[Starting in Naruto with a Daily Login System] Chapter 58 ANBU Potluck: A Culinary Disaster

In theory, an ANBU gathering is a great idea. A casual get-together. A rare chance to relax, share food, and pretend we’re functioning members of society instead of glorified assassins with emotional repression issues and blood on our boots.

In practice?

It’s a goddamn nightmare.

Because someone—some reckless optimist drunk on delusion and possibly poisoned dango—thought it would be a potluck. You know, where everyone brings food.

Food. Made food.

Now, you’d think this wouldn’t be a problem. We’re elite operatives trained in infiltration, tactical deception, and the art of silent murder. But apparently, no one trained us in how to not burn rice or tell the difference between soy sauce and motor oil.

I arrive first, carrying what I generously call “a dish.” Technically, it’s food. In the same way that a shuriken to the shin is technically a massage. There’s... something brown involved. Possibly meat. Possibly charcoal. I blacked out halfway through the cooking process and just sort of let fate handle it.

I slap it on the table with unearned confidence and zero guilt.

Tokuma walks in next, carrying an actual container with visible structure and color coordination. He spots my dish immediately. Stops. Stares. Squints like he's trying to determine if it’s alive.

“What did you make?” he asks cautiously, eyeing the edges like they might snap at him.

I gesture vaguely. “A… protein-based entrée.”

He leans in. Sniffs. Winces. Pokes it with a kunai.

Crunch.

He blinks. “Kakashi. This is a war crime. You’ve carbonized this into a weapon.”

“It’s caramelized,” I correct, with the dead seriousness of a man in denial.

He turns to me, slowly, like a man who just stepped on a landmine and is deciding whether to accept death or take you down with him. “No one should ever taste this.”

“It builds character.”

“It erodes dental structure.”

Before I can respond, the door flies open with theatrical flair, and in walks Shisui. He’s got a single item in his hand. One. Singular. A pack of instant ramen.

He tosses it onto the table like he’s just contributed to world peace.

“There,” he announces, dusting his hands off. “I brought food.”

Tokuma actually twitches. “That’s not cooked.”

“It’s interactive,” Shisui argues, already reaching for a chair. “You have to fight for your nourishment. It’s poetic.”

“It’s a sealed packet of sodium and despair.”

“It’s a metaphor.”

“It’s a choking hazard.”

Before the kettle of rage in Tokuma can hit full boil, Genma strolls in. And I do mean strolls. Casual, confident, and smug as hell. He’s got a tray covered with a polished silver lid, and it smells divine.

My survival instincts kick in immediately.

“You didn’t cook that,” Tokuma says, suspicious before Genma even opens his mouth.

Genma gives a beatific smile. “Of course I did. Handmade. From scratch. All me.”

Tokuma doesn’t even blink. He lifts the lid. There, sitting innocently beside the tray, is a paper receipt. He picks it up and reads it aloud. “‘One family BBQ combo. Extra sauce. No utensils.’”

Genma calmly takes the receipt, crumples it, and without hesitation—eats it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, mouth full of corporate evidence. “This dish is my soul.”

Tokuma looks like he’s ready to commit murder and list it as a team-building exercise.

Before he can combust, the door creaks open.

And in walks Hiruzen Sarutobi.

The Hokage.

Our commander. Our leader. A man who has led troops into battle, stared down entire wars, and probably thought nothing could surprise him anymore.

Until now.

He stops. Freezes. Scans the table.

Burned dish. Raw ramen. Receipt crumbs in Genma’s mouth. Tokuma clutching his tray like it’s the last good thing left in this world.

The Hokage sighs. Deep. Long. Full of disappointment and subtle death wishes.

“What,” he says slowly, “am I looking at?”

I step forward. “A banquet, Lord Third.”

Shisui salutes with a noodle packet. “Feast of champions.”

Genma gives a thumbs-up, still chewing.

Tokuma looks like he’s praying for divine intervention.

Hiruzen breathes out through his nose like a dragon restraining itself from unleashing hellfire.

“You,” he says, pointing at me, “are banned from cooking.”

I nod solemnly. “That’s fair.”

“You,” he says to Shisui, “will never again be allowed near a grocery store unsupervised.”

Shisui shrugs. “Noted.”

“You,” he turns to Genma, who is licking BBQ sauce off his fingers, “are on thin ice.”

Genma just grins. “Still not cooking though.”

Hiruzen turns to Tokuma, the lone survivor of this culinary apocalypse. “You are exempt.”

Tokuma exhales in visible relief.

The Hokage turns on his heel and walks out without another word.

Two minutes later, an ANBU operative returns, carrying actual food from every respectable restaurant in Konoha. Multiple trays. Fancy containers. There’s even a dessert section.

Apparently, Hiruzen anticipated this disaster.

As we dig in like the overpowered man-children we are, Tokuma stares at us all with the hollowed expression of a man who’s seen too much.

“I hate all of you,” he mutters.

Shisui’s mouth is full of mochi. “You say that, but your plate’s full.”

“I hate all of you while eating,” Tokuma clarifies.

Genma raises his glass of plum wine. “To teamwork.”

I clink mine against his. “And to never cooking again.”

Shisui cheers with his chopsticks. “ANBU forever!”

Tokuma sighs, but his lips twitch just slightly.

And as we eat under flickering lights and questionable decisions, I realize something important:

This team is a disaster.

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Author's Note:
I accidentally uploaded the old draft of Chapter 57—sorry about that! The correct version is up now.