"I—" She hesitated. "I don't know. I'm just warning you. When they approached me, I was able to refuse because I wasn't remarkable enough to push. You're becoming remarkable. They might not give you a choice."
Tatsuya considered this. The shadow organization that officially didn't exist, recruiting child soldiers for operations the Hokage couldn't publicly sanction. He knew what they did. What they made people become.
"If they approach me," he said carefully, "I'll handle it."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But hiding isn't the answer. The only real protection is being valuable enough, connected enough, that taking me would cost more than I'm worth."
Mira's laugh was bitter. "And how do you plan to become that?"
"One mission at a time."
He resumed walking. After a moment, she followed.
"There's a joint operation coming," she said. "Multi-team. Extended duration. The roster isn't finalized, but your name is on the preliminary list."
"Where did you hear that?"
"I have my sources." A pause. "Jiraiya of the Sannin is leading it. Border security against Iwa. The kind of mission where people either advance or don't come back."
Jiraiya. The name sent a cold shock through his chest. One of the Legendary Three. The man who would train the Fourth Hokage, who would die fighting Pain, who wrote terrible novels and maintained the village's most extensive spy network.
"When?"
"Briefing tomorrow. If you're selected."
If. But Mira had good intelligence. If his name was on the preliminary list, there was a reason.
He thought about everything he'd been building toward. The fire techniques. The kenjutsu. The medical capabilities that made him useful in ways most genin couldn't match, both new and old... The chakra scalpel that no one knew he had.
"Thank you for telling me."
"Just..." Mira's voice was uncharacteristically soft. "Be careful. These operations have high casualty rates. And the people who come back aren't always the same."
"I know."
He left her at the intersection where their paths diverged—she toward the barracks, he toward the Third District.
Yuki was waiting.
The Harada residence was modest but comfortable, a two-story building in the merchant quarter, with a small garden out front and the smell of fresh-dyed fabric emanating from the workshop in back. Tatsuya had visited three times now, always during the approved hours, always announced in advance.
The Haradas had welcomed him cautiously at first. An orphan shinobi claiming connection to their adopted daughter, such things could be complicated. But Yuki had vouched for him so earnestly, had explained about the battlefield and the journey and the promise he'd made, and eventually caution had given way to something warmer.
"Tatsuya!" Yuki met him at the door, her smile bright. She'd grown in the months since he'd last seen her, taller, healthier, the haunted look in her eyes replaced by something more like normal childhood. "I didn't think you'd come today."
"I might not be able to visit for a while. There's a mission."
Her smile faltered slightly. She understood what that meant, she'd lost her family to such things, after all.
"A dangerous one?"
"They're all dangerous." He crouched to her eye level, the way he'd learned put children at ease. "But I'll be careful. And I'll come back."
"You promise?"
He shouldn't. Promises like that were lies waiting to happen. But looking at her face—this child he'd carried through a war zone, who'd somehow become an anchor for his own humanity—he couldn't help himself.
"I promise."
Mrs. Harada appeared in the doorway, a kind-faced woman with fabric dust on her apron. "Tatsuya-san. Would you like to stay for dinner? We're having grilled fish."
"I shouldn't impose—"
"Nonsense. You brought our daughter back to us. The least we can do is feed you occasionally."
He stayed. The meal was simple but good, the conversation light. Mr. Harada asked about his training; Mrs. Harada fussed over whether he was eating enough; Yuki showed him the arithmetic she was learning for the business. Normal things. Family things.
It felt foreign. Precious. A glimpse of the life he might have had, in either world.
When he left, the sun was setting. He walked back to the barracks through streets that were beginning to empty, thinking about everything he'd built and everything he might lose.
Tomorrow, the real test would begin.
The briefing room was larger than the one Yamada used, designed for full squad assemblies rather than individual meetings. Tatsuya arrived early, found a seat in the back, and watched as other shinobi filtered in.
Most were chunin. A few jonin. And there, near the front, two figures who drew every eye in the room without seeming to notice.
Jiraiya of the Sannin was... not what Tatsuya had expected. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a mane of white hair that seemed almost deliberately unkempt. He wore traditional clothing rather than standard uniform, and his posture was relaxed to the point of carelessness. But his eyes, dark, sharp, constantly moving, told a different story.
Beside him stood a boy. Blonde hair, blue eyes, features that seemed too young for the jonin vest he wore. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. But the way he carried himself, the quiet confidence in his stance, said that age was irrelevant.
Minato Namikaze.
Tatsuya's chest tightened. There he was. The future Fourth Hokage. The Yellow Flash. The man who would seal the Kyuubi into his own son, who would die protecting the village, who would leave behind a legacy of heroism and sacrifice.
Unless something changed.
Unless someone changed it.
The briefing officer, a scarred jonin with a missing ear, called the room to order.
"This is a multi-team operation. Extended duration, elevated threat level. Border security in Sector Seven, where Iwa probing attacks have increased significantly over the past month."
He outlined the mission parameters. Supply line protection. Patrol rotations. Rules of engagement. The kind of careful, measured planning that distinguished organized military action from desperate violence.
"Team assignments are as follows."
Names were called. Chunin grouped with jonin, genin slotted into support roles. The machinery of war, assembling itself.
"Team Jiraiya: Jiraiya-sama leading, with Namikaze Minato as tactical second. Combat support from reserve pool genin Meguri Tatsuya, Inuzuka Takeshi, and Inoue Ren."
Tatsuya's name, listed alongside legends.
He kept his face neutral. Showed nothing of the fear or the hope churning in his gut.
Jiraiya glanced back at the mentioned names. His gaze passed over the others and landed on Tatsuya, just for a moment, just long enough to make assessment.
Tatsuya met his eyes. Didn't flinch.
Something that might have been approval flickered across the Sannin's face before he turned back to the front.
After the briefing, the teams gathered in smaller clusters to coordinate. Tatsuya made his way toward Jiraiya and Minato, acutely aware of every eye tracking his movement.
The other two genin assigned to their team arrived at the same time. Takeshi was Inuzuka, the clan markings on his cheeks made that obvious, but without the ninken partner that most of his family carried, perhaps that's why he's in the reserves? A tracker, then, relying on his own enhanced senses. He vibrated with nervous energy, clearly overwhelmed by proximity to the Sannin.
Ren was larger than Tatsuya, heavily muscled for a genin, with a stolid face that revealed nothing.
Taijutsu focus, probably. The kind of fighter who absorbed punishment and kept coming.
"So," Jiraiya drawled, looking them over. "The fresh meat. Let's see what we're working with."
He pointed at Takeshi. "You. Specialties?"
"Tracking, Jiraiya-sama! Enhanced smell and hearing, basic Inuzuka techniques, I can—"
"Shorter answers. You." He pointed at Ren.
"Combat. Taijutsu. Some earth release."
"Better." The finger swung to Tatsuya. "And you?"
"Medical support. Fire release. Kenjutsu."
Jiraiya's eyebrow rose. "Medical and combat? Unusual combination."
"I prefer versatility."
"Do you." It wasn't a question. The Sannin's eyes were sharp despite his casual posture. "Show me your sword."
Tatsuya drew the blade in a smooth motion, not aggressive, but fast enough to demonstrate competence. He held it at guard, letting Jiraiya examine the weapon.
"Standard issue. Nothing special about the steel." Jiraiya's gaze moved from the sword to Tatsuya's hands. "But you know how to hold it. Where did you train?"
"Academy basics. The rest I taught myself."
"Self-taught." The skepticism was audible. "Give me a form."
Tatsuya flowed through the movements without hesitation. Step, cut, pivot, guard, the pattern he'd practiced thousands of times, refined through sparring with Shin and the muscle memory this body had inherited. He finished in ready stance and waited.
Jiraiya studied him for a long moment.
"Not academy standard," he said finally. "Your targeting is different. Anatomical focus." His eyes narrowed. "You're aiming for tendons. Arteries. Not just center mass and common vital points."
"Efficient."
"Dangerous. Especially for a genin." He turned to Minato. "What do you think?"
The young jonin had been watching silently, his expression thoughtful. Now he stepped forward, that warm-but-assessing look fixed on Tatsuya.
"Your footwork is solid. Economy of motion suggests significant practice, more than academy training would provide. Fire and medical is an unusual combination, as Jiraiya-sensei noted. Most shinobi specialize in one direction."
"I don't have clan techniques to fall back on," Tatsuya said. "Versatility is what I can offer."
"Hmm." Minato's head tilted slightly. "Reserve pool. Survivor of the Third Division. Your file says you walked out of a battlefield that killed everyone else."
"I got lucky."
"Did you?" Those blue eyes were uncomfortably perceptive. "Tell me something, Tatsuya-san. Why medical training? Most combat-oriented shinobi consider it a waste of time."
Because I was a surgeon in another life. Because healing is what I was made for, even if this world requires me to kill.
What he said was: "Dead teammates can't complete missions. If I can keep people alive long enough to succeed, the mission succeeds. Simple pragmatism."
Minato's smile was small but genuine. "Simple pragmatism. I like that."
Jiraiya snorted. "You would. Alright, fresh meat, here's how this works. You follow orders. You don't do anything stupid. You stay alive long enough to be useful. Questions?"
Takeshi's hand shot up. "What are our engagement protocols for—"
"That wasn't a real question prompt. We'll cover protocols on the march." Jiraiya was already turning away. "Gear up. We move in two hours."
The team dispersed to prepare. Tatsuya was checking his equipment one final time when a shadow fell across him.
Minato, standing close but not crowding. His presence was... odd. Warm despite the obvious lethality, approachable despite the rank disparity.
"You're not what I expected from reserve pool," he said quietly.