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The deeper parts of Konoha's forest were usually reserved for Jonin training—or the occasional suicidal Genin who thought trees were good for emotional support. For Gin, however, it was the only place he could actually afford to eat.
Since the synchronization with the Whitebeard template hit 2%, his metabolism had shifted from "small child" to "industrial furnace." A bowl of ramen was no longer a meal; it was a warm-up snack. He needed meat. Protein. Fuel. And since the village orphan stipend was basically an insult written in coin form, Gin had turned to hunting.
A massive campfire crackled in a small clearing. Over it, the carcass of a wild boar the size of a pony roasted slowly, fat sizzling as the rich aroma filled the air. Gin sat on a stump, tearing into a leg that weighed more than his entire torso. Grease smeared his cheeks, but his eyes remained calm.
This hunger is insane, he thought, wiping his mouth. Every cell in my body is rebuilding itself. Whitebeard's template isn't just about power; it's mass, density, and weight. If I stay in the village, I'll go bankrupt in a week just buying snacks.
He tossed a bone aside. Then, the forest went wrong.
The crickets stopped mid-chirp. The wind died. Even the fire seemed to shrink, as if it didn't want to be noticed by whatever was approaching. Gin's mouth twitched into a small, knowing smirk.
Finally. I was wondering how long it would take.
Uninvited Dinner Guests
Three figures stepped out from the shadows without a sound. They wore gray flak jackets and expressionless porcelain masks. There was no dramatic entrance and no overwhelming aura—just a chilling absence of presence. They positioned themselves at the edge of the firelight, looking like ghosts who didn't want to contaminate themselves with the living.
They weren't ANBU elites. Gin could tell immediately. These were Chunin-level operatives—the Foundation's disposable hands.
The leader, wearing a bird mask, spoke in a flat, clinical tone. "Subject: Dojima Gin."
Gin kept chewing, unbothered.
The agent continued, "Assessment: Unstable anomaly. Directive: Retrieval."
Gin swallowed slowly and looked up, sitting there as if this were nothing more than a mildly annoying customer service interaction. "You guys want a leg?" he asked casually. "It's a little charred, but the fat content is excellent."
There was no response. The bird mask tilted slightly. "Conversation is unnecessary."
The second operative spoke, his voice hollow. "Compliance is expected."
The third added, as if reading from a training manual, "Resistance will be neutralized."
Gin sighed, standing up. "So polite. So dead inside. Does Danzo only send interns now?"
The fire flickered violently as the air around Gin thickened. "I'm eating dinner," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Schedule your kidnapping attempts better."
The leader's tone remained frozen. "Immobilize the subject. Limbs may be damaged. Vital integrity must remain."
Gin's eyes sharpened. Internal processing? You mean becoming a lobotomized weapon in a basement. Phase two begins.
The Jungle Tremor
They moved with clinical efficiency. One lunged from the left, a kunai aimed for Gin's shoulder joint. Another dropped from the canopy, aiming to pin him to the dirt. Gin didn't dodge, and he didn't step back. He simply reached out and grabbed the first operative's wrist.
Tactile Quake.
Vrrrrrrrrm.
A high-frequency vibration surged through the man's bones. This wasn't brute force; it was pure frequency. The operative's humerus shattered instantly with a sound like cracking stone. He didn't even scream at first; his nervous system simply failed. His body was sent flying backward, slamming into a tree hard enough to snap the trunk.
The second operative was still mid-air. Gin looked up, his hand rising too fast and feeling far too heavy. He thrust his palm forward, and the air itself buckled. A pressure ripple slammed into the falling shinobi like a physical wall. The operative hit the ground, cratering the earth and falling still.
Silence returned to the clearing. Gin stood perfectly still, his breathing slow. Two down, he thought. Danzo really did send the disposable ones.
Then, his fingers twitched.
A violent tremor ran up his arm, making his breath hitch. The vibration didn't stop—it lingered in his bones like a bell that refused to go quiet. His small hand began to shake uncontrollably, and he had to clench his teeth against the sudden, sharp ache.
Damn it. The synchronization is adapting, but my body still isn't built for this.
For a moment, the ground beneath him vibrated faintly and without his command. The fire sputtered as Gin forced his palm into a fist. Stop. Stop shaking.
The tremor obeyed—reluctantly. But the ache remained, a reminder that his skeleton was being reforged with every breath he took.
The Crimson Witness
High above, hidden in the thick canopy, Kurenai Yuhi gripped a branch so tightly her knuckles went pale. She hadn't planned to follow him. It wasn't logic or bravery that brought her here; it was instinct. It was the same primal urge that makes a prey animal freeze before a storm.
Something inside her had whispered: Follow. Watch. Understand. Now, she wished she hadn't.
He's not fighting like a ninja, she thought, her eyes wide. He's like a natural disaster wearing a child's skin.
She watched Gin's trembling hand and saw the moment his control slipped—the way the earth itself hummed under his feet. He wasn't invincible; he was just barely holding himself together. To her, that was somehow more terrifying than if he had been perfectly fine.
The Anchor Holds
The bird-masked leader raised a tanto, his voice finally cracking with a hint of humanity. "...What are you?"
Gin exhaled slowly. His hand was still trembling, but his smile was steady. "I'm the mistake your master thought he could leash."
He took one step forward. The dirt didn't just crack beneath his foot—it sank. Reality itself seemed to be adjusting to his weight. Gin reached out and lightly tapped a nearby tree trunk.
BOOM.
The vibration traveled through the wood, and the entire tree exploded into a rain of splinters. the leader stumbled back, his mask fracturing from the shockwave alone.
Gin's voice dropped to a low, resonant rumble. "Return. Report. Tell Danzo... if he looks in my direction again, I'll shake his Foundation until it becomes dust."
The leader didn't argue. He vanished into the night, dragging his fear with him.
After the Storm
Gin stood alone in the ruined clearing. Two bodies, a crater, and shattered trees surrounded him. His arm still shook faintly, and his hunger returned instantly—vicious and sharp. He looked at the remaining half of the boar.
...I'm going to need a second one.
The system flickered in his vision—a simple, cold window.
[Template Status Update]
Template: Whitebeard
Synchronization: 2.0% → 4.8%
Condition:
Your body is thickening.
Your bones are becoming the foundation of "The World's Strongest Man."
Control remains unstable.
Gin laughed softly, wiping a stray drop of blood from his lip. "Four-point-eight..." He flexed his trembling fingers. "At ten percent, this village is going to need a lot of glue."
Then, a cautious voice drifted down from the trees. "...Gin?"
Gin didn't look up. He tore another piece of meat off the boar. "Hey, Red," he called casually, his mouth full. "You've been stalking me for ten minutes."
Silence followed, then a quiet protest. "...I wasn't stalking."
Gin snorted. "Sure. Instinctual tree tourism."
The branch shifted, and Kurenai dropped down carefully. Her crimson eyes were wide, taking in the devastation. Gin patted the log beside the fire. "The fire's warm. And unless you're also here to kidnap me... there's boar left."
Kurenai hesitated, then sat down. She stared at him as if he were an earthquake that hadn't quite decided to stop.
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