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Chapter 37: An Unlikely Alliance
Might Dai was like a force of nature. The more the mission administrator refused, the more doggedly he insisted. He argued with the weary chunin, his voice a booming, earnest counterpoint to the official's flat refusals.
The administrator, while privately dismissive of the "Eternal Genin," was still a Konoha shinobi. He didn't want to send a fellow villager, however limited, to a near-certain death. But Dai's relentless, ear-grating persistence was wearing his patience thin.
"Fine!" the administrator finally snapped, slapping a hand on the desk. "If you are so determined, then find another shinobi to team up with. The mission reward will be split fifty-fifty. Even half is generous for a C-rank. If you refuse these terms, then drop it. Complain to the Hokage himself if you wish; it will not change the policy."
"Split? A team?" Dai blinked, processing this. His face fell for a moment at the halved reward, then brightened again. It was still better than nothing. "A team is not impossible!"
He turned, a wide, hopeful grin splitting his face, and addressed the surrounding crowd of ninjas. "Everyone! Is anyone interested in forming a temporary team?"
A wave of derisive chuckles and muttered comments washed over him.
"Hah! Who'd team up with the Eternal Genin?"
"Would we have to protect you?"
"What use is a taijutsu-only ninja on a mission like that?"
The smiles and nods Dai offered met only cold shoulders and averted eyes. His grin stiffened, then slowly melted into a crestfallen, tense line. The message was clear: he was being scorned, his worth measured and found wanting.
The mission administrator gave him a pitying look. "No team, no mission approval. Those are the conditions."
"I'll team up with him."
The voice was calm, cutting through the ambient noise. All heads turned.
Ragnar stood at the edge of the crowd.
"Where did this kid come from?"
"This is no place for children!"
"Wait… look at his arm. A forehead protector? He's a ninja? That young?"
Another round of murmurs erupted, this time tinged with curiosity and disbelief.
Might Dai's eyes widened, his jaw slack. The boy looked familiar, but he couldn't place him.
"Your forehead protector, please. For verification," the administrator said, focusing on Ragnar.
Ragnar untied the cloth from his bicep and handed it over. Besides the Konoha symbol, it bore a faint, stamped serial number—a unique identifier for every village shinobi.
The administrator produced a ledger, cross-referenced the number, and his eyebrows rose. He read aloud, partly for the record, partly in surprise. "Ragnar. Serial number 01037. Recent graduate. Champion of the latest Academy Tournament…"
The atmosphere in the hall shifted palpably. The champion? That changed things. Winning the academy tournament in a village of clan heirs and bloodline limits was a significant mark of potential. This unassuming boy was a certified genius, a future pillar of the village.
Might Dai stared at Ragnar, a complex wave of envy and admiration washing over him. He had no talent for ninjutsu or genjutsu; his path was one of brutal, unglamorous physical conditioning. He envied such natural talent from the depths of his soul.
Youth… and talent… what a beautiful combination!
The administrator handed the forehead protector back with newfound respect. "With a two-man team formed, you meet the preliminary conditions. However, due to the mission's special nature, it requires the Hokage's personal sign-off. You will be notified when approval is granted. You may then proceed."
"How long for approval?" Ragnar asked. A month's wait would defeat the purpose.
"This is a priority dispatch. It will be placed before the Hokage directly. No more than half a day," the administrator assured him.
"Acceptable." Ragnar retied his headband and turned to leave, ignoring the lingering stares.
Might Dai stood frozen for a few seconds, then scrambled after him, catching up outside the hall. "Thank you, Ragnar-sama!" he boomed, bowing deeply.
"How do you know my name?" Ragnar asked, though he'd heard the administrator read it aloud. He'd teamed up with Dai on a whim, a confluence of his own need for funds and a flicker of respect. In Konoha, true "ninja" in the self-sacrificing, comradely sense were rare. White Fang was one. Might Dai, in his own simple, blazing way, was another. Such a person was a reliable ally; you wouldn't spend the mission watching your own back.
"The administrator said it! I didn't expect you to be the champion! So amazing!" Dai gushed, his admiration plain and guileless. It was odd, being admired by a ninja who was technically of an older generation, but Dai's character was transparent—no artifice, no hidden agendas, much like his future son, Guy.
"It's not that special," Ragnar said dismissively. "There's no such thing as a 'true' genius. I'm just an ordinary shinobi who trains harder than most. Effort is the only real talent."
The effect on Might Dai was instantaneous and volcanic.
"WOW! Ragnar-sama, you also believe effort is paramount?!"
"MY YOUTH! IT BURNS ANEW!"
"Ragnar-sama, you are absolutely, one-hundred-percent correct!"
Dai seized Ragnar's arm, his eyes shining with the intensity of twin suns, a grin stretching his face to its limits, revealing a perfect, gleaming row of teeth. The sheer, unfiltered enthusiasm was overwhelming.
Ragnar, deeply uncomfortable with the physical and emotional onslaught, extracted his arm. "Dai, I should go. Preparations to make."
"Training? Of course! Such dedication! I must not fall behind!" Dai declared, his personal narrative already writing itself.
"Sure, whatever you say," Ragnar said, offering a weak, placating smile before quickly making his escape.
He glanced back once. Might Dai stood in the middle of the street, chest puffed out, gazing at the sky with tears of passion in his eyes.
"YOUTH! SUNSET! YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL!" he roared to the heavens. "I HAVE DECIDED! I WILL RUN ONE HUNDRED LAPS AROUND KONOHA TO IGNITE MY FLAMES OF PASSION!"
With a whoosh, he was gone in a cloud of dust, a green blur of pure, unadulterated exertion.
Ragnar shook his head, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips. The man was an absurdity. But he was also, in his own way, utterly genuine. In a world of shadows and lies, that was a rarity.
And more importantly, the mission—a potentially A-rank challenge disguised as a C-rank—was now within reach. The funds for his sword, and more crucially, the massive experience such a mission would yield, were almost secured.
(End of Chapter)
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