Chapter LV: The Darkness Hidden in Oneself

There is complete and utter darkness. Not a single glimmer of light—no matter how faint or weak—makes itself known, as though light has never existed at all. No structures, no beings, nothing but the empty void surrounding a lone, pale figure sitting motionless in the middle of this vast, pitch-black expanse.

Gradually, the small figure begins to stretch and contort, its form twisting and expanding with unnatural speed until it settles into the shape of a human. Snow-white hair tumbles down, spilling over and obscuring most of its upper face. Slowly, the human opens his eyes—eyes the colour of blood, burning with a venomous, unmistakable hatred. They glow faintly, casting a dim red hue in the otherwise impenetrable darkness.

The human falls to his knees, his body trembling with the effort, an exasperated gasp escaping his lips as he stares at the void around him.

"Where... where am I?"

His voice is cold, rough, as if he's expecting an answer, some sign of life in this desolate place. Yet, there is nothing. Only the endless emptiness, his own thoughts the only companions in this agonising silence. The fact that he has thoughts at all proves his existence, doesn't it? But where are the others? Where are the things that, by all logic, should be here alongside him?

The human, having calmed a bit down to his predicament, or at the very least being more understanding of it, slowly dragged his hand up its face. Taking a feel of his own flesh, taking in its smooth surface, slightly dampened from sweat. The creature then felt the distinct texture of hair and curiously rubbed some of its white locks between two of its fingers, the sensation seeming foreign to him.

"Who... who am I?" the human asks gently, his voice a barely audible whisper against the oppressive darkness. The stillness remains unbroken—no answer. He frowns, growing defiant against the ceaseless silence that surrounds him. Slowly, he forces his muscles into action, rising to his feet with a strained grunt. Each movement is an immense effort, his body resisting him at every turn. It's as though his very existence is being denied by the cells within him, each one screaming in protest.

After taking a few halting steps, his legs buckle under him. He stumbles, losing his balance, and crashes to the ground with a loud, jarring thud. His body lands on something—solid, tangible—despite the infinite blackness stretching out in every direction. It's an odd sensation, as if reality itself is bending around him.

The human's eyes narrow as a faint, thin line appears beneath him, right where his belly hit the floor. Not unlike glass cracking, it spreads outward, spiderwebbing across the void in an intricate, almost fragile pattern. A strange, low vibration pulses from the crack, reverberating through the emptiness, sending a shiver through the human's body. Curiosity ignites within him as he lifts himself up, slowly pushing his torso off the ground, placing a few inches between himself and the growing crack in space.

"What is that... I hear?" The words are barely a murmur, but they linger in the still air, drowned out only by the hum of the crack. The strange noise emanating from it is like white noise—constant, steady, a static hiss that holds no rhythm or melody, just an endless, wavering sound that sets his nerves on edge.

Confusion clouds his thoughts as he blinks, trying to make sense of what he's hearing. With sheer determination, he manages to gather enough strength to kneel, bending forward to bring his upper body closer to the crack. Slowly, cautiously, he lowers his head, bringing his left ear down to hover just above the eerie fracture in the void.

Then, through the vibrations and the static, a voice emerges—a soft, haunting whisper.

"...Tell... me... the... answer?"

The human's heart skips a beat. His eyes widen, a rush of revelation sweeping through him. There issomeoneelse, a voice, another existence within this suffocating blackness. A flicker of hope ignites within him. But why is this person sealed inside the crack? How can he reach them? Are there others, too? Too many questions race through his mind, each one more urgent than the last. He presses his ear closer, intent on catching every word, desperate for some answer, some clue to what this place is—and whoheis.

But no other words reach his ear, only the incessant hum of white noise reverberating through his eardrums. What seems like seconds bleed into minutes, which melt into hours, then days, months, years, decades, millennia. In this infinite, unyielding darkness, the passage of time is intangible, non-linear—distorted. The human has no concept of how long he's been huddled in his position, ear pressed against the crack, desperately waiting for the voice to return. He wonders if this is some twisted punishment, if the gods have condemned him for reasons unknown.

It feels like an eternity has passed, a stretch of endless suffering, until finally, the gods seem to take mercy on him.

"...Let's... see... Gyatsō..."

Hearing that specific name sends shockwaves through his consciousness. His eyes snap open, widening in a mix of recognition and dread. In that instant, a torrent of visions bursts into his mind—rushing through him, overwhelming his very essence. His psyche floods with images, memories, and experiences that aren't his own but feel as though they belong to him. He screams, a sound of pure agony that fills the void around him. His hands press against his throbbing skull, frantically clawing at his hair, trying to grasp at the cascade of overwhelming sensations.

As quickly as they came, the visions fade. The man is left desperately gasping for breath, his chest heaving in the silence. His trembling hands clutch at his right eye, fighting to steady himself. A few moments pass, punctuated only by the steady hum of the white noise, the crack beneath him still vibrating with an eerie energy.

"I... am..." His voice cracks as the truth settles in, cold and heavy.

Slowly, he lowers his hand from his eye, revealing a horrifying mutation—a twisted version of his once-pure crimson iris. In the middle of his pupil, a single black cross has appeared, spinning slowly, pulsing with restrained power. It's the Shaolin. The realisation hits him like a strike of lightning. He is no longer just an empty, unknown human. He remembers everything. He remembers who he is, what he's become.

"Gyatsō... Mataba!"

The name feels like a roar in his chest, a declaration. His body trembles with the intensity of it.

With that, the transformation becomes complete. Gyatsō rises, his movements sudden and powerful. A monstrous roar erupts from his throat, and his right Shaolin eye flares to life, glowing with a savage crimson brilliance. He stares down at the crack beneath him, his gaze filled with revulsion. It is beneath him, inferior—just like the current ninja world, just like the oppressive logic imposed by the gods.

He will no longer obey the whims of those higher powers. He is the ruler now, the one who has transcended mortality and become a god himself. Gyatsō Mataba will dictate the laws of existence, reshape reality as he sees fit, and crush the world beneath his newfound might.

The white-haired man lifts his leg, a malicious grin spreading across his lips. It curls at the corners, slow and calculated, as if the very thought of his next move sends a thrill through him. His mouth widens, just enough to reveal the faintest glimpse of teeth. It's a smile that never reaches his eyes, which remain cold, venomous, filled with a hatred so deep it seems to consume him from the inside out. He savours the chaos to come, already tasting the destruction. With each passing second, his grin stretches wider, more twisted, like the calm before a storm that is destined to ravage everything in its path.

Then, without warning, he drives his leg down with crushing force. The impact reverberates through the void, sending tremors through the very fabric of existence.

"Begone!"

The ground beneath his foot shatters with a horrifying screech, like the cry of something ancient and broken. The sound pierces the stillness, a cacophony of destruction that echoes violently through the nothingness. The break lingers, sharp and intense, before the final, frantic clink of shattered glass fragments rains down in a chaotic succession. The glass beneath him screams in its last moments, its jagged pieces exploding outward, scattering through the air in every direction.

With a sickening snap, the Osore leader falls into the yawning void that opens beneath him. His once-confident voice cracks, swallowed by the relentless darkness that quickly closes in around him. His frightened screams fade into the abyss, the oppressive blackness smothering his cries as he plummets into the unknown.

"Can anyone tell me the answer?"

After falling through that dreadful void for what feels like an endless stretch of time, Gyatsō slowly opens his eyes. He takes in his surroundings, unfamiliar yet unmistakably vivid. It's been years since he's last found himself in a place like this, but the sensation is undeniable. For some inexplicable reason, he stands at the back of a classroom in the Hidden Grass' Ninja Academy.

The room hums with the soft murmur of students exchanging whispers, their voices hushed but filled with the kind of excitement that only young shinobi can have. The walls, lined with faded posters of legendary shinobi, battle strategies, and chakra point diagrams, create a sense of quiet reverence for those who came before. A large chalkboard dominates the front of the room, its surface filled with neatly drawn kanji and written instructions, though it is also littered with quick sketches—techniques, hand signs—added by eager hands during moments of inspiration.

Rows of desks stretch before him, each one simple and worn. Parchment scrolls, ink brushes, and small pots of ink sit atop the wooden surfaces, tools for learning, tools for shaping the next generation of ninjas. The desks are not ornate—just humble wood and metal—but they are stained with the marks of years of use. Scratches and scuffs mar the surface, evidence of countless hands, countless minds, striving to be something more.

At the front of the room, the female instructor stands, exuding a calm authority. Her posture is poised, her expression focused. She is ready to impart lessons that could one day save lives, her voice a steady beacon guiding her students toward the future. Behind her, a window allows muted light to pour in, casting a soft glow on the space, and offering a view of the academy's training grounds. The sounds of distant combat drills, the whoosh of kunai cutting through the air, and the occasional shout from the training grounds drift through the air, an indication of the academy's true purpose.

The air carries the faint scent of ink and parchment, the distinct aroma of knowledge passed down through generations. It is a scent of lessons learned and those yet to come. In the midst of this calm, there is an almost tangible buzz—a quiet undercurrent of ambition. The weight of dreams hangs in the air: dreams of becoming Jonin, of mastering every jutsu, of leaving a legacy that will be remembered for generations to come.

"None of you can tell me?"

Gyatsō's head jerks up at the sound of the instructor's voice, his eyes widening in shock as he takes in the sight before him. There, standing at the front of the classroom, is Akane Kyūden—his very own teacher from childhood. She looks exactly the same as she did all those years ago. Twenty long years have passed since then, yet she hasn't aged a day. Her skin remains smooth, unmarked by time, and not a single strand of grey has tainted her long, dark curls.

"Akane Sensei... this is most amusing," Gyatsō murmurs, his lips curling into a wry grin. "I thought you'd have retired by now. I wonder if you even remember who I am." He folds his arms over his chest and leans casually against the wall, his grin widening with dark amusement.

But Akane doesn't even acknowledge him. With a quiet tap-tap-tap of her foot against the floor, she glances over her young students, her gaze sharp and resolute as she waits for one of them to answer her prior question. Her attention remains focused solely on them, ignoring Gyatsō entirely.

Gyatsō narrows his eyes, his expression darkening. He knows he's her former pupil, but the blatant disregard she's showing him stirs a flicker of anger in his chest. This is not the same meek Hidden Grass brat he once was. He is no longer the student—he has risen to godhood. He stands as a force of nature, a being beyond their comprehension. Such disrespect would not be tolerated.

His jaw clenches in frustration, and with a sharp exhale, he pushes himself away from the wall, his boots scraping against the floor as he moves closer to the front of the room. The room is still filled with the soft murmur of students, all engrossed in their work, their attention entirely fixed on Akane. He shoots a dark scowl in her direction, fury rising within him.

"Surely you've heard of my recent feats, Sensei," he snaps, his voice sharp as a blade. "You'd be wise to show some reverence."

Akane, however, doesn't flinch. She remains completely unaffected, still eyeing her students with a hint of disappointment, as if his presence is an insignificant distraction. His words fall on deaf ears, as though he is nothing more than a shadow in the corner of the room. Not one student so much as glances in his direction, either, absorbed entirely in the lesson at hand.

Gyatsō's frustration boils over, and his fists clench tightly at his sides.What the hell is going on here?He thought he had ascended beyond the realm of mortal limitations. He thought he had transcended everything. Yet here he is, standing before his former teacher, and nothing—nothing—has changed.

"Come on, guys. You don't want me to start calling out names, now, do you?"

Gyatsō's patience snaps like a taut wire. In the blink of an eye, he materialises next to Akane, his furious Shaolin eyes burning with intensity, their piercing gaze cutting through her as if she were made of paper. He's done playing games, done indulging this unexpected reunion with his former teacher. Here and now, in front of her Hidden Grass pupils, he will make it clear—once and for all—that he is not to be belittled. Ever. His hand moves in a blur, a kunai flashing into his grip, its sharp point aimed directly at her throat. The blade glints menacingly, a hair's breadth from her skin.

And yet, Akane doesn't even flinch. Her emerald eyes remain fixed on her pupils, her expression one of growing impatience, as if Gyatsō's presence is nothing more than a minor distraction. Gyatsō's disbelief is palpable, his anger simmering beneath the surface. He admires her courage, her unshakable calm in the face of death, but courage alone does not make her any less mortal. His grip tightens on the kunai's sturdy handle, his lips twisting into a sadistic grin as his rage finally boils over. With a vicious thrust, he drives the blade forward with all his strength, expecting to feel the resistance of flesh, the spray of blood, the satisfying proof of his divine dominance.

But... what in the hell?

Gyatsō's furious expression twists into one of utter confusion. The kunai passes through Akane's neck as if it were slicing through air, leaving her completely unharmed. His mind races, his godlike intellect scrambling for an explanation. Since his ascension, the world has bent to his will, its logic and secrets laid bare before him. Yet, this—this defies everything he knows. There's no blood, no wound, no harsh lesson imparted. Just the unsettling reality that his blade has absolutely no effect on her. The kunai might as well be a ghost, and Akane, untouchable.

"Let's see..."

Akane's voice is calm and unhurried, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. She continues speaking, her tone almost casual, and the sound of her voice sends a jolt through Gyatsō. His emotions churn violently—anger, confusion, disbelief—all swirling together into a storm of unease that washes over him. His chest tightens, a cold dread creeping into his mind as the truth dawns on him, sharp and undeniable:

He is not in control.

The realisation hits him like a thunderclap, shaking him to his core. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, Gyatsō feels something he thought he had left behind long ago—fear.

As though it is the malevolent will of the gods themselves, Gyatsō finds himself thrust into a world where he is no longer the apex, no longer comfortably seated upon the throne of existence.

Akane, still completely ignoring him, steps forward with unnerving calm. Her movements are slow and prudent, her focus enduring as she walks right past Gyatsō, completely unfazed by his presence. The white-haired man watches, his eyes narrowing at the absurdity of it all. Her steps are almost unnaturally graceful, ethereal even—as though she is gliding through the air, a ghostly figure from another realm. His breath catches in his throat, and he releases his grip on the kunai still clenched in his hand. His fingers tremble as the blade slips from his grasp, only it doesn't fall as expected.

Rather than plummeting to the wooden floor with the weight of gravity's pull, the kunai hovers mid-air, suspended as if defying all logic. It hangs there, motionless, an unnerving anomaly in the room. Gyatsō's eyes widen in horror, his Shaolin burning with an unnatural intensity as he fixes his gaze on the blade. His chest tightens, and a cold shiver runs down his spine.What is this place? What is happening?

This world makes no sense to him. Earlier, he was alone in an endless, suffocating void, a realm of nothingness where he was the only living being. The gods had abandoned him there, leaving him to suffer in isolation. Now, he stands in the Hidden Grass Village—only it's not the same as he remembers. It's been twenty long years since he left, yet everything feels out of place, as though the very fabric of reality has been twisted and warped beyond recognition.

Gyatsō's mind races, trying to grasp the meaning behind it all. But the implications are vast, too complex for him to fully comprehend in this moment. The kunai continues to hover in front of him, suspended in the air, mocking his inability to understand. His thoughts swirl in confusion, his attention drawn back to the strange, unsettling classroom around him.

He doesn't even notice Akane as she addresses her students once again. One of her fingers rests thoughtfully on her chin, her eyes scanning the room as she looks over to a student seated at the back. The students, completely oblivious to Gyatsō's presence, continue with their quiet murmurs, their focus on their instructor. Meanwhile, Gyatsō stands frozen, his mind struggling to piece together this distorted reality.

"...Gyatsō?"

Like earlier, Gyatsō's head snaps up at the mention of his name, his pulse quickening. It's true, he thinks, another dark realisation settling in his chest. The woman—Akane—knew he was here all along. Why else would she call out his name now? His gaze locks onto her, his crimson eyes seething with expectation, but she doesn't meet his gaze. Instead, for some reason, her attention is entirely focused on a child sitting in the back of the room.

For a moment, his thoughts go blank. Then, against his will, his eyes flick to the child. And his heart drops into his stomach.

Sitting there, almost too quietly, is a nine-year-old version of himself.

The boy's moppy white hair hangs in messy locks, partially obscuring his eyes, but even through the tangled strands, Gyatsō can see the timid, frightened look in his younger self's crimson gaze. His small hands grip the desk in front of him as if trying to hold on to some semblance of control, while his body is curled in on itself with dread. The shy child is clearly terrified, utterly crushed by the weight of Akane's call. It's such a bizarre inversion of the towering, imposing figure Gyatsō has become.

The older Gyatsō's breath catches in his throat as he stares in disbelief at the child sitting there, powerless, lost in his own fear. His fists clench at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. The sight before him feels like a slap, a cruel reminder of what he used to be—weak, vulnerable, unsure. How did I let myself become this way? he thinks bitterly.

A low, growling murmur escapes his lips, his voice full of disbelief. "What... is the meaning... of this?" he whispers, his eyes never leaving his younger self, the shock rendering him momentarily speechless.

Then, the pieces fall into place. The nagging thought in the back of his mind solidifies. Akane, perfectly unchanged despite the years that have passed. The faces of his childhood peers, frozen in time as though they too have not aged a day. The classroom feels so painfully familiar, but in a way that makes his stomach churn. He isn't in some twisted world created for the gods' amusement, as he first feared. No. This is it.

This is his past.

The truth dawns on him like a cold, suffocating weight.

"Gyatsō, can you tell me the hand signs needed to perform the Clone Jutsu?" Akane repeated her question, her warm smile spreading across her glossy pink lips as she looked at the white-haired boy. Her genuine fondness made the shy child weakly smile back at her, and for a fleeting moment, a tiny wave of confidence washed over him. His heart fluttered, and his breath felt just a little less heavy. Slowly, he stood from his seat, his small hands moving behind his back, trying to steady his nerves.

"Y-yes, Akane Sensei. Ram... snake... and tiger," he answered quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. A faint blush appeared on his cheeks, the heat rising with the intensity of his classmates' focused stares. Every eye in the room seemed to pin him in place, his insecurities bubbling up at the attention.

Akane's approval was immediate, her eyes lighting up as she nodded her head in satisfaction. She lowered the finger resting on her chin and made a friendly gesture, inviting him forward with a wave of her hand. It was a simple, warm motion, but to Gyatsō, it felt like an anchor.

Out of all the students in the classroom, Akane had always seen the most potential in Gyatsō. His quiet demeanour belied his innate brilliance. He excelled in academics and combat practice alike, showing promise in ways his classmates never did. She was confident that he would go far, despite his shy nature.

"Very good!" Akane said, her voice carrying a hint of pride. "But just knowing the hand signs is only half of it. It doesn't mean much if you can't perform the jutsu itself." She gave him an encouraging smile. "Would you like to come to the front of the class and demonstrate your Clone Jutsu?"

The words seemed to hang in the air, and young Gyatsō hesitated for just a moment, feeling a wave of nerves surge through him. But then, with a deep breath, he slowly made his way to the front of the class, the warm weight of Akane's encouragement at his back. She had asked him to demonstrate—not as a test, but as an opportunity. He couldn't let it slip away.

The older Gyatsō's now sorrowful eyes shift from his younger self to his former teacher, quietly watching the exchange with a growing sense of detached awe. His gaze lingers on Akane as she stands at the front of the room. As the moments pass, an unfamiliar pang of warmth stirs within him, a feeling long buried beneath layers of bitterness and time. It twists inside him, unsettling yet undeniable. He hasn't felt this in years.

Akane's gentle, abiding pride in her students is clear in the way she speaks, the way she encourages him. It's an admiration he never fully appreciated as a child, but now, it hits him with a subtle force. She had always believed in him—pushed him, nurtured him, molded him into what he could become. He realises, with a quiet sorrow, that Akane Sensei had always been proud of him.

For the briefest moment, Gyatsō finds himself lost in a distant past, remembering what it felt like to be the boy who sought to please her, the boy who still believed in the warmth of simple accomplishments. But... that innocent boy is long gone.

After a few moments of clear hesitation, the white-haired child finally walked to the front of the classroom, quietly accepting Akane's invitation. His hands, which had once been timidly clasped behind his back, now slowly extended in front of him. His crimson eyes focused intently on them, a newfound determination in his gaze.

"Ramu... hebi... tora," he chanted, each hand sign performed with a precision that was a betrayal of his young age. His classmates watched in stunned silence, their eyes wide as they followed his every movement. Some of them even subtly glared at the boy, resentment flickering in their eyes as they compared his flawless execution to their own struggles.

"Clone Jutsu..."

A puff of smoke erupted around him, momentarily obscuring his form. As the smoke cleared, it revealed a perfect clone of Gyatsō standing beside him, mirroring his every movement. The classroom was momentarily silent before a burst of applause erupted from his classmates, many of them clapping in genuine awe. A deep crimson flush spread across the boy's cheeks, his head tilting downward in modesty.

Akane, with a proud smile that never wavered, quickly joined in on the applause, her eyes gleaming with approval.

"Amazing work, Gyatsō!" she said warmly, her voice filled with admiration. She turned her gaze to the rest of the class, still beaming. "Everyone, I hope you took note of how to perform those hand signs. Not only must you memorise the sequence, but your hands must be stable and confident when casting your jutsu. We'll now be moving on to chakra ō, you may be seated."

The white-haired child nodded, a small but genuine smile gracing his lips as he made his way back to his seat at the back of the classroom. A quiet pride settled in his chest, his fingers lightly brushing against the wood of the desk as he sat down. His crimson eyes focused intently on Akane, paying close attention to the instructor as she began writing kanji on the chalkboard at the front of the room.

"In order to use ninjutsu or genjutsu correctly," Akane began, her chalk scratching against the board with a soft rhythm, "you must learn how to mix the chakra in your body—"

Suddenly, the olderGyatsō's attention snaps to the wooden door on the left side of the room, gritting his teeth harshly. Nobody else sensed the incoming threat currently looming from the other side. How could they, really? The children were all just novice academy students, starting off with the very basics of becoming shinobi, not even on the amateur levels of Genin. Akane herself was just a Chunin before becoming an instructor. As the situation unknowingly becomes more dire for these academy students, Gyatsō remembers this specific day now. The suppressed familiarity of it all sends a chill running down his spine. This was that day. The day where everything changed.

Just as Akane was about to continue with her lesson, the wooden door suddenly crashed open, splintering on impact as it was kicked wide, sending shards of wood scattering throughout the classroom. The children screamed in surprise, ducking and shielding themselves from the barrage of flying splinters as they rained down upon them.

Standing in the doorway was a bald shinobi, his presence menacing and cold. He wore the traditional gear of the Hidden Stone Village: a dark slate-gray flak jacket reinforced with padding at key points, made for enduring the harshest of conditions. The jacket's back proudly displayed the iconic symbol of the Hidden Stone Village, embroidered in bold black thread. His dark pants were practical and sturdy, and a ninja tools pouch was strapped securely to his right leg. The shinobi wore a wide, smug smirk on his face as he towered over the frightened children, his metal headband gleaming ominously in the classroom light, its symbol unmistakable—a blunt reminder of his allegiance to the foreign nation.

Gyatsō's Shaolin flares to life, its bright crimson glow flashing angrily as it locks its deathly gaze onto the enemy Stone shinobi. His past, long buried deep within his consciousness, resurfaces in an instant as he recognises the bald man standing in the doorway. The memory is vivid—those cruel, gray eyes that once scanned the Hidden Grass children like a predator eyeing its next meal. Gyatsō's hand moves in a blur, swiftly drawing several shuriken, gripping them tightly in his fist, hatred fueling every motion. Without hesitation, he hurls them at the Stone shinobi, the sharp weapons cutting through the air with lethal intent.

Yet, as before with Akane, the weapons fail to reach their target. They fly right through the Stone shinobi, disappearing into his figure as if he were nothing more than a phantom. The shuriken freeze mid-air, suspended in an unnatural and ominous fashion. Gyatsō's face hardens, his expression darkening with frustration and disbelief. His hatred flares, but it is quickly overshadowed by the crushing realisation of his powerlessness in this moment. He hasn't felt this helpless in years—not since he was the timid child hiding in the back of the classroom. The Osore leader's attempts to alter the course of this day, to change his fate, have failed dismally. Now, all he can do is stand by and watch as history repeats itself.