It had been another two months since Menma last saw Granny Biwako. He really missed her, but to his disappointment, she hadn't even appeared within his sensing range once.
That day, after she left, he fell ill again—high fever, nightmares about his death, and the memory of his body left beside the street like a stray cat's carcass, unclaimed and unnoticed. No one even looked his way.
Finally, after a week of struggling, with help from the energy in his tummy, he pieced himself back together. Even so, his spirits stayed low for another two weeks.
Now he had three caretakers—nurses in all-black uniforms with creepy, expressionless animal masks. One was a young boy, and his aura felt oddly familiar, though Menma couldn't place where he'd sensed it before. The other two were tall, stone-bodied women. Their skin was so hot and taut that, Menma mused, girls from his previous life would cling to them just for their body heat. But no guy in their right mind would approach them. Whenever they held him, he'd feel a mix of pity and discomfort.
The nurses worked in rotating 8-hour shifts, always on standby. Day or night, awake or asleep, they were there—silent and unmoving. The two women never spoke a word. No emotions came from them—no anger, annoyance, joy, or kindness. Their minds, like their bodies, were made of stone.
One of Menma's daily hobbies had become trying to spark any emotion from them—some kind of buried feeling, no matter how faint—but with no success. And that was despite his recently enhanced emotional sensing range and depth.
The young boy, though, was the opposite. A whirlwind of emotion, messy and loud. Whenever he was around, Menma had to consciously limit his emotional sensing just to stay sane. This chaos forced him to learn how to control his abilities—to open and close his senses at will. Since the two stone statues never talked, all of Menma's "speech training" landed on this poor boy's shoulders, turning his emotions even more chaotic.
But eventually, he learned Menma's rule:
"If you respond to my baby sounds, I'll leave you alone. If not, I'll keep babbling nonsense forever."
Thus, they reached a peaceful understanding.
Menma, indeed, was a peace-loving citizen.
Last month, the boy brought a book with him. Judging from the cover, Menma instantly pegged it as unhealthy content. Naturally, he pestered the boy until he finally let him see it.
Then he became depressed.
If you asked Menma what writing system gave him the worst headache in his past life, he'd say Japanese. Forget the drawings that look like chicken scratches—it's the fact that there are multiple writing systems. And to read anything remotely advanced, you had to understand at least two. Now, looking at the neatly printed symbols on the page, Menma cried.
Actual tears.
The nurse, clueless about the reason for the crying, spent hours trying to calm him down. Finally, he hugged Menma and agreed to read the book aloud. In exchange, Menma pointed to the words as he read.
This time, it was the boy who cried—silently.
(Well, a good cry once in a while clears the eyes. You're welcome.)
Eventually, Menma concluded that the grammar structure was similar to Arabic, but the characters followed a Chinese-like form. Tough, but learnable. He estimated he could reach level A1 fluency in about a year—which was acceptable.
That night, he refused to let go of the book, even after the nurse's shift ended. The next day, the poor boy, desperate to save his precious reading material, brought Menma several children's picture books and even a coloring book with some crayons.
That made Menma very happy. He giggled the whole day.
He even caught a tiny trace of happiness from the stone nurses. Their skin metaphorically cracked a little, and that made him even happier.
As time passed, his senses became sharper and broader. Eventually, he started picking up residual auras on the three nurses. That's when he noticed it—a weak but consistent smell of tobacco, clinging faintly to their uniforms.
At first, he wasn't sure. But as the scent persisted day after day, he became certain.
It was that old, smoking uncle's smell.
His aura was on them too. That meant he was the one who made Granny Biwako leave him.
That day, Menma wrote it down in his mental revenge journal.
Target: Old Man Hokage.
Mission: Payback.
To prepare for that day, Menma put aside his study plans and began training. He'd already mastered crawling and—since he tended to get dirty—the nurses (especially the girls) would keep the floor spotless. The boy nurse was usually too drained to clean after Menma's bedtime.
Now, Menma wanted to stand.
But as with all beautiful ideas—reality was cruel.
Every time he tried standing up, holding onto furniture or corners, he'd fall on his chubby bottom. He tested many methods, but none worked—until he tried climbing the boy nurse in a fit of frustration.
And it worked.
Menma, who couldn't stand on flat ground, stood upright by clinging to the poor nurse like a monkey. From that day, a new duty was added to the male nurse's shift: Human Ladder.
Menma could sense the boy's inner emotions, and lately one feeling was dominating the rest:
Helplessness.
(My dear man, allow me to help you. Ahem… you're welcome. I've rescued you from confusion. Now bow and let me climb!)
A certain white-haired boy, watching a baby not even six months old babble proudly while grabbing at him:
(Teacher… you left me too soon… Way too soon…)
......
Today marked six months since the Nine Tails incident. After months of nonstop political fires, rebuilding, and sleepless nights, Hiruzen Sarutobi finally had a moment to rest. Feeling like taking a walk through the recovering village, he grabbed his Hokage hat, called for an ANBU escort, and took a few files to review on the go.
His new advisor, Shikaku Nara, followed close behind, reporting in with his usual sleepy but precise tone.
"Lord Hokage, Jiraiya-sama sent word. The border is calm, his mission is complete, and he's returned to writing… something about a flood of fan letters for Make-Out Heaven. Apparently, it's been a bestseller."
Sarutobi nodded with an exhausted smile. "As expected of him."
Shikaku continued. "Tsunade-sama left a note in her tent. She's already gone with her disciple. She said she was bored, and not to worry about the Cloud Village."
"No explanation?"
"Nope. Just her usual 'Don't worry.'"
Sarutobi sighed. "Understood. Begin rotating border squads. Let those stationed longest come home to their families."
After the funeral of Minato and Kushina, Jiraiya and Tsunade had rushed back—but they were too late. Not even a glimpse of comatose Kushina.
Perhaps, Sarutobi thought bitterly, he had made a mistake in the pressure of the moment. But spilled water doesn't return to the bowl.
He had made his choices.
"And how is reconstruction?" Sarutobi asked as they crossed the market square.
"Most of the foundation is done. Houses are going up every day. At this rate, by next month, everyone will be back in their homes."
"Good work, Shikaku. Torifu was right to choose you."
Shikaku, now worn down from five straight months of paperwork and budgeting, looked more like a hostage than a government official.
"I miss raising deer."
"Well, your father gets to do that now. Once your son is ready, you can too."
Realizing that meant two full decades of this job, Shikaku nearly broke into tears.
Sarutobi chuckled and changed the subject. "What about the Uchiha Clan?"
Shikaku snapped out of his grief long enough to reply.
"They initially resisted relocation but agreed after negotiations—money, mission privileges, ANBU positions not under Danzō. They're settling into the new district."
"And the police force?"
"They had heavy casualties. To keep it running, they accepted non-clan members. Surprisingly, they kept most of them on. Seems they're trying to soften their image while freeing up clan members for mission work. It's smart, assuming no hidden agenda."
Sarutobi stroked his beard. That explained Danzō's growing paranoia.
"Keep a close eye. Watch the civilians who joined and any Uchiha who stepped back. Make sure no one's being used for shadow games."
Shikaku noted it down. They wrapped up the briefing as the sun dipped low. Sarutobi remembered that his wife had been serving him bland food lately—her silent protest for not visiting Menma in three months.
Not wanting to suffer dry tofu again, he decided to drop in.
"If I recall, your son turns seven months today, doesn't he?" Sarutobi said.
"Yes."
"Then go home early. Buy a gift. Make your wife smile. Trust me, it's worth more than any mission."
Shikaku didn't argue. He bowed and practically sprinted away, already imagining the horrors waiting at home.
Sarutobi, now alone, made a quick series of hand signs. An ANBU emerged from the shadows.
"Status?"
"All's well. No disturbances."
"Good. Return to post."
The ANBU vanished. Sarutobi walked to the door of Menma's house.
Inside, he heard Kakashi sounding unusually concerned.
"What's wrong, little Menma? Are you hurt?"
Earlier, Menma had been walking with Kakashi—yes, walking, as in walking on two legs. But suddenly, he froze, looked toward the wall, and bolted for the bathroom.
Before Kakashi could react, Menma closed the door behind him.
Panicking, Kakashi called out, unsure if something had happened. He remembered what happened two months ago, when Menma saw Jiraiya's "Make-Out Paradise" book and cried his soul out. Then there was last month, when Menma started climbing furniture, then climbed him, turning Kakashi into a permanent stepladder.
This time, the bathroom door was shut, and Menma wasn't answering. He might've been hurt. Kakashi called out again. After a few tense seconds, the door creaked open.
Kakashi sighed in relief and squatted down to check him. "Thank goodness, you're okay."
He tapped Menma's nose—normally something Menma hated—but this time, Menma smiled.
A big, suspicious smile.
A very familiar one.
It was her smile—Kushina's mischievous grin, the one she wore when she set traps and sat back to watch the chaos unfold.
Kakashi froze.
Before he could investigate further, the front door opened behind him. Alarmed, he grabbed Menma and sprang back, kunai in hand.
But it was only Lord Third.
Kakashi sighed, relieved. "Lord Third… what brings you here?"
Sarutobi smiled, eyes already scanning the room. "Just checking in on our little fox."
As Kakashi bowed and fumbled a polite excuse, Menma suddenly chirped:
"Ahhh, gagba, gangba!"
His arms stretched out toward Sarutobi like he wanted to be picked up.
Sarutobi blinked, surprised, then beamed. "So you missed Grandpa, did you?"
He picked Menma up and sat in a chair, bouncing him playfully.
"You little rascal, should I tickle you?"
Kakashi's eyes widened.
Oh no.
He knew two things Menma hated:
1. Random belly poking, and
2. Being tickled.
And now he was getting both.
Kakashi backed away, sweating.
He opened the bathroom door.
At first glance, nothing looked wrong… until he saw a familiar cloth bundle in the corner.
He bent down and picked it up.
It was Menma's diaper.
He froze.
No…
He replayed the timeline in his head—Menma's dash to the bathroom, the suspicious smile, and the moment he leapt into Sarutobi's arms.
Then came the shout:
"Kakashi! Why is he not wearing a diaper!?"
Kakashi turned.
Lord Third's robes were soaked in a very obvious golden circle.
Kakashi felt his soul leave his body.
He swore silently to never, ever, offend this child again.
Meanwhile, Menma, victorious and smug, leaned back in Sarutobi's arms.
Revenge: successful.
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