[Starting in Naruto with a Daily Login System] Chapter 57: How I defeated the true villain

I’ve fought rogue nin, assassins, rogue assassins, and literal snake men with inferiority complexes. I’ve dodged death more times than I’ve dodged Genma’s attempts to steal my lunch. I’ve mastered techniques that would make lesser men spontaneously combust.

And yet, here I sit—defeated by the cruelest foe of them all.

Paperwork.

“Let me get this straight,” I say, already massaging the beginnings of a migraine as I stare at the teetering skyscraper of mission reports dumped in front of me like a challenge from hell itself. “You expect me to write out every single detail of what happened?”

Hiruzen doesn’t even blink. That’s how I know he’s serious. Also tired. So, so tired.

“Yes, Kakashi,” he replies with the flat patience of a man who’s been dealing with ninja nonsense since before I had teeth. “That’s what a mission report is.”

I blink at him. “Can’t I just summarize it in, like… one sentence? Something clean. Efficient. ‘Orochimaru escaped. My bad.’ Done.”

The Hokage’s eye twitches.

“No.”

I sigh, dramatically, like a martyr. “Fine. But don’t expect quality.”

That was my first mistake.

Because, as it turns out, writing about near-death experiences is infinitely more painful than just having the near-death experiences. Every time I try to put something coherent on paper, my brain short-circuits. How do you even describe dodging a ten-foot serpent while simultaneously electrocuting a war criminal and holding back Shisui from yelling “Yeet the snake!”?

Spoiler: you can’t.

I’m about three seconds away from just drawing stick figures and adding captions when Shisui suddenly materializes like a caffeinated ghost and slams into the chair across from me.

“Oh, Captain, you’re writing the report?” he says with way too much glee. “Don’t worry—I got this.”

I narrow my eyes. “Shisui—”

Too late.

He’s already writing like he’s trying to summon a demon with sheer enthusiasm. The scratching of the pen sounds vaguely threatening.

Tokuma, being Tokuma, walks by at that exact moment like the universe scheduled his suffering.

He pauses. Peers over Shisui’s shoulder. Then makes a sound so pained it might have been a whimper. “What… what is this?”

Shisui grins, holding up the sheet like a prized trophy. “The truth.”

I grab the paper. I already regret it.

I read it aloud, slowly, as my soul dies inside:

“Orochimaru, also known as ‘Snakey McSlithers,’ attacked our squad with highly illegal and incredibly rude snake jutsu. Kakashi-senpai engaged him in a legendary battle, during which he moved so fast that time itself slowed down. Sources say he may actually be a lightning god in disguise. Also, Genma tried to flirt with a snake. Again.”

I pause. “You realize Hiruzen reads these, right?”

Shisui leans back, totally unrepentant. “Good. He deserves to know how cool you looked.”

I consider arson.

Just as I’m about to torch his draft, Genma wanders in with all the urgency of a man whose main responsibilities include being in the way. He’s chewing on a senbon and radiating ‘I’m not helping’ energy like it’s a kekkei genkai.

“What’s this? Paperwork? Damn, that’s tragic.”

“You’re helping,” I inform him.

He laughs. “Yeah, no. I don’t do paperwork.”

“You do today,” I say, gesturing to the empty chair like it’s a death sentence. “Sit. Write.”

Genma sits. He does not write. Instead, he lounges like he’s at a hot springs and starts twirling his senbon. “Alright, fine. But if I’m doing this, I’m doing it my way.”

Two minutes later, I glance at his paper. It reads:

9:00 AM – Arrived at the mission site.
9:30 AM – Snakes.
10:00 AM – More snakes.
10:15 AM – Kakashi did something cool.
12:00 PM – Lunch break. The dango was mid.
1:00 PM – Orochimaru monologued a lot.
1:30 PM – Kakashi threatened to kill him. Classic.
2:00 PM – Escape attempt. Not ours, unfortunately.
2:30 PM – Back to base. I regret nothing.

I stare at it. Then at Genma. Then back at the paper.

“I don’t even have the strength to be mad.”

Tokuma, who’s been hovering like a vulture circling a moral breakdown, finally loses it. “You imbeciles! The point of a mission report is accuracy!”

Shisui lifts a brow. “Oh? And what did you write, Mr. Spreadsheet?”

Tokuma, ever the overachiever, slams his neatly typed report down in front of me like a court summons. I skim it. It’s… terrifyingly perfect. Precise, detailed, cross-referenced, color-coded. He even included chakra efficiency graphs. I don’t even know how.

I hand it back. “Too detailed. No one wants to read all that.”

Tokuma makes a noise that might be the first stage of a villain arc.

Before we can descend into full chaos, the door creaks open again.

All of us turn in sync, like guilty children, as Hiruzen himself walks in. He scans the room, the papers, the air of pure regret. Then he picks one up—the worst one, of course.

He reads it. Slowly.

“Why,” he says, voice dangerously even, “does this say, ‘Orochimaru smells like expired milk’?”

Shisui shrugs. “I stand by that assessment, sir.”

Hiruzen closes his eyes.

Breathes.

Probably reconsiders every decision he’s made since becoming Hokage.

Then he drops the paper like it’s physically painful to hold and gives me the most exhausted look I’ve seen outside of a mirror.

“Kakashi.”

“Yes, Lord Third?”

“You are never writing another report again.”

I blink. “Wait, really?”

“Yes,” he says, rubbing his temples like they personally wronged him. “From now on, Tokuma will handle all mission documentation.”

Tokuma freezes like someone hit pause.

“Excuse me?”

Shisui claps him on the back, beaming. “Congrats, bud. Promotion.”

Genma throws him a senbon like it’s a commemorative medal. “Yeah, we always believed in you.”

Tokuma turns to me slowly, his expression the pure, distilled essence of betrayal. “You did this on purpose.”

I don’t even bother denying it. “You’re welcome.”

And that, dear reader, is how I defeated the true final boss: paperwork.

Mission accomplished.

—

It’s a few hours later. The ink is dry, the damage is done, and the paperwork is now Tokuma’s eternal burden. Naturally, we do what any emotionally-stable shinobi do after traumatizing bureaucracy.

We go drinking.

We’re at a small bar near the edge of Konoha. Nothing fancy. Dim lighting, rickety stools, the faint smell of fried things and regret. The kind of place where people go to either forget their missions or argue about who would win in a fight: a toad or a bear with daddy issues.

Shisui orders the first round. Big mistake.

“One sake for me, one for Genma, one for Kakashi-senpai…” he pauses, “…and Tokuma gets tea.”

Tokuma glares at him. “Why tea.”

“Because you have responsibilities now,” Shisui says solemnly, handing it over like a punishment from the gods. “You’re the Report Guy.”

Genma laughs. “R.I.P. your free time.”

Tokuma sits down like he’s aged twenty years. “You people are demons.”

“You say that like it’s news,” I mutter, swirling my drink.

Shisui raises his glass. “To Kakashi-senpai! The only man I know who can weaponize incompetence with such style.”

I clink glasses with him. “It’s not incompetence. It’s strategic deflection.”

“Same thing,” Tokuma grumbles, sipping his tea like it personally offended him.

Genma’s halfway through his second drink and already lying back like a lizard on a sun rock. “Honestly, I think the real villain was the paperwork all along. Orochimaru was just a spicy side quest.”

Shisui nods sagely. “I stand by my report. The people need to know the truth.”

“You called him ‘Snakey McSlithers,’” Tokuma says flatly.

“Because that’s his NAME,” Shisui replies, like he was the one personally wronged.

I throw back a sip and sigh. “The worst part is, I still don’t know how to describe what happened out there. It’s like—there were snakes, and lightning, and Orochimaru’s weirdly moisturized face, and then suddenly I was yelling threats and trying not to get eaten.”

Genma snorts. “You say that like it’s different from any other Tuesday.”

Tokuma’s eye twitches. “I described it. Thoroughly. With timestamps. And map annotations.”

“Which is exactly why no one will read it,” I say, patting his shoulder. “Your sacrifice is noble. And extremely boring.”

There’s a long pause, filled with the clink of glasses and the distant sound of someone falling off a stool in the back room.

Then Shisui stands.

No warning. No cue.

He just stands.

“Gentlemen,” he announces, dead serious. “In honor of Kakashi-senpai’s noble sacrifice in the war against literacy, I have prepared… an interpretive dance.”

Tokuma stares. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Oh yes.”

And then it happens.

Shisui starts dancing.

I don’t even know how to describe it. There’s flailing. There’s what I think is supposed to be a snake impression, but looks more like a drunk eel. He throws in a lightning pose, then pretends to faint dramatically, shouting “THE DANGO WAS MID!” before collapsing onto the floor.

Everyone in the bar starts clapping.

Genma is crying. Crying.

Tokuma buries his face in his hands. “I need new teammates.”

I raise my glass. “No you don’t. You love us.”

“I would rather file reports for a hundred years than endure this moment.”

“Good,” I say, grinning. “Because you will.”

And that’s how our mission debrief went.

No one left sober.

Shisui got three free drinks from strangers who “liked the snake dance.”

Genma stole a poster off the bar wall that just said “Drink ‘til you forget Orochimaru” and declared it art.

And Tokuma?

He’s already halfway through drafting the report on this night.

Poor guy.

Some heroes fight with jutsu. Others fight with pens.

But only Tokuma fights with both.

Godspeed, buddy.

—

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