Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto or its elements. Enjoy
Chapter 1:
A Beginning To An End
Naruto
Darkness.
The unrelenting, suffocating void. It's the greatest foe humanity has ever known, an all-encompassing force that devours hope and stokes fear. Here, it clings like a second skin, an oppressive blanket of nothingness that seeps into the soul. The faint flicker of a candlelight cuts through the black, casting fleeting shadows against cracked, cold stone walls. It offers no warmth, no comfort—only a cruel reminder of the isolation surrounding the battered figure chained within its meager glow.
The boy sits motionless, his form slumped yet held upright by taut restraints. Wrists and ankles are bound tightly to the unforgiving wood of a chair bolted into the ground. His face is a canvas of exhaustion; grime clings to every inch of his skin, etched into the lines formed by years of hardship. His chest rises and falls slowly, almost imperceptibly, as though even the act of breathing is a herculean effort. His eyes—cold, empty, fixed—never leave the fragile flame. It is the last fragile tether anchoring his sanity against the abyss.
"...No. I won't... I can't," he mutters, his voice hoarse, each word a struggle against the despair that grips him.
A dull ache radiates from his limbs, but he suppresses it, his gaze unwavering. The room feels like it's closing in, the candlelight feebly battling the encroaching darkness. His thoughts, clouded and fragmented, scrape together, trying to assemble the puzzle of how he had arrived here. It feels like grasping at smoke.
He exhales a shaky breath, his gaze falling from the flickering flame to two sheets of paper laid next to it. The documents are pristine, almost mocking in their clarity amidst the filth and decay. The first bears the unmistakable seal of Konoha, the Leaf Village. His ID file. Every shinobi has one, a clinical catalog of their existence, their history, their identity. Yet as his weary eyes scan the text for the umpteenth time, the words that leap off the page twist his stomach into knots.
"I'm not dead."
The whispered words hang in the air, weighty and raw. He repeats them, his voice trembling with disbelief. It isn't denial—it's the sheer absurdity of what he sees before him. Because the document speaks of his death, of a sacrifice he does not recall making, of a legacy built upon a lie. He doesn't know how long he stares at the page, but his mind can't accept it. Not yet.
Two names glare back at him: Minato Namikaze and Kushina Uzumaki. His parents.
A surge of heat courses through him, unbidden and uncontrollable. Rage, betrayal, sorrow—emotions so tightly wound they blur into a singular, agonizing knot in his chest. His father's name burns the brightest. Minato Namikaze, the revered Fourth Hokage, a hero to the village, and the same man who had condemned his son to a life of isolation, mistrust, and hatred. The weight of the revelation crushes him anew, as if the chains binding his limbs have wrapped around his soul.
Naruto closes his eyes, but it does little to block the tidal wave of questions crashing over him. Did they ever care for him? Did they choose to abandon him? Were his years of torment in the village a consequence of their will—or their negligence?
A lump rises in his throat, but he forces it down, focusing instead on the second sheet of paper. It's different from the first, less formal yet equally damning. The handwriting is careful, deliberate. He recognizes it instantly: Sarutobi Hiruzen, the Third Hokage. Naruto's jaw tightens as his eyes scan the contents, his heart pounding harder with each line.
Report: At 1200 hours, during the Konoha Chūnin Exams, allied forces of Sunagakure and Otogakure launched a surprise attack. Witness testimony indicates that Sasuke Uchiha pursued Suna's jinchūriki, Gaara of the Sand (KIA). A team of four was dispatched under Hatake Kakashi's orders to retrieve Uchiha and assist in the evacuation. When reinforcements arrived, they found the aftermath of a massacre. There were no survivors.
Suspected killer: Uzumaki Naruto, having lost control of the Nine-Tails.
Naruto's hands twitch against the restraints. The leather bites into his wrists, but the pain grounds him, anchoring him to the present. "They think I lost control of the Kyūbi..." His voice is low, a growl building beneath the surface. "Those pathetic fools. They don't even know..."
The thought trails off as something dark stirs within him. It's a voice, alien yet disturbingly familiar. It doesn't belong to the Kyūbi, though the fox's malevolence simmers nearby, ever-watchful. No, this voice is colder, more insidious. It whispers in the back of his mind, planting seeds of doubt and fury. For the first time in his life, Naruto feels truly terrified—not of the voice, but of how much he agrees with it.
His mantra, his dream of becoming Hokage, feels distant, like a hollow shell of a dream he'd once believed in. "Get it together, Uzumaki," he mutters, his words lacking conviction. "You're a shinobi of Konoha. You're..." But the words die on his tongue, lifeless and meaningless.
Then comes the sound.
Creak.
SLAM.
The door swings open, and a figure steps into the room, their silhouette sharp against the flood of light from the corridor beyond. Naruto squints, his eyes stinging, his body tensing instinctively. The figure's voice cuts through the silence, cold and unyielding.
"Naruto Uzumaki Namikaze. Third jinchūriki of the Kyūbi. Genin of Konoha. Self-proclaimed Hokage. Murderer."
The voice belongs to a woman, its icy precision sending shivers down his spine. She steps forward, into the room's weak illumination. Her white hair gleams, pulled back into a taut ponytail, and her face is obscured by a blank, expressionless mask. A dark cloak shrouds her figure, concealing all but her combat boots and the whip coiled in her gloved hand. A viscous liquid drips from its tip, hissing faintly as it lands on the stone floor.
"Who are you?" she demands, her tone brooking no argument.
Naruto's lips curl into a defiant smirk, despite the fear gnawing at him. "Names Naruto," he sneers. "You come here often, sweet cheeks?"
The whip lashes out before he can blink. Pain explodes across his chest, the searing sting amplified by whatever substance coats the weapon. He grits his teeth, a strangled cry escaping despite his best efforts.
"I'll ask again," she says, her voice devoid of emotion. "Who are you?"
Naruto glares at her through the haze of pain. "Naruto... fucking... Uzumaki," he growls.
She studies him in silence, her masked gaze unreadable. Then, without warning, she turns and strides toward the door, her boots clicking against the floor. Before she leaves, she pauses, her voice dropping to a whisper that sends chills racing down his spine.
"When I return, we'll have some fun."
The door slams shut, plunging Naruto back into darkness. For a moment, he's too stunned to process what just happened. Then his gaze falls on the broken chain that had once bound him to the wall. Slowly, painfully, he begins to piece together a plan.
The voices in his head stir once more, louder now, and more insistent. One thought dominates them all:
Survive.
Sasuke
Darkness was his companion, an unwavering, unfeeling sentinel that enveloped him in its oppressive embrace. The faint flicker of a single light bulb, suspended precariously from the ceiling, cast erratic shadows that danced like specters on the dull, lifeless grey walls. The room lacked any defining features—no windows, no door, no vents. Just an enclosed prison, suffocatingly silent save for the rhythmic sound of his breathing.
He sat in the solitary chair, drenched in sweat, his body twitching sporadically as though trying to expel an invisible tormentor. His hands gripped at his limbs, clawing desperately at the areas where numbness and pain fought a brutal battle for dominance. The epicenter of his agony was unmistakable—his neck.
The memory of that man—a strange figure cloaked in malice—sank its teeth into his thoughts as deeply as it had into his flesh. He had been bitten. The searing, fiery pain that had coursed through him then was nothing compared to the sinister energy now spreading like venom through his veins.
The sensation was intoxicating yet revolting. It surged through him like a raging storm, each wave imbued with a dark, unholy power that whispered promises of unimaginable strength while shackling him in a cocoon of despair. He gasped, the air in his lungs turning to lead as he pushed himself upright in the chair. The flickering light above seemed almost mocking as it highlighted the beads of sweat dripping from his pale face. His dark eyes, usually calculating and sharp, glimmered with an unsettling mix of confusion and anger.
"Pain..." he muttered to no one in particular. The word rolled off his tongue like a foreign concept, yet it encapsulated everything he felt. It was as if the torment had become a living entity, wrapping itself around him, feeding off his anguish.
But this wasn't the ordinary kind of pain. No, this was deeper, darker. This was pain that carved itself into the soul, dragging memories to the surface that he'd long buried. Memories of laughter turned to silence, of a world shattered in an instant. Memories of the man who had stolen everything from him.
A name echoed in his mind, unbidden and unwelcome.
Uchiha Itachi.
And just as swiftly as the name came, so too did the wave of fury that followed. The very thought of that man sent his blood boiling, and yet, beneath the anger lay something colder, something more insidious. Questions. Why? Why had he done it? Why had he chosen to betray them all? To betray him?
No answers came, only the familiar chill of the room. He exhaled, his breath forming a fleeting, misty cloud in the stagnant air. And then, as if the room itself was responding to his unspoken questions, the bricks directly in front of him began to shift. Slowly, they moved aside, grinding against each other until a darkened doorway was revealed.
From within the void stepped a silhouette. The figure lingered just beyond the reach of the feeble light, its outline barely discernible. It stood there for an eternity of seconds, silent and unmoving. When it finally spoke, the voice was calm, measured, and utterly devoid of emotion.
"Would you like to hear a story?" the man asked, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "A story about a man whose life was intimately perfect before he chose to take his own."
The words hung in the air, heavy with an unspoken significance. Sasuke—though his name remained unspoken, his presence undisguisable—stared at the figure, a flicker of curiosity cutting through the haze of pain and fury clouding his mind.
The man continued, his voice unwavering. "But before you hear his story, you must first hear another's."
The shadows shifted as the figure stepped closer, but his face remained hidden. Sasuke's eyes narrowed, his mind racing. There was something about this voice, this presence, that felt unnervingly familiar. It tugged at buried memories, yet he couldn't place it. Against his better judgment, he found himself nodding, compelled by an inexplicable need to hear what the man had to say.
The figure's lips curled into a smile that was audible even through the darkness. "Once upon a time," he began, "there was a boy who dreamed of a perfect world. A world free of war, famine, and meaningless death."
The room seemed to grow colder as he spoke, the light above dimming ever so slightly. The figure took one more step forward, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried the weight of a storm.
"His name... was Uchiha Itachi."
The sound of the name sent a jolt through Sasuke, his body stiffening instinctively. It was as if the very air in the room had shifted, charged now with an electric tension that crackled and hissed in his ears. The figure's words were a dagger, plunging into his mind and twisting with cruel precision. Sasuke's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms as he stared at the shadowy figure with a mix of dread and defiance.
The man's smile widened, though his face remained obscured. "Shall we begin?"
Gaara
The room was a tomb, cold and unyielding. Shadows crept along the walls, twisting and turning like living creatures, their forms distorted by the flickering bulb that hung from the ceiling. It swayed slightly, as if in rhythm with an unseen breath, casting an anemic light that did little to pierce the oppressive darkness.
Blood. The thick, metallic scent of it was inescapable, clinging to the stale air and seeping into the very walls. It pooled in dark rivulets on the floor, reflecting the weak light above. And at the center of it all, he stood, motionless but for the subtle twitch of his fingers. Crimson coated him, dripping from his hands, his arms, even his face. He grinned—a wide, unhinged grin that split his face like a wound. His eyes, gleaming with an unnatural light, darted eagerly toward the concealed darkness beyond the single doorway.
"Wait! No, please!"
The desperate cries cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and jagged. His body stiffened, the grin faltering for a fraction of a second before settling into something more sinister. His breath quickened, each inhale a shudder as if feeding off the fear that seeped through the walls.
The cries grew louder, closer, until they were just outside. The sound of frantic footsteps accompanied them, a cacophony of terror that reverberated through the room. Then—
Clink!
The wall opposite him shifted with a mechanical groan, stone grinding against stone as a hidden panel slid open. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, a body was hurled into the room. It landed with a wet thud, sliding slightly on the blood-slicked floor before coming to a stop.
The figure on the floor scrambled to his knees, gasping for air, his hands trembling as they searched for purchase on the unyielding surface. He was young, his features contorted with a mix of terror and determination. The man's eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, before landing on the one standing amidst the carnage.
The red haired figure in the center tilted his head, the motion slow and deliberate, as if mocking the other's frantic movements. His grin widened, stretching impossibly far, and a low, guttural chuckle escaped his lips. He raised one hand, fingers twitching as he summoned his chakra. Sand stirred faintly around his feet, the grains trembling with anticipation, but then... nothing. The man before him remained silent, unbroken, his body untouched by the crushing force he had expected to wield.
A flicker of confusion crossed his face, quickly replaced by something darker—anger. He focused again, willing the sand to rise, to twist, to crush. Still, nothing happened. The air was thick with tension, oppressive and suffocating. The silence stretched, broken only by the ragged breathing of the man on the floor.
And then, the man moved. With a sudden burst of desperate courage, he lunged forward, his fists swinging wildly. The first blow landed squarely on the face of the blood-soaked figure, snapping his head to the side. Another followed, and another. The strikes were relentless, fueled by fear and adrenaline.
For the first time, he felt it—pain. A sharp, stinging sensation radiated from his cheek, spreading across his face like fire. His eyes widened, disbelief flashing in their depths. He tried to move, to retaliate, but the man was unrelenting, raining punches down on him until he collapsed to the floor.
The man above him froze, his chest heaving, sweat mingling with the blood that stained his hands. Slowly, he backed away, his body trembling as the weight of what he had done settled over him. The figure on the floor stirred, a low groan escaping his lips as he raised a hand to his face. His fingers brushed against bruised flesh, and he recoiled at the sensation.
Was this... pain? True pain?
He sat up slowly, his movements deliberate as he pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the rapid, erratic thrum of his heart. It was unfamiliar, alien. He had never experienced this before—not like this. Pain had always been something inflicted, never endured. The realization was a jagged shard, cutting through the haze of his mind.
A scream tore from his throat, raw and primal, reverberating through the room. It was a sound of fury, of anguish, of something unnamable that clawed at the edges of his sanity. The man who had struck him flinched, his courage evaporating as he stumbled back toward the wall.
The figure on the floor rose to his feet, his movements slow, deliberate. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with a mixture of rage and exhilaration. His eyes locked onto the man before him, now cowering in the corner. The grin returned, but it was no longer a thing of madness—it was something colder, more calculating.
Someone was going to pay.
Konoha
The rain fell in a steady rhythm, an unrelenting drizzle that seemed to merge with the collective mourning of a village in despair. The streets of Konoha were silent, the usual hustle and vibrancy of life replaced by somber stillness. The black-clad crowds gathered, heads bowed, their faces veiled in sorrow. It was a sad day for the Hidden Leaf, one that would echo in the hearts of its people for generations.
A short but fierce war had come to their doorstep. The combined forces of Suna and Oto had waged a battle meant to break them. Konoha, resilient and unyielding, had emerged victorious, but at a staggering cost. The loss was not only measured in the lives of warriors, but in the hearts of a grieving populace.
At the center of it all, the pyre stood as a stark monument to their sacrifice. Men, women, and children bowed their heads in great respect and admiration for their fallen leader, a man who had given his life so that they might live.
Sarutobi Hiruzen.
The Sandaime Hokage, known as the Professor, a man who carried the wisdom of the First and Second Hokages, who had shaped generations of shinobi, now lay among the honored dead. His body was gone, his spirit ascended, but his legacy lingered in every heart present.
Among those grieving stood a man whose presence commanded attention even when he wished for solitude. Masked and silent, his head bowed like the rest, but the storm within him raged with far more intensity than the gentle rain falling from the heavens. His gaze lingered on the pyre as if willing himself to absorb the warmth of the flame, to ignite the frozen hollows of his heart. One name echoed in his mind, a whisper of regret and longing.
Naruto... You should be here too.
He clenched his fists tightly, the rain masking the tears that slipped down beneath his mask. Hatake Kakashi, son of the White Fang, famed as the Copy Ninja, stood in a sea of mourners but felt the suffocating weight of solitude. The grief he carried was not merely for the Hokage. It was for all he had lost—his sensei, his comrades, and his students.
He felt his heart splinter further as his mind traced over three names etched permanently into his soul. Their absence burned like fresh wounds, each loss cutting deeper than the last. Anguish was not a new companion to Kakashi; he had known it for most of his life. Yet, this time, it felt unbearable, a weight so crushing that it took all his resolve to stand.
The service ended with a prayer, voices murmuring blessings for the departed. The mourners began to disperse, moving like shadows through the misty rain. Yet Kakashi lingered, rooted to the spot, staring at the glowing embers of the Hokage's pyre until the flames were little more than a memory. Then, with measured steps, he turned and began his solitary journey.
His destination was neither home nor the company of others. It was a place where grief etched itself into stone, a monument to the fallen. The Memorial Stone stood like a sentinel in the heart of the training grounds, an unassuming slab of granite bearing the weight of countless lives. To the village, it was a sacred place. To Kakashi, it was a mirror of his failures.
He stood before it, unmoving. The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy and damp. His hand reached up, untying the knot of his headband. With both eyes, he stared at the stone, his mismatched gaze scanning over names he knew by heart.
Namikaze Minato.
His teacher, his guide, the man who had once shown him what it meant to believe in something greater than oneself. Kakashi's voice was barely a whisper as he spoke. "I've failed you, sensei. I'm sorry."
His gaze shifted, finding three more names that stood out like fresh scars amidst the countless others. The world seemed to darken as his eyes locked onto the first.
Uchiha Sasuke.
A boy consumed by vengeance, lost to his thirst for power. Kakashi had seen the signs, tried to guide him back, but in the end, Sasuke had slipped through his fingers.
Haruno Sakura.
The bright, determined girl who had fought with all her heart but had been drawn into the chaos of a war too vast for her to overcome. Kakashi's breath hitched as he read her name, the memories of her laughter now ghosts in his mind.
Uzumaki Naruto.
The weight of this name was unbearable. The stone bore it as Uzumaki Naruto, Kyuubi Brat, Demon. Crossed out, defaced by the ignorance and hatred of those who could not see the boy for who he truly was. Kakashi's jaw clenched, and his fists trembled at his sides. He wanted to tear the words away, to restore the dignity of the boy who had carried the world on his shoulders.
"Pathetic," he muttered bitterly, the word cutting through the still air like a blade. He tightened the headband around his hand, the Sharingan in his left eye burning behind closed lids. For a moment, he entertained the thought of using Kamui on the stone itself, of erasing the injustice etched there. But no. That would not bring Naruto back. Nothing would.
He took a step back, the world around him seeming to shrink. His voice, quiet and steady, broke the silence once more. "I swear I'll become Hokage. In your honor, Naruto. For your memory, I'll protect this village, no matter what it takes."
And with that promise hanging in the damp air, he turned away from the stone. Each step he took felt heavier, but his resolve burned brighter. The road ahead was long and fraught with shadows, but Kakashi would walk it. For his students, for his sensei, for Konoha.
For Naruto.
Hyuga Mansion
The room was silent save for the muffled hum of wind outside. The once-bright walls were now dull, shadows creeping into every corner as if mirroring the heaviness in her chest. She lay motionless on the bed, the covers pulled halfway up her body, but the chill in the room wasn't from the cold. It came from inside her, a hollow emptiness she couldn't shake.
Her eyes were swollen, red-rimmed, and raw, as though her tears had drained every ounce of strength she possessed. Yet, despite how tired she was, sleep did not come easily. It hadn't for days. It lingered just out of reach, taunting her with its promises of temporary escape. But even when she slipped into unconsciousness, the dreams—no, the nightmares—always found her.
She curled onto her side, her knees tucked close to her chest as though shielding her heart from breaking any further. But the truth was, there was nothing left to protect. That ache, sharp and unrelenting, radiated through every fiber of her being. It wasn't physical pain; no, this was far worse. A deep, searing wound that no salve could touch.
The kind of pain that consumed you whole.
She clenched her fists, her nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms, and bit her lip to keep the sobs from escaping. She had cried enough—too much—and it still wasn't enough to wash away the agony. The image was burned into her mind, vivid and unyielding. The battlefield, littered with the bodies of shinobi she had grown up admiring, was a sea of crimson. She had tried to tell herself it wasn't real, that it was a trick of the mind brought on by exhaustion. But she knew better.
They were gone. He was gone.
Her lips trembled as she replayed the moment in her head. Their sensei's face had said it all. She didn't even need to ask the question, but the words tumbled from her lips anyway, desperate and pleading. "He's okay… isn't he? He's okay. Tell me he's okay."
Their sensei had avoided her gaze, and in that silence, her world crumbled.
Her body shuddered with the memory, and she forced her eyes open, staring at the ceiling above her. Somewhere outside, she could hear faint laughter—a reminder of a life that went on, indifferent to her suffering. It only made her chest tighten further. How could the world keep spinning when hers had come to such an abrupt stop?
The weight on her chest grew heavier as her gaze drifted to her nightstand. Her diary lay there, the leather-bound cover worn and creased from years of use. With trembling fingers, she reached for it, her movements slow and deliberate, as if the simple act required more effort than she could muster.
Flipping it open, she found the page almost instantly. The words she had once written with such hope and joy now mocked her.
Naruto Uzumaki + Hinata Uzumaki = Love Forever
Her breath hitched, and she felt fresh tears pricking at her eyes. She didn't want to cry anymore, but she was powerless against the flood of emotions that surged through her. Each letter seemed to blur as the tears fell, streaking the ink and smudging the words until they became unreadable.
She turned the page, desperate to avoid the pain of the first, but the next was no better. It was a list she had made late one night, giggling softly as she imagined their future together. Baby names. Each one carefully chosen, each one holding a piece of the dream she had clung to so tightly.
Ninata Uzumaki – Girl
Haruto Uzumaki – Boy
Boruto Uzumaki – Boy
Himawari Uzumaki – Girl
Her hand trembled as she traced the names at the bottom of the list. Boruto and Himawari. She had always liked those names best. The idea of a boy who would carry his father's bright, unyielding spirit and a girl who would bring peace and warmth to their family… it had been perfect.
But now, that future was gone. Stolen. Torn from her hands before she even had the chance to fight for it.
A flicker of something cold and dark stirred within her. It was subtle at first, a whisper at the edge of her consciousness. But as she lay there, staring at the words she had once written with so much love, it grew louder. Stronger.
This wasn't fair. None of it was fair.
She slammed the diary shut and tossed it back onto the nightstand, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. Her breathing was ragged, and her fists clenched once more. This pain, this unbearable, soul-crushing pain—someone had to answer for it.
The tears that streamed down her face weren't from sadness anymore. They burned with anger, with hatred. She thought of the enemy forces, of the chaos they had wrought, and of the one person she had loved more than anything. He had been taken from her, and the world expected her to simply carry on as though nothing had happened.
No. She wouldn't. She couldn't.
Her nails dug deeper into her palms, drawing blood, but she didn't notice. Her lavender eyes, still glistening with unshed tears, hardened with resolve.
Suna.
The name burned in her mind like a brand, searing itself into her thoughts. They had done this. They had taken everything from her. And they would pay.
The shift was almost imperceptible, but it was there. The warmth that had once defined her was gone, replaced by something colder, sharper. A woman who had once been guided by love and kindness now found herself fueled by a darker force.
She lay back down, her heart still aching, but her mind clear for the first time in days. Vengeance was a bitter thing, but it was better than the emptiness that threatened to consume her.
As her eyes closed and sleep finally claimed her, one thought lingered in her mind, chilling and resolute:
Suna will fall.
Konoha Council Room
The council chamber was bathed in the dim, flickering light of oil lamps. Shadows danced on the stone walls, stretching and twisting like specters of the past, embodying the weight of the decisions made within these confines. Tonight, the room felt heavier than ever. The silence was oppressive, a crushing force that seemed to draw the air from the lungs of those present. No one dared to break it.
Danzo Shimura, ever composed and calculating, sat in his customary seat near the center of the council table. His bandaged face and steely gaze were unreadable as he surveyed the room. The absence of the Sandaime Hokage loomed over them all, the seat at the head of the table conspicuously empty—a gaping void where wisdom and leadership had once sat.
When Danzo finally cleared his throat, the sound echoed ominously in the stillness. "It is a grim time for Konohagakure," he began, his voice low but resonant. "We have suffered a great loss. The death of the Sandaime is not merely a wound to our leadership—it is a wound to our very soul."
He paused, letting his words sink in. Around the table, the other council members exchanged glances. Koharu Utatane and Homura Mitokado, the last remnants of the Sandaime's generation, wore expressions of profound sorrow. The civilian council members, by contrast, seemed less affected by the loss, their faces betraying a mix of anxiety and opportunism.
"But grief cannot blind us to reality," Danzo continued, his tone sharpening. "We are weakened, vulnerable. The attack by Suna and Oto revealed cracks in our defenses. If another village were to learn of our Hokage's death, they could exploit this moment of weakness."
From his place near the far end of the table, Shikaku Nara leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled before him. "What are you proposing, Danzo?" he asked, his lazy drawl belying the keen intellect behind his words.
Danzo's visible eye gleamed. "We must act swiftly. A new Hokage must be chosen without delay, and our military forces must be bolstered. Our defenses must be restored, and we must prepare for the possibility of another attack."
The room buzzed with murmurs as the council members processed his words. It was Koharu who spoke next, her voice tinged with weariness. "And who do you propose as Hokage, Danzo?"
Danzo leaned forward, his hands resting on the table. "Jiraiya," he said simply.
The reaction was immediate. The civilian council members looked incredulous, while the shinobi representatives exchanged skeptical glances. Koharu's brow furrowed deeply.
"Jiraiya?" she repeated. "The Toad Sage has never shown any interest in leadership. He would sooner write one of his salacious novels than sit behind a desk in this village."
Before Danzo could respond, the sound of shattering glass drew every eye to the chamber's tall windows. A shadow hurtled through, landing in the center of the room with effortless grace. The ANBU stationed around the chamber moved to intercept, their swords glinting in the lamplight.
"Stand down," came a familiar, lazy voice. Jiraiya rose from his crouch, brushing shards of glass from his robe. His expression was uncharacteristically serious.
"Yo," he said, raising a hand in casual greeting.
The ANBU hesitated, then sheathed their weapons and stepped back. Jiraiya's arrival seemed to suck all the tension from the room, replacing it with an almost palpable curiosity.
"Jiraiya," Danzo said smoothly, inclining his head in acknowledgment. "You are just in time. We were discussing the matter of Hokage succession."
Jiraiya's eyes flicked to the empty seat at the head of the table, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I see," he said.
"And I have nominated you," Danzo continued, his tone as measured as ever.
The silence that followed was deafening. Every pair of eyes in the room turned to Jiraiya, waiting for his response.
The Toad Sage let out a long, weary sigh. "Sorry, but I'll have to pass," he said, scratching the back of his head.
The room erupted into murmurs. Koharu and Homura exchanged exasperated looks, while the civilian council members muttered their disapproval.
"Jiraiya-sama," Danzo said, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade, "this is not a responsibility to be taken lightly. You are one of the Sannin, a disciple of the Sandaime himself. There is no one more qualified."
"Yeah, well," Jiraiya said, crossing his arms, "qualified or not, I'm not the right person for the job. My focus is on maintaining my spy network. That's where I can do the most good for the village."
Danzo's gaze hardened, but he said nothing.
Before the discussion could continue, Shikaku spoke up, his tone unusually sharp. "What about Tsunade?"
Jiraiya's expression brightened slightly. "Exactly," he said. "She's another of the Sannin, and she's got the skills to lead. I'll bring her back."
A wave of murmurs swept through the room. Koharu's frown deepened. "Tsunade has been gone for years," she said. "She has no ties to this village anymore."
"She's still one of us," Jiraiya countered, his voice firm. "And she's the best healer this village has ever known. If anyone can step into the Sandaime's shoes, it's her."
Danzo's expression remained impassive, but a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eye.
As the room quieted, Shikaku's voice cut through the lingering murmurs. "Tsunade may be a viable choice, but her absence raises practical concerns. Even if she agrees, we'd need time to reintegrate her into the village. Time we might not have."
The tension in the room thickened. Danzo sat back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. His visible eye shifted from one speaker to the next, absorbing every word like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
Jiraiya leaned against the council table, his casual posture at odds with the grim atmosphere. "Then the solution is simple. I'll go find her, convince her, and bring her back. She'll take the seat, and we can all stop bickering."
"And in the meantime?" Koharu interjected, her sharp gaze settling on Jiraiya. "The village is vulnerable. Our forces are stretched thin after the recent attack, our leadership is absent, and morale is dangerously low. If another village—or an independent faction—were to strike now, we'd be hard-pressed to defend ourselves."
"That's precisely my point," Danzo said, his voice low and deliberate. "We cannot afford to wait for an absent sannin to decide whether or not she feels like returning. Konoha needs strong leadership, and it needs it now."
Jiraiya's eyes narrowed. "You're angling for the job, aren't you?"
The question hung in the air like a shuriken poised to strike. A ripple of unease passed through the room.
Danzo's expression didn't falter. "I merely seek what is best for this village. If the council were to deem me the most suitable candidate, I would serve with honor. But this is not about personal ambition. It is about survival."
Shikaku sighed, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. "Survival, yes. But there's more to it than just a name on a title. We need to discuss the state of our forces, our resources, and how to rebuild. If we don't address those, the name of the Hokage won't matter."
For the first time, a flicker of approval crossed Jiraiya's face. "Exactly. Let's start with what we have."
Koharu nodded reluctantly. "Our numbers are depleted. Chūnin and genin took heavy losses during the invasion. ANBU and jonin units are down by nearly 20%. The Academy is still operational, but it will be years before we can rely on new graduates to fill the gaps."
"Rebuilding the ranks will take time," Shikaku added. "But we need immediate reinforcements. Have we considered alliances?"
"Foolishness," Danzo snapped. "Alliances are built on strength, not desperation. If we approach another village now, we'll appear weak, inviting betrayal rather than partnership."
"And what do you suggest?" Jiraiya asked, his tone carefully neutral.
Danzo's lips thinned. "We fortify what we have. Increase recruitment efforts. Encourage retired shinobi to return to active duty. And we strengthen our internal defenses. The recent attack was a failure of vigilance as much as of manpower."
A civilian councilman, a wiry man with spectacles perched on the end of his nose, spoke up hesitantly. "What about... diplomatic measures? If we make overtures to Suna, perhaps we can negotiate a truce or even reparations for their part in the attack."
The room erupted in a cacophony of voices, some supporting the idea, others decrying it as naive. Jiraiya let the argument play out, his sharp eyes scanning the room. When his gaze landed on Danzo, he noticed something odd: the faintest twitch of irritation, quickly masked.
The toad sage filed it away, saying nothing.
As the voices subsided, Danzo spoke again, his tone icy. "Negotiating with Suna would be a waste of time. Their betrayal speaks volumes about their character. We should prepare for the possibility of future hostilities, not delude ourselves with fantasies of reconciliation."
"Future hostilities," Shikaku murmured. "Do you mean another invasion?"
"It's always a possibility," Danzo said. "Which brings us to another matter—the jinchūriki."
The room went still.
Jiraiya's casual demeanor slipped, his shoulders tensing. He said nothing, but his sharp gaze fixed on Danzo like a hawk eyeing its prey.
Danzo continued, his tone smooth but with an edge of calculated intent. "The death of Naruto Uzumaki is a significant loss, not only to the village but to our strategic position. Without the Nine-Tails, our ability to deter threats is diminished. We must consider our options for securing a new jinchūriki."
Koharu and Homura exchanged uneasy glances.
"Securing a new jinchūriki?" Jiraiya repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "You make it sound like they're weapons to be forged and discarded."
Danzo met his gaze without flinching. "They are weapons. Tools of the village. And tools must be replaced when they are broken."
Jiraiya's fists clenched at his sides, but he forced himself to remain calm. "Naruto wasn't a tool," he said quietly. "He was a boy. A boy who gave everything for this village, even when it gave him nothing in return."
The room was silent again, the weight of Jiraiya's words pressing down on everyone.
From the civilian side, a middle-aged woman with sharp features spoke up, her tone laced with disdain. "That boy was a menace. If anything, his death is a relief. The Nine-Tails was a disaster waiting to happen."
Before Jiraiya could respond, Shikaku spoke, his voice like steel. "Enough. Whatever your personal feelings about Naruto, he died protecting this village. Show some respect."
Danzo shifted slightly in his seat, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the table. Jiraiya's eyes caught the movement, and something about it set his instincts on edge. Danzo was always calculating, always planning. But this... this felt different.
What aren't you saying? Jiraiya thought, his mind racing.
Danzo's voice broke the silence. "In any case, the matter of the jinchūriki must be addressed. If we fail to act, we risk losing our position as one of the great shinobi villages."
"I agree the matter needs attention," Koharu said, her voice tight. "But now is not the time for rash decisions. We need to stabilize the village first. Rebuild our defenses, assess our resources, and—most importantly—restore trust among our people."
Jiraiya nodded, though his mind was still turning over Danzo's words. The old war hawk was hiding something—of that he was certain. And if it had anything to do with Naruto's death or the Nine-Tails, Jiraiya was determined to find out.
Afterwards
The council meeting dissolved with an air of unresolved tension. Elders and advisors shuffled out, some muttering among themselves, others brooding in silence. Jiraiya lingered behind, leaning against the frame of the broken window he'd entered through. His gaze followed the figure of Danzo, who moved purposefully, his cane tapping against the wooden floor.
"Danzo," Jiraiya called, his voice low but firm.
The old war hawk paused mid-step, his head turning slightly. "What is it, Jiraiya?"
"Walk with me," Jiraiya said, pushing off the frame and striding toward him.
Danzo studied him for a moment before giving a faint nod. "Very well."
The two men exited the council chamber, their footsteps echoing through the quiet halls of the Hokage Tower. The dim light of dusk seeped through the windows, casting long shadows on the walls.
Jiraiya kept his tone casual, his hands tucked into his sleeves. "You were unusually calm back there, Danzo. Not your usual style to let others debate while you hold your tongue."
Danzo's expression remained neutral. "I've learned that silence is sometimes more effective than words. Besides, it is not about my style. It is about what the village needs."
Jiraiya chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "The village needs a lot right now. Leadership, unity, hope... answers. You've been awfully quick to push past Naruto's death. Most people are still processing it."
Danzo's steps slowed. "The luxury of grief is not one I can afford, Jiraiya. Leadership requires action, not sentiment."
"Is that all it is?" Jiraiya pressed, his voice lowering. "You seemed pretty eager to move the conversation away from him back there. Makes me wonder why."
Danzo turned to face him, his visible eye narrowing slightly. "Naruto Uzumaki was a tool, as all jinchūriki are. His death is unfortunate, but it changes nothing about the realities we face. The Nine-Tails is gone, and we must adapt."
"A tool, huh?" Jiraiya's voice was laced with quiet anger. "You've always been good at seeing people that way, haven't you? A means to an end. But Naruto wasn't just a jinchūriki. He was a boy. A boy who deserved more than what this village gave him."
Danzo's lips thinned. "Emotions cloud judgment, Jiraiya. Sentimentality won't rebuild Konoha. Focus on the future, not the past."
"And what kind of future are you focused on, Danzo?" Jiraiya took a step closer, his eyes sharp. "You've been waiting for an opening like this for years, haven't you? Hiruzen's gone, the village is in chaos, and you're already scheming your next move. So tell me—what's your endgame?"
For a moment, Danzo said nothing. Then he smiled—a small, cold expression devoid of warmth. "You've always been quick to assume the worst of me, Jiraiya. Perhaps that's why you never truly understood Hiruzen's burdens. But believe what you will. My only ambition is the survival of Konoha. Nothing more, nothing less."
"Cryptic as ever," Jiraiya muttered.
Danzo inclined his head slightly. "You'd do well to focus on your mission, Jiraiya. If you can bring Tsunade back, perhaps this village can find the stability it needs. Good evening."
Without waiting for a reply, Danzo turned and disappeared into the shadows, his cane tapping softly as he walked away.
Jiraiya stood there for a long moment, his mind churning. Danzo's calm demeanor, his carefully measured words—it all felt too calculated. There was something he wasn't saying, something he was hiding.
But what?
As the faint sound of Danzo's footsteps faded, Jiraiya shook his head and stepped out into the cool evening air. The streets of Konoha were quieter than usual, the weight of recent events hanging heavy over the village.
Jiraiya's thoughts drifted to another time, another place. He remembered Kushina's laughter, Minato's quiet confidence. He remembered the way Kushina's eyes lit up when she talked about the child they were expecting.
"He's going to be a handful," Kushina had said, her hand resting on her swollen belly. "But he'll be strong. He'll make us proud."
"Of course he will," Minato had replied, his smile as warm as the sun. "With a mother like you, how could he not?"
Jiraiya felt a pang of guilt. He had been so focused on his own missions, his own responsibilities, that he had missed the chance to be there for them. And now, Naruto was gone too.
"I'm sorry, Minato," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I wasn't there for him when he needed me. But I'll make it right. Somehow."
Resolving to push his guilt aside, Jiraiya set his sights on his next task. Tsunade. She was their best hope now, not just for the Hokage's seat but for the healing this village desperately needed.
As he moved through the village, Jiraiya felt the weight of his responsibility settle over him. He had failed to protect Naruto, but he wouldn't fail again. Not if he could help it.
With one last glance at the darkening sky, Jiraiya disappeared into the night, his heart heavy but his resolve unshaken.
Unknown, Sasuke
The room was silent, save for the faint rustling of paper as the last remnants of a carefully guarded truth slipped from Sasuke's trembling fingers. The folder had landed with a soft thud on the ground, its contents scattered and spilling onto the cold stone floor. But Sasuke didn't care. His vision blurred, his chest heaving with a mixture of disbelief and seething rage.
Itachi. His brother. The man who had once been the very embodiment of strength in Sasuke's world, now revealed as the harbinger of the Uchiha clan's annihilation.
"Shocking, I assume?"
The voice broke through the fog of his thoughts like a cruel echo, the words hanging in the air, grating against his already frayed nerves. Sasuke snapped his head up, eyes wide, heart pounding, searching for the source. He hadn't noticed the figure until now, the silhouette emerging from the darkness like a shadow made flesh.
A figure stood just beyond the thin strip of light that leaked from the doorway, the man's presence oppressive, cold.
"Who the hell are you?" Sasuke demanded, his voice hoarse with both anger and confusion. His pulse quickened, the need for answers rising like a tidal wave, crashing against the walls of his fragile composure. He wanted to lash out, to demand every possible explanation from the mysterious figure before him.
But the man only stepped closer, his gait slow and deliberate. Sasuke's eyes darted toward the door, the one through which he had entered moments earlier, but it had already sealed shut. There was no escape.
The figure's face remained partially obscured, wrapped in bandages that hid most of his features, but his left eye gleamed coldly in the dim light. His hair was unkempt, wild, falling in dark strands that framed his scarred face. An X-shaped wound marred his chin, a reminder that even the most fragile-looking could be something else entirely in the brutal world they inhabited.
"You're angry," the man said simply, his tone devoid of emotion, as though he were stating a fact. "But what's more important, Sasuke, is whether or not you understand why you're angry."
Sasuke's lips curled into a snarl, but the words refused to form. His thoughts spiraled, crashing against one another like waves in a storm. Itachi. His own flesh and blood. The one who had stood by his side, who had taught him how to fight, how to survive—only to betray him and their entire clan in the most unimaginable way.
He had always believed the stories—the whispers of his brother's glory, his unquestioned loyalty to the village. But now, all of it was a lie. The truth lay before him, written in the sterile words of the mission report, a report he could barely comprehend.
The Uchiha clan, a conspiracy? Itachi, the one chosen to carry out the massacre? It was too much. Too much to process in a single moment.
"Why?" Sasuke managed to rasp, his voice trembling with raw emotion. "Why did he do it? Why did he betray us? Why did he—"
"Why did he kill everyone?" the man interjected, finishing Sasuke's thought with an icy calmness. His eyes seemed to pierce through the younger Uchiha's frustration, his anger, as though he had seen it all before.
Sasuke clenched his fists, a vein in his temple throbbing as the man's words cut through him like a knife. "I'll tell you why. Your brother chose the village. He chose peace over everything else. Even you."
Sasuke's breath caught in his throat. His mind raced, trying to grasp the weight of what the man was saying.
"You don't know what you're talking about!" Sasuke spat, rising to his feet. His body trembled, the surge of rage bubbling over like a boil on the verge of bursting. "Itachi hated me! He never cared about me! All he wanted was to break me, to destroy everything that I was!"
"Is that what you think?" the man asked, his voice cold and unwavering. "You think he hated you? Or did he hate the reality that he had to choose between his brother and the safety of the entire village?"
Sasuke froze. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat like a drum of war. The words hung in the air, the implications of what the man was suggesting settling like a weight in his stomach. "You're lying," Sasuke whispered. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe that his brother hadn't killed for the sake of power, for the sake of hatred, that he had somehow been manipulated. But every instinct in Sasuke's body screamed that the truth was darker. That the truth was far more sinister than he could ever understand.
The man took another step forward, his cane tapping rhythmically against the stone floor. He seemed unbothered by Sasuke's fury, as though he had anticipated it all along.
"You don't know what he saw," the man said quietly. "The Third Great Ninja War. The bloodshed. The chaos. Your brother chose the village, Sasuke. He chose to save Konoha, even if it meant destroying the one thing he loved more than anything."
Sasuke's stomach churned, his chest tightening as the weight of the man's words began to sink in. His brother had made a choice—one that had shattered everything Sasuke believed about him. And in doing so, Itachi had sealed both their fates.
The man's presence was suffocating. Every word he spoke twisted the knife deeper, carving away at the fragile remnants of Sasuke's trust, his sense of self.
But just as quickly as the storm of emotions rose, they were stilled by a sharp pain in his neck, a sudden, searing sensation that made him gasp. His vision blurred, and his body convulsed uncontrollably.
"What—what's happening?" Sasuke's voice was barely a whisper, his hands flying to his neck as the pain intensified, spreading through his body like poison.
The man didn't react immediately. Instead, he stepped forward and placed a hand on Sasuke's neck. The touch was cold, but there was something almost... comforting in the way the man's palm rested there.
Sasuke's body jerked violently as the pain worsened, his hands clutching at the man's arm in desperation. He tried to scream, but the sound caught in his throat.
The man's eyes narrowed, and he muttered something under his breath, his hand glowing faintly with a greenish hue. Sasuke's body jerked once more, and then, as if some unseen force had lifted it, the pain receded. The convulsions stopped, leaving him breathless and weak.
"Better?" the man asked, his tone almost mocking.
Sasuke pushed himself away, trying to steady his breathing, his mind racing as the pain dissipated into nothingness. "What did you do to me?" Sasuke demanded, his voice shaking with a mixture of fear and fury.
The man didn't answer immediately. He simply stood there, watching Sasuke as though he were some experiment, some curiosity.
"It's a seal," the man explained after a long pause. "A mark of control. You're not just trapped physically, Sasuke. You're trapped within your own mind, your own body."
Sasuke looked down at the faint glow on his neck, his thoughts tumbling over one another like waves crashing against the shore.
"Why?" Sasuke's voice trembled.
The man stepped back, his cane tapping against the ground once more. "Because you need to understand, Sasuke. The truth doesn't come easy. The truth is never as simple as it seems."
He turned, heading toward the wall, and for the first time, Sasuke realized that the room he was in had no windows. No doors, except the one through which the man had entered.
Sasuke pushed himself to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him. "You can't leave me here," he said, his voice rising with panic. "You can't just—"
The man paused, his back still turned to Sasuke. "I'll return when you have the answers. When you're ready to make a choice."
Sasuke lunged toward the wall, but it was too late. The man was gone, vanishing into the shadows as the wall sealed shut, leaving Sasuke alone in the silence once more.
His fists clenched at his sides, his body shaking with the fury that burned through him. But there was something else too. A creeping sense of helplessness that gnawed at him, that whispered to him that perhaps he wasn't as free as he thought.
Sasuke sank to the floor, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him. He was trapped. Trapped in a room of his own mind, trapped in the truth that had shattered his world.
The silence was deafening.
And in the darkness, he was left with only one question:
What choice would he make now?
Sasuke, Continued
In the world of shinobi, survival is an art. A calculation of every step, every breath, every decision. There is always the possibility of finding yourself in a worst-case scenario, a situation where the simplest of resources—like water—becomes the difference between life and death. For the average person, the human body requires water daily to maintain basic functions, but for a shinobi, the equation becomes far more complex.
In the most extreme cases, such as when water is scarce for several days, the body's minimum water requirement can be the key to surviving. It is a theory often filed away in the back of a shinobi's mind, a necessary skill to grasp in case it is ever needed. The human body, under normal conditions, loses approximately 600 milliliters of water per day through urination, about 400 milliliters through skin evaporation, and another 200 milliliters simply through the act of breathing. The minimum requirement is clear: the body must replace what it loses in order to avoid dehydration.
However, this is not a simple calculation for shinobi, who are trained to operate under extreme stress and physical exertion. The demands of combat, high-intensity missions, and constant movement can rapidly deplete the body's water stores. A shinobi's water needs are far greater, with the baseline requirement increasing due to their active lifestyle. The body is pushed to its limits, and hydration becomes one of the most critical factors in survival.
It is in these situations that the survival threshold is tested. In extreme conditions, the body may reduce urine output to 500 milliliters per day. The baseline needs shift. In simple terms, a 154-pound man would need just over a liter of water per day to sustain himself, or roughly 32 ounces. A small amount, but essential.
Sasuke, however, understood this all too well. In the cold, oppressive darkness of his imprisonment, he could feel the weight of the dehydration pressing down on him. His body, already taxed and weakened from the trials he'd endured, was being deprived of even the bare minimum. His throat was parched, his lips cracked, his body on the brink of collapse from the inadequate hydration. He knew they were giving him just enough to keep him alive—but not enough to thrive.
Every movement felt sluggish. Every thought was clouded. They were playing with his body, withholding what was necessary to sustain him, testing his limits. And as the days stretched on, one thing became clear to Sasuke: survival wasn't just about fighting. It was about enduring—enduring pain, hunger, thirst—and waiting for the moment when the body would finally didn't need to turn his head to know he was back. Every so often, that man would come and visit him to see if he had found his answer. However, every time he came, he only received silence. The air was heavy, thick with the lingering scent of must and damp stone. In the darkness, Sasuke sat, his back pressed against the cool, unforgiving wall. His body ached from exhaustion, but more than that, his mind had become a battleground—a place where thoughts collided and ripped apart the fragile remnants of his sanity. The silence was the loudest thing in the room. It pressed down on him, suffocating him, until every breath he took felt like a desperate attempt to cling to some fleeting sense of reality.
The room was a small, cramped space, the walls a dull grey that seemed to absorb all light. It had been days since he'd last seen the sun, or felt the warmth of its rays. Days without water, without food, without anything but the oppressive weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future. His thoughts were fuzzy, distorted by the lack of hydration and the mental strain of it all. But he knew—he knew the essentials. He knew how long a human could survive without water. He knew the numbers, the baseline requirements, and the silent desperation that gnawed at him with every passing moment.
Sasuke didn't need to look up to know the man had entered. He could hear the soft tap of his cane against the stone floor, the faint rustling of his robes as he moved. The man had become a fixture, a constant presence, like a shadow that would not leave.
The familiar voice echoed through the darkness, sharp and cold, like the blade of a kunai pressing against his throat.
"Now that you know the truth, what is your goal in life?"
Sasuke's eyes, hollow and empty, flickered in the direction of the voice. It wasn't the question he had expected. Normally, the man's visits were marked by the same repetition—questions about hatred, vengeance, loyalty. But this… this was different. The man had altered his approach, a subtle shift that felt almost deliberate.
Sasuke didn't respond. Instead, he leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the faint outlines of the stone above. He had no answer. He didn't know what his goal was anymore. His entire life had been consumed by the pursuit of revenge, of finding and killing Itachi, of avenging his clan, his family, his very identity. But now? Now that the truth had been laid bare before him, that singular purpose seemed hollow, like an empty shell, its contents long since spilled.
The man's voice broke the silence again, as cold as ever. "Is it still your goal, no—your dream—to kill Uchiha Itachi for murdering your clan?"
Sasuke's heart stuttered in his chest, a jolt of recognition, of anger. It was as if the man had reached into his very soul and twisted it, dredging up the pain that Sasuke had buried so deep inside. But Sasuke did not speak. His lips were dry, cracked, the effort of forming words too much to bear.
"What if I told you I could help you? Train you. Offer you more power. Would you accept?"
The offer was almost laughable if it weren't so terrifying. Sasuke's mind spun as the man's words settled into him, like poison slowly creeping through his veins. Help? Power? The very things that Sasuke had always sought—through vengeance, through hatred—were now being offered to him on a silver platter. But at what cost? What price was he willing to pay?
The man's next words, quiet but firm, resonated through the room. "Would you swear complete loyalty to me?"
Sasuke's breathing hitched. Loyalty. The word was foreign now, like a distant memory. Loyalty to Konoha? To a village that had betrayed him? To a system that had cast him aside the moment he became a threat? Loyalty to this man, who was nothing more than a shadow in the darkness, offering promises of power in exchange for an unspoken price?
He had sworn loyalty once. To his clan. To his family. And where had that gotten him? It had gotten him a massacre, the slaughter of everyone he loved, the burning of his very soul.
And now, here he was—alone, trapped, starving, and dehydrated—faced with an offer he couldn't ignore. The desperation gnawed at him. His body felt weak, every movement slow, but his mind remained sharp. Sharp enough to understand the gravity of the decision before him.
The man's cane tapped against the floor, a rhythmic sound that punctuated the silence. Sasuke could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The man didn't speak again, but his presence filled the room, suffocating, demanding.
Sasuke's fingers twitched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he tried to steady his thoughts. His body was on the verge of collapse from dehydration, the aching thirst clawing at him. He could feel the dryness in his throat, the desperate burn of it. His vision blurred, but through the haze, he saw the man's shadow flicker at the edge of the room.
It would be so easy, Sasuke thought. So easy to accept. To give in to the darkness that had already consumed him. He could take the power the man offered, train himself, become stronger than ever before. He could fulfill his dream, his mission. He could destroy Itachi. He could exact revenge on Konoha. He could finally be free of the chains that bound him.
But at what cost?
Sasuke stared at the object the man had placed on the ground—a strange, unfamiliar shape, but one that tugged at something deep inside him. It was a tool, a weapon, something that could change everything. But what would it cost him? What would it cost his soul?
He didn't know how long he stared at the object. Time had lost all meaning in this room. But in that moment, something inside him snapped. He was so close to breaking, so close to giving in. And as the words formed in his mind, he knew—he knew this was his last chance, his last choice.
With trembling hands, Sasuke reached for the object. His fingers brushed against its cool surface, and for the first time in days, he felt something akin to relief. The object was familiar, though he couldn't place why. It felt like a lifeline, something that could anchor him in the chaos that surrounded him.
The man's voice broke the silence, a quiet murmur in the darkness. "Do you accept?"
Sasuke's heart pounded in his chest as the words escaped his lips, his voice hoarse, cracked from days of dehydration.
"I accept."
The moment the words left his mouth, Sasuke felt something shift within him. A bond, an invisible thread that tied him to the man, to this shadow in the darkness. It wasn't loyalty. Not yet. But it was something else, something that bound him in ways he couldn't yet understand.
The man nodded, a faint smile crossing his lips as he turned to leave. "We'll begin soon. But first, you must rest. You'll need strength for what's to come."
And just like that, Sasuke was alone again. The man was gone, leaving him in the suffocating darkness, the weight of his decision settling heavily on his chest.
Sasuke closed his eyes, but sleep would not come. The thirst, the exhaustion, the weight of his choice—it was too much to bear. He had made his decision, and now, there was no turning back.
But as he sat there, in the silence of his prison, one thought echoed through his mind, louder than anything else:
What have I become?
The walls of his prison had closed in around him, and there was no escape from the choices he had made. His fate was sealed, and he could only wait, powerless, for whatever came next.
And as the darkness deepened, so too did his entrapment.
End!
I decided to take a break from K&H, the idea is there just can't seem to align it all. So I give you one of the other mind-boggled ideas. Hopeful this catches on and you enjoy it. This story was thought of by the original idea of "Of Sins and Lost Virtues" By: NewYear's Tragedy. Great story. But nonetheless, as always Follow, Favorite, Review you know the stuff.
Until Next Time InsanityDies~