Naruto-ReBorn as a Baker

Chapter 319: The Tiger Among Thorns

The prison sat squat against a bleak stretch of snow-swept earth, its walls blackened with frost, iron chakra-barriers humming faintly beneath the layers of thick ice and hard stone. Though not the largest facility in the Land of Fire, it held its own reputation among shinobi: a place where the rejected, the unstable, and the forgotten were sealed away—sometimes without trial, often without hope.

Mizuki stood at the main gate, flanked by two guards who offered stiff nods but didn't meet his eyes. His pale-blue hair was tied back neatly, his modified flak jacket cinched around his now powerful frame. Behind him, the wind kicked up ice and ash—but the man himself stood utterly still.

"Send them out," he said calmly.

The head warden blinked. "Sir? One at a time, or—?"

"All of them," Mizuki replied. "At once."

Silence followed.

Then a low whistle from one of the guards. The warden hesitated—perhaps half-thinking Mizuki was joking. But one look at his eyes, now glowing with faint green chakra and glinting with quiet challenge, ended that thought.

Ten minutes later, they were outside.

Thirty-five prisoners. Some shinobi. Others rogue mercenaries or chakra-sensitive criminals. Few recognized Mizuki right away, but they could feel him. The air around him buzzed with reined-in menace. It wasn't just the chakra flaring lightly from his seal—it was the silence. The calm. The slow, steady breath of someone who didn't need to posture.

Mizuki cracked his neck once.

Then stepped forward.

🌀 The First Wave

The first three charged—standard types. One with a stolen Fire Release jutsu, one brandishing twin kunai, and the last ex-bandit who'd likely watched one too many training reels.

Mizuki didn't even lift his weapon.

He dodged the Fire Release with a casual twist of his body, letting the flame kiss the tip of his sleeve but never find skin. He closed the distance with shocking speed—no theatrics—and tapped two precise chakra points on the kunai wielder's chest. The bandit collapsed with a stunned grunt.

The third swung wide.

Mizuki ducked, kicked out the man's legs, and shoved him face-first into the snow.

Three down.

Thirty-two remained.

🔥 Lessons in Mercy

They came in waves now—some desperate, some delighted by the chaos. One summoned a wild, stocky beast from the bleeding tattoos carved into his arms. Another tried stitching illusions into the frost and ash, hoping it would help. A heavyset woman wielded a war club laced in Earth chakra and roared as she stomped forward.

Mizuki moved like water.

He slammed the war club aside with his forearm, absorbed the feedback, and flicked a palm-strike to her abdomen. She dropped—winded but unharmed. He snatched one of the illusions mid-weave and turned it against its caster, forcing him to dispel his own technique in panic.

He stepped around one blade. Ducked another. Shoulder-threw a particularly loud offender into a wall, then caught his head before impact and set him gently on the ground.

He was fighting thirty-five people, and somehow...

It looked like practice.

A tall shinobi, wrapped in crimson chakra bindings, activated a forbidden form—his body expanding, skin turning brittle and translucent.

"You're holding back!" the man shouted, swinging wildly. "Are you mocking us?!"

Mizuki stopped dodging for one breath.

Then his skin rippled.

The Animal Cursed Seal, blooming beneath his collarbone, flared with tiger-stripe power. His muscle mass didn't explode—but his speed did. The crimson shinobi blinked once, barely registering the shift, before Mizuki appeared behind him and struck the bindings with pinpoint chakra disruption.

They shattered.

The man dropped.

"I'm helping you qualify," Mizuki replied calmly. "Not helping you escape."

🌪 Ending the Trial

By the forty-minute mark, the snowy clearing was littered with unconscious bodies, groaning detainees, and more bruises than paperwork could cover. Mizuki hadn't broken a sweat. He stood in the center now, arms folded, gaze sweeping across what remained.

No blood had been spilled.

No fatal injuries.

But every person standing knew one truth now: Mizuki Takahashi was not to be taken lightly.

A handful still stood, panting and war-ready. Mizuki raised a hand.

"If you're done posturing," he said, "those of you who stood your ground—and those who fought with discipline—you qualify. The Second Chance Program doesn't reward aggression. It rewards control."

He gestured to the warden.

"Mark down twelve names."

The warden nodded, stunned.

"And send medical assistance for everyone else."

He turned to go, brushing frost from his sleeve.

One of the survivors called out, voice shaky. "Why are you doing this?"

Mizuki paused, glancing back once.

"Because someone gave me a second chance," he said quietly. "Now I get to decide who earns theirs."

Then he walked into the fading snow, his chakra low but steady, his footsteps leaving no imprint—

A tiger who had survived the cage.

Now building something stronger.

The landscape had changed.

Winter had claimed the Land of Fire in full, pressing crystalline breath against the shoulders of trees, coating roads in sheets of quiet frost, and throwing fog across the distant cliffs where sunlight once warmed the rock face. Gone were the chirps and rustling leaves—replaced now with the solemn hush of snow piling over old footprints.

Mizuki walked alone.

His boots crushed through the thin layer of powder that blanketed the cracked earth, his breath visible in short, steady bursts. He hadn't slowed since leaving the prison grounds. The fresh scars from battle—bruises under the skin, tension in his limbs—meant little. The cold didn't bite him, not really. Not like it used to.

His coat, thin and worn, flapped behind him. He could feel the ache in his body, that kind of tired that didn't throb with exhaustion but with history. And despite the brutal winter air, his thoughts were louder than the wind.

Regret.

That's where his mind always went when it was too quiet.

There were moments he couldn't escape—memories that stuck like shards just below the skin.

He had been cruel. Ambitious. Reckless. The kind of man who once looked at a child—Naruto—and thought him worthless. A noisy brat, a fool of a legacy. Mizuki had hated him on sight. Not because the kid did anything wrong. No—it was because Naruto represented hope. And hope had always made Mizuki angry.

But Naruto had proven everyone wrong.

And Mizuki?

He had proven everyone right.

Back then, anyway.

Back when he thought betrayal would earn him power. When he thought walking away would make him bigger. When he thought nothing in the world could change what he'd already broken.

But now?

Now, Mizuki had second chances.

And they were heavier than the crimes he carried.

A thick winter coat soared through the air—he caught it one-handed without flinching. Looked up. One of the two men assigned to watch him on this sweep—Tetsuo, older and stocky with a slight limp—gestured casually.

"Put it on," Tetsuo said with a grunt. "You're not impressing anyone with the 'tough guy vs. nature' routine."

Mizuki paused. Then tugged the coat over his shoulders without comment. It fit snugly. Lined with dense furs for heating. Not fancy, but effective.

Daichi, the younger of the two guards, leaned on a frost-covered signpost nearby, flipping through a worn-out scroll.

"This was the last one, right?" Mizuki asked quietly. "Prison. Detention hall. Correction bunker… whatever they call these places now."

Daichi squinted at the scroll. "Yup. That's all of them. At least in this region. The others are deeper into neutral zones or Rain territory, and we're not poking that hornet's nest till spring."

Tetsuo muttered something in agreement.

Daichi rolled the scroll, then peered at Mizuki curiously. "So what do you think? Any decent candidates in today's batch?"

Mizuki thought.

The old him would have scoffed. Called them trash. Weak. He'd have looked at their sloppiness, their egos, their messy chakra signatures—and dismissed every last one of them.

But that Mizuki had believed redemption was for cowards. That power had to be stolen. That worth only came with pedigree.

And yet…

He had changed.

So he thought again.

"There were a few," Mizuki finally said. Neutral. Measured. "I wouldn't gamble on all of them. But potential doesn't always show up in clean form. Sometimes it's buried."

Tetsuo nodded, clearly satisfied.

Daichi looked impressed. "That's weirdly hopeful coming from you, sir."

Mizuki smirked faintly, tugging the coat tighter around his frame.

"Just realistic," he said.

They began walking again, boots crunching through frost as the wind picked up across the hillside. Somewhere distant, snow wolves howled, chasing prey beyond the trees.

After a while, Daichi kicked at a rock and frowned.

"Still think it's dumb you have to walk with a guard team even now. You've been clean for months. Good behavior, mission success, healed half a dozen cursed seals (Seals as in the animal) with that Malik guy's help."

Tetsuo sighed. "Orders are orders."

But it was Mizuki who spoke next.

"No exceptions."

Daichi blinked. "Huh?"

"I chose this," Mizuki said. His voice wasn't proud—just firm. "This program… it's not about wiping the slate clean. It's about proving you still deserve to hold the brush. Guard me. Monitor me. Train me. I'm fine with that."

He stopped walking and faced them both.

"I've got a long way to go. Doesn't matter how many seals I've saved, or how many Jutsu I've mastered or missions I've survived. I'm not here to be trusted yet. I'm here to earn it."

Neither man responded right away.

But Daichi nodded slowly.

Tetsuo smirked.

And Mizuki turned forward again.

He let the winter bite at his cheeks a little longer before pulling the hood of the coat up.

Then walked on.

A little more resolved.

A little more whole.

Not forgiven.

Not yet.

But further from who he was.

And closer to who he could become.