without the shadow of the "Demon Fox" loitering behind him. In his small apartment, he meticulously tidied his appearance, ensuring his new black coat was lint-free and sharp. However, one distinctive mark remained—the six whisker-like birthmarks on his cheeks. They were indelible, a biological signature he had once tried to shave away, only to realize they were as much a part of him as his own skin.
I am a practitioner of Chakra, not a master of the Great Thousand Records, he mused. If I cannot remove them, I will simply hide them.
He had secretly acquired high-grade concealer and foundation. Facing the mirror with the steady hand of a calligrapher, he applied the makeup until the whisker patterns vanished. The face that stared back was "clean"—indistinguishable from any other handsome child in the village.
This should mitigate the trouble, he thought. In Konoha, those whiskers were a target, a direct pointer to his status as the Jinchuriki. He refused to let an indelible mark ruin his rare holiday mood.
The plan worked. As he walked toward the merchant district, no one spared him a second, vitriolic glance. He pushed open the wooden door of the Yamanaka Flower Shop, the wind chimes above jingling with a crisp, pleasant tone.
The shop was a sanctuary of color and fragrance. Today, the counter was manned not by Yamanaka Rino, but by her husband, Inoichi. Taking advantage of a rare vacation from his duties at the Intelligence Division, he had volunteered to mind the shop so his wife could rest. Nearby, their daughter, Ino, was enthusiastically tending to the displays, a small watering can in hand and a pure smile radiating from her rosy face.
"Welcome," Inoichi began, his voice practiced and professional.
But as his gaze settled on the visitor, the last syllable of the greeting died in his throat. He froze as if caught in a paralysis jutsu.
The boy standing at the door had medium-length golden hair that caught the sunlight and eyes as blue and clear as a mountain lake. Without the iconic whisker marks, the child's face was revealed in its entirety. To Inoichi—a man of the same generation as the Fourth Hokage—the resemblance was staggering. It was a spitting image of a young Minato Namikaze.
For a heartbeat, time seemed to flow backward. Inoichi saw the ghost of the gentle, brilliant genius who had once led their generation. He is so similar! A surge of shock, nostalgia, and a sharp, bitter pity gripped his heart. But the hallucination shattered against the cold reality of the present: the Fourth Hokage was dead, and the boy before him was the son who had been forced to bear the village's hatred in silence.
"Welcome, young man," Inoichi said, quickly composing himself. A gentle smile returned to his face, though the complexity in his eyes remained. "What kind of flowers can I help you find today?"
The rumors I saw in my previous life's forums were true, Naruto grumbled silently. Konoha really is full of old-timers with poor eyesight.
He had caught Inoichi's momentary daze and the flash of grief. He knew exactly whose shadow the man was looking at.
"I'm afraid I don't know much about flowers," Naruto said, his tone striking the perfect balance of childhood shyness and sincerity. "But my teacher, who has been incredibly patient in guiding me, has a birthday tomorrow. Sir, could you recommend a bouquet that shows proper respect?"
"Of course," Inoichi replied, his voice softening. What a polite child. He truly is a miniature Minato.
As Inoichi pondered the selection, Naruto surveyed the interior. The shop was elegantly arranged, filled with rare blooms that Naruto couldn't name but whose fragrance and orderly display spoke of the owners' dedication. His gaze inadvertently swept past a flower stand and met the large, curious eyes of Ino Yamanaka.
Ino had been watering a pot of light purple flowers, but she had stopped, her large eyes filled with astonishment. She was used to seeing boys her age, but this one... he was strikingly handsome. Wait, are there really boys this good-looking in our year? she wondered. She vaguely recalled a boy named Uzumaki Naruto with blond hair, but her mother had warned her never to join in the bullying or even initiate conversation with him.
Seeing Ino's stunned expression, Naruto gave her a friendly, gentle smile—the kind that suggested warmth without pressure.
"Judging by your appearance, Ino-chan, I assume this is your family's shop?"
"Eh?" Ino blinked, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks as she realized she had been staring.