The Beast of Gremory Chapter 7: The First Domino, a Naruto + High School DxD/ハイスクールD×D Crossover fanfic

WARNING: READ SPARINGLY!

As much as I love people reading my work, this chapter is BOOK LENGTH! Meaning, it's long and should require some breaks in-between! Get some water, eat some toast, get some fresh air (if you have any around), but don't try to set and get through this chapter in one go!

With books, you have mini breaks in between pages. The information is spread out. But in FF, the information is ALL THERE and that can be wearying too some.

I don't want people to get annoyed or irritated by my work because of the length, which is why I encourage a few moments to rest the eyes and look away to other things. It will do wonders for your reading enjoyment.

But anyway, the story of The Beast of Gremory continues. And boy, this chapter? Tough.

I tried to write something enjoyable, yet interesting, as well.

Because, in the end, I'm writing Fanfiction, not for the reviews, favorites or followers, but because I am trying to IMPROVE my ability to write. I want to write novels someday, and I have story ideas in mind. But if I can't improve on my skills through a medium that doesn't leave me too embarrassed if I make a mistake and people can find me then to point and laugh, then I'm golden!

Anyway, enough with the moodfest – this chapter is an interesting one. Because it goes places the original story does not. At least briefly.

Everything I write in this chapter is important to the story at large – either because it helps build the world of my story (which I am trying to work on: world-building stories) or because the information may tie into things later on.

But don't be alarmed!

Yes, there is information in the story, but don't try to boggle your mind with trying to remember everything. It will just hurt you in the long run.

This chapter is long-term plot relevant, world-building chapter. It might seem irrelevant and might be difficult to read, but I assure you, it is important still.

READ AT YOUR OWN VOLITION.

Now, with my health and plot warnings out of the way, sit back and enjoy this chapter!

BOOK TWO

PROLOGUE: THE FIRST DOMINO…

Oymyakon.

Oi-mi-ah-kone

Oymyakon.

Oymyakon is a small village-town located in the Siberian Tundra of the Sakha Republic of Russia. It is three days close to nothing, holds a successful import-export business of sleet and snow, and holds regular temperatures which dip to ten degrees below 'cold as hell.' The forests surrounding were largely unused to producing anything resembling the color green, the river that ran through the town was small and unsuitable for anything more than light fishing or the occasional rowboat, and with the town's practically non-existent fauna life, even the most casual of hunters would neither find interest nor even the excitement of the challenge in finding a living creature nearby. Even the single highway leading into Oymyakon – affectionately referred to as 'The Road of Bones' – took many a lives of daring adventurists which have heard of the pass's treacherous reputation and made entering the small town just as dangerous as leaving it.

Final thoughts: it isn't the ideal 'Summer Home' location.

From the outside looking in, Oymyakon is largely unremarkable by appearance and features when compared to other Russian settlements. It has its civilian population (roughly five-hundred (all human) in number), its farm lands, its households of different qualities of living, and its common marketable features that would allow it to remain stable and supportive even in its middle-of-nowhere placing. By and large, even when comparing Oymyakon to its closest town-neighbor, there really wasn't much to see which would surprise or even intrigue the average fellow.

Oymyakon was what Oymyakon was. And by looks alone, it was just an average Russian town trying to get by in the unforgiving wilderness.

But then, why was it worth mentioning now? Or better question: what was it that made the small village of Oymyakon 'famous?'

Famous, yes, FAMOUS. Oymyakon, the almost-literal Backside of Russia, was famous. Famous for its peculiarity, as well as its extremity.

And the reason for this was actually quite simple:

It's because it is cold.

Very cold.

EXTREMELY cold.

DEATHLY-FRIGIDLY-BLISTERINGLY-UNNATURALLY cold.

To put it lightly.

Located between two large mountain ranges, Oymyakon was troubled with the unfortunate cold airs which trapped themselves below the two peaks. This led to extreme climate changes which caused the village to experience some of the most confusing and unorthodox weather patterns in the human world. From summers with scorching heats to winters which dipped into the negative double digits, the unusual weather phenomenon which tortured the Oymyakon providence were widely known by the Russian people. The frost alone that came with such punishing environments was enough to freeze entire residential areas shut for several days; and that was if the snow didn't do it first.

Thus are the reasons why Oymyakon is famously referred to as the 'Coldest Village on Earth'.

The abnormal temperature and climate conditions made living in such an environment especially difficult: blizzards that froze to the bone, winds which tore roofs apart, hail the size of softballs – it seemed the land itself had incurred the wrath of Mother Nature.

It is for these reasons that it is no surprise that only the hard, willful and persistent (stubborn) could survive such a torrent of weather conditions.

…With one exception. And that is why we are mentioning Oymyakon today.

Down by the village waterway, there laid a mansion. A 'comfortable' mansion, that much was certain. A mansion of significant girth and size it easily took up half the size of Oymyakon. A mansion that's foundation stood well over three stories high and showed neither ware or tear in the years of its construct. A mansion of such impressive structure and thought, it held years' worth of innovation and imagination into its initial blueprints. A mansion of such uniqueness and intimidating-design, it was a marvel and a wonder why it was constructed in such an unassuming village as Oymyakon.

This was known by the village people as the Manor of the esteemed Mikhail Mihailoff.

Or Mihailoff Manor, for simplicities sake.

Mihailoff Manor.

Constructed nearly twenty years ago, the large estate stood impressively over the village it was built around. With an outer layer made with brick and steel plating to keep even the worst of Oymyakon's conditions at bay, the outer structure alone had more funding put into it than all of the constructed establishments that surrounded it. And indeed, even without maintenance or workings from outside professionals, the mansion seemed just as powerful and impressive as the day of its completion. The manor was built to last and hold against any storm; no doubt pleasing its constructors for their fine achievement and its owner for not needing the necessity of constant caring.

But while the outside was a spectacle of little doubt, it was unquestionably the inside of the home where the true magic happened.

Fine kitchens with the latest in culinary workings; a botanical garden which maintained a constant, tropical temperature; a four-cornered pool which stretched as wide and long as any house; a facility for exercise which, though rarely used by its current owner, held an air of capability and flair to it which was appreciated thoroughly; several guest rooms and, well, just about anything else imaginable in a stable, relaxing retirement home for an overly rich and imaginative gentlemen who enjoyed the tranquility of his 'castle.'

The structure aimed – and succeeded – in achieving the epitome of an inside comfortable environment.

Although, as often the case when large, private homes were constructed in small, familiar communities, rumors quickly spread.

Most came from the children; silly stories that stretched past the imagination and barred on such pure examples of fiction that even the most attentive conspiracy theorist would scoff at the absurdities. Rumors such as how 'the old man cut the body of little Abram into tiny pieces and fed him to his fish tank' or 'Boris saw the old man go into his house without using a door' were only to name a few. Of course, these rumors were largely exaggerated – Abram was fine and the mansion's owner just went to the back door to find a spare key after locking himself out – but this did little to stop their flow of talk, even with the constant scolding from adult figures to not tell such exaggerated tales about the sweet old man.

Speaking of; who was the sweet old fellow who lived in the mansion all alone?

It was certainly a question many asked but few bothered to delve deeply into. The elderly man who lived in the mansion was not of Russian descent, though his name did hold a certain north Eurasian sound to it. He was not a face anyone of the small town knew, though his obvious presence and rich tastes made it seem as if he were some old king, retiring to a secluded Russian abode.

He was a stranger who came to a cold village some twenty years prior, laying down foundations in the small place in the middle of nowhere. The heavy construction done for his new home, if such a castle could even be called simply a 'home,' was originally quite disorienting and even intrusive to many of the residents. Most found comfort in the calmness of their little place – such trespasses of space and sound came off as being most unwelcome.

But of course, the citizens were not unreasonable. Their blame was not ill placed. The builders were not at fault – they had jobs and duties to make ends meet. Nor was the machinery to blame – the tools were made to do what needed doing and could not be blamed for the noise.

The blame instead, as it stood so easily, was placed on a single, rather unremarkable looking individual.

An old man, as it were.

An old man the mansion was named from.

An old man who was named Mikhail Mihailoff.

Mikhail Mihailoff.

Mikhail Mihailoff was a relatively squat, wrinkled old man who had long past the prime of his life. At roughly sixty years old at the time of his arrival in the Russian village, whatever features that might have been described as 'youthful' and 'good looking' had long since diminished to make way for bleached white hair, a long untrimmed beard and a deep indentation of age. Particularly so in the present day, where the now nearly eighty year old resident was often seen resting and taking deep breaths from over exertion. His youthful vigor had long since turned to eldest wisdom, with his neighbors and friends, silently, acknowledging the hard truth that perhaps their neighbor's time would soon be here.

A dreadful thought to consider, though. Near everyone Oymyakon could say, without issue, that the man was a rare kindness to be found. His absence would leave a hole in the small town that wouldn't soon be filled…

But forgetting his weakening physique and endurance, it was a rare and odd occasion to see Mihailoff unsettled, displeased or otherwise have any sort of negative emotion on his face. Though his physical limitations showed more and more as the years came and went, it was never commented upon by the man. He still smiled, enjoyed evening walks, and never hesitated to join an inviting family for a meal or party. Mikhail was, by what many considered, the happiest, jolliest fellow in all of Russia. He held a kick to his step, a grin stretching from cheek to cheek, and a friendly wave and shout of "Hello!" to whomever he crossed paths with in sun, rain or snow. The man seemed to hold a natural welcoming air that attracted others. He never seemed one for negative gossip, always saw the best in others, and seemed ever a chivalrous knight of morality and code of ethics.

Chivalrous and wealthy. An odd combination.

Speaking of the wealth of Mihailoff, many of the small Russian village found their curiosities tweaked when the new arrival to their simple dwellings came to be known. Curiosities which led to questions such as 'how did a simple man like Mikhail become so wealthy' or 'what brings you to our simple village?'

A tightknit community such as Oymyakon's was understandably weary of outsiders.

Especially one so…outlandish.

And Mihailoff, ever kind, had been more than willing to answer any and all questions curious:

As his story went, Mikhail Mihailoff was once an avid, and perhaps even semi-famous, explorer of several known and unknown locations of the earth.

From the tips of the frozen north to the endless deserts which stretched beyond a thousand miles in what seemed every direction, Mihailoff held no quarries in admitting that he'd perhaps seen any and everything the world had to offer. From high mountains to ocean limits, he claimed to have seen it all and was wondered by the planet's beauty.

But still, how did an explorer such as he produce such prosperities?

Well, the former pioneer explained how he'd obtained riches and fortunes through his long travels. From long excavations, archeological digs and discoveries, great treasures were found. Treasures which, as it clearly showed with his homestead, proved to be quite large and valuable. Museums and private owners from a thousand states and cities all vied for his finds and prospects, though he admitted to keeping some of his best finds to himself.

But then, with all the money and having seen the tips of the earth, why bother with making a home here in nowhere Russia?

This answer was actually simpler to answer; by Mihailoff's admittance, even with the wealth he'd been granted, it would seem that he'd never found a place that he could call his own, and after a long life of searching for someplace unique to his particular tastes, he'd hoped in his declining age that he would stumble upon a gem that he could call 'home.'

It was only by the grateful information offered by an old friend that he even became aware of such a small place in the woods.

The old friend recommended it highly. He forged a tale of the people and the land, telling him of how the people were kind, but hardy; steadfast, but loyal; and no matter how 'bloody cold' it got, they persevered through it all with snow covered bodies and smiles. And the way Mihailoff expressed such eagerness to be meeting such people, and conveyed the story in such a way that hardly contained his excitement, helped ease a few of those uncomfortable to the stranger into their lives.

But not quite everyone and that is where the benefits of owning a very large, heavily furnished, and exquisitely decorated homestead came in handy. Especially with the owner's particular passion for hosting parties featuring fine delicacies, fireworks, malt beer and any number of other desirable consumables and comforts which could be found.

Before long, whether by his charm, jolly attitude or maybe even a little due to his oft festivities, Mikhail Mihailoff soon came to be regarded as the 'warm spot' of the cold Oymyakon by the citizens around.

Before long, he was welcomed and beloved by all.

…

…But this part of the story isn't about acceptance.

This was an encounter of judgement.

Though its importance now might not seem relevant now, know that this was to show how the first domino was set…

The Outstanding Case of Mikhail Mihailoff

Thirteen hours ago…

Fishing is as much an experience as it is a practice of cleansing. An involvement that challenges an individual's strength, endurance, and sense of worth in an attempt that either brought about success or failure. For thousands of years, this practice of timely achievement was based on part skill and perseverance; a type of hunting that required the 'achieved goal' to come to the hunter, rather than the other way around. Techniques, strategies, maneuverings and tools have come about from this long history of water hunting, with some being made for the sole purpose of making the challenge of fishing even more difficult – for sport – while many were created to ease and advance the long standing practice of the hunt for deep oceanic, lake, or, in the present and particular case, river based life.

And in such a river that connected smoothly through a small town in the middle of almost-nowhere Russia, this millennia old practice was being conducted, stalwartly, for both sport and evening meal by a very calm and very aged gentleman.

Sitting comfortably in a chair of equally matured wood, watching the water with hard focus, the man waited patiently for any sign of disturbance. His hands held on to a long, slender rod of hard metal, which in itself held onto string, which in itself was attached to a bauble that floated soundlessly on the river's top, indicating to any watcher on whether the steel hook below the smooth water's surface was being attacked by unseen things.

To some, the wait was as much a challenge and a show of one's ability as the success of the catch.

The resolute old man knew this all too well.

Speaking of, the elderly man, by limited description, was a short and hunched fellow even while sitting in his large rocking chair. Boasting long, shoulder length gray-white hair tied into a tight ponytail that was only matched by his equally long, aged white beard, no one could doubt his obvious phase in life. His dress was fitting for the climate which he had grown accustomed to after so many years: a coat of thick padding and darkish-red material that may have been more appropriately worn by a younger man – the size barely still fitting – but the senior was unperturbed. It was warm, and along with his brown boots, his home knit hat (courtesy of a kind resident girl) and nicely sewn dark jeans, he had no troubles and was comfortable in his spot.

The man was the one, and only, Mikhail Mihailoff.

Mihailoff sat quietly in the rocking chair, enjoying his pastime under his private, snow-cleared dock. He kept himself still and quiet as he stared at the water's edge, looking for ripples. Some of his fellow townsmen knew it wasn't often the elderly man could find the time or energy to enjoy such treasured moments of privacy. He was a popular man for many reasons; his grandfatherly nature, his honest person, and especially on the subject of hispossessions.

To begin with, it should be noted that Mikhail Mihailoff was a man of significant monetary value (very, very rich). His mansion was seen as a sort of 'crown jewel' of the town, open to frequent parties and friendly visits year-round. His personal dock allowed for quiet, tranquil fishing trips or boat outings and was often occupied when he was away by children or teens during the warmer summers. His boat, perhaps the most simple of things to be found on his property, with only two oars and stable hold of regularly sanded oak wood, was a humble craft he used sparingly and kept in a condition that spoke highly of his appreciation to its design. This wasn't to say he kept poor care to his other antiquities or personal effects, but there was an apparent appreciation towards the small craft. An appreciation which, if it were to be described poetically, made the boat appear to almost 'glisten like gold' on the days of beautiful Russian sunsets.

Let it not be said that Mihailoff did not value or appreciate even his most simplistic properties.

All the while the man focused his attention to the water's unmoving edge, a small bucket, filled to the top with river water, held several small, barely hand-sized fish swimming inside. Each moved quickly, almost violently, around the fisherman's container, desperate for an exit as they struggled against one another for any hope of returning to their vast watery abode.

Mihailoff gave them small consideration. He understood all too well that his nightly fishing trips would soon be halted. Spring, though frigid, would soon be over with the coming of the long summer days. Days of very few nightly hours or a windy coolness to relax old skin with were coming to an end. And minding the thrashing of captured fish would spoil the composed mood he was intent on keeping. His focus, presently, would remain on the bauble, even as the sun began to cross over the mountains. He would enjoy the coolness of the time before the warm came again and he would otherwise be forced back into the cool insides of his residence.

Perhaps I should get a few nice books together…hmm, with a cup of warm tea to help-no no no no! Focus!

He pursed his lips tightly. Such pleasant thoughts were unbecoming for someone such as himself. Especially in a situation that, in his words, required 'dedication and unwavering attention to the art of the hunt!'

Relax, Mikhail, relax. Focus. Watch the bauble…watch the bauble…watch the bauble…watch the-maybe I could lay my legs up by the fire with some licorice-FOCUS!

He shook his head, trying to put the disturbing thoughts away as he shifted in his seat.

You are the hunter. You are the provider! Provider to yourself! You need this for evening meal!

His eyes went back to the bauble. Again, they seemed unwavering.

One second passed.

Two seconds passed.

Then five seconds.

Then ten seconds.

Then fifteen.

Finally, a full twenty-three seconds passed with old, constant, firmly attentive eyes held straight on the fishing rod's attachment, held calmly in the water, were moved slowly towards the bucket.

…One fish.

The old man thought calmly, quietly, as if the water itself could hear his thoughts.

Two. Three. Four.

He made sure to try and not count the same ones over again.

Seven…eight….oh, nine!

The old man's mouth started to feel uncomfortably moist with anticipation of his next meal. Unbecoming, as he would declare it, but he could not deny how delightful a well-seasoned fish could be! So delectable, so tangy! With warm blanket on, slippers on feet and a warm cup of whatever he damned well wanted, the thought grew and grew and grew more tempting by the seconds of unaccomplished catching of fish in the night until finally a wonderful thought occurred -!

Perhaps, he began, holding back an ever increasing desire to lick his dry lips, this proposition bears some good feeling at the present moment.

He tried to sound ever the noble knight of character that people viewed him as. 'Manners maketh man,' as an old fellow once told him in his 'younger years,' with the words, debatably, having the effect of making him the man he was today.

'Ever the impressive and ever the impressionist.'

He swore to be this to all which he would come to know.

However, in a Mihailoff-personal-perceived moment of weakness, he did ponder why must he wait on something when you could have it now? Certainly, it seemed the fish had grown wary of his hook and bait and all scurried to other places in search for less-risky meals. And to add to the point, his stomach was starting to make noises that, in the company of others, would have made the elder blush like a tomato next to flame. A dignified man would not make such noises! He would tell the impressionable youths who enjoyed his grandfatherly attitude and charitable kindness. He always had a word or two for anyone willing to listen to what years and years of good health and wisdom brought to him.

And at the moment, wisdom and health were telling him to 'pick up the bucket, head inside, eat, relax, and spoil yourself, a bit.'

Again, he waited. For a moment. A long moment.

He stared down to his bucket. The light of the lowering sun was gone. The water was dark but still unsettled by thrashing fish. The liquid which failed to keep into the bucket fell to the decks wooden surface; it did not seem to have frozen yet, but it seemed to be quickly chilling with frost.

The old man stared at the small bit of frosted water.

"…Ooooh, bagh! Hell with it!" Mihailoff grumbled to himself; his voice noticeably hoarse with age. "Not exactly getting younger, am I?" He shook his head, displeased with his weakness at giving into his need to indulge in a feast of fine whitefish, but also passively growing content at the prospect of a fine evening meal.

He was not a perfect man. He was tolerable to this fact. Perfection was overrated, anyway.

And so, with a huff, a puff, and a reeling of his fisher's tool back into a nice, safe place to his side, Mihailoff straightened himself out from his chair, lifted the heavy bucket to his side and walked calmly towards his quiet abode.

He whistled a toon as he went.

Twelve hours ago…

The fish were delicious.

A light bit of seasoning, a drip sauce, a few vegetables to keep the old heart running, and a filling of thick milk to feel young again. It all added up to a perfect meal.

But even a flawless dish could only be so appetizing. If the atmosphere did not meet the standards made, well, then a fine meal would certainly come off short.

But this was Mihailoff's Manor. Nothing came up short.

An old record player sat off to the far side of the lengthy dining area, playing calm, enthralling toons to add a sense of enjoyment and warmth to an otherwise quiet house. The crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling at the center of the room, illuminating the room magnificently, as the colored windows of the hall glistened with multiple hues of varying colors and mixes that, though their meaning and purposeful patterns were lost to the elder, Mihailoff nonetheless admired the vibrancy and exceptional craftsmanship put into them. The walls were wall-papered a shimmering gold which, contrary to what the old man had once thought during the particular room's development, really did touch nicely to compliment the rest of the area's grandiose appearance. And finally, the flooring; so smooth, clean and reflective it could have been eaten from.

A friend of his once said that the manor's dining hall was 'most assuredly touched and blessed by the angels in heaven above.' Mihailoff, in turn, could only attempt to holdback a most-boisterous laugh at such a statement; agreeing regardless.

But now, with the meal done and nothing remaining on the old man's plate but a few bones, some crumbs and sauce, Mikhail was thoroughly filled with his small feast, now smiling and patting his lips with a fine piece of linen cloth to clear away food that had made its way into his beard.

"A finer meal could not be found," he said to himself, blushing red from the fervidity of his feast. "Yes, yes! Fine, indeed!" His laugh after was bellyful – patting said 'belly' too – and marveled for a moment on how plump he was in his old age.

Soon, I'll lose sight of my toes! And then, who knows?!

He laughed again as he swept up his utensils and plates then after, scraping off crumbs and wiping away his dining materials in the sink, all the while humming the toon that played on his old player. He wiped his hands dry, made sure to leave the kitchen cleaner than when he entered, and walked down the long hallway towards the seeming entrance of his mansion, only coming about halfway through before stopping at a small, out-of-place door…

In every household there are rooms that aren't meant to be entered.

This isn't necessarily because what's behind the door is anything morally wrong, illegal or containing anything that might cause the homeowner's embarrassment. As is most often the case, it is for the exact opposite; such as for reasons involving the need privacy and personal comfort. Comfort which needn't be trespassed or tampered with; a sanctuary, if you would, from the harassments of the world. Examples, such as a bedroom or personal office, are common cases of rooms that aren't meant to be disturbed by outside 'invaders.' Rooms which needed invitation before entering.

Curiously, this concept was largely contrasted by Mihailoff Manor.

Mikhail, in his usual friendly manner, openly encouraged exploration of his estate. The indoor pool, the state-of-the-art kitchens, the comfortable bedrooms – if you could touch it, see it, or even breathe the air of a particular room, the estate's owner did not hesitate to embolden the 'explorer' into discovering whatever there was behind the 'mysteries' of his home.

And in that way, the elder's mansion was not unlike some large museum with a built-in home. Frequent visitors would often find some odd device or scripture from Mihailoff's adventurous days. Sometimes a singular figure or group would find some useful utensil or device that would keep their attention for hours to come. And on occasion – especially with the case of the older generation or those new to the home owner's hospitality – there would be a particularly fascinating room or corner of the building that held some sort of peace and quiet to it that, even if it was just for a moment, either during a party or holiday get-together, held by their generous host, one felt almostincapable of not taking some solitary moment to enjoy the tranquility of the Mihailoff Manor.

The estate, like Mikhail, could be described as an almost open book. Both held knowledge of the world and antiquities unfounded anywhere. To deny anyone the opportunity to see, experience or enlighten themselves of the other would have felt like a crime to the old man.

Almost every room, ever area, every antiquity, ever crevice was available to be searched, looked upon and marveled by the public eye.

…The key word here, however, is almost.

There was one room kept secluded from the mansion's visitors. A room which neither dinner guest nor holiday company had been allowed entry to. A room held behind a simple wooden door, sitting in hallway between one of the living rooms and the front door.

The door to the room was understandably eye-catching. It was the only door down the hallway from the front, and the only door in the entirety of the foundation which wasn't something of a remarkable make or design.

It was simple wood – disturbingly simple in looks and making. In fact, compared to the clear-white walls and striking pieces of historic art it stood beside, the door was a blot on an otherwise perfect abode. And to many, this small, uninteresting and unimposing door was the undoubtedly the mansion's greatest mystery.

And the reason: the door was locked.

Locked. Locked with key. A room locked without window or door-crack or small opening to view into. A room held to a place untouched or seen by the eyes of others, in a place where explorative emotions and ambitions ran wild in without care or reason for fret. A room closed to the world, if by only the small metal trigger that only moved if touched by the distinctive little key that was always kept in a secret, special, constantly guarded location.

This location happened to be Mihailoff's back-jean's pocket (no one ever seems to think to look for a key in an old man's trousers).

What was in this room, many curious minds have asked. Some wondered if it was golds or metals of exquisite nature. Some were curious if there was some sort or sentimental value of importance to it that only a rich and learned mind such as Mihailoff's could value. Some, children and joking teens, mostly, accused the room to be some secret layer to the underworld or some hellish zone from which Mihailoff sold the souls of youngsters to jinxes and demons in order to feed his wealthy estate with unimaginable wonders (and one weird guy down the way thought it was just a room to a fancy shitter, but most people just ignored that lackluster theory).

But back to the present.

Mihailoff twisted his arm around to his back, reaching below to the smooth opening of pants' back area, fumbling with the old key for only the briefest of moments (old hands, weak strength) before placing the old marked-brass key into the doorway's slot. With a quick twist and a ringing of the doorway's lock, the elder man twisted the handle tightly, noting it's need for oil, and pressed the door forward with an audible –

Crreeeeeeeeeeeaaak…

The door opened slowly.

The room inside was dark.

Mihailoff moved carefully, dragging his feet to the ground so as not to step on anything unwanting to be stepped on. He kept the door outside the room open; there was no light to be found in the room, no electric switch to power any chandelier or lightbulb to power. The room was dark and without any other means to view its innards, the only light coming from the hallway was the old man's means of navigating to the wooden stand at the far of the unlit space.

There was a candle on the wooden stand. And next to it, some matches. Old fashioned, scratch-to-light matches. They appeared old and worn, in truth, but Mikhail, after a few tries, managed to get one lit enough to light the candle piece.

"And then there was light," the old man joked to himself, blowing at the match before lifting the candle in his free hand.

He held it high to his chin, alighting the room in a golden glow.

A library.

The room was a library.

A library as tall as the mansion was; as wide as a house, and holding more books than a man could have ever hoped to read in a single lifetime. A library with heated floors – carpet, in fact, which still felt newly placed and easy on worn feet – and walls a dark-colored paint which matched the bookshelves stretching to the ceiling. The artistry of each bookshelf was smoothed, hand-crafted pieces of masterful artistry – exquisite designing which could easily have held months' worth of sweat and careful development put into them. Each corner and crevice of the room appeared to be in a condition of remarkable cleanliness and conditioning that any proprietor of narratives would be absolutely delighted with.

Even with only that single candle to give that room its light, to the mansion's owner, the library stood as impressive in viewing as it had in its finishing stages of assembly.

And this room was for Mihailoff and Mihailoff alone.

Why, would be the question asked; why was this room for his use only? Why was the man – a man who casually claimed 'secrets were for chumps' to his neighbors and friends – keeping such a trove of archived works and scripts away from the eyes of others?

Was it for selfish reasons? Was it for some sense of personal pride to a collection only he felt worthy enough to peruse? Both ideas sounded obtuse – even downright puerile – when linking them to such a man as casual and openhearted as Mikhail Mihailoff. And yet, there the room lied; kept from the world's sight by a single locked door and an owner's unflinching resolve to remain otherwise mysterious, infallible, or even generally unhelpful to those who sought an admission to the single true mystery of Oymyakon's manor.

Mihailoff's personal study was his closely kept secret – his refuge from the world.

It held fond memories within, treasured novels lining the chiseled bookshelves, and perhaps even a few secrets within the secret, as well…

But more on that later.

At the present, old man Mihailoff found himself going around his personal library with candle in hand, lighting several candle stands notched into the walls to give the room a rather eerie, yellowish glow. The purpose behind this move, as was so often the case when the old man felt the need for some private moments away from the world, was so that he might best be able to 'set the mood' for whatever novel he was interested in perusing.

As should be noted, the old man was held no negative feeling towards indoor appliances or comforts. In fact, by his opinion over his long life: indoor plumbing? Brilliant. But in the initial construction of his sizable study, however, he specifically dictated that the room would not be given any of the wonder home applications that were not under his specific qualifications. No electricity, no plumbing, no air ventilation, not even a window – a room of complete medieval setting and devoid of anything resembling a technologically-modern comfort or the world outside.

It was only him, his books, his study and the comfort in knowing he was alone.

After closing the door with a 'clack' that echoed loudly around him, Mihailoff went about lighting the other candles strewn around his room. Held by simple holders, nailed to any corner of his room not near enough to his precious literatures, the candles numbered an even half-a-dozen, each brightening the room with comfortable glow. With each candle lit, the room seemed to grow in size, as more and more of what was hidden in the recesses of his dark abode became alit. It was a wonderful little space, if little was a word to describe it. And when all the wicks were lit and illuminating his silent sanctuary in a pleasant radiance, the old man headed to a large desk at the far end of the room, with one remaining candle in hand and a still pleased expression to his face.

Mihailoff's Desk.

A black ink pen of simple design. A large novel of leatherback. Some white sheet paper stacked in a corner. And most curiously of all, a large blue-and-white tea pot placed carefully over a small gas burner, already filled from a night or two before with surprisingly still cold water. These odd assortments of items were strewn across the fine teakwood desk with an obvious caring for their positioning. Each one was perfectly straightened, perfectly aligned with the wood work in perfect angles with the desk and the other items. It was all so organized and complimenting – even the desk chair pressed itself neatly with exactly a half-an-inch between itself and the desk so neither was grazing or, God forbid, grinding against one another.

This whole assortment, coupled with the even number of candles, carefully alphabetized literatures and prudently polished woodwork, made the whole room seem like some OCD gentleman's wet dream. And while true that his arrangement of neatly tidied items would only be seen for his benefit, why disappoint himself on the design and flow of his workplace? Ever the prideful man, Mihailoff oft considered the idea of disappointing himself just as distasteful as disappointing another.

And so, placing his candle neatly onto the desk and pulling the chair back for his posterior to lay itself comfortably down, Mihailoff felt the strain of old bones leave him while allowing a comfortable breath to escape.

"Ahhh."

As his back sank into the chair's back, Mihailoff felt what seemed like a great weight relieving itself from the pulling and restraining of his upper back. It was no small relief – he would swear his bones were starting to creak and tear after only ten minutes out of a seat.

Curse old age and the wears that came with it!

It was a hindrance not easily ignored. A fault that came with the wisdom and wrinkling of skin. And at times, he would think to himself, especially on the cold, hard days of life; how long did he have left?

Only on occasion did this question come to mind. He would wonder when he would finally find need to relieve himself of this slouched and slowed form, but finding himself hesitant in even considering such thoughts.

He had time. Truly, he still had time…

He reached his hands onto the desk, giving the wood a light tap of his knuckles before reaching towards the small gas burner. Twisting the small nobs on its metal, which were purposefully aimed towards his chair for convenience, he allowed the small heater to click its miniscule flame to life. The small kettle above would heat quickly, so reaching into the drawer to his left, second from the bottom, Mihailoff pulled out a small, carefully placed packet of leaves, green in color, and lifted them to the side. Reaching into the right drawer, third from the top (and quite a difficult reach for the elderly fellow), he lifted a plain ceramic cup.

He placed the two drawer items side by side and looked to the heating water, waiting (he was attentive like that).

One minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

Four minutes.

Done.

A sharp whistle cried from the kettle pot, echoing loudly in the large room. Mihailoff didn't waste any time; he ripped the leaves from their plastic holder, dropped them with a less than gracious toss into the cup, and picked the kettle from the burner with quick enthusiasm.

PSSSSSssssssssssssSSSST!

The heated water poured into the cup without issue. The steam rising from it in an almost enticing way that promised soothing warmth and tasteful pleasure.

Mihailoff filled his cup to a little half its fill before putting the pot down onto its burner. Additionally, he remembered to turn off the burner before any accidents occurred; he recalled a few times were his negligence had cost him a few days' worth of burned fingers to know that 'safety came first' in his old age (and if not his fingers, what if one of his books was even slightly singed – OH, what a horrible thought!).

He took careful, miniscule sips at first-

"Ooh, ooh, ooooh!"

-and promptly burned his tongue.

"Bragu, braduwa, snipedoodely-"

His attempts at cursing were hindered by his burnt mouth and personal adherence to cursing (as a gentleman would have no need to use such reprehensible language).

It was rather silly and crude, really.

"Ffwh, ffwh, ffwh!"

He tried to cool the liquid in the cup; taking quick paced breaths and blowing as hard as his withered lips would allow into the overly warm drink.

After a couple moments, he tried again.

"Phhhhrp…aaaahh."

This effort was met with much more satisfaction.

The positively relaxed sigh that escaped the elderly fellow's lips was followed by another quick sip of his drink and a deep sag of the body, relaxing into his chair. The look on his bearded, warm face was that of absolute bliss as he continued to sip earnestly into the now delightfully delicious beverage while his eyes wandered the lengthy room, gazing over books and scrolls and other texts. His appreciation for the design and layout of his abode was strongly felt as he checked several notches and marks that most certainly held several months' worth of effort placed into them. He'd known many fascinating, extravagant, and sometimes otherworldly sights in his life. But few would compare to his library.

Taking another sip of his tea, enjoying its warmth alongside the calm, silent and undisturbed stillness of his library, Mihailoff felt at peace in his own, private, impressive dwelling…

That is, until a voice, like a nail dragging itself across a chalkboard, disturbed his serenity.

"Mikhail Mihailoff."

Tea shot from the elderly man's mouth, spraying over his desk in a misty vapor. He coughed and gagged on his breath, trying to reclaim it as his book fell to the ground. The shock that came with it rolled through him, stirring him violently, before managing a brief return of his bearings and turning violently around the, seemingly vacant room.

He was still in his chair, already starting to sweat, but he was certain old age hadn't made him imagine the sound…had he? "What-ai-who?! Huh? Who-who-is-is there someone…?"

There was a brief pause. Not long, but long enough. For the briefest moment, Mihailoff truly believed he'd simply heard a trick of his ears and would have laughed it off as the troubles that came with old age.

But the voice spoke again.

"You are a difficult man to find."

Same as before, the voice spoke into the dimly lit library, resounding across the corners of the room. For Mihailoff, 'unsettling' didn't begin to describe the feeling that reverberated through his person.

"Very difficult."

The old man still stirred in his chair, turning his head around in the room, only now cursing his lack of sufficient lighting. But where could the voice-owner hide in such a room as his library?

"I was only given a name, a face, and a guess where you were. 'The Sakha Republic.' Do you know how big that is?"

"I-I-I-"

Mikhail did not. But at that moment, the old man looked as if he couldn't have told someone his own name.

"One-point-one million square miles. They expected me to find you in all of that."

Mihailoff's unseen intruder cared little for the elder's stammering. Of note, the voice didn't seem particularly malicious, despite its unsettling temperance, but neither was it calm or easy sounding that the mansion owner could feel comforted.

It would best be described as having a tone of…irritation.

Like 'someone-who-just-woke-up-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-bed' irritable.

Grouchy. That was the word.

And as the voice spoke in the candlelit room, the elder, perhaps as a way of trying to make sense of the peculiarity that had invaded his abode, tried to place the accent to one of the many he'd heard in his long life.

He couldn't.

He ran the words and the tone through his jittered, panicked mind thrice.

No clear indication of the voice's national origin.

That made it worse.

"One little man in one little part of Russia. And I needed to do it in a weekend? Do you have any idea how annoying that was?"

There was the sound of footsteps to the right of the desk. Mikhail turned his head, quick as his weakened and frail neck could twist…

And held a scream to the back of his throat.

Blond hair, dark black-and-orange coat, similarly colored pants and dark brown boots. Mihailoff wasn't sure what he expected from such an unnatural voice but this colorful visage-wearing man wasn't it. And even calling this fellow a 'man' was stretching the definition; the intruder was a youth, perhaps in his teens or so, but the way he held himself tall and straight with a pair of clear blue eyes staring down the elderly man down with what felt like some invisible force of will not to be challenged or toyed with.

His presence was so obvious – so striking – the mansion's owner could only hazard a guess as to how he could ever have missed such an obvious person standing comfortably at his side.

But at the moment, Mihailoff was cowering far too heavily to even ask.

"Meh-mrr-memm-umm-hmm-hrrmmr-hurm-"

Unintelligible gibbering. The intruder ignored him. "No sleep. No rest. Only a few crackers to nibble on. I looked into every town, every deserted home, every remotely questionable corner looking for you." He moved, slowly, to stand by the desk. It was the only thing separating the two men; that waist-high woodwork. "I got lucky finding this place. Oymyakon. Found it following a river down, working off a hunch. It isn't even on most maps, did you know that? If I decided to just keep going west past the river…well…" The home invader shrugged, shaking his head. "If I kept going west…oh man, I am getting too old for this." He laughed, loud and holding maybe even a little embarrassment behind it. Mihailoff couldn't have guessed the reasons. The boy made little sense – too old? – but he wasn't about to call him on it. He'd met too many crazies in his life to know questioning their mannerisms or quirks was a dangerous and unhealthy option to take.

So instead, after managing to find a brief control over what was his voice, the old man asked the questions that buggered the tip of his tongue.

"W-w-wh-who-who-who…" He couldn't even begin to ask his first question. He shook himself, feeling his nerves growing by the second, but tried to harden himself, even for a moment. "Wh-why-why are you h-h-h-here?"

He was surprised he managed to get the words outright, despite the stutter.

In response, the blond lifted his head, meeting the man's eyes again with his hard blue. "I'm here to finish a job."

"…O-oh." The elder of Oymyakon wasn't sure what he expected but it wasn't that. "W-well I-I-I'm afraid I d-don't know what w-work you mean," he told the boy, trying to smile and look for a way to, perhaps, ease the situation towards a peaceful conclusion, contrary to how the boy held himself on the other side of the desk, "I-I-I'm af-f-fraid I don't have any-y-y work I can g-give you, bu-but I-I can try and-and look for one in t-town, if you would, uh, allow me some t-t-t-time…"

The intruder's eyes narrowed. He crossed his arms, looking down at the man in his chair. He didn't look to be in even the most remote of joking moods.

And his next words proved this all the more: "Have you ever heard of 'The Boston Strangler?'"

Brief struggles. Hand or cloth around the neck. Strangle. No life.

The mansion's owner shuddered. "I-I'm sorry?"

"'The Axeman of New Orleans?' Heard of him?"

Sharpened iron connected to wood. Heads on floor. Dead. Blood everywhere.

Mikhail looked as if he were starting to contract hives. "I-I-I-I d-d-don't know w-w-w-w-who-"

"'Phantom Killer?' 'Black Doodler?' 'Jack the Ripper?' Any of those?" The intruder's tone was hardened; his voice carried over the weak sounds of the elder. "Or maybe I should be more specific: Tom Thomson? A guy from Canada. Painter. Heard of him? His body was found floating on a lake. Julia Wallace? Found dead in her house, beaten. Do you know her?"

He old man shook his head, heart was beating hard now, his hand unconsciously to his chest in an attempt to settle its rough beats.

Body floating. Face down. No movement.

Girl bruised purple. On the ground. No blood. Internal damage. Never going to wake.

The aged Mihailoff was an individual of vivid imagination and excellent storytelling skills. He always refrained from the darker subjects of life, instead opting to tell children of heroes vanquishing monsters and usurping evil kings with glorious ability, strength and charisma. He never went into the dark tales or morbid stories he knew. It was the general belief of the townspeople that the man avoided the dark stuff, not out of preservation for the children's innocence, but for the fact the man was weak-willed and would nearly faint at the mere mention of some horrific event. He was kind, generous, joyful – but old and frail of heart.

These talks of beaten women and drowned painters were proving too much. The imagery appearing into his mind –

It hurt.

"P-please." He begged, holding his chest. "S-s-stop. I have a c-condition."

"John Clayton, American politician, shot? William the Second, King of England, arrow in the chest?" The teen's tone was hard, ignoring the scared man's frantic pleas. "How about Moctezuma the Second? His death brought war to an entire kingdom. John Gill? Eight year old kid, parents couldn't even recognize him. Marilyn Monroe?Come on, you have to know that one!"

Chest bleeding. Bolt piercing. Old king dead.

Child. Unnatural looking.

Beautiful woman. No breath.

The elder coughed violently, wilting in his chair. "This-this is…please…no more."

"I know you, Mihailoff. I know you." The intruder placed his hands at the edge of the desk, leaning towards the cowering man. His irresponsiveness and shivering character seemed to annoy the blond further and further. "The estimates, the rumors, even the pure speculation on what you have done. I've seen it.

"And from what I've gathered, it was done with a smile."

The boy wasn't mincing words.

"Argh-arr! Ple-e-ease! STOP!"

Mihailoff continued to place his hand to his chest. His heart was straining. His focus split between his intruder and the pain.

"You know those people. I know you do and I know you killed them." Mikhail's eye twitched unpleasantly. "It's all a game to you. A joke. You killed them because you could. Something to pass the time. Mikhail Mihailoff, or whatever you call yourself; you move from place to place, killing on a scale, efficiency or just a level of evil that is remembered for centuries." The youth's eyes narrowed as the man struggled further. "I've heard some of the stories – you're actually pretty famous. A true 'boogeyman.' Your knack for carnage is the inspiration for horror stories and black books.

"Sometimes you don't do it for years – decades – but when you do, people don't forget. How could they?" The youth swallowed something harshly, looking as if he remembered something putrid. "But now? Now you're waiting; waiting here for reasons I can't even begin to guess. Does it involve the town? This house? What are you after, Mihailoff? Talk!"

His words were too much. The loudness, the tension, and even the increasing aggression were nothing short of startling.

"Agh…I…I can't breathe…"

"Talk, old man. TALK! Why are you here?"

"Ahh…no…can't…mercy-"

The blond grit his teeth, bringing his hand back and making a fist.

"Stop."

SLAM!

The desk's contents jumped at the blow of his fist on the fine wood, resonating in the library. The intruder's eyes were wide, his face a practical snarl, while his fists tightened enough that the veins bulged prominently through his arms. The entire visage was done with the intent to intimidate; a skill, though unaware to the seemingly in-pain old man, that was brought upon from years of physical discipline, training and, at that moment, natural aggression.

"STOP. ACTING."

That did it.

Mihailoff fell from his chair, coughing and holding his chest, shaking and holding himself by his knees. Wave after wave of agonizing, numbing pain flowed through him. Sweat was falling down his forehead, with every cough allowing his saliva to touch his carpeted floors. His eyes were closed, trying to erase the seemingly inhumane pain. The old man shook, whimpered, said words that could only be heard by his own ears, making an appearance and show of an elderly, weakened, distraught, timeworn elder being bullied by this aggravated teen who'd invaded the privacy of his home.

He cried.

And cried.

And cried some more.

He was on the ground, writhing in pain. His features were covered in wet tears, down as far as to his neck. His person, so contrasting to the knightly-formality he kept himself at routinely, was daunting to view.

Such a pitiful sight – Mihailoff, looking broken, cringing as every bloody image assaulted his well-kept, pure, pacifistic mind…

…for about thirty-seven seconds, until the whimpering man lifted his head, meeting the blond's gaze again,and smiled, from ear to ear, with unhindered glee.

"Whoops." Mikhail Mihailoff giggled. "Looks like you caught me…!"

Eleven hours ago…

Mihailoff laughed loudly; with old lungs roaring bellyful sounds with vigor, the formerly distraught man of Oymyakon stood from his previous downed position with an unusually spry kick to his feet.

Mihailoff clapped to the boy. "Hoohoohoo! Wow. Just, wow! I almost cannot believe it!" He looked taller than before – able to look his intruder in the eye – standing high and straight from behind his desk. "Bravo, young man! BRAVO! Excellent de-tective skills!" He was emphasizing the words by their syllables. His tone, now high-pitched and with a hint of giggling, was a sharp contrast from his squabbling seconds before. "Heeheeheehee! Oh, you have no idea how gleeful I am right now! I mean, Jeez Louise! Talk about waiting for-ever! I thought you monkeys would take another millennia at the speed you were working to find me!"

He slapped his knee – absolutely jubilant – moving around the desk towards a glass cabinet at the side of the room, looking ready to almost skip with glee.

The intruder followed him with his eyes.

"Glorious day-glorious day! I swear, it's been centuries since I've been this exquisitely ecstatic!" Mihailoff bellowed, opening the glass cabinet and producing a pair of glasses – both made of fine crystal – along with a dark, slender bottle from his own collection. Mihailoff calmed briefly, looking quite satisfied as he looked at the bottle's dark contents.

"Chateau Cheval Blanc. 1947. Pris-tine con-dition!" He chuckled some more, quickly removing the bottle's cork with quick enthusiasm. He didn't wait long to fill the two glasses, watching the red liquid swivel and move smoothly before placing the bottle back to the cabinet's top and lifting the two glasses. His smile never dulled, turning around to his blond trespasser and lifting his filled glass. "Do you partake?"

To the boy's credit, he did sneak a small glance to the offered glass before moving his eyes back to the man. "…Underage, I'm afraid."

The mansion's owner only laughed. "I won't tell if you won't." He tempted, but was only met with stern silence this time, earning continued fierceness from the boy's features. Mikhail, not put-off, only shrugged. "More for me, then," he drank the glass's contents, finishing it quickly then moving to the other glass and repeating the indulgence in quick succession. "Aaaah! Worth every penny!" He put the glasses down, filling one again to the brink before, more calmly, sipping on its contents.

"Aaaah, perfection! So, my intrusive young fellow," he turned his eye back to the boy, "might I be so bold as to wonder aloud a few questions of your time, perhaps? I just have some of those nagging, elderly inquiries in the back of my head that I am afraid just won't go away." Another sip. "Ahhh. Tell me: you mentioned someone gave you an idea where I was, am I right?"

The boy didn't respond.

Didn't matter though, Mihailoff heard him well enough.

"And, if I may be so bold, could I inquire as to whom this individual was? You know, for personal recognition's sake? It's not everyday someone, or a group of someone's, gets the better of me."

Again, no response.

Huh. And I thought blonds loved to talk. "My apologies if knowledge of my 'temporally-far-reaching-escapades' soured the mood." He chuckled, taking yet another long sip. "I just seem to have one of those mouths that just won't stop talking, hoo-hoo! Hmm-hmm!" Mihailoff shook with laughter. He was, without question, enjoying himself immensely. "Oh, but please, what other of my exploits are you aware of? You've barely even touched on my best work! Surely you would be interested in hearing a few of my favorites, hmm?"

He scratched his chin in consideration.

"How about…the conspiracy against Julius Caesar? At the time, I was playing the small part of a moderately wealthy, moderately influential Roman senator. But when I even 'vaguely' suggested the idea to some guy from Rhodes, he ate it up like it was the greatest thing ever said!

"Now, history recalls several men stabbing the tyrant into a mangled corpse, but out of those twenty-three fatal stabs, I'm pretty sure I dealt at least half of them.

"But perhaps you'd prefer a more recent example, hmm? Say, like the time I dealt with the Douglas Clan? Are you familiar with them? They have that crest with a flaming salamander thing? Anyway, I might've, kind of, sort ofconvinced the king of Scotland – who was only a ten year old, crying, cat-loving boy at the time – that maybe the Douglas Clan was getting perhaps a little too powerful for their own good. That maybe the king's chancellor should see to the matter of 'weakening' the clan with a little show of power on his part.

"So, with a little 'sweet talking' from myself, a little dinner for some Douglas' head honchos, a little kidnapping followed with a small trial and-BANG! Off with their heads! Heheheh, I even got to play the part of executioner! It was an out-standing night!

"On the other hand, of all my achievements, I most certainly cannot forget one of my 'crowning-jewels-of-cleverness' during the late sixteenth century. Oh yes! It does hold a special place in my heart. Its spec-tacularly achieved elegance would marvel and boggle the mind! It was truly an astonishment of ability that surprised, even myself! Who knew I had such creativity, such ability, such cunning at my disposal!

"Well, I can certainly tell you, the people of Roanoke had no such idea! HAHAHAH! Oh, what a time, what a time! Oh, but before you ask, I afraid I shan't go into details – some things are so beautiful and superbly done that evenI fail to put into words how truly captivating my work was."

He laughed. He kept laughing. He laughed a laugh so bellyful; taking shot after shot of his drink with every 'grand detail' he could think of.

"But, in lieu of this most encouraging audience, let me simply leave you with this little tidbit about what occurred on the small colony of the not-even-quite-yet United States:

"What happened was simple.

"What happened was effective.

"And what happened was glorious."

He paused, briefly, before adding quietly with absolute look of peace.

"And that doesn't even begin to tell what I've accomplished on other worlds…"

What was Naruto Uzumaki to make of this – this flaunting of murder?

Mihailoff openly boasted his success in the art of killing in the past centuries – even millennia – before. Successes of murders long unsolved and long foreboded as the worst and most terrifying the human world had ever known.

How was he supposed to react to such admittance?

To be certain, in Naruto's time, murder and assassinations were by no means uncommon. During the time of the ninja, at least before the Fourth Shinobi World War (big affair, unnecessary to current events) and the grand alliance of his village with several major powers around the continent, such actions were common amongst high level individuals. They paid well and yielded significant cliental respect for years to come. Any ninja with years of service and several successful 'off-the-record' (or better known as 'S-Rank') assignments under their belts were given privileges and respect from the people pertaining to that dangerous area of work.

These missions – as they were commonly referred to as – worked around the desire of removing of less-to-exceptionally important individuals in various points of the world. These works were done with professionalism, secrecy and were by no means in anyway supposed to be tied back to the village (this meant that flaunting of a 'job' was a punishable, capital offense). But even with a ninja's life work revolving around tasks that might have once been ridiculed, or even spurned by the general public if they had been found out, these assignments were done for the sake of village preservation and business. They were not orchestrated simply for the sake of killing or eliminating an individual just for existing.

In other words: blind murder was not the Shinobi way.

Looking at the frail man and thinking on his 'performance,' Naruto was curiously reminded of certain schoolgirl-gossips he knew back at Kuoh. Funny little girls with funny little quirks; after discovering a particularly delightful piece of chatter from who knows where, wished to share it to the world in the most excitable, enticing way possible. Mihailoff similarly seemed to be trying to 'wow' and amaze his singular audience with familiarity and casual details to his historical exploits. He worked to reveal and hold back information to whatever he discussed, an attempt that built the suspense of his work in such a way which, admittedly, begged the attention and curiosity of those who would dare listen. The dramatization of his work and use of tone that came off as pretentiousness was not dissimilar to that of some orator or over-the-top villain in a spy film. His larger-than-life attitude, use of arm movements and excitable declarations were undoubtedly eye-catching.

Again, curiously, these motions also had a way of reminding the blond about a 'Freed Sellzen.' Although, where there was evident madness in the rogue exorcist's maneuverings and murders, Mikhail Mihailoff came off quite differently than the crazed churchmen.

Whereas Sellzen had seemed like every definable word in any language to describe a sociopathic-homicidal zealot, Mihailoff instead appeared like some showman; parading himself to a crowd of onlookers for the sake of entertainment.

In contrast to Sellzen, Mihailoff's act made him seem quite sane.

"How many people?" He asked after a moment. This was the question, above the ideas and wonders of just who this man was, that had plagued him since his search began, and even far beforehand.

He had to ask.

In return, Mihailoff offered an unsure shrug. "Humans? Non-humans? Near-humans? I'm afraid I'd have to give you the same answer on all of them." He took another sip of his rich liquor. "I've lost count."

It was at this point the control was starting to dwindle. "What are you?"

"Human." The wrinkled man answered quickly, lowering his drink to the cabinet. "What? Did you perhaps expect me to say something dramatic? A creature of some rarity or uncommonness? Despite my less than societally acceptable actions, I assure you I was most certainly born and raised on this planet. With my own history, my own account, and my own story."

He leaned his back against the glass cabinet then, casually looking to his intruder.

He studied the boy again.

"My own story…what a long, sad, and terrible thing, it is."

He paused for a moment. His eyes went distant. He gestured to his person.

"How this came to be was more about a matter of luck than anything else. Certainly a story I'm sure you wouldn't find of interest."

He was goading the boy. Being a natural storyteller was something of a pastime for him, and seeing as he never actually had such a time in his life to express what he was or how he came to be, this particular tale seemed to hang a mere inch from his tongue – practically begging to be told.

It was a story he never told a soul. What made him so interested to tell this odd burglar his story? Was it one part fascination, one part personal desire and another part curiosity? Curiosity to see how this boy would react?

He waited for the youth but the blond did not speak.

Perhaps he was interested; perhaps he was merely biding his time.

But a brief pause of self-thought and consideration, Mihailoff decided it didn't matter -

- and so started his tale. "I was a curious child, once upon a time. I was an even more inquisitive man, a time after that. I was…oh, how should I put it? I suppose you would have called me a 'doctor,' though the title was more akin to 'man-witch' in my people's word. I was the man mixed the grasses, pounded herbs and berries and mushrooms into whatever people asked me to. But, being the 'witch,' I was poorly represented. My people would curse me, attempt to burn my products and scorn me for my practices. BUT, every now and then, they would come on their knees and beg for help with the sick or injured." He shrugged. "And I did. I bandaged their weak and helped bring back those close to the grave. I did it with enthusiasm – did it with purpose and passion! I fought and lost many hours of rest seeking to better and help the lives of downtrodden.

"And I was good. I was very, very good."

There was a smile to his face; pride and approval for his past work was evident.

But the gratified smirk was soon replaced by a stern gaze.

"But come the following moon, they were back to their old annoyances. The silent whisperings; the cross looks; avoiding me like I was the one with the sickness. As if I were the one who threatened the village with spreading rash or the coughs. Bagh, stupid children and their stupid judgements. There was one who even had the gall to ruin an old man's leg," he stomped his right leg thrice to the wood flooring. It didn't appear to have issue now. "Laughing and barking and taunting like a fool. No principle or conscious to him. I remember – I REMEMBER – his eye was cruel and his smile dark. And the funny thing: a few moons after, I'm saving the exact man who would have crippled me for life!" His laugh was bitter, voice rising into a shout. "How weak – how obtuse – I was! I would rather have lived with a leg that would never run or handle the earth's weight without aid than have my vengeance against the gutless filth that did the deed and laughed!"

He took a moment. It seemed even he was being riled from such a story.

His audience listened.

"I was sixty. He was twenty. A naïve youth, yes, but a twisted one. The moment I saved his life and told him he would live; can you guess what he did?"

Naruto didn't speak. He only guessed – correctly so, as it turned out.

"He spat in my face…and laughed!"

Mihailoff's hand went up and slammed its flat palm to the wooden desk. Its contents – the tea-filled cup, the lit candle and the inkwell – all bounced violently to his act.

"I lost my leg; he had his laughs. Had destiny not come knocking at my door, literally, my life might have just ended as some nameless cripple in a wooden shack."

He paused, then decided to reach out for the cooled tea. He took a sip of his drink – a long, hearty sip. The taste certainly mixed with the wine from before, not that he seemed to mind.

When the cup left his bearded face, it seemed he'd relaxed some.

"I had an Angel visit me one day. The 'Great War,' as the Biblical races called it – wait, sorry, are you familiar with them? Devils, Angels? They exist, in case you were wondering. Anyway, barring over excessive details to supernatural, paranormal and mythological subjects, an Angel just so happened to come knocking at my door with a hole in his abdomen the size of a grapefruit on an early morning in spring.

"At first, I thought it was some sort of bizarre harpy or winged-man. Not many people were overly familiar with anything religious at that time and even fewer on races whose sentience spread further than 'eat, sleep, mate, repeat.'

"He asked for my assistance. Crying and bleeding on my floors. And, to my own admittance, I was a talented doctor. But to fix a hole in the stomach? Through an Angel? There was nothing I could do to stop his death, though I did manage to ease his pain in passing.

"The hours passed after that. I sat in my home, watching the Angel's corpse, not sure what to do with it. No one ever died in my home before; I felt invaded, I recall. People did not routinely come into my hut to lie down and die. And all the while the white-winged creature laid at my feet, ever glowing even as the life faded from his body, I expected someone, or-or something, to fly down from the sky to snatch him up. Or at least come searching to be done for a missing, feathered-fellow with a hole in his front. Would have made sense to me.

"But, as it turned out, no one came looking for him. No one. Not a single winged man, woman, child or anything remotely resembling an out of the norm occurrence to everyday life. It is only by my guessing today that, perhaps, his fellow Angels had assumed the worst and left. Left to go fight some battle of 'legendary proportions.' Never quite found out, to be frankly honest…

"So, there I was, with a dead avian-man in my hut. Blood everywhere. Now, and I might have mentioned this already, I was curious about a great many things, and being a doctor of some familiarity with animal innards, the insides of an otherworldly being was an opportunity of intriguing proportions. I mean, call me mad, but the Angel wasn't going to use whatever was still swirling inside him.

"So I decided, after some time to collect my thoughts and breath, 'what would be so terrible with taking a peak at a birdman's innards?'

"Took me days to find the right tools to cut into its skin. The body was as dense as stone. It never decayed – never smelled – and always stayed in im-peccable conditioning.

"I took out what I thought looked unique or different from the human system I was familiar with. Lungs, bones, things that looked like livers. Nearly everything inside the Angel was either glowing, a peculiar color, or shocked me when I prodded it too hard.

"I tried to break down or mix or grind whatever I could into something tangible. Something exotic. Professional curiosity, you may not understand. But how many people get to work on an Angel's corpse without it, you know,exploding after death? And they do that, by the way. Heartbeat stops, they go boom. Messy stuff. But a magnificent lightshow. Happened on my second, fourth, and seventh Angel. Anyway, I got lucky; managed to remove some organs, some bones and veins before the thing just dissolved into mush. Tried to make some stuff with the bones – actually made a decent sleeping smoke. Was out for half a day with the best sleep I had in a long time. And the lungs? Mixed with a little meat and I had a broth that didn't, and I jest you not, require me to breathe for an hour! Haha! I laughed myself right off the bed!"

Mihailoff's voice took turns sounding joyful, excited, intellectual and even mesmerized. He almost seemed relieved; as if his confessing was some sort of way to remove a great weight from his shoulders. And for all Naruto had gathered so far, it might have been. He could only guess the years he held this story to himself, keeping his accomplishments silent from everyone he'd come in contact with.

When Mihailoff finally quieted, then, the air in the room seemed to…stall, for a moment. His growing smile, being neither particularly twisted nor overly warm, seemed to add an unearthly chill to the otherwise warm room.

"But the heart," he started again, moving from the glass cabinet towards the large portrait of an, assumedly, younger version of himself, "the heart is where the real kicker is."

He slid his hand under the picture, lifting the frame up slowly and carefully placing it to the side. Behind it, embedded into the wall, was a safe. Black, stainless steel without as much as a fingerprint messing its smooth surface. And right at the center, a small, 100-count switch waited comfortably to be twisted, hovering over a small, tri-pronged handle.

Mihailoff turned his head back, smiling somewhat sheepishly. "I know; cliché bad guy thing to do, right? Security safe behind a portrait of myself? Who didn't see that coming?" He laughed a little at his own joke, moving his fingers over the knob and twisting it several different ways. "But…for the circumstances…of the present concern…I found a younger portrait of myself…to beee…"

Click.

"Fitting."

He reached his hands down to the handle, winding it in a quick circle. The sound of several gears, locks and metal workings chimed in the closed room before the safe's door opened wide to reveal a series of carefully kept and maintained materials within…

A treasure hunter or adventurer might have imagined jewels, gold, valuable gems or some other form of items that held significant monetary value. A safe held in such a vast and expansive library might have also held texts of such age and worth that they were kept in air-sealed storage. Or, if in the extreme unlikelihood that an individual was aware of the man's experiences throughout history, some sort of weaponry, trophy or other significant item that held fond significance to the mansion's owner.

But it was none of these.

Instead, lined from the top to the bottom with metal holdings, several rows of glass vials, each filled with a silvery, almost transparent liquid, glistened strangely in the dim lighting of the candles. The vials were each about as long as one's hand and skinny as a fingernail. Small corks kept the liquid inside, with a small bit of wax lining around it for extra protection from dripping.

Mihailoff reached towards the top, slipping one of the several gray phials out from its holding place and gently bringing it down to eyelevel. He rotated it carefully, looking it over as if it might have had flaws or markings which suggested tampering or a contamination of some sort, before nodding with a look of utmost consideration and gently closing the vault back into place. He then lifted the portrait back into place, shifting it around to look back as straight and regal as it had before. Not a smidge of dust seemed out of place; a perfect return of the portrait to its rightful place on the wall, as if it had never been moved.

Mihailoff allowed himself a moment to relax, staring to the portrait, before turning back to his blond intruder.

He was polite still, holding up his hand with the silvery fluid's container, presenting it to him as if he thought the youth was curious. "Here are the results," he began aloud, lifting his wrinkled hand close and wasting little time in removing the small cork from its top with an audible 'pop,' "of when everyday garden herbs, a bit of water, and the heart of an Angel are mixed together."

Silver dust seemed to float from the glass opening, as if the liquid inside were already evaporating with the air. There was certainly an otherworldly essence to the fluid, even if it was hard to say exactly what it was.

Mihailoff gave a last joke-toast to the boy, smiling as always, before bringing his lips to the vial's top and allowing the silvery liquid to slip past his twisted beard and down his aged throat.

He was careful, Naruto noted; his mouth went around the opening, not letting a single drop go to waste. But, as mentioned, the container was not particularly large or filled with a dense liquid, so it did not take long before the glass was lowered from its holder's lips and placed gently down onto the wooden desk.

His smile grew.

"It used to be painful-"

A twitch in the corner of his lips.

"-the slow change. The first time it happened-"

Aged and blurred blue eyes start to clear. A nose, crooked perhaps from some fight years before, straightens with an audible 'crick.'

"-I screamed and screamed and screamed-"

Hair was starting to fall. In large clumps, gray hair fell to the floor, forgotten. Long dark strands quickly grew in their place. The head started to take a lighter shine to it, the wrinkles being erased slowly.

"-you can't imagine the pain of reforming your body-"

His back was already straight. There were several large cracks from behind, however – bones scratching bones and muscles long unused being reformed and fitted. He grew; he was taller now by a good half foot.

"-can be. Your entire existence is in protest-"

He was able to talk even as several pieces of teeth fell from his mouth. He didn't seem bothered; like his hair and beard, the empty places where his teeth were formerly were now actively replaced with new, bleached-white pieces.

"-to the unwanted, unprepared change."

Underneath his clothes, the changes could only be heard. Sounding as if like the rough grinding of a machine, his innards made a strange music with their internal metamorphosis. His hands, the only thing visible under his clothing, started to shine a light pink. His fingernails, like his teeth and hair, fell and were replaced quickly. Under the hair and rows of old teeth, they were barely seeable.

"But, through the suffering and woe-"

His old clothes didn't fit now. They seemed grievously out of place.

"-I was reborn."

After all, old, wrinkled clothes should not have been worn by the youthful, prime-of-his-age man who now stood behind the desk.

His new face matched the portrait, perfectly.

Naruto was not unfamiliar with bizarre transformations. His past comprised of several strange metamorphisms from any number of individuals. The list, if he were to go into examples, would take hours of description and explanation on how such changes would have even been conceivable. The impossibility of his previous life defied logic and transitioned into the stuff of legend and myth. Naruto himself would admit, as the years rolled on and he told those of the generations after his own about the challenges he and his comrades faced, a growing number of them began to marvel at the gods that he and his past friends must have seemed like. To challenge and topple opponents of world-breaking ability – his generation would forever be inscribed as heroes of the world.

But even with all those experiences, it was hard not to marvel at the figure standing before him.

Mikhail Mihailoff the Elder was no more. In his place, a tall, dark-haired youth of perhaps his early twenties stood confidently where the old man stood behind the desk. His eyes were a sharp, icy blue that stared carefully down to his smooth, well-kept fingers. His nose was straight and pointed, hanging just over the perfectly white rows of teeth in his mouth. His cheeks and chin were without flaw or hair, and his neck was thick with muscle. The man who'd taken Mihailoff's place slowly moved his fingers over the heavily wool-woven shirt on his person, the piece of clothing showing definite signs of being far too short and unbefitting of his significant bulk and size. His muscles and toned skin under the hand sown clothing were strikingly pronounced.

This new man – this new Mihailoff – flexed his muscles appreciatively.

"Amazing, isn't it? Modern medicine at its finest." New-Mihailoff claimed, his voice significantly deeper and pronounced. "Edward Jenner erased the smallpox with the revelation of dairymaids and cowpox. Alexander Fleming discovered Penicillin through his poor lab conditions. Both of these discoveries were done by accident but revolutionized the human race." He stifled a deep laugh, smirking. "Accidents. Accidents and curiosity bred the way to further human progress. This," he opened and squeezed his hand tightly, the veins and muscles in his arm tightened in response, "was an accident. I wanted to know if that old wife's tale of eating the hearts of great beasts or warriors would make a man strong was true. After the loss and humiliation handed to me by the youth, I was desperate for revenge. I had to know if the heart of a winged-man could help me achieve the justice I desired."

He lifted his arms to their sides, marveling at their lengths from his person. "I was willing to risk my very life to obtain this. To turn the 'weak and distraught' into the man who would make the cur beg for mercy like I was some sort of god." He chuckled bitterly, lowering his arms. "I admit to wanting too much, perhaps. It was a fool's dream – hoping for that impossible hope over the life of ridicule and abuse. To believe that things would change from a drink of grasses, plants, water and a winged-man's heart. HAHA-I was so young!"

Mihailoff leaned down to his desk, hands balled into fists as they pressed down into the woodwork. Naruto might have imagined it, but it seemed to have difficulty holding the man's weight.

"But the results…I could not complain."

His arms went to the sides of the desk, hoisting the furniture overhead with swiftness. He seemed utterly unfazed by the bulk in his arms as he gave it a couple lifts.

"I was faster than any beast. Stronger than the elephant! I could tear the largest tree from its roots and crush stone with my fingers!" He laughed – a long, boisterous and deep thing. "The power of the Angel's heart was the key to my awakening! My rebirth! With it, the limits of my human form were thrown to the wastes!"

He placed the desk back to the floor – inkwell and candle surprisingly still upright even after his flaunting of strength – grinning almost fondly to the blond.

He looked excited. "It might surprise you to know this, but upon the revelation of these new gifts bestowed to me, thoughts of revenge were all but expunged. I felt warmth like a sun in my belly and renewed breath in my lungs. And my leg – HA! – I could walk again! Run again! Leap over mighty trees and hurdle across vast rivers!

"Why then would I care for some boy who rubbed me the wrong way once? At that moment, he was little more than an ant to my gaze.

"After testing my new found abilities, I went to the village. I showed them my good fortune. They were stunned – they almost did not believe what they saw! Weak and fragile me, now a giant! I towered over them! Those who once scorned my practice and solitude now shouted cheers of my new prowess. Amazing what a few muscles can do for a man, am I right?"

The blond's stance, to Mihailoff's eyes and quiet approval, did not seem as hardened as before. He still held back his response to his questions, but the hostility in the air between them seemed lessened, of sort, if only by the smallest margin possible.

So Mihailoff continued.

"I was…accepted. For sixty years, I could not remember what it felt like to be one with my village; to not be looked at with distain or repression. But after my arrival, I couldn't stop smiling and laughing with the people who now saw me with worth.

"The villagers – they joked about how they could let me go hunting or tend the fields. Things a weakened body would have been unable to do before. And in truth, I wanted to! I wanted to plant crops, hunt animals, run with the men. I didn't want to live in the quiet any longer – I wanted to play games and drink the peculiar waters they had for parties or festivities. I wanted to, dare I even think it at the time, talk to a female! And you know what? Theyactually wanted to talk back! To me! Hahahahahaha!

"Those days are the ones I remember most fondly. For the months I worked with my fellow man. I laughed and ate and drank amongst the village people. I even had…ahem; pardon me for the phrasing, relations with women."

The giant of a man actually looked sheepish at the admittance.

"It was a time I fondly recall. A time I still cherish.

"But, like all good times, this one eventually came to an end…"

Naruto continued to listen.

"Bullies. Bullies don't stop until you make them. They get their laughs and their chuckles from their idiocies. The boy who ruined my leg was no different.

"After my rebirth, he skirted away from my very shadow. He knew his place then. He knew what I could do to him. So he stayed away and I was fine with it. Hardly remembered he was around, to be honest. I had responsibilities – I wanted to show off what this 'new me' could do. Failing my people, by getting something as pointless as revenge on a stupid child, would have reflected poorly on the improved me.

"And so, I forgot about him, and before long, I moved past everything else which tied me to my old self. I left behind my secluded home, the 'man-witching' and the undesired me. I tried to believe as if it were some terrible fantasy – that the life before was the nightmare to prepare me for the dream."

Mihailoff walked away from behind the desk, moving towards a shelf of several brightly colored novels. He reached for one – the title wasn't important, nor could Naruto see it from his view, but it seemed to capture the man's eye because he seemed lost in it for a moment.

"He moved on to someone else. The bully, I mean. He moved onto some child nearing manhood. A boy who was like me – or the me that was, I amend.

"Skinny. Not especially useful to the daily chores. A dreamer. He didn't have many to talk to and his father was embarrassed of him. His mother, like many then, had passed by his birth. He was a lonesome child who roamed the outer plains in search of gnomes or sprites or rockmen. He wanted to be a warrior, but poor birth seemed as if destiny would plague him to the end of his life.

"I suppose that's what attracted me to him. He was what I was, and I was what he wanted to be.

"We talked quite frequently after my change. He told me his stories of those beyond the village and, admittedly, in the life before, I might have doubted his tales. But, when you've eaten the heart of a man who had wings from his back, you begin to doubt very little of the world's mysteries.

"He liked to watch the naiads. They sang songs; he told me that they could only be heard if you put your head below the water's surface. And if they didn't drown you first, he said they held a very sweet toon.

"He told me he saw a giant once, just outside the plain areas. It herded sheep. He said it stood twice the size of the largest bear and carried the trunk of a tree in his fingers. He wanted to be like that – big and built and without fear. I could understand that.

"And what he told me of wood nymphs – he blushed! Hahahaha!"

He shook his head, grinning brightly as he rubbed his eye with the free hand.

"Then he died."

He closed his book with a loud, echoing clap.

"…It was the bully. The one time he tried to defend himself and he died. Boys messing with one another – an accident. It wasn't the boy's fault, they said. He didn't know better. He was just a man who did not know his own strength.

"In response, the bully made a show of his murder. A pity show. He actually tried to play us for fools.

"And it worked. For the others, at least.

"He laughed, later. He. Laughed. Don't know what it was for – nor do I particularly care for what – but he laughed the very same day and no one felt concern. No one cared a boy died because he couldn't take being someone'smeat sack. They didn't show remorse, just threw his carcass away so it wouldn't attract anything to the village.

"Not even his father took the time to see him buried. To ensure he passed on to his ancestors. I had to do it myself."

Mihailoff put the book back to the shelf. There was no longer a friendly tint in his eye.

"I didn't sleep that night. Or the night after that. Barely needed to anymore, but I just couldn't. Not even when I took company to bed. I just kept thinking about…did I fail?" He asked, though it seemed to be more of a self-aimed question than to his guest. "Was I at fault? I saw the bruises. I saw the cuts. The limp. How could I not – they were so similar to my own. I would have been insulting my own intelligence in forgetting such harsh remembrances.

"But I didn't do anything. I thought just being around me would help. It didn't. Not even a little. He probably cried and begged and was hurt more still but I didn't even think of it. I didn't help.

"In the end, I could only wonder: was it the words of the fool that he thought of last? Or the silence of the friend?"

He pursed his lips, cocking his head back to eye the blond.

"I went to the cruel child's home. I found him. I dragged him away. I beat him. I bloodied his face until his eyes were shut and his nose was gone.

"He might have begged – I didn't listen. I didn't want to. He made his decision and I made mine. I wouldn't let anyone else be hurt…

"I didn't make it quick or painless. I quite enjoyed dragging out his cries. I let his blood wash over the earth and covered his mouth to stifle his last begging.

"And his screams – especially his screams.

"After I had my fill of breaking his limbs and most of everything else on him, I ripped his heart out. I wanted to see if it was as black as I imagined.

"It wasn't, oddly enough, but that didn't stop me from crushing it in my hand. He was already dead by then but I could have sworn there was a look of in his eyes that said he still saw what I'd done."

He looked to his hand. Perhaps he still saw the blood? How many years had it been since then? Did the image really dissolve with time? Something so dramatic? So monumental to his life?

Naruto could guess.

"He was my first. He wasn't my last.

"Someone saw us. Whoever it was, they riled the village. They called for me – saw my body red with his blood.

"I tried to settle the mob – tried to explain – but they wouldn't have it. They came at me with bow and spear and stone.

"They attacked me. And all those little emotions, those hurtful moments of ridicule and despise I'd more than willed away – they came back. I remembered how they couldn't have cared less for me unless their life was hanging by a god's thread and how they cared even less for the child who told stories of the weird or unexplained.

"It was a place where the strong survived and the weak died.

"So you know what? I decided to remind them of that."

His fingers rolled into a tightly curled fist.

"They came at me from everywhere, tried to drag me down. They tried to bludgeon me, beat me, pierce me with whatever primitive tool they had but they could do nothing. My body was like that of the Angel's – impenetrable.None of their tools so much as scratched my skin.

"From night to dawn, I killed them all. Man. Woman. Child. It made no difference. They screamed and shouted and cried and begged and I slaughtered them.

"Their former doctor, their healer, their 'man-witch' was now their ruin."

Mihailoff turned around fully, his attention to Naruto.

Their expressions and stances matched; stoic and stern. "I stared down at them when the sun rose. The buzzards were already picking out whatever they could. And you know what I thought then? What I thought of killing? What I thought of that exhilaration, that excitement, that understanding that like when I was a doctor, I had the power over life itself? This was no different. Only now, I was the thing that decided if life would be spared or taken.

"You know what I thought then, over the corpses? Over the people I'd cared for, even in my waning, broken years?

"I thought to myself: 'this felt right.'"

"I couldn't very well stay after that – the corpses smelled something foul, even to a doctor, and the buzzards were depressing. So, after grabbing a little of this and that, I decided to go travelling. And I have to tell you, there isnothing like a little cross-country traveling to really put your mind away from the hard truths that you killed every single person you've come to know and love over the years."

That last sentence made Mihailoff pause.

"Hmm. I'm going to need another drink after this…"

He went quiet for a moment, looking somewhat distant.

Then shook his head.

"In any case, I saw the world through the eyes of a youth who could see farther than the hawk. I touched oceans from one side of the world to the other and climbed to the peaks of mountains no creature had before. I soared the skies on the wings of beasts and swam to the depths of the dark seas. And everywhere in between, I killed.

"Oh, yes. I killed still. The thrill of such strength and ability did not wane. It was an addiction – one I had no desire to quit. Sometimes I killed for wealth. Sometimes for food. Sometimes, rarely, for my survival. But for most of my life I did what I did because I could. Disgusting, I know. Believe me; I am more than aware that society would call me as such. But nevertheless, I am under my personal belief that truth over lies makes a far better autobiography, regardless of the more…repulsive details.

"During my travels, I suppose you would consider my 'business' with people as being none-too dissimilar to that of a traveling plague. And as I grew older in my new body, I started to experiment and practice in my ways of the kill. Simple bludgeoning or strangulations were a few methods that I found quickly began to bore me. I mean, after slaughtering an entire attacking village of your closest friends, you have this unmistakable urge to one-up yourself.

"And so, I started to wonder on how I could excite and bizarre and befog, not only myself, but those who stumbled onto my work. A neck pierced with a needle so thin it was deemed the man died of unknown cause; a body hung by a leg for the gators, believed self-suicide; a condemned 'witch' torn at arm and leg by horses – I wonder if the Angel's heart increased my curiosity and inventive nature. I certainly wouldn't have considered such actions in my former life. Such thoughts would have left me frightfully ill.

"Oh, which reminds me: as a note of interest, I should add on to the fact that, as I grew older in my time of new youth, I quickly understood that the body I was gifted with would not last forever. It aged, as any human body should. I concluded – or at least hypothesized – that I would need to replenish the formula and ingredients needed to replicate the conditions which made me…well, this."

Jumping from his story briefly, Mihailoff gestured to himself in the blond youth's direction.

"While the original grasses and roots would have been simple enough to purchase or harvest with time, producing the heart of an Angel proved to be…troublesome. Took me a little over a decade to find another one. And he put up a much larger fight. I believe it was in Egypt, if memory serves me right, though it might have just as easily have been in Carthage. Dreadful thing, millennia worth of killing Angels. They all look the same with those feathers and those armors and their perfect looks – they all sort of began to blend together and after spending years wandering the…oh, I'm rambling again."

He rubbed his forehead, looking bashful.

"Sorry, sorry, forgive me. I often prattle on the most mundane details when I get a story going. I like to think it's because I'm old and possibly still feeling the aftereffects of a previous-life's senile-ism and not because I like the sound of my own voice." He paused. "Although, I do admit, it has a sort of melodic ring to it, doesn't it?"

He snickered to himself. The air around him, which felt so neutral with his storytelling, suddenly held a cold edge.

"To make long, overly-complicated-amounts-of-history-revulving-around-this-world-and-humans short: I travelled. From the coldest poles to the warmest deserts. I killed, prolonged my immense lifespan, and killed some more. It was a nice cycle, really.

"But then I decided to expand my personal hobbies to worlds beyond. To the worlds belonging to the creatures of myth and legend. My boy, I have walked the earths of a hundred worlds and felt the warmth of many colored suns. I have seen worlds of forests which do not end. Worlds of silver waters and dark fires. Worlds of diversity, serenity and disbelief. Worlds of wonders and beauties unimagined. Worlds I have set fires to and let the blood of many feed its grounds. Worlds that fear my many names and cower at the thought of my return. Which, I can assure you; I have every intention of doing so.

"Through my actions, I have changed the history of trillions. With but a sweep of my hand, I have rewritten the foundations of empires! Through mere suggestion, I have riled rebellions and produced chaos immense! My names have been synonymous with fear itself! I have been the architect of destructions known and have done it grinning. I have played to the tunes of ruin and have been the image of nightmares. Can you imagine it? Can you imagine all that I have seen and touched and ruined? Without thoughts against? Imagine it. Now imagine what I think of you now, catching me with my life's story in the mouth, admitting to any and all of my crimes, sins, dastardly deeds-whichever and all.

"And I have only one thing to ask. One thing, and I want you to answer me, here and now."

He moved away from his books, once more taking a position behind his desk, laying comfortably into his leather chair. His confidence was staggering; he seemed utterly unfazed by anything. He just smiled his crooked smile, waved his hand and watched Naruto carefully, just as he was watched in turn.

"What happens now?"

Eyes.

Eyes are mirrors.

Eyes are windows.

Eyes are reflections of both ends.

Eyes show the mind, the intent, the mysteries, the truths, the lies, the beliefs, the past, the future, the forward, the backward and everything that may be in between.

Eyes.

What lied behind Mihailoff's eyes? What lied behind that thousand year old mind? What twisted thoughts waited to be thought; what crooked plans looked forward to completion; what temptations prowled in dark corners, preparing to be done?

Naruto could not say. Mihailoff's eyes were blank.

Blank. Devoid. No intent, no thought, no mysteries or beliefs – how perfectly those eyes contrasted with the man's friendly looks.

The candle's flickering flame did not reflect off his eyes. The blond youth tried to make out a reflection from them, but saw nothing; these eyes did not mirror back what images they perceived.

Like stone.

How strange they were, even to Naruto; a man who held significant experience dealing with the odd individuals of the world. From twisted creations developed by crazed men, to undead leaders from decades past, to even colossal beasts that towered over the earth – each entity seemed and sounded as if out of some fantastical story book but yet had something in common with the other. They held their own histories that guided them or pushed them forward. And their eyes, for every moment they existed, expressed the either willful or forced nature of their choices, the pained history of their lives or the simple reason for being. Their intentions and reasons to move forward were quite prevalent and never once seemed completely without consciousness.

Even if dead or not human, there was something behind the eyes that said that there was a thought behind what was to occur next. A soul to drive them forward and to show that they had history to them.

But this was what made Mihailoff so discernable from the others.

Mihailoff's held none of these qualities. No reason or intent. He spoke of personal history, intentions and beliefs but none of these were conveyed through the eyes. Naruto, were he a man of poetic ability, would have best described the thing that went by the name 'Mikhail Mihailoff' as little more than a machine waiting to murder. A machine which could not be reasoned with. A machine which held millennia of experiences, memories and blood of others at its fingertips but thought nothing of it but the excitement from being the one to have been there to see each happening happen. A machine which killed because it could, was unobstructed by reason, senses of species-preservation, or even the most basic sense of morality.

Nihilism, thy name is Mihailoff.

And now, at the closing of the meeting between the blond and the machine, what was there left to do but answer Mihailoff's question:

What happens now?

In all fairness, the answer to this question hadn't changed since the moment Naruto set out to find the ancient man. If anything, Mihailoff's confirmation to his identity and backstory all but solidified what he'd been set out to do three days prior. There was little left to say, or do, but finish the night as planned.

Reaching into his coat pockets with both hands, the blond youth produced two items of equal-personal value; raising both into the air so his host might perceive them without issue.

The objects were actually quite simple: a standard capped-pen and a folded sheet of paper.

Naruto lifted the pen to his lips, casually biting into the pen's cap and plucking it from the pen's dark point and throwing the top to the side with a light spat. The former Hokage used his other hand, holding the blank paper, to casually undue the folding and allow its eight-by-eleven, wrinkled whiteness unravel.

He shook the pen lightly, loosening the ink as he walked to one of the many bookshelves of Mikhail's library, using a few of his free fingers to pry a large thirteenth-century novel from its shelves. Casually, he placed the paper on top of the only-slightly worn novel and, after making sure the paper was still and in a comfortable place, looked up to the observant mansion owner with a careful, unwavering stare.

"…"

The youthful invader glanced down to his paper.

Scribble scribble scribble scribble scribble-

He glanced back to the former elder.

"…"

He looked back to his paper.

Scribble scribble scribble-

He looked back to Mihailoff, who was as curious as he was skeptical about the importance of whatever the boy was writing. To be fair, in his travels of the centuries, he had found paper to have significant potential for devastation – he once knew a mage who had the curious idea of containing a forest fire's worth of inferno in his back pocket, or one which held three words powerful enough to send two races into war.

Scribble scribble scribble…

Was his intruder a mage? A magical practitioner? A wizard or-or sorcerer, maybe? Mihailoff did not sense any sort of magical energies coming from the boy, though his experience with anything pertaining to the field of magic was, admittedly, little more than a handful of experiences with some now very dead humans. But how often did paper serve as a means of threatening for someone of his magnitude?

Scribble scribble…

Mihailoff tried viewing over the blocking novel to the youth's scrawling. He seemed eager to take in his features-perhaps he was drawing a portrait? Seemed an odd place and time to do so, but having had so many years experiencing peculiar youth-to-senior folk from one stretch of the world to the other, he didn't argue over semantics.

He only hoped the boy was managing to get his good side.

Scribble scribble scribble scribble.

Naruto darted his head back and forth between the paper and his 'muse,' varying between writing necessary details down to paper and ensuring every mark was appropriately placed.

Scribble scribble scribble.

Male. Seven feet tall, or so. Black hair. Hmm…four-hundred pounds?

Scribble scribble.

Close enough. Blue eyes? Eh, bluish-gray. No freckles on cheeks. No butt chin – seriously, even some of the minutest details he could think of would help in this matter.

Silly to notice these things, sure-

Scribble…scribble…

-but necessary.

Scri…bble…

…

…Scribble.

And he was done.

Naruto took a last second to look over his work before glancing up to the formerly-old man. Figuring this was as close as he was going to get his muse's 'details-to-paper,' he decided now was as good a time as any to finish up.

He tossed the hardcover to the side, seeing no further use for it and brought the now thoroughly-covered-with-pen-ink sheet of paper to eye level. The sheet was covered in black ink. Ink which nearly touched the four corners of the sheet; making up some odd signs, curves and patterns that to the average bloke might have looked like nothing more than some creative child's school drawings but to the blond looked like something that was readable, understandable and (if he were feeling any sense of boastfulness) prideworthy of recognition in its schematic. He raised his freed hand just before the paper, lifting his index and long fingers to point while leaving his other fingers curled inward. It took a moment, but after a light bit of concentration, the ink began to shine a savage yellow, illuminating the library in its vibrant shine.

Mihailoff watched the boy with ever increasing enjoyment. Between the pen-to-paper works, the hand signal and now how the paper seemed to glow from the boy's hand as he focused his unwavering blue eyes on it, it wasn't difficult to say why the sturdy youthful man was at attention and waiting with bated breaths for the something that, he believed, was going to be truly spectacular.

It took a few moments for the yellowish radiance to fade from the paper's ink, leaving the room once more to be lit only by the candles. The ink neither seemed singed nor burnt as Mihailoff believed it should have been, instead appearing no different to how it was seconds before.

No plume of smoke, no ripples of power, no disturbance within the natural making of the library.

Really, it was sort of a letdown for the excitable giant.

Naruto didn't notice his disappointment, however. Even if he did, it wouldn't have mattered. What happened next had to happen. There was no enjoyment to be found in his eyes as he held the paper up to eye level for the hulking former-elder. What came next did not require subtlety or finesse, therefore not requiring the blond to hold back anything.

He would be blunt. As a final kindness.

Because for what came next for the 'Murderer of the Countless' was a sentence that was undoubtedly a fate worse than death.

"This piece of paper is a prison." Naruto finally spoke, his tone explanatory but dipping lower than usual. "A seal. A seal for you. A seal for which will put you away into a place where you mean nothing." He took a breath – a long, steadying one. "I don't mean that as a joke. Where you will go is a place where you will not feel; where you will not smell; where you won't see your own hand, hear your own heartbeat, or taste the empty."

Another long breath. He spoke again, slower now.

"Where you will go, there is no air. There is no breeze or wind. Nothing to put in your lungs. But that won't matter because you won't need to breathe. And even if you wanted to, you couldn't. Because your prison won't allow it.

"You might want to move. To stretch. To pace. To do something or anything. But you won't need to. You won't be able to. It will not let you. Because it doesn't care. It just won't let you.

"It is a prison, Mihailoff. The worst prison. The worst thing I can give you – this state of near-nothing.

"A prison that only allows you to realize your own hell and to age. Age as you would. Preserved. You will be aware of it, but not in control. The crawl of time will pass by every second, forever, until you have met the end of your life.

"At which time, the seal and paper will burn in fire and your body along with it.

"And that's what I am giving you, Mihailoff. Your prison. Your seal. Your…Oblivion."

This rendition of unpleasantness would surprise anyone who knew Naruto Uzumaki.

Such big words he was using. So uncharacteristically cold. It was like he was reading off a list of terrible things that came with what he'd created – which, in a way, he was.

Naruto remembered when he was told about the seal in its initial creation. What his successor told him when she finished its development; how this was the ultimate prison for the worst of the worst that would come to threaten the world. Built for the situation for where when he was gone, and when she was gone, and when there came a threat that would continue to return if not stopped finally, there had to be a way to end its return without worry that death may not be enough.

It was a hypothetical situation, sure, but a situation that began plans and ideas for countermeasures which inevitably led to the development of the resulting seal he now held in his hands.

The Oblivion Seal.

But to begin with why the Oblivion Seal, as it was so romantically termed, was a unique creation even by the classification of sealing techniques, there had to be some background knowledge that had to be understood first. An understanding for those who were not part of the ninja world or familiar with the fundamentals surrounding that pertained to the skill of sealing.

Firstly:

By definition, sealing was the art of placing things, such as objects, chakra, energy or any variety of extraordinary materials, into another object. Sealing, which instead of using inner power and hand movements or signs to form these wondrous effects, used different mediums, such as blood or ink, to form the basis from which these impressive happenings occurred from. Even by the most outrageous and extraordinary circumstances of Naruto's world, the art of sealing was a bizarre thing. Few were talented or knowledgeable in its applications and fewer still were skillful in its use for more than simple necessities a ninja would be required to know of. And above all, most techniques revolving around sealing were oriented around things non-living.

Non-living. This meant that materials, such as humans or things with a degree of self-preservation and continuity, could not be put into something as small or tedious as a blank sheet of paper with a few ink scribbles on it. The intricacy behind living matter, the complexity of a nervous system and not to even begin describing brain survival functions, was something not even the most talented minds of his world had yet to fully uncover or embrace a full understanding towards. Most techniques that even seemed to hold or produce living matter were usually just a seal which teleported or conjured living tissue matter from a separate location at immediate speeds – and even these techniques took time, preparation and careful planning in use so that nothing dire happened to either the would-be-produced party or the attempting-to-teleport-something individuals who thought to meddle in dangerous practices.

There were discussions on sentient materials, such as those made of pure energy or chakra-built constructions, and if these examples were compatible with the sealing processes, but that was a discussion point of little present concern.

Secondly:

The issue with energy. Energy: chakra, mostly, was a finite energy source for individuals. They could only produce so much, hold so much or use so much at a given time. And a seal, depending on what was being sealed, either by category of size or complexity, required a lot of energy. Sometimes to the point of being fatal if the user was ill-prepared for the backlash of trying to seal or unseal something beyond their ability-range.

As a reminder, sealing was a dangerous learning practice. And Naruto had a familial history with sealing techniques leading to death…

But, again, this was a discussion point of little present concern.

Third and lastly:

The final issue with sealing was the concern with the sealing itself. Though often seen as random scribbles and markings on paper or surfaces, ninja sealing techniques were actually quiet poetic and efficient in their design. Every single mark, stroke of pen on paper or ink was essential. They made out the details of what was being sealed: what was desired by the user for the object to do (be sealed, explode, etc.); would the user like to have the object retrieved and if so when; what would be the qualifications of when such item could be released, by blood, key, special material used and so on.

But that wasn't even the problem when it came to sentient insertion. The problem actually aligned with the fact that seals were, despite all their fantastic capabilities, still inanimate.

Meaning they could not change or advance beyond their designed functions.

To explain this in simple terms, imagine a ninja sealing a rock into a sheet of paper. A rock of only six inches wide and six inches high. Regular earth. Nothing really substantial to it. Sealing something as basic as this, even with only a few weeks of experience practicing the art of sealing, would not be a significant challenge. The sealing declared it was a rock, gave basic information for what it was, and done! One sealed rock in paper!

But now, theoretically, there is a problem. The rock is expanding. It's grown a foot wider and higher. Then split in two! And now its density is growing thicker, it's getting heavier. And now it's transmuting into a different material entirely – iron, if you would – all within the seal itself.

And this is the problem.

The seal is only written to hold a rock. A rock of a half-a-foot wide and high. A simple object which required simple sealing marks. But now, that formerly simple object is now very different and complex. And the ninja's sealing marks are not meant to hold such a thing. The seal is now very confused, in a manner of speaking, as to why it is holding something very different than what it had originally placed within itself. The object is wrong, the sealing marks relating to the object are wrong, and yet somehow the object was allowed to pass through uncompromised.

What happens next is what the ninja community refers to as a 'Sealing Malfunction.'

The chakra, or separate energy source, used to hold the rock or now-different object is distorted. What was meant to hold only a simple object with minimal chakra involved is now incapable of holding the greater item. Or in the case of a larger-than-needed body of chakra holding a small object, the chakra that was meant to hold a specific type of object to specific parameters and shaping and design is now twisted as it tries to work around an obviously dissimilar object than it was originally intended to hold.

Chakra doesn't have a sentient mind to tell itself to deal with the sealed objects changing position or form. And the sealing marks made by the ninja to organize the chakra to do a specific task or follow a set of guidelines is not able to just easily adjust the problem with more seals or pre-seals detailing how to adjust to changing objects dichotomies. It had never been successfully done. And if those guidelines were disrupted by the object they were holding, then the fragile chakra would become unbalanced.

And disturbed, fragile chakra within a now faulty seal becomes something not dissimilar to holding an unstable bomb.

So, boom.

The seal would break. The object would most likely be ripped apart by its being at the epicenter of the implosion, and the chakra would then repulse in all directions like a grenade.

As a result to the many issues and potential consequences that came with the art, sealing was largely considered one of the most complex matters in the ninja world. And that was saying something when one understood that producing and controlling internal energies to conjure powers of destructive force was considered child's play for many who studied within a ninja village.

The average someone shuddered to consider why sealing was handled with an extreme delicacy.

But now, 'why' is the question. Why does this all matter? Why did matters of living material, energy consumption, and changing forms of material matter to the present concern of Mihailoff's Seal?

Well, it was all actually quite simple of a reason: the Oblivion Seal was compatible.

It worked.

It worked with holding the living; it worked without obnoxious energy consumptions; it worked with changing forms – it worked.

The Oblivion Seal took the ever changing, ever developing, ever thriving material that was a living thing, sentient or otherwise, and placed it within the void of the seal's makeup without issue. The seal's markings altered to the shifting material placed within it – evolved, if you would, though still remaining inanimate, and allowed the sealed material to remain sealed.

The history for its development was decades in the work. Constantly theorized, constantly practiced and all the while using the top minds in the ninja world had to offer. Minds which spent decades rolling in secret arts and techniques. Minds that, even to this day, Naruto felt cautious to even think about.

It should be noted that the reason behind live-sealing, and the Oblivion Seal's development, was not originally for the sake of creating a 'perfect prison.' In fact, the development around a seal to hold sentient, living matter was actually for matters far more basic and humanitarian reasons: a seal to hold a dozen armed ninja into a serious situation without worry or fear of being caught or seen; the preservation of livestock to be transported over long distances without fear of attack from wolves, country bandits or the effects of uncontrolled weather; to test the depths of sealing arts for how the adverse effects would work on still living matter – these reasons behind the development of live-sealing techniques were far more beneficial and humanitarian than to what it eventually came to be. And as mentioned previously, the Oblivion Seal would only come into fruition after hypothetical situations arose. Situations no one wished to think on, but eventually decided on the fact that it was best for everyone.

The Oblivion Seal. No escape. No maintenance. No worries. Only the passing of time and the contemplation of your actions.

Naruto, for the sake of understanding what was being used against only the worst of the worst that his world could bring, once offered his assistance in understanding just what his people would be sending these criminals into. And although he wasn't the first individual to spend time in the initial prototype sealing technique, he was the first to spend time in it longer than fifteen minutes.

The former Hokage could still recall how proud he was of his successor then. How amazing her work was. At the time of its development, a lifelong sentence of imprisonment, without the need to feed or take care of a prisoner, seemed humane by comparison to an execution.

The aged hero of the world spent three days inside the seal. Being sealed with prevalent confidence and certainty in his actions.

It. Was. Horrible.

Naruto had familiar use of the seal before the end of his previous life and found several moments in his new one to use its abilities. Mostly, it was in the case of transporting criminals to Devil detainment facilities – used only for Strays to be put away before they could bring harm to others. He felt no shame in using it then, as an hour or two within the confines of the seal were hardly anything worrisome or too horrible to experience. And he always ensured that no detours would be made between the point where he sealed a Stray away and when he would release it to the proper authorities.

Though the design and invention was cruel, Naruto at least believed himself to be kind in its application. He and his people had decided that the moment he emerged from his three day trial run within the seal that the Oblivion Seal's use would only be for the direstof circumstances. Few – very few – would ever be worthy of a permanent use for this terrible device he held in his hands.

It was needless to say that Mihailoff qualified as one of those very few.

And was, in fact, the first of this new life.

Not that this thought made the situation any easier.

Finishing his description of what was in store for this millennium old murderer, the previously-old man found himself surprisingly…perturbed. Not because of the blond's description. Not because he felt that what awaited him was by any means pleasant or agreeable to his standard of living. But rather, for the fact of what his home intruder did not plan to do to him.

Mihailoff began after a moment's pause. "…I beg your pardon? I, I'm sorry, I must have misheard you." He brought his large hand to his lips, coughed, than met Naruto's eyes again. "I was certain you were suggesting you were going to…'put me away.'" He lifted a finger to the paper. "In that?"

Naruto allowed himself to nod.

Mihailoff stared briefly at the paper. Then to Naruto. He pursed his lips for a moment, looking very confused as he stared between the boy with blond hair and the small piece of paper with the many scribbles and lines running through it.

Mihailoff than stood from his chair, eyes wandering the candlelit room. Up and down, corner to corner, blinking and tongue-turned.

His breathing picked up. Not erratic but far from comforted. He didn't seem to recognize where he was, nor understand what was happening.

His face was flushed as he looked to the floor and shook his head.

He chuckled a little.

"I can't believe it."

He muttered.

"I just, I can't believe it."

He giggled a little louder, a little harder.

"He-he won't kill me. Hoho. He won't!"

He turned his back to Naruto, now staring to the hanging portrait of himself.

The crazy started to come in. "He-he-he won't kill me-e-e-e! He won't! Heeheeheehee! Me! He-he knows me! He knows me, and he won't-he won't-BWAHHAHAHAHA!"

His laugh was hysterical.

He slapped his knee.

Hard.

Twice.

It went on for little over a minute. The man laughed and laughed as if the greatest joke the world had ever seen had just been given to him.

And Naruto, still defensive in position and holding the paper in his hand with a stiff arm, watched this bizarre reaction without stutter.

"Heeheeheheheheh! HOhoooo-hoooo! AAAAHHH-HOOOOOoooo! Heheh!

"Heeeheeheee! HaahahehHEHEH…hoohoohoo!

"…Heheheheheh…heheheh…

"…

"…Hooo…"

…The hulking man finally stopped.

He shook his head a little more; still staring at his reflective portrait, than turned to Naruto with the biggest grin his face seemed capable of holding.

"Unbelievable. Simply, un-be-lievable! Hehe! I mean, truly, astounding!" He slapped his hands together in a clap. It reverberated like thunder in the library. "I give you my history. My devious deeds! Some of my most notorious kills, done with a grin, and the promise that countless have died by my hand and countless more will continue to do so still!

"And yet you-you refuse to…to kill me!"

He cackled again, but only for a moment.

"Why? Why won't you? Why refuse to kill this filth?" He lifted his large arms and pounded his open palms to his chest. It might have been Naruto's imagination – lack of significant rest, food, or water in the last three days – but it seemed as if the blows of his palms rippled the air with his power.

Unnerving.

"I can see it, you know. Your reprehension to the thought. Your reprehension to the thought of killing me.

"Why question the thought? Why question the consideration? This-this shouldn't even be a question to ask yourself. 'Should you kill me?' HA! Look at me! Think of my actions! My claims, my histories, my worthless! I'm unforgivable! Any other man who held even a chance at killing me would do so without worry to their soul!

"So why don't you?"

Mihailoff leaned forward over his desk. His weight bore down onto the wood, causing it to creak.

"That is another question. Is it fear? Is it morality? Reluctance? Belief in the betterment of others? Fear for your soul? Does the idea repulse you? How could it? I'm a monster. I admit it. I know my soul is damned and I know that even still I will spill more blood with these hands. And when, or if, that time comes where death has caught up to my ever wandering-escaping-killing self, do you know what I will do? I will accept it. Willingly and openly. I do not fear death. I never have. I have saved lives and taken them. I am no fool to think that death will never come. It will. I am certain. And I, above many, look forward to it.

"But do not believe I will not fight to the end until that time. I am many things, but craven? Bah. I will not jump from some cliff or fall on some blade to seek a quick end. I will not place an iron ball into my head, nor drink the quickest poison I can find. I will not. Such a thing would be beneath me. To my worth. If someone is finally capable of ending me – ending my existence – then only then will I relent. I will accept my end with grace and await my judgement – painful and cruel, as it should be.

"Will you be the one to put this walking torrent of death aside? Or will you imprison me into that scribbled sheet? Consider this, before you answer: if I am dead, there is a guarantee I will remain so." He shrugged. "In a world – or group of worlds, as it is – with necromancers and dead risers, who can say for certain a Lich, a Crypt Dealer, or even a Devil won't take an interest in this black soul of mine? I would be quite the catch, I think, for someone interested in my power. I do not guarantee it will happen, but consider what my return would mean, hmm."

He let the thought linger, for a moment, to be considered by his blond company.

"But anyhow, barring necromancy, the horrid practice, what about the other alternative: imprisonment. Who is to say I won't one day break out?"

"You won't." Naruto declared.

"Oh, but I may!" Mihailoff countered. "And if I were to get out, what then? I am a funny fellow. I remember your face. Vividly, I might add. And I am quite the artisan – recreating your face on paper would be a trivial thing. How long would it take, with your face on paper, my word of description, and the open road ahead just filled with loose-tongued gossipers and face-recognizing acquaintances, to find you? Hmm? A week, a month, a year, or ten? You, your associates, your friends, your family – how long?"

He stared with a stern gaze into Naruto's eyes. There was a lack of humor now. A lack of good nature or even respect.

There was only the intensity.

"My dear boy, don't doubt that I will one day be released from your 'paper-trap.' Doubt, instead, the days you will have left before I find you."

He let his words sink into Naruto's mind – which they most certainly did – for a moment.

A long moment.

Then Mihailoff shrugged.

"But, of course, what do I know?" He asked. "I mean, those are only two options: kill or imprison me. Both which would be hindrances, but not all together unpleasantries. There's always the third, in which…well, you die. You die with my arm around your throat, my hand crushing your heart, my fists beating your head into little more than wasted, formerly-living matter on the floor – the list goes on with more or less the same ending. Your story ends here and no one will be the wiser…maybe. Doesn't matter – anyway, those are really the only choices available to work with, I'm afraid.

"If you kill me, I win. I want that. You could try to imprison me, in which case I'd lose. Sort of. I could get free, as I mentioned, and I would then search for you like a spectre. A hunt, if you would. And how I do so love hunting! The tracking, the planning, the finale – some of my most precious moments have been through the weeks and months of searching." He lifted a large hand to his chin, scratching it with a wandering gaze. "Oh, good times. I can remember such good times. I can remember an ogre of twelve years past – the first ogre, in fact, to ever develop an affinity for the mystic arts. Such power to him, hoho! I remember waiting and watching for some time, searching for openings and gaps in his defenses for such lengths. And – OH! – what he could do with a bit of fire at his fingertips! Truly, that Myzarrum was a brutish-genius after my own fascination with the divine and impossible!

"Or-or perhaps a more recent one," Mihailoff's excitement took hold. He was lost to his remembrances. "The goblin prince of five years before was also a fond vacation memory. I remember him well; he was tall for a goblin. And broad. And skilled. He was a warrior who slew a bronze dragon all on his own, in fact. A goblin killing a dragon - hah! Astounding! Absolutely a-stoun-ding! Ooooh, I spent three months scouring for the perfect moment alone with him!And even then, he wasn't taken by surprise! He knew I was coming! Oh, what a marvelous creature he was! Brilliant!

"And, and – OH! Here's a good one! That-that puppy of Cerberus! OH, he was DELIGHTFUL! Definitely more bite than bark! Good for him! Had his old man and half of Hades after me by the time they realized what I'd done – and half of Greece's Pantheon, with them! Certainly was a change of pace from being the hunter to the hunted. But, oh, that thrill could not be compared to in a hundred years!

Mihailoff slapped his knee and laughed some more – the rippling from the intensity of his playful smacks only too noticeable.

"But I will have you know, the search for these individuals made the dull and uninteresting times in Oymyakon all the more enjoyable. No one ever thinks to look in Russia for a world-class slaughterer. It's cold, forested, mountainous – a nightmare to scour. But look at you; willing to traverse the entire Republic to find little old me. I'm flattered, really!

"But back to the matter at hand, I would still very much count it as a win for myself if you managed to imprison me. Especially if I'm guessing right in the belief you'll hold back in whatever attempts you need to make to ensure I do not die. That's just icing on the cake. An advantage you are offering me which, I guarantee, you will regret."

Mihailoff snickered. This time, there was a definite arrogance behind it. He resumed his sitting back in his chair, lifting the sole of his foot to press against the woodwork of the desk in what might have seemed like a comfortable, craning his hands behind his head in mock bravado before uttering his last piece.

"Those are your options, my boy, those are your options. Which just leads me right back to my first question, as it would seem. What. Happens. Now?"

Naruto folded the paper after only a second of waiting. He pressed it tightly so it wouldn't lose its composure and patted it into the back of his jean pockets. Once it was secure, he spread his legs wide, lifted his arms slowly. One pointed back into a fist. The other, curved between himself and his opponent.

Naruto's eyes hardened further than before, catching Mihailoff's attention more than his stance.

This is exciting!

"I told you before," Naruto began, "I'm here to finish a job."

Mihailoff continued to smile. No more boisterous laughing, no more storytelling, no more playfulness or fun conversation.

It was time.

"Oh, dear child…"

His foot pressed harder into his desk.

"This is a job you should have quit while you were ahead."

FWOOM!

Mihailoff's leg shot forward, throwing the desk from the floor and towards the blond youth.

But the former Hokage was unsurprised. He leveled himself to the floor; the desk flying over and crashing into the doorway behind with an audible sound of snapping wood against wood.

It might have broken through but he did not check.

His eyes followed the colossus-man. Even as the desk soared past his lowered form, the ninja was already considering the distance in-between and moving forward in the offensive.

With arm stretched wide and fingers curled into a fist, Naruto Uzumaki closed the distance between the equally prepared and engaged Mikhail Mihailoff.

…

Information:

Place in the Sun

Exact Location Unclear. Special Note: Believed Location – Sakha Republic, Russia

Locate and Apprehend

Request: Locate named individual below. Bring body to requested delivery sight. Request – dead.

Additional Request: Locate special item, Pendent of Grendle'bor, provided by image below. Target is believed to be in possession. (Double payment offered upon completion of secondary task)

Reward: 1,500-3,000 (Special Type Payment Inputted) Pieces of Seraseno

Additional Info: Provided information below suggests a monster of unknown makings, type or ability. Professional assistance requested. Last known image of suspect provided below.

Area specific: Sakha Republic

Target Name/Used Alias: Mikhail Mihailoff

(Downloadable Link(s): Mikhail Mihailoff, Pendent of Grendle'bor, Delivery Location(Click to Open))

Accept/Reject

…

Seven hours ago…

There is a little known park in this little known town near the sea of Far East Russia. Its founding was ancient, its buildings decrepit, and its inhabitants as active as the ever-present dust that surrounded them. The trees were barren and black; its river brown and tepid; and whatever life there might have been to be found had been stripped clean by the flock of crows, which seemed to have made a nesting ground out of this unpleasant place. Enjoyment was scarce to find and whatever purpose the small rural area played, aside from holding residency to those nearby, was not well known. All that could be said was that the black trees, black birds, brown water, and more black-stained buildings, gave the area something akin to that of some B-grade horror film movie set appearance (except with town being real and not a set and instead of offering a sense of terror to visitors, the town and park echoed a certain lifeless, boring, stale atmosphere which offered neither surprise nor any sort of functionality aside from simply being a part of a much larger continent). The hour was nearing midnight and, were it not for the moon shining around the clouds above, the place would have been entirely cloaked in an otherworldly shade of black.

It was in this weird place, at this late hour, that Naruto Uzumaki found himself sitting idly down on an old park bench. Leaning forward, hood over his face and hair, and trying to remain as inconspicuous as the contrasting orange of his clothes, to the reflective light of the moon to the dark woods, would allow.

He was waiting. That much was obvious. His lack of seeming issue to his surroundings or need to apparently move away from such dower settings was proof enough. His frequent glances to his phone, eyes scrolling over the time slot, were added proofs that, though waiting, his impatience at whatever was supposed to come in the near time was steadily growing.

He was an active, energetic and lively person; something that had not changed in a…well…

In a very long time.

The blond waited. And waited. And waited some more. He understood when his waiting would be over but that didn't stop him from wanting time to speed itself up, even a little, for his benefit.

He was silly like that.

Though, as it now seemed, he would not have to wait for much longer for something to happen. Because now, down the walkway of the park, the sound of a twig breaking –

Ssssnap!

– echoed softly through the park.

Naruto didn't glance up to the sound, at first. It was too obvious and deliberate to have been unintentional. Instead, he listened and kept his head low, waiting as a small patter of soft feet made its way towards him.

Pat pat pat pat pat pat pat…

They grew louder the closer they came towards the bench. They weren't rushing and they weren't particularly heavy; if needed, Naruto guessed, even in his state, that he would be able to defend himself against whatever was obviously trying to make itself known to him. A curious thought wondered if the obvious presence was some sort of distraction for him to focus his wits and attention towards but the presence did not seem particularly nervous or hesitant as it made to smoothly reach Naruto's area of waiting.

Pat pat pat pat pat…

The steps grew louder still. Nimble footsteps, Naruto guessed whoever was coming wasn't a particularly heavy individual. The soggy earth of the park gave audible noises with each step. If a sneak attack was coming, this would have been an unsatisfactory setting to do it in. Not to mention his 'possible-but-unlikely-assassin' would have had to have been the most incompetent killer for hire he'd ever known to be so obvious in his presence.

Pat pat pat…

Forty feet away.

He could only assume, without particularly looking attentive or appearing to notice the sounds, the distance of the feet. The owner of the walking feet wasn't far off.

Pat pat pat.

Thirty feet.

The feet didn't slow or alter in their rhythmic pitter-patter as the distance between their owner and the blond shortened. Naruto tried to feel the new arrival; ninja could feel the alterations of their surroundings and even tell the intentions of others simply by their presence alone. Even without being looked upon, the waiting teen could acknowledge that the presence did not feel threatening.

In fact, it seemed to be attentively looking at something, but not at Naruto.

Pat pat pat.

Ten feet.

The feet were practically right in front of him.

Pat pat…

Five feet in front.

They paused.

Naruto kept his head down.

…Pat pat pat pat.

And walking started up again. More patter. The blond didn't look up – he was waiting where instructed. Though this did beg the question of who just stopped in front of him.

Pat pat pat pat pat…brush.

The footsteps stopped. Twenty feet away.

Naruto didn't need permission this time. He looked to his right to where the owner of the walking feet had…well, walked, and stared to the figure whom now leaned lazily against a darkened tree.

This was the first good look on the walking figure, and Naruto was right – he was small. Like, three-and-a-half to four feet small. This lonesome-leaning figure would have barely reached to Naruto's chest with such a stature. And his clothes – a dark hoodie with the hood up, dark jeans an inch too long in size, and shoes just as dark colored (right down to the shoelaces, which almost looked like they'd been color-markered to be as black as the rest of the assortment) – were so shamelessly obvious in their attempt to appear normal and not-out-of-place that they were just as glaringly obvious in the woods as Naruto's orange coat.

The only difference: Naruto could actually work with his brightly colored garments to appear inconspicuous. Took years of practice but he could. This small, dark clothed figure was so obvious in his trying to be unnoticed that he made himself more noticeable.

In a haphazard way, it reminded the Uzumaki of himself when he tried to sneak attack one of his old friends by yelling 'sneak attack' during the process. It was obvious, seen from a mile away, and worked against, rather than for, him. The blond sitting on the bench would have laughed – he honestly felt the need after such a long weekend and now looking at such a poor and inaccurate attempt at 'sneakiness' from this park's newcomer – had he not then heard another soft noise coming in the direction of the previous walker.

Patpatpatpatpatpatpatpat.

More soft feet. Naruto didn't turn his head away. The steps were faster – running, he guessed – and coming in quickly. It didn't take long to see the owner of the feet, in comparison to the walker-now-leaner-of-a-tree; dark clothing, dark shoes, hood over his head, and a physical height of just over three feet. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that this new fellow was associated with the leaning-on-the-tree figure. The only noticeable difference was that this one ran down the path at a comfortable pace rather than walked, although if his lack of roughed clothes or steady stepping was any indication, it was an easy assumption to presume that this 'runner' had only just started his quickened trot some moments before.

The running figure quickly moved past Naruto and down the path without moving his head an inch towards the blond. The former Hokage, for his part, didn't bother to even pretend he wasn't watching the 'runner.' The obvious connections between the two newcomers was glaring – the similar dark clothes, small statures and evident signs that they were trying to appear discreet to anyone around. The whole thing was…weird and glaringly obvious.

Especially when, ten-fifteen feet away from his bench, the runner stopped, went down on one knee, and began to tie its shoes vigorously.

The tightly tied, clean, and largely unworn-out shoes.

Naruto found the whole thing a silently hilarious situation. He almost felt like laughing, or at least chuckling. The whole charade of appearing inconspicuous while wandering around the nearby area was laughable. He had little doubt whoever messaged him through the phone was the instigator for this unusual meeting in the woods and this showmanship of the two small figures. Although the blond could not be certain if this 'show' was some purposeful attempt to assure him he had reason to be calm and that the people to his left and right meant him no harm, or just that the two were the worst beings at the art of stealth Naruto had ever seen. It was by this only line of thought that prevented him from either laughing or standing guard against whatever might have next.

However, it seemed he would only have to hold back his laughter for only a few short moments, as yet again another set of footsteps were heard.

Pat.

A slow walk. Heavy steps. Coming from the left – the runner's side. Naruto only needed to raise his head a little higher to see the new arrival.

The first thing to be said about the latest visitor to the park setting was that he (if it was safe to assume it was a 'he') was taller, broader, and strikinglybuiltlike a small bull when compared to the smaller, nimbler others before him. From dress, to walk, to presence, to height – what words might have been used to describe the first two figures would not be said for this heavier character.

This individual wore nothing resembling the clothing choices his (assumed) compatriots had opted to wear. Instead, he wore something considerably more color-contrasting, in-human and heavy by design. From his shoulders to his legs, the new figure wore armor of definitive design. Jeweled, reddish-gold and heavily plated armor hung from broad shoulders. Each piece reflected impressively under the glow of the moon. As the distance closed between Naruto and the figure, the sounds armor, of an obvious heavy weight and most likely expensive material, was starting to be easily heard. It was only drowned out by the dark-leather and metal-toed boots that fought against the sinking mud of the park, slamming into the earth and splashing dirt around as they trudged further towards the park bench. And finally, as if there only to strengthen the already prevalent air of elegance and power the already dominant figure's appearance gave off, a long silver cape glided over the mud in his wake.

Royalty.

Undoubtedly, this ensemble of heavy armors, jewels and fine-clothed cape left little doubt to the idea that this figure was of considerable wealth and importance. Even Naruto, largely unfamiliar to defined 'fashion-senses,' would have had to be intentionally clueless to this level of obviousness. All the figure was missing from his dress was a golden crown atop his head to complete the appearance of 'one who ruled.' Which conveniently brought the blond's attention to above the protective clothing and gems.

The figure's head: it was green.

Green.

A green head. A green head with pointed ears. A green head with pointed ears, a roughly curved nose, and hairless from top-to-chin. The head's skin was rough and aged with several defined creases and markings around the eyes. Its chin was strong and wide, with the lips curled down into a long scowl. And from the corner of those snarling lips, a single long tooth – a fang – jutted up in a way that was both jarring and intimidating to view.

But this green headed figure was also worth mentioning.

They were glaring. Glaring death. His irises were red and might have come off as violent or promising pain if they weren't so cold and serious. The reason for such treatment of the eyes, Naruto could not know. They were pointed to him, utterly focused, and were only closing the distance in-between. In any other situation, such a look would have put the blond on edge and on the defensive.

But Naruto recognized the figure. Or, at least, what the figure was.

It was easy, actually. Such a creature was familiar, at least by story or his son's games, even in his previous life. From the green skin, smaller than average frame and gruff appearance, this final arrival was effortlessly recognized.

This royal figure was a goblin.

Goblins.

Natives to the ironwood, blackrock, and ore-rich world of Kana'prune'Khran, goblins have long been a race of easy recognition with a history that stretched almost as long as the equally identifiable humans.

Once infamously recognized for their annoying tendencies, extreme phobias to all things non-goblin, and for being excellent cannon fodder in any war they participated in, goblins held a long and recognized reputation amongst the many races. They were the inspiration for jokes, the descriptive word to describe an ugly or otherwise unintelligent individual, or simply a descriptor to express a person's greed, conniving nature, rudeness, distractible nature, or if he or she was just plain goofy.

Thousands of years did little to wane these old stereotypes. For reasons obvious; goblins were not amongst some of the most established or well received of species. Their histories in kidnapping, debauchery, debasement and other offensive actions dealt onto the dozens of species they had come into contact with over the long years had done little to improve their self-image. Their ancient actions of invading worlds, brewing chaos, devising misfortunes, and then leaving before any repercussions could be dealt were legendary (and, coincidently, they happened to be the inventors of the term, 'hitting-and-running').

How a once primitive, immature and often times churlish race of creatures ever discovered how to traverse the in-betweens of worlds was beyond any race's guess. But it was quickly understood that these vermin would not be rid of so easily; they were quick, small, and unnaturally good at running away (laughing and whooping even as they were called, in several tongues, cowards). What few were ever captured, it would seem no amount of torture or interrogation would help to dissolve the mystery behind just how the goblin society had discovered inter-world travel. Or if there even was a reason for why these green worms felt such jolly at the trouble they caused. The captured goblins knew as much about the sorcery that sent them away and brought them back to their original world as their captors.

It would seem, along with their green skin, small frames, and nimble feet, goblins were also famous for their stupidity.

And so, for the equivalency of a thousand human years, the goblin invaders would spawn countless 'mischief-making' events and catastrophes that they alone seemed capable of finding enjoyment in. And where once, these actions by the goblins might have just been considered cruel pranks or jokes at the misfortune of others…it would only be when the pillaging, kidnapping, and terrorizing on a scale that suggested an imminent invasion that….well…

The tormented races would not have it.

The goblins would have their comeuppance, they declared. From the union of a dozen anguished races among many worlds – who together sought to end the increasing and deplorable actions of these karma-avoiding creatures – a great plan was forged.

A plan to end the goblin scourge.

The Tormented Union, as they were named, searched for many years, coordinating vast powers and magic in search for the secret world of the goblins. It took five years of searching before the location was discovered. And then, once the formations and the armies and hordes of battalions had landed on the rough world of Kana'prune'Khran, they attacked with little mercy or regret.

This brutal strike would lay down the foundations of a fifty year war that would later be recalled as the 'Long Siege of the Goblin Tribes.' The Tormented Union challenged, fought, and brought down the wrath of many gods. To be certain, the war was bloody, harsh, and unforgiving, and had it not been overshadowed by the longer, harsher, and more terrible 'Great War' that was occurring on the human world, perhaps then this historic tale would have had a more significant impact on the events of all races today.

Instead, it is seen as little more than a bunch of different species deciding to bringing righteous justice on a bunch of maggots.

From the Long Siege, the goblins were nearly brought to extinction. Their culture was in ruins, their vast tribal cities turned to ash, and little of their heritage remained. What few decided against the bloodshed would instead become runaways – nomads – of their own planet; avoiding the wrath of their former tribesman, who saw them as traitors and scum, or the Union, who could not tell the difference between one goblin to another. These refugees ran, preserved what history they could, endured against those that would have sought them dead, and attempted to leave the war behind. Their challenges and tribulations would, perhaps, make a fascinating and insightful film for any audience. Their refusal to give into despair or lose faith in the idea that the goblin tribes could be renewed, better, and stronger than before was actually quite a touching and inspiring show of just what goblins were capable of, beyond their childish, deceitful, and arrogant cousins and former tribesmen.

It is because of those few wanderers who turned away from war – who sacrificed nearly everything for the hope of a future – that there are still goblins today.

There is no need to delve into the terrors and troubles and woes that befell the goblins after the Long Siege. Left to their ruin by those of the outside worlds and having lost the ways to traverse beyond their blood-soaked Kana'prune'Khran, the broken tribes scavenged and scurried through their war-torn world. Separated and divided, guideless and leaderless, what hope was left to find was frail and small. Many died during the Siege and many more would die afterwards. The foundations of their world had been scattered to the wind – and would remain this way for a thousand years.

Millennia of darkness and fear. The price for their cruelty.

Thankfully, and needless to say, the goblins of today were nothing like their ancient kin. The ones who survived had long forgotten the ways of their more barbaric predecessors. And though Naruto held no previous interactions with the goblin kingdom, that did not mean he was entirely unaware to their existence or their histories. His 'father,' the Great Satan Lord Sirzechs Lucifer, was quite fond of the race of former mischief makers. The young blond could recall many a times were the Devil leader would spend grandiose amounts of time acknowledging stories of the goblin people and had always shown a particular admiration to the green skinned beings. The passion his voice held when he recollected his dealings and communications with the few goblins he knew were always said with evident respect.

But of course, why did this matter now?

Why was the history of the once mischievous and terroristic goblins so important a thing to take note of?

To be sure, knowing the history of a race is nothing wrong. Through knowing the story of another, that someone will then be remembered for however long that memory may last. Infinitely more so when the case happens to be for an entire species. And though many an individual would never know the personals of a goblin, nor the struggles he or she's forebears had been dealt in centuries past, which does not mean that acknowledgment should not be forwarded.

This is especially so when, presently, Naruto found himself sitting across on his bench from the regally attired goblin.

The goblin did not make eye contact, initially. Instead, he – the goblin – decided to merely sit and gaze out to the park's woods for a few brief moments. His breathing was slow and tempered while his stiff posture suggested he was guarding himself. Like an animal set loose onto a new environment, this goblin of noble appearance held his eyes wide and open as it gave brief glances around the darkened park area, no doubt in search of anything or anyone out of place. Though unarmed, it seemed ready and willing to use anything from gauntlet-hands to sharpened, pointy teeth to see himself defended in this unfamiliar territory.

But, after short moments of silence and wandering views over the area, the goblin let out a long, almost-growled sigh of breath and turned to his bench compatriot.

The goblin nodded. "Good night." The goblin greeted in a voice grumbled and deep. "How are you?"

"Uh, fine. Good." Naruto answered back, never having actually heard a goblin speak before but was surprised momentarily to find the voice sounded exactly how he imagined it would. "And how are you?"

"Hmph. Cold," the goblin answered. "And my boots keep sinking in the mud." He lifted the iron-toed shoes, which were indeed covered and stained with the brown earthy substance, to his company. "And my kinsmen are by far the very definition of 'imbecilic' in their attempts to perform…reconnaissance."

He pointed a long, green and sharpened-nail at the two 'casual-appearing' figures to the left and right of the bench. The one leaning on the tree was now picking its nose while the former runner was now tying its shoes in what seemed to be a quadruple knot.

The goblin grunted in distaste, rubbing worn and dark eyes tiredly. "Fools."

"Hmm." Naruto could only reply while similarly staring to the two 'kinsmen' before the royal garbed goblin finally turned his attention to the other occupant of the bench. The teen could not be certain if the goblin could see his features under the shade of the hood and the darkened night sky. But Naruto could undoubtedly see his, and for what it was worth, the blond found no issue with stating that this kingly goblin was not a pretty picture.

He could guess already that the goblin was old, even if he went by only voice alone. But his deep wrinkled features, green-leathery skin and piercing deep eyes would only have aided that idea further. In fact, the goblin's appearance would probably have made most kids of many different species cry out in worry or fear. He held a sort of B-grade movie monster face you'd see on television and most definitely wasn't the sort of face you'd like to see in a dark alley.

Despite this, and thankfully too, Naruto held no issue staring at it. He'd dealt with worst looking things in his lives – both in the political and combative senses – and so dealing with a less than appealing individual, such as the one sitting beside him, was less of hassle than for one as aged as he.

"I am to assume you are the one I have hired?" The goblin spoke again, just getting over his obvious embarrassment to his kinsmen and was now staring to the hooded figure. The look on his face would have been best stated as a 'challenging' and suggested, if given the wrong answer or one that wasn't quickly offered, pain would be the response given.

Naruto offered a quick nod, having already surmised the goblin before him was his contact, as the lordly dressed figure took his gesture in positive.

"Then I believe introductions are in order," he said, with green fingers than rolled into fists and pounded against an armored chest. "I am Arruth'a'Snark! Son of King Daur'Phont and Queen Brashieti. Lord of the Sea of Bronze Tears. Third Conqueror of the Burning Mines. Voice and Protector of the once Scattered Tribes and the now Joined Kingdom of Kase'kan'Ache."

Don't ask about the name choices of the goblins. They used to be simple like 'Vile-Breath' or 'Grunt Tooth.' Now they were all fancy and difficult to pronounce and had a particular despising for nicknames.

"I am he who has climbed the Seventeen Hills of Brandil'hul and been cleansed by The Three," the goblin – King Arruth'a'Snark – continued. "I am he who has forged the alliance of dwarves, ogres and goblins. And I am he who stands as the face for all who were lost and am the descendant of Grendle'bor the First Stepper!" There was an undoubtable pride to the goblin's hard voice and words, now deciding to take in much needed breaths after his listing. Whatever these titles meant to the goblin lord, there was no denying they sounded impressive. Even the two kinsmen, still standing or kneeling away from the bench, seemed awed and beaming as their king told of his accomplishments and titles to the orange-wearing human he sat beside.

Naruto, somewhat taken aback by the introduction, only had this intelligent statement in mind:

"Uh, cool." He managed, to which the goblin lord nodded; it was cool. "Uh, I'm Naruto," no last name needed to be given, "and I'm, uh…I…"

He blinked uncertainly, not entirely sure how to go about what to say next. Fancy introductions weren't his expertise by any stretch. And unless he could somehow twist the 'Devourer of the Ramen Cup' or 'Magistrate of the Pancake Mix' into something more impressive than the conqueror of the bronze tears or whatever, it would probably do best to not make a fool of himself in front of his employer.

And so instead, after straightening himself and trying to not look completely overturned by the grandiose titles thrown his way, Naruto's left hand carefully reached into his pants pocket. He kept an eye on the two kinsmen, noticing the way they stiffened as his hand dipped into his clothes, and procured a folded white sheet of paper, handing it over quickly to the lord of goblins.

"This is Mikhail Mihailoff." He stated with a certain formal tone that only came from years of previous-life politicking as Arruth'a'Snark's eyes wandered to the sheet of paper and quickly plucked it from his hands.

If the elder goblin held any fears or trepidations to the idea of suddenly taking and opening the paper, whether it was some sort of weapon or masked attack hidden within the sheet itself, he did not show it. He unfolded the parchment quickly. Red eyes ran over the marks and symbols Naruto had written not too long ago, looking over every inch of the written sheet. His thin eyebrows creased as he did so; although King Arruth'a'Snark was known by his people as being an intelligent, crafty and by no means unfamiliar with written or spoken languages, try as he might, what he saw on the paper was nothing short of patterned gibberish and unintelligible sigils.

A moment passed. Then two. Then another. Then, before long, Arruth'a'Snark's eyes stopped wandering the scribbled symbols and marks of the paper and lifted his gaze to the (if he was to rightly guess) human boy. "And this is…?" The goblin left the question hang with a tone that was both patient and irritable at the same time. Whether this was because of his inability to read the markings or because there was nothing within the paper to clarify in any way shape or form that this was Mihailoff.

Naruto, for his part, knew this question would be coming. "Mikhail Mihailoff is gone," he calmly claimed. "And his body," he lifted an index finger, pointing to the paper, "is in there."

The goblin's gaze fell back to the paper then back to the boy. "Explain, human."

That would be a problem. Explaining what had occurred would be…lengthy and descriptive, sure, but most likely the technicalities and definitions of what was done would fly over the goblin. They sometimes flew over Naruto, as well, the complications of his works. So, to follow his old sensei's 'keep it simple, stupid' philosophy, he began with the most laymen's terminology imaginable for the situation.

As follows:

"It's magic. The scribbles are magic. Magic powers that are holding Mikhail Mihailoff in the paper." Naruto spoke slowly and carefully, looking to the paper before looking to the red eyes of Arruth'a'Snark.

To his credit, the goblin king did not immediately deny or call Naruto on his description for his deeds. Because, in truth, there was something peculiar about the paper. Its feel was crude and simple, nothing like the finer parchments he regularly held or read from in times past, but there was a…a heat coming off the ink of the paper. The air around the 'scribbles,' as the boy so crassly put it seemed to be twisting and fluttering around the marks edgings.

Obviously, the scribbles had some significance, but to what length? Arruth'a'Snark had no ability to say if was one way or the other.

And he let this fact be known. "And you expect me to take only your word for it? The word of a stranger?" Red eyes narrowed. "I wanted a body, boy. A dead one. Not some…indecipherable parchment for which I have not the aptitude to guess whether it is as you say or some fabrication to fool an old king out of his wealth!"

The king stood from the bench, red eyes still bearing down onto the orange-clothed human. The paper was held in his hand, tight enough to ruffle it but not enough to (thankfully) rub the ink in any way.

"If you have some proof apart from these markings and scribbles, than please, reveal them. Otherwise, let us end this meeting now before you displease me further…"

Naruto was willing to acknowledge that, were he in the goblin king's place, he would have held a similar concern if offered a sheet of paper and told this was what he wanted. And without doubt, he'd seen this sort of trick happen during his own term as a leader to the people. His forces, at least in the majority, were loyal and professionals in their craft. But there were the occasional agitators who thought that they knew best about something, decided to take an easy way out on an assignment, or believed the benefits to oneself came before the village and the continent as a whole. These individuals were usually caught, ridiculed and given appropriate disciplinary actions to insure such actions never occurred again.

This current circumstance with the king was different in very few ways. To be sure, Naruto felt something akin to disappointment with this 'turning in' of his work. To a ninja, the sealed paper and his reputation would have been enough to signify the truth of the matter presently. In his own world, if his word was not enough or challenged, he could have simply unsealed the paper, revealed the perpetrator (Mihailoff, in this example) and thus proven the truth of the matter.

But at the moment, such an action could not be taken. The seal worked once and then was ruined. He'd have to create an entirely new Oblivion Seal from scratch and reseal Mihailoff if he wanted to prove to the goblin king the truth of his word.

It was an unfortunate circumstance that Naruto was uncertain if he could reseal his previous opponent. Not without damage occurring, lives in danger, and some significant effort on Naruto's personal part not to wreck the forest and the nearby village in the ensuing battle that would inevitably come. If he had fellow ninja or people of considerable power at his beck and call, he would have no quarrels with releasing the previous Oymyakon citizen because he would be certain that he could then be restrained.

But with the present company of what few goblins he could see, Naruto had doubts – no. Rather, Naruto had certainties that they would be largely inefficient in confining Mihailoff for any stretch of time.

Therefore, proving his claim would be…difficult…

But not impossible.

Ten hours ago…

There wasn't much to say about the outside of Mihailoff Manor at the current hour. It was late, with the streets of Oymyakon deserted. Many of the town were asleep or nearing so, and even if someone were awake and wandering, there wouldn't be reason for concern. The popular mansion looked serene and undisturbed. The windows looking in showed no signs of disruption, besides what might have seemed like the small flickering of a candle. No disturbed noises or sounds could be heard, though this was nothing uncommon; the building's foundation and walls were thick and no noise, during times of parties or get-togethers, ever seemed to disturb the outsides of the village. And if someone happened to see the steady flow of smoke rising out from the high chimney, again, it would not have been a circumstance of concern. Old Mihailoff was just having a late-night fire. Perhaps with tea and cake.

Looking from the outside, Mihailoff Manor was as peaceful, quiet, and undisturbed as usual.

The inside, however, was a considerably different.

Walls destroyed. Furniture shattered. Utilities and commodities broken. Paintings and decorations torn, ripped, teared, ruined or even caught on fire. The famous historical artifacts and pieces that were shown openly in glass cases or nailed to the walls were now scattered across the tattered flooring with varying levels of damage. Mihailoff's prized kitchen seemed as if having been hit by a hurricane. The interior pool had pieces of ceiling and trash sitting at its bottom. The greenhouse was burning. The levels above had similar degrees of ruin to them. Large holes, not originally a part of Mihailoff Manor's design, connected the levels together, not unlike as if something had been ripped or thrown through the ceiling and floorings.

The air was filled with smoke and steam. The sounds of household items cracking under the heat of the fires which lit the home in an orange glow were distinct and not easily ignored. Not a room in the house had been left untouched since the mansion's internal conflict began. Though it was by some miracle that the fighting had not crept out onto the village, the damage within the home of Mihailoff suggested that it would have been quite easy for the combatants to have taken their clash out of the large-yet-confined space.

And between the two titans that did battle within what was once a comfortable and hospitable abode, only one now remained.

Naruto Uzumaki breathed deeply what clean air remained in the broken home, with eyes closed, arms and legs outstretched and looking quite weary where he lay. His back was to the floor and his chest quickly moving up and down from the ceiling to the floor in quickened breath. As honesty dictated the truth, the youthful blond would have appeared worn to anyone watching; his hair was disheveled and somewhat dirty-grayed with dust, his clothes were reddened with blood (not only his own) with his coat nowhere to be seen on his person, and even blunt wounds that left purplish bruising looked only somewhat better than the time they were inflicted.

And even his eyes, which only opened a moment before, still had the barest traces of red remaining in them. The rest had all receded after his momentary rest.

"Argh…" The Uzumaki groaned, his working left arm going to his eyes to rub them clean of any blood or dust that found their way in before turning his head to his right. His arm was in worst shape then his left; bloody with cuts and bruised heavily that would take some hours to fix. The shoulder was a level below normal, dislocated, but it was still attached so 'small blessings.'

He took a few moments, glancing between his arm and his place in the mansion. He was lying in what was the living room; the television had fist-sized holes cracking its screen, the couches were cracked and unable to hold themselves up, and the ceiling had a man-sized hole in. He craned his head to look down the hallway, seeing thrown books and a dislodged wood door lying just outside the large hole separating the rest of the house from the Mihailoff's library.

Entertainingly enough, Naruto couldn't recall who the one to make that hole was. Had he thrown Mihailoff? It was certainly large enough to be an accurate assumption. Or had Mihailoff thrown his opponent than followed through with an almost inhuman lust for battle?

Either scenario seemed likely, but neither mattered now.

Naruto was the victor and Mihailoff was sealed in paper.

Which, as it just so happened, to be a few inches from his outstretched and currently unusable right arm.

That's right; dislocated, bleeding, bruised, and currently without any motion capability whatsoever, Naruto STILL managed to use it to pull off the win! The story and conflict that led up to the fantastic finale was gut-quenching, heart-racing and full of hair-pulling moments of close encounters! And if Naruto were a (mentally) younger man who hadn't just used a forbidden jutsu to put away a foe of unparalleled bloodlust and ruinous intentions, he might have found himself cheering and proudly shouting his amazing abilities to the burning house around.

But as it was, all he could do was curse on the fact it would be some time before his arm could be used for more than flailing it angrily.

Crick.

"Agh, this…that's…F&$K!" Naruto growled, moving himself slowly into a sitting position. His body was sore, sure, but the awkward position his unusable arm decided to take then was less than enjoyable, letting out an audible rubbing sound. And while certainly the former Hokage was no stranger to pain, it could not be said that he was a fan of it either. He was human, after all, in a body that hadn't suffered the pains his previously older and tougher body had. By comparison, this body was strong but not yet at its peak.

And so, with discomforts such as a dislocated shoulder –

"F&%KING SHIT-STAINING SHOULDER!"

– certain levels of pain and profanity would ensue.

Eventually, after additional bouts of poetic cursing, the blond managed to navigate himself to his knees before moving upwards to stand. He almost lost his footing, needing to use his arm to balance himself off a broken couch as he assured himself that he wouldn't be falling over on some piece debris or broken house utility. He wasted little time before lifting the Oblivion Seal from its spot on the ground, giving it a quick shake to rid it of dust and rubble, looking it over for any signs of wear or damage on the ink or paper. And thankfully, there wasn't; the paper was dirtied but untorn while the seal was still steaming from its task completed and had avoided any smudging.

Well, without even looking, Naruto could have guessed the state of the seals; if the ink was disturbed in any way that altered its markings, whether by the fire or otherwise, than the last of Naruto's problems would be him worrying about his shoulder or the burning mansion-

Rrrrrrrrmmmmm-CRASH!

…Speaking of which, a large beam of timber than fell from the hole in the ceiling, noticeably where the youth had lain not a minute before. It crushed the floor with a large echoing sound, leaving a sizable impression while turning black as the fire began to turn the once precious wood to ash.

Naruto stared at the spot where the beam dented the floor, his eyes than wandering to the rest of the slowly roasting home. The fire was spreading, though it seemed to have still been kept within the homestead, not breaching outwards yet. This might have been due to the home's interesting design but Naruto couldn't say accurately. All he could guess was, since he could not hear the wailing of worried Oymyakon citizens nor see the flashing lights of a fire service vehicle, that he was still unknown to the village at large. Which was good; he'd much prefer his 'visit' to the small village of Russia to go smoothly. A quick in-and-out job.

Very ninja. Much preferred.

Especially since he had a couple last tasks to perform.

The library was the starting area for Mihailoff and Uzumaki's skirmish. So, needless to say, it did not come out unscathed. The mentioned hole in the wall was easy noticed and perhaps the most obvious of the room's damage (though Naruto decided to simply walk through the room's entranceway like before, which had somehow lost its door during the scuffle). Candles which previously hung at the corners of the room now sat quietly atop books and scrolls, alighting the old parchment and erasing centuries or even millennia old texts in moments. And what little furniture that had been present before Naruto showing – Mihailoff's desk, chair, comfort items – were now little more than splinters, torn shreds of fabric, or broken instruments scattered around.

Though the fighting quickly left Mihailoff's reading abode, it did not mean that the area had avoided the considerable damage the two men wrought. And what history and feelings had long since been echoed into the room's dwelling was now being erased in flickering flame.

Now, Naruto would never be described as a man of intelligent learning. His old teachers and sensei would attest to that. Sure, he was undoubtedly wise in his growing age and perhaps might even have been considered a philosopher of sorts; his long life of politicking, seeking to continue and prolong the Age Without War, and to secure a future where the children after his own children would be able to live without significant fear were testaments to this. But he was hardly a man who would sit in a classroom to study or venture into a library, such as Mihailoff's, to learn about anything. Naruto was a man who learned through action and of-the-moment situations. And though, to be certain, he was not above reproach to things taught to him that caught his interest or spurred his curiosity, it was a long observed truth that Naruto Uzumaki was better at learning through physical efforts, rather than through lecture.

Regardless of the former Hokage's lack of appreciation to the intellectual properties of a theoretical or even scientific novel, it did not mean he felt nothing to seeing what might have been, and probably were, the last articles and texts of philosophers, academics or novelists. It was his fault that, in some obtuse way, the reads were now slowly turning to cinders at his feet.

He didn't acknowledge this fact for long, however. The room was quickly growing inhospitable, with the ceiling giving way as the support beams that held it slowly lost their holding, mixing loose dust with the small embers that rained down onto the youth's messy blond hair, and the air was thickening with too much black smoke. Naruto would not be allowed to linger. Situations involving fire or hostile conditions were a strange occurrence the ex-village leader often found himself needing to deal with both in his previous and current lives. But that did not mean he had the nerve to enjoy such conditions. And actually, he felt a small pang of annoyance, only for a moment, his body's current lack of coat. He had needed to discard of it during the fight; using it as a small distraction during their clashing between himself and Mihailoff to get one over on the trained warrior's instincts. It had only been a moment's distraction, but he'd managed to deal some damage still.

But the details of Mihailoff's battle were of little current concern.

Presently, Naruto now found himself, amidst having to ignore the slight burnings he received from falling embers onto his arms and hair, moving around soot piles and burning memorabilia to stand under the portrait of the younger Mihailoff. It was, like the rest of the room, burning. The painting was slowly being singed away while its wooden portrait was blackening. Its destruction was imminent but that did not stop the man from giving it a hard nudge to remove it from its hanging and toss it casually away.

The safe containing the serums was largely undamaged. Truthfully, or at least by the Uzumaki's guess, the safe was large and dense enough to quite likely survive the mansion's obliteration. It certainly appeared sturdy enough; there might have been a half a foot of solid steel separating him from its contents. With a combination he could not have begun to guess.

Why the safe was so important than was actually an easy matter to deduce. Though not part of the blond's needed tasks, the concern with the serums survival gave the blond pause and concern.

The idea and reasoning were simple: what would happen if someone else gained the serums? Mihailoff had been a weak, crippled old man with a good soul that wanted to help people. And the liquids he'd concocted turned him into a being with unprecedented ability, strength, endurance and an unrestrained willingness to kill that could not be quenched by any amount of blood. Who knew what they'd do for someone even slightly unhinged.

So yeah. The serums had to go.

Naruto raised his usable left hand steadily to the safe, fingers extended as if he were holding something round. A ball, perhaps. He did not appear to be focusing particularly hard, as his eyes turned and looked to the open space between his hand's digits. He almost seemed casual, actually, even as, per the usual with the Uzumaki character, something strange and unorthodox began to happen.

The air and smoke of the room, which had only continued to grow in thickness and density, respectively, began to twist and spin towards the haphazard-looking blond's palm; curling and rotating around into what might have best been described to the wayward viewer as a 'miniature vortex' at the center of the teen's spread fingers. From the eye of this cyclone of air and smoke that had developed, a small bit of light started to form and expand outwards. A slight outer luminesce of a bluish tinge and a bright white epicenter, growing in brightness and intensity as the spinning power of the vortex began to grow. Then, tiny threads of aqua colored energy began to swirl alongside the smoke and air. It was twisting so quickly but still remaining within the controlled area of the palm. Like thousands of tiny blue threads encompassing a small light. And amidst the red, orange and dark colors that surrounded him, Naruto's softball-sized blue vessel of glowing energy was quite the eye catcher.

The sphere was slowly pressed against the metal framing of the safe. And at first, it seemed the makeup of the ball's energy was being pressed back or rejected by the undoubtedly dense material of the safe. A loud sound rushing air arose from where the impact between the safe and energy met.

And then, after a few seconds of no reaction from either the safe or the ball, a small sliver of dust-like metal fell from the safe. It was the tiniest bit, like a pinch of salt, but it wasn't the last. Slowly, more sprinkles of dust-like metal began to fall from the space between the shining globe and itself, quickly increasing in amounts that were eroded from the safe and creating a small pile of dust at the boy's feet. The safe was an interesting sight; where the blue orb hit, the safe slowly began to dissolve. In a smooth, clean spinning motion, the metallic container quickly began to define a sizable hole in its makeup. Like a large drill, the orb was pressing itself further and further into the safe, carefully done so no issues would occur.

It wasn't long before the hole had dug itself deep into the framework and allowed for serums to be made visible to view.

Naruto pulled his hand back, the blue sphere disappearing in a twist of energy and air as he observed the insides of the safe. The dozens of silvery vials shone with an orangey tinge by the lights of the fire but were undamaged and undisturbed within the safe. They were secured and fastened to their places and no amount of shaking or damage outwardly to the safe would change that.

But in the end, the vials were still made of glass. And glass was breakable.

Naruto happened to be something of a 'gifted individual' in the art of breaking.

Reaching into the back pocket of his pants, the youthful blond lifted to his eyes what might have seemed like a large wad of bills. They were wrapped together by a tight rubber band and, like the sealed paper waiting in his pocket, had small lined marks and symbols covering itself from top to bottom. A quick browsing through the rest of the wadded papers would actually have shown that each were remarkably similar in design as the rest, showing a precision and careful practice to their creation. And looking to their backsides, a bit of sticky material had been attached, as well, allowing for these tags to be capable of holding themselves to any surface they were placed on.

Using his thumb and teeth to take hold of a couple notes and carefully place the wad back into pocket, Naruto quickly went about slipping them into the newly created hole of the safe and placing them carefully where he could. Though it might have seemed excessive, Naruto felt assured that the two tags would be more than capable in completing their intended tasks. In fact, they might have even been capable in wrecking the safe in its entirety.

The word 'overkill' had never been a part of an Uzumaki's vocabulary.

Naruto stared at one of Mihailoff's bookshelves. Like most of the other bookshelves, the books and contents were laid around on the floor. There was a rather large indentation into its woodwork, curtesy of an aggressively thrown former ninja. The shape was distinct, wide and went several inches deep into the woodwork. And as it so happened, it was a part of the 'little skirmish' the blond remembered quite vividly. The reason being was actually quite interesting. Naruto, as it turned out, actually had quite a recollection of times where he'd been thrown through wooden objects. Trees, doors, tables, establishments – if it was made of wood he'd probably been tossed into it.

So, when the bookshelf felt less like a bookshelf upon impact, especially when his elbow drummed against something noticeably metallic, the youth decided that this particular occurrence required further investigation.

He raised his hand up and knocked on the wood.

Dop dop dop.

Nothing. Just wood.

Dop dop dop.

Again, wood.

Dop dop dop dop dop dop dunk.

An eyebrow rose.

Dunk dunk dunk.

Metallic?

Dunk dunk dunk.

Oh, yes. Very metallic.

Dunk dunk dunk.

And…hollow? Naruto hadn't exactly searched the house from top to bottom since his arrival. During the former Oymyakon citizen's fishing trip and dinner, the blond would regretfully claim that he had been unable to discern much from the ordinary places of the home. No unusual cracks in the staircases or walls, no unusual dust patterns, no bizarre light spaces that seemed unreasonable for being there – the mansion was modest and low-key except for the door in the hallway which led to the library. And now, behind 'bookcase #1,' he found himself an interesting bit of something.

If Naruto were a novelist man, he'd say this qualified as 'an interesting development.'

Deciding not to waste time in a home that was currently alit, the blond placed a tense hand to the side of the bookshelf, pressing against its sides outwardly. It didn't budge, at first; probably nailed into the wall. But nails wouldn't hold for long after the teen upped the pressing power.

Creeeeaaaaaku-ku-ku-ku…

Naruto paused in his pressing.

That did not sound like a nail.

Then resumed.

CreeeEEEEEAAAAKUKUKUKUKU-PUH!

A sound like metal bars being forcibly ripped from their intended placings rang over the roaring fires that chipped at the woodwork of the library. The duress was obvious, suggesting that it would require repair on a moderate to severe case if the bookshelf would ever find itself in need of (though unlikely of a possibility as of that moment) repair.

The average individual would call Naruto's actions 'damaging private property.'

Naruto, as it was, called it 'progress.'

CRASH.

And there went the bookshelf.

Behind it was – surprise – metal. A whole bunch of it. An elevator, as it were, with only the smallest of indentations in its center where its two doors met. If Naruto were a gambling man, he'd guess that was where his ass promptly felt out the metal behind (ah, so many butt jokes, so little time) the cabinet and gave a clear indication that this little library had more than just the secret of 'the-super-soldier-live-long-and-prosper-here's-Johnny-with-an-axe' serum.

Now, in most cases, when a building is on fire, ablaze, caught in an inferno or some other fancy phrasing that describes 'a place is smoking up something foul,' you do not use an elevator. That is a safety hazard. It is a risky venture and can lead very easily lead to anywhere between an agonizing, painful burning to a slow suffocation. In situations where panicked individuals are trying to escape a fire or equally bad situation, mistakes can be made. It's unfortunate, but things happen. In the case where an individual, calm in mind and free of mind control, is surrounded by objects alit, smoke and an obvious 'do not ride the elevator' vibe, but STILL decides to throw caution, common sense and worry to the wind (or fire, as the situation would be), than that individual would be declared a first grade idiot.

Ding!

The elevator doors opened with an audible ring as Naruto's fingers brushed against the door buttons at his side. He walked in without a second's wait.

There wasn't a lot to say about the elevator. It was sized appropriately, had a comfortable hotel-themed-esque look to it with red and gold wallpaper, and a panel to the side of the doorway with two round buttons each with large letters plastered into their middles: T and B.

Top and bottom.

Well, the big 'T' just so happened to have a rather apparent golden ring around it, with the big 'B' below grayed out and looking unimpressive –

So Naruto tapped it quickly.

Ding! Ding!

The electronic bell rang as the doors shut in front of him, cutting off the sight of fire and the crackling of burnt objects. In their place was now the gold semi-reflective surface of the closed elevator doors and the somewhat-annoying-somewhat-migraine-inducing music commonly found when you're put on hold by telephone operators. The elevator began its descent after a brief shake with the music being mixed with the dull humming of the gears and engine.

The ride below was long. There wasn't any questioning that. The elevator seemed to move at a steady speed and there was definitely the feeling of lowering. But after a few minutes of that continuous feeling, questions began to arise on whether there was a bottom or not to the shaft. The secret lift just kept going down, down, down and down some more. It wasn't a question on whether 'deep' was an appropriate word to use in describing the ride. And any other time, it would be a wonder if the depth of the never-ending-elevator-ride-with-the-maddening-music-of-the-damned was a sign of the paranoia that was for Mikhail Mihailoff or a sign that the man really wanted to keep his secrets from the world.

Neither was preferably comforting.

But like all things that may be terrible or wonderful, –

Ding! Ding!

– the elevator ride came to an end.

At the bottom floor of Mihailoff's Manor, there is a room. A chamber, actually. A chamber so long and tall and wide that it defies belief. Belief since, twenty years ago, it did not exist. Such a vast hall challenged any possibility that it could be so enormous in such a span of such short decades. Its floors were concrete and smooth as fine silk; the walls and ceilings were colored a sharp gray while the columns which held the weight of the earth and village above were starlight white; and laid out like graves in a cemetery were marble pedestals with thick glass casings on top stood tall.

These pedestals are where the really unnatural stuff started to go down.

Naruto, after stepping out onto the chamber's floors, allowed himself a moment to look out to the immensity that stood before him. The bright coloring, the construction, the impossibility of it all…right below an entire village, this expanse stretched over a length Naruto never knew was possible to build. Even the architects of Iwa – masters of molding the earth into different forms or constructions by their will – would find creating such a chamber an accomplishment only capable in their wildest dreams. The former Hokage had seen many extraordinary sights in his life; this place, simple though it was, would undoubtedly be one of them.

Naruto's pace was slow as he passed further from the elevator and into the large room. It might have been some subconscious choice to tread carefully on these unknown grounds under so much earth above his head. Especially when the only way to escape was a one-way ticket to an inferno above. He half expected the place to have some sort of trap or defensive parameter that would activate to prevent intruders from going further or getting away. But thankfully, Mihailoff didn't seem to believe his hideout under the earth would be discovered. By assumption alone, it could be believed that such cautionary measures might have damaged the treasures on the pedestals. Thus, no explosions, death traps, or laser beams of evilness to worry about.

Small blessings.

The first pedestal Naruto glanced over was the closest one to his person. It, like the other pedestals in the room, was finely crafted with a heavily Greek inspirational design and was made of an almost silvery marble. As mentioned, it wasn't at all distinct when compared to the others around it, and almost looked like exact copies of each and every one. Factory built, perhaps? It really wasn't an issue as neither the glass nor the stand were the real eye-catchers in the room. The items that sat atop the pedestals, contained within the glass, which differed from the rest. Unlike the artifacts that had been freely allowed to be touched and looked into with further detail, the glass around the stand's contents suggested that they were not to be touched by any means.

How did these few items lying here have more value than the millennia old relics above? Especially items that appeared to have…less than significant value.

An arrow, broken at the middle. A bit of silvery cloth, torn but glistening. A feather, white as snow. A piece of parchment with a drawing of an elegant and sophisticated looking woman. Her features were stern but certainly not ugly. An Angel, maybe? Mihailoff mentioned he'd 'known a few' and expressed a certain talent for art and drawing. It seems they were not simple boastings, as evidence showed. The feather was certainly impressively colored and the cloth was almost divinely elegant. Naruto had only dealt with Angels a number of times in his life and it wasn't under the best of circumstances. He wished he had a better clue, but the last item sitting at the front of the glass container, a gold plated plaque written in a language he could neither read nor recognize, spelled out something that might have been significant to the items and drawing in the glass.

He stared at the first pedestal for a few extra moments, wondering and trying to make sense of it, then stepped over to the next.

Some burnt firewood. A brown teddy bear. An iron key. And there was parchment, like the other pedestal, with a girl in her early teens. She was a sophisticated looking young woman. She had, by Naruto's guess off of the paper alone, long curly auburn hair and freckles. She was smiling. Her expression wasn't as hard as the maybe-Angel's. In fact, it almost looked sad. The detail to her eyes and lips were startlingly detailed, another testament to Mihailoff's skill with a pen. And each item lying on the pedestal's hard surface was of a very old age. Worn bear fur, chipped wooding, the girl's old European dress. No doubts could be made about the age of the items within. But they were preserved, it seemed. And, again, like the previous pedestal, a gold plaque sat at the front of the items. But this time, Naruto recognized the language – some old cursive of English – but was regretfully unable to read it.

Since being found by Sirzechs, the spoken tongue of others was no barrier to him. The reasons why were…less than clearly stated. As were a lot of things after his waking up in the sarcophagus. His ability to interpret and speak any language he desired without issue, and in fact make whatever was conveyed to him sound as if it were the common language of his first life (his new life's dubbed 'Japanese'), was an unprecedented blessing that came from his discovery in the tomb.

However, though his ears heard everything in the language he was most familiar with; it seemed his eyes were not given the same gift with the written words of others. And in any situation revolving around written words of unknown diction, it would be up to his aunt Rias, who was intelligent and knowledgeable in many areas of language and written words, to be of assistance. The Lady of Gremory was an expert in reading the weird texts of other species and races. As was befitting her position in the Gremory line of succession. Naruto was…less than proficient. He tried, surely, but where Rias blossomed and bloomed under her mother's tutoring, the blond had been less than keen and gifted.

But that did not mean he was a fool. And glancing between the two pedestals and their contents, looking over the way they were almost shrine-like in design, a small widening of the eyes occurred. A thought began to grow on just what he'd walked into.

He walked to a third pedestal.

Partially out of a sense of still lingering curiosity. Mostly to see if his assumption was right.

A few pieces of metal lined up over a patch of gray cloth. Long, slender pieces. Each showed ware and chipping, either from age or something else it was hard to say. The bits seemed to be made for something mechanical, and going by how some of the portions seemed to be able to go together with another, it was an easy guess to believe the individual parts made up something originally greater. Guessing by the way they were positioned in a straight outline over the cloth, Naruto's best guess would have been…a gun? Rifle? It was either that or some overly complicated blowgun and obviously of a model before the modern kinds. Admittedly, the teen held little experience with the projectile armaments, but was of at least the common awareness to tell that, even together, the pieces would have made something older than what he'd seen from present day movies or television.

So, an old weapon/gun/rifle/blowgun. Check.

Then there was a knife. Nothing actually substantial about it. Just some old war knife Naruto was only able to recognize because he'd seen one such knife on a field trip to a World War Two museum. The only reason the knife, above many other relics he'd seen that day, had stood out and caught his eye was because it was still stained with dried blood. He couldn't remember the reason why the museum had left the knife stained as it was but he did recall why it was such a vivid memory; it reminded him of the days of when he was a ninja. Back in a previous life, old weapons that belonged to well-known ninja would sometimes be commemorated by their villages. And, even more rare the case, these weapons, which did so much good and took great amounts of enemy blood, would not be given a proper cleaning or caring after they were retired, out of some archaic sense of awe or needing to preserve the tool as it appeared on the battlefield: dirt covered and painted with the dried blood of others. Kirigakure, a village of significant prowess and history in the art of bloody conquest, once held long standing traditions towards their fallen heroes, even in times of peace. These individual sacred weapons were honored and could be found in revered areas around their village, forever stained with the blood of long past enemies.

As was the case with the knife and weapons mentioned, it appeared a similar approach was being taken. From the tip of the steel to the butt of the handle, a dried, faded, evident maroon-colored stain could be found.

It was a lot of maroon.

And then, like the two pedestals before, there was the drawn sketch on old parchment. This time, unlike the first two, this one depicted the stern and weary features of a man. Asian by nationality and civil in the uniform he was sketched in, his appearance was respectable. A soldier, perhaps. And the previous items seemed to suggest a military background, as had the items of the previous pedestals matched their drawn-occupant in some way.

And the gold plaque, written in the only language Naruto could read without issue – this world's 'Japanese' – spoke of a situation and gave clue to what this room of pedestals truly was…

Date: Midwinter of the human year, 1939.

Location: South Nanking, China.

Drawing: Last soldier of the Nanking defensive position. No known naming or identification could be found.

Items: Broken Mosin-Nagant, pieces equaling to seven.

Tool Used: Chinese knife. Model unknown. Appears homemade. Effectivity apparent.

History: Worked as a member of a Japanese mercenary contingent. Scouted ahead to enemy position and struck when given the chance. Completed in seven hours, fourteen minutes. Rain drowned out my footsteps. Cleaned up area afterward. Wasn't Roanoke but pleased with results.

Present Notification: Current belief is uncertain on what happened to the soldiers.

Personal Feelings to Work: Satisfactory.

Personal Notes: Drawn soldier almost escaped. Don't let it happen again.

The written words were largely straightforward and not largely difficult to interpret what stood for what, with some personal bits that Mihailoff seemed to think of secondhandedly while making the plaque. For all his grandeur and enjoyment to the words and stories, it seemed as if he was trying to keep this informational plate formal and prompt. Though the situation depicted in his written words were not portrayed with excelling details or grandiose terms, it was not difficult to imagine the man performing the acts.

He fought Mikhail Mihailoff. Naruto was, as disturbed as the thought may be, fully aware of what the man was capable of.

Those soldiers mentioned on the plaque? Those three thousand nearly? As disturbing as it was – as TERRIBLE as it was – Naruto knew what immense experience, the ability to be invisible, and having a body that could bend steel as if it were tin foil would allow such a man with a bloodlust unquenched to do.

Once upon a very long time ago, there was a leader of his village who fought against a force numbering in the ten thousands. This force was a capable, talented and an exceptional army which could have ripped a mass of men and women of equal size without trouble. This leader challenged the force to allow his people time to escape. He fought, for three days and nights, in a struggle against this overwhelming force. This man was a cut above the rest with skill, power, physical aptitude and knowledge of all things combat. A single lift of his finger was said to be capable of ripping a man in half with a roar of thunder and storm. And his skin was blessed by lightning itself, rumoring it to being an impenetrable shield.

But still he died, with seven thousand foes at his side.

So yes – three thousand soldiers? Armed only with knives, guns, rifles – the sort? Against Mihailoff? An over-the-top, grandiose storyteller with psychological, homicidal and genocidal tendencies that could not, and should not, be matched?

Those soldiers never stood a chance.

As happenstance would have it, it was these thoughts to the overabundance of killing that tore Naruto's eyes away from the Nanking soldier's pedestal and to the entirety of the room of pedestals.

And he wondered then, as it dawned on him just what each pedestal was, how best to describe the room at the bottom of the lift. A gallery? A trophy room? Mausoleum? Hall of the taken? Where thousands upon thousands upon thousands of those long past would never be forgotten? The words were hard to find for the area past the elevator.

It was…painful, yet oddly serene. Like any graveyard, there was a morbid air to the pedestals, but also something personal. By no means did this hall seem to have any intention of appearing harmful, disrespectful or outright cruel, barring the knife's dried bloodstaining, to the occupants that were mentioned on their plaques. Every pedestal, marble and decorated, was a life. They might very well have seemed like little more than altars to the killed, holding the object remains of lives taken from worlds beyond their own, but out of the cruelty of their murders came some remembrance.

Did that make this place by any means less than an account of those whose lives were unjustly and cruelly brought to an end by the hands of the earth's most long serving member of carnage itself? No. You can paint shit gold but that won't change what it is. But that should not bar their significance.

If by guess alone, Naruto could assume, to Mihailoff, every life taken was a life that still held a story. The plaques were significant to this fact. Even if it was only the vaguest proof that they happened, and the items lying beside the portraits did little more to prove this ideology, but it was still there.

A story.

Every life – no matter how long, how short, how terrible or wonderful – deserved to be known. To be understood. Whether as if by tale, narrative, legend or myth, the life or death of someone can be an experience unexpected when learned. It might be hard, sometimes, to do so; to endure the length and realize the bad, as well as the good, of another. But there is an undoubtable growth in the action of doing so.

Strange really. Once, such an understanding might have passed over the blond's head. But now, Naruto actually let himself relieve a bitter laugh from his throat.

He smiled, then. He smiled something old, which did not match to the face of a young man.

Over a hundred years old, he thought, and I can still grow a little bit older.

Naruto brought his still-only working hand up in a sort of half-prayer and bowed to the lot of pedestals. It was small, but it was probably more respect shown to the decorative representations than they ever received from someone who wasn't their killer. This gesture would likely do little more than feel like an off practice of sorts, as ninja rarely had need for religious practices, nor did many feel a connection or loyalty towards a religious practice, but it was the thought that counted.

Although, come to think of it, Naruto wondered quietly when the last time he prayed actually was. Certainly it was not in this life – there was never the need and Devils certainly didn't teach it. Through his new life he never visited the temples or religious sites in Kuoh and the Underworld did not have the familiar customs his old life had when it came to religion (but the Devils' reasons were somewhat obvious).

Though not often pondered, the former Hokage would admit that there was some required 'getting used to' with the bizarre transition from one culture to another that came with his new life. He did spend many decades learning, understanding and cultivating himself to his past world. Laws, rules, guidelines and publicly accepted actions – these took years to acknowledge and appreciate. His personality and way of leading was heavily coordinated by these fundamental facts of the world. And at nearly a century in age at the time of his passing, the rules of his world had largely engraved themselves into his mind to the point where he did not consider them for even a moment. Second nature, as it was. But then to suddenly be thrown into a new world – worlds, as he would later discover – and be expected to learn and adapt himself to an entirely new set of cultures that were as obviously contrasting as the one he knew and loved…

Well, for most people, it would have led to one seriously messed-up case of culture shock.

Truly, were he not reborn an infant, who grew to understand the new world around him and its differences as time slowly passed by, Naruto Uzumaki could only guess how such a transition of realities would have mulled over in his mind. A ninja was adaptable to bizarre changes in a consortium of situations, as was how they were trained. But to find themselves in a world not their own, unable to return to the place they lived and to find out that what they once held dear and close was nowhere to be found? It wouldn't be an easy pill to swallow.

Imagine it now: a new air to breath, a different earth to lay your feet down on, or to look up and see a sky and sun that were not your own. Everyone he ever knew, gone without even the acknowledgement of a grave or spot in history. Essentially alone in unfamiliar and potentially dangerous environments.

These are only a few of the things, astoundingly, Naruto had to take one day of his life at a time to accept. And this was in conjunction with the frequent annoyances that came with being confined into a newborn's developing and difficultly controlled body (which he would not discuss in any stretch of detail, even under the threat of death (it's a pride thing, the average individual would understand)).

But those questions, concerns, and major cultural shock topics were beside the present point. For now, Naruto decided that he had lingered far too long in this 'Tomb of Pedestals.'

Reaching into his front pocket, and amazed that the item he pulled was undamaged still even during his above scuffle, the blond teenager pulled out the slender frame of his cellphone. Its black coloring was actually quite striking when compared to the largely light colored surroundings he was standing in.

He turned it on.

He located a specific envelope-looking icon.

He tapped it with his working thumb.

He scrolled down the message that popped onto the screen.

Then, when he came to the bold, slanted text that read 'Pendent of Grendle'bor,' he tapped said letterings with the same thumb.

When an image moved onto the screen – a picture of a sketched drawing which depicted a long piece of metallic string attached to a smoothed stone of no identifiable significance – the Uzumaki studied it with almost comically narrowed eyes before looking out to pedestals surrounding him.

The thousands. And thousands. And thousands. And thousands of pedestals. Each with their own bits and pieces of diverse items and treasures.

And somewhere, out in the masses of marble stands, was the little tiny pendent.

Possibly.

And Naruto, usually calm in mind and steadfast in resolve, realized the hassle this new search was most likely to be.

"…FfffuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-!"

Pedestal 441.

A handkerchief. Three bronze colored buttons. A silver coin. A portrait of a well-dressed man and a French scrawled plaque.

No pendent.

"Not here."

Pedestal 442.

A black book. Some chalk. A twisted, but oddly captivating, woman with a sneer on her face and a pointed hat on her head. The plaque was English.

No pendent.

"Nope."

Pedestal 443.

A handful of dark brown hairs. A dozen stained fangs. A face of a wolf stared out from the old paper, with unnaturally detailed eyes. The plaque was of a language unfamiliar.

No pendent.

"Next…"

Pedestal 444.

A withered bit of what looked like the end of an octopus. What originally looked like a large glass ball was eventually to be discovered as a single, lifeless eye. And then, between the two pieces, a single claw, or maybe even a fang, as large as Naruto's head, sat ominously in view. The portrait was that of a, maybe, squid/octopus monster, as the entire piece of paper was taken up to depict its twisting tentacles and unruly brown skin. Though no claw or fang could be seen on it, the eye and end of the tentacle matched disturbingly. And the plaque was in English. Again. No translation available.

And no pendent.

"Shiiiiiiit."

Naruto growled despondently as his still only working arm went to his eyes to rub them irritably. Some half an hour into his search, and nothing resembling his pendent was to be found.

He growled again, rubbing his hair now before standing at his full height and giving a loud shout of, "Hey guys! You find anything?"

Several bobs of yellowish spiky haired heads popped up from various directions, with blue eyes turning to the shouting blond.

"Not yet!"

"I got nothing!"

"I found a necklace with diamonds on it. Does that count?"

"No."

"I got a medallion with silver string. Is that good enough?"

"Does it look like the thing on the phone?"

"…No."

"Then there you go!"

"I found a baby mermaid's tail. Uh, but without the mermaid's…'top'…"

"…That has NOTHING to do with rocks!"

"Why the F&%K did you even have to tell us that?"

"I hate you!"

"Oh! I found a rock! And some string!"

"Wait, really?"

"Awesome!"

"Is it the one on the phone?"

"Uh…it's a rock…with some string…is that good enough?"

"…DICK!"

"Son of a-"

"Don't joke around!"

"Somebody stab that guy!"

"Oh, come on, guys! I was kidding!"

"Stab him! Stab him two dozen times!"

"B-but I'd die on the first!"

"We'll find a way to keep you going!"

"Ahhh!"

As the various copies of Naruto tried and search for the missing jewelry piece without success, usually taking a minute or two to argue or spout threats to one another with growing levels of irritation to their rather boring secondary assignment their 'boss' had inducted them into, the original blond teen could only sigh as he moved onto yet another pedestal. And after the first three-hundred, the feelings of forlorn were starting to grow stronger with each marble alter depicting another gruesomely taken life.

Naruto allowed himself to exhale of a long breath from his lungs, rolling his still-only working arm in a way to help relax, before stepping forward to the next alter with an apprehension he wouldn't openly admit…

Pedestal 445…

Some 10 Minutes…

Pedestal 567.

A ring. A single gold band. That was all that sat on its smooth surface.

Aside from the obligatory plaque and the always present drawings that every stand held, another commonality that wasn't easily ignored was the necessity for at least two or three additional items to be present around them. The reasons for each item placed was obvious after a while; they held personal or significant value to the departed or Mihailoff personally. The few engravings written in the gold that Naruto was capable of reading confirmed as much. Whether it was the murder weapon, an item that held significance by the deceased, or a tool or weapon used in their defense or something random that the now-former mass murderer, there was always at least two things that suggested a connection between the killer and the killed.

Except for pedestal 567.

His eyes then wandered away from the ring and towards the two other items behind the glass. The reasons why were because, in truth, where his tired and weary mind was taking him might have been an incorrect conclusion. He might have been mistaken. Wrong. There were plenty of pieces of jewelry scattered around the room, trapped behind glass boxes to be viewed only at their new owner's leisure. From necklaces to bracelets, crystals and jewels, to rings of different sizes, materials, ornaments and perhaps even properties otherworldly. By itself, and from only what Naruto could see, this small ring was only just a golden band, which may or may not have been for weddings or a relationship or not. There might have been an inscription in its inner, a small saying or phrase, where a slender finger may slip in and feel comfortable by the cool metal's touch. But there was no knowing what it might have said. Not from the angle he looked in. There was also, maybe, a desire to learn and a hope to believe it was what it was. But again, just looking at the plainest ring of gold he'd seen when compared to the finer and more outrageous trinkets of the room, there was nothing to really say about this simple thing.

But that was why his eyes wandered to the drawing.

Beautiful. Absolutely, undoubtedly, without question or doubt or reason to argue, beautiful. The detail, the radiance, the way the feelings were expressed through the very clothes, the skin, the eyes, the lips, the hair – no photo or picture or art of any sort had ever been seen through those blue eyes and neither would anything compare to the what this parchment had been engraved with. Blessed with, more like, though Naruto would never be so poetic as to use such an adjective. He had a way with words, certainly, but words meant to inspire, to bring about courage and to bring out the very best of one's person and soul. Artistry was not his forte by any stretch, but even he was aware that very few words of any language would have the generosity or the purity to express the depths or the hours that must certainly have been placed into this portrait.

And by his own luck, and lifelong ability to create astounding coincidences, Naruto actually knew the face of this wondrous figure. He'd seen her before. Several times, in fact. And now glancing down to the old English text on the golden plate, his eyes did not need to decipher the text to find a single word that he knew. A word that he had seen written on various portraits, statues, and pieces of art aplenty.

The word happened to be a name. And that name was –

"Laura."

CHR-CHING!

The loud sound of glass shattering and falling to the floor was heard from the several clones still searching the room, as once again several heads of blond turned to their creator. Their similarly faced features expressed curiosity to the sound with a small bit of hope that their search was now finished. They waited, patiently looking over the pedestals to see why their 'boss' was up to.

Naruto, the original, slowly removed his hand from the hand-sized hole he created, his fingers curled tightly in a fist. He looked down to his hand, shaking it clear of small shards of glass that had stuck to him during the impulsive action, and opened his fingers slowly.

It glistened, actually, for only a moment. The ceiling lights shone down onto the little piece of jewelry quite finely once it was removed from behind the glass. There wasn't a speck of dust or sign of dirt to be noticed. Preserved and, by only a guess, polished to ensure its condition. Regularly, it seemed.

How curious.

It was a fine thing. So small, but important. He looked at it, studied it for a few moments, ignoring the whispers and stares of his company before carefully slipping his hand to the side and letting the small jewelry fall into his pocket. It gave a small, near-inaudible chime to being tapped next to the phone that had been returned to its former place prior to his smashing of the glass, then went silent.

He turned to his copies, looking largely unaffected by his actions. "Find anything?" He asked, loud enough to be heard even from the wide distances.

"Nothing." One of the clones answered.

"Haven't found it yet."

"Still looking."

"I'm starting to think we're not-WAIT!"

Several blond-haired men jumped in surprise, turning to the origin of the ear-ringing shout. A long arm waived widely in the air.

"I GOT SOMETHING! I GOT SOMETHING!"

Seven hours ago…

It is never wise to test a goblin's patience. They are creatures who live for the present and care little for things that do not wish to progress forward in a manner or speed which they are comfortable with. 'Time is money', as is the common saying for the goblin society's higher-ups (though there was often debate on whether it was they who coined the term first or some other species).

Interestingly, this lack of patience seems to be a common situation with many species whom enjoyed the untouched realms beneath the earth. Mining and cave-dwelling species, such as the dwarves, trolls, gargoyles and so on, seemed to hold a strange connection with a desire to not dally on the smaller issues or curiosities of life. In fact, they were rather eager to satisfy their constant and near-insatiable desire to move as the earth did; without hindrances or blunders.

Arruth'a'Snark was no different in this regard.

If the blond-haired child offered him nothing further and instead decided he would continue to waste his precious time, then a distasteful and harsh dismissal would be the least he would be given before the night was through.

Though, as fortuned favored both the kingly goblin and the Uzumaki, Naruto just happened to be willing to satisfy the green-skinned individual's eagerness for an answer.

As stated, though he had no way of confirming his words about Mihailoff's imprisonment, there was still a method to convincing the king his words held at least some truth. A small way, which had taken him some time and effort in producing a definite result.

His hand reached into his coat pocket, smoothly and obviously so as not to raise suspicion or seem dangerous, and felt something wrap against his fingers.

King Arruth'a'Snark's eyes lost all semblance of resentment or ire as the boy lifted a small something from his pockets. First, under the dim lighting of only the moon, it looked only as if the human child was removing his hand from his pocket. But as it rose higher, a silvery string glistened by the moonlight to his eyes. And even that small bit was enough to make the old goblin's eyes stretch wide, his body tremble and stiffen, and his breath catch in his throat.

There, hanging by a light bit of string and waving lightly in the dimness of the night, was a smoothed and relatively unimpressive stone.

Just looking at it, the king lost all sense of self-pride to his kingly appearance and allowed himself to a long, cleansing release of air. "The Pendent…," he began, pausing for a second to retake breath and stare at the stone, "ofGrendle'bor?"

Snatch!

Naruto only just began to hand over the rough jewelry before it was ungraciously taken from his hands.

The pendent, now clutched tightly in the metal gloves of Arruth'a'Snark, was brought to the goblin's eyes and looked over intently. It was twisted and turned in every direction the rock would allow, metal-clothed fingers tracing it carefully, with every second a more definite glow of disbelief and absolute joy taking over the once gruff and despising gleam the red eyes of the goblin had.

Once every inch and mark and indentation was gazed over and touched for the sake of his personal remembrance, the goblin king raised it from his face and towards the nightly sky. As if it were a trophy or some prized item now recovered. The pendent did not seem in any way magnificent or special, contrary to how it was now viewed by the goblin. It was a bit of metal string tied to a small, hand-sized rock. Its sentimental or personal values were lost to him. But there was no denying the action of the heavily garbed goblin was not dissimilar to as if it were being presented to a gathering of onlookers or a cheering crowd. Though, aside from the two kinsmen still watching the pair of them from the sides, there was no one else to view this almost grandiose presenting.

It was actually this thought which made the blond youth's eyes quirk towards the edges of the dark woods.

He might have seen movement. He might have seen something that registered as excited shifting. But his wondering was quickly stopped as Arruth'a'Snark let out a rough laugh which seemed to shake the wet ground.

Or it might have been a cough.

Or a grumble.

A snarl?

Or maybe even two boulders grinding against one another – the sound was very unpleasant to hear. And whether it was a sound which came from good feelings or not, there was no arguing it had a harsh ring to it.

After some moments of holding the pendent as high as he was able to the moonlit skies and dark woods surrounding, the gobbling king eventually lowered it back to normal heights. His grip had not loosened its tight hold, but his expression had lowered from excitement to what might be described as 'very pleased.' He sat back to the bench but did not remove his eyes from the pendent. His fingers still smoothly rolled over the stone that was held by the string and seemed all but too comfortable in feeling out the rough edges for what might have been the third time in the last minute.

Naruto did not mind, particularly. But the gesture was curious and did cause him to raise an eyebrow as to why a rock on some string was so important.

And, as if sensing the curious air coming from the orange-clothed human-youth, Arruth'a'Snark than spoke to relieve the boy's wonder. "The Pendent of Grendle'bor. Named after my grandfather, King Grendle'bor the First Stepper and the first Unifier of the once Scattered Tribes. This pendent holds the first stone to be chipped from what is now the foundation of my people's capital – by Grendle'bor himself, as you might have assumed – and the string which was weaved by the grand queen, Seraseno."

He gave it a small shake for emphasis, the metallic thread ringing almost melodiously from the gesture.

"This pendent is an heirloom to my people; passed down through the grand family and leadership of Kase'kan'Ache. It symbolizes the long walks through the dark days and reminds us now of what it took to now be seen through the light. It retells of who we were and now what we wish to be. And what anything and everything that was named after the proud leader of Grendle'bor always means: hope. This stone," he gave it another shake, "tells the story of how we still strive to rid ourselves of prejudice and ridicule and find hope in the ideals Grendle'bor has passed on to us."

He held the pendent towards Naruto, eyes finally moving away from the rock and looking to the human.

"Imagine it. Imagine a great mountain, built upon a single pebble. Imagine the weight and responsibility that pebble must keep vigilantly. It cannot be swayed to move, or the mountain would fall. It cannot crumble, or the mountain would topple. That is what my ancestors felt with the thieving, warmongering and lost tribes. They felt the weight of their decisions and their words every day. They knew what their words could do. One misstep, one sign of weakness or doubt, and the foundation they created would fall. But still, the ones before me brought the people together. They laid down what would be and the ways which they should now live. Proud, not doubtful. Brave, not scared. Together, not divided. They gave the troubled and the distraught the reasons to find strength in who they were and erased the fear from the fearful.

"And then Grendle'bor – long shall his name mean that of duty – found the last Scattered Tribe and pierced the earth with his axe. And in my hand lies the results of his – and his father's, and his father's father's, and his father's father's father's – wisdom, resolve, and belief in the betterment of the people."

He brought the pendent away from the human and looked down to the simple rock.

"It is…uncomfortable at times. The stone. It is rough. And heavy. And a burden, more than a comfort. The stone is passed from leader to heir when they are deemed worthy of the honor. It signifies, to them, their worth is now considerable. This is done through feats of valor, wisdom, strength or honor. I myself earned my holding of the pendent through acts of valor and strength. But my…"

He paused for a moment. But his expression changed.

Arruth'a'Snark's pleased expression was drowned now, not by disgust or irritation, but something resembling grief.

"My…my son…my son…" His voice croaked loudly. His kinsmen, just within Naruto's sight, lowered their heads to the earth. It was too dark to tell if it was to avoid their king's appearance or if they held similar feelings, but Naruto could guess it might have been for both or any of these reasons. "My son…he was beautiful. Truly, wonderfully beautiful. A son a father prays to have even a piece of the ability, charisma and aptitude he had. A child of honor and kindness, but strength and wisdom to show his value in spades. He was proud, yet courteous. A champion of the people, follower of the blade, and even the slayer of a dragon."

The old king's eyes began to water. Dim though the lights of the forest were, even Naruto could see it.

He did not think less of him. No. Not even a little.

"He was taken before his time," Arruth'a'Snark's voice croaked again, "he was taken…he was taken…he was taken…" he lowered his head to the pendent, covering his face. If there was any pride to be found in the king, it would not be found now. "He was so happy the day I rewarded him this…this thing!" Instead of a croak, he snarled. "He wore it. He wore it that day. And that man – that Mihailoff – took him from us!" He snarled some more, bring his hands back from his face, showing the aggression which took the place of the sorrow, and raised his hand as if to smash the pendent to the earth.

But he didn't. The air was tense then, with the arm raised and the hostility so evident in view. But he was no fool, the goblin king. He knew better, after some moments with arm still raised high. Whether he could actually destroy the Pendent of Grendle'bor by his own strength was not the question or concern. The jewelry was not at fault. He knew this. But anger can sometimes displace reason, even if only for a moment or two. His kinsmen seemed ready to jump at the moment where it seemed he would throw the threaded stone to the earth, but their worry was without cause.

The arm with pendent held was lowered back to comfortable heights. And where so many unruly emotions were seen, now only the return of grief took view on the goblin king's face.

"His name was…Brianta…Brianta'a'…Kabriest…"

He looked to be in shock; his mouth opened and closed repeatedly, looking for words that did not want to come easy. His reasons for telling the human these things were a curious wonder. It might have been because he understood that the paper now tucked away to the side did indeed have what the boy claimed and thus meant that the youth was about as close as he would get to the murderer of his descendent. Maybe it was because, even to his queen or others of his court, he refrained from ever mentioning the tragedy and all but seemed to put his son to the past. He moved forward, as was proper for a goblin of high standings; ever steadying himself to be the face of the goblins. He drowned his emotions and his despair with work and hardships and was ever the strong king of the goblins. There were, of course, rumors of whether he even felt a loss for such a wonderful youth but he ignored them. He had to. Arruth'a'Snark would, at least by the masses, never be seen as weak or fragile or affected.

But there was another reason for his lack of empathy or reaction; his child's killer was out in the world(s). Would he have laughed if he saw the affect his death had on him? Chuckle, at least? Boast his cruelty or spur the memory of his child, if only to get a rise out of him? Would his pain make the prince's murder all the more thrilling? It was these terrible thoughts that only made to strengthen the king's resolve to be strong and focused to the progress of his people.

So why then, to this stranger in the woods surrounded only by the two foolish kinsmen, did he now find the words that he wished he'd said they day he put his boy into the tomb of his forefathers?

He did not know, nor would he say if he knew.

But still, the next words came forth and strangled his heart.

"…No…there is no, no worst pain…than to bury your child…"

There was a brief silence after.

The goblin did not utter further words, nor did the Uzumaki.

The goblin did not weep or cry or bellow and the Uzumaki would not have judged him even if he had.

The goblin only lowered his gaze, looking lost as his eyes went from patch of mud to dirt to grass than back to mud in a way that showed his uncertainty. The Uzumaki, for his part, avoided looking to the distraught father, attempting to offer something resembling privacy. Instead, he raised his head towards the sky and tried to make out what stars he could behind the clouds and trees. Not an easy task, by any stretch. But it did help past the time as the king took to his own musings.

Speaking of which, during his time of offering the green-skinned man beside him even a modicum of decency and privacy to his anguish, the human youth felt tempted to look to the phone sitting in his pocket to discover what the current hour was. He imagined his time was running short before he would have to depart with any hope of making it back to Kuoh. With time to spare, no less. It was only under the uncertainty of whether the gesture would be seen as rude or even threatening that stopped his checking.

It was almost funny. The original plan before arriving to the forest was to trade the items in his possession, maybe have a quick conveyance of gratitude for a job finished and a gesture of respect to signify the pay was appropriate, and then make his way home.

He should have known better. At well over a hundred years of age (mentally), he could almost count how many of his pre-conducted plans came to actual fruition.

This meeting in the woods would be no different.

After some moments of quiet with the king mulling his grim thoughts in silence, Naruto broke the silence in a less than graceful manner. No 'warning cough' or 'tension-breaking gesture;' the boy began to speak his thoughts as they came to him.

"Mihailoff mentioned him," he began. His voice and tone were lower than its previous professional sound. Sympathetic, maybe? The goblin raised his head, at least, to stare in the youth's direction. "He…talked about a goblin who killed a dragon…and was a great," hunt, "warrior." He corrected his response from his thoughts. He wasn't lying to the goblin. Not really. But bending the truth, slightly, to a father hurting over the loss of his child was more difficult then he suspected. "He said he was…" a fond vacation memory, "…very strong." That was the safe answer. "And spoke highly of his skill." If only in a roundabout way to express his enjoyment of his more interesting kills. "You should be proud of him."

Comfort. Something not easy to give. And to a goblin, a harder thing to accept.

Kindness. Gentleness. Foreign concepts. Especially when offered by another species. The inhabitants of Kana'prune'Khran weren't exactly 'soft-skinned.' And even with over a century of rising beyond their wandering and scavenging ways, the descendants of the Scattered Tribes held to their forebear's mindset of 'strength of the individual means strength to the tribe.'

They were a tough species; a fact that would not be dissolved in the near future.

But still, even a goblin father could feel thankful when offered a kind gesture. Especially one which seemed as if like praise to his fallen child. Many species would see it as almost insulting for their prized heir to be talked about by their murderer in such a fashion, but to hear that his child was considered worthy of acknowledgement from his killer, Arruth'a'Snark would not deny there was some spark of pride that graced his features.

"Was he strong?" The king then asked. "This Mihailoff…was he worthy of killing my boy?"

A curious way to phrase it, but Naruto got the gist of what was being asked: was Mihailoff's killing a fluke or was he simply the better warrior?

Unconsciously, the blond's arm rolled in its socket at the thought of Mihailoff. There was no additional pain, the bruises were almost unseeable under the jacket, and the feeling in his fingers was back.

But the arm was still sore.

After leaving the mansion, Naruto had allowed his curious mind to wonder how long had it been since he'd had a limb rendered inoperable.

It's been awhile. He decided after some moment's thought. Along, long while…

"Yeah," Naruto answered with a noticeably more casual tone than before, "Mihailoff was 'worthy,' I guess. And… he was a freak." He shrugged. "Strong and crafty in very…weird ways." His eyes trailed outward to the forests. "He liked to talk and brag about the worst things he'd done." His next words were mostly for himself. "I…can honestly say I've never fought someone like him before."

This fact was actually true, in a sense. Certainly, stronger foes could be found between Heaven and the Underworld. And even foes in his life prior. Throughout Naruto's very long life, he'd come to know warriors and soldiers and individuals who could shake and rip a countryside asunder. But they were still people ruled by common thoughts, desires and reasons for whatever actions they deemed necessary. They felt a responsibility and an ease in whatever action they took. He'd known people with power who fought against the corruptive thoughts that came with them. Beautiful, wonderful, hopeful people who knew their gifts could benefit the world. Even those of destructive prowess found ways to use their abilities for causes beyond their combative purposes.

They had been granted, or earned, power and knew what it meant to be in possession of it. And, sometimes, he had been blessed to be the one to set them on the right path. Usually after some sort of fight of conflict between himself and the other. It would surprise many who were not familiar with the blond to discover that those he called his friends often happened only after an exchange of fists occurred; with both parties attempting to beat the ever-lasting snot out of the other.

Through sweat, bruises, and blood, an understanding was formed between himself and the other, leading often to a union between them that spanned a lifetime. And, in some strange way, redemption had been earned by a number of powerful people through this oddly effective method of his. And through this revelation of self, an unbreakable bond was formed.

Naruto Uzumaki was not simply a charismatic leader. His actions spoke just as loudly to the world around him.

A warrior, who through the exchanging of fists, attempted to understand the world.

And with Mihailoff, the circumstances were no different.

Their battle built and understanding between them. It…connected the two…

For better or worse.

"He was worthy, then. I will take it." The old goblin grumbled to himself, contently. "My son may rest easier now, knowing his death was to a foe of value." His hand still held the pendent, carefully as if it weren't some dense material not easily broken, then lifted his other hand which had been kept in the shadows of his cloak. The sealed paper was held in his grip, though it was somewhat crumpled now, no doubt by his once more rising rage. "And he is here, hmm? In this paper? With magic? You do not lie?"

Naruto shook his head. This gesture, apparently, held the same meaning to humans, Devils and many other species of Creation: negative.

Arruth'a'Snark nodded. There was no doubt in his mind; the return of Grendle'bor's Pendent was proof beyond proof of the human's honesty. "Then I believe your payment is due.

"Janatas! Benzin'tirno! Fetch the Seraseno!"

There was a LOT of words that came from the king's wrinkled lips that an average human would have only been able to stare blankly in response to. Though the origin of such twisted letterings to form bizarre words would be a marvel to uncover for a decipherer of languages at a time not presently, and for most certainly a man infinitely more interested in doing so than Naruto, it was nonetheless obvious who the two named fellows were as the king gestured to the still lazing goblin kinsmen at his sides. He barked his command and the two silly recons ran out of sight in different directions. The smaller one tripped over a branch, creating a loud crack and providing a detailed cursing in his folly but still ran. Naruto smiled a little, partially because of the translated swearing and partially because his old mind went to a past life to remember several individuals who liked to shout and use profanity when they did a reckless act, while the king seemed to want nothing more than scorn the two for their inabilities. His green hands were still careful, though, and did not clench tightly to reflect his mood; he still held the 'foundation of his kingdom' and the 'prison of his son's murder,' after all.

It was not long after his command that a new shuffling of footsteps was heard. Harder, slower steps. They sounded as if they were sinking into the mud. And from the small sounds of grunts and growls heard, the weight was obvious and troubling.

The two kinsmen walked out from the shadows of the forest, carrying a large chest between them. It wasn't really an exciting chest; just wooden with iron handles and sides to keep its form. Its purpose was simple. The two goblins were just larger than their carry and appeared quite stricken with the weight they were forced to tug. Being closer now and not trying to hide their appearance as they narrowed the distances between themselves and their king, Naruto could now see their green skin and tightly clenched teeth from behind their poorly-concealing black hoods. Naruto could not say if there was a family resemblance to themselves and Arruth'a'Snark; many male goblins looked alike, as a popular stereotype was. If not for the differences in their height and the possibly longer nose on the taller of the two, the once-Hokage might have mistook them for twins.

They stepped back, then, after a final huff and gentle lowering of the chest. They seemed rather cautious to be near their king, which Naruto could hardly blame them for. The smaller of the two looked hesitant as his lithe frame moved to lean over the chest, making quick work of the iron latches holding its treasures secure.

He waited, looking to his king as his small green hand went over the chest's central clasp. He had a look that seemed to ask, from what Naruto could guess by going off the goblin's not-so-hidden features, 'are you certain, my lord?'

Arruth'a'Snark nodded, a low and slow gesture, not affronted by the silent asking.

The miniature goblin needed no further incentive.

He pulled back the top of the chest, revealing the trapped, silvery-white glow within.

The Pieces of Seraseno.

Named after the first queen of Grendle'bor the First Stepper, the Pieces of Seraseno (or just simply 'the Seraseno') are the prized gems of the goblin kingdom.

Glistening with what seemed like thousands of tiny, silvery-gold diamonds, the Pieces of Seraseno were round, perfectly smooth orb-shaped minerals found solely on the resource-rich world of the goblins. And mind you, it was not an exaggeration when these minerals were described as 'smooth;' since the beginning of their discovery by the goblin kingdom, each piece discovered appeared as if they were chiseled and crafted by an artisan of unmatched skill. They were, by their very discovery, perfect. Their beauty was desired, be they of the goblin people or not. Flawlessly circular and smoother than would be expected of something found within the earth; with each piece the same as the other without so much a nick, crack or distinguishing mark to be found upon their finding. As if placed there by hand. They were as hard as diamonds and as even as pearls. A wealth of precious stones, so important to the goblin people, that they say even a glance at one such nugget would be worth a goblin's weight in gold.

But why were they valued so significantly? As pretty as diamonds, as round as pearls, and holding an interesting story of finding? Certainly, this might be enough for goblins and maybe enough for a few species who appreciated the minerals of other worlds. But this would not be enough to make them the renowned and highly valued jewels, whose worth was almost beyond belief. Not even remotely.

But that was there the last two factors came into play; two factors, which practically made the Seraseno hold immense customer value and seem almost divine.

First: where minerals and jewels of many worlds often measured to near incalculable quantities, the Seraseno were remarkably against such a practice. There number was ten-thousand. And no, not some number above ten-thousand nor a few digits below – there were exactly ten-thousand. The mine in which the Seraseno were found and excavated had been, almost literally, twisted and turned and flipped upside-down in search for more of the precious mineral. But the goblin's search was for not as the mineral had been extracted and the mine made barren in quick succession. And then, once it was confirmed the pieces were removed without so much as a scrape of Seraseno to be found left, the pieces which had been found were gathered and then placed under the control of leadership of the kingdom. And that is to say, everything between their preservation, selling, trading, maneuvering –everything about the limited quantity of the Pieces of Seraseno was handled directly by the king and queen.

When the royal family of the Pieces of Seraseno's founding species were the only one that were allowed to say who was allowed to touch or even see the rare jewels, you know there has to be a valuable reason for it.

And then there was the second reason for why the pieces were so valuable. The purpose, as perhaps it should be mentioned, was also for the reasons why the Seraseno were considered by a majority of races and species to be mystic or even divine in nature (which was humorous to the goblin people, as the people of Kana'prune'Khran held no system of belief to a religion or god).

The rumors behind their magical-essences or divinity came from a rather simple factor: they glowed.

Glowed.

Not the 'oh, they reflect the light so amazingly that they are hard to even look at' glow. The literal glowing. Not entirely dissimilar to how a small jewel would glisten under a fine light, but in the case of the Seraseno, no light was required. The pieces glowed, constantly, regardless of whether they were beneath the sun or the stretches of a moonless night. They shone a rather magnificent silvery-gold that could not be missed.

Or ignored, really. They had the effect of just wanting to be stared at.

Neither blinding nor dull enough to be difficult to view, these lights which shone from the center of the small nuggets were what struck the eyes of others. It is what made them seem divine and gave them an additional sense of worth. Nothing, save perhaps the rumored treasures locked within the Holy City of the Angels, which held the same constant light-sourcing capabilities that made up the Pieces of Seraseno.

And thus, with their impeccable designs, their luminescent forms, and the limited quantity that were available to them, the Pieces of Seraseno thrived by both the rumor of their discovery and the immense importance they held to the head family of their kingdom. They were kept safe and hidden, only to be used as the lord and lady of the kingdom saw fit.

They were given as gifts to the influential, be they goblin or otherwise once the ways of traversing to other worlds was discovered again. They were very rarely traded, but when they were, it was in exchange for large favors, items of extreme worth, or to solidify a union between two species (as was the case with the alliances with the dwarves and ogres). But even still, when the leadership felt the need to relinquish their hold on their precious stones, it was remarkably still in only a small quantity.

They were discovered just over a hundred years before. The way to traverse the spaces in between worlds was rediscovered sometime after (though this was purely coincidental). And since the discovery of the ten-thousand pieces, only a few hundred had ever been allowed out of the royal family's Castle of Stormhelm and offered to close allies or associates alike.

The goblin tribes, and especially their leadership, were particular about their almost priceless treasures.

And as something of fun note before this lesson of the Pieces of Seraseno will be concluded; it was often a wonder on how these tiny goblin gems would compare to the curious question of which was worth more: a hundred Pieces of Seraseno, three mountains filled with gold, or pure Cryperion stone the size of an ogre's head?

The vast majority of races may never know or agree upon an answer.

And so, as a final note to their highly desired and highly curious worth, it would be seen as quite surprising to anyone familiar with the Seraseno's value to suddenly discover three-thousand of the tiny nuggets now glowing intensely under the earth's dark, Russian sky.

Shining.

Beaming.

Radiant.

Iridescent like thousands of small, distant stars in the night.

Beautiful.

Wonderful.

Warm.

They illuminated the forests around.

Naruto quickly covered his eyes, letting out a surprised grunt as the brilliance overtook his view.

Arruth'a'Snark fared little better, lifting his red cloak to block the luminance.

His kinsmen screeched something vile, mixing in cries similar to, "My eyes! Oh, uncle, MY EYES!"

The air did not shift. The earth did not shake. The trees did not catch fire nor tremble by the brilliance. There was no ring of or chime to be heard or given warning to what was about to occur. Aside from the light, no otherworldly effects came from the chest.

This was no Pandora's Box. No twisted djinn in a bottle.

It was a chest, filled with three-thousand radiant Pieces of Seraseno.

And it was as close to 'lightning in a bottle' as was possible by mortal hands.

Naruto tried to move his hood further over himself, with the orange fabric doing as best as it was able to cover the now semi-blinded blue eyes.

He stood then, after a trying twelve seconds of trying to work the halo glares out of his vision to little success, and moved towards the chest. His hands were outreached towards the origin of the shine, looking to grab hold of the box's top and stop the irritable luminance.

He felt the edge of its wooden top. His hand dipped further forward, tapping onto what felt like perfect marbles. They were warm. Hot, even, but not at all uncomfortable. And the way each rang as they tapped against one another was like tiny bells. He moved past them and felt the far edge of the chest.

There was the top's latch.

He didn't wait to throw it down with a hard 'clap.'

And the stars in the chest were turned off.

Something resembling visibility was quickly returned to the area. The blinding white was quickly faded, with all that was proof that there even was a grand shining was the chest of which Naruto now had his hand firmly atop of and the halos of light that promised to not fade for some time.

His mouth was slightly agape as he took in several quick breaths, his chest moving up and down from the action. Although the air had not been heavy or difficult to breath, being suddenly engaged, at least visually, by such an engulfing light in what was originally a very dark environment had a remarkable way of leaving one short of air in their lungs.

Turning his head back to the bench and ignoring the screaming goblins, the old king seemed to be doing little better as he. His red eyes stared blankly out to the forest, looking dazed at what had just occurred and blinking away the persistent halos. Although Arruth'a'Snark had retrieved the jewels from his trove with the assistance of his personal aides, he himself had not been the one to store them within the chest. His retainers had actually suggested he stay back as they prepared the load, and had they been anyone else to suggest such an act of preparing some of the grand treasures of his kingdom without his notice, he might have had some heated words to give them. But his trust in their services was something of note, with only just this moment realizing why they were hesitant to allow him to see the significant quantity of Seraseno in one place.

In most circumstances, the old king would say, without quarrel, that he felt immense confidence in the abilities and worth of his staff.

Certainly more so than for his still screaming kinsmen:

"Ah, water! Somebody get me water!"

"Oh, oh, the horror! The horror!"

"It's just too bright! Too bright!"

"The HORROR!"

Ignoring their enormous aptitude for stupidity, Arruth'a'Snark turned his attention back to his hired help, watching as the boy returned to his spot on the bench, rubbing his eyes.

"I must…ask your forgiveness," blink, blink, "I was not aware that they were so," blink, blink, blink, blink, "…luminescent together."

The goblin kept his eyes on the boy. Besides his lower mouth and neck, there wasn't much left to view. So there was a small surprise when the blond lifted his head a little higher to view, a little easier to view, under the hood.

Blue eyes. A light shade. Very. Most goblins did not have this color of eyes, they were a rarity. No one wants blue eyes, not a citizen of Kana'prune'Khran. Superstition-ish old crones believed they were the eyes the born of ruin, the sign of trouble and hate. But superstitions weren't fact, and even commonly thought superstitions were still superstitions. Arruth'a'Snark was a man of fact. Strength, valor and honor – they were the popular factors that situated his rule. But wisdom and intelligence – they were factors that could not be ignored. The paranormal ideologies of a few small, overly crazed women did not have a place in a king's rule.

Birth marked cheeks. An unusual trait, but who was he to judge. They were certainly distinctive. Maybe they were fake, not an impossibility. For someone who kept a hood over his head and his face mostly hidden (was 'Naruto' even his real name?) then having such marks would be easily enough to remember. Getting rid of them could change someone's entire perception.

He saw his eyebrows – a sharp yellowish tinge. Blond, sure. Very. Humans were fans of dyes and the interest had stretched to some species he'd come to know. Where these dyed? Dyes were glaring on a species, especially since very few seemed to remember their eyebrows or stretched the dye to the very roots. Dyes were accessories. He couldn't see the top of his head which meant he could not see the rest of his hair, but going off only eyebrow color meant it wasn't enough to say whether it was dye or not.

Arruth'a'Snark's concluding thoughts:

What a curious human.

"Yeah," the human breathed, tilting his head from side to side with the audible snapping of joints only being heard, "…yeah…"

There was no room for argument. Not even with himself. Not even the showiest flashbang had the overwhelming showing that the contents within the now-shut chest held. The light had been constant and invading; covering the eyes and shading oneself with whatever was available did little to prevent such radiance (which, come to think of it, props to the goblin's treasure chest; not even a shimmer was revealed from its thick wooden case).

Arruth'a'Snark nodded to the human's simple words. If he were annoyed by the lack of respectful addressing he received, he did not show it. Though as a king, a certain appreciation, if not for the person than at least the station, was expected, it did not seem to bother the green-skinned man.

Instead, he moved from the bench and, even with standing at full height, patted the large chest with his gloved fingers (sealed paper tucked back with his thumb), "Three-thousand Pieces of Seraseno. As was our agreement." He nodded to himself, satisfied, but frowning. This much treasure for the return of a pendent and the handing over of a folded sheet of paper would have seemed like an unfair deal to many. But let it not be said that Arruth'a'Snark, Lord of Goblins, did not value honor and integrity.

The pact was set. He was given his due. And thus, payment had to be given.

As was right.

He then took a deep breath. "By the people of Kana'prune'Khran," he began, "I would like to thank you for the service you have done on their behalf. By the high family and leadership of Kase'kan'Ache, we would like to express our deepest gratitude at the return of our proud symbol and the justice that was dealt to our enemy. And…"

He stopped.

This speech was something he thought up while on the journey to the human world; some partially grandiose phrases and words which expressed his gratitude but still established himself still as a strong king. Of course, he had high doubts that his half of the bargain would be met. But in the offhand chance that success was found…?

This next part was not part of his original speech. Rather, the words after were spur of the moment thoughts that felt to compelling to ignore. "And by myself, Arruth'a'Snark… Son of former King Daur'Phont and Queen Brashieti…Lord of the Sea of Bronze Tears and…Conqueror of the Burning Mines…" He took a deep breath. Speaking his titles seemed almost tiring then. "Voice and Protector of…of the now Joined Kingdom of Kase'kan'Ache…and as a father," he turned his gaze away from the human and to his hand. His thumb was caressing the stone, once more, "there are no words in my tongue that can express this humble goblin's feelings of gratitude. No colorful palates, no bardic songs, nor lines from fine literatures can say how deeply I feel indebted to you, one who goes by the name of 'Naruto.'"

He stood straight, right arm dipping behind his back while his left hand, clenched into a fist with pendent, pounded against his armored chest.

"May you find the value of the Pieces of Seraseno to your liking. May they bring you great comforts and fine living for all the years you walk the many earths that may be found."

A fine gesture, a strong string of words, and then lord Arruth'a'Snark returned to his spot on the bench.

He stared to the king.

He stared to the chest.

He stared back to the king.

Then returned to staring at the chest.

Now he had his eyes on the kinsmen.

They were still there, behind the chest. They weren't screaming about lights or eyes or whatever else. Just watching them.

Gaze back to the king.

Where did Naruto go from here?

There was the obvious decision to make: take the chest, make tracks, don't look back. That would have been the easiest choice to make. Fastest. Most profitable. Wake up tomorrow – or was it today? – and make it all seem like some bizarre, crazed dream. Minus the quick revelations that he now had enough treasure to purchase worlds (no joke, no bullshit, Seraseno had WORTH) and a very important ring in his pocket.

But there was one endearing, ever-present problem with Naruto Uzumaki which prevented such an action to be taken. One simple dynamic, inherited by his parents, both old and new, that would never be shaken from who he was. The personal conundrum which prevented any self-serving course to be taken.

The issue: Naruto Uzumaki had a knack for getting invested in the problems of the people and the world.

In simpler terms, he cared.

Which meant, after a few moments of turning his head between the quiet king, the wooden chest, and the foolish kinsmen, one question that had stirred in the back of his mind, one he hadn't realized he was curious of except for a few fleeting moments, passed through his lips.

"How did you find Mihailoff?"

His tone wasn't demanding. Only wondering, as if only a passing curiosity.

Arruth'a'Snark lifted his eyes from the pendent once more, meeting the boy's blue. He heard the question and found no issue in answering it, as the tale was actually quite a series of coincidences and peculiar situations that made up a rather…amusing circumstance.

"My son did not only lose the Pendent of Grendle'bor," he began. "When his body was discovered, his armor – a great set of steel plating, gloves and leggings crafted by a rather competent female dwarf he knew – and the curved sword which slew a dragon were missing. The attack was deemed a mugging, though by whom or what none of my agents could deduce. For five years, my house looked into every possibility, every contact available, every rumor that might have been. Rumors which, as I would only find out to late, did touch on what some called a true 'boogeyman' which took the lives of those whom caught its eye or stroked its curiosity. Such things at the time, however, were without fact or proof beyond speculation. A shadow, as it was, which only now seems to have held some worth to it.

"For five years I waited, sending out my Word-Seekers to deem anything of value from the worlds beyond with the promise of significant rewards to whoever brought me a great return. But as the time went, my doubts grew and a dreaded fear began to take my heart. For it was by my honor that my son's killer would be brought to justice. Should I have been incapable of performing such an act, no matter the personal cost, then I would find myself unworthy to walk within the Endless Mountains.

"But my worries were unneeded, for only a month prior to tonight, a curious Word-Seeker rushed into my hall, calling for my attention. In most times, such an action would have been dealt with unfavorably; not often was it acceptable, during a festive evening, no less, for no one of renowned import to break decorum and enter the halls of Stormhelm. Especially when the Word-Seeker declared that what he carried was not words – something which irked me greatly, I confess – but a claim to hold a gift of great worth instead in his pack. I had no need for gifts and this…pup of a Word-Seeker was so new, I found myself doubting if even he was worth the time to hear out.

"I ordered him to be taken away from my presence, more mercy than I was often willing to show such insolence. But the Seeker surprised me then; shouting and fighting with what he carried. He tossed it to the ground, with dirt and dust falling onto the fine tiles, as close to my feet as he was able.

"I admit the ferocity of this small child's resolve was…endearing. I am a king, and my presence must inspire order and love, but the youth's pluck was intriguing. He did not strike me as a fool…" he looked to the two goblins behind the chest, who were casually picking their noses and glancing to the star-filled sky, "…so I indulged in his wanting. I called off his removal, promising a fate far worse should my time have been wasted on his ploy, than revealed whatever 'gift' he had felt such intensity to show me to the room entirely.

Arruth'a'Snark lips twitch into what might have been a smile, and a proud one at that.

Or it could have been some cruel smirk meant to scare small children. It was still difficult to tell.

"It was a glove which bore the markings of my leadership," he lifted his own hand up, showing off the craftsmanship with a slight engraved three-slashed symbol embedded in its center. "Steel coverings, flexible grip, leather under – I am quite familiar with the design, as was my son.

"As you may imagine, inquiries were made on how and where he acquired such an item. Certainly, there was a chance of it being an astounding forgery, but it mattered not. It was more than the years had given me, and I would be damned if I did not take the opportunity to discover its origin.

"So, I questioned the lad myself, curious to where such a glove was found. And, oh, what a tale he had…

"Far, far to the north of this land, by the river which held the name of Kolyma and to the unnamed sea above, an interesting shop lays waiting for equally interesting guest. A simple establishment which housed an assortment of simple treasures and with two very curious owners in its midst. A married pair of considerable curiosity.

"There is a goblin man, whom I mistook at first glance at our later meeting to be a child. The small man, who went only by the oddly simple name of 'Brak,' barely stood above my knees. But where he lacked in height, he made up with passion for his work. Active and talkative, with a mouth which spelled a thousand words a minute, he was an upbeat goblin, without question.

"The second half of the couple was a brownie. And I must confess, I'd never seen so tall a brownie in my life. Though still quite small by the standards of height to you and I, she was peculiar in that she was able to reach my knees and stood by her compatriot to the eye. She was quiet and still and upon our first meeting seemed to desire nothing more than to run off to a corner of my castle and hide until our meeting was over…although, by their very nature, brownies are known to do this so I did not take offense. Her name was…oh, confound it, what was…Tifra, I believe? Yes, yes, Tifra. Quiet but tall, Tifra.

"An unusual tall brownie with a remarkably short goblin. An odd coupling, indeed, hmm.

"But anyway, what was important of the two owners was not their peculiar statures or because they lived on this earth or even that there union was something unheard. Rather, it was because of the relations between the young Seeker and the shop runner Brak. The two are brothers. And as brothers, they looked out for the other when times allowed. And on one curious, cold day, sometime a little past a month before, an incident that almost could not be believed happened in the small owner's shop.

"As the story was told to me by the Seeker, his brother Brak was away from the shop on errands to the Abrahel's Mall in search of some tool while Tifra took control of their shop while he was away. As he claimed, his wife was small but had a 'mad swing' with a knife." Arruth'a'Snark stifled what might have been a laugh. "Well, I suppose, after having met her since his tale, that I can assure you of his claims without exaggeration. Tifra the brownie is…aremarkably cold brownie.

"But this is beside the point; while Brak was away, a visitor happened on the shop, carrying some heavy loads on an old boat with the intent of trading. A few antiquities, a few abnormalities, and so on. He didn't ask for too much, or too little, and besides being human, an uncommon visitor to the shop, he wasn't antagonistic in anyway. Just a kind barterer who brought to the shop a few good gifts to sell and make a few coins from. Nothing out of the ordinary for the young brownie missus.

"Brak returned that very night to find the glove amongst the purchases. Only the most simple of goblins would not have recognized my sigil nor knew the tale of my son's tragedy. And once his mind was cleared to understand just what his wife had unknowingly pertained, he wasted little time in attempting to contact his sibling.

"My Seeker arrived to the shop and was…well, I cannot fault him for being…skeptical. For all the odds that were against me, I cannot imagine what the young goblin such as he must have thought at that moment, holding one of the stolen gloves of my child. What must have crossed his thoughts then? One brother, a Word-Seeker, who happened to be sent on a personal mission for his lord. While his only older sibling, a merchant, happened by sheer coincidence to purchase an item which could have been the very thing his king desired?"

Said king laughed in his throat.

"The coincidences of creation; how they lead us to what we want should we stay on our wanted paths."

He shook his head, offering a few additional silent laughs before continuing.

"I did not dally on having the shop owners brought to me so that I might listen to their story myself. Through the brownie, Tifra spoke of every detail which came to her of that day. To the words and gestures the customer made, to the every store item he casually glanced towards. She told me what time he came in, how long he stayed, how much money he left with, and…even how many steps he took." Arruth'a'Snark looked somewhat taken by this thought. "I suppose the saying of how 'a brownie never forgets' held more truth to it than I was originally aware…however, the real details I was looking for revolved around names, locations, appearances – anything Tifra the brownie could offer, I would take and reward handsomely for the service provided."

The lord of goblins paused for a moment in remembrance, turning his eyes to the forest's edge.

"It is no shame to ask for another's help, even if that help comes from another creature." Arruth'a'Snark declared. "You and Tifra in the last month have proven this fact all the more true. The brownie was an exceptional aid and provided every piece of information we were able to provide you on your task. From judging the resources her customer carried to assess just how far he could travel based around physique alone and in a simple boat, no less. To offering an exceptionally detailed drawing of the elderly fellow, which was also provided to you."

Naruto gave a nod, even if the goblin didn't acknowledge it because of his searching the dark woods. He recognized the image provided to him of Oymyakon's resident was certainly a drawing of identifiable detail when he first received the message through his phone. Even if it wasn't necessarily a photo, he would have been pressed to say that it would have been difficult to depict an individual who bore a resemblance.

"She was an artist, it seemed. And in addition, through the transaction of hands exchanging coins and paperwork being signed, she had the customer provide a name for the shop's records."

He turned his gaze back to Naruto.

"I am certain you've already assumed whose name it was."

Naruto had but kept silent.

"It was not before long that I worked to assemble my armies and conduct strategies to take the 'Republic of Sakha.' I would move to trap Mihailoff from within, preventing his escape, and with hopefully minor disturbances. I coordinated my Word-Seekers into spies, my kinsmen into drafters and worked to conduct the alliances we held to assist us in our moment for vengeance. The dwarves took time but agreed to assist with all things mechanical while the ogres saw this as a testament to why our alliance was formed. I implored for the aid of golems, giants and other forces that held some form of allegiance or personal favor to our kingdom. I had no doubts that the kingdoms of men were capable; I would require every sword arm and shield I could muster if it meant I would find 'Mikhail Mihailoff.'"

There was obvious venom in the goblin's voice when he spoke the name, taking a silent moment to think over an obviously dark thought that was so vicious it put a now dangerous looking sneer onto his face.

Naruto had no quarrels admitting that he could not fault the king for his negative feelings. The once-elder had children himself and from the moment he knew of his wife's pregnancy there was an instinct that proved all too willing to rip the world apart if it meant they would be protected.

"However," the goblin spoke again, knocking the former ninja from his past-life musings, "before any of my plans could be put into place, I received an interesting visit from an old associate of my grandfather. Someone who, over this last century, has aided my people in establishing themselves a foothold in the works of the worlds. A man with whom I have shared drink and bread with and have gained wisdom from by simply being in his presence." Arruth'a'Snark closed his eyes, thinking. "I am uncertain how he came to be aware of my intentions. He always did appear as something of a man who knew too much for himself. But before four days prior to tonight, he came to my kingdom, looked me in the eye, and told me that my intentions were," another pause, then a pursing of old lips, "stupid." The lord ground out with clenched teeth. "He called my actions quickened and doomed to fail. Insulted my willingness to send people to their deaths and to call on old favors for an expedition doomed to fail. He claimed that I was sending an army to do what could be accomplished by one man.

"Hmph. He treated me as if I were a foolish greenear right out of his early cloths…

"Without question, I doubted what one man could accomplish against a foe who slew a dragonslayer. However…that man always had an air about him that said he knew more about things than anyone else. Smug ingrate," he whispered the insult, "nevertheless…I could attest to the worth of his words. He and his people were a helping hand in the early days of our 'reunifying' with the other races. They were one of the few who looked past our previous transgressions and accepted what my ancestor sought for his people: peace and prosperity.

"Despite his reputation – or maybe because of it, I cannot say – Grendle'bor extended his arm in friendship, solidifying a lasting union between our two peoples. And though our communions have been far stretched with time, for his people are a long lived race, and have seen the beginning of my reign and will unquestionably see far beyond its end. I can still recall the times I have spoken to him, as both a child and a man, and know the wisdom of his council."

Arruth'a'Snark let out a sigh, adjusting himself on the bench.

"So with my pride then waned…the Lord and Founder of the Grigori, Azazel the Fallen Angel, assisted me in contacting you."

It was not uncommon for those who were aware Naruto's small side adventures to pass on his contact. In fact, it was encouraged; he did not know everyone who might need a helping hand, and if someone he'd met previously knew of someone who needed aid, and could be seen as trustworthy, than he had no quarrels in his connection being passed onto others. So long as they kept his name and work a secret to the majority of people, he had no issues with them.

But of course, he'd been asked once or twice for his reasons for secrecy? Well, aside from the obvious issues he was sure his 'mother' would have with him traveling around and doing 'odd jobs' that usually had the potential for putting him six feet under, it might have had a partial-something to do with still being a ninja at heart – silly, past-life habits he hadn't quite relinquished yet.

He liked to keep his work 'off the record,' as it were. Or at least kept to a minimal level of limelight. His reasons were borderline childish, sure. But if they did not harm anyone he knew…

Anyway, it should not have been as large of a surprise to Naruto that the Lord of Grigori had been the one to instigate the request. Although Azazel did not often partake in requesting assistance from the blond ninja (after all, he had an army of helpers behind him to do his bidding), he did have a considerably long list of affiliates from all walks of life and standards of living. A list which consisted of several dozen characters who would pay considerably well for the assistance of an exceptionally talented individual. A list several dozen times larger than the teen's own. And one the Fallen Angel had, over the past couple of years, been more than willing to share.

Arruth'a'Snark, king of the goblins and a whole bunch of lengthy-large titles, happened to be the latest in a long line of helpful clients sent his way.

However, as was often the case with Azazel, there was a catch or motive that came with any action he took. A fact which Naruto had grown familiar with as they grew to know one another.

Usually, it was purely political; the Fallen Lord would offer Naruto's assistance to any of those who he deemed close – and often when he himself did not implore his own people to do work on the behalf of others – and through the blond's successful completion of whatever task was sent his way, Azazel would be able to rake in some side benefits of good press for his standings and pleased recognition from his allies. But this time, the young teen had a feeling this was for more than pure political gain, and with his eyes now glancing towards the quietly laying chest in the little known park in this little known town near the sea of Far East Russia, an obnoxious idea began to form.

Obnoxious because, as it was, he had no troubles in believing it was what the savvy man would do.

"Tell me," the blond began, still eyeing the chest, "why did you decide to pay me so much?"

If Arruth'a'Snark had any quarrels with being questioned so informally, he did not show it. Instead, rather than affronted, he seemed rather confused. "I was told that this would be your usual rate," he said. "Azazel spoke highly of your skill. He specified that an equally high bounty would be required to secure your assistance." He gestured to the chest, "Perhaps I should have procured gold. It is easier to trade, easier to exchange. But I could not take from our treasuries for this. This was personal. For the honor of my son's memory, the cost would be my own…will this not do?"

The king wasn't joking. The king was asking if the wealth of the goblins, which held legendary worth, was enough for the blond. The king seemed uncertain if this amount would be enough to pay, not noticing the raised eyebrow under Naruto's hood. While certainly not one to take 'chump change' for any work brought to his attention, neither could he say that he was charging exorbitant amounts of currency to purchase his assistance. Of course there was an average amount that whoever called on him usually offered, usually pertaining to a significant but not bank-breaking amount, but never to this extremity.

Azazel knew this. So why-?

"And," the goblin continued, "he also mentioned that there would be a…a finder's fee for his assistance? And that you would know what that meant?"

And there we go, Naruto thought, with maybe a small smile and a quiet laugh, and now it all makes sense.

Azazel wanted a share of Seraseno.

This revelation was not hard to grasp, nor difficult to understand as it might have been for others. Azazel's tendency for collecting valuable artifacts and desirable items, whether they were small or large, was something known offhandedly by many across the worlds. Naruto did not need to hear it from the man's mouth nor from Dohnaseek, as being the 'son' of the Lord Lucifer did offer some manners in the ways of providing insight to the leaderships of the major factions of the Biblical Races.

But the story behind Naruto and the Lord of Fallen Angels was for another time.

Presently, he wondered if it would be appropriate to reveal the charade to the goblin king. Play it off as some joke by the Fallen Lord. But there was no way of knowing how this usually proud goblin would react. Though he acted lenient to his bench-mate's open and casual manner of speaking, finding out that part of his great treasures was almost to be given away for a task not even a ten-thousandth of what the orange-clothed hero would usually charge someone for services rendered might leave the goblin with a less than accepting disposition.

But another thought occurred, "Three-thousand Seraseno…" He whispered, getting the goblin's attention. In a gesture that expressed his discomfort, Naruto raised his hand behind his head, scratching it through the hood. He spoke with a sheepish undertone, "I…feel kind of bad." He admitted. "I mean, I bring you a rock and some string and you give me treasure. I mean…does that feel right to you?"

It is not a common procedure for the help to question if it was right for them to be paid so immensely. Obviously. But that was not the issue for Arruth'a'Snark, who straightened himself and looked towards the chest with an undeniably harder expression.

He pointed towards it. "Human, what do you see?" He asked "What do you see in that wooden box? Hmm? Is it wealth? Fortunes? A great many stones worth the price of worlds? Hmm…yes. Yes, I suppose you do. I don't fault you for it. It is a simple reflection, and one not wrong to follow. Many races would see the same. My own especially. My people see the stones as markers of their progress, such as with this pendent. Only, the Seraseno are similarly a sign of greatness that only the worthy and my family may hold. To be allowed to see, or dare even touch, one would be worthy of lifelong praise." He barked a laugh. "But to me, they are a bunch of pretty stones of which I have had the pleasure of holding many times in my life. They are warm and comfortable but beyond that? They do little else for me." He turned his finger from the box and towards Naruto. "If I needed to pay you in vast quantities of 'pretty stones' to assure my son's peace…then you will be assured that relieving myself of a few baubles would give me no rough sleeps in the near times."

He lowered his pointed finger and turned his gaze to Naruto. His expression had not lightened up. Instead he lifted his hand to the blond, with the pendent shifting in his grip. "This is not simply about some rock and string, human. This is about my son. The loss of Grendle'bor's Pendent brought a great despair to my people, beyond just their prince's demise. And through their anguish and worry, a great dishonor was passed…to the one at fault."

Naruto understood who was 'at fault.' "He couldn't have stopped Mihailoff."

"Perhaps not," the goblin was willing to acknowledge, but he didn't look proud or relieved to admit it. "But the fact remains that a century old heirloom to my family, and a symbol of progress to my people, was taken while under the watch of Brianta'a'Kabriest. And under his protection, the Pendent of Grendle'bor must never be removed from where it belongs; around the neck of a royal goblin." He paused, letting his words sink in. His kinsmen, largely ignored by himself and the human, were nodding their agreement. Either out of respect to his position or actually feeling the truth of his words, Arruth'a'Snark couldn't be certain. "It might be the simple superstitions of my people weighing down on my mind. That the idea of my son's failure not bringing him peace until the pendent was returned has left me with little sleep. It is a naïve, foolish thing to think, and I do not expect you to understand yet, one who looks so young.

"But take these words from an old father; when the time comes and you hold that small life in your hands and know that it is by your will that it may succeed and grow stronger, maybe then you will understand that there are no boundaries a father will not, and should not, break to see their child live a life of prosperity and peace. Whether it is in this walk or the next."

And with that final, somewhat-defeated sentence, Arruth'a'Snark turned his eyes back to the stone and went quiet.

Naruto had, for his part, continued to sit and listen carefully to the old goblin's council. He took in his words and found an understanding to the depths of the king's desire to see his son forever in peace. Whether there was wisdom to be found by the declarations of just how far a father should be willing to go to see their child better themselves and find the epitome of their abilities, as Naruto could attest to understanding what it required to be a successful and fulfilling father in his previous life (with a few snags and poor moments in-between), there was still an undeniable passion in his voice which contrasted to the otherwise gruff-looking disposition the green-skinned individual kept.

From a father to a father, a bond of understanding was formed, even if that connection was one sided at best.

It made the blond's next words that much easier to say. "Yeah, I can't take these." He said in the most nonchalant manner he could, watching the sudden series of fearful twitches that came from the kinsmen and the pause before slow rising head from Arruth'a'Snark. Many races had difficulties dealing with individuals who were incapable of accepting gifts or rewards by offering parties. Goblins were no different. These series of movements alone did nothing to forestall Naruto's next words, but they were worth noting.

So he tried to restate his meaning, "Well, I mean, I could…but I won't." The result was even worse, then. The watching goblins twitched even more violently, taking steps away from the bench as their dark eyes looked over their lord carefully.

Speaking of whom, Arruth'a'Snark, by contrast, had a rather drowsed expression on his face. Had he used up all his angry expressions for today? Naruto could only silently hope so, but experience was telling him that this rather collected expression on the goblin's face was much, much worse than any twisted expression he'd seen yet.

"Explain, human." He commanded.

Oh yeah. He's pissed. Naruto thought, standing from the bench and turning to stand somewhat between the king and the chest. He attempted to offer an easy smile to the armored goblin, though it came off rather sheepish instead.

"For starters?" He began, thinking quickly, "I don't have a clue how I'm going to be able to get these home."

In five minutes, he could have the chest tucked and sealed away in paper.

"I don't know where I could put them in my apartment."

If sealed away, he could have carried the chest around in his wallet with no one would be the wiser. And even if he didn't want to carry around a large case full of valuable stones, finding a place in his apartment to keep them would hardly have been more difficult.

"And I really don't know anyone who has the money to buy Seraseno."

Abrahel's Mall, Azazel, some houses of the Underworld that could keep secrets – Naruto knew several individuals whom held the financial ability to purchase a set of Seraseno if so desired. Maybe not enough wealth to purchase them all, but at least a few to skirt away the immense quantity he would have in his possession.

So yeah, all those wonderful little excuses against his taking the Pieces of Seraseno? A whole bunch of lies. Which kind of sucked because, for Naruto, lying was something he had very little practice or need to do in his previous life. He was an honest and open individual, qualities that did not often make for an exceptional or long lived ninja. He was kind man who held an immense sense of responsibility and made sacrifices when he was required to do so but usually at his own personal risk (he usually got an earful for doing so). Since being reborn, his need to lie and omit to details of how he was capable of doing the impressive things he could do had steadily become more frequent, though no less difficult to swallow. Especially as he began to feel closer to those who raised him from his powerless, immobile infant-stage of life. He understood the necessity – how would he even have begun to explain his previous life to someone like Koneko? – but also felt an immense guilt for doing so.

Even to someone he did not know, such as Arruth'a'Snark, lying so that the goblin could keep his kingdom's treasures still left a somewhat shameful feeling in his chest.

Whom, speaking of, raised his armored self slowly from the bench. His expression was stiff and his eyes unwavering. "Truthfully?" He asked, quietly and without as much as a hint of disbelief to his tone. "Curious. Hmm, curious." He pursed his lips, "Then would you permit me a question?" He didn't wait for Naruto to respond. "Why did you take my task if you could not produce a purchaser of my treasures, hmm?" He raised an eyebrow. "Or perhaps tell me, is there a reason why you would come ill prepared to travel with such a number of Seraseno? Certainly you did not think to fit them all in your pockets." His eyes only narrowed a little. Not necessarily in anger, but rather it seemed as if he were looking over every detail he could on what small bits of the orange-clothed youth's face under the hood.

Like looking over a potential adversary.

Naruto being…well, Naruto, he understood that situations such as these could go very, very bad, very, very quickly. "Uh, I, um…" lie lie lie lie lie lie, "I didn't actually think someone could bring me them?" That was good, Naruto, good. It was worded as a question, but it was a good start. And on the plus side, it was partially true; he honestly couldn't imagine someone willingly relinquishing such vast funds. Especially Pieces of Seraseno. How could he have guessed he would actually receive a call for an assignment from none other than the proprietor of the rare mineral himself? A proprietor who just so happened to be part of a race who, like many others, were still trying to catch up to the higher races in the fields of technological advancement.

The reason why his words were only partially true was because of…well, another associate of his had a very dedicated vendetta towards the man who went by the name of Mihailoff. A vendetta which had pushed her forward for decades and had shared intimate details of her reasons to the blond-haired hero during chance meetings they had in years past. In fact, the ring in his pocket, with the name of Laura, held very personal ties to the wronged someone. And even if a reward had not been offered, there was no question that Naruto had every intention to see it returned to her. From one friend to another.

But these are concerns and situations, like so many other things, which will be resolved at a later date.

At the current moment, the blond felt that his excuse would have most likely come off as a sound, reasonable motive for doubt and a hopefully a good enough justification for his non-taking of the treasures (or at least these reasons were good enough in his mind). Arruth'a'Snark, however, was a rather inquisitive goblin in his old age. And like many goblins, he was not easily dissuaded from his thoughts or beliefs on present matters. He was stubborn, proud, and steadfast in his thoughts.

He made this fact known, "So, human. You were going to do my work for what you believed to be no reward?" His eyebrow rose again. "For…nothing?"

And there it was: that affronted touch in his tone. King Arruth'a'Snark of the goblins was feeling his honor being slighted.

This situation could become very dangerous, very quickly.

Naruto knew this well; it was not the first time when the exchanging of currencies or items of value had turned south for him. Be they provoked or not, the blond did not always get dealt a good hand with the individuals he'd had the misfortunes of meeting in the past – in this life and the last.

Sometimes he would have to fight. Sometimes he would have to apologize. And sometimes he would manage to turn a growingly tense situation into something possibly resembling the best case scenario for both parties.

He was really hoping he could achieve that sort of outcome today, "No, no. I didn't say that." He quickly tried to amend, feeling a sudden and significant unease while standing near the armored king. More so than he had felt around Mihailoff, to be certain, though that may have been due to the unquestionable fact that the citizen of Oymyakon had wanted to kill him and did not debate on whether he should or not. With the goblin lord, he hadn't the mind to guess what might happen next. A man who valued their image and honor could be a dangerous thing. Especially in emotional happenings such as the present situation. "I only meant," he tried again, looking into the deep pockets of political wisdom he had garnered over his life and beckoned them forward to his lips, "that there are other wealths to be found in my life, beyond just taking some treasures I don't believe you truly wish to give away. And especially not for a task which has not amounted to my earning so much."

His counter was kind and thoughtful while additionally considerate enough to offer a way to negotiate for something, at the very least, significantly less valued. A token of gratitude from a gracious king, perhaps? There was nothing Naruto desired for which he would ask the king for personally, but he was sure he could have thought up something simple to ask for in exchange for the chest full of Seraseno.

It was his plan. Bu instead, he discovered how very naïve he truly was in negotiating with goblins.

"Are…are you, human, accusing me of being unwilling to offer up my riches for your services rendered?" Arruth'a'Snark asked in a snarl. His red eyes were narrowed and held a tremble that only promised the oncoming rage. "Are you claiming that – to be asked by a king to avenge his son from a foe of great strength – is not worthy of receiving equally great returns?" The hand, with Mihailoff's seal still between his fingers, slid down to the pommel of a long sword, resting there and appearing as if it was very tempted to remove it from its case. "I would consider your next words carefully, boy. Till now, I have held you in a most favorable light. I would not wish that to change over so simple a matter as you accepting your due reward."

The warning lingered past his lips, with harsh eyes now burrowing intently, as if daring the boy to speak wrongly then.

He was practically inviting the boy to test his honor and pride.

But for Naruto, instead of rising to the bait, as undoubtedly a much younger him would have had no quarrels doing, a new thought occurred then to stop any further action to be taken. This thought – a memory, in fact, or rather a group of similar memories – took hold of his mind and pried his awareness away from the every growingly tense situation he had unwittingly placed himself in.

His attention and thoughts went back to a time long before now, where Naruto Uzumaki reflected on how his moment with the goblin was not the first time he had to absolve a tense situation. Situations where prideful attitudes clashed and barred the ways towards peaceful communications.

He reflected for a brief moment in the cold of Russia on how, as Hokage and leader of hundreds of thousands, his duties had not always been to deal with the ideas of battle and war. In actual fact, there had been very little of these things during his time – a fact he would be most grateful for in the years to come. But instead, there happened to be more than enough battles to be fought over around a table of peers, discussing matters that would affect an incalculable number of citizens from one stretch of the world to the other. Discussions where he found himself lowering his head and swallowing his pride so that it might have been possible for progress to be made.

It was sometimes difficult, but ultimately necessary. He never once regretted it.

But this goblin was not his peer. He was not a man for whom he had spilled blood alongside with and formed a bond through the passing of time. He was not someone who understood the man under the orange hood and could connect through understood experience alone. He was not a man who enjoyed the fancy words of politics or the sweet phrases that were meant to sooth his ego. He was Arruth'a'Snark; a king of aged wisdom and integrity, who desired the open and truthful words of those around him. Something he continued to desire and be denied by his youthful compatriot, which only seemed to increase his ire the longer it continued.

In a few ways, he and Naruto were alike; responsible leaders in their own rights, hard and prideful men, but both of whom held the capacities to be kind and forgiving when needed to be.

Arruth'a'Snark did not wish to have his green ass kissed or have his ego stroked and honor kept, and Naruto was no different. Goblins were strong and hardy things, and did not take easily to having pity given to them, but it did not mean they were incapable of accepting it either. And humans could be held in similar capacities, too.

It took a moment, after seeing the dark fingers curl around the pommel of the arched sword, for Naruto to grasp this understanding.

So, with an understanding of his fault and silently criticizing himself for it, the teen decided to do something he rarely felt the need or obligation to do when speaking with someone who only needed him to finish a given task: he decided to speak the truth.

"Look," he started, hesitating only to purse his lips and swallow something in his throat, "I don't…I can't take your money. Not this much for…from a grieving father. I just, I won't." His shoulders loosened, a little. His confession came out slow, but truthful. It actually felt good. "I don't doubt you'd do anything for your son. Really, I do. Going to such lengths to bring me thousands of Seraseno and travel to the human world yourself – that takes guts."

The king did not know what his insides had to do with his actions but listened still.

"I get that you feel the need to pay me for what I've done. And really, I'm not going to sugarcoat it, this was a hard job." He rolled his shoulder offhandedly. Still sore. "But what you offer me is too much. What I did would not be worth…any of that." Not even if he'd bested a man ten times the strength and ability of Mihailoff would even a hundredth of the offered reward have been suitable payment. "I like the offer, really, and the fact you were willing to pay me this much…that's great!" It was not unheard of for the employers of ninjas to refrain from payment offered. Not because their task was incomplete, but rather because they thought they were…'above' paying their dues.

In fact, reflecting back to a lifetime before, Naruto recalled a specific run-in with an employer who did not feel the need to pay for the services he was provided. Services provided by a particularly fearsome ninja who went by the name of 'Zabuza Momochi.' And as an interesting side note, the employer's fate after his double cross would become something of a legend to anyone who thought to copy his actions.

The moral of the tale: don't screw with a ninja.

Anyway, in times where Naruto had a village's wellbeing to consider, such a generous and colossal gift would not have been turned down for even a moment's consideration. He'd take the Seraseno without any ifs, ands, or buts about it. Honor and righteousness would be thrown out the window when he had to consider the hundreds of thousands he had to feed.

But in the case of filling his personal holds, which already held significant riches already, he found himself less than willing to accept such an award. And knowing what it was like to be a father and to lose a son, even if it was not by the child's passing, meant that even the slightest desire for the Pieces of Seraseno were expunged.

"But…if I took your money," he started again, voice low but still heard, "if I decided to take what I did not earn because your honor forced me to…then by my honor, I would not be able to look myself in the mirror again…"

Deep. Deep, but true. And for the Uzumaki, words most definitely approved of.

While the situation did not seem to lessen in tension, there was no doubt that the blond, orange-clothed youth felt significantly lighter than he had moments prior. Colorful, maybe, his words might have seemed, but they were still held more truth than he often offered his employers. Aside from his name, which he would not stray from using even with its easily identifiable nature, he could not recall a recent employer for which he held such an air of fact towards.

Perhaps Arruth'a'Snark noticed this, as well, for his features stiffened then. His hand did not leave the sword's handle but neither was he aggressively removing it from the sheath's cover. His stature was unmoving but this was not so different than before, his constant warrior's still. However, his expression was quite contrasting; stopping somewhere, seemingly, between a righteous fury and a passive calm. He seemed rather dazed. Speechless, in fact, as if the boy had decided then to grow a second head and argue about the matters of life and death – speechless. Whatever must have been mulling over in his head could only have been quite the conundrum, for even as his next words left his mouth, he did not seem any less troubled or calmed.

"You would put your integrity," He whispered just loud enough to be heard, though it was still hard to say whether his tone was frustrated or calm, "over my generous and considerable recompense?"

Naruto himself hoped he heard the inquiry right; heard it as more of a question, rather than an accusation.

He lifted his head to stare to Arruth'a'Snark from under his hood. Their eyes met, red to blue, and again a pause was formed. A tension, maybe, but not quite as unbearable or discomforting. It felt more akin to…an understanding, but was difficult to say whether this was the case or not. Because, as Arruth'a'Snark would have no problems declaring, how much trust could be made between two strangers over such a short amount of time?

But Naruto always had this way about him; this 'way of reliance.' A character which most had no quarrels lingering towards or standing beside. And for this who were aware and knew of his natural ability to attracting others to his side, perhaps this sudden connection between the two former leaders was not as surprising at it may have seemed.

"Yes," the Uzumaki answered finally, standing as tall as he was able with his arms hanging easily at his sides. He was relaxed, "I would."

He tried to appear calm and firm, not guarded or troubled. It would do little good to seem conflicted now, not that he had reason to feel in such a way. He wanted to stand in a place of control, but not necessarily power over his associate; a stance he had only achieved through many learned years.

As Naruto saw it, he believed he chose right to deny himself the Seraseno and would stand by this decision proudly. He did not need to appear guarded, as if the decision was wrong; in fact, even with his lack of strong positioning, he felt confident in his ability to press back or even elude the goblins around him, if needed. Not because he had doubts of the green-skinned beings ability to fight, but rather understood that his abilities allowed himself several significant ways in avoiding trouble.

Not that Naruto was one to avoid a fight, of course. He simply did not feel the need to fight Arruth'a'Snark or his party. They were neither his enemies nor affiliates of those he considered enemies; they were merely a party upset. If it came to the point that avoiding a collision was necessary, he had the techniques to do so.

Fortunately, after some ten-fifteen seconds or so of waiting on the muddy earth among the coal black trees under the ebony sky, it would seem luck was on his side.

Slowly, the hand which held the pommel of the sword slackened in its grip, carefully being lifted away so as not to raise alarm or appear threatened in any way.

But instead of finding its way back to the king's side, the hand went upwards and towards the collar of the heavy armor, fingers spread out as the slip of paper, which had almost slipped the youthful human's mind entirely, and dropped it casually down. Naruto watched the movement, almost vocalizing his concern that the armor could hold the paper without dropping it, but found instead his eyes going to the other green hand of the goblin as it raised the pendent towards his neck, as well.

The hands found their ways around the metallic thread, spreading them wide and quickly lifting them overhead. It was at this moment that Naruto's eyes fell onto the old king's expression, pensive and stern like before. Whether that was a positive or not was difficult to deduce, even as the thread fell over his balding head, over the long pointed ears, and finally sat flat and unmoving around the thick neck of the goblin lord. While the thread was mostly hidden around the neck and hidden under shadow, the stone instead fell over the armor, appearing before all to see and was actually quite clear and glaring over the adorned armor set.

The foundation of Kase'kan'Ache sat once more around the neck of a king.

The kinsmen threw their fists to their chests, for once not appearing silly or foolish, but instead hardy and stern before falling to one knee and lowering their heads to the earth. At the corner of the viewing of the woods, soft shuffles of armored men could be heard with only a few flickers of light to show off that it was not some distant sounds making their way through the dark forest. Similar respects were shown for any and all goblins in attendance. Undisputed and unquestioned.

It was amusing, in a way. Dozens of cultures and species but the act of 'bowing' was still the same.

Arruth'a'Snark looked tall and opposing standing next to the wooden bench, as was expected of a goblin lord. Though he had no eyes on him to judge whatever posture he took, as his people knelt down with their heads to the ground, not daring to look up to his regal posture, he still decided to keep his appearance kingly. It was a show for the goblins bowing. A crude method to show ones worth and the importance of moment, sure, but sometimes a good show was what his people needed. Perhaps, with their heads bowed and faces to the ground, the soldiers close and off to the far edges of the woods longed to cheer and shout their approval to the return of the pendent to its rightful place on the neck of a royal. But, as was proper, silence was all that would be given, as even in excitement a sense of proper workings and attitude was required.

And so, unobstructed, the show continued, with a rather unexpected gesture made by the king goblin, himself.

As if copying the gesture of his kinsmen – but in fact, was a move made at the beginning of his introduction – Arruth'a'Snark lifted his green hand up to his chest and slammed it into the metal plating, echoing a loud sound. His hard expression did not change from the gesture but instead fond his eyes fixed on the blond.

"Human!" He called out, loud enough to be heard clearly from all sides. His kinsmen's' eyes rose to see their lord while pointed ears twitched to listen. "I do not like being in another's debt. Especially to one I have not known the company of for more than an hour," Naruto kept his surprise in check; if an hour had already passed THEN he would have to be quick to leave soon. "To have a debt on my name is to have someone hold power over me. And that is something a king should not have. For by the king, so does the debt fall to his people." He seemed cross with this fact. Naruto imagined another argument was soon to be underway, but then a most gracious twist occurred. That stern expression that seemed to be Arruth'a'Snark's normal turned a slightly softer scrunch of skin, with the eyes now appearing not so fierce and almost seemed to be…fond. "But there are fewer still who have the will to turn down such kingly gift. I know this. I have seen it. And by your own power, you have done so. It should be an insult to my house. But instead, I find myself…proud. Content."

He held the clenched hand tightly to his breast, lowering his head only a little and tilted himself forward.

He was heavily restricted by his cold armor, but even still, the image of Arruth'a'Snark bowing to the human was not missed.

"Know this, Naruto of the humans," he said the name hesitantly, trying to get the pronunciation right as if the boy was the one with the odd name, "that my debt remains unpaid to you, for now! But I swear I shall have it paid! So I swear to the rock beneath my feet and the air that is in my lungs! Of equal worth to the chest, my debt will be paid to you!"

A large claim. The kinsmen at the side were wide eyed and looked like they wished to offer council against such an offer, but (surprisingly for them) knew better.

Arruth'a'Snark rose from his bend, hand moving from his chest and standing staunchly.

Their meeting and business was, to the goblin, concluded.

And all that left was Naruto, standing there and watching the king's actions quietly, his mind running through the positives of this now finished business.

On one hand, he didn't have to take the Seraseno now. That was a plus, he supposed. Sure, losing some great funds was disappointing, but understandable under the circumstances. He was not a man of material possessions and he had money plentiful, thanks to his father. Most times he took money was from jobs that were simple or not particularly personal to the contact. Or if the contact wished to stay anonymous, which were jobs few and far in-between; apparently, many forms of sentient life liked to meet the person they hired to do their little works they could not do for themselves.

Certainly made it hard to work towards, at least, breaking even monetarily.

Curse his bleeding heart.

And on the other, less-fond hand, while many would see this job as a now misused opportunity – wasting what would have been an otherwise relaxed weekend to himself and being a costly venture to travel across an ocean to begin his physically and mentally exhausting endeavors at that – he could still think that there were positives to be found.

How often did one meet royalty? Better yet, royalty of a race beyond the world they occupied? Or better still, royalty with conviction?

It was actually this last thought which came with a bubbling respect from the former Hokage which spurred his next action.

Raising his two hands to the corners of his hood, the old-young Uzumaki slipped the covering from his head, letting what little light there was in the forest to touch the sharp features of his face.

He didn't say a word, then. He didn't need to. The goblin studied him, from the highest point of his hair down to the point where the neck and the torso met. He allowed the lord a good few moments to remember his face, understand maybe the depth of what was being allowed – his face to be recognized on an assignment – than lowered his head forward for a quick bow.

Then he walked away from the bench. Towards the edges of the little known park in the little known town near the sea of Far East Russia. He never turned around to the chest, to Arruth'a'Snark, to the kinsmen awed, and ignored the goblins who stood watch from away. The town did not care for his treading, as it had not before, and once he was far enough that the number of trees and houses became scarce and unbarring, he smiled.

A fierce, excited smile.

His hood was put back to its former place atop the spiky blond head of hair and a quickened pace was set eastward.

It was time to go home.

A few minutes ago…

It was somewhere over the Sea of Japan that Naruto's phone finally lost what little battery it had left. Because of this unfortunate set back, he'd lost track of the time between his landing on Japanese soil and leaving the Russian motherland. He could have asked someone for the time on the shuttle he'd taken between the two countries, but found himself distracted on other matters of thought. It was not until he'd settled down onto flat land and found a nearby clock that he realized that the need to sprint home had been required.

It was for this reason why he was covered in a noticeable layer of sweat walking into his apartment.

The first thing he noticed was the quiet stepping inward. He focused his ears to make out any noises or sounds that might been coming from behind the door to, what was once, his bedroom. He waited only for a moment, listening to anything resembling quickened breath or the ruffling of sheets, before deducing that his entrance had not disturbed his roommate in any fashion.

He sighed, smiling a little, before shirking off the orange jacket from his shoulders, tossing it casually to the floor without worry.

The jacket sat there, unmoving like any piece of clothing would, before quietly a small 'poof' came from it and altered the orange clothing into a near perfect copy of the original Naruto.

The former-clothing-now-human-teenager lifted its head wearily from the ground. The face, hair, nose – everything about it was similar to the wearily walking teen that had thrown what had once been a jacket to the ground.

Except the copy looked, frankly, pissed.

"We are never doing that again." The former jacket stated with a heated tone, lowering its head back to the carpet floors before making another, slightly louder 'poof' noise within itself and disappearing in a flicker of smoke and air.

The original, still existing Uzumaki barely regarded his the copy's words, instead deciding to throw himself to his living room couch without much care, face first into the nice, comfortable, wonderful pillow which laid at its end. Just feeling his head hit the soft center was almost enough to put him out, then and there. No need to forgo ruined clothes or clean off dirtied features. He'd do that later.

But for now, he felt sore. And tired. And maybe even a little hungry. But mostly sore.

Without question, this wasn't the first time Naruto had needed to work without sleep or rest for many days. But then, he supposed this job had been more exhausting and extraneous then he originally imagined it would. The needs and requests made by the goblin king had done their work and now he needed rest, if only for a short while.

His head to the pillow. His body on the couch. He did not feel cold without his usual coverings, and with the balcony door windows covered by the thick shades, all that alit his room was the electric clock he had placed at the side of his couch.

And humorously, it was this knowledge that made the blond find what little strength he could muster to push the worn body from its laid position and look to the clock in front of his view.

It was simple curiosity to the time and how much rest he might have been able to gain.

His eyes blurred, for only a moment, getting used to the dark. The reddish glow of the digital timer was hard to make out at first.

But then, when his eyes fixed on the time –

6:59 AM.

He realized he'd made a horrible, horrible mistake.

Craaaaaap.

"It's 7:00 AM!"

The tiny electronic box screamed to the dark, once-quiet room. Its little lights, signaling a pattern for numbers, shifted to its shouted time.

"Any of you young men or women having trouble in your love lives? Need some thrill to your kick and kissing? Well, here's some wonderful morning advice for all you struggling 'fresh couples' out in the world!

"Lelouch believes in the you, who believes in the L, who believes in the Fairy Tail! GET YOUR GAME ON!"

A large groan, or perhaps even a growl, passed by Naruto's lips. His hand went over to the time-keeping device and slammed itself less than graciously onto its top. The voices coming from it quickly quieted, leaving the room in silence again.

For a brief, singular moment, Naruto considered the idea of passing back into an attempted, merciful sleep. His body and mind certainly had no complaints to the idea. In fact, if they could speak, they'd probably have been quite encouraging to the plan.

But then he heard his bedroom door open, the lights to the room turn on, and an innocent, pure voice speak with an all too notable pleasantness.

"Ah! Naruto-kun! Good morning!" The voice of his roommate – the former nun, now Devil, Asia Argento – spoke from behind the couch.

Naruto didn't turn his head up to greet her as heartedly as he might have usually. Instead, he decided to wave a hand up and offer up a semi-pleasant, "Morning," before returning his focus of 'glaring death' onto the small digital device.

Asia Argento, it seemed, did not notice or seem troubled by his lack of usual morning grace. She walked over to the couch, wearing a stainless white robe covering herself from her neck to her toes, and smiled down to him. "How was your weekend?" She started to ask, brushing some long blond hair from her face. "I didn't see you last night when I came home. I was a little worried, was everything okay?"

Naruto turned his head to regard the young woman then, his tired mind trying to recall information from a few days prior.

Over the weekend, Asia had been asked to spend a few days over at Rias Gremory's apartment; to familiarize herself with a few additional factors that came with her recent turning into a Devil. Flying, Naruto recalled, was the lesson for this week. The new Devil had just learned how to open her wings and had some trouble keeping them from stretching out and accidently levitating herself. Fortunately, it had only occurred in public, but when Argento girl began to float towards the ceiling one evening during dinner and cried for the next twenty minutes because of her inability to control herself, Naruto had (with maybe a few silent laughs) forwarded her troubles to Rias for the Peerage King to handle.

Asia had called a few times during his away trip to Russia, but mostly just to say hello and ask how he was. Innocent, non-suspicious things. Akeno and Rias, to his amusement, involved themselves into the blond pair's little calls, too, asking if he'd like to join them. He'd declined, for obvious reasons, and stated he was otherwise occupied with schoolwork or some other, common human troubles.

They bought it, disappointedly, but claimed to understand.

It was a shame, really. What they were doing had seemed like fun.

But anyway, it was for these reasons why Naruto had few worries of being found out about his little escapade to the northern country. And though he'd hoped to return home earlier than Asia had, he'd come up with relatively plausible excuse for why he was away the night before and was unable to meet her.

"I'm fine," Naruto told her, hiding his somewhat beaten and slightly torn shirt as best as he could, "just…went for a walk." He saw her confused expression. He laughed a little. "A long walk." He amended. "Just…needed to clear my head from… studying." Asia's expression turned worrying. In the month that the two had been roommates, Naruto had quickly understood that this would be the norm for the former nun; this constantly caring identity of hers. It only supported the idea that her Sacred Gear had chosen its user well. "I…just got back a little later than I'd hoped." Those last words were actually the truth, in a sideways manner. "I'm fine, Asia. Really, I am."

Asia, always trusting, did not doubt him, with her expressive features turning once more bright, joyful and undoubting. "Oh, alright then!" She stepped away from the couch, stretching her arms upwards with a yawn and relieving the tension her own sore muscles held from the weekend's efforts.

Naruto, with much agitation, sat up himself, and turned to his roommate's stretching.

Were he a pervert, Naruto might have taken a certain high appreciation to the way the robe tightly snugged against the lithe form of his roommate as she stretched. Because truthfully, pure though Asia was, her womanly air and very compelling figure would undoubtedly attract many men as the years went by. Though Naruto was certain it was unintentional, going by the way Asia was by nature, he couldn't help but wonder curiously on how compelling the former nun might one day be if she decided to fully accept her Devilish abilities and natural beauty.

Men will eat out of the palm of her hands, he thought amusedly, raising himself from the sofa and similarly stretching alongside her.

Still sore. And tired. And hungry.

But the hunger could at least be settled now.

"Alright!" He shouted with forced energy, stepping around the couch and moving besides the blonde, "I'm gonna go make us some breakfast," his statement was punctuated with a hand being placed on Asia's robed shoulder, twisting her around, "and you are to go get ready for school, young lady!" His tone was a playful like a parent's, getting a sweet giggle from the girl as he nudged her towards the bathroom. She fought him for a moment, playing, and he laughed something hearty in response. "Go-o-o-o! I'll have something ready when you get out."

He was sure he smelled the worst between the two of them; two-and-a-half days in the tundra tended to not make you come out smelling like an Angel, but if Asia noticed his less than hygienic situation, she didn't say anything.

She agreed to his playful demands, walking off to the shower, more than happy to ready herself to be the best student she could be for another day at Kuoh Academy.

Naruto watched her, smiling and keeping an air of awake before the door closed and he fell into a slouch.

He tried and failed to hold back a deep yawn, covering his mouth with his hand. But even this action required effort he would have rather not used; the discomfort in his arm was not conveyed through the smooth, uninjured skin or muscle, but the fatigue was not to be ignored.

He groaned out a laugh, finding humor in his rarely found weariness before moving away from the kitchen and couch towards the balcony doors. He slipped his fingers through the door handle and slipped himself out onto the balcony.

The first thing he noticed was how pleasant the cool spring breeze felt to his skin. The sun rising over the clouds bathed his apartment and area around in a stunning reddish hue. Looking over the edge to the grass below, the grasses were covered in smooth layers of dew and the birds were already chirping their songs. He saw men and women jogging, aged from the very old to the very young, but each seemed content to run their paths with fervor.

It was a view that brought a smile to his face.

Happy. Pleasant. Peaceful.

With a passing grace, the hard feelings and worn tensions of the weekend's hardships were being melted away.

"I think," Naruto Uzumaki began, after a few moments of enjoyed silence, "I think it is going to be a really nice day today."

He smiled a little more, enjoying his peace for a few seconds more before turning to get to work in the kitchen.

He wondered if Asia liked bagels…

And DONE!

WOW!

Goblin kings, mass murderers, magical potions, several world-making history lessons – those are surprisingly difficult to write!

But, anyway, hoped you found the read a pleasant one! I know I enjoyed writing it!

PHEW!

Alright, so, it's been almost ten months since my last chapter – WOO! Well, I'm sorry for that. And safe to say, I won't be doing another chapter of this length for a LONG time!

More regular intervals, now. I just wanted to show that I can world build and expand this FF beyond just basic story copying (a few people commented that I needed to show I can bring this story beyond just Kuoh, if I wanted to improve as a writer beyond just the safety of DxD's regular story).

I am going to touch on regular story material, such as Riser's arc, before moving slowly away towards more originally written storylines.

Before, eventually, reaching the grand finale.

But I won't give out any spoilers.

Anyway, to say sorry for the long awaited update and the lengthy chapter (is a long chapter a bad thing? Tell me in a review, if you're displeased with lengthy works) and to show that I have a plan for my updates, here is a small preview of what to expect soon.

…

Next Time on The Beast of Gremory:

A day in the life of Naruto. What enjoyments are there to be found?

And what's this? Souna Shitori calls out to Rias? But what for?

And maybe a hard lesson can be learned from both parties when Naruto calls for a game to be played –

A game involving Two Bells!

Find out what happens next in the first chapter of Book 2:

'HE TENDS HIS FLOCK LIKE A SHEPHERD!'

SEE YOU SOON!