At times, I find myself pondering what life might have been like had I followed my grandfather's wishes and joined the academy. Imagining a path where I was raised from infancy to master the art of wielding weapons and controlling my emotions with precision. It's often said that shinobi children possess a mental maturity twice that of their civilian peers. Initially, I dismissed this notion as a convenient justification for training youngsters to become instruments of combat and death. However, as the years have passed, I've come to recognize the undeniable truth behind those words.
Civilians, it seems, live a sheltered existence, shielded from the grim realities of bloodshed and terror. Somehow adept at shielding themselves from the harsh realities of life within a hidden village. Konoha, by all accounts, maintains an aura of tranquillity—an accepted fact. Yet, many seem content to let that perception be the extent of their understanding, avoiding deeper contemplation about the origins of this peace or the sacrifices that have paved its way.
In moments of reflection, I often feel a sense of both fortune and misfortune in being born a civilian within a distinguished shinobi lineage. I inhabit a cocoon where genuine violence remains foreign to my first-hand experience, yet I'm keenly aware of its presence. My grandfather would scoff at my perceived limitations, insisting that my intellect transcended the confines of civilian education. He believed I possessed the potential to become an exceptional shinobi, and his conviction still echoes within me.
But uncertainties persist. The path I've chosen, one that diverged from my clan's legacy, is fraught with its own opportunities and challenges. And as I stand at this crossroads, I wonder if my grandfather's foresight holds true, or if a different fate awaits me.
I had never been a direct witness to the horrors of war – never stood upon the battlefield, cradling the lifeless forms of comrades and dear friends. Yet, I had gazed into the haunted depths of my family's eyes upon their return. I had stood among the mourners, partaking in the solemn ceremonies that paid tribute to yet another fallen member of our clan. It felt as if these funerals had become a grim routine, an almost daily occurrence for a time. What I had borne witness to provided me with an undeniable understanding: this was a way of life I fervently wished to avoid.
My inaugural experience of a battlefield unfolded within the realm of a dream—an experience equal parts captivating and terrifying. The figure before me was unmistakable; his reputation had reached the corners of all consciousness, earning him a place in both fame and infamy. I stood witness to the very instant when this individual's name became etched in history.
A streak of vibrant yellow streaked through a throng of humanity, each figure succumbing in succession. They fell like puppetry undone, collapsing to the earth as if invisible threads were severed, their forms forming lifeless mounds upon the ground. The tales had reverberated through the annals of time—the legendary "yellow flash" single-handedly vanquishing a legion of a thousand stone-clad shinobi, thereby culminating a protracted war.
I can still summon the resonance of that collective wonder as my fellow residents of the Leaf retold the saga. Yet, within this reverie, I was now privy to an alternate narrative. Fear radiated from the very eyes of the shinobi before me, their expressions an amalgamation of dread and sorrow. Eerie wails and cries permeated the air as comrades fell victim, their lives stolen by the hand of an elusive adversary. Futility painted their struggles as they attempted to retaliate, only to find themselves striking at mere apparitions—nothing but empty space—while the iridescent flash of yellow relentlessly mowed them down.
As the final warrior crumples, defeat etched painfully across his gaze, the luminous streak materializes into human form. Amidst the sprawl of a thousand fallen souls—both men and women—an individual stands solitary, looking back at his comrades. In that fleeting instant, it's as if a vengeful deity has taken shape before my eyes, encircled by the lifeless husks of those who dared to oppose.
In that moment, a shiver courses through me, fear's fingers tracing delicate patterns along my spine.
Namikaze Minato.
The Fourth Hokage of Konohagakure.
The God of war.
When Yamanaka Inoichi received the summons to Hokage-sama's office, the least expected revelation awaited him: the journal of a deceased young girl, seemingly privy to knowledge beyond her realm. A flicker of incredulous amusement flirted with his thoughts, tempting him to dismiss it as another one of Shikaku's playful ploys. However, the gravity etched across the countenance of his old comrade quelled any inclination for laughter, conveying the solemn reality of the situation.
Hokage-sama's intent was clear—to delve into the initial entries of the journal and piece together a psychological tapestry of its enigmatic owner. A cautious approach was deemed prudent, given the unsettling essence woven into the journal's contents. The decision to methodically peruse each passage, rather than devour the entirety at once, held a certain wisdom. The chronicles contained within held an undeniable allure; Uchiha Hiyori's words transcended mere observation, as if she not only witnessed but also became intertwined with the recounted events. Emotions pulsed through the narrative, at times akin to her own, while in other instances mirroring those of the subjects involved.
She comprehended the rationale driving Hokage-sama's contemplated sacrifice on the very day he ascended to the mantle of leadership. Within her, the essence of his decision resonated—a profound understanding etched into her being. She became a vessel for the emotions shared by Shikaku and Yoshino when their romantic journey commenced, her perception extending beyond observation to a deep-seated empathy. And in the presence of the young Uzumaki, her connection transcended mere observation, pulsating with an intensity that eclipsed the usual bounds of perception.
The most captivating entry, the one chronicling the war and the fourth Hokage, held a particular allure for him. Within its pages, a distinct apprehension unfurled—the depiction of that pivotal night transcended the perspective of a Leaf shinobi marvelling at the valour of a comrade. Instead, it aligned more eerily with that of an adversary, an empathy extended to the Stone shinobi. As he consumed her words, an unsettling realization dawned: he, too, found himself swayed by this unanticipated resonance.
A realization that sparked a disconcerting truth within Inoichi. For he had been there, on the frontline, as the Stone reinforcements amassed—a formidable thousand against the dwindling ranks of wearied Leaf shinobi numbering barely in the hundreds. He recollected the stark moment of recognition, the haunting notion that his return might be thwarted, that the southern front could slip through their grasp. A surge of unwavering resolve coursed through his veins, straightening his spine as he steeled himself to lay down his life for the village. And then, as if summoned by some divine force, Minato materialized in a blaze of resplendent golden radiance, a manifestation of salvation that snatched them from the precipice of defeat. In that instant, Minato was more than a mere warrior; he was a deity, a symbol of deliverance and hope.
The notion that this sacred memory, his personal connection with that night, could be tarnished to cast Minato in any other light felt nothing short of sacrilege, a distortion that threatened to desecrate the essence of that momentous event.
Uchiha Hiyori's words wielded a peculiar enchantment, compelling Inoichi's curiosity to the forefront. Questions swirled within him—what facets of her persona had animated her spoken voice, were her verbal expressions as captivating as the intricate tapestry of her written accounts? And why had this remarkable ability remained shrouded in secrecy until her passing?
As he had conveyed to the Hokage, her chronicles bore the unmistakable imprints of trauma, a cryptic agony that begged to be unravelled. It remained too early to pinpoint the precise nature of this trauma, let alone ascertain if her unique abilities were a direct manifestation of it. However, one element was apparent to Inoichi: Hiyori had been ensnared by the clutches of depression, withdrawing from the tangible world, and immersing herself into the tapestry of her visions. Something profound had altered the course of her existence, an experience she seemed reluctant to confess—not only to her family but, crucially, to herself.
Sparse entries offered fleeting glimpses into her personal life, rendered in stark monochrome, a stark contrast to the vivid hues that saturated her visions. These accounts hinted at her clinging to these vivid realms, using them as a refuge from whatever had cast its shadow over her. A certain individual featured prominently in her narratives—a man entwined with the shadows of her existence. A figure who possessed intimate knowledge of the enigma she concealed, a dual sentiment of gratitude and resentment mirroring her emotions towards this enigmatic presence.
The task at hand was manifest: uncovering the identity of this enigmatic man. If, by a stroke of fate, he remained among the living, his insights could significantly enrich the mosaic of her psychological portrait, an endeavour essential in both comprehending Hiyori's ordeal and navigating the depths of her psyche.
A palpable restlessness courses through the clan's veins—an undercurrent of tension that needs no shinobi acumen to perceive. Half a year has elapsed since my return home, and the transformation is nearly tangible.
Initially, the shock was palpable as I beheld the staggering growth of little Shisui. My baby cousins had shed their youthful exteriors, sprouting into taller, equally tousled-haired adolescents. The sight stirred a blend of pleasant nostalgia and a hint of wistful melancholy.
Being an only child, Shisui had always filled the role of a surrogate sibling. His growth was a testament to the passage of time—a reminder of our shared journey. Now, a mere five years his senior, the disparity in our heights has dissolved. In the absence of his own immediate family, an unshakable impulse surge within me—an overwhelming urge to envelop him in protection, as though the bond between us has become even more imperative.
My younger cousin, burdened with responsibilities that belied his tender age, bore a weight comparable to adults threefold his years. And yet, I remained estranged from the cause, a testament to the shroud of secrecy innate to shinobi existence. It was a trait flowing in their very veins—an elusive current that veiled their actions and motives. Shisui, once a radiant embodiment of vitality and joy, now stood before me with a dimmed radiance, his light seemingly fading by the day. Regrettably, my hands were tied, unable to offer succour to the person I cared for most.
His transformation wasn't solitary; it extended to my father's countenance, etched with tension, and my mother, who had retreated into an uncharacteristic silence. A certain gravity had pervaded our lives, our existence contracting within the cocoon of the clan compound. Our once-central residence within the village had been displaced to its outskirts. I recollected the turbulent times when our compound was moved following the aftermath of the demon fox's attack. My grandfather's ire at the relocation remained etched in my memory, though the rationale behind it had always eluded me.
Questions fill my mind like an untamed river—why the upheaval, the discord, the palpable dissent? And why did the world outside, once so familiar and inviting, now exude an unsettling chill? My status as a civilian had bestowed upon me an unspoken code—a directive to stifle curiosity, to bow before the word of the elders, to restrain the impulse to question the mysteries of our past and the purpose of our present.
That very restraint that governs my actions holds me back once more. Questions remain unspoken, locked behind a barrier of unspoken expectations. My only recourse is to offer up prayers, fervently hoping that whatever concealed truth lay beneath the surface would eventually find its way to light, and that the shadows would dissipate with time.
Hiruzen diligently oversaw the perusal of each journal page, exercising his authority to grant passage to those deemed suitable for scrutiny. However, there existed an entry he deemed unsuitable for the eyes of his advisors, a narrative he chose to withhold from their collective gaze. This was a revelation he alone possessed, one that danced within the realm of knowledge that eluded the young Uchiha Hiyori. Within those pages lay secrets that had taken root in the shadows, secrets he bore the weight of understanding. With a heart burdened by solemnity, he recognized the veracity of the riddles she grappled with, and the bitter realization that the Uchiha's fortunes had not taken a turn for the better.
Maito Gai's every awakening came before the sun's ascent, an unwritten competition he embarked upon each day. To him, each dawn heralded an opportunity to chase excellence, and each night found him drifting into slumber, a sense of accomplishment at his back. His days were meticulously orchestrated for utmost efficiency: training sessions punctuated by wholesome, nutrient-rich meals, encounters with his perennial rival to hone his skills, a midday reprieve for sustenance, missions undertaken with precision, more training, and the pursuit of his rival once again. If that pursuit bore no fruit, he would eagerly seek out his genin teammates for a spirited bout of sparring. As the day waned, dinner would conclude his relentless routine, a well-earned rest preceding the cycle's renewal.
Summoned to the Hokage's presence was an occurrence far from commonplace for Gai. He was no rogue element, harbouring no penchant for chaos or deliberate defiance of authority. While the Jounin commander had enlisted his expertise for missions tailored to his abilities, the summons from the Hokage's sanctum bore a distinct rarity.
As he traversed the path toward the Hokage's office, a regretful thought flickered through his mind, directed toward his friend and rival. 'Forgive me, Kakashi,' he mused, an apologetic tone colouring his inner monologue, 'It appears today's challenge shall have to be postponed.'
He held no doubt that his internal rival would be profoundly disheartened by this unforeseen turn of events. Yet, resolute in his determination, he resolved to mend the situation come the morrow, promising a challenge twice as alluring to satiate the appetite for competition between them.
"Hokage-sama," he greeted their esteemed leader with due respect, a reverent bow accompanying his gesture. Gai swiftly took notice of the presence of Shikaku-sama and Inoichi-san within the room.
The Hokage's welcoming smile prompted Gai to raise his head, only to be met by a gravity that settled upon their leader's countenance. The seriousness of the situation lay unveiled before him. "Ah, Gai, thank you for answering the summons," spoke the Hokage, beckoning him to continue. As their eyes met, Gai discerned the weight of what was to come.
"Before we proceed, I must emphasize the utmost confidentiality of the matter about to be disclosed," the Hokage began, his words laden with an air of caution. "What you are about to hear must remain confined within the boundaries of this room. No exceptions. Treat the information as if it were an S-rank secret."
Gai's gaze flitted to the two other occupants, their grim expressions and resolute postures amplifying the gravity of the impending revelation. Straightening his bearing in response, Gai echoed, "Certainly, Hokage-sama. I understand."
For a fleeting instant, the Hokage's gaze bore into Gai, an intensity that resonated with the weight of his legendary status—the very embodiment of the God of Shinobi. The moment lingered before dissipating, the Hokage's countenance returning to its familiar, benevolent guise. "Excellent," the Hokage's focus shifted to Inoichi-san, who approached, clutching an aged tome. "Peruse these pages and ascertain the veracity of the information contained within."
I immediately recognize the man before me, a familiar figure from my memory. The aura surrounding him is undeniably vibrant, a testament to his exuberant nature.
In an almost theatrical entrance, he bursts through an open window, startling the occupant, and causing them to accidentally spill their tea. I can sense his inner amusement at the flustered individual. "Genma, my esteemed comrade! The sun is shining, the winds are in our favour, and the fire of youth courses through our veins! What better way to embrace this splendid day than to engage in a friendly spar? Our spirits shall soar as we clash, each strike forging bonds stronger than steel!"
There's an incredibly liberating quality to his theatrical and carefree demeanour; I've certainly heard the tales that circulate about him. His reputation is so widely recognized among the villagers that even a recluse like myself is familiar with it. Shinobi are supposed to embody strictness and unwavering discipline—devoid of emotions, mere tools harnessed for the greater good of the villages. My own clan has been complicit in upholding this mindset, excelling at playing the role of heartless warriors. This man, however, defies every principle they've advocated for strength. And yet, here he stands, a force to be reckoned with in his own unique way.
The brown-haired man at the receiving end of this lively entrance, emits a sigh that seems to carry a weight of profound suffering. He turns to face the exuberant man; weariness etched into his features. "Gai, you know how much I value my downtime, right? And I was just about to eat breakfast."
The green man's enthusiastic response seems impervious to his friend's plea, as he clapps his friend's back with a force that results in further tea spillage. "Aha! What better way to fuel our flames of battle than with a hearty feast of champions? Come, Genma, let us dine upon strength and nourishment, and then embark upon a duel that will echo through the annals of time!"
Genma's voice carries a note of resignation as he responds, his words tinged with a hint of pain. "Are you serious, Gai? I can barely lift my chopsticks, let alone spar with the Green Beast of the Leaf." It was at this moment that I noticed the brown-haired mans injured state, one arm ensconced in substantial bandages. Possibly, my failure to recognise his injury stemmed from the absence of acknowledgment from the person I seemed to relate to. I wasn't entirely certain if that interpretation was accurate.
"Resonating" appeared to be the closest concept I could grasp to elucidate the peculiar dreams that had been haunting me. These dreams couldn't be dismissed as mere products of an overactive imagination. How could I envision things I had no knowledge of people I hadn't crossed paths with, and events I'd never witnessed? There had to be a solution, a resolution to this mystery—I was certain of it. Perhaps, seeking assistance from someone might unravel their meaning.
However, the notion of seeking help fills me with trepidation, the prospect of divulging these dreams frightens me even more. These visions, or whatever they are—dreams, glimpses, or illusions—are my sole remaining solace. I'd choose these reveries over the nightmarish alternatives any day.
Unperturbed by my inner contemplations, a continued affirmation that they aren't truly mine, the dream persists.
" Fear not, my friend!" Gai proclaims, his hands resting firmly on Genma's shoulders. "The heart of a warrior knows no limits. Your skill is renowned, and together we shall dance the dance of combat, forging memories that shall resonate for generations!"
Another sigh escapes Genma, this one marked by a sense of acquiescence. His gaze shifting upward, perhaps seeking salvation from the ceiling. "You're relentless, Gai. Fine, I'll humour you, "However, let's not overexert ourselves. If I happen to tug on these stitches in my arm, the very nurse who painstakingly patched me up might consider burying me alive," he remarks, lightly scratching the bridge of his nose before resuming his hold on the chopsticks. "Just let me at least finish my breakfast first.
Gai's infectious laughter reverberates through the air as he thrusts his fist triumphantly into the atmosphere. "A most valiant decision, Genma! Feast upon the sustenance of champions, for soon our clash shall be as thunder upon the battlefield!"
With a quirked eyebrow, Genma retorts, "Thunder, huh? More like my stomach growling in protest."
Gai remains undeterred; his enthusiasm unwavering. "A true warrior's appetite! Fear not, my friend, for soon the taste of victory shall overshadow all else. Prepare yourself, for the crucible of combat awaits us! Youth and glory beckon!"
The ensuing spectacle unfolded into a battle of grandeur, a true testament to why the individual in front of me was hailed as the 'Green Beast.' Were this transpiring during my waking hours, I would undoubtedly struggle to perceive the rapid-paced exchange unfolding before my eyes. Such swiftness exceeded the limits of my civilian senses. Yet today, I gazed through the eyes of a shinobi, one for whom the concept of speed was inherently intertwined.
Truly a magnificent sight. Moments like these made me yearn for the ability to wield God-like powers as effortlessly as those around me. However, it was a stark reminder that they were deemed God-like only because ordinary civilians like me could never replicate their feats.
Perhaps it's a blessing in disguise. I'm aware that those remarkable abilities come at a steep cost. I also understand the potential horrors that someone like me, lacking the capability to harness such power, could inadvertently unleash. Maybe the very reason I am unable to mirror their actions is because it's simply not meant for me.
Gai's eyes widened in astonishment as he absorbed the words before him, a precise reiteration of an incident that had unfolded earlier that very morning. Not only that, but the images adorning the page were equally uncanny—his vibrant green contrasting with Genma's subdued blue, the tell-tale bandages enveloping Genma's arm, and even the gash that Gai currently sported on his cheek. Everything lay unveiled, a visual testament to the scene he had just lived through. Even the stance of one of his attacks, a move he had only recently executed for the first time, a manoeuvre he had been crafting to catch his eternal rival off guard, was etched upon the page.
"I'm at a loss," he exclaimed, pivoting towards his companion in the room. "What is this that I am reading?"
"A civilian girls journal from the Uchiha clan," Shikaku-sama replied, his tone contemplative. "A journal endowed with an uncanny knack for delving into the recesses of one's memories."
"By the flames of youth, how can a young lady who departed this realm years ago possess knowledge of an event that transpired but a few hours past?"
Inoichi exhaled a measured sigh upon hearing this, his hand finding its way to his forehead, rubbing thoughtfully. "It's a puzzle we've been grappling with, too. Shikaku has put forth some notions, but nothing solid yet. At present, our primary focus is verifying the journal's contents. Given the correspondence between the wound on your cheek and its depiction in her sketches, I surmise that the narrative holds truth. However, your confirmation would be greatly appreciated."
Gai grappled with the weight of the revelations that had unfolded within the brief span since he had stepped into the Hokage's chamber. Resorting to his ingrained shinobi instincts, he replied, "The journal entry aligns seamlessly with the events that transpired. It recounts this morning's occurrence with absolute precision, devoid of any discrepancies."
"Thank you, Gai, that will be all." Gai recognized the subtle dismissal for what it was. With a final respectful bow, he exited the office, his thoughts racing at a pace that rivalled his swiftest strides. Yet, true to his shinobi discipline, he shelved considerations of matters beyond his purview and set his sights on tracking down his eternal rival. A challenge would be a welcome distraction from the weighty implications of the day's revelations. And who better to engage with than his perpetual source of spirited competition?
"Kakashi, my friend, await my arrival!" His voice boomed through the foyer, eliciting a startle from a nearby chunin.
Shikaku had been arriving home late in recent days, much to the exasperation of his spirited wife. His thoughts were ensnared by the enigma known as Uchiha Hiyori. Not only did she possess access to memories from the past, but also an uncanny ability to peer into the future. She could establish a connection, or what she referred to as 'resonance,' with those whose memories she delved into.
As Inoichi had conveyed to Maito Gai, Shikaku had formulated a range of theories. These ideas spanned the spectrum from the trivial to the utterly audacious. Yet, the two most plausible notions stood out prominently.
The first revolved around the emergence of an entirely novel kekkei genkai, an extraordinary power that had seemingly emerged within her. Alternatively, the possibility of a mutation of the Uchiha's existing kekkei genkai—the Sharingan—seemed to hold water.
The crux of the dilemma, however, was that Shikaku remained confounded by the mechanics of either scenario. The likelihood of an ordinary civilian manifesting an entirely unprecedented, immensely potent kekkei genkai from thin air appeared infinitesimally low, to the point where he hesitated to vocalize his musings to either the Hokage or Inoichi.
On the other hand, the notion that the Sharingan—a doujutsu renowned for its chakra-reading prowess and jutsu replication—could manifest in such an unprecedented manner within a civilian seemed even more improbable.
Shikaku had never encountered any account of such an occurrence, and he was confident that had the Uchiha clan indeed harboured such an ability, they would have proudly showcased it to the world. They were not known for their unassuming nature.
On the other hand, the inner workings of the Sharingan had been shrouded in the utmost secrecy within the Uchiha clan. As was customary with all kekkei genkai. So, perhaps...
However, another quandary continued to gnaw at Shikaku's thoughts, an issue that had taken residence in his mind ever since he had perused Uchiha Hiyori's meticulously penned script. This concern had lingered at the edges of his consciousness.
Uchiha Hiyori had already demonstrated twice that the constraints of time did not bind her when it came to accessing others' memories. Considering this, what were the odds that she remained oblivious to the calamity that would befall her own clan a mere two years hence? They had barely scratched the surface of the voluminous journal, a tome he was certain brimmed with recollections.
Hence, it begged the question: In all those pages chronicling her myriad experiences, what were the chances that she never encountered any forewarning of the massacre destined to consume her clan?
And if she had indeed glimpsed it, if her visions had exposed her to Uchiha Itachi's ruthless decimation of her loved ones and the once-warm, affectionate clan she fondly described, why then had she maintained silence about it?
These contemplations detained Shikaku within his office long after the customary hours for his return home had come and gone. As his understanding deepened, he would discover himself bedding down within those very walls for numerous consecutive nights. Ensnared by the enigma that encapsulated Uchiha Hiyori.
His steps were hushed as he wandered through the quietude of the Uchiha clan's graveyard. The moon cast an ethereal glow upon the tombstones, creating an almost haunting ambiance. It was here that he stumbled upon an unexpected sight that sent a jolt of shock and anger coursing through him.
There stood Naruto, his usually exuberant demeanour replaced by a solemn one. Sasuke's eyes narrowed as he saw Naruto speaking softly to a gravestone. He could scarcely believe his eyes—Naruto, the loud and energetic shinobi, here at the Uchiha's final resting place, conversing with a spirit from the past. The anger bubbled within him, betrayal and frustration mingling in his gaze.
"Damn it, Naruto," Sasuke growled, his voice laden with irritation. He stormed over, his footsteps echoing his rage.
Naruto turned abruptly; surprise etched on his features as he faced Sasuke's seething presence. "Sasuke? What are you..."
"Get out of here!" Sasuke's words were sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. "This place isn't for you to play around in."
Naruto's eyes widened, hurt mingling with panic as he stumbled for words. "Sasuke, I was just..."
Sasuke's gaze remained resolute; his resolve unwavering as he fixed Naruto with an intense stare. "Leave, now!"
With a defeated nod, Naruto backed away, casting a last glance at the gravestone before turning and leaving, his footsteps fading into the night.
Left alone with his thoughts and the weight of his actions, Sasuke couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt gnawing at him. His anger had been justified, but now, as he turned to face the gravestone, guilt surged within him at the sight of two sunflowers Naruto had placed on the grave he had stood before—a simple, heartfelt tribute to a lost soul.
The sight tugged at his heartstrings, particularly as his gaze fell upon the name etched into the stone.
Swallowing his pride, Sasuke knelt before the gravestone, his hand gently resting against the cold stone. "Hiyori-Nisan," he murmured, his voice carrying a blend of reverence and regret. With deliberate care, he laid down a bouquet of periwinkle flowers, her favourites, beside Naruto's bright yellow ones, as a quiet offering of respect. "Happy birthday."
Amidst the serenity of the graveyard, Sasuke took his place beside his departed cousin, a solitary silhouette amidst the tombs of his family. And there he remained, long after the moon had vanished, steadfast even as the first rays of dawn began to paint the sky.
Thanks for reading, let me know what you think.