Chapter 21: Gangs, Bikes, and Bad Ideas
From Teen Naruto's Point of View — Featuring leather suits, schoolyard turf wars, and the worst-kept secrets ever.
You ever have one of those mornings where you wake up, eat microwaved leftovers, and then go out to meet a rich biker in an alley?
Yeah. Me neither. Until now.
Loki was already waiting for me when I jogged into the alley behind the convenience store—the one with graffiti that looked like a clown had exploded against the wall. He was leaning against a very expensive-looking black sports bike, wearing a custom leather racing suit that probably cost more than my whole apartment complex.
He looked like he was posing for a Calvin Klein photoshoot.
"You're ten minutes late," he said without even glancing at me.
I raised an eyebrow. "We never set a time."
He just tossed me a file like he was too cool for logic. Typical Loki.
I caught it, opened it, and immediately saw mugshots—like, high school mugshots. Someone had gone full FBI-mode on this. There were charts, territory maps, and bios. It was like Pokémon cards, but for teenage gang leaders.
"These are the active gangs in the city," Loki said, like he was giving me a debrief for a secret war. "The ones that operate at the school level. Meaning they're all students like us. Don't underestimate them."
I flipped the page.
The Valkyries – All-girls squad led by Freya. Wield weapons. Look like they walked out of a Kill Bill scene.
Combat Sumo – Bruisers led by Thor. Yes, that Thor. Literal muscle mountains.
Predator – Gang of martial artists led by Kisara. Deadly, fast, stylish. Probably drinks bubble tea with blood in it.
There were a few other names too. Small fry. But what caught my eye was the section marked "Lone Wolves."
One stood out.
Berserker.
A one-man army. No gang. No backup. Just raw power and a tendency to wreck faces.
"Who's the strongest?" I asked, still flipping.
Loki pulled off his sunglasses dramatically (seriously, who wears sunglasses in an alley?) and said, "Freya's Valkyries have the best coordination and gear. But in terms of raw strength?"
He tapped the page with Berserker's name.
"This guy. Hands down. I want you to defeat him. You don't have a gang yet, so forget Freya. Go for a statement victory."
I looked down again.
There it was. The grainy photo of Shogo. Aka Berserker. Aka the dude who already tried to punch my soul out a week ago.
"…Uh," I said, handing the file back, "hate to break your evil master plan, but Shogo's already part of my gang."
Loki blinked. "What?"
"Yeah. He joined. It was a whole thing. I may have broken a bench in the process. Anyway—he's with us now."
There was a long pause.
Then Loki groaned and rubbed his temples like I'd just told him his evil twin was dating his crush.
"You're messing up the story structure," he muttered.
"Sorry," I said with a grin. "Didn't realize we were following a villain-approved narrative arc."
He sighed again, then looked up with a smirk. "Fine. Then that means you need to be the statement. Take on one of the gang leaders. Publicly. Freya, Kisara, or Thor."
I blinked. "That escalated quickly."
Loki revved his bike. "Greatness doesn't wait for slow plots, Naruto. Think fast, act faster."
And just like that, he roared off down the alleyway, leaving behind the smell of burnt rubber and expensive cologne.
I stood there for a moment, file still in hand, feeling the weight of the turf war pressing down on my shoulders.
School gangs, huh? Weapons, territory, one-man war machines…
Looked like my peaceful high school life was officially dead.
And honestly?
I was kinda excited.
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Loki—also known as Kyoichi Takame to the world of normal people who filed taxes and went to parent-teacher meetings—revved his bike and disappeared into the city's veins of concrete and neon. His destination: the hidden headquarters of the Shadow Gang, a rising name in the city's chaotic underbelly of student-run turf wars.
Born into wealth and raised with a silver spoon sharpened into a blade, Kyoichi wasn't just some bored rich kid playing delinquent. He was a trained black belt in karate, with a solid grasp of grappling arts to boot. But despite his formal martial background, Loki preferred to fight dirty. He liked weapons. Knives, chains, batons—anything that gave him an edge before his opponent could blink. It wasn't about honor. It was about results.
His real weapon, however, was information. Loki was a self-declared detective, digging up secrets like buried treasure, and using them like knives hidden behind his back. That was how he'd risen so quickly—by knowing his enemies before they knew themselves.
And that was how he had files on every major player in the school-level gang scene: Freya and her Valkyries, Thor and his Sumo squad, Kisara's martial arts gang, even solo monsters like Berserker.
But then came Issei Hyoudou—or as the guy now insisted on being called, Naruto Uzumaki.
He didn't fit any mold Loki had seen before.
Naruto fought like a warrior born, every movement primal and precise. His brawls with Shogo (aka Berserker) and others weren't just beatdowns—they were statements. He had power, raw and uncut, the kind of thing that made people follow.
But Loki wasn't looking for strength alone.
He was watching for ambition.
Naruto had it—that fire behind the eyes, that hunger to rise, to change the board. Yet power and ambition didn't make someone a leader. Results did. Decisions did.
Loki wasn't interested in working with people who could be conquered. If Naruto showed weakness—if he proved to be all bark and no empire—then Loki already had the metaphorical knife sharpened for his back.
That's how the game worked. Alliances weren't made. They were measured.
Riding into the underground parking lot of his gang's headquarters—a sleek, high-tech hideout hidden beneath one of his family's unused office buildings—Loki stepped off his bike with theatrical flair.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a runway model with a vendetta, Loki was hard to miss. His light blue hair stood up in the front like a wave frozen mid-crash, while the rest was combed neatly back. His dark trench coat swayed around his legs like a villain's cape, black gloves completing the look.
He walked into the war room where his lieutenants were already waiting, screens lit up with gang movements, school news feeds, and dossiers.
"Keep an eye on Uzumaki," he said casually, tossing his gloves on the table.
One of his goons raised an eyebrow. "You think he's a threat?"
Loki smirked. "I hope so. Otherwise this game's going to get real boring."
He turned toward the large digital board on the wall, where the city's map glowed softly.
"And when things get boring," he added, eyes narrowing, "I start stabbing."
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If you ever find yourself stuck in another guy's body, living in a world that feels like someone mashed up High School Musical, Tokyo Revengers, and Dragon Ball Z—first of all, I'm sorry. Second, don't be like me and try to pick a gang fight by tossing a stick in the air like it's a divine message from the immortals.
Spoiler: the immortals don't care. And even if they did, they have terrible aim.
With Loki off zooming away on his overpriced murdercycle like he was auditioning for Fast and the Furious: Schoolyard Drift, I was left standing in the same shady alley, trying to plan my next move. Technically, I was in Issei Hyoudou's body, but let's be honest, that meat suit was looking more and more like me every day. Chalk it up to my Uzumaki soul punching the gas pedal on evolution. Kid was getting jacked just by housing my chakra-starved energy.
Anyway. Focus.
Three gangs. Three headaches. One me.
I jogged through the park, which was pretty chill if you ignored the pigeons that kept giving me judgmental side-eyes. I needed to pick a target. Someone to challenge. Someone to beat up, preferably in dramatic anime fashion, so I could start building my own gang of misfits and walking tropes.
Freya's Valkyries were an all-girls gang with actual weapons. Like—actual weapons. Sickles, staffs, chains. I wouldn't be surprised if someone had a flamethrower tucked in a schoolbag. Fighting them sounded like trying to speedrun your way through Dark Souls with a wooden sword and no pants.
Thor's Combat Sumo gang, on the other hand? Less complicated. Bunch of dudes built like angry refrigerators who charged at you with the power of collapsing vending machines. But hey, at least they believed in fair one-on-one fights. That was nice. Terrifying, but nice.
And then there was Kisara. Her Predator gang was basically her plus a bunch of martial artists who were decent, but nothing too scary. She had the smallest army out of the three, but I've learned the hard way that the quiet ones usually have the meanest kicks.
I stopped under a shady tree in the park and squatted down on the dirt path. With the grace of a scholar—or possibly a bored raccoon—I used a twig to write down the three gang names in big, messy kanji on the ground:
Freya
Thor
Kisara
Then I stood up, held the stick like it was a sacred relic from the Temple of Dumb Decisions, and tossed it straight into the air.
Now, in my head, this would go something like: stick lands perfectly on the ground, pointing heroically at one of the names, and boom—destiny chosen.
What actually happened?
The stick went whoosh up. Spun in the air like a drunken propeller. Then smacked me in the forehead and bounced off.
"Ow! Seriously?" I muttered, rubbing my head while a squirrel nearby made what I'm pretty sure was a judgmental chirp.
Round two. I tossed it again. This time, it didn't hit me—but it landed between two names, like the universe couldn't make up its mind either.
"Okay, okay, how about… best two out of three?"
Five stick throws later, the score was:
One vote for Freya
Two votes for Kisara
One stick lost to a passing dog
And one landed in someone's bento box
Clearly, this method wasn't working.
I flopped down on the grass, sighing like I was carrying the weight of the ninja world on my shoulders (which, to be fair, I kinda was). I closed my eyes and tried to imagine each fight.
Freya's gang would be chaos. Loud, flashy, and with bonus flying metal.
Thor's group would be like getting hit by sentient mountains.
Kisara… that one felt the most doable. Not easy—nothing in this weird world was ever easy—but manageable. A good first step. A statement.
Plus, I kinda wanted to meet this Kisara girl. Rumor had it she was tough, proud, and gorgeous—which honestly described half the girls I ever fell for.
I cracked one eye open and grinned at the sky. "Alright, Kisara. Ready or not, here comes your new favorite rival."
The squirrel from earlier stared at me from a nearby branch, probably thinking this idiot's gonna get kicked in the face.
And honestly? Probably.
But hey—if you're gonna get kicked, might as well look cool doing it.