Chapter 15: The Secret Art of Friendship and World Domination (Maybe)
From the journal of Naruto Uzumaki (currently trapped in Issei's body and still pretending not to freak out about it)
Okay, let's get one thing straight before we go any further: fighting ten guys with weapons is not how you should spend your free time… unless you're me, in which case, it was Tuesday.
I was limping into the dojo—like, cool action hero limping, not grandma-who-forgot-her-vitamin limp—when I ran into Gonzui-sensei. If you don't know Gonzui, imagine a bear got a black belt and learned to smile. That's him. Terrifying aura, massive muscles, and the kind of mustache that could slice steel.
He took one look at me, and his thick eyebrows did a little concerned wiggle.
"Issei, what happened to you?" he asked. (Reminder: I'm Naruto inside Issei's body. Long story. Body swap. Magic. Don't ask.)
I flashed my most charming, pain-filled grin.
"I fought ten guys with weapons yesterday and they got me with some hits."
(Which was a super humble way of saying "I survived a boss fight while low on health and still looked cool doing it.")
Gonzui gave me this look. The kind dads give when they're proud but also wondering why you're like this.
"Well done," he said, placing one dinner-plate-sized hand on my head. "Next time ask your seniors for help to take care of the street scum. I have great expectations of you, so take care of your body."
Great expectations.
Let me tell you, when you've spent most of your life being looked at like a walking disaster waiting to happen, those words hit harder than any Rasengan.
"Thank you, teacher," I said, trying not to sound like I was about to cry. "I wanted to ask if I could have a spar with Shogo. We promised each other yesterday."
(Yes, that Shogo—the tall, stoic dude with the scary punch and the not-so-secret heart of gold. We're bros now.)
Gonzui's eyes drifted down to my bandaged foot and shoulder. I could see the internal debate. His eyebrows did a whole emotional dance routine.
'He's hurting, but I'm here to make sure no one dies, so it's fine,' he probably thought. (I like to think I can read minds sometimes. Especially big, burly teacher minds.)
"You have my permission," he finally said, patting my head again like I was a puppy who'd finally learned to sit. "But take care of your body."
And just like that—boom. Instant motivation boost. +10 to Spirit. +20 to Confidence.
Here's the thing: Gonzui might look like he wrestles bears for breakfast, but he's nothing like Kakashi-sensei back in Konoha.
Don't get me wrong—I love Kakashi… kind of. But the guy's idea of encouragement was showing up late, reading romance novels, and saying "You'll figure it out" while we nearly died during training.
Gonzui? He cares.
He watches. He teaches. He gives actual advice. And in just three days, he'd done more for my self-esteem than most people in Konoha outside of the Ichiraku ramen guy and Iruka-sensei.
Like seriously, I wanted to give the man a hug. (Didn't. Because, you know, cool factor.)
'This world is a lot friendlier than my own,' I thought, as I joined the other students.
They were already doing warm-ups, stretching their arms, legs, and occasionally cracking their necks like background thugs in martial arts movies. I joined in, sore but determined.
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Sparring when your body feels like a chewed-up ramen noodle is not recommended by any physician, ninja, or common sense.
But hey, since when have I ever listened to any of those?
After the morning practice—which I heroically survived, thank you very much—I was warmed up, slightly less sore, and definitely overconfident. Which is the perfect combo for doing something dumb like fighting Shogo.
He showed up just as I finished my stretches, like a rival character in a manga who always shows up right when you're emotionally ready.
Brooding aura? Check. Serious expression? Double check.
"I hope you had a good night's sleep," he said, standing like a final boss in sweatpants.
"I did," I grinned. "And I had a very good dream. I want to talk to you about it after the spar."
And by dream, I didn't mean the weird ramen-themed nightmare I had last night. I meant the dream.
Of having my own gang. A loyal, powerful squad of misfits who listened to me, protected each other, and maybe, just maybe, wore cool jackets with symbols on the back.
The image alone was so cool it made my spine tingle like I'd just unlocked a secret move.
Shogo raised an eyebrow like I'd said something slightly insane but not unexpected.
"Meh. I'll lend you an ear if the spar is up to standard."
"You already know it will be," I shot back, flicking my gaze to the watching students and instructors.
The dojo was suddenly quieter than usual. Everyone knew this wasn't just another friendly round of tag-your-opponent. This was Naruto Uzumaki's (well, technically Issei's) first real spar—and I was ready to prove myself.
The instructor gave the usual rundown: no serious moves, no illegal hits, no breaking bones unless it's really cool. (Okay, maybe not that last one.)
I took my place in the ring, bouncing lightly on my feet. My left foot still throbbed. My shoulder felt like someone had jammed a senbon in it and twisted. But I didn't let it show.
The signal rang out.
I exploded forward.
Right foot, push.
Left fist extended.
It looked like a basic jab, and Shogo saw it—too easily, if I'm honest. He stepped in like I expected. But what he didn't expect?
The low kick to his shin.
Boom.
Contact.
I saw his eyes widen in surprise, then narrow in pain. He threw a punch—straight, but rushed. I stepped into it, caught it with my arm, and punched his arm at the joint. Not a clean hit, but solid enough that it stung.
"Too close, separate!" someone barked.
We both stepped back, sweat on our brows, breathing shallow.
The crowd was silent.
Shogo rubbed his arm, grinning.
"Don't go easy on me. I like this fight," he muttered. "Don't mind getting beaten."
I nodded, heart thudding, not from fear but from pure hype.
He wanted a real fight?
Then so did I.
The rest of the spar was a blur. My body hurt like crazy, but it moved the way I wanted it to. I focused less on what I couldn't do and more on what I could. Every punch was calculated. Every kick followed a pattern I drilled for hours. I compensated for my sore foot by adjusting my stance. I faked with my good shoulder so my bad one could sneak in jabs.
I was fighting smart. Like Sasuke, but without the emo.
In the end, I stood over Shogo, panting, grinning like an idiot.
Victory.
Sweet, sweat-soaked, muscle-cramping victory.
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Gonzui stood at the edge of the dojo floor, arms folded across his broad chest, his usually stern expression softened by something close to admiration. The match had ended, but his mind replayed every second of it—Naruto's feints, the perfectly timed low kick, the way he absorbed Shogo's attacks like he'd been doing this for years.
Most boys at this stage were still figuring out how not to trip over their own feet. Naruto, however—well, Issei, technically—was moving like a veteran. Like someone who'd learned to fight not through drills and kata, but through survival.
'No hesitation before action… every step purposeful. He doesn't fight like a student. He fights like someone who's seen real battles.'
Gonzui's gaze narrowed slightly as he watched Naruto bow to Shogo and help the boy up. That awareness, that instinct—it wasn't something you taught. It was something earned, usually the hard way.
Physically, Naruto's body still had room to grow. He was lean, wiry, and clearly dealing with some recent injuries. But his movements had flow—smooth, economical, deceptively relaxed. Even injured, he moved better than most of the black belts under Gonzui's care.
'That's the mark of someone who's trained beyond the dojo walls. Maybe even fought for his life… more than once.'
It was a strange thing, to feel both pride and a sliver of something else—inadequacy. Gonzui wasn't a prideful man, but he had believed for the longest time that no one in the current generation would surpass him so quickly.
Yet here was a teen, in a borrowed body, already slipping past the edge of his reach. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon.
'He'll surpass me… not because he's stronger, but because his instincts are sharper. The only thing I might have over him by then… is brute strength.'
And even that wouldn't last long, not with Naruto's work ethic.
Gonzui sighed through his nose and straightened his back, feeling the tension in his muscles. He wasn't angry. If anything, he felt challenged—like a spark had lit something inside him that had dulled over time. A part of him that remembered what it was like to want to be better, to push limits, to chase after someone just out of reach.
'This is no time to rest on old victories. If I don't improve, I'll be left behind… and that's not the kind of teacher I want to be.'
He stepped away from the mat and gave Naruto a nod of silent approval, a rare gesture from a man like him.
Yes, this boy had potential—too much for one dojo. But as long as Gonzui could keep up, even just a little longer, he would give everything he had to guide him.
Because one day, when Naruto stood at the top, Gonzui wanted to know—he helped him climb there.
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Okay, so I may have just formed a gang.
I mean, not the bad kind of gang. No shady deals, no creepy tattoos, and definitely no sitting in dark alleyways brooding like we're in some second-rate soap opera. More like… a crew. A team. A band of future legends.
(That sounded cooler in my head.)
It all started after I mopped the dojo floor with Shogo.
Okay, technically, we were sparring, and technically, I was fighting through enough bruises to qualify as a walking grape. But I won, and that's what mattered. Shogo, to his credit, didn't pout or sulk. He leaned against the wall like a stoic warrior… who'd just been body-checked by a baby boar.
"Man, that was embarrassing. I thought I could do better," he said, rubbing his arm and flashing the kind of smile that said, 'Let's pretend I didn't almost cry during that block.'
"You'll get better. Just need more practice," I said helpfully, while also praying he didn't realize my knee was on fire.
"No need to butter me up. Speak."
Uh-oh. He saw right through me. I'd been practicing my casual friend voice, but apparently, I was still coming off like a used cart salesman.
So, I dropped the act.
"I was thinking of starting my own group. You know, a crew. And I want you in."
He blinked. Hard. Like I'd just asked him to marry me or join a cult. Honestly, the reaction was kinda flattering.
"And why should I join?" he asked, arms crossed like some final boss NPC.
I grinned. "Because we're friends. And it'll be fun. We get to spar whenever we want, challenge higher-ups who wouldn't even look at us otherwise, and maybe… just maybe, make some waves."
I swear, Shogo lit up like someone had promised him front-row tickets to a fighting tournament and an unlimited ramen buffet.
That's when I knew—I'd said the magic words.
"We'll spar daily to improve our strength and skills," I added, sealing the deal with a fist bump of destiny.
He took my hand in a surprisingly dramatic fashion. "Deal. But I won't be left behind, so don't get comfy."
I shot him a smirk. "Good. Because my dream requires more power than you can imagine. So let's see if you can keep up."
Spoiler: I had no idea if I could even keep up with myself. But it sounded cool, and that's what mattered.
With our new bro-deal sealed in sweat and slightly bruised egos, I turned to spar with the others. We weren't a gang yet—not officially—but I had my first member. Shogo. Loyal, punch-happy, and already on board.
Step one to world domination: Complete.
Next step? I don't know… maybe cool jackets?
Or pizza.
Probably pizza.