There was something beautiful about a well-executed jutsu. The precise molding of chakra, the visualization of intent, and then—transformation. One moment I was a precocious Academy student with suspiciously advanced sake knowledge, the next I was a respectable-looking twenty-something shinobi with just enough visible wear to suggest I'd earned my drinks.
I checked my reflection in a shop window, admiring my handiwork. Transformation jutsu might be basic Academy curriculum, but perfecting the subtle details—like the hint of stubble, the slight hardening around the eyes, or the almost imperceptible scar along the jawline—that's what separated the amateurs from the artists.
'Not bad for an ten-year-old,' I thought with satisfaction. 'Or however old I'm supposed to be in this body.'
The evening air carried the distinct scent of fried street food and distant rain as I made my way down the winding side street that led to Tanaka's shop—or as I privately called it, "The Sacred Hall of Liquid Enlightenment." Officially, it was "Bamboo Leaf Fine Spirits," but that didn't quite capture the spiritual experience of their premium daiginjo.
A familiar bamboo curtain hung in the doorway, the kanji for "sake" nearly worn away from years of patrons pushing through. I slid it aside with practiced ease, stepping into the warm glow of paper lanterns and the comforting aroma of fermented rice.
"Ah, Takeshi-san!" called Tanaka from behind the counter, using the name I'd given when I first started frequenting his establishment. "The usual tonight?"
Tanaka was a round-faced man with laugh lines etched deep around his eyes and the weathered hands of someone who'd worked with rice and water for decades. His apron always looked freshly pressed despite the nature of his work—a small detail I'd always appreciated.
"Actually," I said, settling onto my favorite stool at the counter, "I'm feeling curious tonight, Tanaka-san."
He raised a bushy eyebrow. "Curious? That's dangerous coming from you."
I laughed. "Nothing like that. I was just wondering about how you make your sake. Been drinking it for... well, longer than I should probably admit, but I've never actually seen the process."
Tanaka's eyes lit up the way specialists' always do when someone takes interest in their craft. It was a universal constant—whether it's weapon smiths, ramen chefs, or apparently, sake brewers.
"Most customers just want to drink it, not learn about it," he said, pouring me a small cup of something clear and fragrant. "On the house, for your curiosity."
I took the cup with a small bow of appreciation and sipped slowly, letting the flavors develop on my tongue. It was good—really good—but something felt... familiar about it. Too familiar, in fact. It tasted remarkably like premium sake from my previous world.
"This is excellent," I said, genuinely impressed. "There's something... traditional about it."
Tanaka beamed with pride. "Traditional is exactly right. My family has been brewing sake the same way for six generations. No shortcuts, no modern nonsense."
"No... chakra enhancements?" I ventured, curious if this world's brewing might incorporate the energy that permeated everything else.
He looked at me like I'd suggested adding mud to the fermentation. "Chakra? In sake? Heavens no! Pure water, quality rice, perfect koji, precise temperature control, and patience—that's all good sake needs."
Well, that was unexpected. In a world where chakra was used for practically everything—from walking on water to creating fireballs—I'd assumed sake production would have its own shinobi twist.
"Would you like to see how it's really made?" Tanaka offered, clearly eager to show off his craft.
"I'd be honored," I replied, genuinely interested.
Tanaka lifted a section of the counter and gestured for me to follow him through a door behind a stack of large ceramic vessels. Beyond lay a corridor that led deeper into the building, ending at another door made of thick, aged wood.
The brewing room was spacious, filled with massive wooden vats and the sweet-sour scent of fermentation. Several workers moved about the space, some monitoring the vats, others carrying small trays of what appeared to be koji. They nodded respectfully to Tanaka but eyed me with mild curiosity.
I watched, fascinated, as Tanaka showed me each step of the process—from the careful rice polishing to remove the outer layers, to the koji propagation, to the main fermentation. It was methodical and entirely...normal. No jutsu, no seals, no chakra manipulation whatsoever.
"This is exactly like..." I began, then caught myself. "...like what I'd imagine traditional brewing to be."
Tanaka gave me a curious look. "You seem surprised."
I shrugged casually. "I guess I expected some shinobi innovation to have worked its way into the process by now."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "There are always young brewers trying to 'revolutionize' the craft with chakra tricks. Results are usually disastrous—exploding fermentation tanks, sake that changes drinkers' teeth color, one memorable batch that made everyone hiccup for a day."
"Wait," I stopped him, suddenly very interested. "You mean people have tried?"
"Oh, certainly. Particularly during the Second Shinobi War when resources were scarce." He led me to a small tasting area to the side of the main fermentation room. "There were experiments with chakra-infused brewing to stretch supplies or create sake with special properties for soldiers. Most failed spectacularly."
I accepted another small cup he offered, my mind starting to race with possibilities. The sake was excellent—traditional, pure, and crafted with obvious expertise—but I couldn't help wondering what would happen if chakra and shinobi jutsus were introduced to the brewing process. What kinds of effects might be possible?
But reality quickly caught up with my imagination. I was just an Academy student who barely understood the basics of jutsus. Whatever grand ideas were forming in my head would require years of study in both sake brewing and shinobi arts.
'One step at a time,' I reminded myself. 'Learn to walk before you run.'
"This has been incredibly enlightening, Tanaka-san," I said, finishing my cup with appreciation. "Thank you for sharing your craft with me."
He looked pleased by my genuine interest. "Always a pleasure to show someone who truly appreciates the art. Most people just want to drink as quickly as possible."
"Barbarians," I agreed solemnly, which made him laugh.
"Will you be taking your usual bottle tonight?" he asked, already reaching for my preferred sake.
"Of course," I replied. "Can't disappoint my taste buds."
Tanaka wrapped my purchase in paper, and I accepted the wrapped bottle with a polite bow. "Until next time, Tanaka-san."
I smiled and headed for the exit, pushing aside the bamboo curtain. Once outside, I made my way through back alleys until I found a secluded spot between buildings. A quick hand sign later, and a small puff of smoke revealed my actual ten-year-old self. I tucked the sake bottle carefully into my bag and readjusted my clothes.
"Grocery shopping time," I muttered to myself, mentally calculating what I needed for dinner. "Rice, some fish if it looks fresh, maybe those greens the old lady at the corner stand always tries to push on me..."
The market district was still bustling despite the approaching evening. Lanterns were being lit as vendors tried to squeeze in a few more sales before closing. I made my way through the crowd, bypassing the touristy stalls in favor of the local vendors who knew me by now.
"Shinji-kun!" called the vegetable seller, waving me over. "I saved some nice spring onions for you. And the eggplants are perfect today."
I was haggling over the price of said eggplants—more out of principle than necessity—when something solid collided with my back, sending me stumbling forward.
"Hey! Watch where you're—" I started, turning around only to find myself face-to-face with a familiar whirlpool of red hair.
Kushina Uzumaki stared back at me, looking equally surprised. "Shinji? What are you doing here?"
'Of all people to run into,' I thought, quickly checking that my bag was securely closed around my illicit sake purchase.
"The same thing everyone else is doing in a market," I replied dryly. "Dancing."
She rolled her eyes. "Ha ha, very funny. I meant what are you doing shopping by yourself? Where's Minato?"
"Minato? What's that?" I scrunched my face in confusion, then snapped my fingers as if suddenly remembering. "Oh! Is that the new organic grocery chain everyone's talking about? Sorry to disappoint, but it's just me and my questionable vegetable-selecting skills today."
She stared at me for a moment before breaking into laughter. "You're such an idiot," she said as she playfully shoved my shoulder.
I turned back to the vegetable seller. "I'll take the eggplants and the spring onions. And two of those," I added, pointing to some decent-looking bell peppers.
As the seller bagged my purchases, Kushina hovered awkwardly nearby. I noticed she was carrying her own shopping bag.
"Where's your caretaker?" I asked, remembering the Konoha shinobi who usually watched over her. As a foreign-born shinobi, Kushina was never truly left unsupervised, even if she thought she was.
"Masako-san had to work late at the Hokage Tower," Kushina said with a shrug. "Told me to get dinner for myself."
"Let me guess," I said, eyeing her shopping bag. "Cup ramen again?"
Her silence and slight blush confirmed my suspicion.
I sighed dramatically. "You know, for someone who practically inhaled my bento last week, I'd have thought you'd picked up a thing or two about actual food by now."
"Hey!" she protested. "These were really good, okay? Especially the miso-pork flavor! It's a perfectly balanced meal." She peered into my shopping bags. "What are you making tonight anyway?"
"Stir-fried eggplant with fish and rice," I replied with a shrug. "Nothing special."
Her eyes lit up with interest. "That sounds way better than instant ramen for the fifth time this week."
"Is that a hint?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because it sounds suspiciously like fishing for a dinner invitation."
She grinned, not even bothering to deny it. "I've eaten your food, but I've never actually seen how you make it. For all I know, you might be buying it from some restaurant and just repackaging it in your fancy bento boxes."
"That's ridiculous," I said. "Why would I—"
"Prove it," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "I want to see Shinji, the Great Master Chef, wearing an apron."
"I don't own an apron," I replied automatically, then mentally kicked myself for engaging with her ridiculous challenge instead of shutting it down.
"Even better," she grinned. "I bet you'll make a mess of your precious fancy clothes. Unless you're scared your food won't live up to your boasting?"
I glanced down at my admittedly well-maintained outfit. I did take pride in my appearance, unlike certain redheads who looked like they dressed in a hurricane.
"Fine," I heard myself saying before my brain fully processed the implications. "But only because I can't let such slander stand unchallenged."
Which was how, twenty minutes later, I found myself unlocking the door to my small apartment with Kushina in tow. And as I reached for my keys, I sighed inwardly at the realization that, despite spotting her manipulation from a mile away, I'd willingly walked into it anyway. Between her challenge and my pride, she'd masterfully maneuvered me into making her dinner without even having to ask—a recipe I'd fallen for despite knowing every ingredient.
'Well played, Red,' I thought, catching the hungry anticipation in her eyes. 'Well played indeed.'