Chapter 49: The Person I Respect Most
Konoha’s limitedti hocoming period didn’t last long. Aside from a few scheduled rotations, most shinobi had already returned to the front lines.
It was as if the brief peace and joy of those few days had been nothing more than a fleeting dream. The illusion of happiness was easily shattered, and once again, the world forced its soldiers to keep moving forward.
Danzo, the Third Hokage, and even the Sannin understood one cruel truth: no matter how much power Konoha gathered, the invisible whip of war would always drive the ninja world onward.
At first, many believed that with the Blut Arterie and Blut Vene, Konoha could simply rest on its strength. But reality proved otherwise. The situation was shifting too rapidly—like a storm stirring unseen currents beneath a calm sea.
Whether among the five great ninja villages or the smaller nations, everyone knew the peace was temporary. It was the silence before a storm.
Though no great war had erupted yet, the Sand and Stone villages were already skirmishing, while the Cloud waited to strike when the Stone showed weakness. The only reason things hadn’t escalated into fullscale conflict was Konoha’s lingering technological advantage.
The current “peace” existed solely because every village was still digesting the new technologies they had stolen or copied. But everyone could sll the smoke of war hovering right beneath their noses.
Yet, amid all this tension, one place remained untouched by fear—the Konoha Ninja Academy.
Konoha had no need to send its students to the front. It wasn’t warti desperation where even children were turned into soldiers.
Even without technological dominance, Konoha was still the strongest of the five nations. Its vast population and deep foundations ant the loss of an advantage wouldn’t cripple it.
In fact, so clan mbers and individual shinobi even saw the loss of the Blut Vene as a strategic gain—because their theft had also flushed out every spy hiding within Konoha. With those shadows erased, Konoha’s future plans would remain secret, creating an overwhelming intelligence advantage.
So even whispered that this might have been the Third Hokage’s plan all along.
The Sandai, however, had grown indifferent to such rumors. He neither confird nor denied them—he simply allowed the stories to spread as they pleased.
Though Konoha’s leadership remained vigilant about the potential joint assault from the other villages, no imdiate alarm was raised. Calm composure in the face of looming danger was Konoha’s way.
So, when Aizen looked up to find Kakashi jogging toward him, waving a folded piece of paper, he didn’t find it strange in the slightest.
Kakashi held out the slip—a white page with the teacher’s handwriting:
> “Parent and child joint reflection essay – The person you respect most.”
“The person you respect… and the person you want to beco, huh?” Aizen read aloud with a faint smile.
“Yeah,” Kakashi said, scratching his head. “It’s our final assignnt. The sa one we did when we first entered school.”
“I see. A good thod—to remind you not to forget your growth or your original intentions.” Aizen placed the paper on the desk, still smiling faintly. “So? How can I help?”
“The teacher wants parents to write about who they admire most, and then compare it with their children’s work,” Kakashi explained with a sigh. “He probably wants to tell us that we don’t have to follow our parents’ beliefs blindly—that the Will of Fire is the only truth, or sothing like that.”
His tone carried a trace of childish annoyance.
It wasn’t Kakashi’s fault. The academy’s curriculum had been full of idealistic comparisons lately—an endless cycle of “before and after,” “old and new.”
Children born after the Warring States Era thought differently from their parents.
Those raised during that bloody age followed an older code—cold, chanical, absolute. Kill the enemy on sight. Complete the mission at all costs. Emotions were weakness.
But the modern shinobi system—built under the Will of Fire—demanded sothing else entirely. Compassion. Cooperation. Bonds.
To bridge that gap, the academy had flooded its lessons with moral parables and emotional essays, all designed to instill Konoha’s values in the next generation.
Every day, the teachers repeated tales of loss and recovery, pain and hope—lessons ant to reshape the children’s hearts. For the elders, it was wisdom earned through hardship. For the children, it was repetition bordering on exhaustion.
Kakashi sighed again as Aizen flipped the assignnt sheet in his hands.
“Anyway,” he said dryly, “you’ll probably write about the Third Hokage again, right? Just like everyone else. I’ll do the sa and call it a day.”
“Hm?” Aizen raised an eyebrow. “And when did I ever say that the person I admire most is the Sandai?”
“…Wait, what? Isn’t it?”
Aizen chuckled softly. “I’m not a god, Kakashi. Nor a saint. Of course, there are people I respect.”
Kakashi blinked, confused. “Then… who?”
Placing the note gently on the table, Aizen leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable yet calm.
“So, Kakashi,” he said quietly, “let ask you sothing.”
He smiled faintly.
“Would you climb into a washing machine and try to cross the sea to the Mist Village—without knowing how to swim, and without a single ninjutsu to protect yourself?”
Kakashi stared at him, baffled. “Are you crazy?”
Aizen’s smile deepened, his eyes narrowing with quiet amusent.
“It’s those kinds of crazy people,” he said, his voice soft but resolute, “that I admire the most.”
Writing a series of characters across the white paper, Aizen’s voice carried a faint trace of nostalgia—and perhaps admiration.
These were not mories from his past, but mories he had integrated.
And it was precisely through that integration that he ca to admire those who dared to move forward.
Perhaps their motives had been impure. Perhaps their reasons could be criticized from every angle. But still—they took a step that defied the world itself.
A step that violated the natural order. A step that transcended their own limits.
Under countless frail conditions and wild assumptions, they had walked the path toward the impossible.
By comparison, this place—and even the Soul Society, basking in its own past glories—seed dull and fading.
“Can you believe it, Kakashi?” Aizen’s voice softened, yet his eyes glead behind the glass of his spectacles. “We possess such imnse power. Each of us holds abilities they could never dream of. And yet… they succeeded. Over and over again, those fragile humans who had nothing but incomplete theories and imperfect logic—they moved forward.”
He paused, his tone carrying both reverence and lancholy.
“I was inspired by people like that. That’s why I decided—I must do the sa. To see the scenery that only courage and wisdom can reveal.”
“Perhaps my actions are not just. Perhaps my thods will be condemned. But I will not waver for the sake of others’ approval. So, Kakashi… you must also find your own goal. Your own answer. The ideal you’d give everything to achieve. Even if that ideal seems hasty or small, it’s still yours.”
“That’s your story—not mine, nor anyone else’s to control.”
“…You sure talk a lot for soone who calls himself a scientist.”
Kakashi rubbed his temple in mock pain, his usual deadpan tone barely hiding his exasperation.
“You really can’t help yourself, can you? You get into these long speeches over every little thing. You’re giving calluses in my ears.”
“Haha, my apologies,” Aizen replied with an embarrassed smile, pushing up his glasses. “Old habits. When I get into this kind of mood, the words just flow. It’s human nature, I suppose—to always want to teach others.”
With that, he handed the note to Kakashi.
In fine, graceful handwriting, the words read:
> “I admire all who have the courage to move forward.”
Kakashi stared blankly at it for a few seconds, then sighed.
“…What’s the difference between saying that and saying nothing at all?”
He muttered under his breath, lips curling in mild annoyance.
Adults—always so vague. Always so unreliable.
Glancing once more at Aizen, who was awkwardly adjusting his glasses as if trying to hide a trace of embarrassnt, Kakashi let out a resigned sigh and trudged out of the room, pen and paper in hand, muttering to himself about how to co up with a better answer.
But as he passed the corner of the hall, he failed to notice the man standing quietly in the shadows—wearing a white haori marked with the word Eleven.
Hatake Sakumo watched through the open doorway as Aizen calmly sorted docunts at his desk, his expression unreadable.
When Aizen finally looked up, he greeted him with an easy smile.
“Good morning, Captain Hatake Sakumo. Would you like to spend so ti with your child today?”
“…That child is far more remarkable than I expected,” Sakumo replied after a pause. His voice was steady but heavy with aning. “And I didn’t expect you to be such a good teacher.”
“I have no ill will toward the children,” Aizen said simply, his tone sincere yet detached. “Their future is sothing I truly look forward to. Especially Kakashikun. I have high expectations for him—and I think you understand that.”
“Is that why you did what you did to Uchiha Kagami?”
Aizen blinked slowly. “What do you an by that?”
He continued arranging the docunts, his hands precise and steady. His calm expression made Sakumo’s blood run cold.
“I didn’t kill him,” Aizen said at last. “Nor did I mock his ideals. I gave him chances—many of them. I rely adjusted a few mories, refined his convictions, and reignited his fighting spirit. Is that so wrong?”
“…I must be losing my edge,” Sakumo murmured bitterly. “Actually trying to reason with you…”
How could I expect ethics from a man who doesn’t even recognize the concept?
He sighed and shook his head, setting a small scroll on Aizen’s desk.
“Anyway, a report ca in earlier. There’s a wooden puppet wandering around the Seireitei Garden—said it was looking for a man ‘with a beautiful voice and elegant manners.’ It wouldn’t stop talking nonsense, so I confiscated this.”
“Ah,” Aizen said lightly, accepting the scroll with both hands. “A ssage from my partner, no doubt. Thank you for your trouble.”
He unrolled it casually in front of Sakumo.
The mont the seal broke, the scroll flared with light—releasing a puff of white smoke.
When it cleared, a glass jar filled with flesh and blood materialized on the table, along with a thick, sealed letter.
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