Mastering the Elements - Chapter - 80

The Nine-Tails Festival had returned to Konoha, filling the village with a vibrant mix of color, noise, and scents. Paper lanterns adorned with the fox spirit's likeness swayed in the warm evening breeze—part fierce, part playful. Children raced through the streets wearing paper masks and spinning tops, their laughter blending with the ringing of festival bells. The air was rich with the aroma of roasted meats, sweet bean pastries, and grilled dango.

Merchants from far-off towns and itinerant performers lined the streets, selling their goods, juggling flaming torches, or playing flutes that filled the night with gentle melodies. Even the shinobi relaxed their alertness; guards on the village walls leaned on their spears while chatting with traders at the gates.

As always, this created the perfect opportunity for outsiders to sneak in unnoticed.


A weather-beaten caravan rolled toward Konoha. At first glance, it appeared to be like any merchant group—a couple of creaking wooden wagons, canvas flaps held down against the wind, and travelers in patched cloaks and straw hats.

However, within the caravan, the atmosphere was far from that of carefree vendors.

A man with piercing eyes adjusted the dagger at his hip and spoke in a low, commanding voice.

“Stick to the plan. No unnecessary chatter, no risks. We’ve waited eight years for a worthwhile mission—don’t jeopardize it.”

The others, six seasoned Iwa jonin in total—four men and two women—nodded in agreement. Each bore the faint scars of battle while pretending to live as civilians.

The tallest among them, a broad-shouldered man with scars on his forearms, grunted.

“It feels odd. After all these years in this wretched country, pretending to be friendly with farmers and shopkeepers… I thought we’d wither away before being called back.”

The woman beside him, her hair neatly braided, smirked but kept polishing her kunai.

“You’re not the only one. But orders are orders. This time, it’s not just about gathering scraps for intel. If we finish this, we return home with honor.”

A third man leaned in from the back of the wagon, his voice edged with impatience.

“You’ve seen the reports, right? The kid’s identity is public. Namikaze’s son. That alone makes him worth the risk. Iwa would pay a fortune for leverage over him.”

The leader shot him an icy glance.

“We’re not here to gain leverage. We’re here to take.”

Silence filled the cramped space momentarily, broken only by the creaking wheels. Outside, the village gates glowed in the distance, and the sounds of festival drums echoed in the air.


Naruto had never enjoyed the Nine-Tails Festival. In his younger days, he often avoided it altogether—too many hostile glares and whispered insults directed at him when he passed by the fox-themed decorations. But this year was different.

Now, as he walked through the streets, people called his name while beaming and waving. Stall owners offered him complimentary food, children clamored for autographs, and strangers leaned in to catch a glimpse of “the Fourth’s boy.”

It was exhausting.

Hinata and Midori stayed close by, glaring at any girl who dared linger too long near Naruto. A group of academy girls had been following them for three streets, giggling and pretending to bump into him "by accident."

Midori's patience finally broke.

“Hey!” she snapped, pivoting. “He’s not here to entertain you! Go find someone else to bother before I make you regret it.”

The girls scattered, whispering among themselves. Hinata remained silent, but the faintly dangerous smile on her face suggested she approved.

Naruto sighed.

“You two don’t have to stick by me all night. It’s just a festival.”

Hinata’s expression softened.

“We promised to stay with you. And after last month's events… we can’t take chances.”

Naruto managed a half-smile but didn’t argue. He knew she was referring to the aftermath of his parentage being revealed—and the bounties that had surfaced across the continent.


The caravan approached the guards, who were sharing laughter with a trader from Tanzaku Town.

“Festival traders? Papers?” one guard asked lazily.

The leader handed over counterfeit documents without hesitation. They had been created years prior, updated every time they visited the village. The guards glanced over them and waved the caravan through without a second thought.

As they passed beneath the gate’s arch, the Iwa shinobi sensed the shift. The festival’s noise intensified, and the enticing scent of food grew stronger. Crowds flowed like waves through the lantern-lit streets.

Amidst the din, the leader’s voice was barely audible, but his team heard it clearly:

“Remember—blend in tonight. We move tomorrow.”

They disappeared into the crowd, perfect predators in a village that had let its defenses down.


The six Iwa jōnin navigated the back streets of Konoha with practiced skill, seamlessly blending in with the festival crowds. They had traversed these streets numerous times before, each time under different identities, learning every shortcut, patrol route, and vulnerable entry point into the village's core.

However, tonight was not a typical surveillance mission.

They paused in the dim light of a narrow alleyway behind a row of vendor stalls. There, dressed in an intricately patterned indigo kimono, stood Murasaki. His friendly smile gave him an air of harmlessness to the casual observer. His well-known clothing shop near the Hokage's office, combined with his charming demeanor, made him an ideal informant.

“Capturing Namikaze’s child won’t be easy,” Murasaki began, his tone low and serious.

Shiori, the team's tall and observant infiltration expert, crossed her arms. “Is it because the Hokage has increased security?” she asked.

Murasaki shook his head. “Security is certainly a factor, but it’s not the main concern. The real issue is the family that took him in.”

Riku, a muscular tracker with a scar on his cheek, frowned. “I thought the jinchuriki was adopted by a civilian couple.”

“That’s the common belief,” Murasaki replied, his smile turning cold. “But the Pottaru family is far from ordinary. Harry Pottaru is a healer whose abilities eclipse even those of Tsunade Senju. And yes—Tsunade is one of his wives.”

The group tensed; even in Iwa, Tsunade's reputation was formidable.

Murasaki continued, “His other wife is Mikoto Uchiha, a retired jonin known for her skill and danger. Their eldest son, Itachi Pottaru, is at Kage-level. Not even the Hokage could defeat him, if the rumors hold true. And we can't overlook Naruto, who is also training under them and Jiraiya of the Sannin.”

Kaoru, the youngest and a weapon specialist, murmured, “But he’s only ten…”

“Ten, and there are rumers that he is already skilled enough to be considered jōnin-level,” Murasaki responded bluntly. “Today is his birthday, and the entire Pottaru family will be gathered, with their defenses heightened.”

Daisuke, the team leader, narrowed his eyes. “Then we need to create a diversion. Something substantial enough to draw the Pottarus' attention away.”

A slow smile returned to Murasaki's face. “If you desire chaos during the Nine-Tails Festival… I have just the plan in mind.”

The distant rhythm of festival drums echoed through the streets, camouflaging the hushed tones of their conversation.


The Nine-Tails Festival was in full swing, with vibrant paper lanterns swaying in the evening breeze, illuminating the bustling streets. The sounds of shamisen music mingled with the clamor of game stalls, while the aroma of takoyaki and grilled squid wafted through the air.

Inside the Pottaru home, the main hall was filled with laughter. Streamers hung from the ceiling, and a long table overflowed with food, including roasted pork, rice cakes, steaming ramen, and assorted sweets. Naruto sat in the middle, a paper crown askew on his head, cheeks puffed from trying to cool a bowl of miso soup.

“It’s still too hot!” he protested, waving his spoon.

Hinata and Midori flanked him, glaring at each other whenever one tried to serve Naruto. Tsunade poured tea with a sly smile, amused by their silent competition. Across the table, Mikoto quietly conversed with a relaxed yet vigilant Itachi, who seemed ready for trouble.

Naruto was finishing a second bowl of ramen when Konohamaru burst through the sliding doors. “Naruto! You’ve got to see the fireworks!”

“Fireworks? It’s not even dark yet,” Naruto replied, surprised.

“They’re starting early in the main square,” Konohamaru insisted, pulling at his sleeve.

Harry, sitting at the far end, narrowed his eyes. “Early fireworks?” He glanced at Itachi.

“I’ll go check,” Itachi said quietly, standing up. “Stay inside.”


The warm atmosphere of the festival was filled with the enticing aromas of fried dumplings, sizzling yakitori, and sweet red bean pastries. Joyful laughter and music filled the streets, but amidst the revelers, the six Iwa shinobi advanced with determination.

Daisuke, the leader, concealed his hands within his sleeves, observing the street vendors with a keen eye. “Civilians are the easiest targets,” he whispered, almost drowned out by the festival's noise. “Shinobi can detect poison, but these folks will mistake it for a spice blend.”

Shiori smiled subtly as she maneuvered past a cart loaded with cooking oil and seasonings. She discreetly extracted a small pouch of powder from her sleeve, letting it tumble into an open sack. “It’s slow-acting. By the time they realize something is amiss, we’ll already be gone.”

Individually, they weaved through the stalls—vendors foreign to Konoha’s shinobi—carefully sprinkling poison into sauces, flour bags, and tea containers.


Two hours later, the festive atmosphere shifted to one of panic. A man fell near the game alley, clutching his stomach with blood foaming from his lips. A woman collapsed by the sweet dumpling stall, gasping. Cries erupted, chaos ensued, and the aroma of fear began to replace the scent of grilled delicacies.

By the time the fifth victim succumbed, Tsunade had rushed out of the Pottaru mansion, with Shizune carrying medical supplies behind her. Harry, in a dark green yukata, wore a steely expression as he followed. Itachi moved quietly behind them, already scanning for signs of illness.

Inside the Pottaru compound, the revelry of Naruto’s birthday party faded into a tense silence.

From the shadows of an alley across the street, Kaoru nudged Daisuke. “Look. The healers and their guards are gone.”

A cold smile appeared on Daisuke's face. “Perfect. Let’s see if the brat is home.”

Takumi approached the front gate, forming a quick hand seal to release a wave of chakra. The fuinjutsu glimmered, absorbing the attack before snapping back, throwing Takumi backward with a painful hiss as a shallow cut appeared on his forearm.

“This isn’t regular Konoha security,” Kaoru observed, gazing at the gate.

Before they could attempt another approach, the gate slowly opened. Naruto stood there, his face illuminated by the festival lights. Hinata and Midori were beside him, both glaring at the intruders. In Naruto’s arms was Nawaki, the baby nestled comfortably against his shoulder.

“What do you want?” Naruto asked, tone flat.

The woman, Shiori, stepped forward, her voice trembling. “Our daughter… she’s been poisoned. Please, help us.”

Naruto frowned. “My family already went to the hospital. If you hurry, you might—”

“She won’t last that long!” Shiori's voice wavered with urgency, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, although Naruto couldn’t discern their authenticity.

He paused. “…Alright. I’ve learned some healing techniques from Dad. I’ll come with you.”

He turned to Hinata, carefully handing her Nawaki. “You and Midori take care of Nawaki. Don’t open the gate for anyone. I’ll be back soon.”

Hinata’s gaze sharpened. “Be careful, Naruto.”

“I will.”

Naruto quickly dashed inside before returning with a large wooden box—one of Harry’s medical kits.

“Thank you so much, Naruto-sama,” Daisuke said, bowing slightly, his tone smooth.

Naruto remained silent. “Lead the way.”

The two Iwa shinobi swiftly headed toward the outskirts, their yukata billowing in the night breeze. Naruto followed closely, his eyes keen, unaware that their chosen route was leading him away from the festival and into a more perilous ambush.