On the morning of his twentieth birthday, Kakashi was called into the Third's office. He was not surprised to be summoned. Anbu captains like him frequently were. So he went the way he always did, leisurely, nose buried in a book of porn, and showed up a good fifteen minutes too late.


Kakashi, I have something for you.

Sandaime-sama?

Your father entrusted me with this. He wanted me to give it to you on the occasion of your twentieth birthday.

My father…?

It was a long time ago and, believe me, I must have been as surprised then as you are now. These are records of your clan. Most clans have them, and all clans that do keep them locked away, accessible only to members of their clan. I have not read them, Kakashi. As you know, I give the clans in our village a certain amount of freedom. As long as I know I can trust them to have Konoha's best interest at heart, I don't interfere with their politics. Anyway, you father wanted you to have them, so here you are, and congratulations.

Thank you, Sandaime-sama.


Kakashi left the office with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach and a light package in his hands. His father… When was the last time he'd really thought about his dad? To his own surprise and chagrin, Kakashi couldn't even remember that much. His thoughts would skirt his father, sidestep him like a puddle. Once this had been because of the anger he'd felt, but now, since Obito, Rin and Minato-sensei, Kakashi had changed. At least he'd thought he'd changed.


At home, Kakashi sat down on his bed and opened the thin cloth wrapping. A bundle of loose sheets of paper, yellowed and creased and tied together with ancient string, waited inside. He undid the string and marveled at the gentle ripple of chakra he felt as the pages slid into his lap. It felt familiar and warm, reminding him of his dad, the good days when they'd be in the garden, his father's hands on his wrists, guiding his swings of the wooden practice katana.

Why now, Dad?

Kakashi picked up the uppermost piece of paper and studied it. Thin blue lines like tiny capillaries were woven into material that under natural circumstances would have long since turned to dust.

Clearly, a jutsu had been put into place to preserve the documents in their current state. Impressive, intricate work. Kakashi wondered if his father had added his own chakra to the delicate network, whether he was expected to do the same so his children would someday be able to read these ancient words and trace the chakra of previous generations with their fingertips.

His own children…

Kakashi wasn't sure he was ready to think about that quite yet.

Slightly unnerved, he trained his eye onto the first line of writing and started to read.


My name is Hatake Anzanshi, I am in the thirty-third year of my life and head of the Hatake clan.

This is my story; it is to be entrusted to whoever will be leading our clan in the future. In doing this I am breaking my oath, but I [scratched out]

I have to believe in the future, in my children and my children's children.

May they make wiser decisions than their parents.


I was born during the ninth month of the first year of Samu. After my grandfather's death the previous year, leadership had been passed on to his eldest son, my father. As such I was the next in line, the future head of the clan.

My memories of my mother are faint for she died when I was still a toddler. I remember my wet nurse, though, her strong, tanned arms and the little girl who'd been at her breast until I came along, effectively stealing her mother away from her. Yes, I remember that girl. The many things I took from her I will never forget.

Yaga was the little girl's name. She was nine months older than me and at the time I didn't know anything about her except that she was always right by my side. She was my friend and playmate, the sibling I never had. We used to sleep on the same mat. In the mornings we'd wake up with strands of each other's hair in our mouths. We didn't mind, just giggled and curled up even more tightly.

It wasn't until I was older that I was to learn the difference between me and her.

As the future head of the clan I was untouchable; I could not be punished. Spankings or other humiliating ways of disciplining a regular child were out of the question when it came to the princess of the clan. So whenever I had misbehaved my father would call me and Yaga into his tent where he would be waiting with Kyozou, his servant. There, my father and I would watch Kyozou beat Yaga in my stead.

To this day I have a hard time describing how I felt during those moments, listening to my best friend's – my only real friend's – sobs punctuated by the sharp slaps of Kyozou's palm striking her bare skin, knowing that I was directly responsible for her suffering.

Yaga never blamed me, though. Afterwards, as soon as we were alone, she would burst out laughing, the tears forgotten, and she would tell me to be as bad as I wanted to be.

If I were you, I'd make full use of this! Next time, we should sneak into your uncle's tent and hide all his fundoshi!

But I didn't want to risk it; I hated seeing her in pain, no matter how often she assured me that Kyozou never hit her very hard and that her crying was all exaggerated playacting to satisfy my father.

In moments like this, when her black eyes shone with a fire I couldn't quite understand, I was able to believe the stories I had been told about her clan.

I must have been very little then for I remember my father holding me in his lap and whispering it in my ear as a bedtime story.

My grandfather, whom I had never met, had been feared and revered across the lands. From the mountains in the north to the deep forests in the south, through the desert in the west and even out on the sea to the east, his name was known. He had been an exceptional shinobi, stronger and smarter than anyone, with chakra as pure and powerful as that of the ancient beasts of legend. Under him, our clan bloomed, growing in size and strength as it prospered. Other clans began avoiding us or came looking to strike up treaties; no one dared to attack and so we lived in peace.

Until, one day, they appeared. A new clan, a small one that apparently moved around much more frequently and travelled more lightly than any other clan we had ever encountered. Why, they didn't even have tents; they slept in trees like beasts! Savages, my father said, his voice full of disdain but with a strange edge, and he breathed half-suffocated laughter against my skin.

They were not interested in trade; they didn't want a peace treaty. They wanted a fight. War for war's sake.

And they got one.

In the end we managed to defeat them, but barely. Despite their low numbers, despite their lack of development, they fought us tooth and claw, men, women and children.

The fight cost us. My grandfather himself lost all his children, two sons and one daughter, as well as their mother, his first wife, in that war. Furious in his grief, it struck him that they owed him. They owed him a debt that couldn't be repaid by mere death. This was how the curse seal came to be.

Because of the crime her forefathers committed, Yaga and her people now belong to this clan, my father said. She is not a person like you or me, you must not forget that; she is a tool that you can choose to use or break at your will.They all are.

My father's words stuck in my throat like splintering senbon. Deep down inside I swore to myself that I would never ever live by them.


But as Yaga and I grew older, it became more and more difficult to ignore the differences between us. By the time she was five, Yaga had a myriad of chores to complete while I was to attend the reading and writing lessons one of my aunts held for the children of the clan. Neither Yaga nor the children like her, all the other darker-skinned boys and girls with their shiny black hair and mischievous dark eyes, were allowed to be in the big tent when those boring lessons took place.

Now that I think back to those nights when I complained to her about the unfairness of having to study in the stuffy tent while other children could be outside, I cringe at my own stupidity. I was young, I guess, and I didn't understand why Yaga looked at my scrolls with longing, why she asked me to explain the characters written on them in such a breathlessly hushed voice.


I had a hard time seeing Yaga and the other members of her clan as related. To me, Yaga was always special and there was simply no one like her.

But there were of course others who shared her fate. Her mother who had been my mother's servant, who'd nursed me, and who died when Yaga was seven, for example.

And Kyozou.

As a small child I was terrified of him, that giant man who silently carried out my father's every order. His eyes haunted my dreams. They seemed so cold and distant, but there was something else in them, too. Maybe what scared me most about him was the fact that he had no tongue.

Yaga used to tell me millions of stories about how he'd lost it, which– as I learned much later – were mostly made up. One of them was that he'd bitten it off himself and thrown it into the sea to lure in a great white shark that he'd then killed with his bare hands. I would shiver under our shared blanket, bury my face in the hollow of Yaga's throat and feel her chuckles reverberating through my narrow ribcage. All of her stories followed this basic structure; Kyozou fighting a huge wild beast – sometimes a whole herd of huge wild beasts – losing his tongue in the process but coming out on top in the end. Sometimes the animals would be able to talk, sometimes they tricked him out of his tongue and sometimes he had to sacrifice it for some kind of greater good.

Gradually these stories – made up or not – made me see Kyozou in a different light. I would notice the small smiles he sometimes directed at me or Yaga, or the way he treated the horses, petting their manes and sneaking them apples when he thought no one was watching.

One night, Yaga told me a story that strayed from the usual path. There were no beasts, no wrestling, no fistfights, no triumph. It was nothing but Kyozou, still a boy, getting in the middle of a disagreement between my father and my grandfather. It was a tale of wanton cruelty, and I instinctively knew that unlike all the other stories, this one was true.


I was thirteen when Kyozou died. My father and a few of his men had gone to meet with the head of a different clan who'd claimed he wanted to establish a trade agreement. The meeting was an ambush.

Covered in blood, my father returned alone. He withdrew to his tent and for days wouldn't speak to anyone, not even my uncles.


That very same year my father taught me how to use the seal.


At first I had to learn a combination of hand seals. That part was simple, as I was already good at making seals and controlling the flow of my chakra.

The combination would activate the seal, opening it. The wording alone was enough to confuse me. What did he mean by opening, I asked, would the seal vanish?

Could I undo what my grandfather had done, I wondered silently, knowing that voicing such a question would have dire consequences, could I set my friend free of the curse that kept her from being able to use her own chakra?

No, my father replied. Opening the seal would allow me to draw chakra from it.He explained that my grandfather's powerful chakra was sealed into the bodies of those he had defeated. It had mixed with their chakra, making it even more potent, but at the same time almost impossible to mold and control properly, which was why they were unable to use it. We, however, could use it. We could draw it from their bodies and gain that incredible power for a certain amount of time, all we had to do was activate the seal.

I was shocked, my heart seizing up in my chest. Chakra is life-force, that had been one of the first lessons I'd ever learned.

What wou—


Kakashi flipped the page over and found himself staring at a blank piece of paper. Nothing.

He sifted through the small stack he'd made, but there wasn't a single page he hadn't already read. He'd gotten to the end of what Sandaime had given him, and yet the story wasn't finished. Why would his father leave him with this incomplete text? Had the Third lost the rest? Was it perhaps still somewhere in the Hokage tower?

Kakashi doubted it. It wasn't like Sandaime to be careless with something that had been entrusted to him, and his father… Maybe this was all that had been left to him as well. It wouldn't be surprising for a few pieces of paper to be lost over the course of centuries, would it?

Either way, the story was disturbing. He'd never thought much about his clan – by the time he was born, there hadn't been much of a clan left to think about, anyway.

They'd been powerful once, that much he'd known, but that had been long before Konoha was even founded. To learn that his clan had oppressed another one to the extent described in his ancestor's account disturbed Kakashi. On some level, he wondered why the name of the clan had been erased from the record, but on another he was almost glad that he didn't know. He had enough to feel guilty about. Maybe it was a good thing that he had no way to find out how Anzanshi's story ended... He had a feeling it wouldn't have been a happy ending anyway.

As for the jutsu described in the text… Kakashi shook his head. The information was useless to him, whatever power it could have unlocked was lost with that mysterious other clan. For all he knew, they were extinct by now – Anzanshi herself might have caused their end.

It was for the better, Kakashi decided as he put the pages aside. He had done enough harm in his life. The last thing he needed was a twisted bond like the ones between Anzanshi and Yaga or Samu and Kyozou.

All it could cause was misery, Kakashi was sure of that.