The Tactician: Naruto Fanfiction

[4152 Words]

Yasu moved. Not perfectly. Not seamlessly. But strategically. 

Daichi was fast. Faster than most kids their age had any right to be. It was obvious, in the way he stepped in and out of Yasu's space with ease, the way his movements were polished—not the rough, instinctual aggression of a child fighting for the first time, but something practiced. Refined. 

He's trained before, Yasu noted, adjusting his stance. 

It made sense. 

Daichi had spent the morning boasting about his older brother—a jōnin. He had likely been taught things other academy students wouldn't learn for years. He wasn't just fast. He knew how to fight. He knew how to chain attacks together, how to pressure an opponent, how to use momentum to his advantage. He had clearly sparred before, while most students here were still learning the basics of footwork. 

But Daichi had never fought him. 

And that was the difference. 

Because while Daichi fought from experience, Yasu fought from understanding. 

That didn't mean his body kept up the way he wanted it to. He had the knowledge—the instincts of someone who had lived another life before this one. But this wasn't that body. 

This body was weaker. Slower. Less refined. The reflexes were there, buried somewhere under inexperience, but it wasn't enough to simply know what to do—he had to teach his body how to respond without thinking. 

And that was the frustrating part. 

Every dodge was a fraction too late. Every counter lacked the proper weight behind it. His movements weren't as smooth as they should have been. And yet— 

He was winning. 

Not through strength. Not through speed. 

Through adjustment. 

Daichi lunged again, sharp and precise. A feint—his body twisting at the last second to redirect the strike toward Yasu's ribs instead of his face. 

Yasu didn't react. Not immediately. 

Instead, he watched. Calculated. 

Daichi favoured his right foot. He reset his stance faster when leading with his left but always pivoted on his right. His posture was good, but he committed too much to certain attacks, leaving his balance vulnerable at key moments. 

Yasu absorbed every detail. And then he used them. 

When Daichi overextended on his next strike, Yasu pivoted—not back, but forward. Instead of dodging, he stepped into Daichi's space, throwing off the intended angle of the attack. He caught Daichi's wrist—not to hold it, just to redirect it further off-course—then swept low with a calculated kick, striking the exact moment Daichi's weight was uneven. 

Daichi went down hard. 

Not from force. Not from overwhelming power. 

From precision. 

A brief silence stretched as the gathered students stared, a few murmurs passing between them. Even their sensei, Hiroshi, watching with arms crossed from the sidelines, seemed mildly intrigued. 

Daichi exhaled sharply, not moving right away. Not out of pain—he hadn't been hurt. But there was tension in his jaw, a flicker of something behind his eyes as he processed the result. 

Then, slowly, he sat up. 

He didn't shout. Didn't curse or throw a fit like some of the others had clearly been expecting. 

He just looked at Yasu. And when he spoke, his voice was even—controlled, but threaded with unmistakable annoyance. 

"…Were you just toying with me?" 

Yasu blinked. Not at the question itself, but at the fact that Daichi had expected to lose. 

That was the most telling part. 

Daichi was confident—borderline arrogant—but he wasn't delusional. He had known there was a chance he'd lose, even if he hadn't liked it. 

Yasu tilted his head slightly, considering. Then, after a beat, he replied, "No. I was figuring you out." 

Daichi let out a short, frustrated breath before pushing himself fully upright. He rolled his shoulder absently, then shot Yasu a look—not quite hostility, but something sharp. 

"…Tch." He didn't argue the point. Didn't deny it. 

Because he had seen it too. 

The way Yasu hadn't just fought. He had studied him. 

Sumire, standing off to the side, remained silent. But her gaze hadn't left Yasu since the match had ended. She had seen it too. 

The difference between knowing how to fight and learning how to fight. 

And Yasu? 

He was learning fast. 

Yasu stood off to the side now, among the other students. The tension from the sparring match still clung to the air, but he ignored it, keeping his breath steady, his hands loosely at his sides. 

In the center of the training ground, another pair had taken their place in the sparring circle, their movements clumsy compared to what had just unfolded between him and Daichi. Their strikes were slow, hesitant—more academy drills than real fighting. 

Yasu wasn't watching them, though. 

His eyes flicked toward Daichi, who had marched off to the other side of the training field. He wasn't stomping, wasn't making a scene, but his movements were stiff, shoulders squared with frustration. His expression was unreadable from this distance, but just before turning away completely, he cast a sharp, lingering look back at Yasu. 

A glare. 

Then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd of students. 

Yasu exhaled through his nose and let it go. He had expected nothing less. 

Beside him, Sumire rocked back and forth on her heels, hands tucked loosely behind her back. She hadn't spoken since the match ended. Hadn't reacted much at all, really. But she was watching him. 

Yasu noticed it immediately—the way her gaze stayed on him, steady, unreadable. Like she had something to say but wasn't in a rush to say it. 

He waited. 

She shifted her weight slightly, then finally spoke, her voice level and matter-of-fact. 

"You're good at thinking." 

Not You're good at fighting. Not That was impressive. 

Just—You're good at thinking. 

Yasu blinked, tilting his head slightly. "That's what you got from that?" 

Sumire hummed, shifting her gaze toward the ongoing spar in front of them. "You didn't beat him because you were faster or stronger," she said simply. "You beat him because you figured it out first." 

Yasu studied her for a moment, considering. Then, with a small shrug, he said, "Isn't that the point?" 

Sumire rocked back onto her heels again. "For some people." 

There was no sarcasm, no teasing—just simple acknowledgment. A quiet observation. 

Yasu glanced toward the sparring circle. The two students inside were still fumbling through their match, more hesitant than aggressive. It was barely a fight—more like an exercise in avoiding getting hit. 

He spoke without really thinking. "It feels slow, doesn't it?" 

Sumire nodded once. "Very." 

Another pause. The wind shifted lightly through the training ground, kicking up small trails of dust. 

Then Sumire asked, "Do you think he'll try to beat you next time?" 

Yasu didn't have to ask who he was. 

He let out a slow breath, watching the fight in front of them, watching the way one student barely dodged a punch in time. 

"Of course he will," Yasu said, voice even. "I'd be disappointed if he didn't." 

Sumire's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close. 

"Good," she said. Then she fell silent again, content to watch the match. 

Yasu didn't press the conversation. He just stood beside her, watching too. 

Yasu hadn't planned to care much about the rest of the matches. But as he stood on the sidelines, watching each fight unfold, he realized something: watching kids fight was kind of amusing. 

They were unpredictable. Not because they were skilled, but because they weren't. Some flailed wildly, throwing punches with no form. Others hesitated too much, shuffling in place like they were trying to solve a puzzle they didn't understand. A few had natural ability—quick feet, decent reflexes—but no refinement. 

It was like watching a series of bad plays in slow motion. 

He could already tell who would improve with time and who wouldn't. 

Then, the next match was called. 

"Ren, Yuta. Step forward." 

Ren hesitated. 

Yuta—a broad-shouldered boy with a serious expression—walked toward the sparring circle without issue, adjusting his stance as he entered. But Ren? He lingered for a moment, as if reconsidering his life choices. 

Then, instead of stepping forward, he turned to Hiroshi. 

"…Do I have to?" 

A few kids snickered at the question. Yasu barely resisted the urge to smirk. 

Hiroshi, to his credit, didn't look irritated. If anything, he seemed to have expected something like this. His arms remained crossed, his expression unreadable as he answered, "Yes." 

Ren looked unconvinced. "I mean—I get that it's training and everything, but—" 

"Everything you do here is counted," Hiroshi interrupted, his voice calm but firm. "Every lesson. Every drill. Every spar. You may not think it's important, but it is. This isn't just for show." 

Ren exhaled through his nose, clearly still sceptical. 

Hiroshi tilted his head slightly. "Besides, if you avoid what you're bad at, how do you expect to get better?" 

There was something almost encouraging in his tone—not mocking, not strict. Just steady. 

Ren hesitated for another beat, then sighed heavily, trudging toward the circle like a man walking toward his execution. 

The moment the match started, it was obvious how it would go. 

Ren wasn't terrible—he knew enough to raise his hands in a decent guard. But his reactions were sluggish, his stance uncertain, and every movement screamed I don't want to be here. 

Yuta, on the other hand, wasn't particularly skilled either. But he had conviction. He moved forward without hesitation, pressing Ren with basic strikes—nothing fancy, just a steady barrage of punches and low kicks that kept Ren scrambling. 

It was a messy fight. 

Sloppy footwork. Bad timing. More instinct than actual technique. 

Ren tried to retaliate once or twice, but every time he did, Yuta was already moving, already pressing forward again. 

And then, inevitably—Ren went down. 

Not hard. Not spectacularly. Just down. 

Flat on his back, staring at the sky, blinking as if trying to process how exactly he got there. 

Hiroshi nodded once. "Match over." 

Yuta stepped back, barely winded. He wasn't smug about it—just satisfied, like he had done what he was supposed to do. 

Ren? 

He just laid there for a second. Then, finally, he groaned. "Well. That's done." 

And with all the urgency of a man waking up late in the morning, he sat up, dusted himself off, and walked off without a hint of disappointment. 

Yasu watched him go, amused. 

At least someone had enjoyed themselves. 

. . . 

. . . 

Now, it was lunch break, children scattered around—some sitting together in small groups, others running around burning off excess energy. 

Yasu sat on the grass, absentmindedly fidgeting with a blade between his fingers, rolling it back and forth as he listened to the conversation unfolding around him. 

Sumire lay a few feet away, flat on her back, staring up at the sky. Her dark green hair fanned out around her, moving slightly with the breeze. She looked completely at ease, arms folded behind her head, expression unreadable as if she was only half-listening. 

Aoto, Haruto, and Sota were gathered with them. 

Aoto sat cross-legged, speaking with the loud confidence of someone who wanted to be heard. Haruto was crouched, elbows resting on his knees, chewing on the last bite of his sandwich as he listened intently. Sota had sprawled out on his stomach, idly poking at a rock with his fingers as he followed the conversation. 

And the conversation? 

It was about the war. 

"My uncle fought in it," Aoto was saying, his voice carrying a mixture of pride and something heavier—something he probably didn't fully understand. "He said Kumo shinobi were the worst. They don't care about honour, only power." 

"My dad said the Mist were worse," Haruto chimed in, brushing crumbs off his hands. "They don't even care if they have to kill their own people. They just do whatever their superiors say." 

Sota scoffed. "Tch. That's nothing. My grandfather died because of a Konoha shinobi. He was leading his squad, and Konoha tricked them into a trap—like cowards." He glanced up, brows furrowed. "That's why my father says we can never trust them. They pretend to be good, but they're just as bad as the others." 

Yasu remained quiet, listening. 

It was easy to see where they got it from. Six-year-olds didn't form opinions on war by themselves. They absorbed what adults around them said—parents, uncles, older siblings. They repeated words they barely understood, wore grudges that weren't theirs to carry. 

Naïve. 

But not their fault. 

"Not all of them were bad," Yasu said finally, his voice even. 

Three heads turned toward him. Sumire didn't react, still staring up at the sky, though Yasu could tell she was listening. 

Aoto frowned. "What are you talking about?" 

Yasu shrugged, plucking another blade of grass between his fingers. "You're talking about entire villages like they're one person. Like every single Kumo shinobi fights the same way. Like every Mist shinobi thinks the same way." 

Haruto narrowed his eyes. "That's what they did, though. That's what the war was." 

Yasu exhaled through his nose. "The war was people doing what they were told. Fighting because they had to. It wasn't about 'good' or 'bad.' It was just survival." He paused, turning the grass blade between his fingers. "Iwagakure did bad things too. Every village did." 

Silence. 

Aoto scoffed. "So what? You think we should just forget about it?" 

Yasu finally glanced up, meeting his gaze. "I think pretending we were the only ones who lost people is stupid." 

That shut them up. 

Not because they agreed. But because no one had said it to them like that before. 

Sota shifted slightly, brows furrowed in thought. Haruto pursed his lips, like he wanted to argue but wasn't sure how. Aoto, always the loudest, looked annoyed—but not because he was angry. More because Yasu had said something that made him think, and he didn't like it. 

Sumire finally moved, tilting her head slightly to glance at Yasu. 

Then she said, simply, "That's a smart way to think about it." 

Yasu huffed, flicking the blade of grass away. "Not really. Just logical." 

The boys lingered for a moment longer, shifting their weight, glancing at each other like they wanted to say more but didn't know how. 

Then, one by one, they left. 

Haruto muttered something about needing to get more water. Aoto clicked his tongue, shaking his head like he was brushing off the conversation entirely. Sota stretched his arms over his head, rolling his shoulders before following the others. None of them seemed upset—just unsettled, like Yasu had planted something in their heads they weren't used to thinking about. 

Soon, it was just him and Sumire. 

She was still lying on the grass, still staring at the sky. But now, there was something different—a sharp, quiet amusement in her expression, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

"You have a way of chasing people off," she mused, voice light, dry. "Very subtle." 

Yasu glanced at her. "I wasn't trying to." 

"I know." She rocked her foot back and forth slightly, her gaze still skyward. "That's what makes it funny." 

Yasu sighed, dragging his fingers through the grass again. "I didn't say anything wrong." 

"No," Sumire agreed. "You just have a way with words." 

Yasu frowned slightly, but before he could ask what she meant, she tilted her head toward him, her dark brown eyes flickering with something unreadable. 

"It's interesting." 

Yasu blinked. That was it? No teasing, no deeper explanation—just that simple statement. 

Sumire hummed, stretching her arms above her head before returning her gaze to the sky. "I like watching people react to you." 

Yasu exhaled, shaking his head. "Glad I could be entertainment." 

Sumire smirked. "You are." 

And for some reason, Yasu wasn't entirely sure if she was joking. 

The conversation had settled into a comfortable lull, the kind that wasn't awkward but didn't need filling either. Sumire remained sprawled on the grass, her gaze still lazily tracing the sky, while Yasu idly plucked at another blade of grass, his thoughts half-drifting. 

Then, completely out of nowhere— 

A mess of stumbling footsteps, laboured breathing, and a sudden thud as someone nearly collapsed beside him. 

Yasu blinked. 

Ren was hunched over, hands braced on his knees, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. There were leaves tangled in his hair, dirt smudged on his sleeve, and a general disheveledness about him that suggested whatever had happened had not been kind to him. 

After a long, painful inhale, Ren let out a slow, awkward, "…Hello." 

It wasn't embarrassed. Wasn't confident. Just… there. 

Sumire turned her head, finally pulling her attention away from the sky to look at him. Her gaze was steady, curious, the way someone might observe an interesting insect that had wandered too close. 

"What happened to you?" she asked, her voice as calm as if she were asking about the weather. 

Ren stayed silent for a moment, still catching his breath. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose, straightened just enough to seem like he had some dignity left, and launched into a ramble. 

"So—I was thinking about that fight earlier, right?" he started, gesturing vaguely in no particular direction. "And I thought, 'Hey, maybe I should do something about it instead of just sitting around.' Because that's what motivated people do, yeah?" He ran a hand through his hair, accidentally pulling loose a leaf that drifted lazily to the ground. "So I went back to ask for a rematch. Thought maybe if I fought again, I'd improve, or at least, you know—not get knocked on my back so fast." 

Yasu blinked. 

Sumire blinked. 

Ren let out a long sigh, dropping his head back dramatically. "I did not improve." 

Sumire's lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "I see that." 

Ren groaned, running both hands down his face. "It was worse. So much worse. I don't even think Yuta-kun was trying at the end, it didn't help that his friends joined in, it's the second day why does he have that many? Let's not get started on the fact I tripped over my own foot. Twice. It was humiliating." 

His breathing had slowed now, settling into something less frantic, though he still looked like someone who had narrowly escaped something unpleasant. 

Then, after a pause, he turned to Yasu, his grey eyes serious in a way that almost made the next words seem important. 

"I came here just in case they followed me," he said. 

Yasu frowned slightly. "And…?" 

Ren gestured at him vaguely, still catching his breath. "Well, you're here. No one's gonna mess with me while I'm sitting next to you." 

There was an unspoken obviously at the end of that sentence. 

Sumire finally let out a quiet huff of amusement, turning her gaze back toward the sky. 

Yasu just sighed. "I see." 

. 

. 

. 

The streets of Iwagakure were quieter in the late afternoon, the rush of midday activity giving way to a more measured rhythm. Vendors called out the last of their sales, shinobi passed by in muted conversations, and the air carried the crisp bite of the encroaching cold. 

Yasu walked with his hands in his pockets, his breath visible in the air as he made his way home. 

The past few days had been getting colder. It wasn't unbearable yet, but it was enough to make him aware of it—especially with the wind threading through the village's stone paths. 

That was when he saw her. 

Rika. 

She stood at a small outdoor stall, partially hidden by the flow of pedestrians moving past her. She wasn't wearing anything warm—just her standard clothes, nothing suited for the cooling weather. Her hands were clenched at her sides, fingers twitching slightly from the cold, her shoulders subtly hunched. 

Yasu recognized the look in her eyes immediately. 

She wasn't just standing there—she was hesitating. 

Her gaze was fixed on something inside the stall. 

A scarf. 

Dark blue. A deep, rich shade—not too bright, not too dull. It was a colour Yasu had always liked, one that reminded him of something steady, something grounding. 

She reached out, fingertips brushing the fabric before carefully picking it up, turning it over in her hands. Yasu watched as she subtly, almost nervously, counted the money in her palm. 

It didn't take long to see the problem. 

She didn't have enough. 

The seller's patience was already wearing thin, their arms crossed, their expression set in irritation. 

"Look, kid, are you buying it or not?" 

Rika flinched at the abrupt tone, her grip on the scarf tightening slightly before she quickly placed it back. 

"I—I'm sorry," she stammered, bowing her head deeply. "I didn't mean to waste your time." 

The seller just huffed, muttering something under their breath before turning away to another customer. 

Rika lingered only for a moment longer before turning, her posture tight, her head ducked low as she began to walk away—a walk of shame, retreating as if she had done something wrong. 

Yasu hesitated. 

He could've just left. It wasn't his problem. 

But his feet didn't move. 

Instead, he sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before stepping forward. 

He reached the stall, picking up the same scarf she had chosen, feeling the fabric between his fingers. It was soft, thick—something that would actually be useful in the coming weeks. 

Without a word, he placed the money down. The seller barely spared him a glance before handing it over, more interested in their next sale. 

Yasu took the scarf and turned, easily spotting Rika's small figure further up the street. 

She wasn't walking fast—just slow, quiet steps, her hands curled into small fists at her sides, like she was trying to hold in the embarrassment of earlier. 

Yasu caught up in a few strides. 

"Here," he said simply, holding out the scarf. 

Rika startled slightly, blinking up at him in surprise. Her wide eyes flickered to the fabric, then back to him. 

"…You bought it?" Her voice was soft, hesitant, like she didn't quite believe it. 

Yasu sighed, shifting his grip. "Yeah." 

She hesitated. "But—you wanted it?" 

Yasu gave her a look. "Not really." 

She frowned slightly, still unsure. "But I didn't have enough. I can't just—" 

Yasu held the scarf out again, firmer this time. "I didn't buy it because I wanted it. I bought it because you wanted it. So just take it." 

Rika's hands twitched at her sides, like she wanted to, but something in her still resisted. 

Then, after a beat, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the remaining coins she had left, pressing them into her palm before holding them out. 

"At least take this," she said earnestly. 

Yasu stared at the money. Then at her. 

He exhaled sharply, not in irritation, but in the quiet exhaustion of someone who wasn't about to argue over something so stupid. 

"Keep it." 

"But—" 

Yasu sighed. "Just take the scarf, Rika-chan." 

She opened her mouth, maybe to argue again, but after a moment, she clamped it shut. 

Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out and took the scarf from his hands, her fingers curling around the fabric. 

"…Thank you," she murmured, voice quieter than before. 

Yasu shrugged. "Just wear it. It's cold." 

Rika glanced down at it, holding it a little closer. 

She would. 

Yasu shoved his hands into his pockets, exhaling through his nose as Rika clutched the scarf a little closer. 

She was still standing there, hesitating, like she wasn't sure what to do next. 

He glanced at her thin clothes again, the way her fingers had been trembling from the cold just moments ago, and a thought crept into his mind before he could stop it. 

What kind of parents let their kid walk around like this? 

It wasn't like winter had arrived out of nowhere. The past few days had been getting colder—anyone paying attention would have noticed. Anyone paying attention would have made sure their kid had something warm to wear. 

So where were they? 

The thought sat uncomfortably in his mind, and before he could dismiss it, his gaze flickered back to her. 

Rika wasn't looking at him anymore. She was looking down at the scarf, fingers gripping the fabric like it was something fragile. 

And in that moment, something shifted. 

It was the way she held herself. The way she had reacted at the stall—not with frustration, not with an attempt to argue, but with immediate, overwhelming apology. 

The way she had bowed so deeply, stumbling over her words like she wasn't just embarrassed—like she had been afraid of being an inconvenience. 

Yasu had seen that before. 

Not from kids with parents who were simply careless. 

But from kids who had no one to be responsible for them in the first place. 

His fingers curled slightly in his pockets, his gaze lingering on her small figure for just a second longer before he turned away. 

He didn't say anything. 

Didn't ask. 

It wasn't his business. 

But for the first time, Yasu understood something he hadn't before. 

Rika was alone.