Chapter 10: Ninja Economics 101 — Robbing the Bad Guys for Dummies
(In which Naruto contemplates philosophy, capitalism, and punching creeps in alleyways.)
Naruto Uzumaki was not the kind of houseguest who cleaned up after himself or folded the laundry without being asked. But he was the kind of houseguest who brooded in the dark like a philosophy major during finals week. Which, considering he was technically a spirit inside Danny's soul, made him something between a ghost, a big brother, and a walking motivational quote poster with a mean right hook.
As he moved through the Fenton house—silent as a shadow, smooth as peanut butter—Naruto's mind wasn't on his footsteps. No, his brain was busy swimming laps in the Olympic Pool of Existential Dread™.
Danny.
The kid was trying. Naruto could see that. He was putting in effort, throwing punches, reading actual books (Naruto shuddered), and most importantly—not quitting. But Naruto had seen this before. Push too hard, too fast, and you didn't get a hero.
You got a burnout.
Or worse—a ticking time bomb with unresolved trauma and a flair for dramatic monologues.
"Fear and pain aren't teachers. They're just… tools," Naruto muttered, mostly to himself, as he reached the living room. "Tools I've been leaning on way too much."
Danny was still a kid. One with dark circles, shaky test grades, and a disturbing talent for falling down stairs. If Naruto wasn't careful, he'd end up teaching Danny how to win fights and lose everything else that mattered.
Shaking his head like he was clearing cobwebs, Naruto flicked his wrist. A shimmer of chakra-threaded illusion wrapped around his body like a second skin. Add a hoodie, some casual jeans, and a dash of ancient-ninja-stealth-technique no jutsu, and boom:
Invisibility achieved.
It was time to hustle.
Out in the city, night had fully claimed the sky, painting it a deep, dramatic black that screamed "Something sketchy is happening!" Neon lights flickered across puddled sidewalks. People bustled by, unaware that a living, breathing force of chakra-fueled vengeance was prowling above their heads like a very judgmental rooftop cat.
Naruto's eyes glowed faintly as he perched on the edge of an apartment complex, his senses sweeping outward like sonar.
"There you are," he whispered.
Target locked: a warehouse near the docks, crawling with men whose criminal records probably had their own zip codes. Naruto didn't need a warrant to know these guys weren't exactly volunteering at soup kitchens. He could feel it—the malice, the hunger for power, the way their chi bent unnaturally.
Which, according to Naruto's Morally Justified Crime Chart, meant these guys were about to make a "donation" to the Save Danny Phantom Foundation.
Ten minutes later…
The warehouse was officially one ninja short of being an action movie.
Naruto moved like smoke, flickering between shadows, dodging bullets, disarming thugs, and offering unsolicited life advice between roundhouse kicks.
"You should invest in therapy!"
WHAM!
"Crime is not a retirement plan!"
BANG, CRACK!
"Hitting a teenager won't fill the void in your heart!"
Within moments, the bad guys were tied up like discount sushi rolls, courtesy of Naruto's chakra strings. He tapped a panel on the wall, found the stash room, and cracked open crates filled with cold, hard, definitely-stolen cash.
"Jackpot," Naruto muttered, stuffing a duffel bag with the enthusiasm of someone grabbing free samples at a ninja convention.
He also grabbed a laptop, a phone, and a few flash drives. Information was just as valuable as money—maybe more so. With these, he could start building a network. The kind of network Danny would need one day.
Because being a hero wasn't just about throwing punches. It was also about being prepared, knowing your enemy, and having enough resources to not wear the same hoodie three days in a row.
As the stars wheeled overhead, Naruto stood on a rooftop, the duffel bag over his shoulder and the wind tugging at his hoodie.
He still had doubts. He still feared what might happen to Danny, especially when the supernatural finally came knocking. But tonight, he had done something. Secured a foothold. Bought them all time.
And time, as far as Naruto was concerned, was the most precious resource of all.
"You'll be okay, Danny," he said to the wind. "I'll make sure of it."
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Let it be said that Naruto Uzumaki, even when stuck in the soul of a teenager, still had style.
After leaving the warehouse with a duffel bag full of unethically sourced "donations," he returned to the Fenton house long enough to store it the way any responsible ninja spirit would—by drawing an intricate storage seal directly onto Danny's back. The teen, dead asleep, didn't even flinch as Naruto uncapped a special chakra-ink brush and etched symbols with the kind of casual precision that would make tattoo artists cry tears of blood.
"There we go," Naruto muttered, tapping the seal. The bag of cash vanished in a puff of pale-blue light. "Portable ninja bank account: activated."
With that done, he pulled Danny's hoodie tight, adjusted his chakra-mask (which, let's be honest, was ninety percent intimidation, ten percent fashion statement), and slipped out once more into the cool Amity Park night.
The town had a strange stillness after dark. Not the peaceful, sleepy kind, but the "There are definitely ghosts watching me from the shadows" kind. Naruto didn't need ghost-sensing goggles or ectoplasmic scanners. His chakra-connected senses painted the world in layers of light and darkness.
Yin energy curled along the streets like mist—thick, cold, and unnatural.
To the average person, it was nothing. A trick of the light. But to Naruto, it shimmered like dew on a spider's web. The rips in space, the tears in reality bleeding spectral light, were everywhere. Some tiny—hairline fractures. Others pulsing wide enough to suck in a school bus if provoked.
"This town's a spiritual sinkhole," Naruto whispered, "and no one even notices."
He could draw from it, yes. In fact, he had to. The energy was a temporary fix for the slow decay gnawing at the edges of his spiritual form. But it wasn't enough—not by a long shot. At best, it was ghost coffee: kept him moving, didn't fix the exhaustion.
If he wanted real power back, he'd need a feast. A powerful entity. Maybe the right ghost… or the wrong one.
But that path was risky. Dangerous. One mistake and he'd rip a hole in the world big enough to wave at the apocalypse through.
No, he couldn't fight that battle yet.
That's why he needed Danny. And Tucker. And Sam. And, preferably, a small army. Not because he was afraid.
Because this time… he couldn't afford to fight alone.
Ten blocks later, Naruto stood before the kind of house that screamed "I'm overcompensating." A massive mansion—tall stone walls, polished gates, ivy vines trimmed weekly by gardeners with NDAs. Danny's memories said the man inside was a generous philanthropist, a respected businessman.
Naruto's senses said liar.
Corruption clung to the air like cheap cologne—thick, sour, and unmistakable. This wasn't just a bad guy. This was a long game.
Scaling the wall was trivial. Dogs didn't bark. Cameras glitched for exactly six-point-three seconds—just enough time for a masked teenager to become a ghost story. Naruto moved like memory, flickering through the courtyard, shadow-walking through moonlight and leaf cover.
His hands moved on muscle memory. Every step, every breath, was a lesson written into Danny's muscles. Reflexes that would remain once the boy woke up—like muscle ghosts.
"This is how you move, Danny," Naruto thought, slipping under a motion sensor. "Quiet. Sharp. Controlled. You're not just fighting ghosts. You're becoming one."
Inside the mansion, he breezed past marble staircases, overpriced chandeliers, and hallway art probably bought to launder money. Security systems? Child's play. Pressure plates? Old news. Hidden lasers? Cute.
Finally, he reached the master bedroom.
The air was heavy with false peace. A king-sized bed fit for royalty, silk sheets, and the quiet hum of two people dreaming.
Naruto moved to the woman first—young, beautiful, sleeping soundly beside her sugar-daddy-turned-crime-lord. She was innocent in this. A gentle pulse of yin chakra into her system ensured she'd stay in dreamland while he did what needed doing.
Then came the man.
Naruto didn't waste time with theatrics. He pulled a suppressed pistol—chakra-forged, silent as a whisper—and pressed it lightly to the man's temple.
The boss woke up fast.
Eyes wide. Breath caught. One hand started to twitch beneath the blanket.
"I wouldn't," Naruto said, calm as ocean fog. "Unless you want a permanent lobotomy."
The mafia boss stilled.
Naruto gestured toward the plush armchairs across the room. The man, clearly no idiot, got up without argument and walked stiffly to the seat, trying not to look at his unconscious wife.
Naruto followed, pistol still resting lightly in his hand like a polite afterthought.
He sat.
The boss, voice tight, asked, "What do you want?"
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Amity Park, for all its sleepy charm and suburban ghost infestations, had its share of bad guys in very expensive pajamas. Case in point: Mr. Bigshot Crime Boss, currently blinking blearily at Naruto from a velvet couch that probably cost more than Danny's house.
The boss's bed was a gold-trimmed monstrosity. His wife snored softly beside it, blissfully unaware of the break-in, thanks to a precise jab of yin energy from Naruto's fingertip. She'd probably wake up in the morning thinking she just had the best sleep of her life. Meanwhile, her husband looked like someone had force-fed him an entire lemon.
"What do you want?" he growled, trying to sound tough while wearing silky boxers covered in little cartoon dollar signs.
Naruto, sitting with the relaxed confidence of someone who could singlehandedly wipe out the IRS and still be back in time for lunch, gave a cool smile. "I need money, equipment, and your loyalty."
The boss snorted. "Loyalty? From me? You have any idea who I am?"
Naruto leaned forward, eyes gleaming like a wolf sizing up a sheep that thought it was a lion. "Not really. I just know you're greedy, power-hungry, and fond of sleeping with one eye open. Let's make a deal. You help me, you get rich beyond belief. You betray me…" He pressed the pistol against the boss's temple again for emphasis. "Let's just say you'll miss the days when your biggest problem was the FBI."
There was a tense silence, broken only by the soft hum of the air conditioner. The boss squinted at him, as if trying to burn a hole through the mask. "You're bluffing."
Naruto shrugged. "Maybe. But you'll find out soon enough."
He stood up, brushing invisible dust from Danny's jacket like he was leaving a boring dinner party, not a hostage situation. "I'll be back tomorrow. Don't waste my time."
He had just turned toward the window when he heard it—a clink, followed by a hiss.
Naruto's eyes narrowed. A small metal canister rolled across the plush carpet like it had RSVP'd late to the chaos. Gas began spewing out in lazy clouds.
"Oh, come on," Naruto muttered.
With a well-aimed kick, he launched the canister out the window before the room could fully turn into a nap chamber. Too late for the boss, though—he was already slumping forward, mouth open like a fish discovering oxygen was optional.
That's when the window shattered. Graceful as a dancer and twice as smug, a figure flipped into the room wearing black leather, a utility belt, and enough confidence to make Batman nervous.
Naruto recognized her instantly.
"Black Cat," he said with a sigh. "Of course."
Felicia Hardy, infamous burglar, was a walking contradiction: gorgeous, brilliant, and deeply committed to making other people's valuables her own. She looked around, taking in the unconscious crime boss, the masked intruder with a pistol, and the faint smell of sleepy gas.
She arched a perfect eyebrow. "Who are you?"
Naruto smiled, unfazed. "Just a passing ninja with expensive taste."
"Cute." She didn't hesitate. A flick of her wrist sent a bola zipping toward his ankles while she closed the distance, baton raised. Most people would've panicked.
Naruto yawned.
He sidestepped the gadget, letting it hit a potted plant instead. The fern never stood a chance. Then, with a smooth motion, he caught her incoming strike and jabbed her in the chin—not enough to hurt, just enough to make her see stars.
To her credit, Felicia recovered fast. "You hit me," she gasped, more surprised than offended.
"You were trying to tase me."
"I was flirting!"
"You were aiming for my kidneys."
"…Tomato, tomahto."
The fight quickly turned into an awkward dance. She tried to sweep his legs—he floated above the floor like a ghost. She tried to grab his arm—he vanished behind her in a blur. She definitely tried to use her looks to throw him off, but Naruto had trained with kunoichi, battled seductive demons, and once shared a hot spring with a talking snake. Black Cat didn't stand a chance.
Finally, with a sigh of mild annoyance, he grabbed her by the collar and gently yeeted her out the window.
She landed on the lawn below in a perfect superhero crouch, her hair a wind-blown mess of indignation and unresolved curiosity. Before she could shout something dramatic, a warning shot rang out near her feet—Naruto's way of saying "Shoo."
And right on cue, the mansion's guards woke up from their collective donut comas and began pouring out the doors, shouting and brandishing flashlights.
Felicia glanced back at the window, now empty, and muttered, "I hate mysterious guys with weird powers."
Still, as she vanished into the shadows, one thought echoed in her mind like a song stuck on repeat: Who the heck was that guy?
Back in the mansion, Naruto casually whistled as he looted the boss's safe, leaving behind a single sticky note on the man's snoring forehead:
"See you tomorrow. Be good. – N"
Because honestly, if you're going to terrorize corrupt millionaires and flirt-fight with legendary cat burglars, might as well have fun doing it.