(PROFESSOR UZUMAKI) BEING A HERO IS DIFFICULT IV

Shouts of alarm pierced the air as Naruto-sensei landed in front of Greg’s prone body without making even the slightest sound, and for a moment that felt suspended outside of normal time, everything seemed to freeze. The mercenaries held their positions in stunned hesitation, the wind seemed to stop mid-gust as though the world itself had paused to watch, and even Greg felt his breath stop in his throat.

Then Naruto moved.

No, moved wasn’t the right word, because what Naruto did was more like returning motion to a world that had temporarily forgotten how to function. Everything else felt sluggish and slow, as though burdened by invisible weight, while he flowed with an ease that looked almost unreal. One moment he was crouched protectively in front of Greg, and in the next he had disappeared from that spot, reduced to a blur of motion Greg’s eyes struggled to keep up with.

A mercenary brought his rifle up to aim.

Naruto was already behind him.

Another attempted to flank from the side.

Naruto appeared in front of him before the man could complete the movement.

Someone fired a burst of tinker-grade ammunition powerful enough to chew through steel plating, but Naruto shifted his weight in a slow, almost casual lean. The rounds passed harmlessly through the space he had occupied an instant earlier.

Greg had watched Naruto fight before, but those previous experiences had been controlled demonstrations meant to teach them. They had been held back, limited, and designed to make the students aware of the importance of the basics. This scene unfolding before him was something entirely different. It had an intensity that forced Greg to confront just how little he truly understood about the man who had taken up the role of teacher, not to mention how it was terrifying and beautiful at the same time, forcing Greg to reconsider everything he thought he knew about strength.

These were not ordinary street-level thugs. These were top-tier mercs, coordinated, obviously trained, and armed with gear created with the kind of engineering brilliance that only tinkers could achieve. They were the sort of opponents one would expect to cause serious trouble for most capes, especially those that operated without reputations strong enough to intimidate them. Yet Naruto treated them as though they were inexperienced children who fought with toys.

One mercenary was disarmed so quickly that he did not appear to realize his weapon had vanished until he was struck down. Another flew backward from a kick that did not even seem strong, at least not until the impact left a deep dent in the wall behind him. Two tried to hang back and fire from a distance, creating a crossfire meant to trap their target, but Naruto twisted through the attempted enclosure. He plucked one of their rifles out of the air during a spinning motion that looked effortless, and he struck both opponents with quick, decisive blows before either could adjust to his presence.

At no point during this did he use his chakra. Greg felt no flare of the energy, or even that distinctive pressure in the air he had learned to associate with the use of jutsus, no matter how subtle. Naruto fought with nothing more than the skill his own body possessed, a mastery honed through years of training so intense it carved techniques into one’s muscles until they could be executed without conscious thought.

Greg felt his throat tighten. It was not fear that caused the act, but something more intense and harder to define, a hungry admiration that he could not have hidden even if he had wanted to. 

Was this what the pinnacle of shinobi looked like? Could he ever—ever—reach such a level himself? Could he ever become someone so capable that chakra became a tool rather than a necessity? 

Naruto had fought a team of elite mercenaries armed with equipment worth more than some people’s yearly paycheck, and he had done so without breaking a sweat. The idea that Greg might someday reach even a fraction of that ability ignited something fierce inside him. He wanted that level of skill. He wanted it as deeply as he wanted food, games, and the feeling of finally being seen for who he could be.

That desire sparked inside him with a hunger that felt too big for his chest.

Before he could give that yearning room to expand further, the final mercenary collapsed with a low groan, and the area fell into a heavy silence.

Naruto turned toward him.

And Greg, suddenly more aware than ever of the state he was in, felt embarrassment surge upward. He remembered the way he had fallen, the panic that had overtaken him, and the helplessness that had rooted him to the ground. So he turned his face away, heat crawling up his neck. He did not want Naruto to see him like this: sprawled and useless, without composure or dignity or even the ability to stand.

Naruto approached him slowly, and when he knelt beside him, his movements carried a level of care that made Greg’s chest ache.

“Where does it hurt?” Naruto asked, his voice gentle.

Greg swallowed. His own voice refused to cooperate, so he simply pointed to his leg while keeping his gaze fixed elsewhere. The pain throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the pain sharp enough now that the adrenaline had faded away.

Naruto placed a hand over the injured area.

A soft warmth began to spread from the point of contact, flowing through Greg’s skin and muscle and into the bone beneath it. He watched with held breath as the torn flesh knit together, the bruising faded, and the pain disappeared until it was nothing more than a distant unpleasant memory. 

He couldn’t help it, he stared with an open mouth. The process should not have been beautiful, but it was. And maybe he was being dramatic, but there was something almost miraculous about how gently it happened.

Greg exhaled a shaky breath that carried equal parts relief and wonder, and only then did he finally lift his eyes to look directly at Naruto.

He had prepared himself for disappointment, or a tight-lipped reprimand, or some version of the familiar words that always followed his mistakes. It was an instinct he had developed long before Naruto had ever entered his life, and so he waited for the expression that would tell him he had failed, or that he had been foolish, or that he had inconvenienced the person who had come to help him.

But Naruto did not look disappointed. He did not even look stern.

His expression was open and warm, filled with a disarming mixture of relief and genuine concern that Greg could not remember anyone other than his parents ever directing toward him with such clarity.

His breath caught as something loosened inside his chest, and before he could stop himself, a wide and teary smile formed on his face. It appeared without effort or thought, driven entirely by the relief of being seen not as a burden, but as someone worth saving.

He smiled at his sensei, and his sensei smiled right back at him.