Surging Lava and the Golden Body Flicker

Dark red lava crept upward along the paths of his veins.

From wrist to elbow, the skin on his arm cracked like a dried riverbed, with semi-solid streams of light pouring from the fissures. The flowing substance wrapped around his entire forearm, warping the air with heat—not the distortion of an illusion, but the physical refraction of light. Heat. Visible heat.

Within a three-meter radius, the grass yellowed, curled, and turned to ash in less than two seconds. The smell of scorched rock spread through the air, making the first row of examiners sneeze twice in succession.

"That temperature—" He swallowed the rest of his sentence. Saying it aloud would only make him seem more flustered.

Yan's control was exceptionally steady. The temperature remained precisely within the range that "Kekkei Genkai: Magma Release" could explain—intense heat, but not absurdly so.

Today's limit was "a noteworthy bloodline mutation," not "a monster beyond the rules."

It was a matter of degree. A degree that would make all four people in the VIP seats think, Hm, interesting, but acceptable.

The entire venue fell silent for two seconds.

Two seconds later, it was as if someone had cranked up the volume on the stands.

"He said Magma Release? That's Magma Release?!"

"How can an Uchiha child have Magma Release? Isn't the Uchiha bloodline primarily Fire Release?!"

"No, look at that temperature. It burned all the grass within three meters to ash?"

"A Fire Release mutation? A bloodline mutation?"

"Who cares what it mutated into? And they called him trash? Try turning into trash like that for me!"

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

The chunin instructors looked at one another, their expressions shifting from confusion to bewilderment to Did I walk onto the wrong set? Several jonin examiners had already risen from their chairs, one of them reaching for the kunai at his waist—pure professional reflex.

The reactions in the VIP seats were equally remarkable.

Hiruzen Sarutobi thought of his pipe. He relit it and took a puff.

That layer of "kindness" still hung on his face, utterly mismatched with the turmoil beneath it. His fingers tapped twice against his knee—not keeping rhythm, but calculating. Reassessing this Uchiha orphan's "value-to-risk ratio."

What had the previous assessment been again?

"Useful, controllable, worth cultivating."

Now—"useful" had not changed, but "controllable" had gained a question mark.

Fugaku's lips moved.

It was not a smile. It was an expression of confirmation, as if to say, Just as expected. The chess piece he had raised for three months had finally revealed its face on the board today. He turned toward the Uchiha elder beside him.

He said nothing.

But that look, translated into words, meant—See? This is why I gave him that set of clothes with the clan crest.

The elder lowered his head and fell silent.

Danzo.

Of the four, his expression was the flattest. His single eye was half-lidded, his cane rested before him, and even his breathing rhythm had not changed.

He had known all along. The reports on the traces at the Nanga River, the repeated surveillance by Root agents, the training data acquired through covert infiltration—he had his own system for assessing Uchiha En's strength. That system was precise, cold, and devoid of emotion.

But seeing it with his own eyes today...

The assessment value quietly rose in his mind.

Not by much. Just a little.

Enough.

Something stirred in the depths of his lone eye.

—Greed.

It was as honest as hunger. The more one tried to control it, the more it clawed at the walls of one's stomach. Danzo had never denied his greed. He merely wrapped it in foil labeled "For the sake of Konoha," making it look a little more respectable.

Beneath that foil, the thing rolled around in delight.

Jiraiya's reaction was the hardest to read.

He stared at Yan's lava-covered arm. The little book had already been shut on his knee—he was not even pretending anymore. His gaze held neither surprise nor excitement, but a deep, scrutinizing, calculating recognition.

Like an old hunter identifying fresh tracks that had appeared in the forest—tracks that belonged neither to a bear nor a deer, nor to anything he had ever known.

His Sage sensing was operating unconsciously.

The "unknown energy like a living volcano" that he had sensed in the hot spring district a month ago—the lava arm before him was only the tip of the iceberg. He could sense that Yan had much more sealed deep within his body.

How much?

He did not know.

That was what truly caught Jiraiya's attention.

On the field.

Minato stared at that burning arm. Dark red firelight reflected off the surface of his blue eyes.

He smiled.

Brighter than this damned sun.

"I knew it," he murmured. His voice trembled from the heat rising off the field, but his tone was incomparably steady. So quiet that only Yan, five meters away, could hear it.

Yan looked at his smiling face, and something in his chest was gently plucked. Could this be the passionate bond of future Hokage? The so-called bond?

But he had no time to dwell on it.

Because Minato moved.

His hands formed seals—chakra exploded from the soles of his feet. Body Flicker Technique. But this burst was noticeably faster than every acceleration before it. It was not a gradual increase, but a leap to an entirely new level.

Golden afterimages closed into Yan's range from three directions at once—front left, directly right, and rear right.

Three afterimages.

Not Shadow Clones.

They were purely visual remnants created by speed. With Minato's current chakra reserves and mastery of the Body Flicker Technique, creating "three-direction afterimages" meant that he had changed directions three times within 0.3 seconds.

Twelve years old.

Three direction changes.

0.3 seconds.

Genius could not explain it. This was a genius among geniuses. The kind of genius that made you want to curse.

A special jonin at the examination table set down his teacup. His hand trembled as he did—not from fear, but from the physiological stress reaction of seeing something that did not belong to this age group.

"That speed..." He exchanged a glance with the person beside him and saw the same words in the other man's eyes: Are these two really here to graduate today?

Yan's Observation Haki completed its assessment within 0.2 seconds—the real body was low on the right. Wind Release chakra had gathered in Minato's left hand and was being thrust forward.

The information was clear. Precise. Without delay.

His body kept up.

His lava-coated right fist sank downward as his toes turned forty-five degrees. In that instant, his center of gravity shifted from defense to offense—like an ignited spear rising from the ground, stabbing toward Minato's true body.

The temperature of the lava rose by fifteen degrees as he moved.

Not much.

But enough to make the air hiss along his path.

The two collided in the center of the field.

The golden wind blade and dark red Lava Punch produced a sharp, piercing blast at the point of contact. It was not the sound of metal striking metal—it was the high-frequency vibration created as two utterly different energies compressed, tore at, and devoured each other at the same point.

The shockwave spread outward in a ring. (A genin powerhouse—terrifying indeed.)

The corner of Minato's mouth curled up the instant his fist made contact—

"Not enough, Yan! Show me your true strength!"

There was wind in his voice. Chakra. And the pure, blazing fighting spirit unique to a twelve-year-old boy who knew no limits.

Yan's pupils contracted.

—This guy.

He was really damn annoying and hard to deal with.