The desert is hot because he is in it.
The heat rolls off Naruto like a wave. He is not human, not anymore. But can he really be anything else?
Time has closed his throat, sealing that voice of his into a distant whisper of memory. It has wrapped itself tightly around him, so close that nothing moves. Nothing penetrates. He doesn't die, and the sun rises and falls in continuous motions that he quickly looses track of.
Things grow around him. Small weeds, itching at the heels of his bare feet. A lizard treading where one should not tread, and not returning.
Far to the west, where the sun lingers with a haze, humans fall. They gather and splinter. Wood is reluntantly dragged from it's once existance. It is set and supported against the wind and sand. Tunnels are dug into too-dry soil, and water leeches it way through.
They build a village. Many gather, and then many decay. Lines break in their homes, until it is but a sparse scattering of buildings clinging to the last dregs of life and civilization in the places where green almost dares not to grow.
The arid sand sweeps through the town, burning the sides of their homes. There is a solid divide between desert and land, the grass feebly laying a path to the edge of it.
They are slowly dying out.
All across the world, humans are slowly dying out. Creatures rise up against them, almost unaging and unlined. They split and divide, and conquer the world with grow like a rapidly spreading weed.
These things become demons. They have no known origins, merely growing like the wild expanse of forest and humid putrid air that fills. The green is almost a saintly color - it pitches against itself, warping and wrapping. The solid brown and gray of wood, trees, is contained barely within.
They live.
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