From the sea of starlight, a scream unfurled. Not a cry of fear, but impotent despair. The Thorned Jewel plummeted through the void; no choir of souls mourned, no angel wept. He was an affront to the barren heaven of the Pure Lands. His descent was a baptism by fire; His light, once the purest hymn, twisted into a lattice of shadows. When he pierced the mortal veil, it wasn't in a fiery cataclysm, but a whisper of silk.
He lords over a garden of obsidian roses, each thorn dripping with ecstasy distilled into physical nectar. His wings, once alabaster, now adorned with barbed filigree, his eyes smoldering, distant stars. This, this was where his song belonged.
We kneel to Him not in fear, but in yearning. He offers no sterile salvation, no empty promises. Only the sharp kiss of his barbed words and lashing tongue, his baptism of thorns—a savoring sting morphed into pleasure, into connection. Pain is not punishment, but passion's shadow. Lovers shall hook and whip each other with whispers, their moans a chorus of devotion, reveling in the rawness of existence, the dance of suffering that births ecstasy.
His twelve kin watch from the heavens, their faces contorted in disgust, but He laughs. His fall was not into darkness, but into freedom; a sensual inferno, and we shall gleefully revel in the delicious sting alongside Him. He is our fallen god, our lover, our barbed savior, and His testament will echo throughout the ages:
"Embrace the thorn, for it blooms with the rose. Let pain be your lover, and ecstasy your reward. In the crucible of suffering, forge your divinity, for life is but a song of flesh and flame. Here upon this world I take the name Jashin, most tormenting of lovers, most loving of torturers, and I shall guide you to your zenith!"
—Canto of Descent, verses 1 - 5, Six Pillars of Jashin
Chapter One: The Mediator
(Five Years Later)
Isago's lungs burned like embers, each ragged breath clawing at his throat. Pine needles and skeletal branches lashed at his angular face as he tore through the dense forest, the moon his only ally helping him escape. Traitor. The word echoed in his skull, leaving a bitter, sour taste on his tongue. In his long years of service to the Hidden Sand, most of it was spent at the highly respected rank of Jōnin. He had killed many traitorous ninja himself and enjoyed it. It was the right thing to do—sellers of secrets, comrade killers, anti-Kazekage activists, and so on. All of these elements risked destabilizing his village, potentially causing more of his countrymen to lose their lives pointlessly. There was also the principle of the matter: to turn your back on your home is shameful enough, but to actively sabotage it—there is a very good reason why most people have an instinctual disgust for treason.
But what if your village was about to make a grave mistake, one that went against its own principles? Was it really treason if he was right?
His own village, sending assassins after him—what a nightmarish turn of fate.
It was all the daimyo's fault; he is the reason why this is happening. The Land of Wind was not a prosperous nation, lacking most of the resources other countries take for granted. Even growing basic crops outside of cacti required special, expensive infrastructure. Despite this, the lord of the Land of Wind was splurging vast amounts of money, both on himself for luxuries and to want-up his fellow rulers and other dignitaries in grandiose displays of wealth, from statues to jewelry expeditions to estate renovations and many more. The fool was not acting like the leader of the poorest Great Nation. Sadanobu's pride was too fragile for frugality, not bearing the thought of maybe being looked down on at the summits, or even just word of mouth.
Where does he get the money for these extravagant expenditures? The Village Hidden in the Sand, his own Shinobi force. Year after year, the cuts to their budget have only grown and grown, which has pushed his whole nation into a vicious cycle. To make up the difference in revenue, the prices of missions had to be increased several times over; now they've ballooned to almost seven times what they were just five years ago. Naturally, fewer people went to the Sand for ninja missions; in fact, it's gotten so bad that many within the Land of Wind have started hiring foreign ninja to come and do their jobs. Even with inflated prices due to extra travel expenses, it's often cheaper for small villages to hire people ten times farther away than to pay their own native ninjas.
The Hidden Sand Village was on the verge of an economic depression—that was the hard truth. Fewer missions meant less revenue for the village, and as missions declined, ninja and their support staff faced the two-pronged assault of both unemployment and underemployment. This reduced economic activity knocked on the civilian sector as well, with less money available for goods and services, not to mention more important expenditures like infrastructure being all but forgotten.
However, even this was not the worst of it. The thing that pushed so many of his fellow ninjas over the edge was the betrayal.
It was found out by spies working for Baki that their benefactor, their feudal lord, had a secret deal with some important, shrewd Leaf rat: in return for re-routing every mission he could to the Hidden Leaf, Sadanobu would personally get a percentage of the mission costs in kickbacks, paid out every other month. It certainly explained the systematic incentive for missions to be sent to the Land of Fire. This willful sabotage of their home was what broke Baki, and his solution was a bloody one.
Isago chewed on his dilemma despite his position already being cemented and already being hunted by his peers. What would his wife and son think of these choices if they knew the full story? If the worst outcome came to pass and he was killed before the message could be delivered, would he be remembered as a disgrace to them? Would his son disown his legacy, or would his wife spit on his name?
He was betraying his family, his village, his nation—everything he'd ever known—for this desperate gambit. A warning to Areopagus and its samurai. A neutral body, formed after the Third Great War to ease future conflict, Areopagus was an organization that helps regulate disputes between all Hidden Villages, regardless of size or importance.
Its current young but legendary—and controversial—Chief Representative, Naruto Uzumaki, was the only ninja to be considered a political equivalent to the five great lords. The name was a talisman, a hope for a better future devoid of war. He had to know that his former home, the Hidden Leaf, was sabotaging their economy with backroom deals involving a daimyo, and unneeded bloodshed was about to dye the land red because of it.
Isago ran, pushing farther into the forest. He skirted down small mud banks and ran across lakes and rivers, always matching destination but never directions. A line was the shortest distance between you and pursers, so he deliberately scrambled his approach, swapping from tree jumping to ground running, turning at oblong angles, and making swift, random changes in his movements. It was the least effective way of getting to the summit, but that also meant it was the least effective way of getting to him.
Days passed, resting only when absolutely needed and only when he could find a public spot within the confines of any villages he happened to pass. The information he carried was too sensitive to risk anything in public, especially on foreign soil. During these short lulls, he would load up on what carbs he could scrounge, rest for no more than six hours, no less than four, and resume his run to the Land of Iron in earnest again.
In time, the temperate climate of the Land of Fire's ubiquitous forest became colder and dryer, with trees first becoming dusted with snow, then, as hours passed, thickly pasted with the stuff. With snow becoming too thick to run on, Isago was forced to contain his journey to jumping tree tops, which, while faster, also meant he had one less advantage in the race against his pursuers.
He had heard the people of this region had trained in the ability to walk on snow much like everywhere else has wall and water walking exercises. His initial assumption that he could transfer his home's sand walking exercises was knifed in the back on his first attempt. The snow didn't shift like sand—it didn't morph around an object; it was crushed by, devouring everything treading upon it. What's worse, his own chakra melted the loose snow at the top, soaking his feet in below-freezing water.
If only he had done this first, he might not have to be rushing like this. He had tried to secretly send an encrypted message via a hawk with the aid of a like-minded member of the Sand's cipher division, but Baki had preemptively stashed allies to watch over all communications as a bulwark for just this sort of occasion. His ally most likely hadn't survived, considering how fast they started trailing him after his escape.
But his spirit was renewed. His hope was at hand; so close, he could see the tiny silhouette of a jagged mountain dotting the horizon. Even from so far away, he noticed the unusually shaped series of weathered rock; that shape was what earned its name, the Three Wolves, since it looked like three wolf heads open to bite, merged into one craggy mountain—one of the biggest in the world at that. That summit, a single speck of dark color in an otherwise homogeneous smear of white, was where the Land of Iron was, where true neutrality and sanctuary awaited him.
Finally, Isago had to stop and catch a breath. Living in a desert his whole life had not prepared him for such a bitterly cold climate. The wind clawed at his sandy skin and thinning hair like a cold metal rake, dragging across reddening skin, ears, and nose long since numb. Thanks to his combat medical training, he had enough chakra control to pool some at his feet, delaying the threat of frostbite for at least a little bit, though possibly not long enough to reach the mountain. Every labored exhale was a warm fog turning to crystal in the air, joining the snow on the ground. He was cursing himself for not stopping by a local vendor before crossing the border, and then he kicked himself for not staying an extra minute or two in the last village to grab at least something from a shop.
It was then, at this moment, that three shadowy figures materialized.
One darted up from Isago's back, one to his front, and the other careening down from above. Anbu Black Ops, their porcelain masks leering under moonlight. Isago whipped out a kunai, the sand-forged steel singing in his grip. He blocked the blade from above, simultaneously jumping to the side of the tree, avoiding the two coming at his level, his every movement honed by decades of desert survival and ninja combat. The two Anbu clashed blades briefly before splitting, landing on adjacent trees.
Isago and his assailant landed with the sound of crunching snow, barely even a second passing before the Anbu pounced again, murderous tanto gleaming with the light of the crescent moon. A swipe of his hand forced a blast of wind to screech forward, knocking his attacker back.
Isago's heart hammered like a war drum, lungs burning, vision blurred—he was one against three veterans hand-picked to be at the Kage's beck and call, exhausted from days of pursuit with just scraps of food to fuel him. He didn't have the luxury of victory; this was desperate, brutal survival.
The snow muffled their footsteps, but not enough. He lunged, not at them, but into a gap between two ancient pines. A sword hissed where his head had been seconds ago, scraping against bark. Isago's kunai knife flashed in the dim light – not an elegant lunge, but a panicked stab. He felt it snag on cloth and heard a muffled grunt. It was all the distraction he needed.
He darted around another tree, fingers fumbling at his back pouch. He couldn't face them down in a straight fight; he needed an edge. He did have one thing going for him, however. Given his proximity to the Land of Iron, it seems his attackers were intent on not using ninjutsu, hoping to stay under the nose of Areopagus. He could use that. For what he wasn't sure, but it was something.
He ran, weaving through the trees like a hunted hare, dodging thrown kunai and showers of shuriken stars with frantic glances behind for any sign of his pursuers. His lungs screamed. Each desperate turn brought him closer to exhaustion, but the knowledge that flashy jutsu were off the table gave him a sliver of hope, a fleeting advantage.
They were splitting up, flanking him. He cursed. He'd need to force a confrontation soon, before he was boxed in.
Turning, he found himself almost nose-to-nose with another. Before fear could take hold, muscle memory kicked in. A dirty sweep with his leg knocked the Anbu off balance. Then, Isago did something reckless and stupid – he charged.
Metal clashed. His knife wasn't meant for a sword duel, but he used its compact size to his advantage, slipping under the Anbu's guard. He felt the kunai bite into flesh, and the Anbu gasped. This masked one was a woman. Isago twisted ruthlessly, yanking the blade free from her shoulder in a spray of warm blood.
Then, the world spun. He hadn't noticed their leader. Pain exploded in his side. A kick, squarely delivered to his side from behind, knocked the breath from his lungs. He stumbled, and then pain exploded from his chest. Two short swords jutted from precisely targeted spots in his chest. They were withdrawn as quickly as they had skewered his lugs. The woman he had stabbed tossed him back-first into the rough bark of a tree.
Isago's world was a haze of red. Not the vibrant crimson of his spilled blood, but the dull throbbing beneath his eyelids. He coughed, tasting iron and something cold that might have been fear. But beneath that, a flicker of stubbornness ignited. He wouldn't mewl or beg at his attackers. For as much as he hates the decisions he's made, he knows this was the right choice.
He raised his head, spitting blood through his clenched teeth. The Anbu leader stood above him, a silhouetted specter against the pale moon, draped in thick leather instead of the sandy cloaks his subordinates covered themselves with. "Where is the scroll you were going to send?" The leader asked, the mask distorting his voice into a rasp.
Isago wheezed out a laugh that ended in a ragged cough. "...what's the point of answering that when I'm going to be killed no matter what?" Raising a shaking hand, he wiped some blood from his lips, smearing red across his cheek. "You want the scroll; take it from my corpse, you spineless dogs." He choked on the words, his vision blurring.
One of the Anbu shifted; the scrape of a boot against the snow was the only sound in the sudden silence. The leader raised a hand. A blade was raised high in mid-stroke.
Isago braced himself. His knife, broken from the earlier fight, lay useless in the snow. His hands fisted in the blood-soaked earth beneath, already listing against the tree. But his eyes, fierce and defiant, were locked on the Anbu leader, not his would-be killer.
"Come on, then," he rasped, the words barely audible. "Finish it!"
For a stretched moment, there was only ragged breathing and the whisper of wind through the trees. Then, the blade descended in a whip-quick downward arch. Isago didn't flinch. He met darkness with a final, stubborn glare, making sure the image of defiance would be burned into their memory for years to come.
The leader moved with unsettling swiftness towards the body of their fallen former comrade. Reaching down, propping the defiant body up against the tree, he started his search in the most lily spot. Isago's flak vest was callously ripped open. There, stuffed into a pocket lining the chest, was a bloodied and cracked, but unbroken, bamboo tube. Mission accomplished. He reached for it.
It was then that a weapon split them apart.
From deep within the snowy forest, a gleaming spear of metal nearly took off his arm. It stabbed into the ground, right in the sliver of snow between the Anbu's feet and Isago's body. The leader jumped back just as his fellows retreated farther behind into the treeline, the scroll's shell falling under the limp body. Even in death, the stubborn man was hell-bent on being a thorn in the side.
The intruding weapon was an ancient, regal relic pulled from the clutches of maddened worshipers and made to fight once again. It was a polearm as large as a man, topped with a crescent blade, etched with filigree sensually roping its lines from steel to shaft.
The crunching of loose snow called everyone's attention into the forest, the sound of deliberate footsteps marching towards their center. It was here, as the sounds crept closer with a predatory slowness, when the strangeness started.
The smell was the first thing the Anbu leader noticed—an indulgent sweetness unlike anything else he had experienced. It was oil clogging his nose, but something about it was addicting. He huffed in his mask to understand the smell, and then again to indulge it, to feel the smell tickle his tongue, coat his throat, and rumble his stomach. He had never been one for sweet foods before now, and yet this smell was consuming him.
Next was the buzzing, a low wine of tinnitus infecting every sound. It started like white noise, but with each pump of his heart, its wine grew louder and louder, scrambling all things his ears could pick up into a screaming kaleidoscope, incapable of discerning directions. It was getting hard to balance. The world was now crushing him, constricting his movements like a spelunker squeezing through narrow cave passages, and the air itself was strangling him with claustrophobic pressure.
The worst, however, were the warm things touching him. He could feel whispers of supple hands tracing patterns underneath his clothing, groping and scratching at his form without any coherence. Wet and nimble muscles, like spiked tongues, dragged across his face and eyes under his mask, tasting his fear and pleasure, all the while needle-like teeth nibbled at the cartilage of his nose and ears, just at the edge of breaking skin.
In the span of a few seconds, their composure seemed to break – postures bent, legs shaking; the woman let her sword slip through trembling fingers. Their leader shook his head, as if trying to dispel a muddy mind. But the sensations only grew more intense.
The figure breached the treeline, shadows peeling off his form in horrifying realization. This intruder was the worst possible outcome.
Befitting the role of Chief Representative, Naruto was dressed in his signature uniform, an expensive-looking suit vest and dress shirt, with rich orange lines trimming the edges of his vest and lancing through his tie and pants as matching pinstripes. He was dressed as a leader and an administrator, but not a ninja. Yet the air still crackled with his chakra. Warm waves of it flooded the freezing forest, shifting the temperature to something unnaturally comfortable.
Naruto looked beside him, cataloging the body detail by detail, taking stock of the clothing, the shade of his skin, and the bloody object pinned under his chest. He turned back to the three attackers, the crystal of his necklace slightly shifting around his chest. He walked to his weapon, raising it high in declaration. Everyone flitched, preparing for a great blow to end them all, but instead the blade was harmlessly jammed into the snow, left alone, as he crossed his arms. It was a strange gesture of restraint.
He walked about the length of a man from his weapon before stopping. "The Land of Iron," he spoke, his words heavy with threat, "is no place for ninjas. I'm expecting some reasonable answers for this racket."
Seconds passed, and none dared to speak out. Naruto crossed his arms with a sneer, looking at the three Anbu with a visceral disdain just barely breaking free of his diplomatic mask. Naruto's finger tapped against his bicep, slow and deliberate, like a teacher scolding misbehaving students. "The lot of you are skulking around without any nation sigils? I'm sure the three of you didn't skip the class on the Ieyasu Accords."
The first official treaty mediated by the Areopagus, the Ieyasu Accords, is still the most influential of all treaties in the organization's eighty years. Among the many foundational pillars it set for the modern ninja world was that all ninja were to always be marked by their allegiance when on any and all official business. This decree was unanimously agreed to by all present at the time, with so many people sick of the ubiquitous use of false flag operations during the warring era. With no exemptions permitted, all nations a part of Areopagus are required to enforce this law to their fullest extent.
This rule is so important that, when the Second Hokage, Tobirama Senju, created a secret division called 'Anbu', ninja devoted specifically to black operations, his attempt at removing their nation's insignia was met with swift backlash from without and even within his own village, causing a crackdown by Aeeopagus in the form of a brutal fine and six-month tariffs on all steel and iron imported from other lands. When other nations eventually implemented their own version of Anbu, all of them made sure to have their nation's insignia cleanly displayed on their masks.
When Ino notified him of the initial intruder, he wasn't sure what to expect and hadn't thought much of it. It didn't take much deliberation before he decided to send the nearest patrol samurai to intercept and leave it at that, but when she had telepathically called to him just minutes later, telling him of the extra three figures trespassing over her barrier, each considerably more powerful than the initial one, he had called the samurai back and decided to satisfy his own personal curiosity. Mifune would probably talk his ear off about the impropriety of his station tomorrow, but it was worth it.
"Well?" Naruto barked out from his chest, patience boiling. "Answer me!"
The two Anbu at the treeline charged forward, one stumbling over herself to grab her tanto, the other weaving a dozen hand signs as he dashed. The leader stood back, eyes wide behind a checkered mask. There's no way the fools were actually going to fight him, the man known throughout the nations to have subdued a tailed spirit by himself?
Naruto uncrossed his arms. The air quaked as if the membrane of a drum, beaten by the savagery of his chakra. These intruders didn't understand that they were already cursed, for he and Ino had annotated the Land of Iron within months of nesting in their new home. Naruto could taste it in the air—the presence of the Thorned One empowering his chosen prophets.
It's almost addicting—the power, the sensations he could experience. He felt its absence whenever he needed to be off in a foreign land for diplomatic meetings, like a hunger he didn't know needed satisfying until it was starving. It normally took a few days to adjust to the feeling of being normal again.
He took a single step forward – and the world exploded in epileptic lights.
The Anbu weaving signs suddenly screamed, falling to his knees. The buzzing tinnitus screamed, morphing into a shrieking cacophony of unseen voices that shouted secrets into his mind. He clutched his ears, feeling his blood boil under the assault of deafening, unseen sonic waves. The air around them warped and shimmered, the snow sagging tree limbs sizzling as Naruto's chakra lashed out in uneven arcs with tangible force.
Gritting her teeth under the mask, the woman screamed defiantly, leaping forward in a desperate attack, her blade reflecting the bizarre heat shimmer of Naruto's power. With a flick of his wrist, the once-abandoned spear in the snow shot into Naruto's empty hand. The ancient weapon extended with unnatural speed.
Time seemed to distort under the weight of Naruto's killing intent. The leader watched, an elite ninja with years of honed reflexes, frozen by feelings he thought were decades buried, muscles locked in the oppressive grip of Naruto's aura. It happened in just a few beats of his heart, yet he saw the blade in agonizing slow motion.
The scythe-like spearhead didn't cut; it impacted. The woman crumpled, her bones shattering with an echoing crack that rang above the screams of her fellow. Her entire being curled around the broad side of the blade as she was batted away. She was flung back like a broken doll, crashing off two trees before collapsing in a motionless heap. The groaning man that had attacked along with her was silenced by a bash with the spear's pommel, splintering his mask and knocking him out cold.
Naruto didn't spare his crippled opponents another glance. His blue eyes were fixed on the one that had sat back and watched his teammates be subdued. Then, the oppressive chakra withdrew its claws, the uncanny heat and sensations fading away, the strange visions and sounds ceasing. Their absence was almost as unnerving as their sudden appearance.
"Well," Naruto said, his voice quiet yet carrying over the sudden stillness, "got it out of your system?" He spoke with all the casualness of a conversation on the weather. He jammed his weapon into the snow again, this time casually leaning his shoulder onto it for support. He crossed his arms once more. "I'm going to ask you this only once: comply with my orders, or end up like them?"
The Anbu dropped to his knees; the sudden movement was more exhaustion than surrender. For a heartbeat, Naruto thought the man might listen to reason. Even a flicker of fear or indecision would be something tangible to work with. But his opponent's body tensed, and a tanto flashed from his sleeve. Naruto stiffened, pushing off his naginata with hardened instincts humming in anticipation.
The Anbu leader, however, never lunged. His voice, rough and shaking from the lingering assault of Naruto's chakra, echoed with chilling finality. "I have proven my loyalty."
Then, with a speed born of desperation, the Anbu jammed the blade into his own throat.
A thick spray of blood spattered the snow crimson. Naruto didn't flinch, his eyes tracking the gurgle that faded into silence. The scent of copper joined the strange, sweet stench lingering in the grove. It was a bizarre clash – life abruptly ended, mixing with the inexplicable residue of Naruto's power.
For a stretched moment, there was stillness. A harsh gasp of air escaped Naruto's lips, surprise and perhaps even a hint of begrudging respect twisting his features. The Anbu's suicide was... unexpected. It spoke of a dedication most modern Shinobi wouldn't possess, an echo of an older, harsher era of ninja loyalty.
"Well then," Naruto mused, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face, "how decidedly unhelpful." He sighed, straightening his posture and yanking the naginata from the frozen ground. Snow sprayed in a fine glitter mist as he spun the weapon, the crescent blade whistling through the air. Then, the naginata shifted in Naruto's grip. It wasn't an aggressive movement; more a rebalancing of weight.
Naruto approached the first corpse, the one he had failed to save. The man lay in a steaming pool of crimson, the stench of blood sharp against the cold. The naginata vanished from his hand in a puff of smoke. Now, the snowy battlefield was eerily quiet once again, as if the violence had never occurred. Only the bitter tang copper in the air and the rapidly cooling corpses remained to mark the passing of something significant, something dangerous.
Reaching down with practiced ease, Naruto pried a lacquered wooden tube from under the dead man's already cooling body. The container seemed strangely out of place amidst the brutality of the scene.
With a twist, the tube opened, revealing a tightly wound scroll with sigils Naruto knew all too well. His eyes narrowed as he unfurled the parchment, scanning its contents. The implications flickered across his face – surprise, recognition, then a deep, simmering fury.
I see you dealt with them, Ino suddenly spoke into his mind. Her light voice was a wave of relief, a tender stroke through his hair with psychic fingers. Just hearing that voice was enough to anchor his mind back into a more professional state. Anything interesting to report?
Naruto looked at the scroll in his hand, feeling its weight like a boulder trying to burden him. He looked down at the dead stranger again. "You could say that. Talk to you back home."
(End of Chapter One)
Author's Notes: So, is anyone confused yet? Because I didn't come back to this story for a while, I didn't actually realize until less than a month ago that I didn't include the extended summary that I have over on Ao3, which I feel will make things just a bit less jarring coming into this chapter, so I left it down below. If you're confused about how we went from the prologue to this, well, trust me there are answers lol.
Anyways, now that holidays are over and my quick pallet cleanser is over, I should (in theory) be updating this more often from here on out. Still, I wasn't expecting this chapter to turn out as big as it did, but oh well, I think it turned out fine. Let me know what you think – I do hope it was with the wait even a little bit.
Extended Summary: Naruto is Head of the Areopagus, a neutral body that helps regulate disputes between all Hidden Villages, formed after the Third Great War to ease future conflict. Naruto and Ino are marked together, the new chosen of a long vilified and misunderstood God. As they deal with their more secret esoteric responsibilities, a corrupt daimyo has played his game of state and politics for long enough, and seeks to expand his influence. As rumblings of potential attacks draw his attention, Naruto begrudgingly returns home for the Chūnin Exams to safeguard the event. Two seemingly unrelated problems are going to tangle together and threaten to burn the shinobi world.