The Cycle of Hatred: A Naruto Insert

Tea with Danzo had become many things over the last few months: regular conversation, strange politicking, hypothetical do-or-die scenarios—all of which occurred over a game of shogi. There was no need for invites anymore; they had a time and a place. Asuma wasn’t ever quite sure what to expect.

He couldn’t figure Danzo out to save his life; not his motives—he was very clear about what he wanted from Asuma—but the things that made him a person: his likes and dislikes, hobbies and passions.

The conundrum aside, he quite liked the old guy. He looked frightening but was a good conversationalist when he wanted to be. Asuma imagined someone called the Shinobi of Darkness to be dreary, but he turned out to be the complete opposite.

Asuma wandered leisurely through a park on his way to the Shimura residence. It was a building strangely similar to his own family home, which he supposed made sense. The Shimura clan wasn’t as reputable as the Sarutobi anymore, but that was only because his father had become Hokage rather than through any fault of theirs.

They arrived at the Leaf Village together with the Sarutobi, Yamanaka, Nara, Akimichi, and Aburame clans. The Yamanaka, Nara, and Akimichi naturally gravitated towards the Sarutobi because of their alliance in the Warring States era. Conversely, the Shimura clan shared a deeper bond with the Aburame clan. 

Even the village’s laws were skewed in a way to favour the founding clans—though Tobirama Senju made sure to give the subsequent additions to the village enough breathing room to prosper. His village’s history, something that Asuma had disregarded for years, had suddenly become so much more interesting since he’d returned to the Leaf.

He had Danzo to thank for that and more.

It was almost funny how easy it was to spot the vestiges of the Warring Clans era in the village. As the Leaf’s founding clans, the Uchiha and Senju brought their various vassals with them, civilian and shinobi alike.

There were even a few Uzumaki descendants hanging about, despite their village’s annihilation though most barely counted and were distantly related to the delegation that had come with Mito Uzumaki. None that remained in the village bore the clan’s once-feared name—though the Nine-Tails’ Jinchuriki was an exception to that rule. Barring him, the last to do so was Kushina Uzumaki, wife of the Fourth and the adopted daughter of Mito Uzumaki, and once she died, so did the clan.

“God-fucking-damn it!”

Asuma stopped to look in the noise’s direction, seeing nothing but trees and grass. Curious, he walked towards the source and followed the continuous string of curses, wanting to find out what it was that had pissed them off so much. Emerging out of the thicket, he looked onto the stream cutting through the park and winding westward.

A little blonde boy stood hip-deep in its depths, wet from head to toe. He was about to move closer, but stopped when he saw the boy’s face—those whiskers were unmistakable. Almost any civilian off the street would know who the boy was from those whiskers alone, but because Asuma was the son of the Hokage and a jonin, he knew just a bit more.

He was the son of some immigrant Uzumaki woman who’d arrived shortly before the Sacking of the Hidden Whirlpool. The civilians hated him because they thought he was the Nine-Tails reborn and the bringer of the Fourth’s death. In reality, he was the unfortunate Jinchuriki of the beast that had killed his mother and countless people

The civilians didn’t know what the difference was, but a simple library visit would have cleared most—if not all—of their worries. Asuma could understand why they didn’t do so. Emotions were complicated things. Many people lost family to the Nine-Tails, and for some, it was easier to displace their grief onto the literal representation of the Fox rather than confront it.

He wasn’t exempt either—for years, he blamed his father for his mother’s death, despite her willingly going to defend the village. His relationship with his father would never be the same because of everything that had happened since that night—but the boy was completely blameless.

Asuma stayed hidden among the thicket for a few minutes while a numb grief resurfaced within him. The boy reached into the stream and picked up a handful of pebbles. Holding out his left arm, he placed them along his forearm in a row before dropping the arm by his waist. The pebbles defied the pull of gravity and remained stuck to his arm, even as he dipped below the water to grab another handful.

“Okay…” the boy breathed, lifting a foot out of the stream and setting it on top of its surface. “One more time.”

Using it as leverage, he lifted his other foot and did the same.

Water-walking at his age was already insane enough, but sticking pebbles to both arms while doing so almost defied logic. Spell-bound, Asuma continued peeping between the trees, watching the boy take tentative steps across the water. He waddled around, each step uncertain, before standing still for a few moments.

Asuma watched him for a few minutes. He waded across the stream, getting halfway across before he fell waist-deep into its depths. He had little to gain from keeping up to date on the village’s recent prodigies, but surely this was ridiculous? He looked ten at best. It was strange to see a child performing advanced chakra exercises in a time of peace but regardless, if he stuck it out with his chakra training until he became a genin, Naruto would see the benefits his patience would bring.

Whatever he chose, Asuma hoped the kid wouldn’t regret it in the end.

Fifteen minutes later, he exited the park and passed under a tall gate. It was wide enough for five people to walk through simultaneously and marked the beginning of the steep stone staircase leading to the Shimura residence. He revelled in the embracing sense of familiarity as he walked the streets, stopping in front of a large building raised half a storey above the rest.

Two men stood guard at the front gate, each standing on either side of the open entrance. They wore matching black kimono with simple olive-green patterns, covered by a similarly green skirt-like garment tied at their waists. Rather than the streamlined shinobi boots, they wore more traditional wooden sandals and carried two single-edged swords, one long and one short, on their waists.

“State your purpose, sir,” said the one on the right.

Before Asuma could do so, his taller, bulkier friend spoke up. “Idiot! That’s our lord’s esteemed guest, Lord Asuma Sarutobi.”

He was glad that the guards weren’t wearing helmets because the shock on the first guard’s face was too amusing to be hidden behind a face plate.

“You goddamned fool.” The second guard turned and offered him a deep bow. “Sir, I apologise on my partner’s behalf and will make sure he suffers the appropriate punishment for his ignorance. Please, enter. Lord Shimura awaits you in the teahouse.”

“Go easy on him, will you?” said Asuma. “The man’s just doing his job.”

He walked between them after accepting their bows with a shorter one of his own and followed the paved path around the main building. In his opinion, civilian vassals were little more than a formality from a time when clans waged on one another. Even that was already a distant memory held onto by a few not long for this world—his father and Danzo barely counted among their number.

The samurai of today were once little more than civilian vassals and existed as weapons for wealthy families to use—be they the clans, or nobility. When Hashirama Senju and Madara Uchiha unified the lands now known as the Fire Country, enough vassals expressed dissatisfaction with their lot in life and proposed a nation of their own.

In his kindness, the Leaf’s First Hokage offered them what was known today as the Land of Iron, alongside the very fundamentals of chakra manipulation to make of what they will. Despite the harsh climate, the ex-vassals eagerly accepted and made off in a mass exodus from all over the world, settling between the Land of Lightning and the Land of Grass.

Within a handful of decades, they had become something of a neutral party and were strong enough to ward off any invasion from their immediate neighbours. They were a neutral party in all shinobi conflicts—a feat merited solely by their strength.

While not all the vassals left the families and clans they had sworn oaths of allegiance to, the complete change in how the nations waged war meant there was little place for civilian vassals except dealing with other vassals or acting as political symbols rather than a military force.

Because, in the end, civilian vassals were only skilled civilians. The samurai, meanwhile, were in a class of their own and the strongest among them could easily hold their own against elite jonin.

Danzo sat cross-legged, waiting for him on the opposite end of a low table. His tea room was old, visibly so, with wooden shutters for windows and tatami flooring. Another civilian guard outside—barely visible through the translucent paper of the door—closed the door shut behind Asuma. There was a second cup of tea before the shogi table, wafting steam into the air.

He sat atop the marked pillow opposite the old man, bowing slightly. “Elder Shimura.”

Danzo smiled and returned the bow. “Asuma. How has your week been, my boy? I hear you’ve been searching for missions to put yourself on. I hope the search has been going well.”

“It’s… not the best,” he said with a grimace. “High-ranked missions are hard to come by, especially given my circumstances. I’ve also got a hearing with my father and the Jonin Commander next week that might bring an end to my job hunting. It’s not exactly a court-martial, but I’m guessing they’ll be bringing up my reasons for leaving the village and whether I’m still loyal or not”

“Don’t give up hope. To be quite frank, if you didn’t return with boons for the village, you would have faced punishment instead of a disciplinary hearing. When you left, it was only through your father’s hand that you weren’t branded a rogue shinobi.”

Asuma sighed. “...I know. It’s kind of irritating, but I can’t say it’s not unfair.” Asuma chuckled, taking a small sip of Danzo’s blend.

“That said, I will do my best to put in a positive word for you. Despite our strained relationship, I am part of your father’s advisory council and the previous head of the ANBU.”

He bowed slightly in his direction. “Thank you very much, Elder Shimura.”

“Think nothing of it, my boy. I told you all those months ago, didn’t I? You returned at the perfect time and with achievements, accolades, and strength.”

Danzo looked towards a handful of photos hung on the wall, particularly at the one in the centre. It was of himself, looking roughly in his twenties, with his arms around a grinning man he recognised as father, and the Second Hokage.

The usually stern man had a small smile on his face as he drank in the image. “This village needs strong shinobi to stop us from hurtling over the cliff’s edge. You are one of them, Asuma. There’s also Kakashi of the Sharingan; The Green Beast, Might Gai, and the newly-minted genjutsu mistress, Kurenai Yuhi.

“Two of which are S-ranked shinobi—and I reckon I’ll probably make S-rank in a few years,” said Asuma. “The majority of our jonin are high-quality, well-rounded shinobi.”

“And yet, it is simply not enough. There are far more genin and chunin due to the Nine-Tailed Night and the only tokubetsu-jonin likely to ascend are the Snake’s ex-disciple, Anko Mitarashi, and the late Fourth’s Thunder Squad: Genma Shiranui, Raido Nanashi, and Iwashi Tatami. Do you understand my point, son?”

“...I hear you,” he said after a long moment. “We’ve always had a lot of genin and chunin, but there are fewer jonin now than ever—and that’s including the Great War. So few that if another one breaks out, we’d all go to hell in a handbasket. It’s a possibility that’s looking more real with every day that goes by. Have you heard the rumours of a change in leadership on our border? My contacts in the Fire Capital tell me the Land of Rice Fields is now officially the Land of Sound.”

“I have,” said Danzo with a slow nod. “Who do you think is behind this so-called Land of Sound? It’s more likely than not that they are an enemy of the Leaf, but it will take several months for the Intelligence Division to bring back worthwhile information from our border—by then, it may be too late.”

“I’d probably place my bets on a rogue shinobi. It doesn’t make sense for the big villages to disturb the peace, and the little ones are still recovering.” Asuma quietly took another sip of his tea. “And if any of the villages wanted to pull something, it’d have been after the Hyuuga girl was kidnapped—or better yet, when the Nine-Tails laid waste to us.”

“A well-thought conclusion. Which rogue shinobi do you think it could be?”

“Rogues with a bone to pick with Konoha… could be anyone, to be honest. There’s plenty of Sand ninja who don’t like the Leaf. The Cloud doesn’t have many rogues, none strong enough to create their own country anyway, but the Leaf… Maybe it’s Itachi Uchiha?”

Even uttering the bastard's name darkened the room. Danzo rose with a groan, leaving his cane behind. He pulled the teapot from the table and onto the tatami flooring. Walking over to the cupboard pushed into the corner of the room, he returned with a bottle of sake and two small saucers.

After pouring a serving for both of them, he handed Asuma his drink. “You were saying?”

“Well, who’s to say the Uchiha were enough for him? I’m not sure, but that kid seems twisted enough in the head for that and he’s probably only grown stronger. He’s what, seventeen?”

“Eighteen.” Danzo clicked his tongue. “It takes more than power to create a force that will endure and if there is one thing Itachi Uchiha is not, it is a leader. I will not rule it out as an option, but it seems unlikely to me.”

“Other than him, I guess the only other big rogue is Orochimaru.” Asuma finished his serving and refilled it before he spoke again. “Things sort of went downhill after the Fourth Hokage beat him for the position. Sure, he was conducting human experiments the whole time, but it’s like he stopped caring about getting caught after he fell out of the running. Surely he’s not petty enough to try and destroy us because he didn’t become the Hokage… right?”

“I… would not put it past him,” Danzo exhaled slowly. “He is a dangerous man and has been conducting his experiments across the country for years. His research into bloodline limits is second to none, and we use much of his theoretical work on jutsu creation here today. With that kind of resume, securing the backing of some puffed-up lord would not be difficult.”

“Hold on,” said Asuma, frowning. “What about his laboratories? Wouldn’t it be stupid to put all his research in one place given we’ve been hunting him down for years now?”

“Orochimaru would never do such a thing. He trusts no one, so I would not be surprised if he continues to construct secret laboratories,” said Danzo, scoffing. “We have raided many of them in recent years, but there are just as many we are yet to find. To claim a land of his own wouldn’t prevent us from continuing our raids—but if he creates a hidden village and begins to resist rather than run away?

“It would send a message to the other villages about his strength and our weakness. Of course, this is all conjecture. Until the Intelligence Division returns with their findings, the identity behind the Land of Sound’s leader will remain a mystery to us. I only pray we have more time to prepare the next generation of jonin.”

He stared into his saucer. “Peace never lasts. Even if we’re not at war, someone’s doing something that might provoke someone else and drag us into the resulting mess. It’s a vicious fucking cycle.”

“Aye, that it is. But if you refuse to join it, you will be a victim to it, which is why I will do my best to turn the hearing in your favour. Putting you on probation would dull your edge, something that we cannot have. Our enemies sighting you will disabuse them of any fantasies they may have of waging war on us.”

“I’m pretty much in top shape,” said Asuma with a small smirk as he moved his game pieces to counter Danzo’s assault. “Sure, I’ve been resting for a little bit, but I’ll be fine so long as I stretch my legs a little—something you should probably do, Elder Shimura.”

There was a lot you could learn through how a person played shogi. It was a battle of wit, after all, and revealed interesting things about an opponent to the right person. Asuma had played the game long enough to pick up on those patterns but didn’t know the old man well enough to assume any personal qualities of his.

Style-wise, Danzo was aggressive, but it was a thoughtful kind of aggression. He would rarely make significant decisions, spending the majority of the time stacking the odds in his favour through small and seemingly insignificant moves. By the time Asuma got an inkling as to what he was planning, it was too late.

It was a frustrating style to play against and he would know because his father’s style was similar, albeit ridiculously passive.

Asuma’s forfeit was decisive. He’d played the game through his head twice and couldn’t see any way to win, so it saved them both the time. “You win, Elder Shimura.”

Danzo’s smile was smug as he topped up Asuma’s cup. “An astute decision. There’s no shame in stepping back from an unwinnable situation. More tea, or would you prefer sake?”

“Tea, please,” he replied.

He sipped from the cup, allowing its slight bitterness to twist his face into an annoyed scowl. The irritation at losing washed over him for a few moments, and he sat in it, committing his mistakes to memory.

“You know,” he began, setting his cup down, “I saw something interesting today. There was a kid training in the park, a promising one too. He couldn’t be older than ten, but there he was, on the stream, water-walking.”

“An impressive feat for his age, but nothing to write home about,” said Danzo. “However, it shows that he was intelligent enough to figure out the applications of chakra through the Academy’s lessons.

“He was water-walking while sticking pebbles to both arms while he did so.” Asuma looked carefully at the man sitting opposite him before continuing, “The child is one I’m sure you know well. You’ve known about him since the day he was born.”

To Danzo’s credit, he realised who he meant almost instantly. “I see.” He nodded once, thumping his cane against the wall. Asuma turned back to see the guard stationed outside the teahouse get up and walk away. “You may speak freely now.”

“It’s the Nine-Tails brat, Naruto Uzumaki.”

Danzo blinked his sole eye in surprise. “Truly? That’s certainly good news. Excellent news, in fact.”

“...What do you mean?

“If this is about his seal, you have nothing to worry about. I was among the few present when Jiraiya inspected. It has been drip-feeding him the Demon Fox’s chakra while keeping the beast tightly shackled for years now.”

Asuma shook his head. “Forget his seal, I’m talking about him.”

“The boy?” Danzo leaned forward. “What about him?”

“He’s a genius, a prodigy—and you know that mess that could cause.” Asuma breathed out slowly. “I’ve seen enough geniuses to know that being one isn’t always good. Always rushing to things without listening to anybody’s advice.”

“But he will one day become a weapon for the Leaf against our enemies,” said Danzo. “Surely you see the merit in capitalising on his mind while it is at its most plastic. By the time he graduates, his interest will be set in one direction or another, but if he is taught now, he could become well-versed in every single shinobi art.”

On some level, he understood Danzo’s rationale. It was cold, but the village needed a symbol, now more than ever. His father wasn’t getting any younger and the village was at its most vulnerable state. The kid currently had more chakra than some adults. With that kind of potential, confining him to rudimentary techniques wasn’t helpful in the slightest when his talent was there and ready to be capitalised on.

Asuma stared at the ceiling and chewed the inside of his cheek. That was what his years as a shinobi told him—but Asuma was a man first, and a shinobi second.

Naruto Uzumaki grew up in a time of peace.

He was too young to understand the gravity of weapons and jutsu—too inexperienced to understand what being a shinobi meant. He was a budding genius, but one without the crucible of war to forge him. However, throwing him to the wolves was a cruel thing to do when it wasn’t strictly necessary yet, and that was ignoring what would be asked of him by the village.

Time and time again, the world proved Asuma right. When the expectations and orders became too much to bear, the child geniuses would break. It happened to Kakashi of the Sharingan, it happened to Itachi Uchiha, and it would happen to Naruto Uzumaki too. 

Because, eventually, the things expected of Naruto Uzumaki would become too much for him to bear. It wouldn’t matter, though; the moment a person—adult or child—donned a forehead protector, they ceased to be human.

That said, he wondered if it was right to rip the last vestiges of childhood away from him.

“You know… I don’t think he’s ready.” Asuma leaned forward and stared at Danzo. “He’s a child who knows jack shit about war and shinobi, except for what’s in dusty old books. Why pull him away from his peers and his friends? There’s no war to fight, no enemy to beat, no ally to defend—it’d be pointless.”

Danzo raised an eyebrow. “As much as you hate to admit it, you’re more similar to your father than you think. Both of you are idealists, there’s just more steel to you than there is to him. The boy is a weapon, Asuma, and the sooner he understands that, the better.”

“He’s also a child and I’ve seen how these kids turn out. They stay away from their peers like some kind of wall separates them—and then end up as the subject of some tragic, cautionary tale. Avoidable tragedy. You saw what happened to Kakashi. When he needed people to help him, they couldn’t, because they weren’t there, and then he broke. Jonin at nine? ANBU at twelve? Would you do the same to a Jinchuriki, knowing the risks?”

“From your description, he’s no Kakashi Hatake, but I understand your point.” Danzo stopped and drank some tea. “If you're so concerned, how about you make sure he doesn’t go down the same path? Teach him the value of comrades and make sure that when duty calls, he is ready and fit to answer.”

“What, me?” Asuma snorted. “I’m not a genius.”

“On that, we agree,” Danzo chuckled. “That said, I have heard that the boy isn’t too keen on the Will of Fire.”

He rolled his eyes. “Really? Big surprise. The village treats him as a scourge on the earth and now he doesn’t like the village? Elder Shimura, believe me, I never saw that one coming.”

“Very funny, Asuma, but you’re only partly correct. The villagers’ treatment of the boy may indeed be a factor in his disillusionment towards the Leaf, but it is not the sole cause. Naruto Uzumaki is, I’m told, quite the philosophical child. Does that remind you of anyone?”

“...If you’re comparing him to me, we’re worlds apart, Elder Shimura. I was almost a man when I started questioning the village—and isn’t he a little too young to be thinking about sacrifice? What would he know about the Will of Fire?”

“Does it matter?” Danzo fixed him with a piercing stare. “Sooner or later, he will learn, and—according to your logic—when he does, it may be too late.” The old war hawk’s stare pinned him to the spot, and he found himself unable to look away from his eye.

Asuma grunted. “...Fine, maybe you’re right.”

Danzo reassembled the shogi table. “Another game before you go?”

“Sure,” said Asuma. “But this time, I’ll win.”