Naruto: Starting as the Third Hokage with Tears in His Eyes

Chapter 506 When the Rap Boy from Kumogakure Meets the Legendary Farming Ninja

Kakashi glanced at his father silently from the side.

Dad said it wrong on purpose.

"Eight-Sword Style"

Sakumo repeated it carefully, as if he had carefully stored the information in his memory, and nodded slightly, "Your Excellency is invincible on the battlefield, truly remarkable."

This statement was made sincerely, without any polite embellishment.

Killer Bee froze for a moment.

Immediately, a visible red flush appeared on his dark skin.

This pure, almost boyish embarrassment, appearing on a burly man with seven swords on his body and an eight-tailed demon sealed within him, created an extremely eerie sense of incongruity.

He scratched the back of his head, chuckled foolishly, and grinned so wide it almost stretched to his ears.

"Oh, no, no, no, you flatter me, Senior White Fang!"

As soon as he said it, the boy seemed to realize that this humble template was too bland and not worthy of this historic moment.

Killer Bee's Adam's apple bobbed, and that innate rhythmic urge surged to the tip of his tongue—

"...I was able to shine on the battlefield all thanks to Hachi's help—Yeah!"

He suddenly raised his fist, his arm bent into an exaggerated acute angle, his upper body swayed to the beat, and the seven knives at his waist made a series of crisp and fine clanging sounds, like a wind chime that had gone out of control.

This set of movements is so fluid and natural, as if it grew out of the womb along with the ninja body, that you can't even find a gap to stop it.

The campfire crackled in the camp.

Not far away, Obito Uchiha's action of eating dried fruit froze in mid-air.

His mouth was agape in a perfect circle, with half a walnut kernel still embedded inside. He didn't even notice that the paper bag in his hand was crooked, and the dried fruit was quietly and steadily rolling out one by one.

Kakashi Hatake turned his body slightly and with great restraint.

The distance was so precise it was as if it had been measured with a ruler—just enough to create the visual distance that "I'm not with this person," without being so rude as to be noticed.

Beneath the mask, his mouth was twitching wildly, out of his control.

"~"

Rin stood quietly beside Obito, her hands clasped in front of her, her lips pressed tightly together.

Her brown eyes curved into two thin crescent moons, and her shoulders trembled at a very slight frequency—she was a well-mannered girl, using all her strength to suppress a laugh.

Only Sakumo remained expressionless.

That calm smile on his face seemed to have weathered countless storms with him—whether it was a deer that wandered into the vegetable field in the dead of night or a young prodigy who could resonate with a tailed beast, he maintained the same warmth, without a bit more enthusiasm or less respect.

But only he knew the instant he heard the name "Xiao Ba" utter from the boy's mouth—

That heart, which had long been accustomed to the crop growth cycle, did indeed experience a very slight and very brief acceleration.

The Eight-Tailed Jinchuuriki.

It's not fear.

It's the instinctive wariness and awe that comes from the old hunter when he sees a tiger cub.

Kirabi stopped making gestures.

The lingering echoes of his rap still hung in the air, but his body had changed.

He took a half step forward, his shoulders slightly lowered, and his weight naturally shifted to the balls of his feet. The trembling of the seven knives ceased at the same instant—each one was precisely locked in the most comfortable position by his muscles.

The switch is silent and complete.

Just a second ago, he was a rapping teenager with a flushed face.

A second later, standing in front of Sakumo was a perfect ninja.

"senior."

The boy's voice still held a hint of laughter, and behind his sunglasses, a pair of young and intense eyes were fixed on Sakumo's hands—those hands that were now empty, hands that had pruned countless branches and severed countless throats.

"Could we... have a friendly spar?"

The last four words were pronounced very low, like a low growl squeezed out before a pounce.

The seven knives made no sound.

Because their master was ready to draw his sword, every muscle was waiting for the command, and even the vibration of the metal was locked in place.

The light from the campfire reflected off Kirabi's sunglasses, refracting into two dancing, orange-red flames.

Quiet.

Obito finally closed his mouth.

Kakashi unconsciously touched his lower back—it had just become empty that night, the knife had been returned to his father.

Rin Nohara's gaze swept back and forth between the two of them. Her intuition, honed through years of medical ninjutsu training, keenly detected a subtle change in the air—like the moment the surgeon picked up the scalpel in the pre-operative preparation room.

Sakumo looked at the boy in front of him.

The warm light of the campfire shone on Killer Bee's face, clearly illuminating the lingering childishness in his features.

The seven knives hung quietly on his body, and at this moment they didn't seem like weapons, but rather the pride and confidence of the young man.

Sakumo understood that look in his eyes.

That was neither the lust of a warmonger for his prey, nor the recklessness of a young man who was ignorant of the immensity of the world.

That was the pure admiration and longing that welled up from the bottom of the heart of a person who truly loved knives when he met another senior who was famous for his knives.

He had seen that look in Kakashi's eyes the first time he held the White Fang short sword.

Sakumo Hatake did not hesitate at all.

He clasped his hands together in front of his chest and bowed slightly.

Their movements were clean and efficient, displaying a simple and unpretentious manner characteristic of farmers working in the fields.

I'm sorry.

He straightened up, his tone gentle yet firm.

"We have important missions to attend to, and we probably can't accompany you this time."

"ah--"

Killer Bee was stunned for a full beat.

With his mouth slightly open, maintaining that expectant, forward-leaning posture, it was as if something had been blown away by the wind.

But it was only for one shot.

"It's alright, it's alright, senior!"

He hurriedly waved his hand, the movement so large that the seven knives on his body made a series of clattering sounds like billiard balls.

"Then let's spar again next time! Let's have another match next time!"

The boy bent over.

The angle was even deeper than what Sakumo had just done, with his entire upper body almost bent at a ninety-degree angle.

When he straightened up, the movement was too sudden, and his sunglasses slipped half an inch off his nose. He quickly caught them, pushed them back up, and put them back in place.

Those eyes, briefly exposed to the firelight, were deep brown, clean and bright, a stark contrast to his arrogant and overbearing demeanor when he rapped.

In the blink of an eye, the sunglasses covered everything again.

"Farewell, senior!"

Kirabi turned around and strode back.

He walked quickly, and the seven knives tapped rhythmically against his body, as if providing accompaniment.

After walking a dozen or so steps, the night breeze faintly carried back some fragmented sounds—

"White Fang, your name is renowned... I will definitely be there for the next sparring session... Eight swords against White Fang, let's fight to the death—hey, that rhymes! Not bad, not bad..."

The mumbling rap grew fainter and fainter until it was swallowed up by the noisy voices and crackling firelight of the camp and disappeared into the depths of the night.

Sakumo stood there, watching the figure covered in knives disappear into the distant glow of the campfire.

He was silent for a moment.

The wind blew past the white dagger tucked behind his back, and the residual warmth on the scabbard was slowly cooling in the night wind, turning from his son's body temperature back into its original, metallic coldness.

A teenage rapper with seven knives, and himself, a farm manager with only one knife.

Sakumo Hatake turned to look at Kakashi.

"Has he... always been like this?"

Kakashi had his hands in his pockets, his expression hidden behind his mask, only a hint of overly calm helplessness remained in his half-closed black eyes.

"Always."

After holding back for so long, Sakumo finally found the words to say. He patted his son on the shoulder, his face full of disbelief:

"You guys in the Water Gate unit have worked with people like this before? How did you manage not to laugh?"

"...Just focus on the mission."

"However, people with such distinct personalities must be very interesting to get along with."

A faint smile appeared on Hatake Sakumo's lips.

He looked up again in the direction where Chirabi had disappeared.

The campfire at the campsite cast a thin, warm glow around the edge of the darkness, like a slightly uneven gold line framing the night.

Eight-sword style.

interesting.

Sakumo gently patted the short sword on his back and said in a voice only he could hear:

"Maybe next time."