Land of Fire

[Dio]

The glint of steel scattered through the trees like sunlight through broken glass, and for a moment, Satoma watched as chaos bloomed—beautiful, erratic, and necessary. From his vantage, nestled high within the thinning canopy, his sharp gaze tracked the Genin’s responses in real-time. Sōma’s blades whirled like twin beacons, cutting through the clone-spawned shuriken with practiced arcs while her chakra flexed with promising control. Mist rolled in around her like summoned breath, choking the field in a damp veil—strategic, measured, an attempt to reclaim tempo. The mist she summoned rolled in thick tendrils, veiling the canopy in a ghostly shroud that muffled light and sound alike. It was a clever move, situationally sound—but clever didn’t mean perfect. In isolating Satoma’s vision, she’d also dampened the cohesion of the team. He noted it without judgment, only quiet calculation.

Then Yonaka—always the curve in the pattern—twisted the battlefield again. Budou, a wildcard, had maneuvered Yonaka with precision. The explosion Budou swallowed—and returned—earned a subtle narrowing of Satoma’s gaze. Not surprise. Just affirmation. He’d anticipated miscalculations, but hadn’t counted on that beast’s particular hunger to become a variable. His clone below shifted, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the newly revealed one that had arrived alongside the hail of shuriken. The two Satomas loomed as silhouettes against the mist, silent and deliberate, placed just where the Genin would see them. They moved, but only slightly—an invitation, not a threat. All the while, the real Satoma slipped low through the branches, no ninjutsu masking him, only the precision of presence control, walking like a shadow that didn’t wish to be seen.

Then came the next beat of the rhythm.

One clone hurled kunai toward Yonaka and Budou’s shared position, while the other dropped low and released a burst of wind chakra across the misty floor. The pressure wave carved an arc across the ground, kicking up soil and splintered bark, threatening to drive Sōma & Daimaru apart. Amid the turbulence, a voice surfaced from within the fog—calm, level, unmistakably real.

“You’re adapting. Still standing. That counts for something.” Satoma’s voice cut through the tension not with force, but with weight. He did not raise it. He never needed to.

He stepped into view then, no theatrics, no flicker of chakra displacement—just a man walking through his own lesson plan, each step deliberate. “You just made it harder for your teammates to find you. Daimaru’s barely on his feet. Yonaka’s halfway to burnout. And you, Sōma—you’re trying to carry the tempo for all of them while the rhythm’s already slipping.”

Without pause, a low whistle followed. Another storm of shuriken tore through the fog from an unexpected angle. It came not from the clones, but from the treeline—fired in a wide, low arc that threatened to herd the Genin straight toward the awaiting figures ahead. The angle left no easy escape, boxing them between twin threats. Satoma’s eyes remained fixed on the unfolding scene. He hadn’t raised a hand, hadn’t made a seal. But he was watching quietly, and relentlessly. He observed the flickers of potential in each of them, already piecing together the methods he’d use to drag that promise to the surface. But briefly, his mind drifted to Yomiyo... and the inevitable scolding he’d face once word got out that he’d flicked cigarette ash into his son’s mouth. Even so, he thought, real fights aren’t fair. The sooner they learn that, the harder they’ll be to kill. The thought came not with regret, but with a cool detachment already thinking of what he'd say to justify his actions and methods.

​

 

[Scarlet_Witch_King]

Sōma's attempt to reach Yonaka and Budou was met with an intense gust of wind curving across the ground, kicking up soil and splintered bark. She used the blood at her disposal to cover her back, then grabbed Daimaru and pushed him out of the way as shards and wind tore at her, cutting her favorite coat and chipping away at the thin blood armor that absorbed part of the blast, leaving only fragments of her blood armor behind. She kept moving but held onto his hand.
"I manage to give us cover w-" she then heard a voice amidst the turbulence, saying how they are adapting and still standing. However, she remained quiet and whispered to Daimaru, "What we have is concealment for now but need to reach Yonaka first to plan our next move instead of going off and doing it yourselves," she says. They kept moving towards their teammate while moving quietly like two wolves regrouping with their pack, but saw Satoma walking out like a predator searching for its prey, but not yet engaging, speaking his truth to them, saying how she made it harder for her teammates to find her. Still, she kept her grip on Daimaru firm but not so tight as to restrict circulation in his wrist, listening as he explained how Daimaru is barely standing, Yonaka is nearly burnt out, and she is trying to maintain the tempo even though the rhythm is slipping from her grasp. Still, she didn't respond again but kept moving, feeling a similarity to her father, and Satoma's style of training sent shivers down the young kunoichi's spine, starting from the base of her skull and running down her back; this feeling made her worry about their chances of success, knowing deep down that this is not another Genin, nor a Chunin—this is a Jonin with years of experience.

Sōma halts movement upon hearing something whistling across the air, channeling chakra in her ears to enhance her hearing to pick up the sound of metal spinning, which she realized was probably another wave of shurikens being thrown at them, but she couldn't find where they were coming from, sounding like it's coming from everywhere, until she sees them coming down at them, forcing her to let go of Daimaru "Get to Yonaka!" she barks before grabbing a handful of senbons and throwing them to intercept them.
​

 

[Aōi]

​

“Oh crap…!”​

Thought the young Uchiha. It was all very fast, the pacing of battle. Though he had little true experience facing off against a true adversary, the simulation granted to them by their new teacher was more than any single introductory encounter he could have been given by a shinobi of this caliber. The dark-haired genin’s well-sequenced movements were halted in its tracks as his body was taken hold of by the metal wire and kunai accompanied by the clone of his sensei. With his high-speed taijutsu paused, the following events would formally render the Uchiha momentarily decommissioned as the Water Bullet was redirected from the Gale Palm technique, knocking the already bound Daimaru unconscious almost instantly on impact.

No chakra. No air. No pain. Just a stillness with fleeting memory.

His final thought was the locking of his limbs and a violent cascade of water swallowing his vision—he came to with a cough. His chest ached and his ankle nearly cried out the way he would have, but quickly remembered where he was and who he was. His jaw was heavy and his clothes and hair damp from the impact. His eyes quickly adjusted, pupils black upon reawakening but soon, familiar twin maroon orbs quickly settled in his skull with the adjoining tomoe also making an appearance. His head lifted up, and saw Sōma borderline carrying him through the lush brush of the misty forest, slowly the pain was subsiding as he regathered his wits about himself. He was very taken aback by the gesture, they hadn’t known each other longer than three hours and here she was quite literally* hauling him through the midst of chaos.

Mist was overcast on the battlefield, the clashing of Yonaka’s and Satoma’s chakra still persisted and the two were together not being particularly helpful. This wasn’t panning out to go how he initially hoped but not everything was lost yet. Sōma saw that he had come to, and passively informed him of what the current situation was in very brief detail while she searched for a safe haven. The spot they currently resided was concealed and implored for them to link up with Yonaka and approach this as a group like initially planned rather than individually. The clone of their sensei then creeped from out of the misty forest terrain like a psychopathic ghost, explaining the tide of battle swiftly changing out of their favor. Between Yonaka’s waning stamina, her own plans failing as she thought them up, and then Daimaru’s sudden incapacitation…adversity was most certainly piling up against the brand new band of genin the hand that held the wrist of the Uchiha tightened, but his fist did the same out of view of their sensei. Suddenly a gust of wind burst across the misty floor of the forest, kicking up mounds of earth, and tearing off strips of treebark just ahead of its path.

Based on his sensei’s assertion, he assumed his star pupil was down for the count, he used that in his favor. Daimaru continued to feign unconsciousness while he formed a plan in his own head, he knew this would place Sōma at a brief disadvantage but she was doing so well thus far, a few more seconds couldn't possibly hurt. He deftly used his sleight of hand to acquire wire strings, and a smoke-flash bomb from his pocket, then readied his body to move at the last possible moment. He waited for the shoe to finally* drop, and just like before, it did.

The sound of a wall of whistles grew louder as a band of shuriken came from an angle unsuspecting of maybe Sōma, but not an arms specialist such as Daimaru. Given his “limp” state, he was able to visualize the area around him very briefly while he grew into consciousness and due to his strong motor, his equilibrium managed to even out fairly quickly to deduce where the follow-up attack may end up being launched from. The attack was meant to herd them closer towards the pinching ends of danger, recognizing this, Daimaru’ infamous instincts screamed at him to act. The time was now.

In one swift motion, he coiled the wire around his forearm and hooked Sōma close, wrapping her tighter with the arm she was already gripping. His other hand flung the smoke-flash bomb into the oncoming volley, and he broke into a shallow sprint, which then turned into an opportunistic slide, allowing him to quickly readjust his grip on his comrade, straddling the Amegakure native into a half-bridal hold.
Then—

His arm and the attached wire whipped forward, latching onto a branch above. With a powerful heave, Daimaru launched them both skyward, yanking their bodies above the oncoming storm of steel just as the bomb detonated mid-air—in a flash of white light, trailing smoke, and shrieking metal going off behind them.

A burst of sound.
A temporary blindness.
Steel clattered against the bark below them, and shuriken thudded into the thick wood and would find stray shuriken lined up towards the exposed clone of their elite teacher.

From above, they vanished into the foggy foliage again—safe, for now.

As Daimaru and Sōma landed atop the branch—shrouded by smoke and rustling mist facing each other crouched. The young shuriken had a plan but he needed to run it past the Amegakure native.
​

“Okay…Listen. I have an idea,” he said quietly. “But, I need you to trust me,” he said. ​

He waited for her to nod, and she did, then went on to explain his plan in concise detail. Her eyes brightened, not out of any fear, because the time was far past for that but more so in excited surprise. She quickly nodded in agreement and they both quickly assumed the tiger seal instantaneously at the same time, synchronizing their chakra with one another.

Shortly after, Daimaru quickly left his previous position, in search of Yonaka, but now he was armed with a familiar tool that he was beginning to gain recognition for, bounding through the shadows chasing down Yonaka’s faint chakra signature. Avoiding using his body flicker, so as not to alert Satoma of his chakra position with high-speed movement. He soon found the yellow-hued genin rising from the grass reasserting his confidence, with Budou in tow. Although he too seemed worse for wear, he was most certainly a sight for sore eyes instantly landing next to the bat-clad comrade.
​

“Good to see you're still in the fight. Sōma is waiting for my signal. We should find wait for sensei to act and stick together before he tries to split us up again.” He then moves to go back to back with Yonaka and Budou, covering their blindspots and in turn, their eyes would be covering his and also their own. “We’ve tried surprise. That's gone now, let's go direct. What do ya say?!” he said with excitement. ​

He then got into a stance with his carried Fūma Shuriken looking into the misty darkness of the forest keeping his senses sharp and his eyes alert. He could only hope that Yonaka would join him in approaching it the same way.


​

 

[Aqua]

Yonaka was possessed by an insatiable hunger to ascend to the ranks of a legendary shinobi, and his first brush with the true cost of greatness was as immediate as it was paralyzing. Mere survival—much less the ability to anticipate and counter every hostile maneuver—demanded a depth of perception and a razor-edged instinct that Yonaka, still a fledgling genin, began to fear might be out of his reach. Doubt crept in, a persistent shadow at the edge of his thoughts, but refused to settle, chased away each time his lacquered purple nails gouged crescents into the flesh of his palm as he clenched his fist in mounting frustration. The park, once an oasis of tranquility, had devolved into utter pandemonium: debris littered the ground, acrid smoke and swirling ash choked the air, and a dense, spectral mist blanketed the clearing and the bordering trees, casting an impenetrable shroud that reduced visibility to a mere whisper. The team’s coordination, once a source of pride, was now unraveling with distressing clarity. Yonaka found himself reluctant to employ his sound-based techniques, wary that his comrades would lose their auditory bearings. Soma’s jutsu had now deprived them of yet another vital sense. Yonaka’s teeth—sharp, fang-like incisors—ground together in impotent fury, the grating friction against his lower jaw echoing beneath the cacophony of battle, punctuated by the faint, unnerving sound of enamel splintering with every tense moment.

Budou rose to his feet with a confidence bordering on indignation, steeled by an unyielding resolve to overcome the formidable opponent before them. The young Bat Prince, notorious for his volatile pride, bore the sting of embarrassment and failure with palpable discomfort—a trait he unmistakably shared with his Iremono companion.
​

“You’re adapting. Still standing. That counts for something.”​

To an outsider, such words might have sounded encouraging—evidence of progress against adversity. To Yonaka, however, the backhanded compliment stung, crawling beneath his skin like a cruel mockery. His toes, gripping the earth through battered sandals, pressed deep into the sodden soil as Budou’s expansive wings unfurled, cocooning Yonaka’s lower half and anchoring him against the relentless blast of a wind-borne shockwave. An eerie, high-pitched whistling knifed through the air—the unmistakable harbinger of an imminent shuriken assault. Yonaka’s senses, sharpened by tension, detected the threat long before his teammates could react, but even this forewarning offered little reprieve. His kunai, usually a reliable defense, seemed to have deserted him. Channeling his desperation, Yonaka’s arms shot forward, fingers splayed in a predatory, claw-like stance reminiscent of a seasoned martial artist. The once-short purple nails that had gouged his palm moments ago elongated into gleaming talons, their metallic resonance slicing through the air. In a dizzying blur, his hands darted and swatted with preternatural speed, the razor-edged nails colliding with the oncoming kunai, deflecting them into the shrouded woods or sending them clattering harmlessly to the grass below.

A shadowy silhouette materialized through the thick veil of mist. Yonaka released a sharp, calculated whistle, employing echolocation to map the figure’s dimensions—height, weight, and even the subtle distribution of muscle and bone—confirming beyond doubt that it was Daimaru. As Daimaru stepped forward, hefting an oversized shuriken, he strategically positioned himself back-to-back with Yonaka and Budou, creating a seamless defensive formation that left no angle exposed. A fleeting worry about Soma flickered in Yonaka’s mind, but battlefield pragmatism demanded his focus; in the unforgiving crucible of combat, there was no luxury for lingering on a comrade’s fate.
​

“Good to see you're still in the fight. Sōma is waiting for my signal. We should find wait for sensei to act and stick together before he tries to split us up again. We’ve tried surprise. That's gone now, let's go direct. What do ya say?!"​

At last, a sense of strategy coalesced among the team. This was, by far, the most promising notion Yonaka had heard all day. A sly, mischievous smirk flickered across his pallid lips as he threw a glance over his shoulder—first to Daimaru, then to Budou—punctuating the exchange with a determined nod. The acrid tang and gritty texture of ash clung stubbornly to his throat, an irritant that transformed into a catalyst for resolve. Chakra thrummed beneath his skin, preluding the rasp of calloused fingers as Yonaka deftly and decisively wove a rapid sequence of hand signs, each movement infused with newfound confidence.

| Dog - - -> Rabbit - - -> Snake |

Completing the complex sequence, Yonaka locked his hands in the serpent seal, cheeks ballooning outward like a squirrel bracing for winter. Instantly, he unleashed a fusillade of jagged stones from his mouth in every direction the shuriken had originated, each chunk propelled at blistering speed. Chakra sculpted and reinforced the stones at the base of his throat, each projectile sheathed in a layer of the same tenacious ash that scraped his tongue, palate, and cheeks raw. The relentless hail shredded bark, cratered the earth, and churned up clouds of dust that mingled with the omnipresent mist, nearly thick enough to suffocate. Yet the spectacle escalated: Budou, without a word, swelled his own cheeks until they threatened to burst, plumes of smoke billowing from his nostrils. With a thunderous exhalation, he released a torrent of flame, igniting the ash-coated stones mid-flight. The barrage transformed into a blazing meteor shower—rocks becoming incendiary shrapnel that exploded into fiery fragments upon impact, blanketing the battlefield in chaos and light.

 

[Dio]

From the canopy’s edge, Satoma watched the chaos unravel into something finally resembling order. Daimaru, half-drowned minutes ago, now moved with renewed purpose, sliding through the mist like a sharpened knife. The smoke hadn’t even fully cleared before the Uchiha boy coiled his wire, pulled Sōma tight, and detonated a smoke-flash in a storm of steel. The maneuver was raw but smart—instinctive. Above the burst of light and sound, he launched them both skyward, into the thick cover of the trees. The ash, the ringing of metal, the pressure of the moment; it was all being converted into fuel. Below, shuriken thudded into bark and soil, embedding where their bodies should have been. They escaped it cleanly. That alone told Satoma what he needed to know.

He shifted his gaze. Through the rising ash, Yonaka’s figure sharpened. Feral focus returned to his form as claws grew from fingers, intercepting what the others couldn’t. His movements were unpolished but precise, and his confidence had returned. Budou steadied him with wings wide, guarding against the wind-born force that followed. The Genin were no longer reacting. They were adjusting, countering, choosing. When Daimaru reappeared beside Yonaka and dropped into position, back-to-back with the others, Satoma noted the triangle they formed. Every angle watched. No orders barked, no hesitation between them. Yonaka's expression held grit and cunning. Daimaru’s movements, now deliberate. Sōma, still coordinating from a distance. The dynamic was starting to click into place.

Then it came. The culmination of pressure turned to retaliation. Yonaka began weaving signs, each faster than the last, cheeks swelling. The eruption of stone and ash exploded outward like shrapnel laced with purpose. The sound alone scattered birds from the treetops. Budou’s flame roared into the sky, catching the dust midair and setting the whole volley ablaze. What followed was a storm of flaming pellets, hissing and crashing through wood, earth, and lingering mist. A clone leapt to meet it and was promptly torn apart in the blast. Satoma didn't blink. The destruction was never the point. Instruction was. And they had finally answered it.

By the time the last ember sank into the grass, Satoma was already in motion. He dropped soundlessly from above, a blur of dark cloth and calm breath, landing on a scarred branch just out of view. The battlefield trembled beneath him, not from his presence, but from the momentum they themselves had built. He waited, watching where they would surface. Then he spoke, his voice emerging from the fog like a current. “Good. You finally remembered you’re not alone.” No warmth touched the words, but neither did judgment. Just facts, measured and evenly delivered. “You're starting to act like a unit. Not clean. Not perfect. But it's something.”

His eyes landed on Daimaru, where the boy crouched with his weapon still readied. “Feigning unconsciousness to bait me. Risky. But you played it through. You counted on your team showing up. Make sure you’d do the same for them.”

Satoma stepped forward, the branch beneath his heel creaking faintly. He didn’t face them when he spoke next, letting the words hang behind him. “You can all fight. No one doubts that anymore. But survival doesn’t come from skill. It comes from alignment. From instinct, from timing, from the willingness to bleed for someone else if it means everyone makes it out.”

The silence that followed wasn’t a dramatic pause—it was pressure. The kind that waits to see who breathes first.

A hand moved in the smoke behind them. His copy stepped forward. The second clone emerged silently, masked by the veil of cinders and steam—“Satoma Senju!” the air was suddenly broken by a sharp voice—crisp, controlled, and unmistakably irritated. From the edge of the wrecked park, framed by the rising plumes of smoke and ash, stood a lean shinobi in flak jacket and navy-blue sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His expression was not amused. Midori, a Chūnin known for his fastidious nature and obsessive adherence to order, approached with purposeful strides and a clipboard tucked under one arm. Short-cropped hair framed his narrowed eyes, and every step he took crunched glassy fragments of scorched bark and stone beneath his sandals.

“I don’t care if you’re training the next Sannin,” Midori snapped as he arrived at the clearing, gaze sweeping over the ruined landscape, “You’re in a public district, in broad daylight. Hiroshi-sama could see the smoke from the Hokage’s Office. From. His. Office... Satoma.”
...
“You turned this place into a mess.”

Satoma remained silent for a moment, standing where he had last landed, his arm still slightly extended from the interrupted sealwork of his clone. His gaze passed over his Genin, still winded, bloodied, but upright—and finally moving together.

He blinked, slow and heavy, then exhaled through his nose.

“They finally started working as a team,” he said, his voice low but firm, as if offering the explanation to the trees rather than the Chūnin. “I don’t regret it.”

“Well, Hiroshi-sama may,” Midori replied curtly, planting the clipboard against his palm with a slap. “He wants to see you after you’re done here. And you better have a damn good reason for turning this area of the Park into a charred meadow.”

“I’ll see him,” Satoma replied, brushing dust from his sleeve. “After I take them to lunch.”

Midori arched a brow.

Satoma started to walk past him. “Lightning Burger. They earned it. I’ll see Hiroshi once they’ve rested.” As he passed by the students, he motioned subtly with two fingers—nothing dramatic, just a simple gesture to follow. The mist was clearing now, the last of the smoke bleeding into the sky. For all the damage around them, there was a strange stillness in the aftermath.

“Lesson’s not over,” he said as they walked, voice flat. “It’s just on hold.”

And so, with battered pride and a stomach growl in tow, Team Satoma followed their teacher into the village proper. Lightning Burger is a fast food restaurant that's been operating for over a century, it's said that the late Boruto-sama came to this restaurant at least once a week to indulge himself. Anyhow, the restaurant was on the way to the Hokage Building, and Satoma wanted to treat his students for their effort.

​

 

[Scarlet_Witch_King]

Sōma felt disappointed when their training was halted the moment that individual arrived on the field and said something to Satoma-sensei that made him stop the training. She looked over at Yonaka and his bat, Budou; they both seemed rough but able to stand and move on their own. However, when her gaze shifted to Daimaru Uchiha, she remembered the stunt he pulled that saved them from a volley of shurikens—hooking his forearm around her body and carrying her into a half-bridal hold that allowed them to slide and swing to safety. This made her blush and look away slightly. The move he pulled on her twice made the girl feel strange around Daimaru, yet she managed to get between both boys and drape her arms over their shoulders. "Looks like our time to shine got interrupted," she said before pulling away, then sped up to Satoma, who spoke to them about the lesson not being over, just on hold. This news made her feel more excited to participate in the next lesson he would teach them, but when she learned where they are going, a place called Lightning Burger, a place she had never heard of, she turned to Daimaru and Yonaka and asked, "What is Lightning Burger?"
​

 

[Aōi]

The young Uchiha stood at the ready, eagerly waiting for the next phase of the battle they quickly found themselves within. The fog was still thick, and upon his declaration of throwing caution to the wayside and meeting adversity head on as a group, he was pleased to see that Yonaka responded with a smile and took it a step further by creating the next wave of offense in the form of his Rock Gun technique, executed masterfully, the flying mounds of earth were lit ablaze by the winged companion of his new teammate, now causing flaming earth to be thrown in seemingly all directions, singing anything it came into contact with.

All the while, Daimaru kept his eyes peeled for the first sign of movement, or any rustling amongst the bushes. He was confident his plan would work, it may have taken him a quick second to get his head into the game but he was certainly locked in at this moment. The fact that they were all conscious and breathing at this very moment in time was telling in itself. The foundations of a great team and bond were assuredly present, and with the right amount of guidance and correct level of tutelage, who knows the limits of their true talents ends?

As the clone shot out of the foliage, Daimaru watched as it was torn apart by the flaming hail of dirt, knowing it was another distraction from sensei’ true motivations. He again waited to act, and he then next perceived a dark blur rustling about the trees just above them, he crouched lower, at the ready knowing exactly what to do next. Until…
​

“Good. You finally remembered you’re not alone. You're starting to act like a unit. Not clean. Not perfect. But it's something.”​

Confusion washed over the young genin’s face, a raised eyebrow, squinted eyes and the corner of his mouth hooked down. He never loosened his grip on his enlarged shuriken, as this may just be a ruse of his to disarm his students into a lesson of never underestimating their adversary regardless of who it may be. He listened, but only with a certain intention, trying to find the hidden meanings within the hidden meanings, as a good shinobi would. His crimson hues remained active and trained on Satoma sensei, seeking out any unforeseen elements that he may currently lull them into relaxation. He then directed his attention briefly to his raven-haired student.
​

“Feigning unconsciousness to bait me. Risky. But you played it through. You counted on your team showing up. Make sure you’d do the same for them. You can all fight. No one doubts that anymore. But survival doesn’t come from skill. It comes from alignment. From instinct, from timing, from the willingness to bleed for someone else if it means everyone makes it out.”​

Daimaru dipped his head slightly, trying to hide a grin. He knew he was going to enjoy working amongst a team, but he still sought to stand out amongst his genin peers, especially to Satoma-sensei. He held his word and opinion in high regard and truly valued the time spent alongside the elite shinobi despite his uncouth antics. Lifting his head, with a more serious look on his face, he responded.
​

“Thank you, sensei.” He said quickly. The young shuriken then stamped the Fūma Shuriken in his hand into the ground and then sat down and leaned against it, to catch his breath. “I guess you can come out now, Sōma.” he said lightly. ​

The blonde girl then emerged from the shadows, getting between her two teammates and hooking her arms around them, lamenting that their time to turn the tide had pewtered out. She then approached Satoma sensei closer before the team was interrupted by an approaching Chūnin, Midori. He made his way towards the group, waving away the fog, smoke and kicking up dirt in his path before calling out Satoma’s name in full for the entirety of Senju Park to hear. “Yikes…He’s in trouble now…again.” Daimaru thought. He pursed his lips, looked towards Budou with a knowing glance and proceeded to polish his clothes and inspect if he had need for any medical attention, effectively minding his entire business from the current ordeal.
​

“I don’t care if you’re training the next Sannin. You’re in a public district, in broad daylight. Hiroshi-sama could see the smoke from the Hokage’s Office. From. His. Office...Satoma.”​

Daimaru stifled a giggle as he stood up, thinking of a prior incident not so much different than this. He dispelled the enlarged shuriken with a poof and then began to retrace his steps so that he could find his box of cards that could have very well been destroyed in the midst of battle, soon deploying a shadow clone to help him look and cover more ground.
​

“You turned this place into a mess,” he said.​

Satoma sensei was silent for a minute, he took stock of the area around them, then his genin and after a few more moments, he gave his infamous sigh and stated a simple fact.
​

“They started working as a team. I don't regret it.” he stated. “Well, Hiroshi-sama may. He wants to see you after you’re done here. And you better have a damn good reason for turning this area of the park into a charred meadow.” The shinobi retorted. “I’ll see him after I take them to lunch.”​

This is when Daimaru checked back into the conversation, he wandered relatively far from the group, but still manage to what and return directly back to them appearing right beside Satoma once he finished saying “Lightning Burger”. The clone still searched for the box while the team went for lunch.
​

“You also might owe me a new set of cards, sensei. But we can talk business later. Lets eat!!” he exclaimed as he helped lead the walk towards the fast food chain.​

​