Naruto: The Sarutobi Who Can't Spark

Months passed, and Raijin was stuck in a monotonous routine, performing the same old rank-D missions. It wasn't the life a young Genin would imagine if they first became a shinobi because it was just an endless cycle of menial tasks that any civilian could handle.

He spent his months taking care of the (Daimyō) Feudal Lord's wife's pampered pets, helping relocate administrative offices, babysitting bunch of rowdy children, mowing grass, digging sweet potatoes, guiding clueless tourists through Konoha, or assisting the Konoha police with some mundane errands.

Nothing about these assignments felt "Ninja-Worthy."

They were more like chores, the kind that people usually expected to be handled by the lowest ranks.

Yet, Raijin didn't complain. He understood that being a shinobi wasn't just about pride and glory—it was also about practicality. Despite their extraordinary abilities, shinobi weren't just warriors or assassins; they were a part of society, bound to its systems.

And society ran on money.

Shinobi were a strange breed—superhuman in strength, yet entirely dependent on the common folk for survival. All the Jutsu in the world couldn't put food on the table or a roof over one's head. Power alone wasn't enough.

Without a functioning society to support them, even the strongest ninja could starve. The unspoken truth: the shinobi system wasn't built on strength alone but on careful integration.

Economic Integration. Shinobi are weapons, but they are also service providers. Their existence is justified by their usefulness, whether in war or mundane tasks. The system depends on nobles and merchants funding missions, reinforcing the idea that money—not just power—dictates a shinobi's survival. Even elite warriors must take menial jobs because power alone doesn't equate to wealth.

Social Integration. Despite being above civilians in skill, shinobi are still part of the larger world. They need merchants, farmers, and artisans to sustain their way of life. A shinobi's ability to function in peacetime relies on being useful outside of war. This could hint at why ninja villages maintain secrecy—without a stable society, their structure crumbles.

Philosophical Integration. Shinobi pride themselves on self-sufficiency, but true strength comes from relying on others—an ironic contradiction in a profession that preaches independence. Even the strongest ninja needs a mission, a purpose. They don't exist in a vacuum; their strength is only meaningful within a system that gives it value. The hidden hypocrisy in the shinobi world—ninjas talk of strength and power, but in reality, they are bound by economic and political forces beyond their control.

By nature, shinobi are social entities.

They had woven themselves into the fabric of society, not as rulers, but as professionals—hired hands, mercenaries of convenience. Unlike the wandering samurai who are slowly fading away into legend, shinobi secured their existence by integrating themselves into society and making themselves indispensable. It was never about pride; it was about necessity and survival.

A hidden village, no matter how powerful, could only sustain so many Ninjas before the balance tipped. The entire system relied on the flow of missions—transactions between the powerful and the common folk. It was said that it took a hundred civilians to support a single shinobi, a reality as harsh as it was undeniable. A nation of one million could barely sustain 10,000 Ninja, and even then, only if the economy remained stable.

This was why even the greatest shinobi of Konoha Village accepted work that seemed beneath them. The Feudal Lords and nobles, for all their wealth, hired shinobi for tasks requiring no skill as well—not because it was necessary, but because they could.

Perhaps it was a luxury, a display of power—the ability to summon elite warriors for trivial errands.

Or maybe it was simply the way of the world. The wealthy spent, the skilled served, and the cycle continued.

These simple jobs weren't skill tests, but they paid well enough. There was no danger, strategy, or challenge and if they were willing to pay, why should ninjas refuse?

As Raijin carried out his missions, he pondered these things. The routine was predictable, and the work became dull, but there was comfort in knowing exactly what each day would bring. There were no ambushes, assassins, or uncertainty. Just another name on the mission roster, another task completed, another paycheck earned.

But as weeks bled into months, Raijin couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was missing.

The steady paycheck provided comfort, and money could buy small luxuries, but none of it filled the void that lingered within him. There had to be more to being a shinobi than running errands and completing mundane tasks.

Maybe it wasn't about the money.

Maybe it was about something greater.

Like unlocking new, extraordinary abilities that set shinobi apart from ordinary people.

Selfish? Perhaps. But the world had always been survival of the fittest. The strong thrived, while the weak were left behind, forgotten, or worse—crushed underfoot.

However, Raijin didn't seek domination, nor did he desire to rule over others. He simply refused to be overlooked. Strength wasn't just a tool for survival; it was the currency of acknowledgment. And in this world, strength and recognition were everything.

Ultimately, this was just Raijin justifying his growing desire—to obtain a summoning contract and master the Summoning Jutsu.

A technique that had the potential to elevate his power to an entirely new level.

Patience was a virtue, and he knew there was a time for everything—but with each passing day, his resolve hardened.

The scroll had been tucked away for months, gathering dust as he completed his trivial missions.

Hiruzen had warned him to wait—to hone his control, to refine his skill—before attempting the Summoning Jutsu. Mastery was key, he had said. Precision was everything.

But Raijin couldn't shake the prospect of gaining a trusted ally. The idea was intoxicating—a being of immense power, one who could turn the tide of battle and stand beside him, no matter what.

His fingers brushed the parchment, tracing the intricate symbols glowing faintly under the flickering candlelight. He had studied this art, poring over every detail, memorizing the seals, deciphering the mechanics behind summoning contracts.

He wasn't naïve about the dangers.

A miscalculation could mean failure—or worse, an untethered summon with disastrous consequences.

Still, he had spent enough time preparing. The only thing left was to act.

Raijin took a deep breath and unrolled the scroll completely, its edges curling against the floor. His eyes scanned the instructions one last time, committing every detail to memory. If anything went wrong, he could reverse the Summoning Jutsu, returning to the village and his storeroom, where his electrical setup awaited. There was no real risk.

And if he failed? He would try again. And again.

Even if his multiple attempts failed, it wouldn't matter. He still had the contract with the Eagles, the one Hiruzen had provided. This wasn't about immediate success; it was about proving to himself that he was ready.

So, there was no reason to hesitate. No reason to be afraid.

Right?

Exhaling slowly, he pressed his hands together and began the sequence, fingers shifting seamlessly through each seal with practiced precision:

Boar → Dog → Bird → Monkey → Ram

Chakra whipped violently around Raijin as he completed the intricate hand seals for the Summoning Jutsu. His energy surged in response—wild, untamed, demanding more than he had ever given before. It roared through his veins like a raging river, tearing at his reserves with a punishing ferocity. The strain was immediate and suffocating. He barely had time to breathe.

The chakra didn't just flow—it burned.

"Summoning Jutsu!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the swirling chakra outside his body and burning chakra inside his body.

The response was immediate.

A blinding surge of raw and consuming chakra erupted around him. The air twisted under the force, the very ground trembled, and the storeroom walls seemed to close in. The overwhelming sensation of being pulled—stretched thin and compressed all at once—enveloped his body.

And then, everything snapped.

Raijin felt the world go utterly still, and in that moment, the pull of the Jutsu became unbearable. The chakra took hold of him.

There was no time for his mind to process what was happening—no time to panic or reconsider. His body was yanked from his storeroom in a violent flash of light, his body vanishing from the room in an instant.

The moment he disappeared, the lingering chakra in the room crackled and flickered, a faint echo of his presence, and the chakra that had just been unleashed was left behind in the air.

The storeroom stood still, save for the dissipating energy swirling in the dim light.

The dust settled, the candlelight wavered, and then… nothing.

Raijin was gone.

…

In an instant, everything changed.

When the blinding intense chakra light faded and the nauseating pull of the summoning subsided, Raijin's senses reeled. He had expected to appear in a familiar place, perhaps the training grounds or some secluded mountain where his summon and his natural affinity aligned. But this…

This was something else entirely.

Absolute darkness.

Not the quiet shadow of a moonless night, nor the dim obscurity of a dense forest canopy. No—this was a void so consuming, so utterly devoid of light, that it felt as though the very concept of sight had been stripped from existence. He lifted a hand, waving it in front of his face. Nothing. The air itself seemed to swallow visibility, leaving him standing in an abyss where not even the faintest outline could be perceived.

And the silence—it was worse.

No wind. No distant murmur of life. No shifting leaves, no echo of movement. Just an oppressive stillness, thick and unyielding. A silence so complete, it pressed against him like a living entity, suffocating in its intensity.

Raijin's breath came in slow, controlled measures. Oxygen was present, at least. That was something.

He shut his eyes, focusing on his other senses. He reached inward, extending his chakra and going into sensory mode. Normally, he could detect even the faintest chakra signatures—the subtle energy of living beings and the traces of chakra here and there. But here, in this place, there was... nothing.

Simply nothing.

No signatures of living beings. No traces of the natural world. Where was this?

His mind raced through possibilities. Had his summoning gone catastrophically wrong? Was this some unknown realm between dimensions? Or had he accidentally… died?

He took a step forward, his bare feet made no sound against what felt like a cold, solid, but strangely texture-less ground. The darkness seemed to press against him, thick and heavy, like a physical presence.

Another step. Then another.

The darkness did not shift. Did not waver. It simply was.

With each movement, Raijin became painfully aware of his isolation. His breathing seemed deafening in the absence of all other sounds. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, a steady, rhythmic reminder that he was still alive.

But for how long?

There was just…darkness. Endless, consuming darkness.

Time became meaningless. Hours could have passed. Or mere minutes. He kept walking, maintaining a measured pace. He refused to let fear take hold. Panic was useless. If danger lurked beyond this void, then he would confront it. And if death itself awaited… well, he had trained to react instantly. A reverse summoning could pull him back—if he was fast enough.

Then—

A sound.

Faint. Almost imperceptible. A whisper? A breath?

Yes, something... alive. A being.

He halted. Every muscle in his body coiled, senses sharpened to a razor's edge. He strained to hear, reaching for the source of the sound.

There—again.

A low, rumbling exhale. Deep. Resonant. It reverberated from everywhere and nowhere, vibrating through the very air around him.

Not human.

Raijin swallowed, his throat dry despite the damp chill of space. His pulse quickened, but his voice remained steady, laced with quiet caution.

"Who's there?"

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