Naruto: Starting by Reading Minds in Naruto

Back at Police Force headquarters, the heavier Uchiha still refused to accept what had happened.

”He resisted us. Even with Hokage-sama present, we should have detained him for questioning. What becomes of the Uchiha’s dignity if we simply let him leave?”

Shisui frowned. ”The Police Force exists to protect Konoha. It is not the private property of our clan.”

The rebuke only deepened the man’s resentment.

”We should investigate him,” the thinner officer said. ”He reflected Sharingan genjutsu.”

That concerned all three of them. An Uchiha had lost an illusion contest to a civilian-born shinobi, and even Shisui—widely considered the clan’s strongest genjutsu user—had needed time to escape Tonbo’s technique.

The subordinates had watched closely enough to recognize the sequence. Shisui’s movements had stopped, his focus had turned inward, and Tonbo had stood before him without attacking. However they preferred to describe the duel, their captain had been caught. Escaping eventually did not erase the achievement.

For a clan whose reputation rested partly on the unrivaled power of its eyes, a counter capable of turning that power against its wielder was a strategic concern.

The heavier officer wondered how such a threat might be removed. Shisui wondered something different: whether Tonbo’s loyalty to Konoha was as strong as Hiruzen believed.

”Request Tobitake Tonbo’s file from the Archives Department.”

The thinner officer returned less than fifteen minutes later.

”They released it without argument. It was almost as if they expected us.”

”Hokage-sama wants us to read it,” Shisui said.

Personnel files were classified. Normal access required a long procedure designed to prevent Konoha’s intelligence from leaking. Hiruzen had clearly authorized a limited disclosure.

The folder confirmed that judgment. Several sections had been removed or covered, leaving service dates, public commendations, and selected evaluations. There were no mission details, no descriptions of Tonbo’s secret techniques, and nothing about the intelligence he had extracted during the war.

Shisui opened the folder.

”Seventeen years old.”

”The same age as you, Captain?”

Aside from Kakashi, few young Konoha shinobi could reasonably be compared with Shisui.

”Graduated early at eleven. Served in the Third Shinobi World War under Inoichi Yamanaka in the Analysis Team. Recovered enemy intelligence, earned multiple commendations, and was promoted to chūnin. Current rank: special jōnin. Current position: captain in the Analysis Team. Primary specialty: genjutsu.”

At seventeen, Tonbo already had six years of wartime and intelligence experience behind him. His rank looked modest beside Shisui’s reputation, but the record suggested deliberate specialization rather than weakness.

Shisui continued reading.

”Evaluation by the Fourth Hokage: ’A calm and talented comrade.’ Evaluation by the Third: ’A man who inherited the Will of Fire.’”

His expression relaxed. Endorsements from both Hokage made espionage exceedingly unlikely. The omissions in the file were obvious, but that only confirmed Hiruzen had shown them what was necessary and nothing more.

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Shisui understood the message. Tonbo belonged to Konoha, had paid for that place through service, and deserved the same presumption of loyalty the Uchiha demanded for themselves.

The heavier officer looked offended. ”Why would both Hokage praise him?”

Even clan traditionalists respected Minato as an exceptional Hokage. That he had called Tonbo a comrade carried real weight.

”Then we cannot touch him,” the thinner man conceded.

”We do not need to,” Shisui said. ”Trust the Sharingan, but do not mistake pride for duty. Archive a copy where the Police Force can consult it if another incident occurs.”

He closed the folder. Tonbo’s ability remained worth understanding, but investigation and persecution were not the same. Treating every capable civilian-born shinobi as an enemy would manufacture threats faster than the clan could eliminate them.

Tonbo knew nothing of the discussion or the praise recorded in his file. He had met Minato only a handful of times and had never heard either Hokage’s assessment.

At that moment, he had no interest in the Uchiha, Hiruzen, or the weekly overtime awaiting him.

He and Ayame were eating sushi.

Being a shinobi was a profession—a means of protecting himself and the people he loved. It was not his entire life. When he had time for family, he intended to use it.

He had spent too much of his childhood surrounded by reports, corpses, and memories taken from enemy minds to worship work for its own sake. Missions mattered. Konoha mattered. Neither justified surrendering every quiet meal and every hour beside Ayame.

”Those officers were frightening,” Ayame admitted as she fed him a piece of sushi.

Tonbo ate it, then returned the favor. ”They still couldn’t defeat your husband.”

He flexed his arm with exaggerated seriousness. Ayame laughed, and the last tension left her face.

The restaurant was warm, the food fresh, and no one expected Tonbo to solve a security crisis between bites. After the afternoon’s chaos, that ordinary comfort felt luxurious.

Inoichi Yamanaka entered the restaurant holding the hand of a little girl.

”Tonbo!”

”Chief Inoichi? Away from the office?” Tonbo looked at the child. ”This must be your daughter. Ino, isn’t it? She’s adorable.”

Ayame bowed. ”Hello, Inoichi-sama.”

”Ino, greet Big Brother Tonbo.”

The bandages frightened the girl. She retreated behind her father’s leg and peeked out with wide eyes.

Tonbo tried what he considered his least threatening smile. Because only his eyes were visible between the wrappings, the effort had the opposite effect.

”Big Brother Tonbo,” she whispered.

Tonbo crouched and opened his arms. ”Hello, beautiful Ino. Come give me a hug.”

She clung more tightly to Inoichi.

”I keep telling you those bandages scare children,” Inoichi said.

”Nonsense. This is an unconventional form of beauty. Isn’t that right, Ino?”

”Scary.”

Tonbo fell silent while Ayame covered a laugh.

”This is my wife, Ayame.”

”Teuchi’s daughter from Ichiraku,” Inoichi said. ”I remember.”

They joined tables. Inoichi explained that his wife had noticed the Analysis Team was quiet that day and ordered him to stop working long enough to take their daughter outside. Finding Tonbo at the restaurant had been coincidence.

Inoichi had protested that a department head was never truly free of work. His wife had answered by placing Ino’s hand in his and pushing both of them toward the door. He had wisely accepted defeat.

The four adults spoke about food, hobbies, and ordinary village life, deliberately avoiding work. Tonbo soon turned his attention to Ino.

Ayame asked which sweets the girl liked. Inoichi complained about how quickly children outgrew their clothes. Tonbo offered increasingly implausible advice about raising daughters despite having no children, earning skeptical looks from both adults.

He wanted four children of his own, and the little girl’s presence made that wish difficult to ignore. Every time his eyes met Ayame’s, her cheeks grew redder.

Tonbo shaped a harmless genjutsu above his palms.

Flowers sprouted, bloomed, and withered in an endless sequence. Whenever Ino asked for a different kind, it appeared. She forgot her fear and reached for the petals, only for her fingers to pass through empty air.

Roses unfolded beside lilies. Morning glories curled around Tonbo’s fingers and dissolved into drifting points of light. When Ino demanded a sunflower, a tiny golden bloom rose from his palm and turned to follow an imaginary sun.

”Magic,” she breathed.

She circled Tonbo’s hands, searching for hidden thread or folded paper. Finding neither only deepened her fascination, until she was laughing each time a new flower appeared.

Inoichi watched with helpless amusement. Using genjutsu of that quality merely to entertain a child was extravagant.

Tonbo adjusted every image to Ino’s requests without a hand seal and without disturbing anyone else in the restaurant. The control required was far beyond the Academy illusions that had once defined his specialty.

It also proved, yet again, how far his subordinate had advanced.