The moment the words left his mouth, young Kiyohara seized control of his body completely.
The sword in Kiyohara's hand came alive. What had been a crude borrowed weapon a heartbeat ago now moved like an extension of his arm, no longer hacking in stiff, awkward motions, but flowing in a relentless stream of precise cuts.
The Mist swordsman who had come in so fiercely was smothered at once. His aggressive pressure vanished beneath a storm of steel, leaving him no choice but to retreat again and again, desperately swinging his broad blade to parry.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The ringing of colliding blades filled the fog-choked forest. Two blurred figures crossed and recrossed through the thinning mist, sparks flaring wherever metal met metal, until even Kakashi and the others could only stare.
"Hmph. So what if you've got some skill?"
The Hidden Mist swordsman tried to sneer through it, but the instant he opened his mouth, young Kiyohara caught the flaw.
A flash of steel cut across the gap.
Blood sprayed.
The swordsman's eyes went wide. His katana flew from his hand and spun away into the undergrowth. He clutched at the line opening across his throat, trying to speak, but only a wet, broken rasp escaped him. A moment later, he crashed to the ground and twitched once before going still.
"Villains always die from talking too much."
Kiyohara regained control of his body as he said it. He lowered the sword slowly, his breath rough, his limbs suddenly heavy.
Possession drained him badly. Young Kiyohara could fight beautifully, but Kiyohara's own body still had to bear the burden. His muscles felt hollowed out, and his heartbeat thudded in his ears.
He glanced down at the dead Mist swordsman.
Even that had only been basic swordsmanship.
"Why have I never seen you use anything like that before?"
Genma Shiranui stared at him, genuinely confused. As the three Mist ninja fell, the thick white fog finally began to thin, unraveling into drifting wisps until the forest around them reappeared.
"Because I couldn't afford a sword before."
Kiyohara answered casually as he crouched and started searching the bodies with practiced efficiency. He did not even bother looking up as he added, "No objections, right? Whoever kills the enemy keeps the spoils."
Genma opened his mouth, then shut it again.
Kurenai remembered very clearly that Kiyohara still had debts hanging over his head. The way he looted corpses now suddenly made perfect sense.
Kakashi watched in silence as Kiyohara thoroughly cleaned out the dead Hidden Mist swordsman's belongings. Cash, explosive tags, useful ninja tools, the expensive-looking katana, nothing was spared. Kiyohara's hands moved with the speed and certainty of someone who had long since convinced himself this was simply part of the profession.
"You can take it," Kakashi said flatly. "You can take mine too."
He truly did not care. In terms of gear, Kakashi had never been poor.
Kiyohara could tell that at a glance. This was a man wrapped in quality equipment from head to toe.
A rich kid.
That was what Kiyohara thought, though he kept it to himself. What was he supposed to do? Not everyone had a father whose name carried more weight than the Sannin.
He kept sorting.
When he was finally done, he had sealed away fifty or sixty thousand ryo in cash, several explosive tags, a handful of practical ninja tools, and the katana itself. He set the blade beside the other two swords he had already taken from Mist shinobi and quickly did the math in his head.
The cash and tags alone were worth nearly one hundred and fifty thousand ryo. The sword was good—very good. On the black market, it could probably sell for more than three hundred thousand by itself. Combined with what he had already saved...
That was enough.
More than enough.
Maybe even enough to have the ninja sword forged.
Kiyohara's pulse quickened.
He carefully sealed everything away, one item after another, until not a trace remained on the battlefield. At last, the money needed to fulfill young Kiyohara's second wish—forge a chakra-conductive sword worthy of him—was finally within reach.
And once that wish was fulfilled, the reward would not just be a weapon.
It would be talent.
It would be swordsmanship.
It would be another leap.
The thought alone made his mood soar.
It really was ridiculous when he thought about it. Other people had to endure years of training, depend on famous teachers, or gamble their lives in battle after battle just to claw their way upward. The old-fashioned route was dangerous, slow, and full of dead ends. Train wrong for long enough, and you could even cripple yourself before ever becoming strong.
But him?
He could let the future correct the present.
He could inherit the right answer directly.
Safe. Efficient. Ruthlessly practical.
The difference in quality was obvious at a glance.
"Let's move."
Once Kiyohara finished packing everything away, Kakashi finally spoke.
For some reason, Kakashi had the vague impression that Kiyohara was in an unusually good mood. He decided not to think too hard about why.
The team resumed escorting the supplies and continued on through the forest.
After the ambush, the road ahead turned far quieter. Whether the Hidden Mist had underestimated them or simply failed to prepare another interception point, nothing major happened after that. They reached the next outpost without incident and successfully delivered the supplies.
"This time, it was all thanks to you and Kakashi."
Rin Nohara let out a soft sigh after everything was done. "I didn't really help at all."
"That's not true."
Kiyohara shook his head and smiled. He was in far too good a mood to be stingy with praise.
"If you weren't behind us, Rin, how could we fight with any peace of mind?"
Rin blinked.
That answer had not been what she expected.
She had thought he would say something vague about everyone being comrades, or that the team only worked because each person played their part. Instead, Kiyohara had pointed directly at her value—her skill, her role, her presence.
And he had meant it.
That caught her off guard.
Obito had always praised her looks. Kakashi focused only on completing the mission. But Kiyohara had noticed her ability itself.
For some reason, that made his words land more deeply.
Rin looked up at him.
Kiyohara's features were sharp and well-defined, and when he relaxed like this, with the battle finally behind them, his face had a calm, effortless sort of handsomeness to it. Even among the Uchiha, there probably weren't many who could claim that kind of presence outright.
"Thank you," Rin said, smiling brightly.
"I was just stating the facts."
Kiyohara's tone remained calm, but he truly meant it.
Rin Nohara was gifted—far more gifted than people gave her credit for. In his view, she was the same type of medical talent as Sakura, maybe even better. Rin had already mastered the A-rank Healing Palm Technique at her age, and she had done it without a mentor like Tsunade personally guiding her every step of the way.
If she had lived longer, who knew how far she might have gone?
"By the way," Kiyohara continued, "would you teach me some medical ninjutsu sometime?"
He already knew from young Kiyohara that in that branch of the future, he possessed Yin and Yang attributes.
If Yang Release really existed in his potential, then learning medical ninjutsu now would be laying the groundwork in advance. Once he inherited the right talent, theory could become usable skill almost immediately.
Rin thought for a moment, then nodded.
"Alright. Come to my tent tonight."
"We still have to return to the original base first and finish reporting in. After that, I should have some free time."
"Then I'll be troubling you, Rin."
Kiyohara gave a slight nod.
As for the rest of the evening, he already had his plans.
Once he got back, he would deal with the loot.
There was a small town near the base where Konoha shinobi often passed through during the war, a kind of temporary hub for supplies, repairs, and black-market-adjacent transactions that everyone pretended not to see. Kiyohara intended to sell what he could there and then commission the forging of a proper ninja sword.
With chakra-assisted smithing, weapons in this world could be made far faster than they had any right to be. If the materials were ready and the craftsman good enough, one day might be all it took.
"Tomorrow... maybe by tomorrow night."
Kiyohara weighed the timing in his mind and found it acceptable.
If things went smoothly, he would not have to wait long at all.
***
By the time they returned to the rear base, the sun had already sunk low, painting the camp in dusky orange and long shadows.
The day had been hard, but profitable.
Kiyohara liked that combination very much.
The moment they finished the routine handover, he slipped away with the sealed loot still on him, unwilling to waste even a minute more than necessary. Every extra delay was another chance for prices to change, another chance for someone to notice what he had, another chance for something to go wrong.
He had learned enough from the battlefield to understand one simple truth: money in your hand was better than value in theory.
So he moved quickly.
The town outside the base was not large, but wartime had made it lively in its own crooked way. Merchants, repairmen, smugglers, field medics, couriers, and shinobi flowed in and out like a tide. The place smelled of iron, medicine, food, sweat, and coin.
Perfect.
Kiyohara headed first to the kind of shop that asked fewer questions than it should.
He sold off the smaller items—ordinary tools, standard weapons, easily traceable pieces—while keeping back what truly mattered. The shopkeeper tried to lower the price, of course. They always did. Kiyohara haggled just enough to show he wasn't stupid, then accepted once the number crossed into tolerable territory.
He was not here to win every exchange.
He was here to build momentum.
The katana, though, he did not sell.
That one mattered too much.
By the time he left, his money pouch was heavier, his sealing scroll lighter, and his next destination already decided.
A forge.
Not some cheap civilian smithy, but a place that knew how to handle chakra metal and keep its mouth shut while doing it.
That narrowed the options.
Still, wartime had a way of creating professionals for every need.
Kiyohara finally found the kind of craftsman he wanted in a tucked-away workshop near the edge of town, where the walls were blackened from long heat and the tools were arranged with obsessive precision. The old smith barely looked at him at first. Then Kiyohara produced the materials.
That changed things.
The man's eyes sharpened.
He picked up the metal, weighed it, tested its balance, checked the grain of the blade fragments, then grunted low in his throat.
"Where'd you get this?"
"Battlefield salvage."
It was the perfect answer. True enough not to sound rehearsed. Vague enough not to invite details.
The smith snorted, which meant he understood the rules of the conversation.
"What do you want made?"
"A sword," Kiyohara said. "One-handed. Long enough for reach, light enough to control, strong enough for chakra flow. No ornament. No nonsense."
The smith gave him a long look.
"A practical brat."
"I can't afford to be decorative."
That actually earned him the faintest twitch of amusement.
The negotiations did not take long after that. Price first. Shape second. Delivery third. Kiyohara almost winced when the number was quoted, but after calculating his current funds and future needs, he still paid the deposit without hesitation.
This was not waste.
This was investment.
He would come back tomorrow night.
If all went well, the sword would be ready.
Only then did Kiyohara finally allow himself to exhale.
The first of young Kiyohara's wishes—revenge on Ao—still lay ahead. But the second was now close enough to touch.
And once that sword was in his hands, everything would change.
Or at least, that was what he intended.