Danzo's "Third Plan"

A week passed.

Yashiro still hadn't come to school.

Rumor had it that he had nightmares every day at home, dreaming of being swallowed by magma, then wetting the bed when he woke up. His father, Uchiha Yan, had consulted the clan's medical ninja, who said the boy was suffering from "an excessive fright-induced stress reaction" and needed quiet recuperation.

Uchiha Yan refused to believe it and went to the Nanga River to take a look himself.

After that, he stopped talking too.

The stones by the river still bore marks of having been scorched by extreme heat.

Uchiha Yan crouched by the river for a long time. He belonged to the police force and had seen plenty of battlefield ruins. During the Third Shinobi World War, he had even helped clear out areas bombarded by Fire Release.

But the scorch marks left by those Fire Release attacks—and what lay before him now—weren't remotely on the same level.

Fire Release charred things.

This had melted them.

Two entirely different concepts.

Uchiha Yan did not make a fuss. He privately reported the matter to the clan head, Uchiha Fugaku. Fugaku remained silent for a long time after hearing him out, then said only two words: "Keep watching."

Keep watching.

That was the standard Uchiha attitude toward anomalies within their own clan.

If they could be useful to the clan, they stayed. If they could not—or were too dangerous—they were dealt with.

The true nature of the so-called "noble Sharingan clan" was nothing more than cold calculations of profit.

Of course, Yan knew nothing about any of this.

What he did know was—

His training was progressing well.

[Magma-Magma Fruit Evolution: 8% (+5%)]

In one week, it had risen from 3% to 8%.

He could now maintain four marble-sized magma bullets at once. His accuracy had also improved from within ten meters to within twenty. Though he was still a hundred thousand miles away from the sky-covering Meteor Volcano of the original Akainu, for a twelve-year-old kid—this was enough.

The more crucial progress was in elementalization.

He could now elementalize thirty percent of his body at once for roughly fifteen seconds.

Fifteen seconds.

That was enough to do plenty in real combat.

For example—break the arm of anyone who punched him.

Of course, he had no plans to do that. At least, not yet. At this stage, there was only one priority—develop quietly and stay out of trouble.

The Third Hokage's Anbu were still watching him.

Danzo's Root was watching him too.

There were already two groups, and he suspected his own clan would react soon as well. He knew. Observation Haki was practically cheating in situations like this—every day before heading out, he swept the area once; before returning home, he did it again. He had even figured out when the Anbu changed shifts.

Increasing his strength as quickly as possible was essential.

But before his elementalization ability had fully developed, he absolutely could not let anyone know about it. Other abilities that could be disguised as a Lava Release bloodline limit were fine to use.

Today's Anbu agent was someone who liked crouching on rooftops and changed shifts on schedule.

Danzo's Root spy was more troublesome. He hid farther away, having retreated from fifty meters at first to over eighty meters now, and concealed his presence more thoroughly. But Yan had spent the past week improving his Observation Haki proficiency. He could now sense out to a hundred meters, so he could still detect the existence of that "blank" presence at eighty meters.

A normal person's presence contained emotional fluctuations—nervousness, boredom, anxiety, distraction. Root members' presences seemed to have been formatted, leaving only four words: "Carry out the mission."

Pretty miserable.

They had been trained into tools, and Danzo had even stripped them of the right to dream.

Yan held no hatred for Root.

Hating Danzo was enough.

At the ninja academy.

Minato's cooking was truly awful.

That was a universal truth.

Yan stuffed a piece of pickled radish into his mouth and chewed.

This one was fine. Store-bought really was more reliable than homemade.

"Minato."

"Hm?"

"Let me tell you a joke."

"Sure!"

"An Uchiha died and went to hell. The King of Hell asked him, 'What is your final wish?' He said, 'I want to go back and see how far my Sharingan evolved.' The King of Hell said, 'You're dead. What are you evolving for?' He said, 'It's fine. For us Uchiha, evolution only begins after we die.'"

Minato froze for two seconds.

Then burst out laughing.

"HAHAHAHAHA—! It evolves after you die?! Hahaha!"

He laughed so hard that he collapsed onto the ground, and the rice ball rolled from his hand into the grass.

Yan watched him laugh, and the corners of his own mouth curved up slightly.

That was the beauty of dark humor. Those who knew the truth found it funny and bitter. Those who did not know the truth only found it funny.

The Sharingan's evolution mechanism was built on pain and loss—the deeper the sorrow, the greater the power. The highest-level Mangekyo Sharingan required the death of someone close to awaken.

What kind of bullshit setting was that?

Did the Sage of Six Paths—or rather, that old thief Kishimoto—have some kind of problem with his tastes?

"Do you... do you have any more? Tell me another one!" Minato said, wiping away tears of laughter.

"Sure. An Uchiha and a Hyuga were arguing. The Uchiha said, 'My Sharingan can copy your ninjutsu.' The Hyuga said, 'My Byakugan can see through your chakra pathways.' The Uchiha said, 'Then take a look at my middle finger.'"

"HAHAHAHAHA!"

Minato could not stop laughing at all.

Several classmates passing by were drawn by the laughter and glanced over from afar—"demon" Uchiha Yan and "civilian genius" Minato Namikaze were squatting under a tree. One chewed radish with a blank expression, while the other rolled around on the ground laughing.

The sight was utterly bizarre.

"You... you're so funny..." Minato finally managed to stop laughing. "I never knew you could tell jokes!"

"I didn't before."

"Why not?"

Because no one listened.

Yan did not say it aloud. He stuffed the last bite of his rice ball into his mouth, stood, and patted the dust off his pants.

"Break is over. Let's go."

Today's theory class was "Shinobi History: The First Shinobi World War."

The examiner read from the textbook at the podium without a trace of emotion, like a radio with no batteries. Half the students below were dozing off.

Minato was diligently taking notes.

Under the desk, Yan elementalized one centimeter of his right index finger to practice fine control.

One centimeter of magma clung to his fingertip, its temperature controlled so it would not scorch the desk. After holding it for thirty seconds, he withdrew it and switched to his middle finger.

He repeated the cycle.

"Uchiha Yan." The teacher suddenly called on him.

Yan withdrew his finger and looked up.

"Answer the question. What caused the First Shinobi World War?"

Every eye in the classroom turned toward him. Most were waiting to see him make a fool of himself.

"The uneven distribution of interests among the Five Great Nations, escalating competition for resources, and the political ambitions of the various daimyo ultimately led to an all-out war. The immediate trigger was the territorial dispute between the Land of Wind and the Land of Fire in the border regions."

The examiner paused.

"...Correct."

He wrote an "Excellent" on the grading sheet.

Someone whispered from the back, "How does this guy know the answer every time in theory class?"

"Maybe memorizing textbooks is his talent."

Yan could not be bothered to respond.

He had watched Naruto for over a decade in his previous life. He knew shinobi history better than the people who wrote the textbooks.

Minato secretly gave him a thumbs-up from beside him.

Yan jabbed him with an elbow, telling him not to make it so obvious.

Minato chuckled.

During break.

The two walked side by side down the hallway.

Minato suddenly said, "By the way, Yan. Have you thought about who you want to study under in the future?"

"What do you mean?"

"After graduation, when classes get assigned. I heard from the examiner that students with good grades can be chosen as disciples by jonin. I want to study under a really powerful jonin."

Yan glanced at him.

A white-haired pervert would choose you in the future.

No—that was wrong. Jiraiya was still young now.

"Who do you want to study under?" Yan asked in return.

"I don't know... Do you have anyone to recommend?"

"Don't pick a lecher."

"Why?"

"They might lead you astray."

"I wouldn't be led astray!"

What book do you keep at hand when you use Flying Thunder God in the future? Don't you have any self-awareness?

Yan mocked him inwardly, his expression unchanged.

Still, no matter how one looked at it, becoming Jiraiya's disciple was Minato Namikaze's best choice. That was the only way he could become part of the Third Hokage's direct line; otherwise, forget becoming Hokage—he would be lucky not to become cannon fodder.

"Come on, class is starting."

"Wait a second, I need to use the bathroom."

"Go on. You sure piss and shit a lot."

Minato ran off.

Yan was left alone in the hallway.

He leaned against the wall and looked out at Konoha's streets through the window.

Konoha in peacetime. The sunlight was perfect, and leaves rustled in the breeze. People walked their dogs in the streets, old men played chess, and children chased each other around.

It looked tranquil.

But Yan knew. He had been counting the days—

There were roughly five years until the Third Shinobi World War.

Roughly nine years until Obito was crushed by rocks, Rin was killed, and the Nine-Tails attacked Konoha.

Roughly eighteen years until the Uchiha massacre.

Time waited for no one.

He raised his right hand and spread his fingers.

There was nothing unusual about his fingertips.

It was an utterly ordinary hand.

But he knew what this hand could do.

Give him another two years—no, even one.

He would turn this hand into a volcano.

The kind no one could ever destroy.

After school.

After finishing his training, Yan returned to the clan compound.

The instant he stepped through the door of that shabby little house, Observation Haki blared a warning.

Someone was inside.

One person.

Sitting on his bed.

A presence—with the same "blank" feeling as the Root agents tailing him. But steadier, more experienced.

Root.

Root again.

Yan neither backed away nor tensed up. He pushed open the door and walked inside.

Moonlight shone into the room.

A middle-aged man in ordinary civilian clothing sat on the bed. His features were plain, the sort of face that would vanish in any crowd. But his posture gave him away—back straight, hands resting on his knees, like a blade ready to be drawn at any moment.

"Hello, Yan-kun." The middle-aged man smiled.

The smile was flawless, as though he had practiced it in front of a mirror a hundred times.

"I am a Konoha ninja instructor. I heard your practical performance at the academy has not been ideal, so I was sent here to provide extracurricular tutoring."

Yan stood in the doorway and watched him.

A twelve-year-old body, a twelve-year-old face, and a twenty-six-year-old soul.

When he had read the original work in his previous life, he remembered that Danzo's recruitment methods came in several tiers.

The first through third plans were "soft tactics."

He would send people to approach the target, build trust, promise benefits, slowly infiltrate, and bind them with resources.

The fourth through sixth plans were "pressure tactics."

He would create difficult situations, cut off every escape route, use leverage and threats, or promise authority until the target had no choice but to join Root.

The seventh set—

Direct kidnapping, forced brainwashing, control by operatives.

The man before him was the executor of the third plan.

"A tutor?" Yan tilted his head, putting on the puzzled expression a twelve-year-old should have. "I haven't heard the teacher mention any extra tutoring."

"It's a special arrangement." The middle-aged man stood up, took a document from his robe, and handed it over. "Look, this is a letter of appointment signed by the Hokage."

Yan took it and glanced over it.

The letter was fake. A convincing fake.

After six years as a corporate drone in his previous life, forging documents was child's play for an adult who had survived office politics.

"Oh." Yan handed the document back and nodded. "Then when will the tutoring begin?"

The middle-aged man's smile deepened slightly.

"Tomorrow. One hour after school every day. I'll come here to find you."

"Okay."

"Then I won't disturb you today. Get some rest early, Yan-kun."

The middle-aged man rose and walked out.

His figure vanished into the night.

Yan closed the door.

He leaned against it.

The obedient expression vanished from his face, replaced by an indifference so cold it was nearly frozen.

"The third plan: a conciliatory approach."

He murmured softly.

"Fine. Come, then."

"Let's see what Danzo's people are really made of."

He lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes.

His Observation Haki spread out.

The middle-aged man's presence had already retreated over a hundred meters away. But he had not left.

He was waiting.

Watching.

Confirming whether the first step of the "third plan" had succeeded.

Yan smiled silently in the darkness.

In his previous life, he had been psychologically manipulated by his company for six years.

A different world, a different version of psychological manipulation—he wanted to see whether a ninja's brainwashing was stronger, or whether his soul, hardened by society's beatings, was tougher.