The morning sun broke over the Hokage Monument, casting long shadows across a Konoha that was half-traditional village, half-glowing metropolis of steel and neon. Up here, where the wind carried the faint hum of thunder trains and the smell of fresh ramen broth, the world was supposedly peaceful. Seven Hokage faces carved into the stone cliff looked out over a generation that had never known real war, their stony eyes fixed on a quiet, prosperous future. Too bad nobody gave Boruto Uzumaki the memo. Perched right on the bridge of his father’s stone nose, the seventh generation’s golden boy dangling his legs over the abyss, adjusting his headband with a scowl that could curdle milk. To the rest of the village, he was the Hokage’s privileged son, the kid who had everything handed to him on a silver platter. But to Boruto? That orange-jacketed statue beneath his boots wasn't a hero—it was just an oversized, workaholic absentee father who couldn't even make it home for dinner without sending a shadow clone.