Here's a short chapter to close out the week. Updates will slow down next week. Hopefully no errors in this one—I'm really tired.
He was sure he was dreaming.
The sky above him was dark with angry clouds, lightning flickering dimly like blue flames on a dark night. He stood on an island's shore, face towards the sea. The surf frothed and boiled under the pull of a large whirlpool a couple of miles off the shore. It dominated the horizon, a spiralling mass that twisted water, chakra and air.
Uzushio
The name flared in his mind like a whispered memory of a memory. He took it with a grain of salt. He had never set foot in Uzushio, after all. The last of the Uzumaki. Jiraiya said no one else could hold Kurama, not after the clan's slaughter. His father had dared—dared and died.
The air clung to his skin, thick and heavy with the scent of the sea. Salt, sharp and metallic, stung his nostrils with every inhale. Beneath it lingered the muddy scent of wet sand, like crushed stone left too long in brine. The wind twisted these smells into a restless spiral that seemed... alive. It carried the faintest trace of decaying seaweed from further down the shore—a sour tang that clung to the back of his throat.
Then came the metallic crispness of ozone, threading through the ocean's scent. High above, lightning pulsed behind the clouds, electric veins of blue fire flashing like a silent warning. The air buzzed faintly against his skin, his hair almost seeming to rise with the static charge.
And beneath it all, deep enough that most shinobi would have missed it, was the scent of blood. Not fresh, but ancient—woven into the earth and sea. The smell teased the edge of his senses like a memory slipping through his grasp.
Despite all this, the scene remained just that bit off, as though he was seeing things from a strange perspective.
Something was wrong.
He glanced down. His shadow stretched long over the sand... and his right hand was whole.
The realization jolted him.
The ground quivered beneath his feet. The sea's rhythm shifted—became slower, heavier. His bones vibrated under the whirlpool's pull, like a distant voice whispering his name.
He turned his gaze toward the sea.
The whirlpool dominated the view, chakra roiling around it like water circling a drain. It thrummed, a massive beacon warping the natural chakra of the island as it fed itself. A feedback system gone wild. The more it spun, the more chakra it consumed. The more it consumed, the heavier it became. The heavier it became, the faster it spun.
Like a reforming bijū.
He found himself struggling to focus, his thoughts flickering from one thing to another so quickly he could not place any of them, nearly drowning under the weight of unfamiliar emotions that made his heart race.
Something is wrong…
Something…
Is…
Wrong…
The whirlpool seemed to pulse, the water twisting with a sudden lurch. The chakra pull intensified, dragging at his core. The air itself seemed to fold inward toward the sea. His breathing turned shallow, his muscles tightening against his will.
The horizon bent. Sky and sea shattered into mirrored shards, each piece showing a slightly different version of the scene. His vision blurred and twisted until all the fragments showed the same image—the shore soaked with blood.
His blood.
His throat constricted. His own blood—spilled across sand he'd never walked. His pulse raced, but his body refused to move.
It felt like walking over his own grave.
Is this a vision… or a warning?
The whirlpool bulged.
A tendril of water, thick as a tree's length, surged toward him with impossible speed. He twisted his body, muscles screaming in protest. The strike missed his center but caught his shoulder with bone-cracking force.
The world spun, and his thoughts spun with it.
How did that hit me?
He hurtled through the air, limbs flailing. Instinctively, he reached inward to gather chakra for a landing—
And the chakra—his chakra—refused.
It hit like a cold slap. He stretched and grasped at familiar threads of chakra and came up empty, like grasping at smoke.
It was there, but it was unwilling to yield to his grip.
Genjutsu?
He crashed into a rock formation, stone splintering beneath the impact. The shards dug into his back, driving the air from his lungs.
The sea's roar faded into a deep, rhythmic pulse, beating in time with the throbbing in his back.
Like breathing.
Naruto groaned, rolling onto his knees. His right hand was still whole. His chakra was still disobedient. And the whirlpool's pull was only getting stronger.
No.
The sand flinched, before coming alive, snaking up his limbs with bloodthirsty haste.
He forced his body to move, tearing himself from the grasp of the sand.
And not a moment too soon.
The sand contracted wildly, like Gaara's patented sand burial technique. He had a moment to consider a horrific image of his limbs twisted into knots by the sand before he had to move again. He scrambled up the rock, staying just ahead of the hunting sand tendrils. It moved like something aware, animated by gleeful malevolence. It was hunting him, picking exactly where and when was best to strike even as it sought to overwhelm him.
My body is still beyond that of a mere civilian.
A running start, and he was flying through the air, aimed at a higher rock outcropping. He smashed into it, his fingers and feet scrambling for some sort of purchase.
I just can't gather chakra for some reason.
The tendril of water that smashed into him this time gave him no warning at all. Suddenly, he was flying towards the sea, sand rushing after him, consuming everything as it flowed over them.
If he hit the water like this, he was dead.
He relaxed, completely unmoving even as his body flew through the air. In that brief moment, he gathered natural chakra. It flowed into him, pulling his own chakra along, like water currents and dye, swirling into sage chakra. Power surged through his body, and he landed on his feet, the water rippling beneath him.
The sea rose up behind him, a towering wall of angry water that sought to crush him against the oncoming wall of maddened sand. The water screamed as it twisted, frothing white and black as the ocean itself raged against him.
The sand reared up before him, thin tendrils rushing ahead of the larger body of sand bearing down on him. The sand seemed to almost vibrate with manic energy, a low, pervasive rattle that gave the impression of an angry rattlesnake.
How do you fight the ocean? How do you beat the earth?
You don't.
The sand crashed into him first, blasting against him as though to scour him away.
He guided the natural chakra through himself—past his body, and into the sea beneath him, and the sand around him. With his body as the epicenter, a wave of stillness rippled outwards. The sea became like glass, the whirlpool gone. Sand fell all around him, the mad spirit animating it stilled.
He stood for a moment, chest heaving and skin tingling, catching his breath. His chakra came easily—eagerly even.
Something shifted in the reflection beneath him.
His gaze snapped toward the disturbance. A ripple passed through the glass surface, and for an instant, he saw something rushing at him from beneath the water.
His instincts screamed to move—
And the world shattered.
He opened his eyes to the ceiling of the men's sleeping quarters.
He remained still for a moment, his heart rate only just starting to calm down as he realised where he was. The vividness of that dream… Even while being almost sure it was one, he still did not rule out genjutsu while he was dreaming for a very good reason. It looked and felt like Itachi's patented techniques all over again—all subtle, layered, and so on.
He hated shit like that.
He could be subtle, but it was not his preferred mode of acting. He was not the type to have tricks within tricks and covered by even more tricks.
Apparently I am now if my subconscious thought up all that.
He drew a quiet deep breath, taking in the feeling of having his reserves filled with his chakra for what was likely the first time since he found himself in this reality.
Ah… That's right, he thought. With Kurama awake, I don't need to gather chakra for him any longer.
Almost all his chakra was tied up doing that. He'd had to do it manually until he'd reworked his original seal to handle it. With Kurama now awake, he would have to decide what to do with the seal.
He couldn't remove it completely—not really. One of the downsides of such extensive seals was that they dug into the chakra network, growing with it, and exerting influence over it over time.
And that was for seals drawn with ink and insured with mere chakra.
His own was drawn with blood—his parents' blood—and insured by the Shinigami itself. There was no taking it off completely and remaining alive—ever.
But modifying it? That he could do.
He rose quietly, his heart rate finally approaching normal as his instincts calmed down, his absent arm twinging in sympathy after his… dream of being whole.
Was that even a dream?
It was like none he'd had before. The physical stimulation was breathtaking—immersive to an insane degree. How could his subconscious so faithfully recreate a place he'd never been to? Was it even correct? All he had to name the place was a stray thought in a weird dream.
He'd put it on the back burner for now.
In any case, it had brought back a powerful feeling of loss to be reminded of his arms being whole.
Really sucked not to have your healing available when it could do anything about the limb.
Get over it, Naruto, his partner replied. Only long experience with his partner's brand of love enabled him to hear the concern and chagrin under the words.
He slipped out the room, utterly silent as he made his way to the roof. The scent of the corridor was a sour mix of human bodies, sweat, and a hint of mildew. He paid it little mind though—with his chakra returning, he had to confirm that his signature technique was available to him.
As he was going to be at full power soon, this whole 'zombie apocalypse' would be a cake walk.
Spam some shadow clones, clear the roads, blow this joint.
When has your life ever been so simple? Kurama chided. This entire place feels… strange.
You'll get used to it. I have.
You have only what? Like 7 senses? I have senses for things you don't even have words for, replied Kurama.
Humans have five, Kurama.
You have seven, insisted Kurama. You can sense chakra, and negative intent as well.
Wait, those are actual senses?
Of course they are. You didn't know this?
NO!
Well, it doesn't change anything, does it? Better late than never, yes?
I guess… Wait—you can sense the people around us. Do they feel like those at home?
No, replied Kurama instantly, although the differences aren't much. They have no actualised chakra, and their spiritual connections are… I don't really know how to put this in a way you can understand.
What about the zombies?
What about them?
Do they feel strange? Weird?
No? Only in the sense that they are clearly more plant than animal.
What?
Well, to be specific, more fungi than anything.
What? So like zetsu?
No, insisted Kurama. Zetsu were the actual plant—slash—fungi organisms. Now I think about it, they'd be more like their spores actually. These zombies are like the meat suits of the fungi things running them. They are localised in the head, and have tendrils running all through the rest of the corpse.
That's… wait—could fungicides work?
About as well as they do on zetsu—so no.
Damn.
He snuck onto the roof quietly, closing the door. No anime cliche of being seen by accident for him. Drawing up his chakra, he twisted in an intimately familiar fashion, aiming for just three clones this time. For the first time since his childhood, the technique felt… slow? Stunted? He pushed through either way.
…
…
The roof remained empty save for one person.
What happened?
I'm… not sure. Do it again, and let me watch.
He tried again.
Nothing.
He held up his hand, holding it in the one-hand seal for the technique as he tried again.
Still nothing.
Kurama?
I don't know what to say, replied his partner. You're getting it exactly right. The technique should work. It just isn't for some reason I can't figure out.
Damn.
He held his hand out to the side, palm up. A small spiralling sphere of chakra formed on it, petering out as he let the technique go.
The rasengan still works, he thought. Seals work too. And I've used Tsunade's chakra manipulation technique to amplify my flicks so those work. But no actual techniques?
I don't know. I would guess there is a spiritual component going on, but I just can't say.
That seems weird. Aren't written seals just expansions of hand seals?
Only from your perspective. Hand seals are nothing more than notes to the gods—like the prayers of the priests. Fūinjutsu, on the other hand, completely skips the divine component.
That makes no sense, Kurama. I can, and actually do perform all my techniques without seals.
Because your chakra takes over that part of the technique. Still doesn't mean you don't require divine permission. That is why your shinobi techniques don't work on demons—they are part of the divine architecture of reality, and can simply deny the permission component of your techniques. Fūinjutsu doesn't require that. Neither do your pure chakra manipulation techniques.
I don't know Kurama…
I don't believe you are arguing about this with me. Izanami simply spoiled you stupid monkeys too damn much.
You'd have to somehow believe that there are no gods here.
There aren't, Kurama replied simply, nearly shocking him. There's only one, and he is very firmly a hands-on kinda god.
Wait… you're not being metaphorical about the gods?
Why would I? They're only metaphorical as a joke sometimes.
So when you say only one god…
Yes. It's just him. I don't know why he's allowed us in this reality, but that's not really our concern now is it?
It is! I don't want to be noticed by any gods!
That's too damn bad then. You're gonna have to get used to loving disappointments.
Is it Hiroshi's god? Can I get him to pray for some leeway?
No. That One is the Overseer. Imagine an author—the Overseer is as far above the gods as an author is above his characters.
What?
Don't worry your little monkey brain about it. The Overseer won't actively get involved with us except through the gods of our reality.
Damn… None of this fixes the technique issue though.
Technically, all of this is mere speculation. Maybe the gods allow your techniques, but you're too stupid to figure out how to do it correctly for this reality.
…
What? You just assumed the laws across different realities would remain the same?
Well, he thought. That sucks.
In an ideal world, they should have been allowed more time to grieve Momo.
But then again, in an ideal world, Momo would still be alive. Naruto would still be a hot martial arts instructor. The children should still be worrying about classes and crushes.
She would still be relevant—at least in some small way.
But survival didn't care about any of that.
What she got instead was the work of sorting out the food items they were able to salvage. She was not alone. In fact, everyone was here except Naruto and Hiroshi who'd gone out to get the school bus to their location, and Saya and Miku who were still downloading and saving information.
Kohta passed by her, dragging a large sack of rice behind him as he went.
Takashi was down here with them, silent, hunched and broken. She could hardly look at him. And yet—he worked, without complaint. It made her feel sick. If he hated her—hated them—she'd feel better. But he didn't. He just kept working. Without the armor of her fiery emotions, she could not face her wanting his death. Her thoughts still held onto what Naruto said, turning it around in her head.
It was hard for her to face herself with the understanding that if Takashi had not called her out the way he did the morning of Momo's death, she would not have called for his execution—quick or slow.
It had taken Hiroshi, and later Naruto, to get her to look at her reflection.
She did not like what she saw there.
The world was changing too quickly for her. It wasn't even up to a week. Yet, she'd already been put in positions where she saw horrible things done—some of it with her consent.
She already saw the zombies as them.
I'm just an ordinary woman, she thought. What am I even doing here? How will I live on like this?
She was getting pretty tired of asking that question over and over again.
She was tied to others—dependent on them for their protection. Saeko, Kohta, Rei, Saya—all mere highschool students. At least Shizuka had some medical expertise. What did she have?
She saw the way Momo had been looking at Naruto.
Do I have to do that as well simply to survive?
Already, she saw how the other women looked at her. Momo looked at her as competition for her plan to stick herself to Naruto and never let go. Saeko had started getting a glint in her eye when looking at her—and wasn't that horrifying to think about. In the last two days, Shizuka had started eyeing her sideways as well, sizing her up. Only Saya didn't look at her like that. Yet. She still looked at her like she looked at everyone else—a tool to be used.
The girl was a genius, but she was not half as clever as she thought she was. Maybe to her mates she was a shark, but in the politics of adults, she was merely cute.
She wouldn't be the one to burst her bubble though.
And isn't it pathetic that even these kids have plans and I don't…
Once again, she was getting to be relevant only because of who she'd once fucked.
It's not fair… I was building a life for myself. Making progress…
The gym seemed stifling to her. The clothes she was wearing were a little ripe, even with washing, contributing to a… fragrant living space when everyone was in the same situation. Even now, the gym smelled sour—old sweat and other bodily secretions winning the battle, what with their lack of deodorant.
From what she understood, Naruto was working on getting them away from here, but it was slow going.
Mostly because the man is too damn fastidious, she thought, irritated. What's the point of gathering all this food? The world is going to shit either way—we'll always be able to get more.
But no… She had to be here sorting out infinite packs of instant ramen.
She stifled the urge to scream.
I could learn something, she thought, before dismissing it with a huff. I'm already a good administrator. The problem is having something to organise.
She could close her eyes and simply throw her panties in the ring for Naruto. After all, she'd had him wrapped around her finger once. She could do it again, and the benefits would be fantastic—even apart from all the sex.
But the thought of competing with these younger girls…
She'd rather just die, to be very honest.
Now I'm just feeling sorry for myself…
She glanced around, and happened to meet Shizuka's eyes. The doctor didn't look away. They stayed like that, eyes locked on each other, almost intimate if one did not recognise the look in Shizuka's eyes.
They were too knowing. Too assessing.
The doctor didn't look away. They stayed like that, eyes locked on each other. And for one fleeting, hateful second, Kyoko wondered.
Could I win if it came down to it?
Rei sneezed—then sneezed again, breaking the moment to her relief. She was moving flour. That was probably what irritated her.
Cheer up, Kyoko! Things will look up when you leave this place.
That was all she could console herself with.
At least it'd definitely smell better.