Chương 113: Red and Gold, a Sight to Behold

As a teenage prodigy and a decorated war hero, Zhen Dongye had officially eclipsed Kakashi as the gold standard for every student in the Academy. He was the "model child" mothers used to guilt their sons, and the celebrity whose name was whispered in every corner of the village. Life in the spotlight had its perks. Shopping trips and restaurant visits now came with a "hero's discount," and the local grocers were always happy to toss an extra few ounces of meat or vegetables into his bag for free.

The people of Konoha were quite warm, it seemed—hardly the "unruly mob" he had occasionally feared. Meanwhile, the architect of their victory, Minato Namikaze, enjoyed a level of adoration that bordered on the religious. His commute to the Hokage Building was a gauntlet of respectful nods and enthusiastic waves. Minato, ever the stoic professional, didn't let the title go to his head. However, the constant bowing was starting to take a toll on his neck.

To avoid a premature case of cervical spondylosis, the handsome blond began to cut down on his morning walks. The Flying Raijin was a godsend; he could sleep until 7: 59 AM and still be at his desk by 8: 00 sharp. If Konoha had a food delivery service—Yellow, Blue, or Red—he would have been the undisputed "King of the Hustle," leaving every other courier in the dust. But eventually, the fervor began to fade.

Even the most intense emotions must cool, and life, by its very nature, returns to the quiet rhythm of the mundane. The war was over, but Konoha was a village of a hundred unfinished tasks. The adults were buried in reconstruction and bureaucracy; the civilians were focused on the rising cost of rice and oil. Compared to the frantic pace of the senior shinobi, Zhen and the other "war-accelerated" Genin found themselves in a state of sudden, blissful unemployment.

The high command and the sensei were more than happy to let them enjoy some long-overdue peace. It was a time to wash away the miasma of slaughter and spend hours in meditation, digesting the brutal lessons of the battlefield. After all, any "rookie" who survived that war was a proven asset—a vessel of infinite potential and the true future of the Leaf. As for those without talent? Most were currently occupying permanent real estate in the Memorial Stone's shadow.

A quiet tributary of the Naka River had become the quartet's regular haunt. These days, however, their group had grown by one—a small, silent attachment named Itachi, who followed Shisui like a shadow. The precocious boy found the antics of his own age group insufferable. Whether among his own clan or the village at large, he preferred the company of Zhen and the others. To him, Zhen was the ultimate archetype: powerful, heroic, and a protector of the village. His father said the same.

More importantly, Zhen spoke with a clarity and wisdom that the boy found absolutely magnetic. As for the original group, their childhood games had evolved into something far more sophisticated. At the moment, Hayate Gekko and Yugao Uzuki were mounting a joint assault on their friend. Six figures—the two of them plus four shadow clones—swirled around Zhen in a lethal web of steel. Bolstered by subtle genjutsu, it was nearly impossible for an average observer to discern the true blade from the illusion.

This was one of the secret sword arts of their lineages: the Dance of the Crescent Moon. Zhen, of course, knew the technique—along with the Secret Sword: Moon Shadow, the Hazy Moonlit Night, and the Leaf Style: Willow he'd learned from Old Man Kosuke. He simply rarely had a reason to use them. Since their families had drawn closer, their jutsu libraries had essentially become a communal pool. Zhen's speed was in a different league entirely.

He moved through the net of blades like a fish through water, detonating the shadow clones with casual strikes before parrying the real pair back. The sheer force of his counter sent them reeling. Before they could find their footing, two hands erupted from the soil, seizing their ankles. Earth Style: Headhunting Jutsu. In combat, timing is the only metric that matters.

Submerged to their necks in the dirt, Hayate looked utterly defeated—a recurring theme in their sparring—while Yugao's face puffed up like a steamed bun in protest. But there was no helping it; the gap between them and their "cheating" teammate was a chasm. Zhen pulled them out and offered his critique.

"The synergy between the illusions and the swordsmanship is excellent. But against a superior opponent, or even an equal one with sharp instincts, it's a gamble. Don't rely on it as a crutch." They knew the flaw. Their ancestral style was perfect for "mowing the grass"—clearing out fodder—but it struggled to find a gap in the armor of a true master. Then again, "standard" was a luxury many common ninja could only dream of. Love what you're reading?

Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Shisui Uchiha stepped forward, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"In that case, Zhen, let's see how you handle my new refinement."

"Show me." Shisui blurred. Suddenly, more than a dozen afterimages—not clones, but traces of motion—encircled Zhen. Their coordination was flawless, an unending stream of attacks that felt entirely real. This was the synthesis of Uchiha genjutsu and the Body Flicker technique. With the Sharingan's predictive power, Shisui's offensive pressure far eclipsed anything Hayate or Yugao could produce. He was already carving his path toward becoming "Shisui of the Afterimage." And yet, it wasn't enough.

Zhen parried every "hidden" strike as if he were reading a script. No matter how Shisui tweaked the illusions or pushed the speed of his flicker, he couldn't find a single opening. Eventually, Shisui disengaged, his chest heaving.

"Still nothing? Your defense is a fortress, Zhen. I suppose I have a long way to go before I can even see your back." Zhen laughed.

"You're already incredibly strong, Shisui. It's just that I'm a bad matchup for you. You know why." Shisui did. Zhen's sensory abilities were nothing short of freakish. An average ninja would have crumbled under that sensory overload, but to Zhen, the clones were irrelevant. What the others didn't know was that Zhen's perception, heightened by White Natural Energy, didn't just track chakra—it tracked the very essence of a person.

A ninja can hide their signature, but they cannot hide their presence from the world itself. This was their life now. Sparring was their primary form of entertainment, a controlled dance where the only victims were the fish in the river. By nightfall, the five of them gathered around a bonfire, enjoying the "selfless sacrifice" of the local trout while discussing the finer points of cultivation. Itachi, sitting on the fringe, soaked in every word.

"Senpai," Itachi asked, clutching a grilled fish.

"How can I become as strong as you?" Zhen thought for a moment.

"Love your life. Love your training. Let your friends and comrades warm your heart, and let knowledge broaden your horizon."

"Is it really that simple?"

"It's the hardest thing in the world, Itachi. A person who doesn't love life—someone whose heart is a hollow void—is a disaster waiting to happen, no matter how much power they possess." Itachi fell into a pensive silence. Shisui and the others nodded; it was a sentiment that fit perfectly within the Will of Fire. Time slipped away in that peaceful haze. Two months passed, and the year drew to a close. The weather was unseasonably mild.

A late cold snap meant that even in late December, the air held the crispness of early autumn. The seasons in the Shinobi World were often erratic—sometimes a winter was as warm as spring, other times the snow fell before the leaves. It was as if the planet were a wobbling top, perhaps a lingering side effect of the Sage of Six Paths and his brother beating their mother into the moon a millennium ago. December 20th. A clear sky. A day auspicious for weddings and new beginnings.

Zhen dressed in his finest attire, combed his hair back with a touch of maturity, and set out with his parents for the Konoha Assembly Hall. Today was a landmark occasion: the wedding of the Fourth Hokage, Minato Namikaze. He and Kushina Uzumaki were finally tying the knot. Jiraiya stood in the crowd, his envy practically radiating off him in waves. He could teach his student the Rasengan, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out how to win over a goddess.

Decades of pursuing Tsunade had yielded nothing but a collection of hospital bills and a fear of heavy fists. As part of the rising power structure Minato had cultivated, Zhen's family and their allies were naturally among the guests of honor. The hall was packed, the atmosphere electric with joy. Every eye was on the couple on the stage.

Kakashi Hatake and Might Guy stood together near the front; with Guy's relentless "Youthful" energy and the festivity of the day, even Kakashi's perpetual gloom seemed to have lifted. Zhen approached them.

"Senior Guy, Senior Kakashi." Kakashi offered a terse nod, maintaining his "brooding elite" persona. Guy, however, blinked in confusion.

"And you are?"

"Senior Guy, your face-blindness is getting out of hand. How could you forget a face as handsome as mine?"

"Ah! It's you, Zhen! Hahaha, of course, I remember!" Zhen rolled his eyes. Guy was a lost cause, but Kakashi was always fun to needle.

"Senior Kakashi, it's your master's wedding. Do you really have to wear that mask on such a big day?"

"Habit," Kakashi replied lazily.

"Besides, it's not my wedding. Who cares?"

"I'm starting to suspect that when you do get married, your bride won't even know what her husband looks like."

"Then I'll just stay single. Why invite the trouble?" Zhen feigned a look of exaggerated horror.

"Senior... you don't like girls? Don't tell me you're actually..." He trailed off, casting a meaningful glance at Might Guy. Guy looked utterly bewildered. Kakashi slapped his forehead, sighing in exasperation. This kid's personality was atrocious—potentially even more grating than Obito's. On the high stage, Minato and Kushina wore traditional Fire Country wedding robes.

The ceremony was conducted by a Shinto priest, a reminder of the spiritual foundations that still lingered in the world, concentrated largely in the Land of Demons but present even here in the Leaf. The groom was dashing, the bride radiant. Their smiles were infectious. In the center of the hall, the rare combination of golden-blond and crimson hair was blindingly bright. It looked exactly like a plate of scrambled eggs and tomatoes.

Zhen, who had spent a few miserable years as a bottom-tier graphic designer in his past life, couldn't help but recall his old professor's words: Red and yellow, a sight to behold—the king of contrasts. It was a gaudy combination, perhaps, but undeniably beautiful. Konoha Year 50 was the zenith of Minato Namikaze's life. He had led the village to victory, married the woman of his dreams, and ascended to the highest office in the land. He was at the absolute peak of human existence.

Looking at the couple, Zhen found himself hoping that this peak would last just a little longer. That the credits wouldn't roll so soon. After all, everyone likes to keep beautiful things around as long as possible.