IPS: Ch. 03

Warning: 8k words

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Darkness gave way to light once more. Trump gasped and sat bolt upright, hands flying to his neck where just moments ago a poisoned dart had pierced his skin. But there was no wound, no blood, just smooth, unmarked flesh.

"What the hell? Again?" He patted himself frantically, confirming he was whole and unharmed. "That's the third time I've died! Third time! Nobody dies three times. It's unprecedented."

He was back in the same alcove where he'd first awakened, the same starting point. The distant sounds of a crowd echoed from the stadium, just as before. Nothing had changed.

He looked down at his hands, and then touched his face, feeling the smooth, youthful skin.

"This is getting ridiculous," he muttered, standing up and pacing the small alcove. "First I choke on a hamberder in Panama, then I get impaled by rock spikes, then I get shot with poison darts by my own supposed teammates. Very disloyal teammates. The most disloyal."

He leaned against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the ground again. He ran his hands through unfamiliar hair, trying to make sense of what was happening.

"This has to be some kind of sick game," he muttered. "Maybe the Deep State finally got me. Drugged me and put me in some kind of simulation." He paused, considering. "Though I have to say, the effects are tremendous. Very realistic. The best simulation technology. Almost like I'm really dying each time."

He stood up again, unable to sit still, and began examining his surroundings more carefully than he had in previous loops. The alcove was a small recessed area in a narrow alleyway. The buildings around him were constructed of a sand-colored material, with flat roofs and round windows, nothing like the architecture he was familiar with.

"Hm..." he observed. "Looks almost Middle Eastern, but not quite. No Trump properties anywhere in sight. Very disappointing real estate situation."

He stepped to the edge of the alcove and peered cautiously down the alley, remembering how quickly things had gone south in his previous attempts. The street was mostly empty, though in the distance he could see the same people walking on the ground, others leaping impossibly from rooftop to rooftop.

He looked down at his young hands again, turning them over slowly.

"So I keep resetting to this same point. Like one of those video games Don Jr. plays." His eyes widened as realization dawned. "I'm in a time loop! A tremendous time loop. The most amazing time loop anyone has ever experienced."

He stood a little straighter, confidence returning. This wasn't just random chaos, there was a pattern. And if there was a pattern, Donald Trump could exploit it.

"Okay, so if I'm in a time loop, there must be a way out. Some kind of objective I need to complete. That's how it works in all the movies. Very predictable movies, but entertaining. The best entertainment."

He paced the small alcove. For the first time since arriving in this strange world, he felt a sense of control returning. This was a problem, and he knew how to solve problems.

"Okay, so I've tried running away twice. Didn't work. Got killed both times. Very painful. The worst pain," he reasoned aloud. "So maybe I need to play along for now. Learn the rules of this place. Make a tremendous comeback, like I always do."

He remembered details from the previous loops, Takeshi and Mitsuri would be looking for him soon, expecting to find their teammate Kazemaru. They were ninjas from a place called Suna, on a mission to invade a place called Konoha during some kind of exam.

"Let's think about this logically," he said to himself, tapping his finger against his temple. "I'm Donald Trump, the greatest dealmaker in history. The best negotiator. I wrote 'The Art of the Deal,' tremendous book, best-selling business book of all time. So I need to negotiate my way out of this situation."

He began pacing again, faster now, energy building.

"First, I need information. Can't make a deal if you don't know what you're dealing with. Need to find out exactly what this 'mission' is, who all the players are, and what my options are."

He stopped suddenly.

"Maybe I don't actually need to help them with their invasion. Maybe I just need to survive the day. That could be the objective, survive until tomorrow, and then I wake up as myself again. Back in the White House, or Mar-a-Lago, or Trump Tower. Anywhere but this strange place."

He nodded decisively.

"If I'm stuck here, I need leverage. Information is leverage. The best leverage." He punched his fist into his palm. "I'll get them to tell me everything they know. Then I'll figure out how to get back home and make America great again."

He examined his appearance, straightening the strange beige clothes he wore. He touched the metal headband that sat slightly askew on his forehead, adjusting it so the hourglass symbol was prominently displayed. If he was going to blend in, he needed to look the part.

"Time to put on the best show. Nobody does shows better than me. Believe me."

As Trump finished adjusting his appearance, he heard familiar footsteps approaching. Right on cue, Takeshi and Mitsuri appeared at the entrance to the alcove, just as they had in the previous loops.

"Kazemaru, there you are!" Takeshi called out, looking relieved but irritated. His spiky sand-colored hair was pulled back tightly, and his face was set in the same stern expression Trump had seen twice before. "We've been looking everywhere for you. The briefing starts in five minutes."

Mitsuri stood slightly behind him, her dark hair pulled into a tight bun, sharp eyes assessing Trump from head to toe. She wore the same beige outfit as both of them, with additional pouches strapped to her thighs.

This time, instead of confusion, Trump responded with confident authority. "I was scouting the area. Very important to know the terrain. The best ninjas always scout first."

He straightened to his full height, and adopted what he hoped was a ninja-like stance.

Takeshi and Mitsuri exchanged surprised glances.

"Since when do you take initiative?" Takeshi asked suspiciously, crossing his arms over his chest. "Usually we have to drag you to briefings."

Trump stepped forward, placing a hand on Takeshi's shoulder, channeling his most presidential demeanor. "Listen, I've been thinking about our mission. It's a big mission. Very important. Maybe the most important mission Suna has ever undertaken. And I want to make sure we do it right. The most right. Nobody will do it more right than us."

Takeshi stiffened, looking down at Trump's hand on his shoulder with obvious discomfort before stepping back. "You're acting weird."

Mitsuri studied him curiously, head tilted slightly to one side. "You seem different today, Kazemaru. And you're talking strangely."

"I had a vision," Trump improvised, recalling how these ninja types seemed to respect mystical experiences. "A tremendous vision. The best vision. It showed me exactly how important this mission is. Showed me things about Konoha, about their defenses, about what might happen if we're not careful."

"A vision?" Takeshi scoffed. "You've never had a vision in your life. You've always made fun of Mitsuri's interest in prophecies and omens."

"Well, I had one now," Trump insisted, poking a finger at Takeshi's chest. "And it was fantastic. Showed me things about our mission, about Konoha's defenses. Many people have visions, but mine was the best vision. Everyone says so."

Mitsuri's eyes widened slightly, genuine curiosity replacing her initial suspicion. "What kind of things did you see? Was it during meditation? Or a dream?"

Trump recognized an opportunity when he saw one. The girl clearly had some belief in the supernatural, which he could exploit.

"It was like nothing I've ever experienced before," he said, lowering his voice dramatically. "I was meditating, you know, like you're always telling me to do, and suddenly, whoosh! My mind was somewhere else. I saw our mission. I saw us failing because we missed some details. Very important details. The most critical details."

"What details?" Takeshi demanded, still skeptical but now showing signs of concern.

"Big things. Important things," Trump said vaguely, not wanting to reveal his ignorance. "But before I tell you, I need you to explain our entire mission to me again. For security reasons. To make sure we're all on the same page. The best page."

Takeshi narrowed his eyes, suspicion clear in his gaze. He had sharp, angular features and a perpetual furrow between his brows that gave him a serious, no-nonsense appearance. "We've been over the plan a dozen times. Baki-sama just reviewed it with us yesterday."

"Humor me," Trump said, his businessman's instinct for negotiation kicking in. He stepped closer to Takeshi, lowering his voice confidentially. "If my vision is correct, there might be problems with our current approach. Big problems. The worst problems. And I don't want to embarrass you in front of Baki-sama by bringing them up at the briefing without talking to you first. That wouldn't be fair to you as our team leader."

He could see the flattery working as Takeshi's expression softened slightly. Appealing to authority figures' egos was a tactic he'd used successfully countless times in his business career.

Mitsuri glanced nervously at their surroundings, her hand drifting to one of the weapon pouches at her hip. "We shouldn't discuss mission details in the open. There could be Konoha patrols anywhere."

"Smart. Very smart," Trump agreed quickly, nodding emphatically. "The best ninjas are always security-conscious. See, this is why we make such a great team. Let's find somewhere private."

Takeshi seemed torn for a moment before nodding reluctantly. "Fine. There's a supply storage area nearby. Should be empty now since everyone's focused on the Chunin Exam finals."

They moved through the streets cautiously, with Takeshi and Mitsuri constantly scanning rooftops and alleys for potential threats. Trump noted the path carefully, memorizing landmarks in case he needed to navigate this section again in future loops. A bakery with a faded sign, a distinctive water tower, a tree growing oddly through a building... all potential reference points.

The storage area turned out to be a small warehouse filled with crates and barrels. Takeshi checked the building thoroughly before allowing them inside, and Mitsuri performed some kind of technique that Trump assumed was meant to detect hidden observers.

"All clear," she reported. "No one's been here for at least a day, based on the dust patterns."

"Alright," Takeshi said reluctantly once they were alone, leaning against a stack of crates with his arms crossed. "Let's hear about this 'vision' of yours. But be quick. The briefing starts soon, and Baki-sama won't tolerate lateness."

Trump recognized the challenge in his tone. This wasn't going to be as easy as he'd hoped.

"First," he said, raising a finger, "I need to know I have all the facts straight. Our mission is to neutralize the guards at the eastern watchtower, correct?"

"Yes," Takeshi confirmed impatiently. "As we've discussed at least twenty times in the past week."

"And the signal is...?" Trump prompted, gesturing for him to continue.

Takeshi stared at him incredulously, his posture stiffening with growing suspicion. "Are you serious? We've been over this a hundred times. The signal is when the genjutsu feathers fall and spectators start falling asleep. That's when that demon initiates his transformation and the Suna-Oto forces launch the coordinated attack."

Trump nodded as if confirming information he already knew. "Right, right. And how many guards are there at the eastern watchtower?"

"Four," Mitsuri supplied, watching him carefully. "Two at the base entrance and two at the top observation level. We've been over this repeatedly during our planning sessions."

"And their capabilities?"

Takeshi pushed himself off the crates, stepping closer to Trump with growing irritation. "Okay, what's going on? You know all this. We spent three days observing the rotation patterns and chakra signatures of the guards. You're the one who identified the sensor-type on the upper level, which is why we're using your long-range sand attacks."

"Right, right," Trump nodded as if he'd known all along. "Just testing you. Always important to test your team. The best leaders test their teams regularly. Make sure everyone remembers their role. Very important for mission success. The most important."

"You're acting weird," Takeshi said bluntly, eyes narrowing to suspicious slits. "What's with all this 'tremendous' and 'the best' talk? You sound like some kind of pompous daimyō."

Trump waved dismissively, trying to appear nonchalant. "Just pumped for the mission. Very excited. The most excited. This is our chance to show everyone what Team Four can do. We're going to be tremendous. The best team in the whole invasion force."

"And that's another thing," Mitsuri added, taking a step closer. Her expression was more curious than suspicious. "You keep using those phrases. 'Very excited. The most excited.' You never talked like that before. You've always been the quiet, sullen one."

Trump realized he needed to modulate his signature speech patterns if he was going to maintain his cover. This was more difficult than he'd anticipated.

"Just trying something new," he explained, attempting to sound casual. "Psychological warfare. Makes me sound more confident. Throws people off balance. I read about it in a scroll on infiltration tactics. Very effective. The most effective psychological technique."

Takeshi rolled his eyes, clearly not buying the explanation but apparently deciding it wasn't worth pursuing further. "Whatever. As long as you can perform your sand techniques when the time comes. That's all that matters."

Trump saw an opening and seized it. "About that," he said carefully, trying to sound casual. "My vision showed me some new sand techniques. Very powerful. The most powerful. But I might need a refresher on the basics. For comparison purposes."

Mitsuri's eyes narrowed, but she played along. "The basics? You channel your chakra into the sand using the Ram and Bird hand signs, then control its movement with your mind and hand gestures. You've been doing this since you were eight years old."

"Sometimes going back to basics can reveal new insights," Trump improvised. "That's what great businesses do. The best businesses always revisit their foundations. Tremendous strategy for growth."

"Businesses?" Takeshi repeated, looking increasingly confused. "What are you talking about?"

Trump realized he'd slipped up. "Just something I heard a merchant say. Thought it sounded wise. Very wise. The wisest saying."

"We don't have time for this," Takeshi muttered, checking the position of the sun through a high window. "The briefing is starting soon, and Baki-sama specifically said he wanted full attendance."

"Just a quick demonstration," Trump insisted, stepping closer to Mitsuri with what he hoped was a persuasive expression. "The quickest. Won't take any time at all. I want to make sure my technique is perfect for the mission. The most perfect."

Mitsuri exchanged a look with Takeshi, who threw up his hands in exasperation. "Fine! Two minutes, then we're leaving for the briefing."

Mitsuri sighed but reached into a pouch at her hip, pulling out a handful of sand. "Alright. Watch carefully."

She placed the sand on a nearby crate, then formed her hands into strange configurations, first pressing her palms together with fingers interlaced, then changing to another position with her fingers splayed like bird wings.

"This is the Ram sign, followed by the Bird sign," she explained. "Basic signs for elemental manipulation. You form them, then focus your chakra. Like this."

The sand on the crate began to move, swirling into a small tornado shape, then forming into a crude but recognizable bird shape that hovered about six inches above the wooden surface.

"This is basic sand manipulation," she explained, the bird shape now flying in small circles around them. "You've been able to do this since we were in the Academy. Your control has always been precise, which is why you're our long-range specialist."

Trump watched, genuinely fascinated despite himself. This wasn't a trick or special effect. She was somehow controlling the sand with her mind and energy.

"The key is chakra control," she continued, allowing the sand to form different shapes, a pyramid, a sphere, a small human figure. "You draw the chakra from your center, through your pathways, and project it into the sand. The hand signs help focus the flow, but with practice, you can do simple manipulations without them."

Trump nodded, trying to appear knowledgeable while absorbing every word. "And my special sand? The stuff in my pouch?"

Mitsuri allowed her demonstration sand to fall back to the crate. "Your specialized sand is infused with your chakra over time, making it more responsive to your control. Remember last month when you spent three days continuously cycling your chakra through that batch from the eastern dunes? You said it was the perfect density and mineral composition."

"Right, right," Trump nodded as if reminiscing. "Good sand. The best sand. Very responsive to my tremendous chakra."

"Now you try," she said, pushing the pile of demonstration sand toward him. "Just basic manipulation. Nothing fancy."

Trump stared at the sand, feeling foolish. He attempted to mimic the hand signs she'd shown him, his thick fingers struggling with the unfamiliar positions.

"Like this?" he asked, making a poor approximation.

"Not quite," Mitsuri said, stepping closer and adjusting his fingers slightly. "Ram sign is fingers interlaced, thumbs touching. Bird sign is thumbs interlocked, fingers spread and curved slightly. There."

"Now focus your chakra," she continued. "Feel the energy inside you and direct it into the sand."

Trump closed his eyes, trying to sense this "chakra" everyone kept talking about. To his surprise, he felt something, a warm, tingling sensation centered in his abdomen. It wasn't imaginary; there was definitely some kind of energy there, like nothing he'd experienced before.

"I think I feel something," he said, eyes still closed, genuinely surprised. "Warm. Tingly. Like the best energy drink but inside me. Very strange sensation. The strangest."

"That's chakra," Mitsuri confirmed. "But you're describing it like you've never felt it before. Everyone has chakra, and you've been training with yours for years."

Trump realized he needed to be more careful. "Just... seeing it differently after my vision. New perspective."

"Now direct it into the sand," Mitsuri instructed, apparently deciding to let the strangeness pass. "Imagine it flowing from your core, through your arms, into your hands, and into the sand. Visualize what you want the sand to do."

Trump focused, imagining the chakra as a golden light flowing into the sand. To his astonishment, the sand in front of him quivered slightly, then rose about an inch before falling back onto the crate.

"It moved!" he exclaimed, opening his eyes. "Did you see that? It moved! I made it move! I have the best sand-moving abilities!"

Takeshi looked decidedly unimpressed, his expression a mixture of confusion and growing concern. "That's it? That's barely Academy student level. You're supposed to be able to create weapons and shields with it. Last week you formed a sand clone that could maintain its shape for ten minutes."

"I'm just warming up," Trump said defensively, feeling a flash of genuine irritation at Takeshi's dismissive tone. No one spoke to Donald Trump that way. "Gotta start with the basics. Very important to master the fundamentals. The best ninjas always focus on fundamentals before advanced techniques. Everyone knows that."

"We don't have time for your 'warm-up,'" Takeshi said sharply, moving toward the door. "The briefing is starting, and I'm not getting reprimanded because you suddenly forgot how to use basic jutsu."

Trump shot a resentful look at his back, but followed, filing away what he'd learned. He could manipulate sand, barely, but it was real. And this chakra energy was definitely something he could feel. Maybe being stuck in this Kazemaru person's body meant he had access to some of his abilities, even if he didn't have the knowledge or training to use them effectively.

---

They arrived at the gathering just as the bandaged man, Baki, Trump now recalled, was beginning his briefing. The meeting was taking place in what appeared to be an abandoned storage yard behind a large building. About twenty teenage ninjas were gathered, all wearing similar beige uniforms with the hourglass symbol on their headbands.

"Teams Three, Four, and Seven will coordinate their attack on the eastern sector," Baki was saying as they joined the group. "Team Four will neutralize the watchtower guards while Teams Three and Seven provide diversion and support."

Trump listened attentively this time, gathering valuable intelligence. Apparently, this "Konoha Crush" operation involved a joint invasion by ninjas from Suna and Oto against Konoha. The attack would be launched during a tournament called the Chunin Exams, with someone named Gaara playing a key role by transforming into something dangerous.

"The signal will come during the third match," Baki continued, his single visible eye intense. "When the genjutsu feathers fall, that is your cue to move. Not before. Timing is critical. Once the signal is given, you will have exactly two minutes to secure your objectives before the full-scale attack begins."

Trump raised his hand before he could stop himself, presidential instincts kicking in. "Question. Very important question. The best question."

All eyes turned to him, including Baki's singular penetrating gaze. Beside him, he felt Takeshi stiffen.

"Kazemaru," Baki acknowledged, his tone neutral but with an undercurrent of warning.

"What exactly is Gaara transforming into?" Trump asked, genuinely curious. In his previous loops, there had been mentions of a "demon" and a transformation, but no specifics. "Just want to make sure we're all coordinated. The best invasions are always perfectly coordinated."

A tense silence fell over the gathering. Several of the teenage ninjas took subtle steps away from Trump, creating distance.

Baki's eye narrowed dangerously. "That information is classified. Only the team directly supporting Gaara needs to know the details. Your team's objective is the eastern watchtower. Focus on that."

Trump nodded quickly, realizing he'd stepped on a landmine. "Right, right. The eastern watchtower. Very important tower. The most important tower."

"As I was saying," Baki continued, his gaze stayed on Trump for a moment longer, "once your objectives are secured, you will fall back to support the main invasion force. The Kazekage himself has arranged for the Hokage to be isolated, and Orochimaru's forces will ensure that Konoha's defensive formations are disrupted from within."

Trump made mental notes of all these unfamiliar names and terms. Kazekage, apparently the leader of his village. Hokage, the leader of the village they were invading. Orochimaru, some kind of ally, though Baki's tone when mentioning the name suggested it wasn't a comfortable alliance.

"This operation is critical to Suna's future," Baki continued, his voice taking on a more passionate tone. "For too long, the Wind Daimyō has favored Konoha with missions and resources that should have gone to us. Our village is dying. Our people suffer while Konoha prospers. Today, we change that. Today, we show the world that Suna is still to be feared and respected."

A murmur of agreement ran through the gathered teenagers. Trump was surprised by the genuine emotion he saw on their faces, determination, excitement, even righteous anger. These weren't just mindless soldiers; they believed in their cause.

When the briefing concluded, Baki approached their team directly, his single eye focusing on each of them in turn.

"Team Four," he said. "Your mission is critical. If the eastern watchtower remains operational, they'll be able to signal for reinforcements from the outposts. Failure is not an option."

"We understand, Baki-sama," Takeshi replied with a short bow. Trump noted the respect in his tone, almost reverence.

Baki's single visible eye fixed on Trump. "Kazemaru, I expect your sand techniques to be utilized effectively. The guards at the top of the tower must be neutralized silently. Your range gives us a significant advantage."

Trump nodded confidently, falling back on decades of business bluffing. "They'll be the most effectively neutralized guards in history. Believe me. My sand techniques are amazing. The best sand techniques."

Baki's eye narrowed at Trump's unusual phrasing. "You seem... different today. More talkative than usual."

Trump felt sweat forming on his brow but maintained his confident stance. "Just excited for the mission, Baki-sama. Very excited. The most excited I've ever been."

"Hm." Baki studied him for another moment, then apparently decided to let it go. "Remember, when the signal comes, you'll have approximately two minutes to complete your objective before the full-scale attack begins. Not earlier, not later."

"Two minutes," Mitsuri confirmed, her tone professional. "We'll be ready."

Baki gave them one last assessing look before moving on to the next team. As soon as he was out of earshot, Takeshi grabbed Trump's arm, his fingers digging in painfully.

"What the hell was that?" he hissed. "Asking about the transformation in front of everyone? Are you trying to get us killed?"

"It was just a question," Trump protested, trying to pull his arm free. "Important to have all the information. The best missions are fully informed missions."

"You know we're not supposed to talk about the jinchūriki," Mitsuri whispered, glancing around nervously to ensure no one was listening. "It's forbidden to discuss his... condition... in public. Baki-sama could have had you disciplined for that."

"Jin-chew-what now?" Trump asked before he could stop himself.

Takeshi and Mitsuri exchanged alarmed glances.

"Jinchūriki," Mitsuri repeated slowly, as if speaking to a child. "A human with a tailed beast sealed inside them. Like Gaara with the One-Tail. We've discussed this before."

"Right, right," Trump nodded quickly. "The tailed beast thing. I knew that. Just testing your knowledge. Very important to make sure the team is all on the same page. The best teams always verify information before missions."

"Stop testing us," Takeshi snapped, releasing Trump's arm with a small shove. "And stop with the weird speech patterns. You're drawing attention to yourself, and attention is the last thing we need right now."

---

After the briefing, the team retreated to a secluded area behind some storage buildings to prepare their equipment. Trump observed carefully as Takeshi and Mitsuri checked weapons he now knew were called "kunai" and "shuriken," along with wire, paper bombs, and other ninja tools.

"Here," Takeshi said, handing Trump a pouch. "Your specialized sand. Don't lose it this time."

Trump opened the pouch to find fine, reddish sand. He touched it cautiously, surprised to feel a slight tingle in his fingertips, as if the sand was somehow attuned to him.

"This is special sand?" he asked, letting it run through his fingers.

"It's sand you've infused with your chakra over time," Mitsuri explained as she checked the edge of a nasty-looking knife.

"Right," Trump nodded, trying to look knowledgeable. "My special sand. The best sand. Nobody has better sand than me."

Takeshi shot him another irritated look as he strapped additional weapons to his thighs and arms. "There you go again with that weird speech pattern. What's gotten into you today?"

Trump shrugged, trying to appear casual as he attached the sand pouch to his belt. "Just feeling confident. Very confident. The most—" He caught himself. "I mean, I'm focused on the mission."

"Well, stay focused," Takeshi said, checking the sun's position. "We have one hour until we need to be in position."

Trump watched as Mitsuri pulled out a small scroll, unrolling it on the ground.

"What's that?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Our map of the eastern sector," she replied. "The one you helped create during our reconnaissance missions last week."

"Right, right," Trump nodded, kneeling down to study the map. "Just wanted to make sure you brought it. Very important to have maps. The best missions always have detailed maps."

The map showed what appeared to be the eastern section of Konoha, with various buildings, streets, and defensive positions marked. The watchtower was clearly indicated, along with patrol routes and guard positions.

"I think we should do some reconnaissance first," he suggested, recalling how his previous attempts to navigate Konoha had ended in death. "Get the lay of the land. Make sure nothing has changed since we made this map. Check all possible escape routes. The best ninjas always have escape routes."

Takeshi looked surprised at the suggestion, his eyebrows rising slightly. "That's... actually not a bad idea. We do have time, and it's always possible they've adjusted their security for the Chunin Exam finals."

"I told you," Trump said smugly, feeling a small victory. "I had a vision. Very insightful. The most insightful vision."

"Stop saying that," Takeshi grumbled, but there was less hostility in his tone. "Let's go. We'll do a quick sweep of the area, verify the guard positions, then get into position."

---

They moved through the village carefully, using rooftops and back alleys to avoid detection. Trump found himself struggling to keep up with his teammates, who moved with effortless speed that seemed impossible for normal humans. They would leap from rooftop to rooftop, clearing distances of ten or fifteen feet as if it was nothing.

"Come on, Kazemaru!" Takeshi called back, noticing Trump's hesitation at a particularly wide gap between buildings. "We don't have all day!"

"Right behind you," Trump replied, eyeing the gap with trepidation. It had to be at least twelve feet across, with a three-story drop to the street below. "Just... checking for patrols. Very thorough. The most thorough."

Mitsuri landed silently beside him. "Are you afraid of the jump? You've never had trouble with basic chakra-enhanced leaps before."

"Not afraid," Trump scoffed, puffing out his chest. "Donald Trump isn't afraid of anything." He caught himself too late. "I mean, Kazemaru. Kazemaru isn't afraid of anything."

Mitsuri's eyes widened. "There it is again. You called yourself 'Donald Trump.' You did the same thing earlier. Who is Donald Trump?"

Trump scrambled for an explanation. "It's... a code name I've been thinking of using. For the mission. Donald Trump, the greatest sand ninja. Very intimidating name. The most intimidating."

"That's a terrible code name," Takeshi called from across the gap, his expression skeptical. "And we don't use code names for this mission. We maintain radio silence and rely on hand signals only."

"Just an idea," Trump shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Anyway, how do I make this jump? Refresh my memory. The best ninjas always double-check their techniques."

Mitsuri stared at Trump for a while, then she explained, "Channel chakra to your feet and legs. Feel it building there, then release it all at once as you jump. The burst will propel you much further than a normal leap."

Trump nodded, pretending he understood. He closed his eyes, trying to access that strange warm energy he'd felt earlier, chakra, they called it. He felt it pooling in his center, and with concentration, managed to direct some of it downward to his legs. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced, a warm, tingling sensation that made his muscles feel stronger, and more responsive.

"Here goes," he muttered, opening his eyes and taking a running start. "The best jump. Nobody jumps better than me."

He pushed off at the edge of the rooftop, and to his shock, soared much higher and further than he'd anticipated. Instead of just clearing the gap, he overshot completely, flying well past Takeshi and crashing unceremoniously into a water tower on the far roof.

The metal tank dented with a loud clang, and water began spraying from the new fissure.

"Kazemaru!" Takeshi hissed, rushing over. "What the hell was that?"

Trump extricated himself from the dented metal, soaking wet and disoriented. "Too much chakra," he gasped, genuinely amazed by what had just happened. "Very powerful jump. The most powerful. Did you see how far I went? Nobody jumps further than me."

"Keep your voice down!" Takeshi whispered harshly, yanking Trump away from the damaged water tower. "And control your chakra output! You're acting like a first-year Academy student!"

Mitsuri landed gracefully beside them, immediately assessing the damage. "We need to move," she said urgently. "That noise will attract attention."

Sure enough, voices could already be heard from the street below.

"Did you hear that?"

"Sounded like it came from the roof."

"Check it out, could be those troublemakers again..."

Trump felt his heart rate accelerate. This was how his previous loops had ended, with discovery leading to violent death.

"This way," Takeshi commanded, already moving across the rooftop to the far side. "And for the love of the desert spirits, use less chakra on your next jump."

Trump nodded, concentrating harder this time. He focused on the strange energy within him, trying to draw out just a small portion of it. The second jump was more controlled, though he still landed awkwardly on the adjacent roof, stumbling forward onto his hands and knees.

"Something's seriously wrong with you today," Mitsuri observed as she helped him up. "Your chakra control is completely erratic."

"Just nervous," Trump improvised. "Big mission. Very important mission. Sometimes even the best ninjas get nervous before critical operations."

They continued through the village, with Trump gradually improving his jumping technique. He wasn't graceful by any means, but at least he wasn't crashing into things anymore.

As they moved closer to the eastern sector, the village architecture changed subtly. The buildings became more utilitarian, with fewer decorative elements. More uniformed ninjas were visible, patrolling in pairs or stationed at key points.

"Security's heavier than normal," Takeshi observed from their hiding spot on a rooftop overlooking a main street. "They've doubled the patrols since our last reconnaissance."

"Expected for the Chunin Exam finals," Mitsuri said in a low voice. "All the foreign visitors, plus the daimyō and other dignitaries."

"The eastern watchtower is there," she continued, pointing to a tall structure near the village wall. "Four guards total, as we expected. Two at the base, two at the top."

Trump squinted in the direction she was pointing. The tower rose above the surrounding buildings, with a small observation platform at the top where two figures could just barely be made out.

"What are their capabilities?" Trump asked, surprising himself with the military terminology that came naturally from his time as Commander-in-Chief.

"Standard chunin-level," Takeshi replied, using a small handheld telescope to observe the guards more closely. "But there's something new. The one on the northeast corner of the platform appears to be a sensor type who can detect chakra signatures from a distance. That's why your sand techniques are critical, you can attack from further away than Mitsuri or I can."

"And how exactly would I do that?" Trump asked, trying to sound casual. "Just to confirm our strategy. The best missions always double-check strategies."

Takeshi lowered his telescope, turning to face Trump with growing exasperation. "We've been over this a dozen times. You use your Sand Binding technique to incapacitate them silently from a distance. Your range is at least fifty meters with your specialized sand, which keeps us outside the sensor's detection radius."

"Right, right," Trump nodded as if this was obvious. "The Sand Binding technique. My specialty. The best technique. Nobody binds with sand better than me."

"But you'll need to eliminate both guards simultaneously," Mitsuri added. "If even one has time to sound the alarm, the entire eastern sector will be alerted."

Trump felt a chill run down his spine. They were casually discussing assassination as if it was just another day at the office.

"And if my sand doesn't work?" he asked, genuinely concerned given his minimal control over this new power. "Always good to have a backup plan. The best operations have backup plans."

"Then we go with Plan B," Mitsuri said grimly, pulling out what looked like a small crossbow from a holster on her back. "Close combat. Much riskier, higher chance of raising the alarm before we complete the objective."

"Those are poison darts," Trump observed, remembering all too well the sting of one in his neck from his previous loop. "Very effective. The most effective poison."

"Of course they're poison darts," Takeshi said, looking at Trump strangely. "You helped Mitsuri formulate the paralytic agent. It was your idea to add the neurotoxin to ensure silence."

Trump swallowed hard. Apparently, this Kazemaru person was quite comfortable with creating deadly poisons. "Right, right. My neurotoxin. Very proud of that. The best neurotoxin."

"No backup plan should involve close combat," he declared, changing the subject. "Too dangerous. We need a better Plan B. A tremendous Plan B."

Takeshi looked at him curiously, head tilted slightly. "What do you suggest? And since when do you take the lead on strategy? You usually just follow orders."

Trump drew on decades of business experience, thinking quickly. "Distraction. The best strategy is always distraction. We create a small incident away from the tower, nothing big enough to trigger general alarm, but enough to draw their attention. Then we strike."

Mitsuri and Takeshi exchanged surprised glances.

"That's... actually a solid strategy," Mitsuri admitted, genuine appreciation in her tone. "A small fire or minor disturbance in the opposite direction could work. Just enough to make them look away from our approach vector."

"See? The best strategy. Nobody comes up with better strategies than me," Trump said proudly. "In my vision, I saw us failing because we were too direct. The best approach is indirect. Like in business... I mean, like in battle."

"What's 'business'?" Mitsuri asked, looking confused. "You've used that word several times today."

Trump realized he'd slipped up again. "It's... a term I picked up from a book. About strategy. Very interesting book. The best book on ninja strategy."

Takeshi shook his head, clearly not buying it but apparently deciding it wasn't worth pursuing. "We don't have time to debate new strategies. We stick with the original plan: you use long-range sand techniques to simultaneously neutralize the tower guards. If that fails, we move to close combat as a last resort."

"But—" Trump began to protest.

"No buts," Takeshi cut him off sharply. "You've been acting strange all day. I'm not changing our entire mission strategy based on your sudden 'vision' and weird new speech patterns."

Trump felt a flash of genuine anger. No one spoke to Donald Trump that way, especially not some teenage ninja from a made-up village. "Listen, kid. I've made more strategic decisions than you've had hot meals. The most strategic decisions. When I was running the Trump Organization—"

He stopped abruptly, realizing his error too late.

"The what organization?" Takeshi demanded, eyes narrowing to suspicious slits.

"Nothing," Trump backpedaled quickly. "Just something from my vision. Never mind. We'll stick with the original plan. Sand Binding technique. Very effective. The most effective technique."

As they continued their reconnaissance, circling the eastern watchtower from a safe distance to observe from all angles, he wrestled with a moral dilemma. He was planning for a mission he had no intention of completing. These people were preparing to invade a village, potentially killing innocent people. Yet if he didn't play along, he'd likely be killed himself again.

"What's the purpose of this invasion anyway?" he asked casually as they paused on a rooftop overlooking a market street near the tower. "Just curious about the big picture. The biggest picture."

Takeshi looked at him strangely, adjusting his position to remain hidden behind a large ventilation unit. "You know why. The Wind Daimyō has been outsourcing missions to Konoha instead of Suna. Our village is dying economically. This alliance with Oto is our chance to restore Suna's prominence."

"Economic reasons? That's it?" Trump asked, genuinely surprised. "You're invading because of... trade issues?"

"It's more than that," Mitsuri said quietly, her expression solemn as she checked her weapons for the third time. "It's about survival. Without missions, Suna can't sustain itself in the desert. Our resources are limited. Water is scarce. The Land of Wind is mostly inhospitable except for our village. Without income from missions, our people will starve."

"So it's a trade dispute," Trump summarized, familiar ground for a businessman. "The Wind Daimyō, that's like your country's king, right? He's hiring Konoha ninjas instead of Suna ninjas, cutting off your village's income."

"Essentially, yes," Mitsuri confirmed. "Though it's more complicated. There are political factions involved, and Orochimaru's personal vendetta against the Hokage has provided the opportunity for alliance."

"Huh," Trump grunted, digesting this information. "So it's like a trade war. I know about those. I've conducted the biggest trade wars. Very successful trade wars."

"It's a real war," Takeshi corrected coldly, his eyes hard as he surveyed the village they were about to attack. "People will die today. Including us, if we don't succeed."

"But killing people over trade..." Trump hesitated, finding himself in the unusual position of being the voice of reason. "Isn't there a better way? Negotiations, deals, maybe some kind of agreement with specific sector allocations..."

"Negotiations?" Takeshi scoffed. "We tried that. For years. The Wind Daimyō wouldn't listen. The Kazekage sent delegation after delegation, but nothing changed. Konoha kept getting our missions, growing richer while Suna grew poorer."

"So the Kazekage decided to invade," Trump completed the thought.

"Yes," Mitsuri said, though Trump noticed a hint of uncertainty in her voice. "The alliance with Orochimaru was... unexpected. Many in the village have concerns about it. But the Kazekage's decision is final."

Trump fell silent, contemplating. In his world, economic conflicts were solved through tariffs, negotiations, and strongly-worded tweets, not teenage assassins killing watchtower guards. The whole situation seemed absurd, yet deadly serious.

A plan began forming in his mind. If he was stuck in this loop until he completed some objective, maybe the goal wasn't to successfully participate in the invasion. Maybe it was something else. Maybe he needed to find a way to stop it altogether.

"I need to test something with my sand," he announced as they completed their surveillance and began moving toward their designated position. "Make sure it's working properly before the mission."

They stopped in a secluded area between two abandoned buildings, and Trump pulled out the pouch of special sand. He attempted the hand signs Mitsuri had shown him earlier, focusing on the strange energy he'd felt.

To his surprise, the sand rose from the pouch, hovering unsteadily in the air about a foot above his outstretched palm.

"See? It's working," he said, though the sand's movements were jerky and uncontrolled compared to Mitsuri's earlier demonstration.

"Barely," Takeshi observed critically, arms crossed over his chest. "Your control is worse than it was during training last week. Are you nervous?"

"Donald Trump doesn't get nervous," he replied automatically, the sand wavering as his concentration broke. "I mean, Kazemaru. Kazemaru doesn't get nervous." He concentrated harder, and the sand formed into a wobbly, misshapen ball. "See? Perfect control. The best control."

"That's basic Academy-level manipulation," Takeshi said with a frown. "If that's all you can manage, we might need to reconsider our approach. The tower guards need to be taken out simultaneously and silently."

"I'm just warming up," Trump insisted, feeling beads of sweat form on his forehead as he struggled to maintain even this simple shape. "When the real action starts, you'll see. It'll be tremendous. Nobody will have ever seen such amazing sand control."

Mitsuri stepped closer, placing a hand on Trump's arm. Her touch was gentle but firm. "Kazemaru, what's really going on? You've been acting strange all day, and now your chakra control is at beginner level. If something's wrong, we need to know before the mission starts."

Trump hesitated, momentarily tempted to tell them the truth. But what would he say? 'I'm actually the former President of the United States, Donald Trump, trapped in your teammate's body in some kind of bizarre time loop'? They'd think he was insane. They might even kill him again, as Takeshi had threatened to do in the previous loop if he compromised the mission.

"Nothing's wrong," he lied, forcing confidence into his voice. "Just a little off my game today. It happens to everyone. Even the best ninjas have off days."

Mitsuri checked her weapons one last time, clearly not entirely convinced. "It's almost time. We should get into position."

They moved toward the eastern watchtower, using the cover of buildings and trees. Trump's heart was racing. This was his third loop, and he still had no idea how to break the cycle.

Should he go along with the mission?

Sabotage it?

Try to escape again?

As they took up their position in an abandoned building with a clear line of sight to the watchtower, he made a decision. He'd play along, up to a point. He'd see if he could complete this mission without actually killing anyone. Maybe that was the test, to find a non-lethal solution to a seemingly violent problem.

"Remember," Takeshi whispered as they crouched by a window overlooking the watchtower about sixty meters away, "wait for the signal. Not before."

Trump nodded, sweat beading on his forehead. The weight of the situation was finally hitting him. This wasn't a business deal or a political campaign. This was life and death... his death, repeatedly.

They waited in tense silence for nearly twenty minutes. He could hear distant cheers and crowd noise from the stadium where the "Chunin Exam finals" were apparently taking place. Takeshi and Mitsuri remained perfectly still, their focus absolute. He tried to match their discipline but found himself fidgeting, unused to this kind of patient waiting.

"Stop moving," Takeshi hissed eventually. "You'll give away our position."

"Sorry," Trump whispered back. "Just getting ready. Very ready. The most ready I've ever been."

Takeshi shot him another irritated look but said nothing more.

Finally, a distant roar came from the stadium, followed by what appeared to be white feathers floating down from the sky throughout the village, the genjutsu signal Takeshi had mentioned.

"That's it," he hissed, instantly alert. "Move now!"

They darted from their hiding place, moving silently toward the watchtower. Trump struggled to keep up. The tower was before them, its base guarded by two ninjas in the now-familiar green vests.

"Kazemaru, take out the top guards!" Takeshi ordered as they approached, gesturing upward. "Now!"

Trump focused, trying to remember what Mitsuri had taught him. He formed the hand signs, Ram, then Bird, feeling the chakra flow through him. He directed it toward his sand pouch, and the specialized sand streamed out, moving upward toward the tower platform.

"You can do this," he muttered to himself. "The best sand control. Nobody controls sand better than Donald Trump."

The sand reached about halfway up the tower before his concentration wavered. The stream became erratic, then dispersed, raining down harmlessly around the tower base. The guards at the top immediately noticed, pointing down at them.

"What the hell was that?" Takeshi demanded, ducking behind cover as the guards shouted in alarm.

"Sorry! Technical difficulties!" Trump called back, genuinely disappointed in his failure. "The sand isn't cooperating! Very uncooperative sand! The worst!"

"Intruders at the eastern tower!" one of the top guards shouted. "Sound the alarm!"

Mitsuri cursed under her breath. "Plan B it is."

She and Takeshi sprang into action, engaging the ground-level guards in close combat. Trump watched in amazement as they moved with incredible speed and precision.

One guard went down quickly, a kunai in his throat cutting off his alarm cry. The second managed to block Takeshi's initial attack, countering with a series of hand signs.

"Water Release: Water Slice Jutsu!" the guard called out, completing the signs.

A sharp arc of water formed in the air and shot toward Takeshi. Trump watched in horror as the water moved with the speed and apparent hardness of a blade.

"Look out!" he shouted, instinctively trying to push Takeshi out of the way.

The water caught him across the chest instead, slicing deeply through fabric and flesh. He staggered back, looking down in shock at the blood soaking through his clothes.

"That really hurts!" he gasped, clutching at the wound. "So painful! The most painful cut ever!"

Meanwhile, the guards at the top of the tower were preparing their own attacks. One formed hand signs, his cheeks puffing out.

"Fire Release: Phoenix Sage Flower Nail Crimson!" the guard called, expelling a barrage of small fireballs from his mouth.

"Kazemaru, shield us!" Mitsuri shouted, still engaged with her opponent.

Trump tried to form a sand shield, remembering how she had demonstrated sand manipulation. He focused his chakra again, directing it into his sand, but his concentration was shattered by the pain from his chest wound. The sand rose halfheartedly, creating a pathetic curtain that disintegrated as soon as the first fireball struck it.

"I can't!" he cried as a fireball struck him directly in the shoulder, setting his clothes ablaze. "Ow! Ow! Fire! I'm on fire! Someone put it out!"

He dropped and rolled, extinguishing the flames but leaving himself vulnerable. The watchtower guard took advantage, leaping down from the platform with a sword aimed directly at Trump's heart.

"Not again!" he groaned as the blade pierced his chest. The pain was excruciating, even worse than the previous deaths. It felt like someone had poured molten metal into his lungs. "Why does dying hurt so much? It's ridiculous! The most painful thing ever!"

He coughed, blood splattering from his lips. Through dimming vision, he saw Takeshi and Mitsuri still fighting, but they were outnumbered as reinforcements arrived, alerted by the commotion.

"Failed again," he gasped as blood filled his lungs. "This loop is rigged. Totally rigged against me."

As darkness closed in once more, a Konoha ninja stood over him, yanking the metal headband from his forehead.

"These are souvenirs, hehehe," the ninja chuckled, adding Trump's headband to others he'd collected from fallen Suna ninjas.