Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
Those who give up at the end of the world are the weak ones.
Konoha is gutting ashes and blood, as timber falls and buildings collapse. Their shinobi die in mass droves like mayflies staring up at the sun, wondering why they were only allowed to live for a day.
Hell has come to Konoha, the legions led by a dark wraith caring only for vengeance.
Hearts shake and are lost in the chaos, bones shattered and splintered by the violence. Death flies with auburn wings scooping up souls that fight and claw to return to their bodies. The dark wraith is young and foolish, but terrible in his purpose and will brook no rival, tolerate no insult and forgive no wrong done to him.
No one can be sure whose fault it truly was. There were two sects, each preaching different dogmas, and they despised each other truly. The final clash of these two sects comes when the dark wraith meets his rival, the only one who was ever able to stand up to him.
The world shatters.
When the smoke clears and glittering stars illuminate the burning city, the devastation is absolute. Whole generations have been lost to the fire. The young perish, and the old linger. The best have been lost and those left behind are only pale shadows of the glorious twilight.
Nothing stands anymore. Caves of rubble form homesteads and pestilence spreads like wildfire through the small huddling masses. No crops will grow on chemical-soaked fields as trees die and grass turns gold. The grim shadow of starvation settles on each and every face. There is no sound left in Konoha, except for the sound of deafening silence and Death ripping babies from their mothers' breasts.
No green shoots come through dark and twisted metal. No rain comes to heal the burning, poisoned land. The sky's orange tint is accepted as normal. There are no trees to hide the land, no love to silence empty hearts, no roads to be tread by weary feet.
When morning comes, cold and dank, weary men and women rouse themselves, and they build, build with clumsy hands that were only ever taught to kill and not to build.
They do not build because they have hope. Hope has been murdered by the hands of infants with twisted forms and alien cries, strangled by the dull eyes of children who only know death and slaughter, drowned by the nonexistent tears of mayflies.
They build, their arms performing the motions automatically, without any knowledge of what impulses nerves are sending.
Because life goes on.
No matter what happens.
No trees to shelter
A night for sleeping
No love to silence
In Ancient Town
No voice confesses
The heart is broken
No time tomorrow
In Ancient Town
—Ancient Town by Moya Brennan