The Tactician: Naruto Fanfiction

[3875 Words]

Yasu's mother knelt beside him; her voice soft but insistent. "It's a nice day, Yasu. Go and play. You'll feel better after some fresh air." 

He didn't move, his grey eyes fixed on the chaotic scene ahead—a clearing where children shrieked and darted around, sticks in hand, flailing them like swords or kunai. Play? With them? He bit back a sigh. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged into their games. 

"Go on," his mother urged again, placing a gentle hand on his back. Her smile was warm, but there was a flicker of worry in her gaze, like she was searching for something she couldn't name. 

Yasu hesitated. He'd seen that look before, and he couldn't stand it. Fine. It wasn't as if sitting here would change anything. Reluctantly, he rose to his feet and trudged toward the clearing, his mother's soft "That's my boy" trailing behind him. 

As he approached the noisy cluster of children, Yasu's eyes skimmed over the chaos—boys and girls running wild, diving into imaginary battles, shouting jumbled phrases like "Shadow Clone!" and "Fire Style!" at each other. A few rolled across the dirt, throwing handfuls of leaves and yelling "explosions!" with the kind of energy only children could muster. 

It was nonsense. And yet… 

His gaze caught on a quieter group off to the side. Four boys crouched in a tight circle, their backs hunched and heads close together like conspirators. They weren't shouting or running. Instead, they were scratching something into the dirt with sticks, their expressions as serious as generals preparing for war. 

Yasu paused. For the first time, curiosity tugged at him. He drifted toward them, unnoticed at first, until his shadow stretched over the circle. 

"What do you want?" one of the boys demanded, looking up. He was the tallest of the group, with a mop of unruly black hair and a smudge of dirt across his nose. He squinted at Yasu as if deciding whether he was friend or foe. 

Yasu shrugged. "Can I join?" 

The boy's expression scrunched in scepticism. "Do you even know how to play ninja?" 

Yasu hesitated. He wanted to scoff at the question—play ninja? What did that even mean?—but the other boys were staring now, waiting. He met their gaze evenly and replied, "I'll figure it out." 

The tallest boy snorted. "Hmph. Fine. But don't mess up the plan." 

Plan? 

Yasu crouched down, peering into the dirt where the boys had scratched out an elaborate map. At least, it was meant to be elaborate. Lines crisscrossed haphazardly, dotted with pebbles, sticks, and leaves representing… something. 

The tallest boy jabbed his stick at a clump of rocks near the edge of the circle. "Alright, listen up. This is the enemy's base. We sneak in from here—" he dragged the stick along a crooked path, "—and throw dirt bombs to distract them." 

"Then," another boy interrupted excitedly, his small hands waving, "we'll split up and attack! Kenji will do a sneak strike from the left while I take out their leader!" 

"You can't take out the leader," Kenji, a round-faced boy, objected. "I'm the fastest, so I'm sneaking up first!" 

"No way! I'm the captain!" 

"Captains don't get to sneak," a third boy interjected, pointing with his stick. "They're supposed to shout orders from the back." 

"I can do both!" 

Yasu watched the squabble unfold with thinly veiled disbelief. This was their plan? He tilted his head, scanning the map again. Their "strategy" was just random lines and misplaced rocks, nothing close to resembling order or sense. 

"You're putting your trap in the wrong spot." 

The words slipped out before he could stop them. The boys froze, turning to look at him. 

"What?" the leader asked, narrowing his eyes. 

Yasu pointed at a rock they'd labelled as a "trap." "If you put the trap there, you'll hit your own team when they move in. The path's too close." 

The tallest boy blinked. "Huh?" 

Yasu sighed, his small fingers brushing over the dirt map. He reached for one of the rocks, nudging it a few inches to the side. "Move it here. That way, you block their escape without hitting anyone on your team." 

The boys stared at him. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Kenji blurted out, "Hey, that's actually smart!" 

Another boy frowned, scratching his head. "But… wait. Where should we attack from now?" 

Yasu's fingers hovered over the dirt again. He was starting to enjoy himself, though he'd never admit it. "If you're going to split up, send one team here—" he pointed to the left side of the "base"—"to draw their attention. Then the other team can flank from behind while they're distracted." 

The boys murmured in agreement, their heads bobbing as they rearranged their map. Yasu felt a strange flicker of satisfaction watching the chaos turn into something almost resembling a real strategy. 

"Whoa," the leader muttered, looking at Yasu with newfound respect. "You're pretty good at this." 

Yasu shrugged, trying to keep his expression neutral. "It's just common sense." 

The tallest boy grinned and jabbed a thumb at his chest. "I'm Daisuke! I'm the captain." 

"Kenji," the round-faced boy added quickly, straightening up as though to prove his speediness. "I'm the fastest ninja here!" 

The third boy, quieter and smaller, adjusted his stick like it was a weapon. "Hiro," he said with a small nod. "I'm in charge of the traps." 

"I'm Kenta," piped up the last boy, his grin wide as he waved his stick enthusiastically. "And I can do jutsus better than anyone!" 

They all turned to Yasu expectantly. 

Yasu hesitated, his fingers brushing the stick in his hand. He considered brushing them off but thought better of it. "Yasu," he said simply. 

"Yasu-kun, then," Daisuke decided, grinning as though the matter were settled. "Welcome to the team!" 

The boys didn't seem to care. They scrambled to their feet, sticks raised like weapons, and began barking orders at each other as they prepared to enact their "plan." The leader turned back to Yasu, grinning. "You're coming too! You can be the brains of the operation!" 

Before Yasu could protest, a hand grabbed his wrist, dragging him into their ranks. He stumbled along, half-annoyed, half-intrigued, as the children charged across the clearing, shouting war cries at the other kids who had no idea what was happening. 

Yasu glanced around as the boys yelled out their attacks? swinging sticks as though they were swords. He frowned. Weapons made of wood. 'Attacks' made of words. And yet… they move like they believe it. To think he was now a child. A fascinating viewpoint. 

One boy lunged forward, yelling, "Fireball Jutsu!" before tossing a handful of dry leaves into the air. The leaves scattered harmlessly, but his opponent screamed, collapsing with dramatic flair. 

"You're on fire! You're supposed to roll on the ground!" 

Yasu blinked. What kind of rules are these? He looked down at his own stick—his "kunai"—turning it in his hand. In his old world, battles were planned with maps and radios, guns and steel. Here, it was dirt, rocks, and wild imaginations. And yet… it's almost the same. 

From the edge of the park, Yasu's mother watched the group of children dragging her son along, his small frame almost hidden among the others. He didn't smile, not exactly, but there was a lightness to the way he moved—like he'd forgotten to hold himself apart for just a moment. 

Her shoulders relaxed, and she let out a quiet breath. "See? I knew you'd enjoy it," she whispered to herself, though Yasu was too far away to hear. 

The children's "battlefield" quickly descended into joyful chaos. Yasu found himself shuffled to the back, left to observe as they split into two "teams" with the kind of enthusiasm only children could muster. He stood off to the side, watching the group chatter excitedly about their strategy. 

"Kenji-kun, you do the Shadow Clone Jutsu!" shouted the leader, waving his stick dramatically like it was a legendary sword. 

"I don't need clones," Kenji argued back, puffing out his chest. "I'll take them all myself!" 

"You can't!" another boy interjected, stomping his foot. "That's cheating! You need to have clones or your sneak attack won't work." 

"Fine!" the boy crouching with the stick huffed. "Then I'll use my Earthquake Jutsu instead!" He stood abruptly and slammed his foot down hard on the dirt. 

"BOOM!" he yelled, throwing his arms wide as if sending shockwaves through the ground. 

Yasu stared at him, then at the completely unshaken earth beneath their feet. "...That's it?" 

"Yeah!" the boy grinned, proud of himself. "Did you feel that? You're supposed to fall over!" 

Yasu arched an eyebrow. "The ground didn't move." 

"That's because you're not pretending hard enough!" 

"Right," Yasu muttered, deadpan. He shoved his hands into his pockets, scanning the scene with faint disbelief. 

Another boy crouched down and began drawing on the ground with his stick, muttering to himself. "I'll use my Stone Clone technique to make a decoy." 

Stone Clone? Yasu's brow furrowed. Was that like Kenji's shadow thing? And why was everyone talking about clones as if they were real? He glanced down at the patch of dirt where the boy was scratching out another rough "map," his small finger tapping stones into position. 

"What's a stone clone supposed to do?" Yasu asked, his voice curious despite himself. 

The boy looked up as if surprised he didn't know. "It's a clone made of rock, obviously. It's really strong! But if someone punches it, boom!"—he spread his arms wide for emphasis—"it shatters!" 

"…Right." Yasu looked back down at the makeshift battlefield. He was starting to think these kids were taking this ninja thing very seriously. Too seriously. 

"Here!" The leader interrupted his thoughts, shoving a stick into Yasu's hand. "This is your kunai. You need one if you're gonna fight." 

Yasu held up the stick, examining it with faint disapproval. It was lumpy, uneven, and far too short to be any real weapon. "This is a stick," he said flatly. 

"It's not a stick! It's a kunai!" The leader's face scrunched in frustration. "You have to pretend it's sharp. You're not using your imagination." 

Yasu glanced between the stick and the boy, clearly unconvinced. He'd never been one for make-believe, not even when he'd been a child the first time around. Pretending a twig was a weapon seemed pointless. And yet… 

"Fine," he muttered, holding it with an awkward grip. "Now what?" 

The leader grinned, his frustration forgotten. "You're gonna help us attack the enemy base. But you can't run in yet—you're a thinker, remember? You have to wait for the signal." 

Yasu raised an eyebrow. "And what's the signal?" 

"We'll yell really loud." 

"Of course you will," Yasu muttered, rolling his eyes. 

The children scattered across the clearing, Kenji and a few others darting behind bushes, waving their "weapons" like seasoned warriors. Yasu stayed behind, watching from his assigned spot as they "snuck" toward their targets—other kids who hadn't been informed they were playing. 

The leader crouched beside him, his face serious. "Okay, thinker, when they see us, you yell 'Attack!' Got it?" 

Yasu frowned. "Why me?" 

"Because you're smart!" the boy said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything. 

Smart, huh? That wasn't a word Yasu had heard very often in this new life. He glanced at the stick in his hand, turning it over with an almost amused expression. It seemed ridiculous, standing here, pretending this was a battlefield. Yet… 

The children moved with a strange purpose, their voices low as they whispered plans to each other. They weren't very coordinated—Kenji tripped over a root and someone else got tangled in their own shirt—but they were trying. 

They really believe this, Yasu thought. He tilted his head slightly, watching the group scurry about like overexcited ants. He had to admit, there was something admirable about it—their willingness to take nonsense so seriously. 

"Hey! They saw us!" Kenji's voice suddenly rang out, loud enough to carry across the clearing. 

The leader's eyes went wide. "Yasu-kun, now!" 

Yasu blinked, startled. He hesitated for a second before sighing quietly and raising his voice. 

"Attack." 

The word came out flat, devoid of any real enthusiasm, but it did the job. The other boys exploded out of their hiding spots with ear-piercing shrieks, charging toward their "enemies" with sticks flailing and arms waving. Leaves flew through the air, pebbles bounced off tree trunks, and at least two kids tripped over nothing. 

Yasu stood still, watching the chaos unfold. It was absurd. It was childish. And yet… something in him stirred—a faint flicker of something he couldn't name. 

He shifted his grip on the stick, rolling it thoughtfully between his fingers. A kunai, huh? 

Eventually, the children regrouped, red-faced and breathless. They flopped onto the ground in a disorganized heap, laughing and shouting about their "victory." Kenji held up his stick like a trophy. 

"We totally won!" 

"No way, we lost 'cause you forgot to make clones!" 

Yasu sat a little apart, leaning back on his hands as he watched them. It was strange, how something so small could feel so… alive. He didn't understand their obsession with ninja, but maybe it wasn't so different from kids back in his old life playing at soldiers or superheroes. 

. 

. 

. 

By the time the first cold winds of the season swept through the village, the days had begun to fall into an uneasy routine. 

The smell of miso soup intertwined with the faint smokiness of grilled fish, wrapping the small room in a warmth that stood in sharp contrast to the chill settling in Yasu's mind. His grey eyes lingered on the rice bowl before him, chopsticks held with meticulous poise. Each grain of rice he lifted was a deliberate action—not a thoughtless motion, but one touched by precision and quiet intent. Yet, his mind was elsewhere, caught in currents far from the meal. 

He leaned back slightly, glancing at his mother. Across from him, her gentle gaze lingered, watching him as she sipped from her bowl. She'd always been patient like that—watching without prying, letting him come to her in his own time. But tonight, he could feel her curiosity just beneath the surface. She'd noticed his silence, more than usual. 

"Yasu," she said softly, setting her bowl down. "Is something on your mind?" 

He glanced up at her, chewing slowly. There was no point lying—not to her. She'd see right through it. "I saw something today," he admitted, eyes shifting back to his rice. "A shinobi." 

Her brows lifted slightly, though she kept her expression calm. "Oh? What did you see?" 

He hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly on the chopsticks. The image flashed in his mind—sharp and clear as if it had just happened. A man in dark garb, moving with such fluid grace it felt more like watching the wind slip through trees than a person walking. But that wasn't what lingered in his mind. It was the moment he… disappeared. 

"He… vanished," Yasu said slowly, tasting the word like it was unfamiliar. "One second he was there, on the rooftop. The next, he wasn't." He lowered his chopsticks, his appetite waning. "I didn't know they could do that. I didn't see where he went. Didn't hear him leave." His grey eyes flickered to hers, searching her face for something—understanding, maybe. "How does someone just… disappear like that?" 

His mother's eyes softened, but her posture shifted. Her shoulders drew in slightly, her fingers lacing together on her lap. She glanced at him, then away, as if measuring her words carefully. "It's chakra, Yasu," she said quietly. "They use their chakra to do things most people can't. It's energy inside their bodies, and with enough training, they can push it into their hands, their feet… even their whole body to do things like move fast, climb walls, or… vanish." She offered a small smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "It's control." 

Yasu's eyes narrowed in thought, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. Chakra. He'd heard the word before in passing but never thought much of it. Control. It sounded so simple the way she said it, but something in her tone made it feel heavier than it should have been. 

"Can anyone learn it?" he asked, his voice careful, testing. 

Her eyes flicked back to him, sharper now, and for a moment, she didn't answer. Her fingers pressed together tighter. "It's… not that simple, Yasu," she said slowly, like walking over uneven ground. "It's dangerous work. It's not just tricks and vanishing acts. It's fighting. Missions. Sometimes… people don't come back." She glanced at him then, her gaze more searching than before. "Why are you so curious about it?" 

Yasu's eyes flicked to hers, a steady seriousness replacing his earlier curiosity. "I want to become a shinobi," he said firmly. "How do you become one? How many ranks are there? How long does it take?" 

Her breath caught, and for a moment, her lips parted as if she might say something, but no words came. Her hands tightened on her lap. "Yasu…" She glanced away, eyes fixed on a distant point as if searching for the right answer. When she spoke, her voice was measured but strained. "To become a shinobi, you have to start at an academy. Children train there for years, learning the basics. Once they're ready, they're called genin—the lowest rank." She rubbed her thumb against her palm slowly, her gaze distant. "After that, they're sent on missions with teams, and if they prove themselves, they can become chunin. Higher still are jonin, the elite. But it's not about how fast you move up. It's about surviving." She turned to him, her gaze heavier than before. "Some never make it past genin. Some never make it home." 

"How long does it take to become a jonin?" Yasu asked, leaning forward now, his hands pressed flat on the table. 

"It's different for everyone," she said quietly, eyes locking onto his. "Some never do." 

"But it's possible," he pressed, his heart quickening with a strange excitement. 

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she studied him in silence. "Yes, it's possible," she admitted, but there was no pride in her words—only worry. "But it's a hard life, Yasu. It's not a game. You'll be asked to do things you can't undo." Her eyes softened then, and she reached out to brush his hair back from his face. "Why do you want that for yourself?" 

He didn't answer at first, his gaze dropping to the table. His fingers tapped softly against the wood, steady and rhythmic. "Because," he said at last, lifting his gaze to meet hers, "I'd be good at it." 

Her face shifted, her eyes widening with a flicker of horror. Her hand fell away from his hair, and she sat up straighter, her gaze sharp now. "You don't know what you're saying, Yasu," she said, her voice more forceful than before. "You're only three. You don't understand what it means to be a shinobi. You're too young." 

Yasu went quiet, leaning back in his seat, his grey eyes fixed on her with the steady patience of a predator watching for the slightest twitch of prey. He noted the shift in her posture—the slight curl of her fingers in her lap, the way her eyes flickered to the side as if searching for words. 

He understood that feeling. He'd seen it before—in the faces of people trying to talk soldiers out of enlisting. And he remembered the hassle it had caused in his past life when he'd registered for the army. The memory stirred, sharp and vivid, as if it had been burned into his mind. 

His grandfather's voice rose unbidden in his ears, clear as day, ringing through the cold silence of the old man's office. 

That office had always been heavy with the smell of old paper and polish, the chessboard a permanent fixture on the side table. Yasu had grown up in rooms like that, where the weight of expectation was as thick as the shadows. Chess had been his grandfather's obsession—an obsession so fierce it had settled into their family like an heirloom. 

Yasu had watched his father and grandfather play for hours when he was little, mesmerized by the clicks of carved pieces on the board, the careful silences punctuated only by low murmurs. After his father's death, the board had been passed to Yasu. At first, he'd played to fill the void left behind, a boy in a too-large chair, his feet unable to reach the ground. He learned quickly, though—because his grandfather never played games idly. Chess is war, the old man had said. And war is no place for the weak. 

The day Yasu handed him those enlistment papers, the chessboard had been there, its pieces mid-game. His grandfather had stared at the documents, his wrinkled fingers brushing the paper's edge before his gaze sharpened like a blade. 

"Do you enjoy being a disappointment, boy?!" the old man roared, his voice cracking through the room like a whip. He slammed his fist down, hard enough to rattle the black king on the board. "You think signing your life away makes you brave? It makes you a fool! A pawn. Do you know what happens to pawns, Yasu? They die. Alone and forgotten, while the kings move on to their next game." 

The old man rose to his full height then, looming over Yasu as his voice dropped, low and bitter, like poison seeping into a wound. "You were meant for greater things," he hissed. "To stand by my side. To take my place. And you would throw that away for this?" He jabbed a finger at the documents as though they were filth. "I raised you to be a king, not some faceless piece to be sacrificed." 

Yasu had said nothing, his gaze fixed on the chessboard between them. The black pawn teetered for a moment before settling back into place. That memory lingered now, carved into his mind like a scar. He'd never forgotten the venom in his grandfather's voice—or the truth hidden within it. 

He traced unseen patterns across the table in front of him now, his expression distant. Pawn. The insult had stung, but he'd taken it for what it was—a warning wrapped in spite. Pawns obeyed commands. Pawns moved only as directed. 

But Yasu had grown up watching the board. He'd played the games, learned the sacrifices. And he had no intention of dying as one of them. Not again. 

He wanted to be the hand that moved the pieces, not the pawn pushed across the board. And he wondered, just for a moment, how long it would take to become that hand. 

The notion sparked a fire within him—a quiet, unyielding blaze. To be a strategist, not just a piece on the board but the mind behind the moves. To rise beyond mere competence, to stand at the pinnacle. A shinobi, unseen yet undeniable. A victor, not by force alone but by the mastery of foresight and precision. 

A faint curve tugged at his lips, subtle but undeniable. He was smiling.