Chapter Text
-thoughts
''-talking
''It is not only fine feathers that make fine birds.'' - Aesop
Hikari missed technology. Not just smartphones, but the little things—electric kettles, refrigeration, dishwashers.
So she did what any millennial reborn in a pseudo-feudal ninja world would do: she started inventing.
1. The Ever-Cool Storage Scroll (Patent Pending)
Problem: Perishable ingredients spoiled too fast during travel.
Solution: Modified storage scrolls infused with wind-natured chakra to regulate temperature. A rudimentary fridge scroll.
Bonus: Perfect for keeping ramen broth fresh.
2. The Self-Stirring Pot (Ramen Savior)
Problem: Her father’s arms got tired from stirring giant broth vats.
Solution: An earth-natured chakra seal array that kept the liquid in gentle motion. No more uneven heating.
Her father's Verdict: "You’ve weaponized laziness. I’m proud."
3. The Blade’s Breath (Sword Maintenance Kit)
Problem: Kenjutsu was hell on her weapon’s edge.
Solution: A wind-chakra-infused whetstone that sharpened with a single swipe.
With Konoha still recovering from the Kyuubi attack, rare ingredients for Ichiraku Ramen were harder to come by.
So Hikari took it upon herself to track them down.
Which included sneaking into Kumo’s lightning-infused valleys for thunder-root mushrooms (good for umami depth).
Bargaining with Suna’s spice merchants.
Avoiding Kiri’s mist-covered bogs while hunting phantom kelp (which, yes, was as creepy as it sounded).
And when bandits or overzealous ninja got in her way?
Hiten Mitsurugi-ryū made short work of them.
Her father never asked where the ingredients came from.
But when Hikari slid a sealed scroll of fresh, still-cold Ame eel across the counter, his eyes softened.
"You’re going to make Ichiraku legendary," he said, ruffling her hair.
She grinned.
"Someone’s gotta keep you in business, old man."
Fugaku stood in the quiet of the family dojo, watching his son.
Itachi, barely five years old, moved through the basic katas with a precision that belied his age. His small hands were steady, his dark eyes focused—already carrying the weight of the Uchiha name.
The clan head had always known his son was gifted. Genius was too small a word for it. The elders whispered of prodigies like the Sannin, like Minato. They saw only potential, a weapon to be honed.
But Fugaku had seen what ANBU did to people.
How it hollowed them out.
How it broke them.
"Itachi," Fugaku called, his voice softer than usual.
His son paused mid-motion, turning with that eerie calmness of his.
"Yes, Father?"
Fugaku knelt, meeting his eyes.
"Have you ever thought about becoming a medic?"
The young boy blinked.
"A… medic?"
"You have the chakra control for it," Fugaku said, choosing his words carefully.
"And the mind. Precision. Patience."
Itachi tilted his head, considering.
"But the clan—"
"The clan needs healers as much as it needs warriors," Fugaku interrupted. "Tsunade Senju has reopened the Medic Corps. It’s a path worth considering."
A path away from ANBU. Away from the shadows that had already taken too much from them.
The child studied his father’s face—something he did often, as if reading the emotions Fugaku so rarely showed.
"You don’t want me to join ANBU," he said quietly.
Fugaku’s jaw tightened. "No."
A beat of silence. Then—
"Okay," Itachi said simply.
No argument. No resistance. Just acceptance.
Fugaku exhaled, a tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying easing from his shoulders.
Hikari knew the training grounds were off limits to her because she was considered a civilian.
Only registered Konoha-nin could use the training grounds.
Still, she was itching to practise her kenjutsu.
Her hair was wrapped.
She wore all black as she practiced her kata, and used her jutsu.
Not knowing someone, had heard her in training ground seven.
15-year-old Kakashi, who was on ANBU patrol, watched as the young woman practised her swordsmanship.
The young ANBU had his White Light Chakra Sabre strapped to his back.
He was intrigued.
He jumped down and drew his blade, only for Hikari to meet him head to head.
''You shouldn't be here,'' he said bluntly, ''It's off limits.''
Hikari tilted her head up, ''It's a shame, I kinda liked the view.''
She grinned at him, ''How about a spar, your blade against mine.''
He wordlessly shifts his stance, ''Your move,'' then she moved, her agility to match his.
The clash of steel echoed through Training Ground 7, the moonlight glinting off the edges of their blades as Hikari and Kakashi danced across the dirt. His White Light Chakra Sabre hummed with energy, her sakabatou a silver blur in the night.
"You’re good," Kakashi admitted, his voice muffled by his mask. "For a civilian."
Hikari smirked, flipping her sword in her grip. "And you’re predictable. For an ANBU."
He lunged. She parried. Their movements were a mirror—sharp, precise, deadly.
Then, in a flash, she twisted, her foot hooking behind his knee. Kakashi stumbled, and with a flick of her wrist, his blade went flying.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then—
"Chidori."
Lightning crackled in his palm, the air splitting with its scream.
Hikari’s eyes glowed—a brief, unnatural blue—and before she could think, her hands moved on instinct.
"Fūton: Rasengan!"
The wind roared, a spiraling vortex of chakra forming in her palm. Kakashi barely dodged as it tore through the trees behind him, reducing them to splinters.
The clearing fell silent.
Kakashi’s visible eye widened.
"How the hell do you know that jutsu?"
Hikari stared at her hands, horrified.
Shit.
Only three people in the world knew the Rasengan.
And she’d just used it like it was nothing.
Before Kakashi could react, Hikari slapped a hand to her forehead.
"Idiot," she muttered.
Then—poof—she was gone, leaving only a swirl of leaves behind.
Kakashi stood alone in the wreckage, his mind racing.
Who was she?
How did she know Minato Sensei's technique?
And most importantly—
Why did her eyes glow like that?
Hikari reappeared in her room, heart pounding.
"Well," she whispered to herself, "that could’ve gone better."
She flopped onto her bed, groaning.
Rasengan.
Of all things, why did it have to be the Rasengan she chose?
Now Kakashi would be suspicious.
Now everyone would be.
But as she stared at the ceiling, a slow grin spread across her face.
At least the spar had been fun.
The red-light district of Konoha had always been a place of shadows, where secrets were traded as freely as coin, and loyalty was a currency more valuable than ryo.
And now, it had a new player.
Hikari’s apartment building stood unassuming at first glance, its weathered exterior blending into the rowdy streets. But those who knew seals noticed the subtle, swirling insignia of the Uzumaki clan etched into its foundation—reinforced, layered, humming with chakra.
A statement.
A challenge.
Inside, the building was a hive of quiet activity.
The ladies of the district came and went, their steps lighter, their eyes sharper. Free healing. Free meals. Free choices.
The walls whispered with coded messages, passed between hands and hidden in laughter.
And Hikari? She moved among them like a ghost, her green eyes missing nothing.
"Mika," she called to one of the older women, tossing her a small scroll.
"The Daimyo’s envoy likes to talk after a few drinks. See what he knows about Kiri’s movements."
Mika caught it with a smirk.
"He also likes my lavender oil. I’ll have him singing by dawn."
Hikari grinned.
"That’s why you’re my favorite."
Jiraiya had been sniffing around for days.
A wind-style Rasengan wasn’t something you just stumbled into. How did she know to add an element to it?
Oh, he was interested.
He leaned against a nearby wall, watching the renovated building with narrowed eyes.
"Uzumaki seals," he muttered.
This was no ordinary civilian.
This was a problem.
He found her the next day.
He wasn't the spymaster for nothing.
Jiraiya leaned against the counter of Ichiraku Ramen, his fingers drumming an idle rhythm as he studied Hikari over the rim of his sake cup. The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting warm streaks of light across the wooden counter between them.
"So," he said, his tone deceptively casual, "let’s circle back to the Rasengan."
Hikari didn’t pause in her chopping, the knife in her hand moving with practiced ease through a pile of scallions.
"What about it?"
"You expect me to believe some drunk Uchiha just happened to teach your uncle one of the most advanced jutsu in existence?"
She shrugged.
"Not just any Uchiha. A really drunk one. Said he picked it up from a blonde guy in a flashy jacket during the war. Guess they were friends—or rivals. Hard to tell when someone’s slurring."
Jiraiya’s eye twitched.
Minato had never mentioned—
No.
He was getting sidetracked.
"And the wind aspect?"
Hikari set the knife down and wiped her hands on her apron. "The scroll my uncle wrote was… incomplete. Like the technique was missing something. So I tweaked it." She mimed a swirling motion with her fingers. "Wind’s good for cutting. Seemed like a natural fit."
The Sannin stared at her.
It was a bald-faced lie.
It was also just plausible enough to be frustrating.
"Which Uchiha?" Jiraiya pressed.
"Dunno. Didn’t catch his name."
"Where’s the scroll now?"
"Burned it. Didn’t want Ayame stumbling onto it and blowing up the house."
"Your uncle’s name?"
The teenager grinned.
"Wouldn’t you like to know."
Jiraiya groaned, rubbing his temples.
"Kid, you’re impossible."
"So I’ve been told." She slid a bowl of ramen toward him. "Extra naruto. On the house."
Of course, the real story was far simpler:
Step 1: Watch Naruto religiously in a past life.
Step 2: Memorize every jutsu montage like it was the damn Bible.
Step 3: Get isekai’d into said universe.
Step 4: Profit.
But Jiraiya didn’t need to know that.
(No one did.)
Jiraiya slurped his ramen, eyeing her with grudging respect. "You know, if you’re gonna lie, at least make it fun."
"Oh?" Hikari leaned forward.
"How’s this—I learned it from a talking toad who owed me money."
He choked on his noodles.
Hikari stood in front of the Hokage’s desk, resisting the urge to fidget under the weight of Sarutobi Hiruzen’s assessing gaze. The old man puffed on his pipe, the smoke curling lazily between them as he studied her.
“So,” he began, “you’re applying to be a nanny.”
“Yep,” Hikari said, popping the ‘p.’ “Saw the poster. Figured I’d give it a shot.”
Hiruzen's eyebrows rose slightly.
“And your qualifications?”
She shrugged.
''Raised my little sister, Ayame. Also babysat a bunch of my cousins. Oh, and I know first aid.”
“First aid?”
“Ayame was that kid,” Hikari deadpanned. “You know, the one who tried to eat rocks, bugs, and—on one memorable occasion—a live scorpion.”
The Sandaime coughed, either from the smoke or the mental image.
“I see.”
The Hokage leaned forward, his fingers steepled. “And your… other skills?”
Hikari blinked innocently.
“I make a mean miso ramen?”
A beat of silence.
Then Hiruzen sighed, rubbing his temples. “Very well. The position is for a temporary assignment—caring for a child whose parents are on a high-profile mission. You’ll be compensated fairly.”
The teenager grinned.
“Sweet. When do I start?”
Hikari stared down at the toddler sprawled on the Nara clan’s porch, his tiny face scrunched in displeasure as he glared at a drifting cloud like it had personally offended him.
"…You’ve got to be kidding me," she muttered.
"Problem?" Yoshino Nara asked, arms crossed, though her lips twitched with barely suppressed amusement.
"He’s fifteen months old and already looks like he’s judging the universe."
Shikamaru sighed—an impressively world-weary sound for someone who still needed help walking.
As it turned out, Shikaku was on a mission with his team, and Yoshino had been called away on a long-term diplomatic mission to Wind Country—some delicate matter involving the Kazekage’s temper and Suna’s dwindling funds.
Which left Hikari in charge of their pint-sized, future-genius son.
"He’s… low-maintenance," Yoshino said, handing over a list titled Shikamaru’s Routine in neat script.
Hikari scanned it:
Naps: 3x daily (or whenever he feels like it).
Food: Prefers grilled fish. Will throw vegetables if provoked.
Entertainment: Clouds. Only clouds. Do not attempt games.
"This is the easiest job I’ve ever had," Hikari declared.
Shika yawned, as if to say, Famous last words.
By day three, Hikari realized the truth.
Shikamaru Nara was a menace.
He fake-snored when she tried to put him down, then smirked when she gave up.
He’d somehow mastered the art of dropping fish into the grass so the Nara deer would eat it, leaving his veggies untouched.
If a cloud dared move too fast, he’d whine until she carried him to a better viewing spot.
"You’re militantly lazy," Hikari accused, flopping onto the grass beside him.
The baby patted her cheek, his tiny fingers sticky from the dango he’d guilted her into giving him.
That night, as she tucked him in (after two bedtime stories and a promise of extra fish tomorrow), Hikari sighed.
"You’re gonna be a nightmare as a teenager, aren’t you?"
Shikamaru blinked up at her, then reached out and grabbed her finger.
"Troublesome," he mumbled—his first word, delivered with perfect Nara deadpan.
Hikari burst out laughing.