What If Naruto Was Trained by Saitama (One Punch Man x Naruto)

# Chapter 1: The Night Everything Changed

The screams had stopped three hours ago.

Smoke still clawed at the sky above Konohagakure, black tendrils writhing against stars that seemed too distant, too cold. The great beast was gone—sealed away, the adults whispered—but its claws had left gouges in more than just buildings. They'd carved deep into the soul of the village itself, leaving wounds that would fester in ways no one could yet imagine.

In the orphanage on Maple Street, twenty-three children huddled in beds that creaked with every shiver, every suppressed sob. The building had survived the rampage, but survival meant different things to different people. For most of the children, it meant grateful whispers to whatever gods watched over orphans. For three-year-old Naruto Uzumaki, it meant something else entirely.

It meant the beginning of the end of everything warm in his small world.

"Shh, it's alright now," Matron Keiko had said that first night, her voice hollow as a broken bell. She'd held him then, her arms stiff as driftwood, her eyes fixed on some point beyond his shoulder. Even at three, Naruto could feel the wrongness in her embrace—the way her fingers trembled not with fear of the monster that had passed, but with fear of him.

Him.

The whispers started the next morning.

"—can't believe they brought it here—"

"—should have died with the beast—"

"—how are we supposed to—"

Fragments of conversations that cut off when adults noticed small ears listening. But children heard everything, absorbed everything, understood more than anyone gave them credit for. And slowly, like water finding cracks in stone, the truth seeped in.

The demon child. The monster boy. The thing that carried the Nine-Tails inside him.

By the end of the first week, the other children had learned to flinch when he approached. By the end of the first month, they crossed to the other side of rooms. By the end of the second month, even the newest arrivals—babies who'd never known the terror of that night—would cry when he came near, as if they could sense something poisonous in his very presence.

Naruto learned to eat last, when the good food was gone and only scraps remained. He learned to sleep in the corner bed, the one with the broken spring that jabbed his ribs. He learned to speak quietly, to move carefully, to make himself as small as possible in hopes that maybe, just maybe, someone would forget to hate him for a few precious moments.

It never worked.

"Breakfast!" Matron Keiko's voice cracked like a whip through the dormitory six months after the attack. Twenty-two children scrambled from their beds with the eager chaos of youth, feet thundering on wooden floors, voices raised in sleepy chatter.

Naruto sat up slowly in his corner bed, waiting. Always waiting.

The room emptied around him like water draining from a tub, leaving him alone with the dust motes dancing in morning sunlight and the lingering warmth of bodies that had never welcomed his presence. He could hear them downstairs—laughter, the clatter of bowls, Matron Keiko's forced cheerfulness as she served rice and miso soup to her real children.

When the noise died down, when the last voice faded, Naruto finally crept downstairs.

The kitchen sat empty except for Keiko, who stood with her back to him, shoulders rigid as temple pillars. On the counter beside her sat a single bowl—smaller than the others, containing rice that had burned slightly to the bottom of the pot and soup that had grown cold.

"There," she said without turning around. "Don't... don't make noise while you eat."

Her voice carried exhaustion so profound it seemed to weigh down the very air. This woman who had once sung lullabies to frighten children, who had kissed scraped knees and bandaged wounded hearts, now could barely bring herself to acknowledge his existence.

Naruto ate in silence, each grain of rice tasting like ash, each spoonful of soup sliding down his throat like liquid loneliness. Through the window, he could see the other children playing in the small courtyard—tag and hide-and-seek and all the games that belonged to a world from which he was forever barred.

Daiki, barely five years old, spotted him through the glass and immediately ran to the others, pointing. They scattered like leaves before a storm, their laughter dying as if his very gaze had poisoned it.

The bowl slipped from Naruto's numb fingers, ceramic shattering against the floor with a sound like breaking bones.

"Now look what you've done!" Keiko spun around, her face flushed with anger that came too quick, burned too hot. "Can't you do anything right? Can't you just—" She stopped, her hand flying to her mouth as if she could catch the words and stuff them back inside.

But they hung in the air between them, vibrating with a hatred she couldn't quite hide behind duty and obligation.

Naruto knelt and began gathering the pieces with hands that shook despite his best efforts. Sharp edges bit into his palms, drawing thin lines of blood that seemed too red, too bright in the morning light.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"

"Just... just go to your room." Keiko's voice cracked. "And stay there until dinner."

Up the stairs he climbed, each step heavier than the last, until he reached the dormitory that felt more like a tomb than a home. His corner bed waited with its broken spring and thin blanket, surrounded by nineteen other beds that might as well have been on different planets.

On his nightstand—the only piece of furniture that was truly his—sat three things: a cup of water, a small wooden top that had belonged to some previous occupant, and a cracked mirror no bigger than his palm.

Naruto picked up the mirror and stared at his reflection. Bright blue eyes stared back—too bright, too blue, like summer skies that promised warmth but delivered only cold wind. Spiky blonde hair that refused to lie flat no matter how much he wetted it down. Whisker marks on his cheeks that the other children said made him look like an animal.

Monster.

Demon.

Thing.

The words echoed in his head like stones dropped in an empty well, each one sending ripples through the still water of his thoughts.

"Why?" he asked his reflection. "Why do they hate me? What did I do wrong?"

The boy in the mirror had no answers, only the same confusion, the same desperate need to understand why the world had turned its back on him before he'd even learned to walk properly.

Outside his window, autumn was painting the leaves in shades of fire. Soon they would fall, and winter would come with its promise of cold nights and colder hearts. And then spring would return, and another year would pass, and still he would be here—alone, unwanted, carrying a burden he didn't understand but could never escape.

The hours crawled by with the sluggish pace of wounded animals. Lunch came and went without acknowledgment. The afternoon stretched endlessly, filled with the distant sounds of children being children while he remained imprisoned in his corner of the world.

When evening finally arrived, painting the dormitory in shades of amber and shadow, Naruto crept downstairs once more. The other children were already seated around the long table, their faces bright with the easy joy of those who belonged. They fell silent as he entered, twenty-one pairs of eyes tracking his movement like predators watching prey.

He took his place at the far end of the table, as far from the others as the room allowed. Keiko set a bowl before him—again, smaller than the others, again containing the least appetizing portions—without meeting his gaze.

"We had visitors today," she announced to the table, her voice carrying forced brightness. "The Yamadas are thinking of adopting."

Excited whispers rippled through the children like wind through wheat. The Yamadas were kind people, prosperous, known for their gentle hearts and their longing for children of their own.

"They're looking for a child between four and six," Keiko continued. "Someone well-behaved, someone who would fit into their family."

Hope flickered in several young faces. Even Naruto felt his heart skip—just for a moment, just long enough for the cruel mathematics of possibility to work their way through his mind.

He was almost four. He could be well-behaved. He could fit into a family if someone, anyone, would just give him a chance.

But then he saw the way Keiko's eyes carefully avoided his section of the table, the way she spoke as if he simply weren't there. The hope died as quickly as it had been born, leaving behind an ache that settled deep in his chest like a stone.

After dinner, the children scattered to their evening activities—games and books and the casual intimacies of friendship that Naruto could only observe from a distance. He retreated to his bed, pulling his thin blanket up to his chin and staring at the ceiling where shadows danced like ghosts.

Sleep, when it finally came, brought no peace. His dreams were filled with faceless crowds pointing accusing fingers, with voices that whispered words he couldn't quite understand but felt in his bones. He woke twice, gasping and sweat-soaked, but there was no one to comfort him, no gentle hand to smooth his hair and promise that morning would bring better things.

Because morning never brought better things. Not for him.

The pattern repeated day after day, week after week. Meals eaten in isolation. Games played alone. Nights spent staring at a ceiling that never offered answers to the questions that haunted him. The other children grew and changed, formed friendships and found small joys in their communal existence.

Naruto simply endured.

The breaking point came on a Tuesday in November, when the first snow of the season dusted the village like powdered bone. He'd been at the orphanage for eight months—eight months of growing smaller inside himself, of learning to take up less space, breathe less air, want less from a world that had already decided he deserved nothing.

"Akira's being adopted," Keiko announced at breakfast, her voice bright with genuine happiness. "The Tanaka family fell in love with him."

Seven-year-old Akira beamed from his place at the table, surrounded by congratulations and excited chatter. He'd only been at the orphanage for three months—parents lost to a building collapse during reconstruction—but he was normal. Sweet. Untainted by the darkness that clung to Naruto like a second skin.

"When do I get to leave?" The words slipped from Naruto's lips before he could stop them, cutting through the celebration like a blade through silk.

The table fell silent. Twenty-two faces turned toward him with expressions ranging from surprise to disgust to something that might have been pity in a more generous world.

"Naruto..." Keiko's voice carried a weariness that seemed to age her years in seconds. "You need to understand. It's... it's complicated."

"Why is it complicated?" His voice was small, barely more than a whisper, but it carried all the desperate confusion of a child who had never understood why the world treated him like a plague carrier. "Why don't people want me?"

The silence stretched until it became a living thing, feeding on discomfort and growing fat on unspoken truths. Some of the older children exchanged meaningful looks—they knew, had heard the whispers, understood what he was in ways his young mind couldn't fully grasp.

"You're different," Keiko said finally, the words falling like stones into still water. "People are... afraid."

"Afraid of what? I'm just a kid! I'm just—" His voice cracked, and suddenly all the months of careful control, all the practiced silence and enforced stillness, crumbled like walls before a flood. "I didn't do anything wrong! I didn't ask for this! I just want someone to want me!"

The words tore from his throat like living things seeking escape, carrying with them all the loneliness, all the confusion, all the desperate hunger for connection that he'd been forced to swallow day after day.

"That's enough." Keiko's voice cut through his breakdown like a sword. "Go to your room. Now."

"But I—"

"NOW!"

He ran. Up the stairs, past the dormitory, out onto the small balcony that overlooked the courtyard. His vision blurred with tears he'd held back for so long they burned like acid, and his chest heaved with sobs that sounded too big for his small body.

Below him, the other children had gathered by the window, their faces pressed against the glass as they watched him fall apart. Some looked curious, others frightened, a few almost satisfied—as if his pain proved something they'd always suspected about monsters and the sounds they made when they broke.

This is my life, he thought with a clarity that seemed impossible for someone so young. This is all it will ever be. Nobody wants me. Nobody will ever want me. I'm going to die alone in this place, and nobody will even remember my name.

The thought should have been devastating. Instead, it brought a strange kind of peace—the peace that came with accepting the unacceptable, with surrendering to forces too large to fight.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and turned to go back inside, back to his corner bed and his small collection of unwanted things. But as he reached for the door handle, a sound made him pause.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, crunching through the first snow of winter.

Naruto looked down into the courtyard and saw a figure walking toward the orphanage—a man in strange clothes, carrying what looked like a grocery bag in one hand. He was completely bald, with a face so utterly ordinary it was almost remarkable in its lack of remarkable features.

The man looked up, and their eyes met across the distance.

For a moment, neither moved. The stranger tilted his head slightly, studying Naruto with an expression that held no fear, no disgust, no pity—just a kind of mild curiosity, as if he'd found something mildly interesting rather than something to be avoided.

Then the man raised his free hand in a small wave.

Naruto blinked, certain he'd imagined it. But no—the stranger was definitely waving at him. Not past him, not despite him, but at him, as if his presence on the balcony was something worth acknowledging.

Almost without thinking, Naruto raised his own hand and waved back.

The man nodded once, as if this exchange had settled something important, and continued walking until he disappeared around the corner of the building.

For the first time in eight months, Naruto felt something other than resignation settle in his chest. Not hope—he'd learned better than to trust hope—but a tiny spark of curiosity that glowed like an ember in the darkness.

Who was that?

The question followed him back inside, whispered in his ear as he lay down on his broken bed, warmed him like a small flame as he pulled his thin blanket up to his chin.

Who was that man, and why did he wave at me?

Sleep came easier that night, though his dreams were still strange—filled not with accusers and pointing fingers, but with a bald man in odd clothes who looked at him like he was just another person in the world.

Three days later, Naruto ran away.

It wasn't a grand escape, no dramatic flight into the night. He simply waited until the others were occupied with their evening activities, slipped out the back door, and started walking. He had no destination in mind, no great plan for survival. He just knew he couldn't spend another day in that place, couldn't endure another meal eaten in isolation, another night surrounded by the breathing of children who wished he would disappear.

The village streets were nearly empty, most people having retreated indoors as the temperature dropped and evening shadows grew long. Those few he encountered quickly crossed to the other side of the street or ducked into shops, their faces twisted with the same fear and disgust he'd learned to expect.

By the time he reached the village outskirts, full darkness had fallen, and the first serious snow of the season had begun to fall. Fat flakes drifted down like ash from some great fire in the sky, settling on his thin clothes and melting into his hair.

He found himself in a small grove of trees just beyond the village walls, far enough from civilization that the sounds of human life faded to a whisper. Here, surrounded by the quiet dignity of sleeping trees and the gentle hush of falling snow, Naruto finally allowed himself to acknowledge the truth he'd been avoiding.

He was going to die out here.

The thought should have terrified him, but it didn't. Death seemed preferable to spending the rest of his life as a ghost haunting the edges of other people's happiness. At least the cold would be honest in its cruelty, direct in its intentions.

He found a large tree with roots that created a small alcove and settled into it, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. The snow continued to fall, and the cold began to seep through his clothes like water through paper.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the darkness, though he wasn't sure who he was apologizing to. His parents, maybe, whoever they were. The Fourth Hokage, who had died the night he was born. The village that he'd failed simply by existing. "I'm sorry I couldn't be what you wanted."

The tears came then—not the desperate sobs of his earlier breakdown, but quiet, steady streams that felt like the final emptying of some deep well inside him. He cried for the childhood he'd never had, for the love he'd never known, for the simple human warmth that had been denied to him since the moment he'd drawn breath.

And as he cried, the snow continued to fall, and the cold continued to creep deeper into his bones, and the darkness pressed in from all sides like a living thing eager to claim him.

It was then—at the moment when despair had finally claimed complete victory over hope—that footsteps crunched through the snow toward him.

Naruto looked up through eyes blurred with tears and cold, expecting to see no one. Expecting his mind to be playing tricks on him in these final moments.

Instead, he saw the bald man from three days ago, standing at the edge of the grove with that same grocery bag in his hand and an expression of mild concern on his unremarkable face.

"Hey," the man said, his voice carrying easily through the falling snow. "You look cold."

Naruto stared at him, certain this had to be some kind of hallucination brought on by hypothermia. "You're... you're real?"

"Pretty sure." The man walked closer, snow crunching under his feet. "You're that kid from the orphanage, right? The one on the balcony?"

A nod was all Naruto could manage. His throat felt frozen, his voice trapped somewhere between his chest and his lips.

"What are you doing out here?" The question came without accusation, without the carefully controlled fear that usually colored adult voices when they spoke to him. Just genuine curiosity.

"I..." Naruto's voice cracked. "I ran away."

"Yeah? Where were you planning to go?"

The simple, matter-of-fact tone of the question somehow made its implications more devastating than any lecture could have. Where had he planned to go? What had he thought would happen?

"I don't know," he admitted, the words barely above a whisper. "I just... I couldn't stay there anymore."

The man nodded as if this made perfect sense. "That bad, huh?"

"They hate me." The confession spilled out before Naruto could stop it. "All of them. I don't know why, but they look at me like I'm some kind of monster. Like I'm going to hurt them or something."

"Are you? Going to hurt them?"

"No!" The word exploded from him with more force than he'd intended. "I would never—I just want someone to like me. I just want to belong somewhere."

"Huh." The man was quiet for a moment, studying him with those plain, unremarkable eyes. "You know, I was passing through the village earlier, and I heard some people talking. About a kid who carries something dangerous inside him. That wouldn't be you, would it?"

Naruto's blood turned to ice water. Even this stranger—this random person who had no connection to the village or its people—had heard the stories. Had come to the same conclusion as everyone else.

"Please don't—" he began, but the man held up a hand.

"Relax. I'm not here to hurt you or drag you back or any of that stuff." He shifted the grocery bag to his other hand. "I'm just trying to understand the situation."

"You're not afraid of me?"

The question hung in the air between them, fragile as spun glass.

"Should I be?"

"Everyone else is."

"Yeah, well, everyone else is kind of stupid sometimes." The man's tone remained conversational, as if they were discussing the weather rather than the deepest source of Naruto's pain. "Fear makes people do dumb things. Make bad decisions."

He took another step closer, and Naruto found himself holding his breath—not from fear, but from the strange, impossible hope that maybe, just maybe, this person might be different.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Naruto. Naruto Uzumaki."

"I'm Saitama." The man—Saitama—crouched down so they were at eye level. "Listen, Naruto, I don't know you very well, but you seem like a decent kid. And decent kids shouldn't be freezing to death in forests because adults are too scared to act like adults."

"I don't have anywhere else to go," Naruto said, the admission scraping his throat raw. "Nobody wants me."

"Yeah? Well, that's their loss." Saitama stood and brushed snow from his knees. "Tell you what—I've got a place not too far from here. Nothing fancy, but it's warm and dry. You want to come check it out?"

The offer hit Naruto like a physical blow. Someone was asking him—actually asking him—if he wanted to come somewhere. Not ordering him, not threatening him, not looking at him like he was something poisonous that had to be tolerated.

Asking him.

"Why?" The word came out barely above a whisper. "Why would you help me?"

Saitama shrugged, a gesture so casual it seemed almost absurd given the weight of the moment. "Why not? You need help, I can provide help. Seems pretty straightforward."

"But the other people, they said I'm dangerous. They said I have a monster inside me."

"Do you feel like a monster?"

The question was so simple, so direct, that it cut through months of accumulated pain and confusion like a blade through paper. Did he feel like a monster? When he looked inside himself, past the hurt and loneliness and desperate hunger for acceptance, what did he find?

"No," he said finally. "I feel like... like a kid who just wants someone to care about him."

"Then that's what you are." Saitama held out his hand. "Come on. Let's get you somewhere warm before you turn into a popsicle."

Naruto stared at the offered hand for a long moment, afraid that touching it would make this whole encounter dissolve like a mirage. But the cold was seeping deeper into his bones, and the alternative was freezing to death alone in the dark, and this strange, bald man with his grocery bag and matter-of-fact kindness was offering him something no one else ever had.

A choice. A chance. A place where he might be wanted.

He reached out and took Saitama's hand.

The older man's grip was warm and callused and completely ordinary—the hand of someone who worked for a living, who did practical things with practical tools. Not the hand of a hero or a sage or any of the larger-than-life figures that populated the stories Naruto had always loved.

Just the hand of a person who had decided to care about a lonely child on a snowy night.

"There we go," Saitama said, pulling him to his feet. "Let's get you home."

Home.

The word followed them through the falling snow as they walked back toward the village, past the sleeping houses and darkened shops, past the orphanage where twenty-one children slept peacefully in their beds, past the administrative buildings and training grounds and all the places where Naruto had learned he didn't belong.

Saitama led him to a small house on the very edge of the village—not abandoned, exactly, but clearly unoccupied for some time. The kind of place that slipped through bureaucratic cracks, that no one quite remembered or claimed.

"It's not much," Saitama said as he unlocked the door, "but it'll do."

The interior was sparse but clean—a few pieces of basic furniture, a small kitchen, two bedrooms that contained little more than beds and empty dressers. It looked like the sort of place someone might stay temporarily while passing through, which, Naruto realized, was probably exactly what it was.

"Are you just visiting?" he asked as Saitama set his grocery bag on the kitchen counter.

"Was," Saitama said. "Plans change."

He began unpacking the bag—simple foods, nothing fancy, but more variety than Naruto had seen in months. Rice, vegetables, some kind of meat wrapped in paper, a carton of milk that looked impossibly rich and white.

"You hungry?"

Naruto's stomach answered before he could, growling loudly enough to echo off the walls.

"I'll take that as a yes." Saitama's mouth quirked up in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Go get cleaned up. There's a bathroom down the hall. I'll make us something to eat."

The bathroom was small but functional, with a shower that produced actual hot water and towels that smelled like sunshine instead of institutional bleach. Naruto stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat soak into his bones and wash away the accumulated grime of his brief time on the streets.

When he emerged, wrapped in a towel that was too big but wonderfully warm, he found that Saitama had laid out clothes for him—simple things, a little large but clean and dry. They smelled like detergent and fabric softener, like normal things that normal people wore.

In the kitchen, two bowls waited on the small table, filled with rice and vegetables and pieces of meat that smelled like heaven. Saitama sat at one place, eating with mechanical efficiency, while the other waited for him.

Naruto approached slowly, half-convinced this was all some elaborate dream that would dissolve the moment he tried to participate in it.

"It's going to get cold," Saitama observed without looking up from his bowl.

Naruto sat and picked up his chopsticks with hands that trembled slightly. The first bite was revelation—not because the food was particularly elaborate or expertly prepared, but because it was his. No one had grudgingly set it aside for him, no one had served it with resentment and barely concealed disgust. It was his food, in his place, at his table.

He ate slowly, trying to make it last, while Saitama finished his own meal with the same methodical approach he seemed to bring to everything.

"So," Saitama said when they were both done, "what's the story? I heard bits and pieces from people in town, but I want to hear it from you."

Naruto looked down at his empty bowl, gathering courage. "The night I was born, a monster attacked the village. The Nine-Tails Fox. It killed a lot of people, destroyed a lot of buildings."

"Okay."

"The Fourth Hokage stopped it by... by putting it inside me. Sealing it away where it couldn't hurt anyone else." The words felt like broken glass in his throat. "But now everyone thinks I am the monster. They look at me and see the thing that killed their families, destroyed their homes."

"Are you the monster?"

"I don't know." The admission hurt to make. "Sometimes I feel angry, and I wonder if that's the fox inside me. Sometimes I have dreams, and I'm not sure if they're mine or... or something else's."

Saitama nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense you'd wonder about that. But here's the thing—everyone gets angry sometimes. Everyone has weird dreams. Doesn't make them monsters."

"But what if—"

"What if nothing." Saitama's voice carried a finality that somehow managed to be gentle rather than harsh. "You know what I see when I look at you? A kid who's been dealt a pretty crappy hand but who's still trying to be decent about it. A kid who ran away not because he wanted to hurt anyone, but because he was hurting too much to stay."

Naruto felt tears prick at his eyes again, but these were different from the desperate sobs of earlier. These felt almost... relieved.

"The people in the village, they're scared," Saitama continued. "Fear makes people stupid, makes them cruel. But their fear doesn't define who you are. Only you get to do that."

"I don't know how."

"Yeah, you do. You've been doing it all along." Saitama stood and began collecting their empty bowls. "You could have let all that hate turn you bitter, could have decided to give them something real to fear. But you didn't. You just kept trying to find ways to belong, to be accepted. That tells me everything I need to know about who you really are."

As Saitama washed the dishes with the same methodical efficiency he brought to everything else, Naruto sat at the table and tried to process what had happened to him. Six hours ago, he'd been ready to die alone in the snow. Now he was sitting in a warm kitchen, full of good food, talking to someone who looked at him like he was worth listening to.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked when Saitama finished and turned back to face him.

"Doing what?"

"Helping me. Being nice to me. You don't even know me."

Saitama was quiet for a long moment, his plain face thoughtful. "I guess... I know what it's like to be alone. To have people look at you like you're something they can't understand." He shrugged. "Maybe I just don't like seeing kids go through that when there's something I can do about it."

"But what if the people in the village get angry? What if they don't like you helping me?"

"Then they don't like it." Another shrug. "I'm not really in the habit of letting other people's opinions run my life."

The simple confidence in his voice, the matter-of-fact way he dismissed concerns that had ruled Naruto's entire existence, was both inspiring and slightly bewildering.

"Can I... can I really stay here?"

"Kid, I wouldn't have brought you here if I was planning to kick you out in the morning." Saitama moved toward the hallway. "Come on, let me show you your room."

Your room.

The words echoed in Naruto's mind as he followed Saitama down the short hallway. Not "the spare room" or "where you'll sleep tonight." Your room.

It was small and simple—a bed, a dresser, a window that looked out into the small backyard. Nothing fancy, nothing elaborate, but it was clean and warm and, impossibly, his.

"It's not much," Saitama said, "but it's yours for as long as you need it."

Naruto walked to the window and looked out at the snow-covered yard, at the village lights twinkling in the distance. Somewhere out there, twenty-one children were sleeping peacefully in their dormitory, secure in the knowledge that they belonged somewhere. And for the first time in his life, he could say the same thing.

"Thank you," he whispered, the words barely audible.

"Yeah, well, don't thank me yet," Saitama said from the doorway. "I'm not exactly experienced with kids. This is probably going to be a learning experience for both of us."

Naruto turned from the window, and something in his chest—something that had been tight and cold for as long as he could remember—began to loosen.

"I'll try not to be any trouble."

"You're not trouble, kid. You're just... a kid." Saitama paused. "And if anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with me."

After Saitama left him alone, Naruto sat on the edge of his new bed and tried to make sense of everything that had happened. This morning, he'd been the unwanted monster child, eating scraps in the corner of an orphanage dining room. Tonight, he was in his own room, in a house where someone had chosen to help him not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

The change was so dramatic, so unexpected, that part of him kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Saitama to reveal this was all some kind of test or punishment. For the village authorities to come pounding on the door, demanding his return to proper isolation.

But as the minutes ticked by and none of those things happened, another possibility began to take shape in his mind.

Maybe—just maybe—his real life was finally beginning.

He changed into the clothes Saitama had given him and slipped under covers that smelled like fabric softener instead of institutional bleach. Through the thin wall, he could hear his unlikely savior moving around the house, the comfortable sounds of someone settling in for the night.

For the first time in his life, Naruto Uzumaki fell asleep to the knowledge that someone in the world was glad he existed.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, covering the village in pristine white that would be marked by morning footsteps and the business of ordinary life. But in the small house on the edge of Konoha, a lonely child discovered what it felt like to belong somewhere, and a strange man with a grocery bag learned that heroism sometimes looked like offering hot soup to someone who had never tasted kindness.

Neither of them knew that this moment—this simple act of human decency in a snowy grove—would reshape the destiny of the ninja world.

They only knew that they were no longer alone.

And for now, that was enough.

# Chapter 2: The Routine of Strength

Dawn crept through the window of Naruto's room like a cautious animal, painting everything in shades of gold and amber that seemed impossibly warm after the cold darkness of his previous life. For a moment—that perfect, crystalline moment between sleep and waking—he floated in peaceful confusion, unable to remember where he was or why everything felt so different.

Then memory crashed back like a tide, bringing with it a mixture of disbelief and desperate hope that made his chest tight. The orphanage. The snow. Saitama's outstretched hand and matter-of-fact kindness.

This is real, he told himself, sitting up in bed and looking around the small room that was somehow, impossibly, his. This actually happened.

The smell of cooking rice drifted under his door, accompanied by sounds from the kitchen that spoke of someone preparing breakfast with methodical efficiency. Not the chaotic rush of an institutional dining hall, but the quiet rhythm of a single person making food for two.

Naruto dressed quickly in the clothes Saitama had given him—still too large, but clean and soft and his in a way that made something warm unfurl in his chest. He found his benefactor in the kitchen, standing at the stove with the same unflappable calm he'd displayed the night before.

"Morning," Saitama said without turning around. "You sleep okay?"

"Yeah." The word came out rougher than Naruto intended, his voice still thick with sleep and lingering disbelief. "Better than... better than I have in a long time."

"Good." Saitama ladled rice into two bowls, adding vegetables and what looked like actual pieces of fish—not scraps or leftovers, but real food prepared with care. "Eat up. We've got things to do today."

They ate in comfortable silence, the kind that came not from awkwardness but from the simple pleasure of sharing a meal without tension or fear. Naruto found himself studying his unlikely guardian, trying to understand what kind of person could look at a universally despised child and decide to help without expecting anything in return.

Saitama was utterly ordinary in every measurable way—average height, unremarkable build, a face so plain it was almost forgettable. His clothes were simple and practical, his mannerisms casual to the point of seeming lazy. Nothing about him suggested hidden depths or extraordinary capabilities.

And yet he'd walked through a village full of people who feared and hated Naruto, found him freezing in the snow, and offered him a home without hesitation.

"What kind of things?" Naruto asked when his bowl was empty.

"Hmm?"

"You said we have things to do today."

"Oh, right." Saitama stood and began collecting their dishes. "Training."

The word hit Naruto like a physical blow. Training meant ninja techniques, chakra manipulation, the complex arts of warfare that separated true shinobi from ordinary people. It meant someone thought he was worth teaching, worth investing time and effort in developing.

"You're going to teach me jutsu?" he asked, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.

"Nah." Saitama's response was maddeningly casual. "I don't know any jutsu."

"Then... what kind of training?"

"The important kind." Saitama finished washing their bowls and turned to face him. "Get your shoes on. I'll show you."

They walked through the village in the early morning light, past shops that were just beginning to open and people who were starting their daily routines. Naruto found himself tensing as they encountered other villagers, expecting the usual reactions of fear and disgust.

But something had changed. Maybe it was Saitama's presence beside him, calm and unworried, or maybe it was the simple fact that he'd slept in a real bed and eaten a real breakfast. Whatever the reason, the stares didn't cut as deeply, the whispers didn't echo as loudly in his mind.

"Where are we going?" he asked as they left the main village behind and headed toward the training grounds.

"Nowhere special. Just need some open space." Saitama's pace was unhurried, his hands stuffed in his pockets like a man taking a casual stroll. "So, kid, what do you know about getting strong?"

The question caught Naruto off guard. "Um... chakra control? Learning jutsu? My teachers at the orphanage said that's what makes a good ninja."

"Uh-huh. And how's that working out for you?"

Heat flooded Naruto's cheeks. It wasn't working out at all—he was terrible at chakra control, couldn't perform even the most basic jutsu, had been the worst student in every class he'd attended.

"Not very well," he admitted.

"Right. So maybe the problem isn't you—maybe it's the approach." They'd reached a small clearing surrounded by trees, far enough from the village that they wouldn't be disturbed. Saitama stopped and faced him. "Tell me something, Naruto. What's the point of being strong?"

Another unexpected question. "To... to protect people? To become Hokage?"

"Those are good goals. But I mean more basically than that. Why do you want power in the first place?"

Naruto thought about it, really thought about it, digging past the easy answers to find something true. "So people won't be able to hurt me anymore. So I won't have to be afraid."

"There we go. That's honest." Saitama nodded approvingly. "And you know what? That's exactly the right reason to want strength. Not for glory or recognition or any of that other stuff. Just so you can protect yourself and the people you care about."

"But I don't know how to get strong. I'm terrible at everything ninja-related."

"Who told you that?"

"Everyone. My teachers, the other kids, even—"

"Even people who were never strong themselves?" Saitama's interruption was gentle but firm. "People who learned techniques from books and repeated what other people told them without ever questioning whether it actually worked?"

Naruto opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. When he thought about it that way, most of his instructors had been theory-focused, more concerned with proper form and textbook knowledge than actual results.

"Here's the thing about strength," Saitama continued. "Real strength—the kind that actually matters—doesn't come from fancy techniques or secret knowledge. It comes from fundamentals. From conditioning your body and mind until they can handle whatever gets thrown at them."

"That sounds..." Naruto struggled to find a polite way to express his skepticism. "That sounds kind of simple."

"It is simple. Simple doesn't mean easy, but it is simple." Saitama's mouth quirked up in what might have been a smile. "Want to know my training routine?"

Naruto nodded eagerly. This was it—the secret technique, the hidden knowledge that would transform him from unwanted weakling to powerful ninja.

"One hundred push-ups. One hundred sit-ups. One hundred squats. And a ten-kilometer run. Every single day."

The clearing fell silent except for the rustle of wind through leaves. Naruto waited for the rest of it—the complex breathing techniques, the chakra manipulation exercises, the spiritual component that would make sense of such a basic routine.

"That's... that's it?"

"That's it."

"But that's just... that's just exercise. Regular exercise. Anyone could do that."

"Anyone could, yeah. But almost nobody does. Not consistently, not every day, not when it's raining or they're tired or they don't feel like it." Saitama's voice carried the weight of experience. "That's why it works."

Naruto stared at him, trying to process the idea that something so mundane could be the foundation of real strength. "You're serious."

"Dead serious. Though there are a couple of other rules."

"Like what?"

"No air conditioning in summer. No heat in winter. And eat three meals a day—doesn't have to be fancy, but it has to be regular."

"That's... why would you do that to yourself?"

"Because strength isn't just physical. It's mental, emotional, spiritual—all of it tied together. When you condition your body to handle discomfort, your mind learns to handle discomfort too. When you force yourself to maintain a routine even when you don't want to, you develop the kind of discipline that carries over into everything else."

There was something in Saitama's voice—a quiet conviction that spoke of personal experience rather than theoretical knowledge. This wasn't a technique he'd learned from someone else; it was something he'd discovered through his own trial and error.

"Did this really make you strong?" Naruto asked.

Instead of answering directly, Saitama walked over to a boulder that sat at the edge of the clearing. It was huge—easily twice his height and probably weighing several tons. The kind of stone that would take a team of strong men with proper equipment to move even a few inches.

Saitama placed his palm against its surface and pushed.

The boulder didn't just move—it launched across the clearing like a projectile, crashing through several trees before embedding itself in the hillside with a sound like thunder.

Naruto's jaw dropped. He'd seen ninja techniques that could accomplish similar feats, but they required complex hand seals, massive chakra expenditure, and years of specialized training. Saitama had done it with a casual push, as if he were moving a piece of furniture.

"Holy..." Naruto breathed.

"Yeah, it works." Saitama dusted off his hands and walked back. "But here's the thing you need to understand—this didn't happen overnight. It took years of doing the same routine, day after day, even when it felt like it wasn't making any difference."

"How long?"

"About three years before I started seeing real results. But I could feel changes happening almost immediately—better endurance, clearer thinking, more confidence. The big stuff took time, but the foundation got stronger every single day."

Three years. That seemed like forever to someone who was barely four years old, but looking at what Saitama had just accomplished, Naruto found himself thinking it might be worth it.

"Will you teach me?" he asked.

"I figured that's what we were here for." Saitama gestured to the ground. "Let's start with push-ups. Show me what you can do."

Naruto dropped to the ground eagerly, determined to impress his new mentor. He managed exactly three push-ups before his arms gave out and he collapsed face-first into the dirt.

"Okay," Saitama said thoughtfully. "We'll start with modified push-ups. Knees down, focus on form over quantity."

The next hour was humbling in ways Naruto hadn't expected. Every exercise Saitama demonstrated looked simple enough, but actually performing them revealed weaknesses he hadn't known existed. His arms shook after a handful of modified push-ups. His legs burned after twenty squats. The sit-ups left his stomach muscles screaming in protest.

"This is pathetic," he gasped after his third failed attempt at a proper push-up. "I'm never going to be able to do a hundred of anything."

"Not today, no. But that's not the point." Saitama crouched beside him, his expression patient. "The point is that you do a little more today than you did yesterday. You did three real push-ups this morning—tomorrow, try for four. Day after that, try for five."

"But at this rate, it'll take forever to reach a hundred."

"So what? You got somewhere else to be?"

The question hit Naruto harder than he'd expected. He didn't have somewhere else to be—no one was waiting for him, no one expected great things from him, no one would be disappointed if he took his time getting strong.

For the first time in his life, he could focus on improvement for its own sake rather than trying to meet someone else's expectations.

"I guess not," he admitted.

"Then we take it one day at a time. One rep at a time if we have to." Saitama stood and offered him a hand up. "Come on, let's work on your form. Good technique now means fewer injuries later."

They spent the rest of the morning breaking down each exercise into its component parts. Saitama proved to be a surprisingly good teacher—patient but not coddling, encouraging but not unrealistic about Naruto's current limitations.

"Keep your back straight during push-ups—you want a straight line from your head to your heels. Squat down until your thighs are parallel to the ground, then stand up using your whole leg, not just your knees. Sit-ups should engage your core, not just your neck."

By the time they walked back to the village for lunch, Naruto felt like he'd been hit by a truck. Every muscle in his body ached, his clothes were soaked with sweat, and he was pretty sure he'd never been more exhausted in his life.

But underneath the exhaustion was something else—a warm glow of satisfaction that he'd never experienced before. He'd worked hard, pushed his limits, accomplished something even if it was small.

"How do you feel?" Saitama asked as they reached their street.

"Tired. Really, really tired." Naruto paused, searching for the right words. "But also... good? Like I actually did something today instead of just existing."

"That's the feeling you want to remember. That's what you're chasing every time you don't want to train."

Lunch was simple but filling—rice, vegetables, and soup that tasted better than anything Naruto could remember eating. They ate in comfortable silence, both of them focused on their food and their own thoughts.

"So what happens this afternoon?" Naruto asked when they finished.

"Rest. Your body needs time to recover, especially when you're first starting out." Saitama leaned back in his chair. "We'll train again tomorrow morning, then again the day after that. Every day, same routine, until it becomes as automatic as breathing."

"Every day?"

"Every day. No matter what. Sick, tired, raining, snowing—doesn't matter. That's how you build discipline."

The idea was both inspiring and terrifying. Naruto had never committed to anything for more than a few days at a time, had never had the structure or support necessary for long-term consistency.

"What if I can't do it? What if I give up?"

"Then you start again the next day." Saitama's response was matter-of-fact. "Failure isn't the end—it's just information. It tells you where you need to focus more attention."

That afternoon, while Naruto napped off his exhaustion, Saitama disappeared for several hours. He returned as evening was approaching, carrying several bags from various shops in the village.

"What's all that?" Naruto asked, watching his mentor unpack what looked like enough supplies for several weeks.

"Food, mainly. Some other stuff we'll need." Saitama held up a notebook and pencil. "Going to start keeping track of your progress. Numbers don't lie, and they're good motivation when you feel like you're not getting anywhere."

The notebook was nothing fancy—just a simple composition book with lined pages. But when Saitama wrote "Day 1" at the top of the first page and recorded Naruto's meager performance from that morning, it felt like something significant.

"Three push-ups, fifteen modified push-ups, twelve sit-ups, twenty-three squats, ran half a kilometer before walking the rest," Saitama read aloud as he wrote. "Not bad for a starting point."

"It feels pretty bad."

"Everyone starts somewhere. The only people who don't have embarrassing Day 1 numbers are people who never start at all." Saitama closed the notebook and set it aside. "Tomorrow we'll try to beat today's numbers, even if it's just by one rep."

That night, as Naruto lay in his bed trying to find a position that didn't make his sore muscles protest, he found himself thinking about the day's events. The training had been harder than anything he'd ever attempted, but it had also been his—his effort, his sweat, his small victories measured in single repetitions.

No one had told him he was doing it wrong. No one had compared him unfavorably to other students. No one had looked at him with disappointment or disgust.

Saitama had simply accepted his current level of ability and focused on helping him improve it, one increment at a time.

Through the thin wall, he could hear his mentor moving around the house with the same methodical calm he brought to everything. The sound was oddly comforting—proof that he wasn't alone, that someone else was sharing this space and this strange new routine they were building together.

Tomorrow, he thought as sleep began to claim him. Tomorrow I'll try for four push-ups.

It wasn't a grand ambition or a life-changing goal. Just a simple commitment to be slightly better than he'd been today.

But for someone who had spent his entire life being told he wasn't good enough, it felt like the first step toward something extraordinary.

Day 2 dawned gray and cold, with the kind of persistent drizzle that made staying in bed seem like the most sensible option in the world. Naruto woke to the sound of rain pattering against his window and his muscles screaming in protest from the previous day's exertion.

Every part of his body hurt. His arms felt like overcooked noodles, his legs trembled when he tried to stand, and his abdominal muscles sent sharp complaints whenever he tried to sit up or laugh.

The smart thing—the comfortable thing—would be to take a day off. To wait until he felt better before attempting any more exercise.

But through his bedroom door, he could hear Saitama moving around in the kitchen with the same steady rhythm as always, preparing breakfast as if this were just another ordinary morning.

Every day, Saitama had said. No matter what.

Naruto forced himself out of bed, dressed slowly to accommodate his protesting muscles, and made his way to the kitchen. Saitama was already eating, his expression calm and unremarkable despite the fact that he'd presumably done his own training routine before preparing their meal.

"Morning," Saitama said without looking up. "How you feeling?"

"Like I got run over by a cart," Naruto admitted, settling carefully into his chair.

"Yeah, that's normal. It'll get better."

"When?"

"Few weeks, maybe a month. Your body's learning to adapt."

They ate in silence while rain drummed against the windows. Naruto found himself sneaking glances at his mentor, looking for signs of similar discomfort. But Saitama showed no indication that he'd spent the morning putting his body through punishing exercise—no stiffness, no careful movements, no grimaces of pain when he reached for something.

How long has he been doing this? Naruto wondered. How long before it stops hurting?

"Ready?" Saitama asked when they finished eating.

Every fiber of Naruto's being wanted to say no. His muscles ached, the weather was miserable, and the warm house seemed infinitely preferable to whatever torture awaited him in the training clearing.

But Saitama was already standing, already reaching for his jacket with the calm expectation that they would train regardless of rain or pain or any other obstacle.

"Yeah," Naruto said, and was surprised to find he meant it. "I'm ready."

The rain made everything harder. The ground was slippery, their clothes became soaked within minutes, and the cold made Naruto's already sore muscles feel even stiffer. Every exercise was a battle against both his body's limitations and the miserable conditions.

But he managed four push-ups before collapsing. Four real, full push-ups with proper form, one more than the day before.

"There we go," Saitama said, making a note in the waterproof notebook he'd produced from somewhere. "Progress."

By the end of the week, Naruto could manage ten real push-ups, thirty sit-ups, forty squats, and he could run a full kilometer without stopping. The numbers were still pathetically small compared to Saitama's hundred-rep goal, but they represented measurable improvement over his starting point.

More importantly, the routine was becoming exactly that—routine. His body began to expect the morning training session, to crave the endorphin rush that followed a good workout. The soreness became familiar, almost comfortable, like the ache of muscles that were being put to proper use.

"The pain is just weakness leaving the body," Saitama explained one morning when Naruto complained about particularly sore legs. "Every rep that hurts is making you stronger."

It was a simple philosophy, almost absurdly so, but Naruto found it oddly comforting. Pain had always been something to avoid, a sign that something was wrong. Now it was becoming a marker of progress, proof that he was pushing his limits and expanding his capabilities.

The second week brought new challenges. Saitama introduced variations to prevent boredom and ensure balanced development—diamond push-ups for different muscle groups, jumping squats for explosive power, bicycle crunches for core strength.

"Variety keeps your body guessing," he explained. "Too much of the same thing and you stop making progress."

More importantly, he began teaching Naruto about the mental side of training.

"Your body will quit before your mind does, every time," Saitama said as they stood in the clearing on a particularly cold morning. "The trick is learning to recognize when your body is actually at its limit versus when it's just complaining."

"How do you tell the difference?"

"Experience, mainly. But here's a good rule—when you think you can't do one more rep, try for two more. Nine times out of ten, you'll surprise yourself."

It was true. Again and again, Naruto found that his perceived limitations were more psychological than physical. When his arms shook during push-ups and his mind screamed that he couldn't continue, forcing himself to attempt just one more often revealed that he had more strength in reserve than he'd realized.

"The body is honest," Saitama observed as they walked home after a particularly grueling session. "It'll tell you when you're actually done. But the mind lies all the time, tries to take the easy way out."

"So you just ignore what your mind tells you?"

"Not ignore—evaluate. Ask yourself whether you're actually at your limit or just at your comfort zone. Then decide which one you want to listen to."

The third week brought an unexpected test. Naruto woke one morning with a slight fever and a scratchy throat—nothing serious, but enough to make him feel sluggish and uncomfortable.

"Maybe I should skip training today," he suggested hopefully over breakfast.

Saitama studied him for a moment. "You sick or just feeling sick?"

"What's the difference?"

"Sick means your body needs rest to fight off infection or injury. Feeling sick means you're a little uncomfortable but basically functional." Saitama finished his rice and stood. "Which one is it?"

Naruto took honest stock of his condition. His head ached slightly and his throat was sore, but he wasn't dizzy or nauseous. He could move normally, think clearly, breathe without difficulty.

"Feeling sick, I guess."

"Then we train. Maybe dial back the intensity a little, but we keep the routine."

It was one of the hardest sessions yet, not because the exercises were more difficult but because every movement felt like swimming through thick syrup. His body wanted to quit before he'd even started, his mind provided a constant stream of perfectly reasonable excuses for stopping early.

But he pushed through it, one rep at a time, and when they finished he felt better than he had all morning.

"How's that work?" he asked as they walked home.

"Exercise boosts your immune system, gets your blood flowing, releases endorphins that help with pain and discomfort. Your body was trying to conserve energy for healing, but sometimes gentle activity actually helps the healing process."

"What if I'd been actually sick?"

"Then we would have rested. There's a difference between pushing through discomfort and pushing through illness. One makes you stronger, the other makes you stupider."

It was a lesson in listening to his body without being controlled by it, in distinguishing between legitimate needs and mere preferences. Another small piece of the mental discipline that Saitama claimed was just as important as physical conditioning.

By the end of the first month, Naruto's numbers had improved dramatically. Thirty push-ups, sixty sit-ups, seventy-five squats, and a full two-kilometer run. Still nowhere near Saitama's target, but representing a tenfold increase over his starting point.

More importantly, he looked different. His posture was straighter, his movements more confident. The soft roundness of early childhood was giving way to lean muscle and obvious strength. People in the village had begun to notice—not with fear or disgust, but with the kind of mild curiosity reserved for unexpected changes.

"You're getting bigger," observed Mrs. Tanaka, who ran the grocery store where Saitama bought their food. "Growing like a weed."

It was the first neutral comment any adult in the village had made about him in as long as he could remember. Not praise, exactly, but not hostility either. Just an observation about a child who was developing normally.

That night, as Naruto recorded his progress in the training log, he found himself thinking about the changes that went beyond simple numbers. The routine had become a cornerstone of his life, something he could depend on regardless of what else was happening around him.

Rain or shine, sick or healthy, motivated or reluctant—every morning began with training. It was becoming part of his identity, woven into the fabric of who he was rather than something he did.

"Saitama?" he said as his mentor reviewed the day's numbers.

"Yeah?"

"Why did you really start training like this? The real reason."

Saitama was quiet for a long moment, his plain face thoughtful. "I was weak once. Not just physically—mentally, emotionally. I let people push me around, accepted that I wasn't capable of much."

"What changed?"

"I got tired of being weak. Tired of feeling helpless when bad things happened." Saitama closed the notebook and looked at him directly. "So I decided to become strong enough that I'd never have to feel that way again."

"Did it work?"

"Yeah, it worked. Maybe a little too well, actually." There was something in Saitama's voice—not regret, exactly, but a kind of wistful sadness. "Turns out there are downsides to being too strong. But that's a problem for another day."

"What kind of downsides?"

"The kind you don't need to worry about for a few years yet." Saitama stood and ruffled Naruto's hair. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow we're adding a new exercise to the routine."

As Naruto settled into bed that night, his muscles pleasantly tired from the day's training, he found himself thinking about strength and weakness, about the person he was becoming versus the person he'd been.

A month ago, he'd been ready to die alone in the snow, convinced that he was worthless and unwanted. Tonight, he was planning tomorrow's workout, thinking about the goals he wanted to reach and the progress he'd already made.

The change wasn't just physical, though the growing strength in his body was certainly part of it. It was deeper than that—a fundamental shift in how he saw himself and his place in the world.

He was no longer the victim of circumstances beyond his control. He was someone who set goals and worked toward them, who pushed through discomfort in service of long-term improvement, who had taken responsibility for his own development.

Fifty push-ups by the end of next month, he decided as sleep began to claim him. And maybe I can run three kilometers.

They were modest goals by any reasonable standard, but they were his goals, chosen and pursued according to his own judgment rather than imposed by others' expectations.

And that, Naruto was beginning to understand, made all the difference in the world.

Outside his window, the village of Konoha slept peacefully, unaware that one of its most despised residents was quietly transforming himself into something stronger, more disciplined, and more determined than anyone had thought possible.

The real test would come when that strength began to show itself in ways the world couldn't ignore.

But for now, in the quiet house on the edge of the village, a young boy dreamed of push-ups and personal records, of a patient teacher who believed in the power of simple consistency, and of the strange, wonderful feeling of belonging somewhere that had nothing to do with being wanted and everything to do with being useful.

Tomorrow would bring another training session, another opportunity to improve, another small step toward becoming the person he wanted to be.

And for the first time in his life, Naruto Uzumaki was genuinely looking forward to tomorrow.

# Chapter 3: The Academy Years Begin

The Academy doors loomed like the gates of judgment itself, their polished wood reflecting the nervous energy of dozens of six-year-old children clutching their parents' hands with white-knuckled determination. Chatter buzzed through the morning air—excited whispers about legendary ninja techniques, proud parents adjusting hitai-ate headbands that wouldn't be earned for years, and the electric anticipation of dreams finally taking their first concrete steps toward reality.

Naruto stood at the edge of this chaos, alone.

No parent smoothed his hair or whispered encouragement in his ear. No family member had walked him to this momentous first day, taking pictures and promising to celebrate afterward with his favorite meal. He carried his small bag of supplies—purchased by Saitama with characteristic efficiency—and wore clothes that actually fit him properly for the first time in his life.

But he stood alone.

"You nervous?" Saitama's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts like a blade through silk.

Naruto glanced up at his mentor, who had appeared beside him with that unsettling ability to move without seeming to move at all. Over the past two years, Saitama's presence had become as natural as breathing, but the man still managed to materialize whenever Naruto needed him most.

"Terrified," Naruto admitted, watching a boy his age bury his face in his mother's shoulder while she cooed reassurances.

"Good. Terror means it matters to you."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"It's supposed to make you feel honest." Saitama's gaze swept across the assembled families with clinical detachment. "Half these kids aren't scared because they don't understand what they're signing up for. The other half aren't scared because their parents have been lying to them about how easy it'll be."

A woman nearby shot them a sharp look, her grip tightening protectively on her son's shoulders. Naruto felt the familiar twist in his stomach—the instinctive cringe that came from being noticed, being judged, being found wanting before he'd even spoken.

But then Saitama's hand settled on his shoulder, warm and steady and completely unbothered by the woman's disapproval.

"You, though," Saitama continued, his voice carrying the quiet confidence that had rebuilt Naruto's world piece by careful piece, "you know exactly what you're walking into. You've been preparing for two years, and you're ready."

Am I? The question burned in Naruto's chest as he surveyed his future classmates. They looked so... normal. So effortlessly at ease with their place in the world. So surrounded by love and expectation and the casual assumption that they deserved to be here.

Would they look at him and see the monster child? The demon fox? The thing that should have died the night the Nine-Tails was sealed?

Or would they see what Saitama saw—a boy who could knock out eighty-seven push-ups without breaking form, who could run seven kilometers before his breathing became labored, who had learned to endure discomfort with the stoic patience of someone twice his age?

"What if they hate me?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, carrying all the accumulated fear of someone who had learned to expect rejection as naturally as sunrise.

"Then they're idiots." Saitama's response was matter-of-fact, delivered with the same casual certainty he used to discuss the weather. "But more likely, they won't know what to make of you. You're not the same kid who ran away in the snow two years ago."

No, Naruto thought, flexing his hands and feeling the controlled strength that lived in his muscles now, I'm not.

The transformation had been gradual—so incremental that he'd barely noticed it happening. But standing here now, surrounded by children who had grown up soft and protected, he could feel the difference in his bones. His posture was straighter, his movements more controlled, his presence somehow more substantial than his small frame should have allowed.

Two years of getting up before dawn, regardless of weather or mood or the protests of his growing body. Two years of pushing past the point where his mind screamed for mercy, of learning to distinguish between discomfort and actual harm. Two years of Saitama's quiet, relentless belief that he was worth the investment of time and effort.

The results weren't just physical, though the lean muscle definition visible through his shirt would have impressed instructors twice his age. More importantly, he carried himself like someone who had tested his limits and found them further out than expected.

"Remember what we talked about," Saitama said as the Academy bells began to chime, calling students to their first day. "Don't show off, but don't hide either. Just be yourself—the real you, not the version other people expect."

"And if they ask about my training?"

"Tell them you work out. Leave it at that." Saitama's mouth quirked up in what might have been amusement. "Most people won't believe the truth anyway."

The crowd began to surge toward the Academy doors, parents delivering final kisses and words of encouragement before reluctantly releasing their precious children to the care of the institution that would shape them into protectors of the village. Naruto found himself swept along in the tide of nervous energy, his bag clutched tightly in one hand while the other unconsciously traced the workout calluses that had become as much a part of him as his whisker marks.

"See you tonight, kid," Saitama called over the noise, his voice somehow carrying clearly despite the chaos. "Try not to accidentally break anything important."

Don't break anything important. The advice echoed in Naruto's head as he climbed the Academy steps, surrounded by chattering children who had no idea they were walking alongside someone who could probably bench press their combined weight without straining.

The hallways buzzed with organized chaos—teachers directing students to classrooms, older students offering sage advice to newcomers, and the general controlled pandemonium of an institution trying to process dozens of new arrivals efficiently. Naruto followed the flow of his age group toward a classroom marked "First-Year Students," his enhanced hearing picking up fragments of conversation that ranged from excited to terrified.

"—heard Kakashi-sensei might be teaching taijutsu this year—"

"—my dad says the dropout rate is almost thirty percent—"

"—wonder if we'll learn the Fireball Technique—"

Simple dreams, innocent ambitions. The kind of goals that belonged to children who had grown up believing the world was fundamentally fair and that hard work would be rewarded with recognition.

Naruto had learned different lessons in his two years with Saitama. He'd learned that strength was its own reward, that recognition was fickle and ultimately meaningless, and that the most important battles were fought inside your own head where no one else could see the victory or defeat.

The classroom was larger than he'd expected, with tiered seating that allowed every student a clear view of the front demonstration area. Roughly thirty children filed in, their ages ranging from six to eight—some prodigies who had tested in early, others who had needed extra time to meet the basic requirements.

Naruto chose a seat in the middle tier, close enough to see everything clearly but not so prominent as to draw unwanted attention. As his classmates settled around him, he found himself automatically cataloging their physical capabilities with the dispassionate eye Saitama had trained him to use.

Soft. Almost all of them were soft, with the kind of unmarked coordination that came from playground games rather than systematic conditioning. They moved with the casual waste of energy that belonged to people who had never learned to conserve their strength for when it really mattered.

Not their fault, he realized. They were products of loving families and comfortable lives, shaped by expectations of gradual development and patient instruction. They probably couldn't imagine waking up at five AM to do push-ups in the rain, or forcing themselves through another set when every muscle fiber screamed for mercy.

"Alright, settle down!" The voice cracked through the classroom like a whip, instantly commanding attention from even the most distracted students.

Their instructor was a chunin named Iruka Umino, recognizable by the distinctive scar across his nose and the patient expression of someone who had dedicated his life to shaping young minds. He stood at the front of the room with the easy confidence of a man comfortable in his authority, his eyes sweeping across the assembled students with professional assessment.

"Welcome to the Ninja Academy," Iruka began, his voice carrying clearly to every corner of the room. "Some of you have been dreaming of this day your entire lives. Others are here because your parents thought it would build character. Either way, you're here now, and that means you're going to learn what it really takes to protect this village."

A girl near the front raised her hand enthusiastically. "Sensei, when do we learn jutsu?"

Scattered murmurs of agreement rippled through the classroom. This was what they'd all come for—the legendary techniques that separated ninja from ordinary people, the flashy abilities that featured in bedtime stories and playground boasts.

Iruka's smile was both understanding and slightly predatory. "Jutsu comes later. Much later. First, you learn to fall without breaking bones. You learn to run without getting winded. You learn to think under pressure and follow orders without question." His gaze sharpened. "You learn that being a ninja means being willing to sacrifice everything—including your life—for people who might never know your name."

The classroom fell silent. Some students shifted uncomfortably, perhaps beginning to understand that their romantic notions of ninja life might need adjustment. Others leaned forward eagerly, apparently thrilled by the prospect of such dramatic sacrifice.

Naruto just listened, comparing Iruka's words to the lessons Saitama had taught him through sweat and repetition rather than speeches.

Being strong isn't about recognition, Saitama had said during one of their morning training sessions. It's about being able to protect what matters when everything else falls apart.

"Now," Iruka continued, "we'll start with introductions. Stand up, tell us your name, why you want to be a ninja, and one thing that makes you special."

One thing that makes you special. Naruto felt his stomach clench as student after student stood to deliver carefully rehearsed introductions. Their reasons were predictable—family tradition, dreams of glory, desire to protect loved ones—and their special qualities ranged from bloodline abilities to academic achievements to simple enthusiasm.

"My name is Sasuke Uchiha," announced a dark-haired boy with an aura of barely contained intensity. "I want to become strong enough to kill a certain someone. What makes me special is that I'm the last loyal member of the Uchiha clan."

The classroom erupted in whispers. Everyone knew the story of the Uchiha massacre, though the details were usually discussed in hushed tones and carefully edited for young ears. Sasuke's declaration carried the weight of genuine tragedy and burning purpose.

"Thank you, Sasuke," Iruka said gently, his professional composure hiding what was obviously deep sympathy for the boy's situation.

More introductions followed. A pink-haired girl named Sakura declared her intention to become the strongest kunoichi in the village while shooting meaningful glances at Sasuke. A lazy-looking boy named Shikamaru mumbled something about clouds and troublesome expectations. Others blended together in a parade of childish ambitions and innocent dreams.

Finally, inevitably, Iruka's attention settled on Naruto.

"Your turn."

The classroom fell silent—not the comfortable quiet of polite attention, but the pregnant hush of people bracing for something uncomfortable. Some students had clearly heard whispers about him, had absorbed their parents' carefully modulated warnings about the demon child and the importance of maintaining proper distance.

Naruto stood slowly, his enhanced proprioception making the movement smoother and more controlled than his classmates' fidgeting efforts. Every eye in the room tracked him as he rose to his full height—still small for his age, but carrying himself with the unconscious confidence of someone who had tested his limits and found them satisfactory.

"My name is Naruto Uzumaki," he began, his voice carrying clearly without strain or nervousness. Two years of early morning conversations with Saitama had taught him to speak with quiet authority rather than desperate attention-seeking. "I want to become Hokage so I can protect everyone in the village, even the people who don't think they need protecting."

A few students exchanged skeptical glances. The Hokage dream was common enough among Academy students, but something in Naruto's delivery suggested he wasn't just repeating a childhood fantasy.

"What makes me special..." Naruto paused, considering his options. He could mention his training regimen, his unusual physical conditioning, his mentor's unconventional approach to strength development. But Saitama's advice echoed in his mind: Don't show off, but don't hide either.

"I get up at five AM every morning to train," he said finally. "Rain or shine, sick or healthy. I've been doing it for two years now, and I plan to keep doing it until I'm strong enough to protect everyone I care about."

The classroom remained silent, but the quality of that silence had changed. Instead of bracing for something uncomfortable, his classmates seemed to be processing something unexpected. The idea of a six-year-old maintaining that kind of discipline was difficult to dismiss as childish boasting.

"That's... very dedicated," Iruka said, and there was genuine respect in his voice. "What kind of training do you do?"

"Push-ups, sit-ups, squats, and running. Every day." Naruto sat back down, aware that several students were still staring at him with newfound curiosity rather than fear or disgust.

"Well then," Iruka said after a moment, "I think we should start with some practical assessments. Everyone outside—let's see what you can actually do."

The Academy training yard was a sprawling complex of obstacle courses, practice targets, and sparring areas designed to accommodate students of various skill levels. As the first-year class filed out into the afternoon sunshine, Naruto found himself unconsciously analyzing the equipment with the critical eye Saitama had trained him to use.

Too easy, was his first thought. The obstacle course that had intimidated him during his brief glimpse two years ago now looked like a warm-up exercise compared to his daily routine. The wooden posts and rope climbs that seemed challenging to his classmates appeared almost insultingly simple.

"We'll start with basic fitness assessments," Iruka announced, pulling out a clipboard and stopwatch. "Push-ups first. Everyone on the ground—let's see your maximum effort."

Naruto settled into position alongside his classmates, his form automatically perfect after two years of daily practice. Around him, other students struggled to achieve proper positioning, their technique sloppy and their understanding of body mechanics clearly limited.

"Begin!"

What followed was less a fitness test than a demonstration of the gap between systematic training and casual preparation. While his classmates grunted and strained their way through handfuls of poorly executed repetitions, Naruto moved with metronomic precision through set after set of textbook-perfect push-ups.

Twenty. Forty. Sixty. Eighty.

By the time he reached ninety, the other students had long since collapsed in exhausted heaps, staring at him with expressions ranging from amazement to disbelief. Even Sasuke, who had managed an impressive twenty-three push-ups, was watching with grudging attention.

Naruto could have continued—his current record was one hundred and twelve consecutive push-ups—but Saitama's advice about not showing off echoed in his mind. At ninety-five, he allowed himself to slow down and stop, breathing steadily while his classmates gasped for air around him.

"Ninety-five," Iruka announced, his voice carefully neutral despite the obvious shock on his face. "That's... exceptional for someone your age."

"I've been practicing," Naruto said simply, standing and dusting off his hands while his classmates struggled to their feet.

The sit-up test followed the same pattern. Then squats. Then the running assessment, where Naruto's conditioning truly became obvious—while other students wheezed their way through a single lap around the training ground, he completed five laps at a steady pace that suggested he could have continued indefinitely.

By the end of the physical assessments, the atmosphere in the class had shifted dramatically. No longer was Naruto the monster child to be feared and avoided—he was the anomaly to be studied, the unexpected variable that didn't fit anyone's preconceptions.

"How?" The question came from Sakura, who had approached him during the water break with the kind of direct curiosity that belonged to naturally intelligent people. "How did you get that strong?"

"Training," Naruto replied, accepting a cup of water from Iruka with a polite nod. "Every day, same routine, for two years."

"But you're only six!" protested another student. "Nobody trains that hard when they're six!"

"I do."

The simple statement carried more weight than any boast could have. It wasn't arrogance or showmanship—just the matter-of-fact acknowledgment of someone who had chosen an unusual path and followed it with unwavering dedication.

"Who taught you?" Sasuke's question cut through the chatter like a blade, his dark eyes sharp with professional interest. "No Academy instructor would put a six-year-old through that kind of regimen."

Naruto hesitated. How could he explain Saitama? The strange, powerful man who had appeared in his life like a miracle, who treated overwhelming strength as casually as most people treated breathing, who had rebuilt his entire understanding of what it meant to be strong?

"Someone who believes in simple solutions to complex problems," he said finally.

It wasn't the whole truth, but it was true enough. And from the thoughtful expression on Sasuke's face, it was an answer that resonated with someone who had learned early that strength was the only reliable constant in an uncertain world.

The afternoon continued with academic assessments—reading, writing, basic mathematics, and preliminary lessons in ninja history and theory. Here, Naruto's performance was more typical for his age group. Saitama had focused their time together on physical and mental conditioning rather than traditional academics, believing that a strong foundation would make everything else easier to build upon.

He wasn't behind his classmates in these areas, but he wasn't dramatically ahead either. Just another student working through worksheets and trying to absorb the foundational knowledge that would support more advanced training later.

It was a relief, actually. The physical assessments had marked him as unusual, possibly even freakish. The academic work reminded everyone—including himself—that he was still just a kid trying to learn alongside other kids.

"Alright, everyone," Iruka announced as the afternoon drew to a close, "that's enough for today. Take your orientation packets home, review the Academy rules with your families, and be ready for regular classes tomorrow."

Students began filing out of the classroom, chattering excitedly about their first day and making plans to meet up before tomorrow's session. Parents waited in the hallway, eager to hear every detail about their children's introduction to ninja life.

Naruto packed his supplies methodically, aware that several classmates were still watching him with curiosity. Some had approached during breaks to ask questions about his training—respectful inquiries rather than the mocking challenges he'd half expected.

"Naruto." Iruka's voice stopped him as he headed for the door. "Could I speak with you for a moment?"

The classroom emptied around them, leaving teacher and student alone in the afternoon light filtering through tall windows. Iruka settled into a chair across from Naruto, his expression thoughtful and slightly concerned.

"That was quite a performance today," he began carefully. "I've been teaching for several years, and I've never seen a first-day student with that level of physical conditioning."

"Is that bad?"

"Not bad, no. Unusual." Iruka leaned forward slightly. "I'm curious about your training methods. The kind of discipline you're describing... it's remarkable for someone your age."

Naruto chose his words carefully. "My guardian believes in starting with fundamentals. He says everything else builds on basic physical and mental conditioning."

"Your guardian?" There was something in Iruka's voice—not suspicion, exactly, but professional curiosity. "I don't have any family information in your file beyond your status as a village ward."

"He's not official," Naruto admitted. "He just... took me in when I needed help. He's been taking care of me for two years now."

"I see." Iruka was quiet for a moment, obviously weighing his next words carefully. "Naruto, I want you to know that your performance today was genuinely impressive. But I also want to make sure you're not pushing yourself too hard. Training is important, but you're still a child. You need time to be a child."

The concern in his voice was genuine, and Naruto found himself unexpectedly touched by it. When was the last time an adult had worried about him pushing himself too hard rather than not trying hard enough?

"I like training," he said honestly. "It makes me feel... capable. Like I can handle whatever comes next."

"That's a good attitude to have. Just remember that strength isn't only about physical ability. Emotional intelligence, teamwork, strategic thinking—all of those are just as important for a ninja."

"I'll remember."

"Good." Iruka stood and gathered his papers. "I'll see you tomorrow, Naruto. And... thank you for today. It's refreshing to meet a student who takes training seriously."

The walk home took Naruto through the village center, past shops and restaurants that were beginning to fill with the dinner crowd. Two years ago, this route had been a gauntlet of hostile stares and whispered comments. Now, while he certainly didn't go unnoticed, the attention felt different—more curious than hostile, more puzzled than afraid.

Maybe it was his improved posture and obvious physical confidence. Maybe it was the simple fact that he was dressed in clean, well-fitting clothes and carrying Academy supplies like any other student. Maybe people were beginning to see him as a person rather than a symbol of their fears.

Or maybe the change was in him—maybe he no longer broadcasted the desperate hunger for acceptance that had made adults so uncomfortable. Maybe learning to value his own progress over others' opinions had somehow made him less threatening to encounter.

The house on the edge of the village felt like a sanctuary after the intensity of his first Academy day. Saitama was in the kitchen as usual, preparing dinner with his characteristic efficiency while wearing the kind of casual clothes that somehow managed to make his extraordinary physical capabilities completely unremarkable.

"How'd it go?" he asked without looking up from the vegetables he was chopping.

"Better than expected." Naruto dropped his bag by the door and settled into his usual chair at the small table. "The other kids were... curious more than anything else."

"Curious about what?"

"My training results. I may have been showing off a little."

"How much is a little?"

"Ninety-five push-ups when most of them could barely manage twenty."

Saitama paused in his chopping, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "That's not showing off. That's just being yourself."

"The instructor was impressed. And confused. He wanted to know about my guardian."

"What'd you tell him?"

"That you believe in starting with fundamentals." Naruto accepted the bowl of rice and vegetables Saitama placed in front of him. "Was that okay?"

"It's the truth. Truth's usually okay." Saitama settled into his own chair and began eating with mechanical precision. "Anyone give you trouble?"

"Not really. A few kids asked questions about my routine. One boy—Sasuke—seemed genuinely interested in how I trained."

"The Uchiha kid?"

Naruto nodded, unsurprised that Saitama knew about the village's most infamous surviving clan member. His mentor seemed to absorb information about local politics and social dynamics without any apparent effort.

"He's got good instincts for strength," Saitama observed. "Tragedy tends to teach people what actually matters versus what they thought mattered."

"Do you think... do you think the other kids will want to be friends now? Since I'm not just the weird outcast anymore?"

Saitama set down his chopsticks and looked at him directly—something he did when he wanted to make sure his words carried proper weight.

"Kid, anyone who only wants to be your friend after you prove you're useful isn't really your friend. Real friendship has nothing to do with what you can do for someone else."

"Then how do you make real friends?"

"Same way you do everything else that matters—one day at a time, with honest effort, and without expecting immediate results." Saitama resumed eating. "But don't worry too much about it. Focus on becoming the person you want to be, and the right people will be drawn to that."

After dinner, as Naruto worked through his homework assignments and Saitama read one of his mysteriously acquired newspapers, the house settled into its familiar evening rhythm. Outside, the village of Konoha continued its daily business—parents tucking children into bed, shopkeepers closing their stores, ninja returning from missions with stories to tell.

But inside the small house on the edge of everything, a boy who had spent his first Academy day being seen as remarkable rather than monstrous was beginning to understand that his real education had started two years ago in a snowy grove with a bald man who cared more about character than reputation.

"Saitama?" he said as he closed his textbook and prepared for bed.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For everything. For making me strong enough to belong somewhere."

"You always belonged somewhere, kid. You just needed to figure out where that somewhere was."

As Naruto brushed his teeth and changed into his sleeping clothes, he found himself thinking about the day's events and what they might mean for his future. The Academy was just the beginning—years of training and study lay ahead, followed by the real challenges of becoming a ninja worthy of the village's trust.

But for the first time since he'd learned what it meant to be the Nine-Tails' host, those challenges felt manageable rather than overwhelming. He had a foundation now—physical, mental, and emotional strength built through patient daily effort rather than desperate attempts to prove his worth.

Tomorrow would bring new lessons, new tests, new opportunities to demonstrate that he belonged among the next generation of Konoha's protectors. And when those opportunities came, he would meet them with the quiet confidence of someone who had learned to measure success in push-ups and kilometers rather than other people's approval.

The Academy years had begun, and Naruto Uzumaki was ready for whatever they might bring.

In the morning, he would wake before dawn and complete his training routine as he had every day for two years. Then he would walk to the Academy with his head high and his goals clear, prepared to learn from instructors who were beginning to see him as a student rather than a problem to be managed.

It was exactly the kind of simple, sustainable progress that Saitama had taught him to value above all else.

And as he drifted off to sleep in his small, warm room, Naruto couldn't help but smile at the thought of how surprised his classmates were going to be when they realized that ninety-five push-ups had been him holding back.

# Chapter 4: The Weight of Restraint

The morning sun sliced through the Academy training yard like a blade, casting razor-sharp shadows across the practice mats where thirty first-year students stretched and prepared for their weekly sparring assessment. Nervous energy crackled through the air—some students bouncing on their toes with excitement, others pale-faced and queasy at the prospect of their first real combat evaluation.

Naruto sat in perfect stillness amid the chaos, his breathing deep and controlled as he watched his classmates cycle through their pre-fight rituals. Six months at the Academy had taught him to read the subtle signs of anxiety and overconfidence, to catalog the differences between genuine preparation and desperate posturing.

Too much energy, he observed as Kiba Inuzuka shadowboxed with aggressive enthusiasm. He'll burn out in the first minute.

Too rigid, as Shino Aburame performed precise warm-up kata with mechanical precision. No adaptability when things go wrong.

Too focused on looking good, as Sakura practiced her basic taijutsu forms while shooting meaningful glances toward Sasuke.

The assessment had been weighing on everyone's minds for weeks. Unlike the gentle introduction exercises they'd been doing, today's sparring would be observed and graded by multiple instructors, with results feeding directly into their permanent Academy records.

"Nervous?" The question came from Shikamaru, who had settled beside him with characteristic laziness. Over the past months, the shadow-user had become something approaching a friend—drawn by Naruto's unusual combination of intense dedication and quiet confidence.

"Should I be?" Naruto replied, stretching his shoulders with movements that had become automatic after two and a half years of daily conditioning.

"Most people would be. First real combat assessment, permanent records, instructors watching every move..." Shikamaru studied him with sharp eyes that missed nothing despite his casual demeanor. "But then, most people can't do two hundred push-ups without breaking a sweat."

It was true. Naruto's physical capabilities had continued to develop at a rate that bordered on the supernatural. His current training numbers—two hundred push-ups, two hundred sit-ups, two hundred squats, and a fifteen-kilometer run—placed him in the same league as chunin-level ninja despite his age and Academy student status.

More importantly, the mental discipline required to maintain such a routine had transformed his approach to every aspect of life. Where other students saw obstacles, he saw challenges to be overcome through persistent effort. Where they felt pressure, he felt opportunity to demonstrate the fruits of his labor.

"It's just another training session," he said, and meant it. "The only difference is that today other people are watching."

"That's the difference that matters," Shikamaru pointed out. "Performance under observation is what separates real ninja from Academy students."

Before Naruto could respond, Iruka's voice cracked across the training yard like a whip. "Attention! Today's sparring assessment will test your ability to apply basic taijutsu techniques under pressure. You'll face multiple opponents in randomized matches, with instructors evaluating your form, strategy, and adaptability."

The students formed ranks with varying degrees of precision, their attention focused on their teacher with the intensity of young predators learning to hunt. Naruto found himself automatically analyzing Iruka's posture, the way he moved, the subtle signs of readiness that marked a truly competent fighter.

Balanced stance, weight distributed evenly, hands positioned for quick defense or attack. He's not just teaching—he's demonstrating.

"Remember," Iruka continued, his scar-crossed face serious, "the goal is not to dominate your opponents. It's to show that you can think tactically, adapt to changing situations, and maintain control under stress. Excessive force will be penalized just as harshly as poor technique."

Control. The word echoed in Naruto's mind as he remembered Saitama's most important lesson: true strength wasn't about what you could do, but about knowing when and how much to do it.

"First match: Uzumaki versus Akimichi."

The announcement hit Naruto like a physical blow. Choji Akimichi was one of the larger students in their class, already showing signs of the impressive size that would make his clan's techniques so devastating in later years. More importantly, sparring against someone known for their gentle nature would require careful calibration of his responses.

Don't hurt him, Naruto reminded himself as he stepped onto the designated mat. Show competence without causing damage.

Choji approached with obvious reluctance, his round face flushed with nervousness. "Um, Naruto? Could we maybe take it easy? I don't really like fighting..."

"Don't worry," Naruto replied, settling into a basic ready stance that concealed the predatory efficiency of his true capabilities. "I'll be careful."

The words carried more weight than Choji could possibly understand. Careful, for someone with Naruto's conditioning, meant operating at perhaps ten percent of his actual capacity—enough to demonstrate competence without revealing the full extent of his abilities.

"Begin!"

Choji lunged forward with clumsy enthusiasm, his technique textbook-correct but lacking the speed and precision that came from real combat experience. To Naruto's enhanced reflexes, the attack moved like honey—telegraphed, predictable, easily countered.

Too easy, he thought, sidestepping the charge with minimal effort. I could end this in seconds.

But ending it quickly would raise questions he wasn't prepared to answer. Instead, he engaged in a careful dance of controlled responses—blocking attacks he could have avoided entirely, counterattacking with just enough force to score points without causing real damage.

The match stretched on for nearly three minutes, both combatants breathing hard but neither achieving a decisive advantage. To the watching instructors, it looked like a reasonably balanced contest between Academy students of similar skill levels.

Only Naruto knew that he was fighting with one hand tied behind his back, constantly recalibrating his responses to maintain the illusion of equality.

"Enough!" Iruka called. "Draw. Both students showed good fundamental technique and appropriate restraint."

Naruto bowed to his opponent, accepting Choji's grateful smile with genuine warmth. The larger boy had no idea how close he'd come to being accidentally injured by someone who was still learning to control his own strength.

"Nice match," Choji panted, his relief obvious. "You could have won, couldn't you?"

"Maybe. But winning isn't always the point."

If only you knew, Naruto thought as they left the mat. If only any of them knew what I'm really holding back.

The morning continued with more matches, each one a careful exercise in calculated mediocrity. Naruto won some, lost others, always maintaining performance levels that suggested natural talent without revealing the true extent of his preparation.

But as the assessments progressed, he began to notice something troubling. His restraint, while necessary to avoid unwanted attention, was creating its own problems. His opponents were getting braver, more aggressive, pushing harder against what they perceived as beatable resistance.

They think I'm holding back because I'm weak, he realized during his third match, barely avoiding a particularly vicious combination from an overconfident opponent. They don't understand that I'm holding back because I'm strong.

The distinction was crucial. Weakness invited aggression and disrespect. Strength demanded acknowledgment and caution. But the narrow band between those extremes—the precise level of capability that would earn respect without raising uncomfortable questions—was proving almost impossible to maintain.

"You're sandbagging," Sasuke observed during the lunch break, his dark eyes sharp with analytical intelligence. "I can see it in your movement patterns. You're fighting like someone who's afraid to show what they can really do."

Naruto nearly choked on his rice ball. Of all his classmates, Sasuke was the one most likely to recognize deception in combat—his own drive for strength made him acutely sensitive to others' hidden capabilities.

"What makes you say that?"

"Your reaction time is too good for your attack speed. Your defense is too perfect for your offensive output. You're compensating for something." Sasuke leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Either you're much stronger than you're letting on, or you're much weaker and trying to hide it. Given your training routine, I'm betting on the first option."

Damn. Naruto had underestimated how carefully his classmates were watching him, how quickly they were learning to read the subtleties of combat performance.

"Maybe I'm just being careful," he said lamely.

"Careful is smart. Deceptive is stupid." Sasuke's tone carried the weight of bitter experience. "People notice when you're not being honest about your capabilities. They start asking questions you might not want to answer."

Before Naruto could respond, Iruka's voice cut across the training yard again. "Afternoon session: advanced sparring. Students will face opponents of increasing skill levels, with matches continuing until clear victory conditions are achieved."

The announcement sent a ripple of excitement and nervousness through the assembled students. Advanced sparring meant higher stakes, more intense observation, and the possibility of genuine injury if someone lost control.

"Uzumaki versus Uchiha. Center mat."

Oh, hell.

Naruto felt his stomach drop as he processed the implications. Sasuke was not only the most skilled student in their class, but also the most perceptive about combat deception. Fighting him would require a level of performance that couldn't be easily dismissed as lucky or mediocre.

Worse, Sasuke had just finished telling him that deception was stupid. This match would either expose Naruto's true capabilities or force him to lose badly enough to maintain his cover—neither option particularly appealing.

"This should be interesting," Sasuke said as they approached the mat, his expression carrying the focused intensity that marked him as a true prodigy. "Let's see how much you've really been holding back."

The watching students formed a circle around the designated area, their excited chatter reflecting the anticipation of witnessing their class's two most intriguing students test themselves against each other. Even the instructors seemed more alert, recognizing that this match had the potential to reveal important information about both combatants.

Naruto settled into his ready stance, his mind racing through possible strategies. He could continue his pattern of careful restraint, accepting defeat in exchange for maintaining his cover. He could reveal a fraction more of his capabilities, enough to make the match competitive without exposing his true strength. Or he could trust Sasuke's discretion and fight at a level that would demonstrate his real abilities.

What would Saitama do?

The answer came immediately: Be honest. Strength shared honorably is strength multiplied.

"Begin!"

Sasuke moved like liquid lightning, his opening combination a blur of perfectly executed techniques that would have overwhelmed any normal Academy student. His stance was flawless, his timing impeccable, his killer intent carefully controlled but unmistakably present.

And to Naruto's enhanced reflexes, it might as well have been performed in slow motion.

I could end this right now, he realized, watching Sasuke's fist approach his face with crystalline clarity. One counter-punch, properly placed, and he'd be unconscious before he hit the ground.

But that would reveal everything—his true speed, his devastating power, his complete mastery of the fundamentals that made such precision possible. It would mark him as something far beyond a typical Academy student, something that would invite questions he wasn't prepared to answer.

So instead, he made a choice that would haunt him for weeks to come.

He matched Sasuke's speed exactly, countering each attack with precisely the force necessary to deflect it, responding to every combination with techniques that were competent but not overwhelming. He fought at Sasuke's level rather than his own, creating the illusion of an evenly matched contest between two talented students.

The match became a dance of perfect balance—thrust and parry, attack and counter, each fighter pushing the other to their apparent limits without gaining decisive advantage. The watching students cheered and gasped as the combat intensified, both combatants displaying skill levels that exceeded normal first-year expectations.

For ten minutes, they maintained this perfect equilibrium. Sasuke's natural prodigy abilities matched against Naruto's carefully restrained strength, creating the kind of spectacular contest that would be remembered and discussed for months.

And then Sasuke made a mistake.

Overconfident after landing several clean hits, he committed to a finishing combination that left him momentarily overextended. It was the kind of opening that a truly skilled fighter would never miss—a perfect opportunity to end the match with a decisive counterstrike.

Naruto saw it coming from three moves away. He had position, timing, and power advantage. One properly placed punch would send Sasuke to the medical station and establish his own reputation as a serious combat threat.

Instead, he chose restraint.

The moment stretched like taffy as Naruto deliberately pulled his counterpunch, delivering just enough force to make contact without causing serious damage. It was a perfect demonstration of control—the kind of measured response that separated true martial artists from mere brawlers.

But it was also a catastrophic miscalculation.

Sasuke's eyes widened as he felt the barely-there impact of what should have been a fight-ending blow. For a split second, his face showed pure shock as he realized the implications of what had just happened.

He pulled that punch, was written clearly across his expression. He could have knocked me out, and he deliberately chose not to.

The moment of recognition lasted perhaps two seconds. Then Sasuke's shock transformed into something far more dangerous—wounded pride mixed with calculating fury.

"You're holding back," he hissed, low enough that only Naruto could hear. "You're actually holding back against me!"

The accusation hit like a physical blow. Naruto opened his mouth to deny it, to maintain the fiction that they were evenly matched, but Sasuke's expression stopped him cold.

He knows. He absolutely knows.

"Fight me properly," Sasuke demanded, his voice carrying the kind of quiet menace that had made the Uchiha clan legendary. "Show me what you can really do, or I'll make you regret treating me like a child."

I can't, Naruto wanted to say. If I fight you properly, I'll put you in the hospital. If I show you what I can really do, everyone will know I'm not normal.

But the words wouldn't come. Because underneath his careful restraint and tactical thinking, part of him was tired of holding back. Part of him wanted to cut loose, to show what two and a half years of Saitama's training had really accomplished.

Part of him wanted to find out what would happen if he stopped being careful.

Sasuke attacked again, but this time with genuine killing intent. His techniques were sharper, his combinations more vicious, his entire approach transformed from sparring to actual combat. The change was so dramatic that several watching students gasped in alarm.

And Naruto... Naruto felt something inside him snap.

Not anger—he'd learned to control that years ago. Not fear—he'd conquered that through daily confrontation with his own limitations. What snapped was his patience with pretending to be less than he was.

Enough.

The decision crystallized in an instant. He would show Sasuke—show all of them—exactly what kind of strength lived beneath his careful restraint. Not everything, but enough to make his point clear.

Sasuke's next combination came in fast and hard, a four-strike sequence designed to overwhelm his opponent's defenses through sheer aggressive intensity. It was the kind of attack that would have ended most Academy-level matches in seconds.

Naruto sidestepped the entire combination with a single fluid movement, his enhanced reflexes making Sasuke's assault look clumsy by comparison. Then, before his opponent could recover, he struck.

One punch. Perfect form, optimal angle, precisely calibrated force.

Sasuke flew backward ten feet, hit the ground hard, and didn't get up.

The training yard fell silent with the suddenness of a dropped stone. Thirty Academy students and four instructors stood frozen in shock, trying to process what they'd just witnessed.

Naruto stood over his unconscious opponent, his fist still extended, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and dawning horror. He'd proven his point—demonstrated that his restraint had been a choice rather than a limitation.

But in doing so, he'd revealed exactly what he'd been trying to hide.

I did it, he realized, staring down at Sasuke's motionless form. I actually did it. I showed them what I'm really capable of.

The silence stretched on, broken only by the sound of Sasuke's labored breathing and the distant whistle of wind through the training yard. Every face in the crowd showed some variation of the same expression—shock, confusion, and a growing awareness that they'd just witnessed something far beyond normal Academy student capabilities.

"Medical team to training ground seven," Iruka's voice cut through the stillness, his professional composure intact despite the obvious surprise on his scarred face. "Student down, possible concussion."

As the medical ninja rushed to assess Sasuke's condition, Naruto found himself surrounded by his classmates' stares. Some looked impressed, others frightened, but all of them were seeing him differently than they had just minutes before.

This is what Saitama warned me about, he realized with growing dread. This is what happens when you let people see your real strength.

"Uzumaki." Iruka's voice carried a tone Naruto had never heard before—not quite suspicious, but definitely more serious than their usual interactions. "Come with me. We need to talk."

As they walked toward the Academy's administrative building, Naruto caught glimpses of his classmates' faces. The casual friendliness that had been developing over the past months was already beginning to shift, replaced by the kind of cautious respect that people showed when they realized they'd been underestimating someone.

They're afraid of me again, he thought, his earlier satisfaction curdling into regret. Not because of what I am, but because of what I can do.

Behind them, Sasuke was beginning to stir, his dark eyes focusing with the kind of sharp awareness that suggested he'd remember every detail of what had just happened. When their gazes met across the training yard, Naruto saw not anger or embarrassment, but something far more unsettling—professional interest mixed with grudging respect.

He wanted to see what I could do, Naruto realized. And now he knows.

The question was: what would Sasuke do with that knowledge?

And more importantly, how long would it be before others started asking the same questions that had driven Sasuke to push him beyond his carefully maintained limits?

Saitama's going to kill me, Naruto thought as they entered the Academy building. And if he doesn't, the instructors probably will.

But underneath his dread, buried beneath the fear of consequences and exposure, was a tiny spark of something else—relief. For the first time in months, he'd been able to fight honestly, to show a fraction of what all those early mornings and painful training sessions had built.

It felt good. Terrifyingly, dangerously good.

And that, perhaps, was the most frightening realization of all.

The administrative office was smaller than Naruto had expected, with simple furnishings that spoke more to function than comfort. Iruka gestured for him to sit in a wooden chair across from a desk that was organized with military precision, then settled into his own chair with the careful movements of someone processing unexpected information.

"That was quite a performance out there," Iruka began, his voice carefully neutral. "Care to explain how a first-year Academy student managed to knock out one of our most promising prospects with a single punch?"

Naruto felt his mouth go dry. This was the moment he'd been dreading—the inevitable questions that would follow any display of his true capabilities.

"I... I got lucky?"

"Lucky." Iruka's tone suggested he found this explanation less than convincing. "You 'got lucky' with a perfectly executed counter-strike that demonstrated timing, precision, and power levels I'd expect from a chunin-level taijutsu specialist."

Chunin-level. The words hit Naruto like a physical blow. His carefully concealed abilities were apparently more obvious than he'd hoped.

"I've been training hard," he said weakly.

"Yes, you have. But training hard doesn't typically produce the kind of results we just witnessed." Iruka leaned forward, his expression shifting from professional to genuinely concerned. "Naruto, I need you to be honest with me. What kind of training have you been doing? And who has been supervising it?"

The questions hung in the air between them, carrying implications that made Naruto's stomach twist with anxiety. How could he explain Saitama without revealing the true extent of his mentor's extraordinary abilities? How could he describe his training routine without admitting to the obsessive dedication that had consumed his life for the past two and a half years?

"My guardian has been helping me," he said finally. "He believes in... unconventional methods."

"Unconventional how?"

"Simple exercises, done consistently. Nothing fancy."

"Simple exercises don't typically produce the kind of power we just witnessed." Iruka's voice carried a note of skepticism that suggested he was rapidly losing patience with evasive answers. "I need specifics, Naruto. What exactly has your guardian been teaching you?"

Push-ups, sit-ups, squats, and running, Naruto thought desperately. The most basic routine imaginable, performed with an intensity that would seem insane to anyone who hadn't lived it.

"Fundamentals," he said aloud. "He says everything else builds on fundamentals."

"And these fundamentals have produced chunin-level striking power in a six-year-old Academy student?"

When Iruka put it that way, it did sound rather implausible. But the alternative—admitting that his guardian was someone whose own abilities made chunin-level power look like a child's game—was far worse.

"I guess I'm a quick learner?"

Iruka studied him for a long moment, his scarred face unreadable. "Naruto, I'm going to be direct with you. What we witnessed today was not normal. It was not typical Academy student performance, and it was not the result of ordinary training methods."

Naruto felt his carefully constructed world beginning to crumble around him. All the months of careful restraint, all the effort to appear normal while pursuing extraordinary goals, had been undone by a single moment of honest combat.

"I don't want to cause trouble," he said quietly. "I just want to learn to protect people."

"I believe that. But I also believe there's more to your story than you're telling me." Iruka's voice softened slightly. "I'm not trying to get you in trouble, Naruto. I'm trying to understand how to help you develop safely."

Safely. The word carried implications that made Naruto's chest tighten with anxiety. They thought he was dangerous—not because of the Nine-Tails, but because of his own abilities.

"I'm in control," he said, meaning it completely. "I would never hurt anyone unnecessarily."

"I saw that. Your restraint throughout the match was actually quite impressive—right up until the end." Iruka leaned back in his chair. "But control isn't just about not hurting people. It's about understanding the full scope of your abilities and their potential consequences."

Their potential consequences. Naruto thought about Sasuke's unconscious form, about the shocked faces of his classmates, about the careful balance he'd maintained for months now shattered in a single moment of honesty.

"What happens now?" he asked.

"Now, we try to figure out how to help you continue developing without putting yourself or others at risk." Iruka pulled out a file and began making notes. "I'll need to speak with your guardian about your training methods. And we may need to adjust your Academy program to account for your... unusual capabilities."

Adjust my Academy program. The phrase sounded ominous, carrying implications of special treatment and unwanted attention.

"Am I in trouble?"

"Not trouble, exactly. But you can't continue training with regular first-year students if your capabilities are genuinely at chunin level. It's not fair to them, and it's not safe for anyone involved."

The words hit Naruto like a physical blow. After months of carefully building relationships with his classmates, of finally finding a place where he might belong, he was being told that his strength had once again made him different, separate, alone.

"I can hold back," he said desperately. "Today was a mistake. I can control myself better."

"I'm sure you can. But that's not the point." Iruka's voice was gentle but firm. "The point is that you shouldn't have to hold back to that degree. It's not healthy for your development, and it's not fair to ask you to constantly suppress your natural abilities."

Natural abilities. If only Iruka knew how unnatural his abilities really were—the product of an training regimen that would have broken most adults, guided by a mentor whose own strength defied all conventional understanding.

"So what happens to me?"

"We figure out how to challenge you appropriately while keeping everyone safe." Iruka closed the file and looked at him directly. "You're not being punished, Naruto. You're being recognized for what you actually are—a student whose needs aren't being met by our standard curriculum."

The conversation continued for another twenty minutes, covering practical details about modified training schedules, advanced instruction options, and the bureaucratic processes required to implement changes to his Academy program. Throughout it all, Naruto felt a growing sense of isolation—once again, his strength was making him different, setting him apart from his peers in ways that couldn't be easily bridged.

By the time he left the administrative building, the afternoon training session had ended and most students had gone home. The few who remained gave him curious looks as he passed, their expressions carrying the mixture of respect and wariness that he'd been hoping to avoid.

Back to being the weird one, he thought as he walked through the village toward home. The one who doesn't quite fit in anywhere.

But this time, it wasn't because he was weak or unwanted. It was because he was too strong, too capable, too far beyond what people expected from someone his age.

I'm not sure which is worse, he realized as he reached his street. Being rejected for being too weak, or being isolated for being too strong.

Saitama was waiting for him in the kitchen, as usual, but there was something different about his posture—a subtle tension that suggested he'd already heard about the day's events.

"So," his mentor said without preamble, "I hear you had an interesting afternoon."

Naruto slumped into his usual chair, suddenly exhausted by the weight of concealment and consequence. "You heard?"

"Village is small. Word travels fast when Academy students start knocking each other out with single punches." Saitama's voice carried no judgment, just matter-of-fact observation. "Want to tell me what happened?"

And so Naruto did—the whole story, from his careful restraint during the morning matches to his moment of honest combat with Sasuke, to the inevitable questions and consequences that followed. Saitama listened without interruption, his expression unreadable.

"Sounds like you learned something important today," he said when Naruto finished.

"Yeah. That I'm an idiot who can't control himself when it matters."

"No." Saitama's voice was surprisingly firm. "You learned that there's a difference between restraint and deception. And that both have their place, but neither is sustainable as a permanent solution."

Naruto looked up, surprised by the lack of criticism in his mentor's tone. "You're not angry?"

"Why would I be angry? You did exactly what I would have done in your position."

"Really?"

"Really. Somebody pushed you to show your true capabilities, and you responded honestly. That's not a character flaw—that's integrity." Saitama leaned forward slightly. "The question now is what you do with the consequences."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you can't go back to pretending to be normal. That ship has sailed. So you need to decide what kind of extraordinary you want to be."

The words hung in the air between them, carrying implications that made Naruto's chest tight with both anticipation and dread.

"What are my options?"

"Same as they've always been. You can try to hide what you are and spend your life apologizing for being strong. Or you can embrace what you've become and use it to protect the people who matter to you." Saitama's voice carried the weight of personal experience. "Both paths have their challenges. But only one of them leads to the kind of life you actually want to live."

As Naruto sat in his kitchen, contemplating the crossroads his impulsive honesty had created, he found himself thinking about the expression on Sasuke's face when he'd realized the truth about Naruto's capabilities.

Not fear or anger, but recognition. The acknowledgment of someone who understood what it meant to carry strength that set you apart from everyone around you.

Maybe, he thought as he helped Saitama prepare dinner, being extraordinary doesn't have to mean being alone.

But that was a question for tomorrow. Tonight, he would simply be grateful for a mentor who understood the weight of restraint and the price of honesty, and who believed that strength shared honorably was strength multiplied.

Even when that strength was more than most people could comfortably comprehend.