Gunaseelan K

Chapter 66: Killing the Mountain

The Mountain’s movements were broad and powerful.

Each swing of his dull but massive greatsword sliced through the air with a piercing whistle, and if you were close enough, you could even smell the blood soaked into the blade.

Clang!

Their swords clashed. The immense force from the blow traveled through Jon’s sword, numbing both of his forearms.

And this was after the Mountain had already spent most of his stamina.

Jon chose to dodge and conserve his strength, waiting for the giant to tire himself out completely.

Both armies watched in near silence. Jon’s soldiers and nobles barely dared to breathe—none wanted to distract him. The Mountain’s men, too, were quiet, for their commander despised noise, and any sound only worsened the throbbing pain from his injured eye.

Because Jon’s forces had already gained control of the battlefield, clearing the area had gone quickly.

When the soldiers in the distance heard that their commander was dueling the enemy’s leader, they rushed closer.

“Can our lord really defeat that monster?”

“Of course! Our lord is the only one in a hundred years to climb Hidden Fire Peak!”

Even without seeing the fight clearly, Jon’s men had absolute faith in him.

Thud!

The Mountain’s sword missed its mark again, slamming into the ground and sending up a cloud of dust.

Jon seized the moment—he kicked a rock toward the Mountain, striking him squarely on the forehead.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Jon taunted, his voice calm but sharp. “If that’s it, I might as well send word to Dorne right now—they’ll pay handsomely for you.”

His tone was deliberate—provocation to enrage the beast.

The Mountain’s skill was impressive only in brute power. His enormous size and monstrous strength amplified his swordsmanship, but beyond that, there was little finesse.

Jon, already far beyond ordinary warriors, found it almost disappointing.

Since becoming a Sword Saint, few in Westeros could even hope to challenge him.

Still, this was a world that held true magic—and Jon never let his guard down.

“The Mountain’s running out of stamina!” Martin said excitedly from the sidelines.

“Even if he were at full strength, he wouldn’t match our lord,” Old York replied confidently. His faith in Jon had not only returned—it had grown stronger than ever.

Old York could tell that Jon wasn’t merely defending. His movements were measured, deliberate—he was testing his opponent.

Even from a distance, with his keen eyes, Old York noticed Jon speaking throughout the fight.

Talking during a high-intensity duel disrupted one’s breathing. That Jon could converse so casually meant he wasn’t fighting seriously at all.

Realizing this, Sola’s tension eased, though her heart still pounded.

“Jon isn’t… trying to recruit that man, is he?” Harken muttered, half-joking but half-serious. “A brute like that would be terrifying on the battlefield.”

Since leaving the Mountains of the Moon, Harken had learned humility. His own strength was respectable—but compared to Jon or the Mountain, it was nothing.

Still, his words stirred unease in Martin’s heart.

The Mountain had slaughtered countless innocents—and killed Ser Raymon, Martin’s own uncle. If Jon truly spared this monster, Martin would never have his revenge.

But The Mountain hadn’t been defeated by Martin. He had no right to demand vengeance. The thought frustrated him deeply.

Then—

“Ah!”

A scream ripped through the air.

Jon’s sword flashed once—and The Mountain’s sword arm was severed cleanly.

The giant howled in agony, clutching the stump of his arm, blood gushing like a fountain.

Scarlet spray splattered across his face, making him look even more grotesque—a demon drenched in his own blood.

For any swordsman, that wound was the end.

The soldiers of the Westerlands looked on in horror and despair. Their commander—their unstoppable titan—had fallen.

The Mountain collapsed to his knees, his voice cracking with pain. “I surrender! Please—spare me!”

Jon’s soldiers erupted in cheers. Their commander’s victory meant the battle was truly over. They would live—and their morale soared to the heavens.

At the same time, their eyes burned with awe. To them, Jon wasn’t just a leader—he was invincible.

Jon stepped past the kneeling giant, his expression cold and steady.

Facing the remaining enemy soldiers, he declared, “Lay down your weapons. Remove your armor. Surrender now.”

Seeing their commander begging for mercy, the soldiers of the Westerlands hesitated only a moment—then threw down their weapons.

With a clatter, Jon’s men surged forward to disarm them.

The second wave of soldiers began stripping away their armor. Those steel plates—costly and rare—would soon form the foundation of Jon’s own heavy-armored legion.

“Victory?”

For a moment, even Jon’s officers seemed stunned by the sudden end. Then realization struck—and cheers erupted.

Laughter, shouting, and celebration filled the air.

The mountain tribesmen began dancing wildly, stamping their feet and howling in joy.

Sola’s gaze lingered on Jon. Her admiration had reached something close to reverence. In her heart, Jon had become a being beyond mortal limits—strong, unshakable, divine.

But then—

Without warning, the Mountain moved.

The man who had been kneeling, begging for mercy—suddenly lunged.

“Jon!”

“My lord!”

“My lord, behind you!”

The shouts of horror came too late.

The Northern nobles froze in terror. The soldiers stopped stripping armor, their faces white with shock.

Jon stood with his back to the charging giant—completely exposed.

Even without a weapon, the Mountain’s sheer mass and strength could crush him.

For a heartbeat, everyone was frozen.

Then—

The Mountain’s body stiffened. His eyes widened in disbelief.

A blood-stained blade jutted from his throat, its tip emerging through the back of his neck.

Jon turned, his expression icy.

“God’s Perspective—did you think I was joking?”

The Mountain’s one remaining eye flickered with confusion and terror.

He couldn’t comprehend it. How had Jon, standing with his back turned, reacted faster than he could strike?

He would never know.

As his life faded, flashes of his past flickered before him—screaming faces, burning houses, victims of his brutality.

Then, darkness.

Jon shoved the giant’s corpse aside with a heavy push.

“What? Did you think a cripple like you could harm me?” he said coldly.

Even though Jon stood unharmed, those who witnessed it could not shake the chill down their spines.

That final counterattack—no one else could have pulled it off.

Even the surrendered soldiers, now kneeling in the dirt, felt their will to resist dissolve entirely.

Jon had planned it perfectly.

If the Mountain hadn’t attacked, Jon would have imprisoned him and later sold him to House Martell.

But because he did attack, Jon’s response now cemented his image as a flawless warrior.

The result was absolute.

To his own soldiers, Jon Snow had become a living god.

And to his enemies—he was terror itself.

---

Chapter 2: Awakening

Red Keep, Godswood — 77 AC

“Hey! I just like watching A Song of Ice and Fire, and you really threw me here. How am I supposed to live like this?”

A child’s voice, filled with sorrow, echoed through the Red Keep, which covered nearly an acre and was surrounded by a godswood filled with elms, cypresses, and black cottonwoods. Beneath the trees grew dark red dragon’s breath grass, and the trunk of a large oak was wrapped with smokeberry vines.

Following the voice, one could see a small figure lying on his back under the great oak. He was about a meter tall, with long silver-gold hair and fair skin that shimmered faintly like holy light. Though still a child, his features already hinted at striking future handsomeness. Judging from his size and appearance, he looked to be only five or six years old.

He was none other than our protagonist — Gaemon Targaryen.

Born under the red flag and educated in modern New China, Gaemon had always been a firm believer in science. Yet fate had played a cruel joke on him — he had been reborn into another world, one that seemed ripped straight from A Song of Ice and Fire.

Though it was difficult to accept, there was nothing he could do but face the truth and adapt to this strange new reality.

Perhaps it was because he had spent his final moments in his past life playing Baldur’s Gate, set in the D&D universe, that when Gaemon first arrived here, he quickly discovered a strange phenomenon — a fragment of godhood hidden within his spiritual sea, something that should exist only in the D&D world.

Although its power was faint, the godhood fragment instinctively fused with his soul, granting him a mysterious gift: the power of a Dragon-Vein Warlock.

It wasn’t the mage class he preferred when playing Baldur’s Gate, but it was still a magic-wielding profession. Yet, due to the differing worldviews, Gaemon soon noticed that his Dragon-Vein Warlock powers had changed significantly.

In this world, there was no Weave of Magic to regulate the flow of arcane energy. The ambient magic was chaotic and unstable, making structured spellcasting impossible. Unlike the D&D world, where wizards could easily channel the Weave, this world’s magic could only be accessed through bloody rituals and sacrifices — crude, cruel, and dangerous.

Such primitive sorcery bred only darkness, blood, and madness. Spellcasters relied on pain — often that of their victims — to stir mental energy strong enough to control the chaotic magic around them.

By contrast, the power of Gaemon’s Dragon Vein was far more refined. It revolved around absorbing ambient magic and awakening the dormant might within his Targaryen bloodline.

When Gaemon was first born, his body had been frail to the point of death. The maesters of the Red Keep had predicted he would not live long. But in desperation, Gaemon turned to the one thing he could recall from his old world — meditation.

He began training his mind, visualizing the process of gathering energy as he had read in countless fantasy novels. During his first meditation, he inadvertently opened his spiritual sea, triggering the fusion with his godhood fragment — and thus awakening his “Dragon King Bloodline Magic System.”

Through constant meditation, he absorbed trace amounts of magic from the air, strengthening his body and bloodline.

After four long years, Gaemon finally activated his first ability — the Blood of Awakening.

This ability was the foundation of his Dragon King Bloodline. Its activation signified that the latent power in his blood had truly awakened. With it came two innate skills: Breath of Dragon Flame and Flame Affinity.

Breath of Dragon Flame (Newly Awakened): Once per day, Gaemon can exhale a 15-foot cone of blazing fire. Creatures within the area take fire damage, and flammable objects may ignite. Using this ability causes temporary fatigue and dryness of the throat.

Flame Affinity (New Awakening): Grants enhanced resistance to fire and heat.

With the awakening of his blood, Gaemon’s frail body began to strengthen day by day. He could finally leave behind the weakness that had plagued him since birth.

Realizing there was no return to his old world, Gaemon accepted his fate. Sitting under the oak, he stretched his right leg forward, bent his left, rested his left hand on his knee, and clenched his right fist before him. Feeling the surge of power coursing through his veins, he whispered to himself:

“Finally… it’s over. From now on, I’ll only grow stronger.”

As if to celebrate his resolve, a gentle breeze swept through the godswood, rustling the crimson leaves of the great oak. They clapped softly against one another — like a divine applause, as if the tree itself blessed the reborn prince.

Smiling faintly, Gaemon rose, dusted off his clothes, and began walking back toward the castle.

Leaving the godswood, he followed the cobblestone path through the Red Keep, crossed the covered bridge beside the throne room, and made his way toward Maegor’s Holdfast. Servants and guards who saw him stepped respectfully aside, bowing deeply.

Gaemon accepted their gestures calmly. As a prince, excessive humility would only unsettle those raised in a world of rigid hierarchy. Still, he often returned their greetings with a slight nod — something many nobles found beneath them. His subtle kindness made him beloved among the castle servants and common folk, who praised the young prince’s manners and gentle nature.

Within the Red Keep, Gaemon had his own chambers. Once old enough to move freely, he began arranging them to his liking. He partitioned part of the spacious room into a small training and study area, where he could focus on his magical development.

Though only four years old and scarcely a meter tall, the journey back from the godswood took him some time. When he finally reached his room, he went straight to the fireplace. Inside, bright flames danced, illuminating the stone walls with a warm crimson glow.

At the center of the fire rested a dragon egg — about the size of a human head, covered in gold-and-silver scales that shimmered in the flickering light.

It was the very egg Queen Alysanne had placed in Gaemon’s cradle at birth.

Standing before the hearth, Gaemon gazed at the egg and murmured softly, “Don’t worry. Soon… we’ll finally meet.”

When he was a newborn, his weak body could not withstand the strain of absorbing magic, even with the godhood fragment’s help. Fortunately, the dragon egg had acted like a magical conduit, filtering chaotic energy into gentler currents that his body could handle. In return, the egg absorbed much of this purified energy, growing stronger itself.

However, that same process delayed the hatching of the dragon within — the creature that should have been born four years ago still slept inside its shell.

Now, with his bloodline awakened, Gaemon finally had the strength to help the dragon emerge.

He calmed his breathing, sensing the faint pulse of life within the egg. Then he retrieved an ornate dagger from his desk — its silver hilt inlaid with a large sapphire. The dagger had once been a noble’s gift to King Jaehaerys I, long forgotten in the royal treasury until Queen Alysanne brought baby Gaemon there one day.

At that time, the curious infant had grabbed the dagger and refused to let go. Amused, the Queen had allowed him to keep it. From that day onward, it became one of Gaemon’s most treasured possessions.

Now, years later, the dagger would serve a higher purpose.

Drawing it from its sheath, Gaemon held it firmly and made a shallow cut across his right palm. Bright red blood welled from the wound. Ignoring the searing heat of the fire, he extended his hand over the dragon egg, letting the drops of blood fall onto its shining surface.

As his blood touched the shell, he began to chant softly:

> “Blood and Fire,

Fire and Blood.

Blood for Fire,

Fire for Blood.

The blood of the Dragon King awakens the dragon in stone…”

His voice was low but steady, each word resonating with power. The flames flared higher, as if fed by invisible oil, and soon the egg was engulfed in a pillar of fire.

Gradually, the fire’s intensity lessened — drawn into the egg itself. The wood in the fireplace burned down to embers, and when the final sparks faded, the bleeding from Gaemon’s palm stopped.

He withdrew his hand and watched intently.

The egg, once still, now began to tremble.

Crack… crack… crack!

The sound of breaking shell echoed through the quiet room. Gaemon’s heart pounded in his chest. Moments later, a small golden-tinted head broke through the shell, letting out a faint but proud roar.

The newborn dragon blinked its curious eyes, taking in the world for the first time. Upon seeing Gaemon, it chirped twice in excitement and struggled to free itself completely. Its tiny wings flared open, breaking apart the remaining shell with surprising force.

Finally free, the baby dragon stumbled toward Gaemon, unsteady but determined.

Gaemon waited patiently until the little creature reached him. Then, kneeling, he gently scooped it into his hands.

The hatchling was no larger than a cat, its scales shimmering with a pale metallic sheen. At first glance it appeared golden, but under the firelight, Gaemon noticed that the scales were actually platinum.

A smile spread across his face.

“Your color is platinum,” he whispered softly. “I happen to know of another dragon, a legendary one — also platinum. Though you come from a different world, I hope you can be like him. From this day forward, you shall bear his name — the Father of Good, the Lord of Order, the Platinum Dragon… Bahamut.”

The young dragon lifted its head as if understanding his words. Then, tilting its neck toward the ceiling, it released a long, clear roar — weak, but filled with pride and joy — announcing its birth to the world.

Chapter 1: Advent

Before the ocean, the earth, and the sky that covered everything came into being, the world was a formless, round mass. The sun had not yet shone upon it, and the moon had no phases.

The lightest element, fire, rose and became the sky, finding its home in the highest place. The air, lighter than earth but heavier than fire, settled between the two and became wind. The element of earth sank to the bottom due to its own weight, forming land. The fluid element of water flowed to the lowest places and surrounded the solid land.

Thus, fire, wind, earth, and water—the four primordial elements—shaped the universe and ultimately gave birth to this world, a cradle for countless living beings.

No one knows how much time passed or how many ages of beasts and plants came and went before the first intelligent race appeared—the Children of the Forest. They ruled the continent of Westeros and worshipped nameless gods. Scholars from Oldtown would later call these deities the Old Gods.

The Children of the Forest carved faces into the weirwood trees and perceived the world through a mystical “greensight.” Their era became known as the Age of Dawn.

During this time, the continent of Westeros was also home to the race of giants. Because of their vast differences in culture and lifestyle, the Children of the Forest and the giants often stood in conflict. This uneasy coexistence lasted until the arrival of the First Men—the first humans to set foot in Westeros.

The First Men waged war upon the Children of the Forest and the giants for hundreds of years before the three ancient races finally reached a fragile peace. This period became known as the Age of Heroes.

Thousands of years later, the Andals sailed across the Narrow Sea, bringing with them steel and fire. They conquered the old kingdoms, driving the Children of the Forest and the giants to the far north and felling countless weirwoods. From then on, the Children of the Forest vanished from Westeros, and the Age of Men truly began.

The Andals gradually mingled with the First Men, merging bloodlines and traditions. They brought with them their faith in the Seven Gods and the ideals of chivalry. Many new kingdoms arose across Westeros, each vying for power. Endless wars followed—until the dragons came.

Aegon Targaryen, astride his dragon Balerion, together with his sisters Visenya and Rhaenys, who rode Vhagar and Meraxes, united almost the entire continent under their rule—except for the southern kingdom of Dorne. This conquest became immortalized in history as Aegon’s Conquest.

From that day onward, Westeros adopted a new calendar: the Calendar of Conquest (AC), beginning from the year when Aegon Targaryen was crowned by the High Septon in the Great Starry Sept of Oldtown.

---

Red Keep, 73 AC

For decades, King’s Landing had stood as the capital of Westeros since Aegon’s landing. Over time, it became the political heart of Targaryen rule and the largest, most populous city on the continent. At its center rose the Red Keep, the ancestral castle of House Targaryen, from where royal decrees shaped the fate of the realm.

But today, the Red Keep was cloaked in anxiety.

Servants, guards, and courtiers moved cautiously through the halls, fearful of making the slightest noise that might disturb the chamber from which a woman’s anguished cries echoed.

For on this day, Queen Alysanne Targaryen, wife of King Jaehaerys I and queen of the Seven Kingdoms, was giving birth to her eleventh child.

At thirty-seven, Alysanne was an older mother, and the labor was proving difficult. Her hoarse screams spoke of unbearable pain. Beads of sweat rolled from her pale forehead as the maids hastily wiped them away with wool towels.

Outside the chamber, several anxious figures with long silver-gold hair and striking violet eyes paced the corridor—her children, each bearing the signature features of House Targaryen.

“What’s happening? Mother’s given birth to so many of us, and it’s always gone smoothly. Why is it different this time? Why hasn’t she given birth yet?”

The speaker was a tall, broad-shouldered young man with sharp, noble features and a restless energy that radiated like a drawn sword. He was pacing back and forth before the door, his anxiety plain.

“Belron, could you stop for a moment and quit pacing?” came a sharp voice from beside him.

The rebuke came from another young man with the same silver-gold hair and amethyst eyes. Belron’s restlessness clearly grated on his already tense nerves.

“I’m just worried about Mother,” Belron muttered, stopping reluctantly.

His brother ignored him, his gaze fixed on the closed door, violet eyes filled with desperate hope for good news.

A few steps behind them stood several beautiful young women—princesses of the realm—holding hands tightly, their faces pale with fear and concern.

Suddenly, a deep, commanding voice echoed down the corridor.

“Aemon! How is your mother? Has she not given birth yet?”

Everyone turned to see a group of men approaching. At their head walked a tall, dignified figure with long silver hair and a strong, weathered face—King Jaehaerys Targaryen himself, followed by several Kingsguard knights in white cloaks.

At once, all those present bowed deeply. “Your Majesty, King Jaehaerys, may you be well!”

Though known for his calm and composed demeanor, the King’s face now bore only worry and fear.

He had seen his wife through ten births before, each without serious trouble. But when word reached him that she was suffering a difficult labor, he rushed from council to her side, dread gnawing at his heart.

In this age, childbirth was a woman’s battlefield—a cruel gamble between life and death. Though Alysanne had survived ten such battles, this time was different.

When he reached his eldest son, Prince Aemon, the King asked urgently, “What news from within?”

Aemon turned and answered quickly, “Father, the maester says Mother’s strength is failing. She is too weak to help in her own delivery.”

Jaehaerys’ heart tightened. A mother too weak to bear her child often meant tragedy—for both. He forced the thought away, unwilling to face it.

“Open the door—it’s me!” he commanded.

The attendants hurried to obey. The door swung open, and the King strode inside, two of the Kingsguard remaining at the entrance while others followed him in.

The room was filled with the heavy scent of blood. On the grand carved bed lay Queen Alysanne, drenched in sweat, her face pale but resolute. Beneath her, the white wool mat was soaked scarlet.

Seeing her like this, Jaehaerys felt his heart clench. He rushed to her side, grasped her trembling hand, and leaned close, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Alysanne, do not be afraid,” he whispered. “I’m here. You’ll be fine. The Mother will bless you and see you through. I know you can do this.”

At the sound of his voice, a faint smile appeared on Alysanne’s exhausted face. Strength seemed to return to her as though drawn from her husband’s presence.

Half an hour later, the cries of a newborn echoed through the chamber. The long ordeal was over.

The midwives cleaned the infant and placed him beside his mother. Relief washed over the royal family gathered outside, and soon they crowded around the bed.

“Mother, is it a boy this time?” one princess asked excitedly.

“Oh, I finally have a little brother! I’ll play with him every day!” said another, her voice full of joy.

Watching this tender scene, Jaehaerys allowed himself a rare smile of peace. Then his tone grew firm once more.

“Enough. Your mother has just endured great pain and needs rest. Do not trouble her now. Speak with her later.”

The girls nodded obediently, though their eyes lingered with affection before they quietly left the chamber.

---

In the days that followed, Queen Alysanne recovered swiftly, regaining her strength sooner than anyone expected. Yet her heart was not at ease.

The maester had warned her that the newborn’s condition was frail—that he might not survive infancy. The thought struck her like a blade. She could not accept that the child she had nearly died to bring into the world might not live.

So, once she was able to walk, Alysanne insisted that her husband accompany her to the Dragonpit—the lair where the mightiest treasures of House Targaryen were kept.

There, among the relics and the bones of dragons long gone, she searched until she found one particular egg—white as snow, with golden scales glinting between the ridges.

She cradled it carefully as they returned to the Red Keep. To her, it was more than a relic—it was hope.

Within her chambers, Queen Alysanne placed the dragon egg beside her newborn son’s cradle, whispering prayers to both the Old Gods and the Seven.

King Jaehaerys watched silently before speaking in a solemn voice:

“This child’s life begins with struggle. May this egg give him strength. Let his name be Gaemon Targaryen.”

Alysanne looked up at her husband, her tired eyes softening. “Gaemon the Glorious—the greatest Lord of Dragonstone in our history?”

Jaehaerys nodded firmly. “Yes. May this name’s power guide him. Let him be ‘glorious’ once more.”

Chapter 5: Doubt of Life

The quiet of the library was broken by the sound of footsteps.

Aiden didn’t look up from his book immediately, though he had already noticed the presence approaching him. The faint rustle of clothing, the soft scuff of shoes—it was familiar by now.

> “Oh? Why are you here?”



The voice confirmed his suspicion. It was Jean Grey.

She walked between the rows of tall shelves, her fiery red hair gleaming faintly in the lamplight. Her small nose scrunched as she shot him a look that was half annoyance, half embarrassment.

> “Hmph. This library isn’t just yours, you know.”



She plucked a random book from a shelf and sat across from him at the table, opening it with exaggerated seriousness. Her eyes flicked to the page, then quickly back up at Aiden. Then back down. Then up again.

Aiden smirked faintly but didn’t comment. He turned another page of his book, fully absorbed in its contents.

For several minutes, the only sounds were the rustle, rustle of turning pages.

Jean’s lips pouted. His calm focus was infuriating. She wanted him to notice her, to react somehow, but he gave her nothing. Finally, with a soft huff, she glanced back at her own book.

Almost instantly, her expression twisted. The page was covered in dense terminology, equations, and scientific jargon she didn’t understand. Her head spun just trying to make sense of it.

She peeked at the titles stacked in front of Aiden—advanced physics, molecular biology, theoretical chemistry. Books far beyond the curriculum of children their age.

> He’s studying things like this?



A spark of curiosity flared in her. She memorized the titles quietly, planning to try them herself later. Though she doubted she could get far, the determination not to fall behind tugged at her pride.

With some reluctance, she set aside the incomprehensible book she’d taken and chose one more suited to her level. Still, her eyes wandered every few minutes, sneaking glances at Aiden, who remained perfectly at ease, surrounded by books that floated gently in the air, their pages flipping as though moved by invisible hands.

Hours passed without either of them realizing.

Then, at the same moment, a familiar voice brushed across their minds, soft and patient.

> “Aiden, Jean, it’s time for dinner. You can continue tomorrow.”



Charles Xavier’s voice.

Both children jumped slightly, startled by the sudden intrusion of thought. They lifted their heads in unison, blinking at one another. Outside the library windows, the sky had darkened, dusk having slipped into night without them noticing.

The instant Aiden relaxed his focus, his stomach let out a loud growl.

“Pfft—”

Jean burst into laughter, covering her mouth. But before she could tease him, her own belly rumbled even louder.

Her face went crimson.

“Hahaha!” Aiden leaned back, laughing openly, his shoulders shaking.

Jean’s small fists balled at her sides, and she smacked him lightly on the arm.

> “What are you laughing at? Hmph, let’s just go eat!”



Flustered, she snapped her book shut and hurried from the library, her face still bright red.

Aiden chuckled to himself, shaking his head. With a small wave of his hand, the stack of books around him floated up, gliding neatly back to their shelves. Then he followed after her.


---

By the time he entered the dining hall, the room was buzzing with chatter. Dozens of students crowded the tables, their voices overlapping in waves.

It didn’t take him long to spot Jean—she was in the same spot as the previous evening. More surprising, though, was that she waved at him, a small smile tugging at her lips.

When he reached the table, he noticed the food. In front of Jean sat two trays. One was her own portion. The other was piled high, stacked like a small mountain of dishes clearly meant for him.

Aiden raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching.

> So that’s it… my image as a glutton is already set in stone.



He sighed inwardly but didn’t refuse. Without hesitation, he sat down across from her and began to eat heartily.

Jean rested her chin on her hand, watching as he devoured the food with quiet satisfaction. The sight drew an involuntary smile from her.

When at last he finished, Aiden leaned back with a groan, his stomach uncomfortably full.

> “I ate too much…”



He stood slowly, deciding to walk it off. The gardens outside were quiet and spacious, perfect for digestion. He strolled toward them, and, as expected, Jean followed at his side.

He didn’t say anything like “Why are you following me?” Instead, he matched her pace, and the two talked as they walked through the moonlit garden paths.


---

Meanwhile, in the headmaster’s office, Charles and Hank stood near the window, observing the pair from a distance.

Hank chuckled softly.

> “It seems Aiden and Jean are getting along well.”



Outside, Jean playfully nudged Aiden’s shoulder, her laughter carrying faintly through the night air. Her eyes were bright, her expression lighter than either man had seen in some time.

Charles’s gaze softened.

> “Yes. That is a good thing. Jean… she carries too much inside. Her powers are immense, but her heart is fragile. If she finds someone to lean on, someone who makes her smile like that, it could ease the burden.”



Hank folded his arms, his face thoughtful.

> “I’ll be honest, Charles—I don’t fully agree with the choice to seal her memories. Suppressing pain doesn’t erase it. It festers. Sometimes, it’s better to guide than to block. You know the saying: an unhappy childhood requires a lifetime to heal.”



Charles’s eyes flickered with something like regret.

> “I know. But Jean is still too young to bear such scars. She deserves a chance to live as a child, even if only for a little while. When the time is right—when Aiden grows stronger, strong enough for her to rely on—then I will consider unlocking the seals. For now, this is the safest path.”



Hank studied his friend for a long moment, then sighed.

> “As long as you’re certain you can control it.”



Charles didn’t answer directly. Instead, his attention returned to the garden, where the two children now sat beneath a great tree.

The office phone rang just then, breaking the silence. Charles turned, picked it up.

> “This is Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.”




---

Outside, Aiden and Jean leaned against the grass beneath the large tree, gazing at the vast night sky above them. Stars glittered like rivers of silver light across the heavens.

Jean’s lips parted in awe.

> “It’s so beautiful…”



Aiden nodded, though at that moment, a loud hiccup escaped his mouth mid-sentence.

Jean froze. Then she glared.

The magic of the moment evaporated instantly.

Aiden raised his hands in mock innocence.

> “Hey, don’t look at me like that. You were the one who gave me enough food for three people. I couldn’t waste it.”



Her cheeks puffed, her eyes narrowing. But she didn’t retort. She only turned her head away, trying to hide the small smile tugging at her lips.

After a while, the heavy feeling of overeating faded. Aiden sat up, stretching his hand toward the stone path nearby.

A small rock lifted into the air, hovering unsteadily. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he concentrated, making the rock move in deliberate arcs, up and down, left and right.

Jean blinked.

> “What are you doing?”



Aiden’s lips pressed together as he focused.

> “Exercising my ability. Telekinesis needs training, just like muscles. The more you push, the stronger you become.”



Jean tilted her head in confusion.

> “Training? Powers… need training?”



Before he could answer, a ripple of energy burst beside him.

Countless stones lifted from the path, hundreds of them rising into the air. Each one was larger than the single stone Aiden had been straining over. They hovered effortlessly, swirling in a graceful orbit.

Jean smiled innocently, lowering her hand.

Aiden stared, speechless. His own stone clattered back to the ground. He collapsed onto the grass with wide, dead-fish eyes, utterly defeated.

> “…I think I just lost my will to live.”



Jean blinked, puzzled.

> “What’s wrong?” She poked his arm.



Aiden groaned dramatically.

> “Nothing. I just want some peace…”



Jean laughed softly, her voice light and warm.

And beneath the stars, the two young mutants sat side by side—one frustrated, one amused—yet bound by the first threads of a friendship that would one day shape the future.


---

Chapter 4: Library

Aiden ate slowly, savoring every bite of the food on his plate. But halfway through his meal, a subtle prickling sensation crawled across the back of his neck. He paused, his fork hovering in midair.

Someone was watching him.

He turned his head slightly, and just in time, he saw a flash of red—long hair gleaming like fire—before it quickly ducked down. Jean Grey, the red-haired girl from earlier.

Aiden’s dark eyes flickered with thought. For a moment, he sat in silence, debating whether to ignore her. But then, with a small nod to himself, he picked up his tray, stood, and walked toward her table.

Charles Xavier, who had been observing from a distance, noticed the boy’s movement. The corner of the professor’s lips curved into a faint, approving smile.

Aiden placed his tray across from Jean and sat down. He leaned forward slightly, offering a friendly smile as he extended his hand.

> “Hello. My name is Aiden.”



Jean lifted her head, surprise flashing in her sapphire-like eyes. Her small brows knitted as though confused.

> “You’re… not afraid of me?” she asked softly, genuine curiosity in her tone.



Aiden tilted his head.

> “Afraid? Why would I be? You’re not a monster.”



His lips quirked as he added, “Besides, we’re the same kind, aren’t we?”

Before she could respond, Aiden raised his hand. A piece of bread from his tray floated into the air, drifting toward his mouth. Without using his hands, he took a neat bite.

Jean blinked. Understanding dawned in her eyes, followed by something far rarer on her usually blank face—a smile.

> “So that’s it… You can do it too.”



She extended her hand, and her fork rose gracefully from her plate, food hovering before her lips. Like a mirror of Aiden’s actions, she ate without touching her tray.

The two children, one boy and one girl, sat across from each other with food dancing in the air between them. To the others in the cafeteria, it looked strange, almost unsettling. But to them, it was something else entirely. For the first time, they weren’t alone in their power.

From his seat, Charles’s expression softened. A gentle, relieved smile spread across his face.


---

After breakfast came the next part of the day’s routine. At their age, there was only one duty they couldn’t escape—study.

Xavier’s Institute wasn’t just a shelter for mutants; it was also a school. Charles’s vision wasn’t simply to teach children to control their powers, but also to give them the same education as ordinary humans. To give them normalcy in a world that so often rejected them.

The morning classes were filled with standard subjects—math, literature, history. For the others, the lessons were often dull, but for Aiden, they were an opportunity.

Having lived two lives, he understood better than anyone that knowledge was power. Civilizations advanced through it, and individuals grew sharper and more dangerous with it. Abilities alone could make someone strong, but knowledge made strength precise, controlled, and purposeful.

Still, the classes here were tailored for children. The teachers explained slowly, repeated themselves often, and simplified the material. For the eager Aiden, it was like an adult being forced to sit through lessons meant for primary school students. Useful in the long term, yes—but far too slow.

The moment class ended, the other children rushed outside like unleashed puppies, racing across the wide lawns, shouting and laughing. Some even showed off their abilities, conjuring sparks, stretching their limbs, or creating illusions. For them, this was paradise—a place where they could use their gifts without fear.

But Aiden did not follow.

Instead, he headed to the fifth floor.

The library.


---

The library stretched wide and tall, its walls lined with shelves that seemed to climb toward the ceiling. Thousands of books rested there, perhaps tens of thousands. Some were old, bound in worn leather, smelling faintly of dust. Others were new, their covers glossy beneath the golden light of chandeliers. The sheer scale of it spoke volumes of Charles Xavier’s wealth and dedication.

Aiden stepped inside, inhaling deeply. The scent of paper and ink filled his lungs, calming his mind. Unlike the noisy lawns below, here there was silence. No children. No distractions. Just knowledge waiting to be consumed.

He began browsing the shelves, pulling out books on physics, biology, chemistry, and mathematics. Basic, foundational subjects.

Though he had studied these things in his previous life, much of it had been returned to his teachers long ago. Besides, there was no guarantee that this world’s scientific rules aligned perfectly with the one he had left behind. It was better to verify everything with fresh eyes.

He stacked a pile of books in his arms, letting several float around him through telekinesis. Then he sat at a large oak desk, opened the first volume, and began to read.


---

Hours slipped away unnoticed.

Page after page, word after word, he absorbed it all. His memory worked with uncanny efficiency—perhaps a side effect of his psychic gift. Everything he read etched itself clearly in his mind. Complex concepts that once would have taken him days to digest now fell into place naturally, as though his brain had been fine-tuned to process information.

And all the while, his telekinesis never rested. He let books spin gently in the air, flipping pages with invisible fingers, controlling multiple objects at once. It was more than study—it was training.

By the time the afternoon sun dipped low, he had read more than a dozen books. His conclusion so far was that the physical rules of this world matched those of his old one. The difference lay not in science, but in the existence of beings who bent those rules through powers of their own.

Aiden leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. His head throbbed faintly, but there was satisfaction in the ache. He was growing—not just stronger, but smarter.

Just as he reached for another book, a voice brushed against his mind, warm and gentle.

> “Aiden, you are very studious, and that pleases me. But remember—balance is important. Come down for dinner. You can continue tomorrow.”



Charles.

Aiden blinked and glanced outside. The sky had already darkened, stars beginning to glimmer in the distance. He hadn’t even noticed.

He chuckled softly to himself.

> “Alright, Professor.”



Closing his books, he returned them neatly to their shelves, then made his way to the cafeteria once again.


---

Dinner was just as lively as breakfast. Children filled the room, talking, laughing, their powers occasionally sparking in small bursts of mischief.

Aiden returned with a tray piled high with food—bread, noodles, roasted meat, and vegetables stacked so much that it almost looked comical.

Jean Grey raised an eyebrow as he sat across from her.

> “Is your appetite always this big?” she asked dryly.



Aiden took a bite of noodles, speaking with his mouth full.

> “Of course. Studying takes energy. If I don’t eat enough, how can I keep my brain sharp?”



Jean blinked, caught off guard.

> “You… studied the entire afternoon?”



He nodded, shoveling another forkful of food.

Jean sighed, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

> “You’re such a bookworm.”



Aiden glanced at her, feigning offense.

> “Loving to learn is not shameful. But having prejudice? That is.”



Jean froze, then looked away, biting her lip in thought. For someone so young, the boy spoke like an adult. It made her curious.


---

After dinner, Aiden returned to his dormitory.

He didn’t collapse into bed, nor did he shower immediately. Instead, he turned his focus once again to training.

His eyes locked on the nightstand. Telekinetic energy wrapped around it like invisible threads. Slowly, it rose into the air.

This time, it did not sway nearly as much as before. His control was steadier, smoother. Sweat still beaded on his forehead, but the strain was less. The nightstand rose and fell rhythmically, like weights in a gym.

He continued until dizziness clouded his vision. Only then did he stop, lowering the furniture gently. He staggered to the bathroom, washed off the sweat, and collapsed into bed. Sleep claimed him almost instantly.


---

And so the days passed.

Breakfast, classes, the library, training.

While other children played on the lawns, Aiden spent his afternoons with books, devouring knowledge like a starving wolf. At night, he strengthened his telekinesis, testing his limits again and again.

Two months slipped by in the blink of an eye.

On one particular afternoon, Aiden sat at a corner table in the library, completely immersed in a thick volume on molecular biology. Books floated around him in a lazy orbit, pages flipping at invisible commands.

The quiet was broken by a sudden voice.

> “You’re here again!”



Aiden blinked, lifting his head from the sea of words.

A figure stood in the aisle. A girl with fiery red hair cascading over her shoulders, dressed in denim overalls and small red shoes. Her bright eyes locked on him as she strode forward, her expression caught between exasperation and amusement.

Jean Grey.


--

Chapter 3: The Red-Haired Girl

Dinner left Aiden full, but not sleepy. Instead of collapsing onto the bed, he sat cross-legged on the floor, his back straight, eyes calm. His thoughts were already turning to the future.

In this world—the Marvel world—mutant powers were not static. He knew this from the movies and comics of his past life. Mutant abilities grew over time, either through natural development, emotional surges, or, most importantly, constant training.

He thought of Magneto.

As a boy, Erik Lehnsherr had only been able to twist metal faintly, and only when he was overcome by emotion. He was powerless to save his mother even as soldiers dragged her away. Yet that same frightened boy grew into the Master of Magnetism, a man capable of ripping apart stadiums, bridging oceans with steel, and even bending the very magnetic fields of the Earth itself. In some versions of the comics, Magneto’s power became so overwhelming that he could manipulate planetary structures and reshape continents.

That was the difference between potential and mastery.

And Aiden knew where he currently stood—on the very first step of that long road.

He drew a deep breath, extended his hand toward the bed opposite him, and willed his power to reach out. Invisible threads of thought and will stretched forward, enveloping the bed.

He strained, focusing with everything he had.

Nothing.

The heavy frame did not so much as tremble.

Aiden let out a slow sigh.

> “As expected. My telekinesis is still too weak to move something that heavy.”



But weakness was not failure. It was just a starting point.

He shifted his focus to lighter objects. The toothbrush and toothpaste in the bathroom quivered, then floated shakily into the air. A mug on the desk lifted with ease, rotating slowly in the air. Shoes shifted, shirts fluttered, a cup wobbled and hovered as though held by invisible strings.

The sensation was exhilarating, even if simple. These objects danced at his command.

Finally, his gaze fell on the bedside table. It was modest in size, but heavy enough—likely over ten kilograms. He gritted his teeth and focused. His mental energy wrapped around it like an invisible hand. Slowly, very slowly, the wooden frame rose an inch, then two. It shook violently in midair, but it rose nonetheless.

Sweat trickled down his temples. His body tensed as though he were lifting the weight himself.

Up, down. Up, down.

The table bobbed like a puppet in the air. Aiden forced himself to repeat the motion again and again, as though the telekinesis were an invisible muscle performing squats.

Ten times. Twenty. Thirty. His head began to pound.

At forty repetitions, sweat was dripping from his chin. His shirt clung to him, damp. His vision blurred at the edges.

By fifty, his strength gave out. His control snapped, and the table dropped with a heavy thud.

Aiden collapsed backward onto the bed, his breathing ragged. His vision swam with darkness before finally going black.

He didn’t even notice when the door creaked open.

Hank McCoy peeked inside, puzzled to find the boy sprawled unconscious across the bed. The table on the floor caught his attention for a moment, but seeing nothing else unusual, Hank shrugged and gently closed the door.

And so Aiden’s first night at Xavier’s Institute passed quietly.


---

The next morning, golden sunlight streamed through the tall windows, warming his face. Aiden stirred, groaning faintly. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing a pair of eyes still clouded with dizziness.

A throbbing pain pulsed in his skull. It felt as if someone had taken a hammer to his head. His limbs felt heavy, his mind sluggish.

But Aiden had expected this.

It was no different from a bodybuilder pushing past his limits in the gym—muscles screamed the next day, but pain meant growth. Yesterday, he had forced his mind to exert itself beyond its capacity. Today, he was paying the price.

And tomorrow? He would be stronger for it.

He forced himself upright, staggered to the bathroom, and splashed cold water across his face. The shock helped. The fog lifted slightly, his senses sharpening again.

> “Use it or lose it,” he muttered to himself. “If I keep pushing, day by day, my limits will grow.”



Aiden dried his face and headed for breakfast.

The moment he stepped into the hallway, an enticing aroma reached his nose. Fresh bread, sizzling sausages, the faint sweetness of fruit. His stomach growled instantly, reminding him of how little he had eaten the past few days.

Following the smell, he descended to the second floor and entered the cafeteria.

The hall was spacious, filled with long tables arranged neatly across the room. Large windows let in shafts of sunlight, painting the space in warm gold. Students were scattered across the tables, chatting in small groups, laughing, or eating quietly.

Aiden paused at the entrance.

So these were the others.

Around a dozen boys and girls, all roughly his age, maybe a little older. They were different from ordinary children, though. He could see it in the way they carried themselves—some shy, some bold, some restless, some too calm for their years. Mutants, every one of them.

Charles sat at a table near the front with Hank, the two speaking in quiet tones.

Several students noticed Aiden enter. Curious eyes followed him, whispers passing between them. He was new. A stranger.

Aiden ignored their gazes. His soul, after all, was not that of a child anymore. He had lived and died once already. He was not about to worry about the gossip of a group of children.

Still, one figure caught his attention.

At a small table off to the side sat a girl. She was alone.

Her hair was long and fiery red, catching the morning sunlight like strands of flame. Her face was delicate, pale with faint freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. Blue eyes shone beneath long lashes, but they were downcast, fixed on the plate before her. Her fork poked absently at her food, her expression blank. She looked lost, almost withdrawn.

Aiden’s gaze lingered a moment too long.

The girl raised her head. Their eyes met.

Instantly, a wave of pressure slammed against his mind.

It was sharp and invasive, a psychic force that dwarfed his own telekinesis a hundredfold. It felt as though a giant hand had forced its way into his skull, prying, searching, trying to peer into the depths of his thoughts.

His breath caught. The sheer strength of it left him stunned.

And then—relief. The pressure vanished as quickly as it had come, cut off like a switch.

Charles Xavier’s calm but firm voice carried across the cafeteria.

> “Jean, you cannot do that.”



The girl—Jean, Aiden realized—bowed her head again, her fork scraping against her plate.

Charles wheeled over to Aiden, concern in his eyes.

> “Are you alright, Aiden?”



“I’m fine,” Aiden said quickly.

In truth, his head was still throbbing painfully, his exhaustion from last night magnifying the sting of Jean’s psychic probe. But he forced his face into calm neutrality. He would not show weakness, not here, not now.

Charles studied him a moment, then nodded.

> “Good. You must be hungry. Help yourself—there’s plenty.”



He gestured to the buffet tables at the side of the hall.

Aiden walked over, collecting a tray. The tables were piled with food—golden fried eggs, plump sausages, loaves of bread, fresh fruit. To his previous life’s standards, it was an ordinary breakfast. But to a boy who had scraped survival from scraps on the street, it looked like a feast.

He loaded his tray with two slices of bread, a sausage, a fried egg, and a pile of noodles. It was a mountain of food, far more than the other children carried.

He felt the eyes on him again as he sat alone at a table and began to eat. Whispers drifted across the room, curious or amused.

Aiden ignored them all.

He ate steadily, methodically, chewing each bite carefully. His hunger clawed at him, but he refused to wolf down the food. Slowly, he consumed it all, piece by piece, until the plate was empty.

His body warmed with energy. His headache dulled. For the first time in days, he felt a little more whole.

And as he set the fork down, his gaze flickered once more to the red-haired girl.

Jean Grey.

He knew her name now. And he knew something else too—her power was dangerous, far beyond what her young face suggested.

This world was full of threats, allies, and mysteries.

If Aiden wanted to survive—no, to thrive—he would need to grow stronger, faster.

Because here, even a child could crush his mind like paper.

And that, more than anything, lit the fire in his heart.


--

Chapter 2: New Environment

Far from the noise of New York City, nestled in the quiet suburbs of Westchester, stood a castle-like mansion. Built in the old English architectural style, its tall spires and stone walls radiated an air of history and majesty. By day, the sprawling lawns surrounding it looked immaculate, trimmed to perfection, and beyond them stretched dense forests filled with life. Directly in front of the mansion lay a serene artificial lake. Under the soft glow of the moonlight, its surface shimmered like glass, reflecting the countless stars above.

At first glance, it was the picture of peace and elegance—a timeless sanctuary cut off from the rest of the world.

But on this night, that peace was subtly disturbed.

A hazy, transparent silhouette descended from the skies above the mansion, its faint outline shimmering like a phantom. As it lowered toward the ground, its true form slowly became visible. Sleek, futuristic, and far too advanced to belong in a world of ordinary men, the aircraft came into full view—the famous Blackbird jet.

The lawn in front of the mansion shifted with a soft mechanical hum. Panels of grass and soil parted neatly, opening like a massive doorway. Beneath it was revealed a vast underground hangar, its size enough to hold multiple aircraft. The Blackbird descended smoothly into the chamber, the ground closing seamlessly overhead once the craft was secured inside.

The hatch hissed open. Aiden stepped out, flanked by Hank McCoy and Charles Xavier.

For the young boy, it was like stepping into another world.

His eyes darted everywhere, trying to take in the sheer enormity of the underground base. The chamber stretched endlessly, at least half the size of a football field—and that was only the visible portion. Advanced equipment, consoles, and machines hummed softly from every corner, their blinking lights painting the area in hues of blue and green. Aiden couldn’t even identify half of what he was seeing, but it was clear that this place wasn’t just a home. It was a command center, a training facility, and perhaps even a fortress.

Charles’s calm, steady voice broke the boy’s awe.

> “Aiden, from this day forward, this will be your home. Hank will arrange your living quarters. Get some rest, take a proper shower—you’ll need your strength. Tomorrow, we can talk more about your place here.”



Hank smiled warmly, patting Aiden on the shoulder.

> “Come on, young man. Let me show you around.”



Aiden glanced back at Charles, who gave him an encouraging nod, before following Hank deeper into the facility. The boy lifted his hand in a small wave, then turned and kept walking.

They entered an elevator at the far end of the chamber. As the doors closed and the machine ascended, Aiden listened intently as Hank began to explain.

> “The mansion has six floors above ground. The first floor is used for classrooms. Children like you come here to learn just as they would in any other school, though the lessons might be… a little more unique.”



Aiden’s lips curled faintly. Classes. After years of scraping by on the streets, the thought of sitting in a classroom again felt almost foreign.

Hank continued, his voice full of pride.

> “The second floor houses the cafeteria. Meals are prepared by professional chefs, so you’ll never have to worry about going hungry again. The third and fourth floors are dormitories—students on the third, teachers and staff on the fourth. The fifth floor contains the infirmary, library, and several study rooms. And the sixth floor is for recreational purposes—game rooms, a gymnasium, places where students can relax and interact with one another.”



The elevator chimed softly, and the doors opened into a hallway that looked like it belonged in an entirely different world than the underground hangar. Antique décor adorned the halls: polished wooden floors, portraits hanging on the walls, and chandeliers casting warm golden light overhead. Aiden blinked in mild surprise. From the outside, the mansion had appeared old but dignified. From within, it was warm and welcoming—like a true home.

As they walked, Hank lowered his voice conspiratorially.

> “And of course, beneath the mansion lies what you just saw. The sub-levels are designed for research, training, and… in certain situations, defense. There’s even a danger room where abilities are tested under extreme simulations. But we’ll leave that tour for another day.”



They eventually arrived at the third floor. Hank stopped before a room, pulling out a key and opening the door with a click. The lights flickered on, revealing a neat, tidy dormitory.

Two beds stood parallel on either side of the room, their bedding perfectly folded. The furniture was simple but sufficient—a pair of desks, wardrobes, and nightstands. The air carried the faint scent of polish and fresh linen.

> “This will be your room,” Hank explained. “Right now, you’re alone, but in the future, you may get a roommate. It’s common for students to share.”



Aiden nodded silently. He preferred solitude. Having someone else share his space would complicate things, but he wasn’t in a position to complain. Compared to the freezing alleys and empty stomachs he had endured these past weeks, this was luxury.

He sat on the edge of the bed, pressing his small hand against the mattress. The softness startled him. His eyes flickered with complicated emotions. Gratitude, unease, and determination all mingled together.

Hank opened the wardrobe, pulling out a set of neatly folded uniforms.

> “School uniforms. For now, though, you should shower and rest. I’ll bring you some food. Do you have any preferences?”



Aiden shook his head.

> “Anything that fills my stomach.”



Hank chuckled.

> “Simple enough. I’ll be back soon.”



When the teacher left, Aiden wandered into the bathroom.

For the first time since his transmigration, he stood before a mirror under proper lighting. The boy who stared back was almost unrecognizable compared to the ragged figure on the street. His black hair was messy, his cheeks smeared with dirt, and his clothes torn. But beneath the grime, there was potential—bright, sharp eyes, defined features, a youthful face untouched by hardship save for his thin frame.

His gaze hardened.

Now that he finally had stability, it wasn’t enough to simply survive. He needed strength. Without it, he was nothing but a fragile pawn in this world—a world brimming with gods, monsters, and men who could topple nations.

Aiden closed his eyes, extending his hand.

A faint ripple stirred in the bathroom. The faucet trembled, and with a splash, water burst forth from the showerhead.

Psychokinesis. That was his gift.

It seemed simple, almost unimpressive. He could move objects with his mind within a radius of two meters. The heavier the object, the greater the strain—currently, anything beyond a few kilograms was impossible. To some, it might have looked laughably weak compared to powers like Magneto’s control of magnetism or Storm’s command of the weather.

But Aiden saw differently.

Psychokinesis was not just about moving things. It was an extension of the will—a force that could potentially grow without limit. If Magneto, as a child, could only twist metal slightly when overcome by emotion, yet eventually became one of the most feared mutants alive, then there was no reason Aiden couldn’t follow the same path.

Strength required time, training, and determination. And he had all three.

He stripped off his filthy clothes and stepped under the shower. The warm water washed away the grime, revealing the boy beneath. When he stepped out half an hour later, dressed in clean clothes, his appearance had transformed.

Gone was the ragged street child.

His face, pale and smooth, carried a faint flush of health. His black hair, though still unruly, framed his features strikingly. His eyes gleamed with vitality, his sharp nose and mixed-race appearance giving him an exotic handsomeness.

He stared at his reflection, almost startled. He hadn’t expected to look… like this. Attractive. Promising. Aiden’s lips curved into the faintest smile.

He didn’t care about who he had been before this life—he had no memories of this body’s original identity. Orphan or not, none of that mattered now. What mattered was the future.

A knock interrupted his thoughts.

> “Come in,” he called.



The door opened to reveal Hank, carrying a tray. The aroma reached Aiden instantly, and his stomach growled embarrassingly.

> “I wasn’t sure what you liked,” Hank said, chuckling, “and the chef’s already off duty. So I whipped something up myself. Spaghetti and milk. I hope you don’t mind.”



He set the tray down, then paused when his eyes fell on Aiden. His eyebrows rose in surprise.

> “Well, well. Quite the transformation. You clean up nicely, Aiden. Handsome boy like you? You’ll be a heartbreaker someday.”



Aiden flushed slightly but managed a small smile.

> “Thank you.”



The smell of food overwhelmed him. He sat down and began to eat slowly, carefully chewing each bite. Hunger urged him to devour the meal, but he restrained himself. After days of barely surviving, scarfing food down could harm his weakened stomach. Better to eat patiently, carefully.

Hank watched approvingly.

> “Good manners. I’ll leave you to your meal. Rest well tonight, Aiden. Tomorrow, your new life begins.”



He gave a small wave and left the room.

Aiden finished every last bite of the spaghetti, drinking the milk until the glass was empty. Warmth spread through his body, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt full. Stronger. Grounded.

Sitting on the bed, he clenched his fists.

This place—this school—was his chance.

He would grow stronger. He would carve out his place in this world.

And nothing would stop him.


--

Chapter 1: First Meeting with Charles

Late at night, the city lay in silence. The noise and bustle that filled the streets during the day had long since faded, leaving behind only the occasional whisper of wind and the faint hum of neon signs. Shops that had been crowded and lively mere hours ago now stood shuttered, their doors locked, their windows dark. The only light came from the flickering glow of the neon advertisements hanging above, casting a dim, eerie afterglow across the street corners.

In one such corner, a pair of eyes gleamed cautiously in the shadows. Hidden by the dim light, a small figure crouched low, his gaze darting left and right with a wariness far beyond his years. Every sound made his body tense, ready to flee at the slightest hint of danger.

By the faint reflection of the neon glow, his silhouette became clear—a boy, no older than eight or nine. His hair was a tangled mess of black strands, his small face smeared with dirt, and his clothes were little more than rags, worn and filthy. His body was small, perhaps no taller than 1.2 meters, but his eyes were sharp and alert, shining like dark gems in the night.

He raised his hand ever so slightly, and something strange happened. Suspended above the nearby shop entrance was a security camera, its lens aimed squarely at the front door. Without any physical touch, the camera shifted, its angle twisting away, as if an invisible hand had forced it to turn.

The boy quickly slipped out from his hiding spot, moving across the street. His steps were light, almost soundless, his body tense like a cornered animal. Every few seconds, he paused, scanning his surroundings, ready to dive back into the shadows at the first sign of trouble.

Fortunately, the path to the shop door was uneventful. He arrived without incident and crouched before the lock. His small hand extended once more, and he closed his eyes. A faint pulse of energy rippled outward, unseen by the naked eye but tangible in the shift of the air. Within seconds, the sturdy lock clicked softly and sprang open.

The boy’s lips curled into a fleeting smile. Success. He reached out to push the door open—

But a voice rang out from the darkness.

> “Theft is an immoral act.”



The boy froze, his heart lurching into his throat. Instinctively, his hand shot up, and a small shard of broken glass hidden in his sleeve lifted into the air, ready to shoot backwards like a dagger.

Before he could strike, the voice came again—gentle, calm, reassuring.

> “Child, don’t be nervous. We mean you no harm.”



Something in the tone stilled him. The words carried a strange warmth, almost like a soothing lullaby. Against his better judgment, his instinct to attack faltered. Still, his body remained taut, his small frame quivering like a bowstring. Slowly, he turned around to face the source of the voice.

Two figures stood not far behind him, both of them adult men.

The first was tall and lean, with glasses perched on his nose. His refined appearance and gentle bearing made him look more like a scholar than someone out prowling in the dead of night.

Beside him was a man in a wheelchair. His long hair was the color of dark gold, his features handsome yet softened by kindness. He radiated an aura of calm authority, his elegant demeanor carrying an almost fatherly warmth. The sight of him instantly put people at ease, as if he were incapable of cruelty.

The boy’s pupils contracted sharply. Recognition flashed across his dirt-smeared face.

The man in the wheelchair noticed this reaction and gave a small, knowing smile.

> “Child, you seem to know us?”



Know them? Of course he did. He didn’t just know them—he knew them all too well.

Though his lips stayed sealed, the boy’s eyes betrayed him. His gaze was fixed on the two men with a mixture of disbelief and tension, as though confirming a dream he had never thought possible.

The man in the wheelchair wheeled himself closer, his expression warm and open.

> “My name is Charles Xavier. I am the headmaster of a special school. And this,”—he gestured toward the bespectacled man standing beside him—“is Hank McCoy, one of the teachers at the school.”



Charles’s smile widened ever so slightly as he introduced himself.

The boy shifted his gaze to the man with glasses. Hank McCoy returned his look with a gentle smile, nodding in greeting.

For a moment, silence hung between them. Then the boy finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm.

> “Aiden.”



It was a simple introduction, but it was enough.

Charles leaned forward slightly in his wheelchair, his voice gentle, almost coaxing.

> “Aiden… The purpose of our school is to provide guidance and safety for children like you—children who possess extraordinary talents. At our school, you’ll never go hungry again. You’ll never have to sleep on the streets or wander in fear. Would you like to come with us?”



His tone was sincere, his expression kind. Everything about him radiated warmth, but to an outsider, the scene might have looked almost comical—a strange man in a wheelchair smiling warmly at a ragged child, speaking words that could easily be mistaken for the lure of a trafficker.

But Aiden knew better.

This was no ordinary man. This was Charles Xavier—Professor X himself. A man whose intellect was unmatched, whose compassion was renowned, and whose telepathic abilities made him one of the most formidable mutants alive.

And the man beside him? Hank McCoy—Beast. Brilliant, compassionate, and just as famous.

How did Aiden recognize them so easily? Because he wasn’t truly of this world.

He was a transmigrator.

In his past life, he had lived in another world entirely—a normal world where mutants, superheroes, and villains existed only in comic books and movies. He remembered his death vividly: the blinding headlights of a truck barreling toward him, the last words he saw painted across its side—Dayun. Then everything had gone black.

When he awoke, he was no longer himself. His body was small, his surroundings unfamiliar. He was a nine-year-old boy living on the streets, hungry and desperate. Only now, seeing Charles Xavier and Hank McCoy standing before him, did he truly understand. He had not simply been reborn—he had crossed into the Marvel Universe itself.

The realization was overwhelming. In his old life, he had read about this world countless times. He had cheered for the X-Men, feared Magneto, admired heroes, and dreaded the countless villains. And now, he was here.

Aiden narrowed his eyes slightly, his thoughts whirling. After a brief silence, he spoke again.

> “I’ll go with you. But you must promise me one thing.”



Charles’s brows rose in curiosity.

> “And what is that, Aiden?”



The boy met his gaze squarely. His expression was unusually solemn for someone so young.

> “Never try to look into my memories.”



For the first time that night, Charles’s smile faltered. His expression froze, caught off guard by the child’s demand.

A moment later, he sighed softly, his tone tinged with embarrassment.

> “I’m sorry, Aiden. But the truth is… I already tried the moment I first saw you.”



The boy stiffened, his frown deepening.

Charles raised a hand, almost in apology, his voice earnest.

> “I couldn’t help it. It is my responsibility to protect children like you, and I needed to be sure. But… I couldn’t see anything.”



Aiden blinked, stunned.

Charles continued, “Your mind is… extraordinary. Your innate talent appears to block my telepathy entirely. No matter how I tried, I could not glimpse a single memory. That is something I have rarely encountered, even among mutants.”

Relief washed over Aiden like a tide.

He hadn’t been worried that Charles would expose him as a transmigrator. Knowing what he did about Xavier’s character, Aiden was certain the man would never harm a child, let alone one in his care. What he had feared was something else entirely.

He remembered well the story of Deadpool in the comics. When Professor X glimpsed Deadpool’s fragmented awareness—that he was a fictional character—it nearly shattered his mind. Aiden had worried that something similar might happen if Charles saw his past life’s memories. If Xavier lost control, if the pillar of the X-Men collapsed, then the fragile lifeline Aiden had just found would crumble instantly.

But now… it seemed his mutant ability had spared them both.

He let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Charles smiled warmly once more, his earlier embarrassment fading.

> “Come, Aiden. Let us take you to your new home.”



Hank stepped forward, gesturing toward an open square nearby. The three of them moved together through the empty streets until they reached the plaza.

Hank tapped the device strapped to his wrist, and with a soft whir, the air shimmered before them. Slowly, a massive aircraft appeared out of thin air, its sleek frame futuristic and imposing. Cloaked until now, it revealed itself only at Hank’s command.

Aiden’s eyes widened slightly at the sight. The X-Jet. He was seeing it with his own eyes for the first time.

“Welcome aboard,” Hank said with a smile, motioning for him to enter.

Together, they stepped inside. The hatch sealed shut with a hiss, and as the engines roared to life, the great jet shimmered once more, fading from view as its cloaking systems engaged.

For the first time since his transmigration, Aiden allowed himself to relax.

He had found shelter.

He had found the X-Men.

And though his journey was only beginning, he knew one thing for certain—this world, this Marvel Universe, would never be the same.


--

Chapter 5 – Aburame Ryoma

Danzo Shimura’s single visible eye glinted sharply in the dim Root chamber. His cane tapped once against the stone floor as he turned to the boy standing before him.

“Ryoma,” he said slowly, “which possibility do you believe is more likely?”

The boy—only seven years old, his face hidden beneath dark glasses—did not hesitate.

“I believe it is the first possibility, Lord Danzo.”

Danzo arched an eyebrow.

Ryoma continued calmly, “Firstly, I don’t think Uchiha Yato is capable of detecting the parasites. The Uchiha clan has little skill in medical ninjutsu or pathology. Secondly, we were discreet. There were no witnesses. Therefore, the chance of discovery should be nearly impossible. His visit to Lady Mito is far more likely to be for another reason.”

Danzo leaned back, considering the analysis. It was logical. And indeed, in Konoha, Uchiha Yato was infamous—not for caution or reliability, but for being reckless, outrageous, and unpredictable.

Yet even recklessness had its dangers.

Danzo’s voice was low. “Ryoma, is there any way to keep Uchiha Yato busy? If his eyes remain on me, it could become troublesome.”

The boy adjusted his glasses. His movements were precise, controlled—an adult’s poise in a child’s body. This was why Danzo favored him, grooming him for leadership even at such a young age.

After a thoughtful pause, Ryoma said, “We can stir up trouble for the Uchiha clan as a whole. Alone, Yato is difficult to deal with. But if we entangle his clan in conflict, he will be distracted.”

For all his composure, his shoulders twitched slightly. A subtle, involuntary spasm. Danzo noticed but said nothing.


---

Memories of Yato

Ryoma himself could never forget the source of that twitch.

He had only been six at the time, returning from a mission. Tired and hungry, he decided to treat himself to dango. Quietly, he entered a shop, sat down, and ordered.

And then fate decided to play a cruel joke on him.

Uchiha Yato walked in.

The man’s gaze fell on him instantly, as though drawn by instinct. Yato strolled over, grinning.

“Kid, what’s your name?”

Ryoma, as reserved as any Aburame, answered flatly. “Aburame Ryoma.”

The reaction was immediate. Yato’s eyes lit up like fireworks.

“Oh-ho! Ryoma, is it? That’s not a background character’s name. You must be important.”

Ryoma tilted his head slightly in confusion. Yato leaned closer, eyes gleaming mischievously. “But wait… what’s this? A little brat wandering around with ninja tools instead of being at the Academy?!” His grin widened, devilish. “Skipping school, are we?”

Ryoma blinked. “No. I—”

Too late.

Yato shot to his feet dramatically, pointing at him. “A truant! So young, already learning bad habits! What next? Tearing down houses when you grow up? Shameful!”

The dango shop owner, long accustomed to Yato’s antics, simply rubbed his temples and sighed. This again.

For this was the same Uchiha Yato who, when caught skipping class himself years ago, had declared with a straight face that he was “testing the school’s truancy detection methods.”

The teacher who caught him hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry. In the end, he had scolded Yato anyway, though deep down, that teacher still considered it one of his career highlights.

Ryoma, however, was not used to such absurdity. He had come for dango. He had completed his mission faithfully. And yet now, he felt like a criminal.


---

Chicken Mud Thai Beauty

Yato gave him no chance to explain. In one smooth motion, he grabbed the bewildered boy and dragged him off toward the Ninja Academy.

Ryoma considered using his clan’s insects to escape. But Yato, anticipating that, activated his Sharingan. His eyes gleamed scarlet, tomoe spinning.

“Genjutsu: Chicken Mud Thai Beauty!”

Ryoma’s vision warped. The world around him dissolved, replaced by… chickens.

Endless chickens.

They strutted. They flapped. And most horrifyingly, they danced. A hypnotic, absurd dance, wings outstretched, claws tapping to some cosmic rhythm.

Ryoma froze. His heart pounded.

Then the true horror revealed itself: to escape the illusion, he had to imitate the chickens perfectly. Ninety-nine percent accuracy required. Every tilt of the head. Every waggle of the wing. Every hop.

If he tried to attack the chickens, they split. One became two, two became four, multiplying until the world was filled with pecking, preening, dancing poultry.

He tried once. Just once. Thousands of tiny chicks exploded across the illusory ground—each the size of the Aburame’s own kikaichū parasites. They swarmed around him, chirping, dancing, imitating, until he could no longer tell where they ended and he began.

And then, against his will, Ryoma found himself dancing too.

The rhythm was insidious. Catchy. Impossible to resist. His limbs twitched, his body moved, his shoulders jerked…

When Yato finally dragged him into the Academy and presented him before a bewildered instructor, the poor boy was still twitching to the beat.

“Here’s your truant student!” Yato announced proudly. “Caught him myself, even used genjutsu to keep him from running. You owe me one.”

The teacher gawked, then demanded Yato release the boy from the illusion.

With an exaggerated sigh, Yato complied.

Ryoma stumbled out of the genjutsu, pale and sweating. He could have argued. He could have explained. But the humiliation was too much. He bowed his head and confessed to truancy he had not committed, accepting punishment without protest.

The teacher scolded him mildly, unaware of the deeper torment inflicted. Ryoma endured it silently.

In Root, training was brutal—painful, merciless. But this… this was different.

The chickens.

They haunted him.

Even now, a year later, his shoulders twitched involuntarily whenever the memory resurfaced.


---

Root’s Misunderstanding

Danzo had noticed the twitching. To him, it was merely a flaw—an unfortunate habit that marred an otherwise promising operative.

Still, Ryoma’s intelligence and discipline outweighed his quirks. Already, Danzo relied on him for advice. Already, he considered grooming him into a strategist as well as an assassin.

What Danzo didn’t know was that every twitch carried with it the memory of that dance—the endless, clucking rhythm of Uchiha Yato’s cursed genjutsu.

Even shinobi from the Sand, who had once fallen victim to the same illusion during the war, had expressed sympathy when they heard of Ryoma’s plight. They called it “a torment worse than poison.”

For genjutsu did not merely affect the mind. Movements made in the illusion manifested in the body. The soreness, the humiliation, the exhaustion—all real. And Yato had crafted this genjutsu with cruel creativity.


---

A New Mission

Danzo’s voice cut through Ryoma’s reverie.

“Enough. The Uchiha are all alike. Evil, prideful. This works to our advantage.” His eye narrowed. “We can kill two birds with one stone. Bring down Yato, and weaken the clan in the process.”

He turned his gaze back to Ryoma. For a rare moment, a hint of satisfaction glimmered in his eye.

“Ryoma,” he said. “I entrust this matter to you. Proceed with caution. Do not let the Uchiha gain leverage over you. You may select a squad from Root. From this day, you are their captain.”

Ryoma straightened, shoulders twitching once more. This time, he forced the movement into stillness. His chest swelled with pride despite the memory clawing at him.

“Yes, Lord Danzo. I will not fail your trust. I will ensure the mission is completed.”

For a boy only seven years old, it was a heavy responsibility. But in Root, childhood ended the day you joined.

And for Aburame Ryoma, every step forward was also a step away from the haunting dance that still lingered in his mind.


---

Chapter 4 – Visiting Uzumaki Mito

The morning sun poured into Konoha, its light spilling over tiled rooftops and bustling markets. After a rare night of restful sleep, Uchiha Yato rose early. His steps were steady, his eyes cold but resolved, as he made his way toward the residence of the Uchiha Great Elder.

When he arrived, he didn’t waste time with formalities. He looked directly at the old man and declared, “I have investigated the cause of Aunt Michiko’s death.”

The elder blinked in surprise. Yesterday, Yato had asked him to watch over Shisui for a while so he could look into Michiko’s murder. The elder had assumed it would take weeks, perhaps months, before there was progress. Yet here was Yato, standing before him less than a day later with answers.

The old man’s hands trembled on the armrest of his chair. “Who?” he asked, his voice rising. “Who exactly did it? Was it someone from the village… or a spy from another nation?”

Yato’s expression hardened. He didn’t circle around the truth. “It was Hokage’s advisor—Danzo Shimura.”

The words struck like a hammer. The elder froze.

For years he had kept the clan peaceful, avoiding direct clashes with the village leadership. But now, Michiko’s death had been tied to the Hokage’s right-hand man. A wave of disheartenment swept over him.

But Yato did not let the despair take root. He continued firmly, “First, Aunt Michiko must be buried properly. My request to keep her body was only to obtain evidence and confirm the culprit. That is done.”

The elder studied the boy’s face. Despite his grief, Yato’s tone was controlled. That alone spoke volumes of his growth.

He exhaled slowly. “Very well. From here on, you need not worry about the funeral. The clan will see to it.” Then his eyes narrowed knowingly. “But tell me—your plan isn’t so small, is it? Not for a troublemaker like you.”

Yato’s lips curved in a faint smile. He bowed his head suddenly and knelt. “I must apologize, Elder. I cannot take revenge on Danzo immediately. Not while the entire clan stands behind me. This isn’t just about personal grudges—it touches the balance between the Hokage and the Uchiha.”

The elder gazed at him quietly. For the first time, he saw not the mischievous boy who stirred chaos wherever he went, but a man beginning to shoulder the weight of the clan.

From a purely personal view, Yato already had the strength to kill Danzo. The Mangekyō Sharingan was not a weapon to be underestimated. But viewed from the clan’s perspective, such an act would plunge Konoha into chaos.

The elder chuckled bitterly. “Old man though I am, I can probably last another ten years. When my time comes, it won’t be too much trouble to drag Danzo into the grave with me.” He glanced sideways at Yato. “As for you—stop rattling these old bones with your antics.”

Yato smirked but did not argue. Both of them knew that if not for Yato and little Shisui, the elder might have confronted Danzo already, even if it meant his death.

“I need the clan’s cooperation,” Yato said suddenly.

The elder raised a brow. “Oh? And how would you have us cooperate?”

“Danzo’s obsession is becoming Hokage,” Yato said. His eyes gleamed coldly. “So I want to make sure it remains just that—an obsession. An eternal dream he’ll never realize.”

The elder understood immediately. Yato intended to undermine Danzo, not just strike at him. Slowly, he nodded. “Very well. Do what you must. I’ll speak with the clan head.”

After exchanging a few more words and sparing a brief glance at baby Shisui—peacefully wrapped in swaddling clothes—Yato left the elder’s house.


---

A Visit to Uzumaki Mito

From the Uchiha district, Yato’s steps carried him across Konoha toward the Senju compound. There, within the gardens fragrant with medicinal herbs, resided the venerable Uzumaki Mito, widow of the First Hokage and one of the most respected figures in the village.

When Yato entered, the elderly woman looked up with a faint smile. Her hair, though streaked with white, framed eyes still sharp with vitality.

“Boy,” she said teasingly, “who are you proposing for this time?”

Having dealt with Yato before, she knew his reputation well. If he wasn’t stirring trouble, he was proposing some outrageous scheme—often involving marriage alliances.

Yato bowed politely. “Lady Mito, please don’t tease me. I didn’t come here for that today. I came to confirm something important.”

Her expression grew serious. She gestured for him to sit across from her. “Oh? Then speak. I will listen.”

Yato’s tone grew cold. “Uchiha Michiko is dead. Her Sharingan was taken. The culprit is Danzo Shimura. I have evidence.” He fixed his gaze on her. “I want to know your stance.”

Mito’s composure cracked for the first time.

She remembered Yato’s father well—born a Senju, a direct descendant of the clan. Had he not chosen to marry into the Uchiha, Yato would have been known as Senju Yato. When his parents died, she had even inquired about taking him into her care. But Michiko had stepped forward, promising to raise him like her own.

Now, that same Michiko was gone.

Mito closed her eyes briefly, sighing. “I did not expect the next news I’d hear of her would be this.” She looked at Yato again, her eyes clouded with sorrow. “Back then, Michiko argued so fiercely to keep you under her care. Otherwise, you would have been raised by me, old as I am.”

Yato chuckled, easing the heaviness of the moment. “That would’ve been too lucky—for me. Or perhaps unlucky for you. I’d probably have driven you mad by now. Then Tsunade would have come after me, and there’d be no one left to plead for me.”

Mito’s eyebrow twitched. The nerve of this boy—to turn a solemn moment into jest! Lucky, he says… meaning I was lucky not to have raised him, or else I’d already be dead from stress.

But his humor broke the suffocating grief, and she allowed the corner of her lips to curl slightly.

“So,” she said, “you want me to intervene and see Danzo punished?”

Yato shook his head firmly. “No. I want you not to interfere. Whatever happens, I want this to have nothing to do with you. Can you promise me that?”

Mito regarded him silently, weighing his words. He wasn’t asking her to help—he was asking her to stay uninvolved, to give him the space to act without restraint.

After a moment, she exhaled softly. “Very well. But if I’m to play along with you and keep silent, surely there should be some reward for this old woman?”

Yato calmly sipped his tea. “Then I’ll investigate the cause of Nawaki’s death for you.”

The room fell into silence. Mito did not speak again. She only drank her tea slowly, her thoughts hidden behind her calm eyes.

When the cups were empty, Yato rose, bowed politely, and departed without another word.


---

Two Silent Agreements

After Yato left, another figure quietly slipped out of the Senju compound not long after, heading toward the forests outside Konoha.

Mito sat alone, her hands folded in her lap. Yato’s words replayed in her mind. He had given her an opening, a chance to revisit the mysterious circumstances of Nawaki’s death.

Nawaki—the bright hope of the Senju Clan, gone too soon from something as trivial as an explosive tag. That senseless death had driven Tsunade away from the village.

The thought made Mito uneasy. But now, perhaps, there was a chance to uncover the truth.

Very well, boy, she thought. If you’ve given me this chance, I will see it through.

Meanwhile, Yato walked through Konoha’s streets, his thoughts swirling like storm clouds.

How can I make Danzo suffer more?

His system thrived on emotion points, and the strongest source of those points came not from random villagers or side characters, but from key figures in the story. Minor shinobi and background civilians barely registered. But provoke someone like Tsunade? That had once earned him a windfall of 2000 points in a single blow.

He smirked faintly. Yes… if I want to grow stronger, I’ll have to keep fleecing the original cast. They’ll hate me, fear me, respect me—but in the end, I’ll grow beyond all of them.


---

Inside Root

Far beneath the village, in the cold, dimly lit chambers of the Root base, Danzo Shimura sat listening to reports from his operatives.

One Root ninja stepped forward and bowed. “Uchiha Yato visited Lady Uzumaki Mito’s residence today.”

Danzo’s single visible eye narrowed. “How long did he stay?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Do you know the content of their conversation?”

The Root agent shook his head. “No, Lord Danzo. Lady Mito’s sensory perception is unparalleled. I did not dare approach closely. I only confirmed that Yato left the Senju compound.”

Danzo leaned back, fingers tapping against his cane. For once, he was pleased with his subordinate’s caution. Mito’s abilities made reckless spying a death sentence.

He mulled over the possibilities. Only two made sense.

First—Yato might once again be trying to court Tsunade, hoping to tie the Uchiha and Senju through marriage.

Second—he had discovered the truth behind Michiko’s death and was seeking Mito’s aid.

Danzo dismissed the first Root operative, then turned to another standing silently at the side. His voice was low, dangerous.

“Which do you think is more likely?”

The man stepped forward, bowing. “Ryoma, reporting.”


---

Chapter 3 – Mangekyō Sharingan

Uchiha Yato awakened his Sharingan the night his parents died.

He awakened his Mangekyō Sharingan the day Uchiha Kagami, his uncle and guardian, fell in battle.

And now, with the death of Uchiha Michiko, the last person who had cared for him as family, Yato realized the truth—he no longer had anyone left.

A tiger with no restraints is the most dangerous of all. And Yato, at this very moment, was exactly that—feral, unbound, and terrifying.


---

The Question of Shisui

The silence inside the shrine was suffocating until the Great Elder finally spoke.

“Besides this tragedy,” he said with a heavy heart, “there is also the matter of Michiko’s son—Shisui. His custody must be decided.”

The words struck Yato like a jolt of lightning. His chest, which had moments ago felt hollow and dead, suddenly stirred.

Shisui.

Not all ties were cut. He still had family left in this world.

“Great Elder,” Yato interjected quickly, his voice sharper than intended, “are you saying you want custody of Shisui?”

The old man’s shoulders sagged, his face a portrait of grief. “This old man wishes to, yes. But before her passing, Michiko spoke to me in private. She said… that if she were to die, you, Yato, should raise Shisui.”

The words seemed to drain the elder completely. Though by bloodline he was closer to Shisui, Michiko had entrusted her son to Yato. That decision carried weight greater than blood itself.

The sorrow on the elder’s face silenced the room.

Finally, the clan head, Uchiha Kei, straightened. His usually calm demeanor hardened, his eyes filled with responsibility. “Then we must make it clear.” His voice was firm, carrying authority. “Uchiha Yato, are you prepared to raise Shisui?”

This was no idle question. It was about the life and future of a child. Kei could not treat it lightly.

Yato didn’t hesitate. His answer came like steel striking stone.

“From this day forward, Uchiha Shisui is my younger brother. I will not allow anyone to harm him. And whoever dares—” his voice deepened, his chakra surging with intensity, “—I will take their life.”

As his conviction echoed in the shrine, his eyes shifted. The three tomoe of his Sharingan spun rapidly, merging, reshaping—until they formed a new pattern: a gear-shaped Mangekyō Sharingan.

He let them see. He revealed the Mangekyō not just as a statement but as a warning, a shield, a promise.

Gasps filled the shrine.


---

The Elders React

The Third Elder surged forward, eyes wide. “Mangekyō…! This is the Mangekyō Sharingan of our clan!” His voice trembled with excitement, his hands shaking as he leaned closer, desperate to take in every detail of Yato’s eyes.

The other elders exchanged stunned glances. They were old enough to remember. Old enough to have witnessed the terrible brilliance of Uchiha Madara’s Mangekyō. They knew exactly what such eyes meant.

Power. Fear. Glory.

The Great Elder swallowed hard, torn between pride and worry. “Yato… when did you awaken your Mangekyō? Have you used it carelessly? The Mangekyō drains ocular power. Use it too much, and you will go blind.” His words carried not only the weight of a clan leader but the concern of an elder for his junior.

Yato shook his head calmly. “No. I didn’t understand these eyes before. Just now, my emotions… overwhelmed me. That’s all.”

The Great Elder’s expression softened. He turned to the gathered jōnin. “Those who are not elders or the clan head—leave now. And keep your mouths sealed tight.”

The order was obeyed instantly. None of the jōnin dared disobey. None were foolish enough to spread word of Yato’s new power. Everyone knew what he was capable of—how he treated enemies and allies with equal ruthlessness when provoked. And no one wanted to invite that wrath.

When the chamber was cleared, the Great Elder continued, his voice grave.

“When the Mangekyō awakens, a unique ocular jutsu is born within it. But every use comes with a cost. Use it too often, and blindness will follow.”

The Second Elder nodded. “And remember—no two Mangekyō are alike. Each grants different abilities. Recklessness will destroy you.”

The Third Elder, calmer now, added, “With the Mangekyō comes Susanoo. But Susanoo too demands heavy sacrifice. Be wise, Yato. You are still young—do not squander your sight.”

Finally, the Great Elder delivered one last warning. “Do not reveal your abilities to anyone—not even to us. This is your secret, and you must guard it well.”

Their words were heavy with both wisdom and fear. The Mangekyō was a treasure—but treasures invited greed.

Yato bowed his head humbly, wearing an earnest expression. “I understand. I will remember your guidance.”

His sincere, studious demeanor, paired with his striking features, softened the elders’ hearts. For a moment, they even forgot he was the infamous troublemaker of the clan.

Satisfied, they brought the meeting to a close.


---

The Empty Home

That night, Yato returned home. The silence inside pressed down on him. What had once been filled with warmth and family was now empty, lifeless.

He looked around the familiar rooms and felt a pang in his chest.

His first act was to bring Michiko’s body home, laying her gently within the space she had once filled with her laughter. He stared at her face—so familiar, so dear—now cold and still.

The ache in his chest was indescribable.

I can’t let this stand.

Grief alone would not be enough. He needed justice. He needed vengeance.


---

Suspicions

If it was a foreign shinobi, he thought darkly, then I’ll leave Konoha and make that country pay. At the very least, they’ll shed blood for this.

He remembered Nawaki’s death at the hands of an explosion from the Land of Lightning. Even Orochimaru had dared to storm their territory in retaliation. Yato would do the same if necessary.

But what if it wasn’t a foreign enemy?

Another possibility loomed, more dangerous, more insidious.

In his past life, Yato had read theories about a “Scapegoat Hokage.” And if he had to suspect anyone, the answer was obvious: Danzo Shimura.

Three reasons pointed directly to him.

First, Danzo’s ambition. He had always coveted the Hokage’s position. But on the battlefield in the Land of Rain, Yato’s loud declaration had exposed his schemes, damaging his reputation beyond repair.

Second, Danzo’s grudge. He hated Yato for that humiliation. Unable to strike Yato directly, killing Michiko would be the perfect revenge.

Third—and most damning—Michiko’s Sharingan was missing. In his past life, Yato knew Danzo would one day graft an arm covered in stolen eyes. The timeline might be earlier now, but the motive was clear.

The pieces fit too well.

“Danzo Shimura,” Yato muttered, his voice cold as steel.


---

The System’s Aid

But suspicion wasn’t proof. Yato needed certainty. And for that, he turned to his cheat.

“System,” he said, “exchange Emotion Points for an Injury Inspection Device.”

Ding.
“Exchange successful. 5000 Emotion Points deducted. Remaining Balance: 100.”

A blinding flash lit the room. When it faded, a small, delicate instrument rested in his hand, decorated with a strange little heart pattern.

Yato stared at it, unimpressed. “…What kind of ridiculous design is this?”

Engraved on the side were the words: “Injury Inspection Device (Naruto Corrected Version).”

He flipped open the manual. The device was a product of higher-plane technology, capable of scanning a body and analyzing injuries with precision beyond any medical ninja.

Exactly what he needed.


---

The Truth

Without hesitation, Yato activated the device and began scanning Michiko’s body. A faint hum filled the air as lights flickered across the surface of the tool. Yato’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched the screen.

Please… tell me the truth.

Data scrolled across the display.

“Status: Deceased.”
“Cause of death: Blast injury.”
“Additional cause: Toxin infection.”
“Source: Parasitic venomous insect.”
“Effect: Continuous chakra siphoning, leading to fatal weakness.”

Yato’s eyes narrowed. His hands trembled around the device.

Parasitic insects. Chakra siphoning.

There was only one clan in Konoha capable of this—the Aburame.

Which meant someone had used their secret techniques as tools for assassination.

And who else but Danzo had both the ambition and the shadowy influence to command such actions?

Yato’s chakra surged violently, rattling the walls of the empty house. His teeth clenched, his Mangekyō spinning furiously.

“Danzo Shimura… you dare touch my family?” His voice dripped with venom.

He let out a cold, humorless laugh.

“Fine. If you want to play this game, let’s see how long you can hide in the shadows, Scapegoat Hokage.”


---

Chapter 2 – Death of Uchiha Michiko

Uchiha Yato hurried toward the Uchiha Shrine, his steps uncharacteristically heavy. For once, the usual smirk was gone from his lips. A faint, bitter sigh slipped out as he glanced at the reddened sky overhead.

As a transmigrator, life in this world had been—by most standards—comfortable, even pleasant. He was not some soul thrown suddenly into another body. No, he had been born here, raised here, and had lived more than a decade as Uchiha Yato. This was his life now.

And yet, even as the years passed, he sometimes could not help but think:

If I had known this, I should have reread my copy of Naruto until it fell apart.

His memory of the plot was hazy. He remembered only the broad strokes and a handful of crucial turning points. The details? Slippery, vague. Still, he knew enough to navigate, enough to see the great waves of history before they crashed down.

In the beginning, Yato had made genuine efforts to change Konoha’s view of the Uchiha Clan. He smiled at civilians, joked with merchants, treated commoners like friends. He hoped, naively, that warmth could melt centuries of suspicion. But reality was harsher. For reasons he could never fully grasp, the prejudice against the Uchiha was immovable, unyielding.

So, Yato tried something else.


---

A Marriage Alliance That Never Was

When he was younger, an idea had taken root in his mind: if the Uchiha and Senju were bound by blood once more, perhaps reconciliation would follow.

At that time, the Second Hokage, Senju Tobirama, was still alive, and Lady Tsunade—Konoha’s celebrated princess—was already making a name for herself. She was more than ten years older than Yato, but that mattered little.

Yato proposed to the clan head and elders a bold plan: a marriage alliance. Let a respected Uchiha take Tsunade’s hand. Such a union, he argued, would be a bridge between the clans.

The elders discussed. Uchiha Kei, the clan head, was already married. The other elders were too old, or too frail, or carrying secrets no one dared mention aloud.

Yato remembered staring at them in disbelief.

Such a great clan, and not a single suitable candidate?

Frustrated, he shifted tactics. His maternal uncle was Uchiha Kagami, one of Tobirama’s closest guards. Surely, he thought, Kagami could open the door.

Through Kagami, Yato found opportunities to bring Tobirama to the Uchiha compound. The boy played his part well, flattering, praising, and smiling at just the right moments. Finally, when the chance came, Yato jumped forward and declared, “Uncle Kagami wishes to marry Lady Tsunade!”

The courtyard froze. Tobirama’s expression darkened. Kagami nearly fainted on the spot.

The Second Hokage turned slowly, his voice clipped and cold. “This child must be educated early.”

From that day on, Tobirama never set foot in the Uchiha grounds again.

When Kagami’s wife later heard of the stunt, she scolded Yato so thoroughly that his ears rang for a week. If she hadn’t been a gentle soul, he suspected his backside would have been split into eight pieces and hung out for display.


---

The Senju Princess Strikes Back

After Tobirama’s death, Yato tried again.

This time, his target was Uzumaki Mito, Tsunade’s grandmother and the First Hokage’s widow. Mito was revered throughout Konoha; if she approved, the rest of the village would follow.

Yato slipped into the Senju compound, found Mito, and after some polite chatter, boldly raised the topic.

Her reaction was not what he expected. She raised an eyebrow and replied dryly, “If you are here for a marriage alliance, your clan head should be the one to approach me. Not a greenhorn boy. Or… are you saying you’ve taken a liking to our Tsunade?”

Yato waved his hands frantically. “Absolutely impossible! With her gambling addiction, her drinking, her bad habits—whoever marries her will be cursed!”

For once, the usually gracious Mito was left speechless.

And then, as fate would have it, Tsunade herself walked in. She had returned from training just in time to hear every word.

A terrifying silence fell.

Moments later, the Senju compound shook as six houses were reduced to rubble. Then, sixteen homes in the Uchiha compound followed. An entire street was leveled in her rampage.

In the end, Kagami himself had to drag Yato to Tsunade, bowing deeply and begging forgiveness. Only then was the matter laid to rest.

From that day on, Yato learned to choose his words more carefully around women.

At least… sometimes.


---

Brother Thin Ice

Years passed. Yato’s attempts at alliances, reconciliations, and peace-building only earned him ridicule.

Whenever he reflected on his missteps, he would mutter, “My life has been like walking on thin ice. Can I ever reach the other shore?”

Unfortunately, Uchiha children overheard him. Soon, the nickname spread: “Brother Thin Ice.”

Parents, frustrated at their children parroting Yato’s dramatic words, stormed to the clan head demanding punishment.

Yato, unbothered, marched straight to the Hokage Tower. He accused his clanmates of bullying him and begged the Third Hokage for justice.

Hiruzen Sarutobi, caught between laughter and exasperation, tried to cool things down. “This is an internal clan matter, Yato. I cannot interfere.”

Two days later, Yato vanished from the compound. When he reappeared, he was in the civilian district, loudly proclaiming to merchants and villagers alike that his clan oppressed him and the Hokage ignored him.

The fallout was catastrophic. The Uchiha’s reputation sank lower, and Hiruzen’s name suffered in the process.

As Yato walked now toward the shrine, recalling these old memories, his chest felt heavy.

Why can no one understand my efforts? My intentions are always good… yet no one sees it.


---

The System

But Yato was not just another unlucky Uchiha.

He had his cheat.

A system.

Its name was cumbersome, ridiculous even: “Grow Stronger by Eliciting Strong Emotions from Others Toward the Host.”

But however clumsy the name, its function was invaluable. By provoking strong feelings—anger, joy, hatred, admiration—Yato earned Emotion Points. With those points, he could purchase techniques, talents, enhancements to his bloodline, even bizarre items not of this world.

His current status screen read:

【Name: Uchiha Yato】
【Gender: Male】
【Age: 15】
【Items: Quick-acting heart-saving pills, an eternally powered camcorder, a taunting screaming chicken…】
【Talent: Ninjutsu Doctor – can quickly learn and master any ninjutsu】
【Chakra: Twenty times the capacity of a normal shinobi】
(Note: here, “normal shinobi” means Kakashi-level.)
【Bloodline: Sharingan, Sage Body (Unawakened)}

Yes, he carried Senju blood. His father had been a Senju who married into the Uchiha for love.


---

The Clan Meeting

Lost in thought, Yato finally reached the shrine. Inside, rows of Uchiha Jōnin were already seated. The air was heavy, grim.

The clan head, Uchiha Kei, looked up as Yato entered. “Since everyone is here, let us begin.”

Yato tried to lighten the mood. “Clan Head, is this really so urgent? I just finished a mission. Look at me—blood all over. Shouldn’t I wash up before—”

No one smiled. No one even moved. The atmosphere pressed down like stone.

Yato’s grin faltered. He straightened unconsciously.

Kei’s voice was grave. “Uchiha Michiko is dead.”

The words dropped like thunder.

The shrine, already hushed, fell into a suffocating silence. Even the faint rustle of cloth seemed too loud.

Yato’s mind went blank. His aunt—his last close relative since his parents’ deaths—was gone. The woman who had raised him with warmth, who had scolded him when he erred, who had shielded him when the clan grew restless.

The ever-carefree Yato spoke with rare steadiness, his voice trembling at its edges. “How did she die? Was it an accident—or was this the village’s doing?”

His Sharingan flickered unconsciously, the tomoe pulsing.

The Great Elder, Michiko’s father, clenched his fists. His eyes were bloodshot as his own Sharingan spun. “We don’t know. She was killed by an explosive tag. By the time we arrived… her eyes were already gone.”

The words hit like blades.

Uchiha Michiko—Uchiha Kagami’s wife, Yato’s maternal aunt by marriage—had been like a second mother to him. Without her care after Kagami’s death, Yato would not have survived, let alone grown into the man he was.

Yato swallowed, memories flooding him. The day Kagami died, he had wandered home in a daze, his head splitting with pain. And then…

A mechanical voice had sounded in his mind.

Ding.
“Host emotions approaching critical threshold.”
Ding.
“Emotions unstable. Mangekyō Sharingan awakening requirements met. Convert Emotion Points to energy for awakening?”
Ding.
“Host unconscious. Mangekyō awakening initiated automatically.”

At that moment, as darkness swallowed him, only one question echoed endlessly:

What do you desire most?

His own voice had answered, broken and raw:

If… if time could only slow down. Why must this be reality?


---

Chapter 1 – That Hateful Uchiha

The Land of Fire, Hidden Leaf Village.

Dusk was slowly falling over Konoha, painting the rooftops in shades of gold and crimson. The villagers were winding down their day, shopkeepers calling out their final sales, children racing each other home before their mothers scolded them for being late. At the entrance gate, two Chūnin guards leaned lazily against the wooden posts, chatting idly about dinner.

Their conversation ended abruptly when they noticed a figure approaching from the road.

It was a man in the dark-blue attire of the Uchiha Clan, a metal forehead protector tied not across his brow but around his upper arm. His steps were unhurried, almost playful, as if he were returning from a leisurely stroll rather than a battlefield. He twirled a kunai casually in his hand, the blade flashing in the fading light.

His face was striking—gentle as a spring breeze, with eyes that curved like a kind older brother’s smile. His expression radiated ease, the sort of warmth that made strangers instinctively lower their guard. At first glance, he looked like the dependable young man next door, cheerful and approachable.

But that image crumbled immediately when one noticed the bloodied, unconscious shinobi he was dragging by the collar behind him, leaving a long streak on the dirt path.

A strange, almost surreal painting was born in that moment—warm sunset colors, a charming smile, and the trailing corpse of some poor unfortunate soul. The villagers would later call such moments his “Dusk Beauty.”

The guards stiffened.

The man raised a hand in greeting, his grin widening.

“Two elder brothers at the gate, working hard as always. The day’s almost over—you’ve had quite a tiring shift, haven’t you?”

His words were polite, even affectionate, but the guards’ faces soured instantly. Their easy moods vanished the second they recognized him.

It wasn’t because of his looks—if anything, he was handsome even by Uchiha standards, which was saying a lot. It wasn’t even the bloody ninja he dragged, though that didn’t help.

It was because of his reputation.

This man was Uchiha Yato.

Among Konoha’s civilians, he was one of the rare Uchiha who mixed easily, smiling at children, helping merchants carry boxes, chatting freely with people outside his clan. That alone set him apart. But within both the clan and the village, Yato carried another, far more infamous title: “The Stirring Rod of the Night Light.”

Yato always insisted the name was unfair. “If I were truly a stirring rod,” he once joked, “then the whole of Konoha, maybe even the whole world, would be a pot I stir.”

And the truth was… that wasn’t far off.

He could not be bested in battle, nor defeated in argument. He created headaches wherever he went.

In terms of strength, Yato was no lightweight. He was already a Jōnin with a fully matured Three-Tomoe Sharingan. His abilities were unique, his power considerable. His learning speed was absurd—basic jutsu took him one glance, while more advanced techniques bent to him after only a few days of practice.

By all logic, Uchiha Yato should have been the pride of his clan, a shining symbol of Konoha, standing alongside the legendary Sannin who were only a few years older.

But he was not.

Because Yato was outrageous.


---

A Tale from the Second Great Ninja War

During the Second Great Ninja War, Yato had been dispatched to support the Sannin. His mission was simple: intercept Sunagakure’s reinforcements and disrupt their supply line.

By any measure, he succeeded spectacularly. He eliminated several Sand shinobi, captured their supplies, and sent his escort team—six or seven Chūnin and a Jōnin—to reinforce the front lines.

But what he did next became the stuff of legend.

Instead of finishing off the remaining two Jōnin and four Chūnin from Sunagakure, he kept them alive… and decided to “play” with them.

When Chiyo of the Sand received the distress report, her eyes nearly twitched out of her head.

“What the hell is this?” she snapped at her brother Ebizō. “Who ambushes reinforcements, seizes supplies, and then… plays house with them?!”

The letter went on to describe how Yato forced the Sand shinobi to role-play. Half of them had to pretend to be Konoha ninja, while Yato himself played the part of Sunagakure. Then they would fight mock battles. Of course, Yato always won, and afterward he would lecture them about the futility of war.

He even told them, “Hidden Sand will surely win!” while knocking them around.

Chiyo fumed. “If fighting is wrong, why didn’t he say that before he beat them half to death?”

The surviving shinobi returned to Sunagakure in bizarre states. Two Jōnin would wake screaming “Demon Uchiha!” in the middle of the night. Two Chūnin twitched endlessly, compelled to perform a strange “unity dance.” The other two swore they kept seeing a chicken in overalls dancing in their dreams—if they didn’t join the dance, they’d be trapped in genjutsu forever.

When high-ranking officials asked about their suffering, the Chūnin looked as pitiful as violated brides.

Ebizō, reading the report, muttered in awe, “This boy is a genius. He gathers no intelligence, yet the psychological torment he inflicts is beyond measure.”

Chiyo, meanwhile, subtly pulled young Sasori behind her. His parents had just died at Konoha’s hands; the last thing she needed was for him to learn some cursed hypnotic dance from Yato.

From that day onward, the Sand gave Yato a new name: “Nightmare Yato.”


---

Trouble with Allies

And Yato didn’t just torment enemies. He tormented his allies too.

Later in the war, he was sent to the Land of Rain to aid the Sannin again. He arrived just in time for the famous battle where Hanzō the Salamander spared Jiraiya, Orochimaru, and Tsunade, granting them the title of the “Three Sannin.”

Originally, it was a dignified compromise—Hanzō wary of Konoha’s strength, and the Sannin realizing they could not defeat him. Both sides would retreat with honor.

Then Yato showed up.

He called out cheerfully, “Don’t be afraid, honored Sannin! We not only have Hokage-sama, but also Danzo Shimura-sama backing you from the rear!”

Then, staring at Hanzō, he added with mock seriousness:

“Old man, you know Danzo-sama is the pettiest man alive. If you bully Hokage-sama’s disciples today, he’ll retaliate tomorrow. Then your Rain Village will be doomed.”

The atmosphere froze. The Sannin winced. “Where did this jinx come from? He just had to stir up trouble.”

Back in Konoha, Danzo turned purple with rage. “This damned Uchiha wants the whole world to hate me! How am I supposed to become Hokage like this?!”

Because of Yato’s big mouth, Hanzō signed a surrender document instead of letting both sides retreat peacefully.

Konoha’s civilians celebrated. The higher-ups seethed.


---

A Thorn in Danzo’s Side

When Yato returned, Danzo stormed to the Uchiha compound demanding punishment.

But Yato had anticipated it. He had already whispered advice to the clan head, Uchiha Kei.

So when Danzo arrived, order in hand, Kei simply said, “Yato is still a child. His affairs are ours to handle.”

Danzo exploded, shouting at the Uchiha compound’s gates. The Uchiha, never needing much excuse to fight, immediately clashed with his men.

In the end, both sides backed down. Yato received mild punishment within the clan. After all, his antics had forced the Rain to retreat, lightening Konoha’s burdens.

But the damage was done. Danzo’s hatred for the Uchiha deepened that day.


---

Back to the Present

And now, years later, Yato strolled back into Konoha with another corpse in tow, whistling like he had just gone fishing.

The gate guards wanted nothing more than to ignore him, but before they could, another Uchiha appeared—a younger shinobi named Ren.

“Lord Yato,” Ren said with a respectful bow. “The clan head requests your presence at the shrine after your mission.”

“Alright then,” Yato replied breezily. He handed over the mission scroll. “Ren, please help me submit this one. I’ll head to the shrine now.”

Without another word, he jogged off toward the Uchiha compound.

The three men left behind breathed sighs of relief. Where Yato went, trouble followed. Best to avoid it.

Just then, a folded slip of paper fluttered to the ground.

Ren picked it up. Written neatly were the words:

“The mission mentioned a smuggler ninja. He’s from the Sarutobi Clan. All incriminating evidence is in his pocket. Just take it.”

Ren froze.

Of course. Anything connected to Uchiha Yato was bound to bring misfortune.

The two gate guards didn’t even glance at the note. They knew better—just looking at Yato’s trail of trouble was enough to get caught in it.

Chapter 3: Sir, Do You Think My Shoes Look Good?

The forest was silent except for the restless snort of a horse and the faint rustle of leaves stirred by a cold wind. Beneath the thick canopy, Jon Snow knelt over a bound figure. His hands were quick and steady as he stuffed a gag into Alliser Thorne’s mouth, ignoring the man’s furious glare. The torchlight of anger in Alliser’s eyes burned brighter than any campfire, but Jon refused to meet it for long. There was no time to waste.

Alliser had chosen a fine mount for pursuit, a tall warhorse with strong legs and sleek muscle. Well-fed and tireless, the animal had carried its rider across miles with hardly a stumble. It was exactly the kind of steed Jon needed. With this horse, he could put leagues between himself and Castle Black, perhaps even reach Winterfell before the Night’s Watch realized the full measure of his escape.

The memory of the ambush still lingered in Jon’s mind, vivid as fresh blood on snow. It had been deceptively simple, though far from easy. First, Ghost had darted into the shadows, weaving between trees with a fluid grace that only a direwolf could possess. The wolf’s sudden movements had drawn eyes and swords alike, scattering the men’s attention. Then, from the high branch of an old pine, Jon had dropped like a hawk, steel flashing as he took Alliser by surprise.

It wasn’t strength that had won him the fight, nor skill alone. It was Ghost’s keen instincts and Jon’s strange new gift—his ability to slip his mind into the wolf’s and guide his steps through the forest. With Ghost luring Alliser exactly where he wanted, Jon had sprung his trap.

Yet he knew well enough that without the strange “golden finger” guiding his thoughts, he might have blundered into disaster. One wrong step, and he could have run headlong into another ranger patrol, or strayed east into a cluster of recruits. If not for that strange advantage, the careful snares and diversions he’d set would never have been laid in time.

Now, though, he had what he needed: a clear chance to flee.

Jon swung into the saddle of the stolen warhorse, feeling its power beneath him. But when he looked back, his gaze lingered on Alliser. The man squirmed furiously against the ropes, his muffled curses spilling out from behind the gag. His eyes promised vengeance.

Something in Jon stirred—an instinct, a thought he could not ignore. He dismounted again, sword in hand, and strode toward his bound foe.

Alliser froze.

“Mmm—mmm—!”

The gag muffled his cry, but the terror in his eyes spoke clearly enough. He had always mocked Jon, called him a bastard and worse, but now—now he was as helpless as any man tied and gagged in the dirt. He shook his head violently, a frantic rattle, as if the gesture alone could spare him. He thrashed like a worm tossed into salt, every muscle straining.

Jon stopped just before him, the cold edge of his longsword gleaming. For a heartbeat, Alliser truly believed this boy—this bastard—meant to kill him. His blood ran cold.

Jon only cut through the cloak with a swift motion, then draped it over Alliser’s head, blinding him. That way, when the man was found, he would not be able to reveal Jon’s direction of flight.

Alliser sagged, trembling harder than before. His pride was in tatters.

Jon turned away, his decision made. Yet as he stepped back toward the horse, something else caught his eye. Lying in the mud was Alliser’s greatsword. The hilt gleamed with yellow amber, the craftsmanship fine, its balance and edge far superior to Jon’s own blade. A noble’s sword—far more than a mere weapon.

Jon hesitated only a moment before picking it up. In Westeros, it was tradition to return a defeated foe’s weapon. But Jon was not beholden to their traditions. He was not just a Night’s Watch recruit anymore—he was something else. To him, the sword was not a trophy but a reckoning. Alliser had mocked and tormented him at every turn. Taking the sword felt like justice, a repayment for every insult endured.

“Ghost, let’s go.”

The direwolf bounded ahead as Jon swung into the saddle once more. In a heartbeat, boy and beast disappeared into the trees, leaving nothing behind but a man tied to a trunk and the echo of hooves fading into the distance.


---

“Ser Alliser! Ser Alliser!”

The voice rang out some time later, carried on the forest air.

Alliser thrashed in his bonds and forced a guttural sound past the gag: “Mmm! Mmm—!”

His struggles grew frantic as footsteps approached. At last, two fresh-faced recruits stumbled into the clearing. One recognized the bulky form tied against the tree and muttered in disbelief, “Gods, it’s him. It has to be Ser Alliser.”

The other reached for the ropes, but his companion grabbed his wrist.

“Wait. Think for a moment. You remember how this man treats us?”

The recruit hesitated. Memories of harsh words, cruel drills, and public humiliations surged back.

“Then what should we do?” he whispered.

They stepped aside to whisper in low voices, and soon enough, they were gone. Moments later, a dozen recruits slipped into the clearing, their faces shadowed with anticipation.

Alliser had no idea. He still believed his men were coming to rescue him. He struggled desperately, whimpering through the gag. His honor was already in ruins; if they saw him like this, how could he ever command them again?

“Charge together!” someone barked.

Then the blows came.

Fists, boots, and elbows rained down in a storm. The air filled with the sound of grunts, laughter stifled into silence, and the meaty thuds of flesh meeting flesh. The recruits attacked with reckless glee. Some had old grudges to settle. Others simply enjoyed the rare chance to strike a man who had lorded over them for so long.

It was chaos, but to them, it was catharsis.

For years, the Night’s Watch had filled its ranks with criminals, thieves, and bastards cast out by their kin. They were men used to taking what little power they could grasp. Now, faced with the chance to beat their tormentor, they seized it with abandon.

“Let me get a punch!” one cried.

“Move over, it’s my turn!” shouted another.

The frenzy was so fierce that some men couldn’t even reach Alliser, shoved back by the press of bodies.

Alliser’s muffled screams turned to groans. His head swam. He could no longer tell where one blow ended and another began.


---

“Stop! Stop, you fools!”

Two familiar voices cut through the din. Pypar and Grenn pushed into the clearing, their faces pale. For a moment, they thought Jon was the one being pummeled. They rushed forward to intervene.

But then Pypar caught sight of the fallen cloak and the bruised, half-conscious face beneath it. His mouth fell open.

“Alliser?”

The relief in his tone was unmistakable. Jon was gone, but Alliser… Alliser had been given the recruits’ full measure of hatred.

Grenn, looming tall, froze at the sight. A slow, mischievous grin tugged at his lips. The man who had branded him “Aurochs”—a mocking name for his size and slowness—was finally the one sprawled helpless on the ground.

“Everyone, clear out!” Grenn barked, his voice deep as a horn.

The recruits scattered reluctantly. But just as they stepped away, the cloak slipped fully from Alliser’s face.

He blinked through swollen eyes, barely raising his head—only to find a massive boot hovering inches from his nose. Grenn had lifted his foot, ready to stomp.

Fury surged through Alliser’s battered body. His voice cracked the air like a whip:

“What are you doing!”

The recruits froze. Grenn’s foot hung suspended, his grin faltering.

“Uh… my lord,” he stammered, cheeks reddening, “do you… do you like my shoes?”

The clearing fell into stunned silence. Then came the barely contained chuckles, the smirks hidden behind hands.

The moment of defiance passed. No one dared strike Alliser again. Instead, they rushed to untie him. Yet the damage was done—his pride had been shredded more thoroughly than his cloak. He staggered to his feet, aching from head to toe, his authority in tatters.

“Where’s my sword!” he bellowed.

The recruits scattered, scouring the ground, but the sword was gone. Not even Ranger Qhorin, who arrived shortly after, could find it.

Qhorin’s eyes flickered with understanding as the story unraveled. “Ser Alliser, we should return. Maester Aemon has already written to Winterfell. By now, Jon may be too far ahead to catch.”

The words hit harder than any fist.

Alliser’s face turned from red to ashen white. To be ambushed by a boy, stripped of his warhorse and sword—these were not mere losses. They were insults no noble could bear. His honor, his authority, his very standing among the Watch—gone.

Qhorin, though, could not hide a trace of admiration. If Jon Snow had remained, he might have been one of the Watch’s finest rangers. The boy’s cunning, his courage, even his strange bond with the direwolf—such things were rare.

But Alliser’s voice, ragged and cold, cut through the forest.

“Robb Stark will not let his bastard brother go. He will take Ice, the ancestral blade of House Stark, and with it, he will sever Jon’s head himself.”

His words sent a chill down the recruits’ spines. Even Grenn and Pypar, who had laughed moments before, now stood pale and silent.

For the first time, they realized Jon’s escape was not just defiance. It was a storm gathering on the horizon—one that could bring blood, steel, and the wrath of Winterfell crashing down upon them all.


--

Chapter 2: Starting with Upgrading Entries

The glowing words suspended before Jon Snow steadied his heart. They were not just a strange phenomenon but his confidence, his lifeline for heading south and surviving what lay ahead.

Each entry gleamed in a different color, their hues representing qualities—strength, talent, mastery. Among them, the one that shone brightest was Swordsmanship, dyed a vivid blue.

It made sense. From the time he could first grip a wooden stick, Jon had been inseparable from the idea of the sword. Even before he could walk properly, he had toddled about Winterfell’s yard with a makeshift blade, imitating knights and heroes from the stories Old Nan used to tell.

More than anything, Jon had admired the “Young Dragon King,” that Targaryen monarch who had risen to glory at a tender age. The boy-king’s legend had carved itself into Jon’s heart, igniting an obsession to master the sword and carve a destiny beyond the title of “bastard.”

His diligence had borne fruit. At just fifteen, his Swordsmanship had already reached blue. Even within that hue, there was a subtle shimmer of purple pushing through, like dawn breaking over the horizon.

From his observations, purple-level skill was the mark of a true first-rate swordsman, the kind whose name would echo across taverns and battlefields alike.

And yet… Jon did not intend to spend his precious upgrade on Swordsmanship.

For one, he believed he could reach purple on his own, through sweat, grit, and endless practice. Using a once-in-a-lifetime chance for something he could achieve by effort alone felt wasteful.

Secondly, Swordsmanship had its limits. Even a great swordsman, unless blessed with inhuman speed or clad in impenetrable armor, could not face a dozen enemies at once. Not unless they were like the legendary Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning himself.

Jon glanced at the other entries.

Archery was out of the question. He hadn’t brought a bow or arrows when he left the Wall. Even if he had, it was not as if he could rain arrows upon his former brothers.

Warging offered another option. Through it, Jon could project his mind into Ghost, see through the direwolf’s eyes, hunt through his fangs. But while his spirit roamed, his body would be left vulnerable—immobile, exposed to a single knife thrust. That, too, was impractical.

Which left only one true choice: God’s Perspective.

Jon’s lips pressed together in a tight line. God’s Perspective—it was, simply put, a kind of map hack.

But unlike a crude trick, this entry offered both clarity and strategy. He could not only “see” the terrain around him but also sense the placement of friend and foe. If close enough, he could even glean fragments of information about the enemy—numbers, direction, perhaps even intent. His mind, as if guided by invisible hands, would instinctively weave strategies most suited to the battlefield.

At present, its range was limited—two to three hundred meters. But Jon suspected that with an upgrade, the ability would sharpen and expand. If he was already being hunted, if the encirclement had yet to tighten, this was his one chance to slip the noose.

He did not hesitate.

The moment he triggered the upgrade, the text before him shifted. New words, almost solemn in their poetry, unfolded:

【God's Perspective — Soldiers need only follow their lord’s banner, but officers must weigh the clash of formations. A true commander carries the land within his heart. To overlook the battlefield as the gods do, with an army at one’s back, is to walk as a deity among men.】

The pale green faded, replaced by a deep, ocean-like blue.

A shiver coursed down Jon’s spine as the world around him changed. It was as if a thousand candles had been lit in his mind. He could feel the terrain for nearly a kilometer—every ridge, every hollow, every tangled tree. More than that, he sensed the presence of people like sparks in the dark. Clusters here, lone figures there. Even their numbers revealed themselves faintly to him.

His lips curled into something between awe and disbelief. This is only blue. What if it were purple? Or higher? Would I see the whole of the battlefield as if spread upon a painted map? Would victory be no different from moving pieces on a board?

For a fleeting moment, he imagined himself on some vast plain, armies at his command, breaking foes twice or thrice his number. His name—Jon Snow—etched into history as one of Westeros’ great commanders.

But he shook his head sharply. Fantasies would not save him now.

He focused, scanning the field.

Six or seven figures to the east. Too many. Even if their skill was not great, their sheer numbers risked exposing him.

Three to five in the north. Three more to the west. But west led to the sea. If he went that way, he’d be cornered against the waves, his room to maneuver shrinking with every step.

The north, then. Risky, but the best option. He could feign retreat, lure them, and counterattack. Such tactics were difficult to predict, and Jon trusted his instincts.

Then his perception flickered, catching on a lone spark to the southeast. One figure. Stronger than the rest. Jon’s brows furrowed. A Ranger.

Rangers of the Night’s Watch were shadows in the wilds, ghosts feared by wildlings. Each one skilled beyond doubt, armed, armored, mounted. Against Jon—tired, half-starved, lacking armor—it was a deadly matchup.

If I had not known their habits… another man might have walked straight into death.

He crouched and called softly, “Ghost.”

The white direwolf padded to his side, silent as snowfall, eyes gleaming red. Jon stroked the thick fur of his neck. “I need you to run ahead. Scare their warhorses. Howl, then vanish. Understand?”

Ghost wagged his tail, pressed his wet nose into Jon’s palm, then slipped into the shadows, a phantom in the underbrush.

Moments later, a howl split the forest—deep, haunting, echoing through the trees. Horses whinnied in alarm.

Far away, voices rose.

“Jon—!”

“Jon, where are you?”

“Jon, it’s Grenn!”

The familiar rough voice carried clumsily across the woods.

Jon stiffened, a pang twisting in his chest. Grenn. Loyal, simple-minded Grenn. And Pypar was surely with him.

But voices carried, and in their recklessness, they endangered themselves.

Sure enough, Pypar’s anxious whisper cut in, “Grenn! Stop shouting like that. If Jon hears you, he won’t come!”

“What? Why not?”

“Because of pride, you oaf! If he’s desperate, he won’t risk dragging us down. He won’t… ask for help.”

Grenn scratched his head audibly. “Don’t use my own voice? Then whose voice should I use?”

Before Pypar could explain further, a stern Night’s Watch soldier snapped, “You two! Quiet. Search properly.”

The pair fell silent, shame-faced, and followed as the group pressed northward.

Then came the cry: “We found the deserter! Hurry!”

Their hearts lurched. The deserter. Jon. And the direction… Pypar realized with dread… was north. Exactly where Alliser Thorne was hunting.


---

Fifteen minutes earlier, Ser Alliser Thorne had been combing the woods, his patience thinning. He hated Jon Snow with a bitterness that clung to his very bones. The boy’s talent, his airs, his direwolf—all of it grated against him.

Then he heard it: the low, chilling howl of a wolf.

His lips peeled back in a sneer. A direwolf. Snow’s direwolf.

Hatred flared hot. I’ll skin that beast and make myself a coat worthy of a lord.

He spurred his horse. “After it! The wolf leads us to the boy!”

But the wolf was fast, weaving through trees, a white blur impossible for horses to catch. Yet Alliser caught glimpses now and then—a flash of fur, a tail vanishing into brush. Ghost even paused once, scratching the ground almost mockingly, his red eyes glowing.

Rage blinded Thorne. He drew his bow, nocked an arrow, and rode hard. “I’ll have your pelt, beast!”

He closed in, raising the bowstring, when suddenly the world turned upside down.

Something crashed down from above, slamming into him with brutal force. He toppled from his saddle, his breath punched out. Before he could recover, his arms were wrenched behind him, rope biting into his wrists.

Blinking, gasping, he twisted his head—only to see a pale face, grim and unyielding.

Jon Snow.

“You… bastard!” Alliser spat, fury boiling. “Maester Aemon has already written to Winterfell! Even if you crawl back, you’ll find only death waiting!”

Jon’s jaw tightened. His eyes, though, were steady—harder than Alliser had ever seen before.

The hunter had become the hunted.


-

Chapter 1: The Night’s Watch Cannot Save the Seven Kingdoms

The Wall was a miracle of stone and ice, a silent titan that had endured for thousands of years.

Its western half rose straight and sheer, like a sword of frost stabbing into the heavens, its pale surface gleaming under the waning light. The eastern half curved like the body of a silver serpent plunging into the sea, as though it sought to bind the world in an eternal embrace of winter. For generations, it had stood as both barrier and warning—separating the realm of men from the savage wilderness beyond.

Guarding it was the Night’s Watch: black-clad men sworn to hold the northern gateway of the Seven Kingdoms. Against wildlings, against monsters of myth—the Others—against the endless cold.

At Castle Black, built hard against the base of that frozen colossus, the flickering glow of firelight spilled through a narrow window. Inside, three figures occupied the Lord Commander’s chambers.

At the heavy oak table sat a broad-shouldered man with a grizzled beard. His name was Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, once Lord of Bear Island. A black raven perched on his shoulder, croaking now and then as though to punctuate his master’s thoughts.

Opposite him sat a man so old he seemed half-carved from wax. A long white beard brushed his chest, and his clouded eyes stared upward without focus. He was Aemon, Maester of the Night’s Watch—and last surviving blood of House Targaryen. Once he had been a prince, but now he was blind, forgotten by kings, his body stooped but his wisdom undimmed.

Standing at their side, nervous and earnest, was a boy of sixteen or seventeen. He was soft-bodied, his belly pressing the edge of the table as he clutched a letter in both hands. His voice trembled as he read aloud.

> “...Dear Maester Aemon, the first time I saw you, I felt a strange kinship, as though I had met a relative I never knew.
I do not possess your wisdom, perhaps because I have not yet sworn the oath of the Night’s Watch.
But as a son, I cannot ignore the news of my father’s fate...”



The boy swallowed. His name was Samwell Tarly, called Sam by his few friends, and none closer than the letter’s author.

The words weighed heavily on him. For in Westeros, honor was iron, and desertion from the Watch was met with the sword. If his friend had truly fled, then no title or birth could shield him from the block.

> “...Dear Lord Commander Mormont,
Though my time at the Wall has been short, I feel your concern for me. I am grateful for it.
I will not claim to be a true brother yet, for I have not sworn the oath. But I promise, one day, I will return to fulfill my duty.
—Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell.”



Sam lowered the parchment. His hands shook slightly, and his round face paled as he looked from Lord Commander to Maester. One commanded the Wall; the other guided its conscience. Their decision would mean life—or death—for his dearest friend.

Mormont’s jaw tightened. His raven croaked, “Snow, Snow.”

With a grunt, the Lord Commander rose. “Alliser will ride. Corin too. They will bring this little bastard back.”

Sam’s heart sank like a stone in the sea. Alliser Thorne despised Jon Snow. To give him the hunt was a cruel twist of fate. And Corin Halfhand—cold, unyielding, the Ranger who strode into the wilderness as if born to it—would not fail.

Sam opened his mouth, but no words came. His courage shriveled under Mormont’s stern gaze. He could only glance helplessly at Maester Aemon.

The blind man’s face was unreadable, carved in stillness. After a long silence, his thin lips moved. “I will write to Winterfell.”

The words fell like a hammer on Sam’s ears. Not only would Jon be pursued, but now even Winterfell would know of his desertion. His last refuge burned away in a single sentence.

Mormont left without further word, his raven flapping after him.

The chamber quieted, leaving only the hiss of the brazier and Sam’s shallow breathing. He tried once more. “Maester Aemon...”

But the old man raised a hand. “Write, Sam. Tell them Jon Snow has left the Watch. Send his letter as well.”

Sam bowed his head, defeated. The candlelight made the parchment quiver in his grip, though it was only his hands that shook.


---

The Kingsroad stretched southward like a scar across the realm. Built by the Targaryens, it bound the Seven Kingdoms together, though rain often reduced parts of it to muck and mire.

Upon this road rode a dark-haired youth, his horse lathered with foam. Three days of relentless travel had driven beast and rider to the brink. Beside him bounded a white direwolf, its crimson eyes fierce and watchful.

The rider was Jon Snow—or so the world believed. In truth, he was something more, something stranger. For Jon was no longer merely Ned Stark’s bastard son.

He was Aegon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar. And beyond that, he was a traveler from another world, his soul awakened in this body.

The irony was bitter. In the tale he remembered, Jon Snow would one day wrestle with his oaths, torn between loyalty to the Watch and love for his family. But this Jon had no such hesitation. He had left his letter and ridden south with clear intent.

Oaths did not bind him; the story’s memory did. He knew the future that awaited—knew that Eddard Stark would die, no matter what Robb did, no matter how many banners he raised. The boy-king Joffrey would see to that.

But Jon also knew that Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, still held victories ahead. Victories squandered, later, by rash choices and betrayal. If guided differently, if checked at the right moments, perhaps the North could endure. Perhaps the Wall could be guarded not by a few thousand weary crows, but by the might of twenty thousand Northerners.

If that came to pass, even the Night King would find no easy passage.

His jaw tightened. The Watch alone cannot save Westeros. To face the Others, I must play the game of thrones.

Ghost’s ears pricked. The direwolf halted, a low growl rumbling in its throat.

Jon turned, and his stomach knotted. A dozen riders in black cloaks surged down the road behind him, gaining fast. Their horses were fresh. His was not.

“They’ve come for me,” Jon muttered. His lips twisted in a bitter smile. Reality had caught him.

He spurred his exhausted mount. The poor creature stumbled, foam dripping from its muzzle. It had run three days on little more than wild grass. It could not outrun men with spare horses.

Flat land spread all around him. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to turn—except for the looming shadows of the Wolfswood.

“Ghost! To the trees!”

The direwolf became a blur of white, vanishing into the forest’s embrace. Jon dragged his mount after him, branches whipping his face as he plunged beneath the canopy.

Behind, a furious voice roared: “This little bastard!”

Alliser Thorne. Jon knew that voice well, filled with venom and disdain. Alliser had mocked him from the day he set foot on the Wall, sneering with nicknames—“Lord Snow,” “My Lord”—twisting titles into taunts. Now, at last, the man had his chance for vengeance.

“Corin!” Thorne shouted. “Block him ahead!”

But Corin Halfhand only spurred his horse forward with a curt reply. “No need.” The Ranger vanished into the forest alone, cold as the steel on his hip.

Thorne scowled, then barked orders to two recruits. “Pypar! Grenn! You’re his friends—bring Lord Snow back alive. If you fail, he’ll die, and you’ll wish you had too.”

The two exchanged uneasy looks. Pypar was quick and sharp-tongued; Grenn was tall, slow of wit but loyal of heart. Both spurred their horses reluctantly, swallowed by the woods.

Yet Thorne was not content. He turned to the rest, his voice cruel. “Fail me, and you’ll all take night patrols for a month!”

The men flinched. To walk the Wall’s battlements night after night in the freezing wind was punishment close to death. None dared defy him.

And so the hunt pressed on, shouts echoing through the Wolfswood.

“Jon! Come back—Lord Commander won’t kill you!”

“Jon, don’t be a fool!”

“Come back with us, please!”

Their cries battered Jon’s resolve, but his path was set. His horse stumbled, then collapsed beneath him with a pitiful whinny, too spent to rise again. Jon touched its flank, regret tightening his chest.

“I’d hoped to save you for battle. But there’s no more time for caution.”

He straightened. And in the air before him, faint as whispers, appeared glowing lines of script:

Swordsmanship: Blue

Archery: Green

Horsemanship: Green

God’s Perspective: Green

Warging: Green


Remaining Upgrades: 1

Jon’s eyes sharpened. So the game begins.


--

Chapter 10: Black Zetsu Meets an Amazing Chess Piece in His Lonely Youth

“It’s really him…”

Black Zetsu’s entire being quivered with a mixture of nostalgia, unease, and a strange flicker of joy. Emiya Shihara’s reappearance in this era was something he could never have predicted. Although Shihara had ultimately betrayed him in the distant past, there had been a time—brief but vivid—when the two had stood side by side. Black Zetsu found himself remembering that time now, as though a fragment of warmth had survived within the endless cold of his millennia-long existence.

It was an odd, almost bittersweet feeling. In his heart, Shihara’s name conjured the same sensation as thinking about a brilliant companion encountered during the darkest part of one’s life—someone who appears like a beacon just as despair threatens to consume everything.

Whenever Black Zetsu thought back to Shihara, his mind returned inexorably to the first time they met.


---

The First Encounter

At that time, Shihara was attempting to assassinate Indra. Indra still possessed only the three-tomoe Sharingan then, and Black Zetsu had assumed the attacker was just another reckless fool courting death. But within moments, his assumptions shattered.

The “small-time” assassin fought like a force of nature. He had somehow acquired remnants of the Sacred Tree and awakened a power that fused Wood Release with natural energy. His taijutsu and swordsmanship were frighteningly refined, and at his side a small slug familiar healed and shielded him. In an instant, Indra—the proud heir of the Sage of Six Paths—was driven to his knees, unable to raise his head against the onslaught.

Black Zetsu had been trailing Indra in secret, hoping to guide and protect him. Yet the mysterious attacker noticed his presence and, abandoning his assassination attempt, confronted the shadowy observer. In that moment, Black Zetsu’s fate entwined with Shihara’s.

From their first conversation, he learned of Shihara’s ambition: the destruction of the Shinobi Clan founded by the Sage of Six Paths.


---

Shihara’s Origins

The Sage’s disciples had scattered far and wide. Some used chakra to aid their people; others twisted it for greed and slaughter. Shihara had been one of the victims of this new world. A single disciple, drunk on his own power, had slaughtered Shihara’s entire village to steal a few bottles of fine wine. Shihara survived only because he happened to leave early that day.

The massacre planted a seed of vengeance. Shihara prayed to the remnants of the Sacred Tree, and in return he gained Wood Release—a miracle and a curse. It gave him strength but also tied his fate to powers far beyond his understanding.

Black Zetsu, who had watched countless mortals rise and fall, at first dismissed Shihara as another disposable pawn. He assumed the man’s crusade would end in quick death. Yet Shihara roamed the world healing the sick, rescuing the injured, and spreading the philosophy of the medical ninja. Even as Black Zetsu plotted wars, Shihara was creating hope.

At that time, Black Zetsu was still confident. His first great scheme—to push Indra into challenging Ashura, hoping Indra would steal his brother’s power and awaken the Rinnegan—had failed spectacularly. Indra was defeated, and Black Zetsu retreated into despair.

But Shihara never stopped moving. He proclaimed that chakra was meant to ease suffering, not create it, and his reputation began to eclipse even the Sage himself. The people of that era had once worshiped the Sacred Tree; the Sage had shattered their faith. In contrast, Shihara, who shared their reverence for the tree and tirelessly saved lives, embodied the ideals they still longed for. Even the Sage and Ashura could not help admiring his conviction.

Black Zetsu recognized that same kindness—recognized it and, according to his own cynical rule that “even villains like good people,” found it useful. During those bleak years after his failed plan, he whispered constantly in Shihara’s ear, slandering the Sage, condemning the disciples who abused chakra. He revealed secret after secret, including the truth that the Sage claimed to be the source of chakra itself. In that age it was not difficult to confirm, but to Shihara it was a revelation.


---

The Forbidden Study

After the Sage’s death, Shihara’s curiosity grew darker. He wished to study the Sage’s corpse to understand the source of chakra and perhaps find a way to reclaim it from those who misused it. He was not seeking power for himself; he was a medical ninja and saw corpses as the final teachers.

Shihara was the first to perform a full cadaver dissection, refining his medical skills to a level unknown before. He told Black Zetsu repeatedly that he wished to dispel prejudice against surgery and, after his own death, to have his body preserved for future learning.

Black Zetsu had located the Sage’s body but dared not approach it, fearing its lingering power would sense him. Shihara had no such fear. He stole the corpse and carried it to the Wet Bone Forest—a region of deadly acid and intense natural energy—to begin a long retreat.

Black Zetsu refused to follow him there. Yet when Shihara emerged, accompanied by a giant slug, he possessed a portion of the Sage’s power. He had successfully transplanted the Rinnegan. Black Zetsu could hardly believe his eyes. Through human research, Shihara had accomplished the unthinkable.


---

The Near-Success

Before Black Zetsu could even instruct him further, Shihara acted on his own. With a single, devastating campaign, he annihilated the Ninja Clan founded by the Sage, slaughtering countless disciples and reducing their villages to rubble. He was only one step away from erasing the Sage’s legacy entirely.

It was the closest Black Zetsu had ever come to true victory. For once, revenge on the Sage seemed within reach—not only physical destruction of the clan but also a shattering of its spiritual authority.

But then Shihara encountered Ashura. While collecting remnants of the Sacred Tree, he found Ashura digging wells for villagers harmed by the tree’s destruction. Shihara saw in Ashura a genuinely kind man. After much persuasion, he entrusted his dream to him, believing Ashura would gain enough power to save the world from suffering.

To atone for his sins, Shihara even used the Samsara Creation Technique, bridging yin and yang to resurrect those he had killed. The technique’s power did not kill him outright—he still bore a fragment of the Sage’s strength—but he withdrew to the Wet Bone Forest to prepare his own funeral.

When he reappeared, there was only a half-dead crystal coffin. The slug carried it to Ashura, fulfilling Shihara’s final wish.

What a naïve man, Black Zetsu thought. He had believed Ashura’s promise. Yet Shihara’s near-success showed Black Zetsu another path: that human experimentation and medical knowledge might one day produce a weapon even the Sage could not anticipate.


---

Legacy and Contradiction

Throughout the following millennia, Black Zetsu continued to provoke conflict between Indra and Ashura’s descendants while also spreading the idea of medical ninjutsu, hoping someone would replicate Shihara’s achievements. This duality confused even him. He was a murderer, the architect of endless wars, yet also a secret messenger of healing.

That the story of Emiya Shihara survived into the present era, while the Sage became a legend, was due largely to Black Zetsu’s own efforts. And still, despite all his manipulations, neither his methods nor Shihara’s had produced true success.

Perhaps that was why he missed Shihara so deeply. Among the countless pawns Black Zetsu had moved across the board of history, Shihara was the one who had come closest to changing the game. If only he had not believed in Ashura back then.

A dry, mocking laugh escaped Black Zetsu’s mouth. He pictured meeting Shihara again, imagined the regret and shame on the man’s face for having betrayed their shared dream.

“Now that you’ve seen ninjas fighting endlessly,” he muttered to the darkness, “will you regret believing Ashura’s foolish words?”


---

The Memory Ends

This was Black Zetsu’s memory, not Shihara’s. It was the shadow’s own “white moonlight,” the cherished yet painful recollection of an almost-victory. In truth, the memory cut more deeply than he cared to admit.

Because in the end, Black Zetsu was still alone—an ancient conspirator staring across centuries at the one pawn who had truly mattered.

Chapter 9 – Emiya Shihara? Uchiha Madara?

The night air over Konoha Village was cool and heavy, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and smoke from distant hearths. Lantern light pooled across the cobblestone streets, casting long wavering shadows that flickered like restless spirits. Somewhere beyond the village walls, an owl hooted, its call echoing across the quiet district.

Deep within one of those shadows crouched a figure of living darkness. Black Zetsu pressed himself flat against the side of a building, his form a ripple of ink sliding between the cracks of reality. He had been moving unseen for hours, following the threads of a scheme woven over centuries. Yet now, for the first time in a very long while, he found himself hesitating.

> Where… is this?
When… is this?



He knew the answers should have been obvious. He had walked these lands for a thousand years, shaping the shinobi world like a potter working clay. War after war, clan after clan, he had whispered poison into the ears of men until his mother’s will spread like a silent plague. Time meant nothing to him. And yet—

Black Zetsu’s golden eyes narrowed.

> Why do I see Emiya Shihara here?



The name felt like a stone thrown into a still pond. Ripples of memory spread outward: a healer from an age when chakra was still raw and untamed; a man who had mended warriors even as they slaughtered one another; a man who should have been dust for a millennium. Zetsu had watched him die—had watched the ground swallow his generation whole. Seeing him now was like glimpsing a ghost wearing flesh.

Meeting an old friend in a foreign land could bring joy.
Meeting someone who absolutely should not exist, at the wrong time and in the wrong place, brought only a creeping unease.

Black Zetsu’s claws dug into the wood of the eaves.
Had he lived so long he was beginning to hallucinate?
Was his mind finally fracturing under the weight of centuries?

Across the street, the man he remembered as Emiya Shihara walked calmly beside Senju Tobirama. The healer’s hands were folded inside his sleeves, his face serene, his voice low but steady. Nothing about him hinted at the impossible—yet everything about his presence screamed it.

“Let’s give the patient some relief,” Shihara murmured, his tone gentle, as though speaking about an ordinary patient rather than the legendary First Hokage. “Killing a friend leaves wounds deeper than steel. The sooner a family member can help him find new support, the better.”

He spoke like a man devoted to his craft, a physician concerned for his patient’s soul as much as his body. He spoke as if he had always been here, as if centuries had not passed, as if he had not been buried under the rubble of history.

Senju Tobirama nodded slightly, his white hair catching the lantern light. His expression was unreadable, but a tension coiled beneath his calm.

“Compared to that accursed Madara,” Tobirama thought aloud, “my elder brother cares more about the people of the village. Perhaps if he spends time with the children—the ones he truly wants to protect—he will find peace.”

“That’s a sound idea,” Emiya Shihara replied. “And I will continue to search for a way to extend his life.”

“Thank you,” Tobirama said quietly.

They walked on, their words muffled by the night wind. Neither man seemed aware of the eyes tracking them from the darkness—neither Madara’s burning gaze from one shadow nor Black Zetsu’s colder stare from another.

Tobirama hesitated, then spoke again, his tone more guarded. “At the hospital earlier, it was inconvenient to ask. But now… Sir Emiya, I must know. What if—” he paused, arms crossing tightly over his chest, “—what if you cannot find a solution? How long does my brother have?”

The street fell silent. Even the crickets seemed to still.
Somewhere above, a paper lantern hissed as its flame licked the wick.

For Uchiha Madara, crouched in the gloom of an alleyway, the words struck like a hammer. Despite everything, Hashirama Senju was still his friend—the one man whose existence validated his own. Even now, with the power of the All-Seeing just out of reach, Madara wanted to prove to Hashirama that his path was right. If Hashirama died before that, all of it would be meaningless.

For Tobirama, the stakes were even sharper. The entire system of hidden villages, the fragile peace, the Land of Fire’s strength—everything hinged on his elder brother’s presence. Without Hashirama, Konoha’s unity might shatter like glass. Clans still clung to their names and pride; many had joined Konoha only because of Hashirama’s overwhelming power and prestige. If that power vanished, what then?

“Ten years,” Emiya Shihara said at last, his voice steady but heavy. “If I cannot find a cure, then even without further battles his lifespan is unlikely to exceed ten years.”

Tobirama’s jaw tightened. Ten years. To most, it would sound like an eternity. To a man in his prime—too short. To a newborn village—barely a heartbeat.

Inside, Tobirama was already moving pieces on a board only he could see. He had always prepared for the worst. He would not allow Konoha to collapse after his brother’s death. Yet emotionally, the thought tore at him. Hashirama had been his constant, his compass. Could he really stand alone after that?

A flicker of determination crossed his crimson eyes. He straightened, nodding as if unaffected. “I understand.”

He turned slightly, quickening his pace toward the Hokage Building, already outlining accommodations for the strange healer. “Your stay in Konoha may be inconvenient at first,” he told Shihara. “Tomorrow I’ll arrange for Sasuke and ANBU to accompany you. You may request anything you need.”

“That’s fine,” Shihara said lightly, though a glimmer of something older flickered in his gaze. “If it’s convenient, I’d also like to see more of this era. Perhaps… to meet someone who can inherit my path as a medical ninja.”

“A disciple?” Tobirama thought. The idea was like a spark in dry tinder. Konoha’s medical corps was competent but still far from what he envisioned. If this ancient master truly intended to pass on lost techniques, it could transform the village’s future.

“I will see to it,” Tobirama promised quietly.

Their footsteps faded down the street, leaving only the echo of their conversation hanging in the cool night.

From a darker corner emerged Uchiha Madara, his cloak whispering against the ground. He watched their retreating backs, eyes narrowing.

“Ten years?” he murmured, the words tasting strange on his tongue. He vanished again, slipping deeper into the labyrinth of shadows, heading toward Konoha Hospital.

But Black Zetsu did not follow.

The pitch-black creature remained crouched where it was, golden eyes gleaming. It glanced after Madara, then back toward the direction Tobirama and Shihara had gone. Its mind churned.

For centuries he had been the hidden hand, the manipulator unseen even by gods. His concealment came from his mother herself; not even the Sage of Six Paths had detected him. And yet tonight he felt… unsettled. Watching Shihara walk beside Tobirama was like staring through a crack in reality. He could feel the timeline flexing, threads twisting where they should run straight.

> The timeline should be intact, he told himself. Naruto’s era follows the anime with minor differences. Tsunade won the bet against the First Hokage, so he died after the war. He captured the Nine-Tails, distributed the other beasts… everything matches. No problem.



And yet.

And yet.

A healer from a thousand years ago now strolled through Konoha’s streets, speaking of disciples and cures. Madara lurked nearby, alive when history declared him dead. Tobirama moved his pieces like a chessmaster preparing for a game no one else could see. The board itself felt wrong.

Black Zetsu’s claws flexed slowly, carving thin grooves into the stone. His smile, when it came, was a thin and dangerous curve.

Maybe the timeline was intact. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, he would adapt. He had always adapted. If Emiya Shihara truly lived, then perhaps he, too, could be used. Perhaps the old healer’s knowledge would push Madara closer to the Rinnegan, closer to the Six Paths. Perhaps this anomaly could serve the plan rather than break it.

But for the first time in centuries, Black Zetsu felt something like anticipation curl in his gut—an unfamiliar thrill that was almost… fear.

Far down the street, a gust of wind snuffed out a lantern, plunging a stretch of the road into darkness. The two men were gone. Madara was gone. Only the living shadow remained, crouched among the eaves of Konoha like an omen no one could read.

He whispered to the empty air, a murmur meant for no one.

“Emiya Shihara… Uchiha Madara… this era is about to become interesting.”

And then, with a ripple of blackness, he vanished.


---

Chapter 8 – Black Zetsu: Like Seeing a Friend Dead for a Thousand Years

The coffin in the hidden chamber creaked as its heavy lid slid open. From within rose a tall, broad-shouldered man, his movements slow but purposeful, like a predator awakening after a long hibernation. His long, tangled hair spilled across his pale face. He parted cracked lips, coughed, and spat a small lump of flesh into his palm. For the first time in years, he felt the taste of life and power return to him.

It was Uchiha Madara.

The world had believed him long dead. Every child in the shinobi nations had been taught that Madara, the strongest Uchiha, had fallen in battle against Senju Hashirama. Even his own clan had accepted that his story ended there. But no one imagined that Madara Uchiha, founder of Konohagakure and the man who had challenged the Hokage himself, could claw his way back from death.

A faint, bitter smile curved Madara’s lips.
“Perfect timing,” he murmured. “It seems my guess was right after all…”

He stood in the damp chamber carved deep into a remote mountain. Shadows clung to the stone walls like old bloodstains. Madara tilted his head back and chuckled softly. In his mind, he mocked the man he hated most.
“Even if I lost to Hashirama… that conniving, hypocritical Senju Tobirama wouldn’t simply discard my body.”

His left hand rose instinctively to his face, brushing the socket of his right eye. One eye remained sharp and crimson; the other was a pale, lifeless gray — the mark of blindness. This was the price of his return from death, a sacrifice he had calculated long ago.

“I set up the Izanagi and timed it perfectly,” he muttered. “Sealed the jutsu into the Sharingan with a Transcription Seal… delayed its release… and it worked.”

The Uchiha clan’s forbidden techniques were carved into his very bones. Izanagi — the power to turn wounds, defeat, even death itself into mere illusions. Transcription Seal — the ability to store a jutsu within one’s eyes, ready to trigger automatically at a set moment or under specific conditions, even after death.

Years before his final duel, Madara had prepared for the possibility of defeat. He had hidden his trump card behind layers of deception and patience. Even so, he felt a twinge of regret as his fingers brushed the blind eye.
“A pity,” he whispered, “to lose the Sharingan Izuna entrusted to me.”

The image of his younger brother flickered in his mind: loyal, bright-eyed Izuna, who had given up his own eyes for Madara’s dream. That memory burned like salt in an open wound. But Madara straightened, forcing the grief away. He had no time for sentiment now.

His gaze dropped to the piece of flesh resting in his palm — pale, pulsing faintly with a vitality that defied death. The corner of his mouth curled upward.
“Hashirama’s flesh…”

More than victory or revenge, this grisly prize had been his true goal all along. Only by battling his friend-turned-rival to the brink could he seize what he needed: the cells of the man known as the “God of Shinobi.”

“My plan succeeded,” Madara murmured. “With these cells… with this chakra… I can complete what I began.”

He squeezed the fragment, feeling its warmth. The union of Senju vitality and Uchiha will — positive and negative forces colliding. From that collision, new power would be born.

“The interplay of opposites creates all things,” he said softly. “By merging our chakra… perhaps the power to save the world can finally be mine.”

He lifted his head, eyes glittering.
“Hashirama. Don’t disappoint me.”

Before leaving, another thought struck him. He formed a rapid string of hand seals.
“Shadow Clone Jutsu.”

A muted bang echoed in the chamber, and a perfect double appeared beside him. The clone climbed back into the coffin, its eyes closing as it feigned death. Madara smirked at the grim tableau.

“Hmph. Better to leave a clone behind. If Tobirama or his dogs come sniffing around, the clone will witness it. When it disperses, I’ll know everything they tried to do to my ‘corpse.’”

In the Warring States era, Madara had survived more ambushes and betrayals than most men could imagine. He knew better than to trust a single layer of deception. This clone was his alarm, his safety net, his silent spy.

Satisfied, Madara turned and strode from the chamber. He needed somewhere quiet — somewhere he could transplant Hashirama’s flesh into his own wounds and begin the transformation. But before that…

“Just once more,” he whispered. “I’ll see him one last time.”

The battle at the Valley of the End had been their most ferocious. Madara had fallen, yes, but not without leaving his mark. Hashirama must have been gravely injured as well. Even with his absurd healing ability, he could not have recovered so quickly.

This last visit would be a farewell — to his former friend, to his former self. Because when next they met, Madara would no longer hesitate. The power of Senluo Wanxiang, the all-encompassing force he sought, would be his, and Hashirama Senju would die for real.

“Hashirama,” Madara muttered, recalling the moment he’d felt the blade slide between his ribs. “I learned it from you.”

He clenched his fists. “Brother, friend, even my own child — to fulfill my dream, I can kill anyone. That’s the lesson you taught me. This darkness… I accept it.”

A strange calm settled over him. Choice brought clarity. Resolve dulled pain. By the time he reached the edge of the hidden passage, his expression was serene again. He stepped into the cool night air and moved silently toward Konoha.

The village lay under heavy guard, but to Madara the patrols were like children playing soldier. Only Hashirama posed any real threat.

Yet he failed to notice one presence — a darkness older than himself, sliding along the shadows like spilled ink. Black Zetsu had been watching from the very moment the coffin opened.

A soft chuckle rose in the darkness. “Heh… this Madara really is clever.”

Black Zetsu’s golden eyes glinted. Even he, the will of Kaguya, had nearly been fooled by Madara’s scheme. But now he felt something unfamiliar stir inside him — excitement. Hope.

“I didn’t expect to see my plan’s possibility in him,” Black Zetsu hissed. “What a delightful surprise…”

He had recognized the shadow clone in the coffin immediately. He understood exactly what Madara intended. And he approved.

“Let me help you,” he whispered. “Tobirama has Madara’s ‘body.’ He’ll be too busy trying to dissect it. I’ll make sure something… inconvenient draws his attention away.”

If no one suspected Madara’s survival, then everything would proceed smoothly. The transplant. The awakening of new eyes. The eventual emergence of the Rinnegan — the power of the Sage of Six Paths.

“When that day comes,” Black Zetsu murmured, “my true purpose will finally begin.”

A tremor of laughter rippled through his inky form. For the first time in a thousand years, he felt as if he were meeting an old companion — someone who could actually advance his mother’s will.

But then, ahead of him, Madara slowed. His footsteps became silent, deliberate. He slipped into a shadowed alley and vanished from view.

Black Zetsu froze. “Huh?”

Had he been discovered? Impossible. His stealth was perfect — a gift from his mother herself. Not even the Sage of Six Paths had sensed him before.

Then he saw what Madara had sensed: two figures walking down a moonlit street in Konoha, speaking in low tones. One was unmistakable — Senju Tobirama, the very man Black Zetsu had planned to manipulate.

The other… Black Zetsu barely glanced at first. To him, all shinobi besides Hashirama were insignificant. But something about the second figure drew his eye.

He looked closer. And for the first time in centuries, his mind went blank.

“No… this can’t be…”

It was as if time folded over itself, as if he were staring through a window to the distant past. His voice trembled.
“Is this… a thousand years later? Why do I see… Emiya Shihara?”

His laughter died. The streets of Konoha, the plans he had nurtured, the puppet strings he had prepared — all of it faded into a haze. He stared, unblinking, at the stranger who should not exist.

For a creature born of patience and manipulation, it was a rare and unsettling thing: shock.

To Black Zetsu, it felt like seeing a friend who had been dead for a thousand years.


---

Chapter 7 – My Allies’ Pawns Are My Pawns

Madara. Madara. Madara.

What good was that accursed Uchiha Madara?

Senju Tobirama clenched his jaw as he glanced at his elder brother. Even now, even at a time like this, Hashirama’s mind still lingered on Madara. Tobirama’s thoughts were sharp but silent—he would never voice them openly in front of an outsider such as Emiya Shihara. His brother’s pain was obvious, but it still frustrated him.

“Brother!”

Tobirama stepped forward and pressed his palm onto Hashirama’s shoulder, trying to calm the trembling man before him. Hashirama’s brow was beaded with cold sweat; his whole body was taut with the lingering echoes of a nightmare.

“Calm down a bit…” Tobirama’s voice was low and firm.

“Who!” Hashirama’s eyes shot open. Instinctively he raised his head, searching the room as if expecting an enemy.

“It’s me—Tobirama.”

The moment Hashirama’s gaze focused on his younger brother, the panic in his eyes began to fade. He exhaled shakily, remembering the dream he had just woken from.

“Tobirama…” His voice was hoarse.

He lowered his hands and stared at his palms as though they belonged to someone else, as though they were still stained with blood. “I dreamed that I… killed Madara.”

Tobirama stiffened. “Big brother!”

But Hashirama only shook his head slowly. “No… that wasn’t just a dream.”

His body sagged, shoulders drooping under the invisible weight of his grief. Unspeakable pain carved itself across his features. He covered his forehead with both hands as tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks.

“Tobirama. I… really killed Madara.”

For a moment Tobirama could not speak.

On one hand he was satisfied—relieved even—that Madara had been slain. But he also knew the cost of that act for his brother. He had seen, with his own eyes, the improbable friendship forged between Hashirama and the dark Uchiha amidst a feud stretching back generations. His brother had fought so hard to preserve it.

And yet, in the end, Hashirama himself had severed it.

With his own hand, he had struck down Madara Uchiha—the comrade who had once dreamed of peace beside him. The bond born in the Warring States Period was finally destroyed.

Tobirama laid a hand on his brother’s trembling shoulder. His voice was solemn. “Brother, don’t forget—Madara wanted to unleash the Nine-Tails to destroy Konoha. You killed him to protect the village we built together.”

“To protect the village…” Hashirama repeated, his eyes unfocused.

It was that single thought which had driven him past the point of no return.

Konoha—the village they had built together. Even the name had been Madara’s suggestion. Yet in that final confrontation, Madara had shown no true intent to kill him. The Uchiha’s arrogance was familiar, almost childish, as though he believed another tantrum would make Hashirama surrender and bend to his will, destroying everything they had created.

But Hashirama had already chosen. His love for Konoha outweighed his friendship. He had vowed to protect the village, even at the cost of his closest bonds.

And so he killed Madara.

The decision left a wound deeper than any blade. He had sacrificed years of trust and companionship for an ideal, and the pain of that sacrifice now consumed him.

His hands clenched the quilt as he sat on the bed, tears flowing freely, mind drifting back to memories of Madara—the boy who had once skipped stones across a river with him, the comrade who had once spoken of peace.

Emiya Shihara, who had been watching silently, finally spoke. “Let the patient rest. He is restless now and should be left alone for a while.”

He glanced at Hashirama with clinical precision. “Also, do not let him use his chakra to accelerate his healing. Excessive cell division could harm him further.”

“Understood.” Tobirama gently guided his brother back onto the bed.

Hashirama slumped down without resistance, hardly noticing the outsider standing nearby. His tears stained the pillow.

“Brother,” Tobirama said softly. “Rest for a while. Do not use chakra. Control your body’s self-healing.”

But Hashirama suddenly grabbed his brother’s wrist. “Tobirama… has Madara’s body been brought back to the village?”

Tobirama’s eyes flickered. “The body has been processed and buried.”

It was a lie.

In truth, Tobirama had hidden Madara’s corpse deep within the mountains. As the strongest Uchiha, Madara possessed the Mangekyō Sharingan—an unmatched specimen. To Tobirama, the body was a priceless opportunity to study the secrets of the Uchiha’s power and perhaps find a way to control it.

He had despised Madara since childhood and felt no qualms about using the corpse for research. But his brother could never know.

Unbeknownst to Tobirama, Emiya Shihara had already seen through him.

The time traveler watched the Senju brothers’ exchange closely, noting the slight flicker in Tobirama’s eyes. It reminded him of something very interesting.

He knew this era’s history from his previous life. He knew exactly what Tobirama had done with Madara’s body. And if nothing had changed, he also knew the whereabouts of a certain ally from a thousand years ago.

A slow smile curved Shihara’s lips.

“My pawn… no, my ally…” he murmured inwardly. “The pawn in my ally’s hand is also my pawn. I only hope my ally, Mr. Black Zetsu, can forgive my betrayal. In this era, I will atone…”

Far away, deep within the mountains of Konoha, a hidden cave lay in silence.

From the cold stone floor a pitch-black figure slowly rose—a creature shaped like tar and shadow. This was Black Zetsu, the very ally Shihara had named. Its life force was so unique it had survived for more than a millennium.

Black Zetsu stood before a coffin in the dim chamber, staring at it in disbelief.

“How did Uchiha Madara die?” it whispered. “How could he be killed?”

Madara had been the most promising pawn Black Zetsu had found in centuries. Before him, the best had been Emiya Shihara a thousand years earlier—a genius with ambitions so grand they surpassed even Indra’s.

But that pawn had been too naive. Convinced by Ashura’s ideals, Shihara had believed the ninja world could become a paradise of healing and unity.

Naive, foolish dreams.

Chakra was never a blessing. Humanity’s nature was to fight for resources. Power inevitably became a weapon.

Black Zetsu almost mourned the loss. Shihara had been so intelligent, yet so soft-hearted. In the Wet Bone Forest he had even allowed his own summoning slug to experiment on his body, gaining fragments of the Divine Tree’s power and the Sage of Six Paths’ strength. They had come so close—close to defeating the Sage himself.

But Shihara’s obsession with his ideal made him vulnerable. It allowed Ashura’s influence to sway him. He had entrusted his dream to Ashura, and in doing so had ruined everything.

“If only he were still alive,” Black Zetsu thought bitterly. “He would regret trusting that idiot Ashura.”

To this manipulator who had shaped history for millennia, Shihara remained the favorite pawn—brilliant, innocent, kind to a fault. In comparison, Uchiha Madara was arrogant and conceited. Yet even Madara had seemed a viable vessel for the plan.

Now, with Madara’s death, that hope had collapsed.

“Madara is dead…” Black Zetsu’s eyes narrowed. “Do I wait again? Or take his eyes now? At least the Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan can be salvaged…”

Just then, a faint tremor came from within the sealed coffin.

Black Zetsu froze, then instantly melted back into the earth like ink into water. Even as it retreated, it kept a thin tendril of itself hidden in a crevice of the chamber, watching the coffin intently.

Something was moving inside.

The long game was not over yet.


---

Chapter 6: Scabbers, Scabbers, You Know Scabbers!

“Feel it.”

With a calm expression, Emiya Shihara pressed his fingers against Senju Tobirama’s arm. In an instant, a jet-black seal bloomed across Tobirama’s pale skin, curling into a spiral reminiscent of Konoha’s insignia. Dark symbols wove themselves into the pattern like living ink. The seal pulsed faintly, as though it contained a heartbeat of its own.

“Chakra…” Tobirama murmured. His sharp eyes narrowed. “I can’t activate it. Just as expected.”

He tried to form a basic hand seal, but his chakra felt as though it had been locked in a cage. The seal on his arm seeped through his system like warm water sliding into his veins. It pressed down on his chakra network, cutting off his usual sharp flow of energy. Even his limbs tingled with a strange paralysis.

But Senju Tobirama was no ordinary ninja. Genius of ninjutsu research, creator of countless jutsu, and second Hokage of Konoha, his mind was as quick as a blade. The moment he sensed the seal’s mechanism, he stopped fighting it and instead allowed his chakra to merge with the foreign energy, testing how it reacted.

“This power…” Tobirama whispered, eyes flashing with curiosity. He could feel the difference already—the seal was imbued with natural energy. When he guided his chakra to match it, his strength swelled faintly, like a tide rising beneath a full moon.

A rare flicker of awe crossed Tobirama’s face. So it’s true. If an ordinary shinobi gained this power, they could rival a jōnin with little effort. If a clan weaponized it… this seal could change the battlefield.

Emiya Shihara, watching him, remained silent. In his mind he could already hear the clashing of armies. The curse seal was a double-edged blade. Its amplification of chakra and its link to natural energy made it invaluable, but also dangerous. If spread without restraint, it could breed a new era of conflict.

Tobirama understood that as well. He had promised Emiya Shihara he would not use the seal in combat, yet a part of him—perhaps the part that had survived the endless wars of the Warring States period—felt reluctant to relinquish such a weapon. Power, after all, was survival. Power meant a longer life, meant control over a future that was always threatening to slip away.

Still, his face remained neutral as he flexed his fingers. “Let me keep it for now. I need to measure how long this seal can suppress my brother’s chakra based on its fluctuations.”

Emiya Shihara raised an eyebrow. “I intended to break it right away, merely to let you experience its effects. This manipulation of natural energy is crude—too easy to learn. I only hope this power won’t bring new wars to the world…”

“Emiya-sama.” Tobirama reached out, grasping the older man’s wrist with unexpected firmness. His voice was steady but grave. “Don’t release it yet. Let me test it. Only by understanding its duration and limits can we apply it safely to my brother.”

The ancient medical ninja tilted his head. Born in an era of gods and sages, Emiya Shihara still found the modern world puzzling. Did Tobirama truly believe natural energy was so easily mastered? Even Hashirama, blessed by nature itself, had spent years to achieve Sage Mode. How could an ordinary ninja hope to handle it?

Tobirama, of course, knew better than most. He had witnessed Hashirama’s mastery first-hand, had studied natural energy from the shadows. Yet no matter how he experimented, he could never sense it with the same clarity. That was why the cursed seal fascinated him: it was a direct, almost mechanical link to what had always been out of reach.

A flicker of shame passed through his eyes. This seal was a gift, but also a temptation. For a man like Tobirama, power was not an abstract concept but the very thing that allowed Konoha to stand against its enemies, inside and outside. He could not afford to discard it.

He silently vowed that he would use this power only in the most desperate of moments. Yet he said nothing of that vow aloud. Outwardly, he remained the dutiful brother and the cautious Hokage’s aide.

“You and your brother have a truly remarkable bond,” Emiya Shihara murmured at last, shaking his head. He had seen siblings in ancient times tear each other apart over power. Tobirama’s devotion to Hashirama was almost foreign to him. “But be careful. If you keep the seal too long, it may hinder your movements…”

“Don’t worry.” Tobirama raised his arm. The black markings slid over his skin like a slow river, but his fingers moved without difficulty. In truth, he had already begun to grasp its workings. If nothing unexpected happened, he would master the seal entirely before the day ended.

“I understand it now,” he said briskly, glancing at Hashirama’s still form on the hospital bed. “Let’s proceed. Seal my elder brother. He’s mastered Sage Mode; if anyone can absorb this power for his own use, it’s him.”

“I’m worried about that too.” Emiya Shihara’s tone turned wry. Nevertheless, he extended his finger and pressed it to Hashirama’s arm. Another jet-black seal appeared—only to vanish almost instantly.

As they had feared, Hashirama’s body drank in the natural energy at once. His cells converted it into senjutsu chakra, pulling him toward Sage Mode even in his unconscious state. A faint glow crept across his features.

On the bed, the First Hokage stirred. Pain flickered across his brow. His lips parted, and a single word slipped out like a ghost escaping a cage. “Madara…”

Tobirama’s jaw clenched. Even now? The man who had unleashed the Nine-Tails, the enemy who had wounded Hashirama and cut short his life—and still his brother muttered his name as though it were a prayer. Tobirama’s hands curled into fists.

Emiya Shihara exhaled. “If nothing unexpected happens, he will wake soon. The seal didn’t work as we hoped, but his own body’s Sage Chakra recovery ability is extraordinary. It may damage his lifespan further, but…”

He met Tobirama’s eyes. “As long as the patient refrains from using chakra after waking and controls his self-healing, we can prevent more harm. As for the damage already done, I will search for a way to make up for it. In my time, I had Yang Power to treat such cases, but my medical research lagged once I grew used to that strength.”

“Thank you,” Tobirama said quietly. The tension in his eyes eased. It was working. For the first time since the battle, he felt real hope.

He remembered the battlefield, dragging back Uchiha Madara’s corpse and his gravely injured brother. Remembered the despair when Konoha’s finest medical-nin had been helpless. No one could even predict when Hashirama would awaken. And now—this man from another era had achieved what none of them could.

Regardless of his misgivings, this was a debt Tobirama would remember. Emiya Shihara had risked disturbing his own soul’s peace to come here, and still offered to repair Hashirama’s lifespan. Gratitude settled heavily on Tobirama’s shoulders.

“I’m deeply grateful,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “Emiya-sama, don’t belittle yourself. Without you, there would be no medical-nin willing to push beyond their limits to save lives.”

He straightened, voice growing firm. “My brother’s life is tied to Konoha’s peace and to the hopes of its people. The village’s future depends on you, Emiya-sama.”

It was, admittedly, a selfish motive. Tobirama had not wanted to use the Impure World Reincarnation technique at all. But resurrecting Emiya Shihara had opened the door to ancient secrets, to seals and powers long forgotten. Shihara truly was a treasure.

If the man had failed, Tobirama would have stalled for time, extracting as much knowledge as he could before returning Shihara’s soul to the underworld. Yet this ancient medic lived up to the legends. His determination to heal Hashirama was genuine, almost selfless. It left Tobirama feeling both relieved and wary.

How can I treat him properly without drawing suspicion? Tobirama wondered. How do I keep his identity hidden from the village while preventing rumors? The problem gnawed at him even as he thanked Shihara aloud.

Across from him, Emiya Shihara felt a similar flicker of camaraderie. But he still wore the calm mask of a healer. He glanced at the First Hokage again, eyes softening. “The patient is about to wake up,” he said gently.

Everything unfolded just as he predicted. Hashirama’s frown deepened, the golden tint of Sage Mode fading from his eyes. His fingers twitched. Then, with a sudden jolt, he sat upright, as though snapping free from a nightmare.

“Madara!” he gasped, fear etched across his face.

Tobirama closed his eyes briefly. The name echoed like a curse in the quiet room. Even now, after all this, his brother’s first word was that man’s name.

Emiya Shihara only watched silently. He had seen many awakenings, many old wounds that even healing could not touch. This was just one more.


--

Chapter 5 – How Could You Have Such an Extravagant Idea?

Sometimes, the most dangerous truths are the ones spoken too plainly.
Emiya Shihara knew this well.

Standing in the quiet corridor outside Konoha Hospital’s ward, he hesitated. Telling Senju Tobirama outright that a full resurrection would let him heal Hashirama completely was out of the question. Tobirama was clever, suspicious by nature. The moment Shihara spoke openly, Tobirama would begin probing for traps, reading conspiracies between every line.

And to be fair, there was a conspiracy.
Shihara’s very existence in this era depended on careful deception. The plan he had hidden for centuries was a delicate web. One wrong thread pulled, and the entire design could collapse before he had even begun.

Yet Tobirama, for all his intellect, showed a kind of blind spot. He cared little about whether Shihara could truly be resurrected; he was fixated only on this mysterious “Yang Power” Shihara had mentioned—this rumored energy that might restore Hashirama’s fading life force.

“Sir Emiya,” Tobirama said, his sharp eyes narrowing. “What exactly is this Yang Power?”

He spoke in that brisk, analytic tone Shihara had already learned to expect. The Second Hokage’s mind never rested; it dissected every term, every hint of information. “It seems related to Yang-attribute chakra,” Tobirama went on. “I know that Yang chakra forms the basis of many miraculous techniques. Medical ninjutsu itself is grounded in Yang chakra…”

He paused, then offered an example, as if giving evidence to a court: “The Akimichi clan, for instance. They manipulate Yang-attribute chakra to create their secret Multiplication Technique, massively increasing physical power.”

Shihara gave a small, patient smile. “That’s correct. Yang Power is the ultimate form of Yang-attribute chakra.”

He let his words hang for a heartbeat, watching Tobirama lean slightly forward, waiting. “With it,” Shihara continued softly, “one can create life where none existed. Limbs severed in battle can be restored. Destroyed organs can be regrown. Even a body drained of vitality can be filled again, granting the patient more years to live…”

His gaze drifted to the hospital bed inside the room, to the still form of Hashirama Senju. “Yes,” he said quietly, “even a man whose life force is nearly spent could be saved.”

Tobirama’s pupils contracted. “Then how,” he asked, “can a ninja maximize Yang chakra and achieve this Yang Power?”

“That,” Shihara said with a sigh, “is not easy. The simplest way is for someone who already possesses Yang Power to share it with another.”

He looked meaningfully at Tobirama. “Your brother is the perfect candidate for me to share my Yang energy with.”

A flicker of emerald-green chakra glimmered in Shihara’s palm, bright and alive. After a moment it faded, leaving only empty air. Shihara shook his head with theatrical regret. “But the Yang energy within me vanished without a trace during this resurrection. I don’t know why.”

Tobirama drew a slow breath. His voice dropped to an unusually humble register. “It’s my fault,” he said. “My Impure World Reincarnation was incomplete. This was my first time using it.”

“No problem,” Shihara replied gently. “Perhaps this body isn’t truly mine from my lifetime. Perhaps the power was lost in the underworld.”

He tilted his head, watching Tobirama’s frown deepen. Inwardly, Shihara could hardly stop himself from snorting. Do you honestly think this is my mistake? he thought. Without my cooperation your crude jutsu wouldn’t have worked at all. I lingered in the underworld on purpose to make this possible.

But he said none of this aloud.

Instead, he reminded himself of his real objective: to remain in this world long enough to rebuild what he had lost. If that meant playing the meek guest and allowing Tobirama to shoulder the blame, so be it.

“Forget it,” he murmured at last, stepping toward Hashirama’s bedside. “For now I’ll try other methods. First I’ll suppress the chakra in his body, slow his self-healing, and stop his cells from dividing too quickly. That should limit the damage to his lifespan.”

“That won’t be easy.” Tobirama’s tone carried both agreement and doubt. “My brother’s chakra is extraordinary. Restraining it is… difficult.”

Shihara extended two fingers. A faint black pattern appeared on the tips, writhing like ink. “Indeed. He’s scarcely inferior to Ashura himself, your clan’s ancestor.”

Tobirama’s eyes sharpened. “What is that?”

“A curse seal,” Shihara said, holding the black energy up so Tobirama could see. “A seal condensed from natural energy. It prevents a person from using their chakra freely. If they try, the seal restrains their movements. In theory it should force his body to rest.”

He allowed a hint of uncertainty to color his face. “But I’m not sure it will work on him. He’s dabbled in Sage Mode—his body may adapt to the seal too quickly.”

“Natural energy…” Tobirama stepped closer, curiosity overcoming caution. “May I examine it? I’ve studied many jutsu. Perhaps I can improve it, help you stabilize the effect.”

Shihara inclined his head. Perfect. The more Tobirama involved himself, the less he would suspect.

Even so, a flicker of unease crossed Shihara’s features.

“Is there a problem?” Tobirama asked.

“This procedure isn’t common,” Shihara admitted. “The curse seal can temporarily block a person’s chakra, but if the bearer masters it completely, it can also grant them greater power by integrating the seal’s energy. I’m worried…”

He trailed off, then finished softly, “…worried that spreading this power to the world will make it another weapon. Like chakra itself.”

A shadow of memory passed across his face. “When the Sage of Six Paths and our order first taught chakra, some feared it would be used for war. Ashura and I believed otherwise—we thought the world would use chakra to end suffering, as we did. But now…” He gave a faint, bitter laugh. “Now it’s clear we were wrong. Chakra became a tool for ninjas to fight and kill each other.”

Tobirama studied him for a long moment, then spoke with quiet certainty. “Sir Emiya, this is not your fault. Power itself is never evil. Only the hearts of the greedy twist it. Please rest assured: I will not reveal the existence of this curse seal.”

He raised his hand as though taking an oath. His grey eyes hardened. “And if I ever use the curse seal for battle, may my soul find no peace in the underworld after death.”

Shihara’s eyelid twitched. No need to go that far, he thought. You, of all people, with your Impure World Reincarnation disturbing souls—do you really think your own soul will rest peacefully? How extravagant.

Still, the oath suited his purposes perfectly.

Since Tobirama had bound himself with his own words, Shihara could safely imprint the seal. If the Second Hokage ever turned against him or tried to cancel the Impure World Reincarnation, the curse seal would serve as a quiet leash.

He looked down at the unconscious Hashirama, then back at Tobirama. “Very well,” he said softly. “Let’s begin.”


---

Chapter 4 – “You Think I’m an Old Antique?”

The corridor outside Konoha Hospital’s most secure ward was quiet, but the tension in the air felt like a taut wire ready to snap. Sunlight filtered weakly through the paper windows, leaving long rectangles of light across the polished floor. Here, Senju Tobirama waited, his expression a mask of composure that hid the calculations behind his sharp eyes.

Inwardly, though, the Second Hokage was anything but calm. He sincerely hoped that Emiya Shihara—the mysterious healer from an age long past—would keep the secrets of ancient times to himself, especially from Tobirama’s elder brother, Senju Hashirama. Tobirama knew his brother’s nature far too well. If Hashirama discovered that the ancestors of the Senju and Uchiha had once been brothers, and that both clans descended from the Sage of Six Paths, his natural compassion would drive him to extend even greater tolerance toward the Uchiha. That kind of leniency would shatter Tobirama’s carefully laid plans to keep the Uchiha under control.

If it were up to him, Tobirama would have preferred Shihara to reveal only the darkest parts of history—Indra’s rebellion, the cursed origins of the Uchiha’s power. That would make his policy of suppression easier to justify. But Shihara was no schemer. He was an upright, almost naïve gentleman who clearly saw such manipulations for what they were. He would never agree to present only half the truth.

So Tobirama chose his words with extreme care.

He straightened, cleared his throat, and said in a tone heavy with responsibility, “Lord Emiya…”

Shihara raised an eyebrow slightly, waiting.

“The situation in Konoha is… unstable,” Tobirama began. The lie slipped from his tongue smoothly, without the slightest hesitation. “If these ancient secrets were leaked, they would stir endless debate and mistrust. Although Uchiha Madara sought to destroy our village, many Uchiha have joined Konoha in good faith. We consider them our comrades.”

He lowered his voice, adding a note of concern. “If the villagers hear the story of Indra—the ancestor who turned against his people—they’ll suspect that all Uchiha are born evil. Rejection and hatred will only grow.”

Across from him, Emiya Shihara’s expression shifted into something unreadable. His eyes glinted with faint amusement, as if to say, Are you bullying me because you think I’m some old antique? He had only been dead for a long time, not rendered blind or foolish.

Konoha’s Second Hokage speaking of compassion for the Uchiha? That was almost comical. Wasn’t Tobirama the very man who started the village’s policy of isolating and surveilling them? Shihara held his tongue, but inwardly he marveled at the man’s skill with words.

Tobirama continued his carefully constructed explanation. “To integrate the Uchiha, my brother has always shown them special favor. But once he knows that our clans share the same blood and that he killed his former friend Madara to protect the village, guilt will drive him to draw them even closer.”

“In that case,” Tobirama went on, “the other ninja clans will see favoritism. They will call it unfair. If the people learn that our ancestors Ashura and Indra were brothers, they’ll question my brother’s impartiality. And my brother—he is the First Hokage of Konoha. The alliances we’ve forged are fragile. If trust in his fairness collapses, so will the peace we’ve built.”

He exhaled slowly, then delivered his conclusion. “Your Excellency Emiya, for the sake of Konoha and the entire ninja world, I must ask you to keep these ancient secrets sealed.”

The words were spoken with perfect gravity and moral weight. Shihara could hardly refuse without looking like the villain. Tobirama’s appeal was a form of polite blackmail cloaked in the language of duty and peace.

It’s so hard to be a good person these days, Shihara thought wryly. If you try, someone will use your conscience as a weapon against you.

But he was not helpless. If Tobirama could play at moral pressure, so could he.

“I can only try not to say the wrong thing,” Shihara said at last, shaking his head with a carefully measured hesitation. “In our time, people often used chakra to communicate during meditation. Thoughts were shared openly; lying to one’s companions was rare. I’m afraid I’m not very practiced at hiding my true feelings.”

He softened his tone, adding a hint of apology to his face. “I truly am sorry, but I will do my best.”

For a moment Tobirama studied him. Then the Second Hokage sighed—a sound that carried genuine yearning. “I should be the one apologizing,” he murmured. “I’ve heard legends about the Sage of Six Paths, about a time when people respected and understood one another. I didn’t think any of it was real…”

Shihara rubbed his brow, a touch embarrassed. “It wasn’t absolute,” he admitted. “For example, no one in the Ninja Sect could understand Indra’s thoughts. He left, believing he could use the power of the Sharingan to destroy the village. In the end Ashura gathered everyone’s chakra to defeat him.”

“What!” Tobirama’s eyes snapped wide, outrage flaring. “That innately evil Uchiha ancestor!”

The outburst was so instinctive it almost made Shihara laugh. Tobirama’s reaction to Indra was exactly the same as his reaction to Madara. Both, in Tobirama’s mind, were proof that Uchiha blood carried ruin in its veins.

“Speaking of brothers,” Shihara said smoothly, changing the subject, “you seem to have a good relationship with yours. A harmonious bond like that is rare.”

“As it should be,” Tobirama replied, a flicker of warmth passing through his stern expression. He remembered how Hashirama had protected him as a child, how his elder brother’s faith had carried them through the war-torn years. “My brother has always taken care of me.”

In that moment Tobirama felt almost wistful. Based on Shihara’s demeanor, he began to imagine that the ninja of the ancient times had all been like this—principled, openhearted. Perhaps that lost era had truly been a kind of paradise… aside from that cursed Uchiha ancestor.

He drew in a breath, steadying himself. “Let’s go in.”

With a respectful nod, Tobirama slid open the ward door. His manner toward Shihara had grown notably more humble. “We can do nothing for my brother’s injuries. We can only entrust him to you, Lord Emiya.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Shihara replied, waving a hand as he stepped inside. His back straightened, his posture becoming serious. “Don’t worry. I’m a medical ninja. I won’t let my patient down.”

The room smelled faintly of flowers, an attempt to mask the antiseptic scent of medicine. On the bed lay a man with long black hair, his body wrapped in heavy bandages. His eyes were closed, his breathing even but faint.

Senju Hashirama—the First Hokage. Undoubtedly the strongest ninja of this era, now reduced to stillness.

“My brother has never been this weak,” Tobirama said quietly, standing beside Shihara. “His battle with Madara nearly exhausted his chakra.”

“Let me see.” Shihara’s fingers slid to Hashirama’s wrist, feeling the pulse of life and chakra beneath the skin. His brow furrowed slightly. “Wood Release…?”

He sank into thought. “In theory, the source of Wood Release is the power of the sacred tree. Ashura awakened it with the chakra bestowed by the Sage. This kind of power should be impossible to inherit.”

“My brother awakened Wood Release only after adulthood,” Tobirama offered quickly, noting Shihara’s words with interest. “Sir Emiya, how is his condition?”

“Don’t worry.” Shihara lifted his gaze to meet Tobirama’s. “His self-healing ability is extraordinary. He’s merely exhausted his chakra, which is why his injuries linger. Once his chakra recovers, he will recover as well.”

Tobirama narrowed his eyes. He had already assessed his brother’s state; Shihara’s optimism sounded almost like a platitude. But before he could voice doubt, Shihara continued.

“However…” The ancient healer’s voice deepened. “He has overused his self-healing. His cells have been dividing and regenerating at an accelerated rate, damaging his lifespan. He has also drawn too heavily on his life energy to empower his Wood Release. This is… troublesome.”

“Troublesome?” Tobirama repeated, but instead of tensing he allowed himself a small exhale of relief. “Then Lord Emiya can solve it?”

“In ancient times, it would have been a small problem.” Shihara’s eyes narrowed, a glint of regret crossing his face. “I would simply have used the power of Yang to heal him. But in this state, I am no different from a dead man. I cannot wield Yang Release.”

If only I could truly resurrect, he thought. If only I could draw on my full power…

Tobirama said nothing, but his mind spun with new calculations. Even weakened, Shihara had knowledge and skill beyond any living medic. Perhaps, with guidance, he could still save Hashirama. Perhaps Tobirama’s gamble—summoning this man from the grave—would pay off.

Shihara placed a hand gently on Hashirama’s chest, closing his eyes to feel the ebb and flow of chakra beneath the bandages. “Rest now,” he murmured under his breath, though neither brother could tell whether he spoke to the patient or himself.

Behind him, Tobirama stood like a statue, watching, measuring, hoping.

The faint fragrance of flowers drifted through the ward. Outside, the village moved on, unaware that within this quiet room the past and future of Konoha were converging.


--

Chapter 3 – The Power of Emiya Shihara

The dim light filtering through the paper screens of the Hokage’s office cast long shadows across the wooden floor. Outside, the sounds of a bustling village drifted faintly in, yet inside the room the atmosphere was tense, almost brittle. Senju Tobirama sat stiffly, arms folded, his sharp eyes fixed on the man who had just been summoned from death itself—Emiya Shihara.

“Now,” Tobirama said, his voice measured but low, “tell me again. Their last name is Uchiha.”

Shihara inclined his head. “Yes. The Uchiha clan and the Senju clan have been locked in conflict for generations.”

Tobirama’s jaw tightened. He spoke as though finding in Shihara a confidant who truly understood his frustrations. “My elder brother defeated the Uchiha and convinced them to help build Konoha. Yet among them lurk those who cling to the darkness of their ancestors…”

What Tobirama did not notice was how intently his assistant—a young ANBU posted near the door—was listening to every word Shihara spoke. These were the kinds of stories the assistant longed to hear, stories of the village’s founders and their enemies. Each detail made Shihara seem more trustworthy, more like a man of wisdom than a stranger raised from the dead.

But Tobirama, focused on the present, had no reason to doubt a person said to have lived thousands of years ago. What mattered was the information this man possessed—information that could justify the surveillance policies Tobirama was already forming in his mind.

“Big Brother…” Tobirama’s eyes darkened as his voice dropped. “Even he was injured by an Uchiha whose malice was inherent.”

He spat the name like a bitter seed: “Uchiha Madara.”

There was no disguise in his hatred. “My brother invited Madara to help end the chaos. Instead, Madara betrayed him. He left Konoha, only to return bent on destroying it and killing my brother—dragging the ninja world back to the flames of war.”

For a moment the air was heavy with unspoken memories. Tobirama exhaled slowly. “Fortunately, Madara is dead. My brother is no longer bound by him.”

Shihara sighed softly, a note of regret in his voice. “From the way you speak, Madara sounds as warlike as his ancestor…”

He let the words hang, then continued, “Long ago, Ashura sought understanding and peace. Indra sought dominion over the ninja world. Two brothers, two ideals—locked in struggle until death.”

Tobirama gave a sharp, derisive snort. “This is the evil inherited in their bloodline! Just like the accursed Sharingan passed from one generation of Uchiha to the next.”

Shihara’s expression grew thoughtful. “I observed the Sharingan myself in ancient times. Its power gradually pushed Indra toward extremity.”

“Yes,” Tobirama replied, his tone softening in the presence of someone who seemed to share his conclusions. “I’ve studied the Sharingan as well. It is a bloodline limit bound to emotion. The more powerful the eyes, the stronger the emotions that drive them—and the more likely the wielder is to become extreme.”

He leaned forward slightly. “The stronger the Uchiha, the greater their risk of going too far. And the more extreme they become, the stronger they grow. A vicious cycle.”

It was an unsolvable dilemma. An Uchiha who failed to master his emotions would inevitably become dangerous. Tobirama’s mind was already moving to solutions. They had to be watched—closely and constantly.

Strict surveillance. Centralized oversight. That was the only way to protect the village.

He imagined a new department staffed by Uchiha themselves but monitored from the shadows by ANBU. Their settlements would be grouped together for easier observation. This was the only path he saw to security.


---

Konoha Hospital stood under the tightest security the village could muster. The recent battle between Senju Hashirama, the First Hokage, and Uchiha Madara had been so cataclysmic that it reshaped the land itself, leaving a great canyon at the site of their clash. Word of such a battle could not be hidden from the other villages. Already, foreign spies prowled the outskirts of Konoha, desperate to learn whether the First Hokage lived or died. Hashirama’s survival meant peace; his death could plunge the world into chaos.

Information about his condition had been sealed off at the highest level. Guards patrolled every hall. Yet even here, tension bled through the walls.

“Sasuke,” Tobirama suddenly called, his voice echoing down the corridor.

Shihara’s eyes twitched. Wait… Sasuke? This wasn’t right. According to his memories of the future, Konoha had only just been founded. This should be the era of Hashirama and Madara, the Valley of the End. How could Sasuke already be here?

A young man strode forward, bowing sharply. His dark eyes flicked toward Shihara with curiosity and a hint of suspicion. “Lord Tobirama. This is…?”

“This is Lord Emiya Shihara,” Tobirama said in a deep voice, his trust in the young ninja apparent. “Sasuke, you can relax. There is no longer any reason to worry about the village.”

He gestured toward Shihara. “I used a forbidden technique to resurrect Lord Emiya so he could treat my brother’s injuries. You’ve heard his name. With him here, my brother will recover.”

The young man’s eyes widened. “Lord Emiya… the greatest medical ninja? I grew up hearing tales of him. I never imagined I would meet him face to face…”

Tobirama introduced him formally. “This is Sarutobi Sasuke, captain of Konoha’s jōnin squad.” Then, with an authoritative edge, “Sasuke, you will keep Lord Emiya’s presence absolutely secret.”

Though Tobirama wielded immense power as the Hokage’s assistant, he was no dictator. The other clans still held sway, and in a moment as precarious as this—when Hashirama’s life hung in the balance—their cooperation was vital. The Sarutobi clan, larger and more stable than many others, had been instrumental in calming unrest. Tobirama’s open trust in Sasuke served as reassurance to the entire alliance.

“I’ll take Lord Emiya to the ward,” Tobirama said at last, patting Sasuke’s shoulder before moving to lead the way. He glanced back with a rare note of praise. “Sasuke is a man of iron will, patriarch of the Sarutobi clan. In many ways, even I fall short of him.”

He allowed himself a small smile. “His son Hiruzen is promising as well—already a master of their clan’s summoning technique at his age.”

As Tobirama spoke, he looked sidelong at Shihara, clearly hoping the ancient ninja might share some story about the Sarutobi’s ancestry. But Shihara only stared back, surprised. He wants me to talk about the Sarutobi’s past? I only know their future.

“In my time,” Shihara said finally, “there was no Sarutobi clan.”

Tobirama’s brow furrowed. “No Sarutobi…?”

“In the era when the Ninja Sect was first founded,” Shihara continued, “only the Sage of Six Paths bore a surname.”

At that name Tobirama stopped in his tracks. “The Sage of Six Paths? Lord Emiya, are you saying you’ve seen the legendary god himself?”

Shihara tilted his head. “The Senju have no records of him?”

Tobirama shook his head slowly. “For us, the Sage is a mythical creator. With the Amanuma Spear he ended the world’s disasters, spread chakra to mankind, and founded the Ninja Sect in ancient times.”

Shihara gave a noncommittal shrug. “I assumed the Senju kept records. After all, the Sage is the father of your ancestor Ashura—and of the Uchiha’s ancestor Indra.”

Tobirama’s heart thudded. He had never heard such a claim. If this knowledge spread, it could change everything. And the Uchiha, already arrogant, might grow even bolder.

But Shihara pressed on, unconcerned. “The Sage was a good man. When I first proposed the idea of medical ninjas, he donated his body for posthumous research.”

He did not mention the truth—that the Sage’s remains had been a quest reward, not a voluntary gift. Through them, Shihara had gained the strength to survive in this era. If only the Sage’s body had contained the secret of immortality, he might not have needed to cross death to return here at all.


---

A flicker of chakra glimmered in Shihara’s eyes as memories surfaced. His own status—burned into his mind like an invisible ledger—scrolled before him:

Name: Emiya Shihara.
Gender: Male.
Occupation: Ninja.
Chakra Attributes: Fire, Wind, Lightning, Earth, Water, Yin, Yang.
Chakra Energy: In life—SSSS+. Now, bound by the limitations of Impure World Reincarnation, his usable chakra was capped at “A” rank.

Bloodline Techniques:

Wood Release (S): From the Divine Tree’s remains, capable of draining enemy chakra to strengthen itself.

Natural Rinnegan (S): From the Sage’s remains, surpassing even the ordinary Rinnegan; its Susanoo outshone the Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan.

Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan (S): Reward from the Sage’s remains, granting unparalleled perception and illusion.


Battle Modes:

Curse Seal Mode: Natural energy absorbed through sacred-tree fragments to create seals that replenish chakra in battle.

Sage Mode: Perfect balance of physical, spiritual, and natural energy for heightened perception and power.

Six Paths Mode: Ultimate mastery of yin and yang, capable of wielding Truth-Seeking Orbs—but at the cost of breaking the Impure World Reincarnation and returning to death.


Skills:
Swordsmanship (S), Taijutsu (S), Medical Ninjutsu (S) capable of curing any illness in life (now restricted), and effortless mastery of all elemental releases without hand seals. His Summoning Pact with the slug of the Wet Bone Forest lay dormant under the Impure World’s seal. His ocular techniques—Kamui’s space-warping and Kanna’s mirror-like defense—were shadows of their true selves under these constraints.

Even weakened, Shihara’s power eclipsed that of most living shinobi. Simply casting jutsu without hand signs was an overwhelming advantage. With his Kekkei Genkai and the Six Paths Mode, he was a force of nature.

Yet he could not unleash his true strength in this borrowed body. He had been resurrected too soon.

His gaze shifted to Tobirama walking ahead. This was not a man easily deceived. He sought control over everything around him. Shihara had sensed it the moment he awoke. Tobirama had wanted to bind him but, being at heart a man of principle, had refrained.

A pity, Shihara thought. If some villain had used the Impure World Reincarnation on me, I might have manipulated them instead—used the Rinnegan fragment I left behind to return fully to life…

But that chance was gone. For now, all he could do was play along and wait.

Somewhere far away, he thought with a flicker of ironic nostalgia, Orochimaru was still years from birth. Yet even now Shihara felt the stirrings of future schemes—the missing serpent sage whose forbidden arts might one day grant him another path to freedom.

He exhaled slowly, centering himself. The chapter of his rebirth was only beginning.


---

Chapter 2: The Origins of the Senju and Uzumaki Clans

The morning air in Konoha was cool and faintly fragrant with pine. Compared to the images of prosperous cities one might imagine, this village felt rough and unpolished. Many of the houses were simple wooden frames hastily thrown together, their walls uneven, as though each family had built what they could with whatever time and resources they had. Yet beneath the rustic exteriors there was an energy—a hum of quiet determination—that bound the people of the village together.

Emiya Shihara, walking at Senju Tobirama’s side, didn’t seem to mind the village’s plainness. Instead, he looked around with the curious eyes of a man who had been asleep for a thousand years. He studied the crooked eaves, the narrow alleys between houses, the children darting past with wooden practice kunai. It was not a grand city, but it was alive.

“This is the village we live in now,” Tobirama said, his voice steady as he signaled to an ANBU squad to tighten patrols. The shinobi vanished onto nearby rooftops as quietly as shadows, while Tobirama turned back to Shihara. “It’s been over a thousand years since your time, Emiya-sama.”

“A thousand years?” Shihara’s steps slowed. He stared at a cluster of low houses roofed with cedar shingles. “No wonder everything looks so different. The style of the houses, the layout of the streets… even the air feels different.” A faint, almost wistful smile flickered across his face. “But if a thousand years have passed, then medical ninjutsu must be wonderfully advanced now. At least back then, there were no techniques for resurrecting the dead. The wisdom of later generations is truly astonishing.”

Tobirama’s expression turned subtle. “I’m… a little ashamed,” he admitted at last, exhaling slowly. “The forbidden technique that revived you is not a medical one. It was created for battle. Even I was fortunate just to bring you back with your mind intact. The level of medical ninjutsu now is not so different from when you created it.”

Shihara’s expression darkened, the lines of his face stiffening. “So humans have used the power of chakra for fighting after all.”

For a healer, war was the ultimate perversion of their art. Shihara, the man once hailed as the sage of medicine, had built his life on the idea that chakra was a means to heal and understand, not a weapon to wound. Tobirama, who had grown up hearing stories of Shihara’s legend, felt a twinge of guilt at seeing the disappointment in his eyes. But he pressed on. The past was what it was; the present demanded acceptance.

“It’s all about survival,” Tobirama said firmly. “To live through the brutal Warring States era, we had to refine chakra for combat. Otherwise, our clan would have been erased.”

He glanced sidelong at Shihara and softened his tone. “Thankfully, the war is over—at least for now. My elder brother, Senju Hashirama, used his power to end the chaos of the Warring States period. He forged a new system, one where ninja villages and nations coexist under mutual agreements instead of endless bloodshed. We invited other clans to join us here, to build Konoha as one community rather than as rivals.”

Tobirama let the weight of his words settle before adding, “If my brother recovers from his wounds, his prestige will guarantee peace in the ninja world. And with peace, medical ninjutsu can finally flourish again.”

Shihara said nothing at first. His gaze wandered over the dirt road ahead, where two women were tending a herb stall and an old man was mending a net. Peace, prestige, medical progress—how easily people wove these promises together, as if human nature would change simply because a single man declared it so. Yet he did not voice his doubt. Instead, he exhaled softly. “Don’t worry,” he said at last. “I have never failed my patients. And… your family name is Senju.”

Tobirama kept his face neutral, but inwardly he was alert. Shihara had reacted to the Senju name with more than recognition—almost with relief. Did this saint from a thousand years ago have some hidden tie to their clan?

“Sir Emiya,” Tobirama said carefully, “our clan has always kept your crystal coffin. Children of the Senju grow up on your stories. Is there some connection between you and our family?”

“There is… a little connection,” Shihara replied, his voice low but steady. “If you are the descendants of Ashura…”

“Ashura?” Tobirama repeated, brows knitting.

“Yes.” Shihara walked a few more steps before speaking again, almost as if recalling something long buried. “I had a friend named Ashura. He could not use the surname left by his father, so I created two surnames for his descendants to choose from.”

He turned his head and met Tobirama’s eyes. “One was Senju. The other was Uzumaki. It seems the descendants of Ashura have chosen the name Senju.”

Tobirama stopped walking. His pupils widened. The revelation struck him like a thrown kunai. Those two surnames—Senju and Uzumaki—existed to this day. Their clans had always been distant relatives, bound by an unspoken tie. Now the origin was clear. The ancestor of both clans had been a single man: Ashura.

Shihara’s words rolled on. “Both surnames were used. The Uzumaki clan are your distant relatives. Two branches of the same legacy.”

Tobirama drew a long, controlled breath. “How unexpected,” he said solemnly. “The names of both the Senju and the Uzumaki came from you, Lord Emiya.”

He could already hear his brother’s teasing if Hashirama learned Tobirama had resurrected someone who had personally known their ancestor. But Tobirama also recognized the opportunity. This was no ordinary elder; this was a man who had shaped the course of ninja history.

“Time flies and the world changes,” Shihara murmured, his eyes reflecting a deep nostalgia. “I never thought the descendants of Ashura would still be here.”

Tobirama stayed silent, sensing the weight behind the words. Shihara and Ashura must have been close friends. That could only work in Konoha’s favor. Still, Tobirama’s instincts held him back. No matter how noble a reputation someone had in legend, trust had to be earned in the present. He had learned that lesson from bitter experience—especially regarding the Uchiha clan.

Only days ago, Uchiha Madara had returned to Konoha after years of absence and unleashed the Nine-Tails upon the village, nearly killing Hashirama. Madara had died in the end, but the incident proved how dangerous a single individual could be. Though the remaining Uchiha might be innocent, Tobirama could not forget that within their bloodline lay the potential for another Madara.

After all, even Hashirama’s gifts were unique among the Senju. It was not impossible that another monstrous genius could arise within the Uchiha clan—perhaps even someone worse than Madara. Their Sharingan was a bloodline limit born from chakra twisted by intense emotion, capable of evolving without warning. That unpredictability was a threat Tobirama would never ignore.

As these thoughts turned in his mind, Shihara spoke again, almost idly. “I wonder… are Indra’s descendants still around?”

“Indra?” Tobirama prompted, unfamiliar with the name.

“Indra and Ashura were brothers,” Shihara explained, slowing his pace as if stepping back into the past. “Indra and we held different beliefs. Ashura and I believed chakra should be a force for understanding and salvation. Indra believed it was a force for ruling the world. In the end, we parted ways.”

He gazed up at the sky, lost in memory. “I don’t even know the surnames of Indra’s descendants. But they should have inherited a powerful bloodline limit—a chakra that manifests in their eyes, with techniques of great and terrible power.”

“That eye technique is called the Sharingan,” Tobirama said quietly.

Shihara turned to him in mild surprise. Tobirama’s own expression had darkened. So Indra’s descendants had indeed survived, and they were the Uchiha. The revelation reframed everything: the rivalry between clans, the cycles of conflict, even Madara’s attack. The ancestor of the Uchiha had been the brother who sought domination. Compared to the righteous Ashura, Indra’s legacy was a lineage of power born from ambition.

Even a healer as noble as Shihara had distanced himself from Indra’s ideals. To Tobirama, it confirmed what he had always suspected: the Uchiha’s danger was not just in their eyes but in their very heritage.

Shihara did not condemn Indra outright, but his sigh carried the weight of centuries. “I only hope that one day chakra will be used as Ashura wished—for understanding, not control.”

Tobirama gave a short nod but said nothing. His own heart was already set on his policies. He would protect Konoha from any threat, even if it meant measures others called harsh.

As they neared the Hokage’s residence, the air grew quieter, the bustle of the village fading behind them. Shihara’s eyes lingered on the great tree at the compound’s edge, its trunk wide enough for a dozen men to stand around. Even in this new era, nature endured.

“Come,” Tobirama said at last. “My brother awaits. He is gravely injured. We need your help.”

Shihara inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “Lead the way.”

Behind his calm demeanor, something flickered deep within his eyes—an ember of power and purpose that had survived a thousand years. The world might have changed, but some missions endured.


--

Chapter 1 – Emiya Shihara

Konoha Village lay silent under a heavy sky. In the heart of the village, far beneath the bustling streets and neat rows of wooden houses, a hidden corridor stretched downward into a dim underground chamber. The smell of old stone and damp earth hung thick in the air, mingled with the faint metallic tang of chakra-infused seals etched into the walls.

At the center of this secret room stood a crystal coffin unlike anything in the world above. It was long and narrow, painstakingly carved with ancient sigils that glimmered faintly whenever a torch flickered. Yet the strangest thing about the coffin was its occupant. Inside rested only half a body — a human torso perfectly preserved, its organs visible through the transparent casing like a macabre medical specimen. The sight lent the chamber an aura of unease, as though time itself had been arrested here.

A silver-haired man stood in front of the coffin, his posture erect and his expression carved from stone. He had grown used to the oppressive atmosphere of this place. His crimson eyes, sharp and cold as a hawk’s, fixed on the coffin with a mixture of resolve and sorrow. This was Senju Tobirama, the Second Hokage of the village — strategist, innovator, and guardian of Konoha’s future.

“Lord Tobirama.”
A masked ANBU operative entered quietly, dragging a bound prisoner whose hands were tied behind his back. The prisoner’s forehead protector bore the emblem of the Sand Village, now smudged with dirt. The ANBU bowed and spoke in a low voice. “Over the past few days many enemy shinobi have infiltrated the village to steal information. We searched every cell. The Sand ninja caught last night has the strongest chakra signature in the entire prison…”

Tobirama’s brow furrowed. “And my elder brother’s condition?” He caught himself mid-sentence, realizing the formality of his surroundings, and corrected his wording. “How is Lord Hokage?”

“Still receiving treatment,” the ANBU answered, a note of worry in his tone. “No one has ever seen Lord Hashirama suffer such a grievous injury. Lady Mito says his life hangs by a thread…”

The Second Hokage’s face darkened. Silence stretched between them before he asked another question. “Has there been any unusual movement from the Uchiha clan?”

“Not at the moment,” the ANBU replied. “Since the news spread that Uchiha Madara was killed by the Hokage yesterday, the clan has shown nothing but fear. No overt abnormalities.”

“Maintain close surveillance,” Tobirama ordered. His gaze dropped to the bound Sand ninja, his voice turning grave. “Strengthen patrols throughout the village. Assign a squad to guard this chamber. No one is to approach this forbidden-technique room.”

“Yes, Lord Tobirama!” The ANBU saluted and vanished into the shadows.

The captured Sand ninja whimpered through the gag, eyes darting nervously around the chamber. “Mmm—” His muffled voice trembled with urgency.

“I know what you’re trying to say,” Tobirama interrupted without looking at him. “But I’m not interested in your excuses.” His eyes held the weight of a death sentence. “You crept into our village either to spy on my brother or to confirm rumors about Madara. Whatever your reason, it ends here.”

“Hmph.” The silver-haired Hokage straightened, his gaze returning to the crystal coffin. Its surface reflected the torchlight like liquid ice. “Let your curiosity die with you,” he muttered.

This coffin, he thought, was more than a relic. It was the cradle of medical ninjutsu itself.

“Emiya Shihara,” Tobirama said aloud, almost ceremonially. “You should have heard the name.”

The Sand ninja’s eyes widened. Of course he knew it. Everyone in the shinobi world had heard of the legendary healer who lived a thousand years ago. Emiya Shihara was the sage who had created the concept of medical ninjutsu, standardized its teachings, and given the fractured shinobi era a system of healing that transcended clan and nation. Tales said he treated any patient without bias and could cure illnesses thought impossible. He had saved more lives than some entire countries had people.

And the story of his death was just as extraordinary. To ensure that medical ninjutsu endured and to break the taboo against surgical dissection, he had ordered his own body separated into two crystal coffins upon death, leaving them to posterity. Even during the blood-soaked Warring States period, rival clans had tacitly agreed not to harm those coffins — a rare truce born of respect.

Yet here, in this hidden room, lay one of those fabled halves, a treasure most shinobi would never even glimpse. The Sand ninja stared at it with a mixture of awe and dread. How could a healer dead for a millennium help the First Hokage now? Could this coffin hide some secret technique?

Tobirama’s voice cut through the silence. “Our Senju clan has always excelled at chakra control and has long been the most suited to medical arts. Legend says this crystal coffin was personally entrusted by Shihara to our ancestors.” He brushed his fingers over the coffin’s intricate engravings. “Even though most of us chose combat over healing, this relic has always been our clan’s pride…”

His hand lingered on the glass. “I never imagined I would one day destroy it myself.”

The Sand ninja’s breath caught. “Destroy…?”

“For my brother…” Tobirama whispered. “Everything can be sacrificed.”

A pulse of chakra gathered in his palm. Without hesitation he struck the coffin.

CRASH.

The coffin splintered into glittering shards. The preserved half-body slipped out and thudded onto the stone floor. The bound Sand ninja recoiled in horror, eyes wide as the legendary remains lay exposed.

“Only my brother can guarantee the peace of Konoha,” Tobirama murmured.

His hands blurred through a sequence of seals. Chakra flared cold and dark. “Even if there’s only a one in ten-thousand chance of success,” he said evenly, “even if it means desecrating the souls of the dead—this must be done.”

He slammed his palm onto the floor. “Forbidden Art: Impure World Reincarnation!”

Pitch-black script radiated outward from his hand, racing across the floor like living ink. Two separate seals formed, one beneath the Sand ninja and one beneath Shihara’s half-body. Dust lifted in the swirling chakra. The ancient remains disintegrated into ash, threads of substance drawn toward the living sacrifice. The prisoner gasped, the air sucked from his lungs, as if the very underworld were swallowing him. Dust clouded his vision, and terror filled his eyes until he disappeared entirely within the spell.

Tobirama’s gaze fixed on the form emerging from the ashes. His heart beat fast. This was his first attempt at the forbidden jutsu; everything depended on it. Could he really pull back a soul a thousand years gone?

The body within the seal began to coalesce, reshaping into its original form. Flesh knit together. Eyes opened. For an instant a strange smile flickered across the incomplete face, then vanished as the transformation finished.

The figure now standing looked younger than legends suggested, but there was an unmistakable gentleness about him — a compassion etched into every feature. He blinked at his hands as if unsure they were real, confusion clouding his brow.

The technique had worked. The soul was conscious.

Tobirama exhaled slowly, relief loosening his shoulders. Against all odds, the gamble had paid off.

“Mister Emiya Shihara,” he said formally, stepping forward. “I am Senju Tobirama, the one who summoned you from the underworld.” His voice softened, tinged with genuine respect. “Forgive me for disturbing your peace. We need your help to save someone vital to the shinobi world. I had no choice but to call you back. I hope you can forgive my offense.”

“Your surname is Senju?” Shihara asked. When Tobirama nodded, the healer’s expression eased. “If it is to save a life, it is not unforgivable.” True to his reputation, he harbored no resentment. His eyes drifted around the room, then back to Tobirama. “Where is the patient?”

“In the village above,” Tobirama replied. “I will take you there.”

He relaxed his subtle control over the jutsu, trusting that Shihara’s character matched his legend. There would be no need for coercion.

But he missed one small detail. Though Shihara’s tone was mild, his eyes were devoid of warmth, clouded by the stillness of death. When he asked about the patient, there was no flicker of concern — only an unreadable calm. Perhaps saving countless lives had dulled his reactions. Perhaps the patient’s identity meant nothing. Or perhaps something else entirely occupied his mind.

Inside that borrowed body, an unseen system flickered back to life:

> [Ninja System Reconnecting…]
[Welcome back, Ninja Emiya Shihara.]
[Unfinished missions remain. You cannot leave this world.]
[Outstanding Requests: 2/3]
[SSSSS-Level Request: Defeat the immortal progenitor Kaguya Ōtsutsuki.]
[SSSSS-Level Request: Defeat the final protagonists — Uzumaki Naruto (Six Paths Mode) and Uchiha Sasuke (Rinne Sharingan).]



So the system still existed. The power he had once gained still lingered. A faint crimson gleam flickered in Shihara’s eyes. This plan, forged across time, had at last reached this era.


---

Chapter 48: The Evil Uchiha Kid

Outside Konoha Village, the sky was choked with a monstrous inferno. Flames soared high, their tongues licking the heavens, while thick, black smoke twisted like a serpentine dragon, painting half the horizon crimson. The acrid, choking smell of burning wood and ash filled the air, making each breath a struggle.

On a high ridge beyond the village, Kakashi and Jiraiya stood side by side, eyes fixed on the scene below. The village they had once protected, nurtured, and cherished was now a blazing nightmare. Their faces were pale with shock, disbelief, and rising dread.

"What… what exactly happened?" Kakashi muttered, his voice tight with disbelief.

Jiraiya’s jaw clenched as he stared at the inferno, his face grim. “I… I’m afraid something unimaginable has occurred inside the village. Something catastrophic.”

The fire’s intensity grew as if it had a will of its own, devouring everything in sight. Its ferocity seemed almost sentient, like a ravenous beast that refused to be tamed.

In the central district, a torrent of water cascaded from above, a waterfall-like deluge attempting to smother the raging inferno. Yet to the observers’ horror, the flames only intensified in response. The water seemed to feed the fire, fueling its ravenous growth.

From above, Senju Tobirama descended, his dark attire billowing as he landed with a precise, commanding presence. The instant he touched the ground, withered wooden branches erupted from the scorched earth, lunging at him like serpents with a malevolent mind.

Tobirama’s hands moved with practiced precision, forming intricate seals, and sharp water blades shot forth from his fingertips. Each blade severed the encroaching wood, scattering it like brittle twigs in a storm. But even as he executed the technique flawlessly, his expression darkened.

These seemingly fragile, dead branches were absorbing his Chakra at an alarming rate, draining him faster than he could account for. A chill of dread crept into his heart. The sheer unnaturalness of this Wood Release—it was unlike anything he had ever encountered.

Kakashi halted in his tracks, watching Tobirama struggle against the living trees. “Why… why is this fire so unusual?” he whispered to himself, frowning.

Jiraiya pointed toward the eerily writhing branches, his eyes narrowing with recognition. “Look at those trees… Could these be… the First Hokage’s Wood Release?”

The twisted, expanding wood had already spread from the heart of the village outward. Kakashi frowned, sensing a strange familiarity emanating from the wooden limbs. As he cautiously approached, a peculiar sensation gripped him—an almost instinctive resonance. The trees seemed to avoid him, targeting others while instinctively preserving a strange connection with him.

In the central square, Tobirama unleashed another wave of Water Release. His silver hair whipped in the wind, his face streaked with sweat, and his eyes glimmered with grim determination. Every strike carried the weight of his desperation.

“Damn it! This power…” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with frustration and fear.

Third Hokage Hiruzen Sarutobi stood beside him, pale and weary. His eyes scanned the chaotic battlefield, filled with a mixture of horror and disbelief. “Tobirama Sensei… is this still Wood Release?” he asked, his voice shaky.

Tobirama’s frown deepened as he glanced at his former disciple, Hiruzen. A pang of disappointment flickered across his features. “To be precise,” Tobirama said slowly, “this is a completely new type of Wood Release. Unlike Big Brother’s Wood Release, which is full of life and vitality, this… this is something entirely different. Perhaps… calling it Wood Release is itself a misnomer.”

“Wood Release…?” Hiruzen repeated, soft and uncertain, the term strange on his tongue.

Tobirama’s gaze swept over the burning, twisted forest. “Big Brother’s Wood Release symbolizes life, hope, and creation—it can build and protect. But this… this is death incarnate. It is imbued with decay, corruption, and destruction.”

“Once set alight,” Tobirama continued grimly, “these trees become tinder. No matter how strong the Water Release, it can barely contain the flames. Extinguishing it is impossible. It is… perverse.”

He immediately formed a sequence of hand signs, sending waves of water surging toward the encroaching wood. Yet even as he fought, unease settled deep in his chest. Danzo had certainly transplanted Hashirama’s cells before, but even he could not have created something of such perverse complexity alone.

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed. This… must be connected to Uchiha Gen.

“The… that evil Uchiha brat…” he muttered under his breath.

Hiruzen’s face twisted in grief and helplessness. Danzo… how far had his obsession with power gone? How could his pursuit of becoming Hokage have unleashed this nightmare?

Meanwhile, in the outskirts of the village, grotesque tentacles of withered wood continued to surge outward. Flames licked their way across the dry, twisted branches, spreading inexorably toward the borders of the Land of Fire.

All Konoha Jonin quickly gathered, forming complex hand signs to unleash their collective Water Release. Torrents of water clashed with the expanding fire, creating plumes of steam and choking mist. But even with their combined might, the fire only slowed marginally. The withered wood’s bizarre power seemed to mock their efforts.

Kakashi, alongside Jiraiya, felt an unsettling sensation welling within him. Moving carefully, he extended a hand toward a burning, jagged branch. The instant his fingers brushed the scorched wood, his mind was flooded with vivid, clear images: the fierce battle between Danzo, Tobirama, and Hiruzen.

Every motion, every clash, every surge of power played before him as if time had reversed. The memories were so tangible that Kakashi could almost feel the heat of the flames and the sting of Danzo’s attacks.

Tentatively, Kakashi infused his Chakra into the withered wood. To his astonishment, it resonated with him. Though the trees were instruments of destruction, they responded to his energy, restoring his slightly fatigued body almost instantaneously. The sensation was unfamiliar, eerie, and yet comforting—a strange connection that both alarmed and intrigued him.

Amidst their confusion, Tsunade arrived, her face drawn tight with urgency.

“Tsunade, what’s happening?” Jiraiya asked, anxiety sharpening his voice.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, shaking her head. “But a message just came from the Hokage’s office. Danzo has been officially labeled a rogue ninja.”

“Rogue ninja? Danzo? Why?” Jiraiya demanded, frowning.

“I don’t have the details yet,” Tsunade replied grimly. “But the situation is dire. We need to see the Hokage immediately.”

Suddenly, dark-clad figures flickered into view. Several ANBU appeared before the three, their expressions solemn but urgent. “Hokage is waiting. Please follow us,” one instructed.

Without hesitation, the trio followed, their resolve firm despite the terror around them.

They arrived at a secluded clearing. The air was heavy with tension, oppressive and suffocating. Hiruzen Sarutobi awaited them, sorrow etched deeply into his features. Beside him, a figure in a black cloak stood silently, shrouded in shadow.

“Old man… what happened?” Jiraiya asked, his tone edged with desperation.

Hiruzen opened his mouth, only to falter. Silence lingered, broken at last by the low, calm voice of the cloaked figure: “Let me explain.”

With deliberate slowness, the man drew back his hood, revealing a face that froze Tsunade and Jiraiya in place, as though struck by lightning.

“Great-grandpa…” Tsunade whispered, trembling, her disbelief evident.

Tobirama, however, stiffened at the sight. His eyes locked onto Kakashi, and an expression of shock and confusion crossed his face. “Monkey… what is this? Why is a member of the Uchiha clan here?”

The figure’s presence, the chaotic power surging through the village, and the dark, twisted Wood Release… all pointed toward a single terrifying truth: the evil Uchiha kid had returned, and Konoha’s fate was hanging by a fragile thread.


---

Chapter 47: Burning

The eerie, twisted trees surrounding Danzo seemed almost alive, their withered branches writhing and expanding with a terrifying autonomy. Each gnarled limb slithered like a serpent, crawling into every corner of Konoha Village. Roots stretched outward, digging deep into the earth, creating a vast, suffocating network that gradually enshrouded the village in shadow.

Root members, following Danzo's precise orders, retreated swiftly yet methodically, leaving only the most trusted core members to hold their positions beside him. Every movement was deliberate, every step measured, as if they were extensions of Danzo’s own will.

From the village itself, Konoha ninja mobilized in response. Led by Tsunade, they hurled themselves into the fray, determined to halt the rampant spread of the withered trees. Tsunade’s fists were weapons of devastation; each strike could level entire sections of the cursed vegetation. Explosions of earth and splintered wood accompanied her relentless onslaught.

Yet no matter how fiercely she attacked, the trees responded with uncanny speed. Branches and roots regrew almost instantaneously, denser and more entangled than before. Tsunade’s monumental efforts began to feel futile, as though the forest itself resisted her assault.

At the epicenter, Danzo stood with countless crimson Sharingan embedded across his body, each pulsating with a malevolent, chilling light. The sinister aura emanating from his eyes made even Senju Tobirama, the Second Hokage, shiver. An instinctive dread crept into Tobirama’s mind. The current Danzo was performing a jutsu of unfathomable danger—something that directly linked to the violent growth of the withered trees.

Elsewhere, Tobirama noticed Hiruzen Sarutobi had completely abandoned hope. His mentor and former ally lay weakened and listless, no longer able—or willing—to aid in the fight. A deep breath filled Tobirama’s lungs as his expression hardened, cold resolve settling over him like iron. He quickly formed a series of hand signs, his strategy already taking shape.

Mutual Exploding Tag Jutsu.

In an instant, countless exploding tags materialized around Danzo, raining down like a relentless storm. They clung to him, surrounding his body entirely. He had completed meticulous preparations, unaware or uncaring of Tobirama’s encroaching attack.

Water Release followed immediately. Razor-sharp blades of water cut through the air in a crisscross pattern, isolating Danzo within a cage of precise, unrelenting force. Tobirama had no room for hesitation; he knew that eliminating this former disciple was the only way to protect Konoha.

Danzo, however, did not glance at Tobirama. His gaze remained locked on Hiruzen Sarutobi. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward, seemingly unfazed by the water blades or the explosive tags bearing down on him.

“Hiruzen…” Danzo’s voice was low, hoarse, imbued with years of restrained emotion. “Hokage… is it truly about burning oneself to illuminate Konoha? But now… you don’t even have the courage to kill me.”

Hiruzen lifted his head to meet Danzo’s gaze. The memories of decades of war, political strife, and difficult compromises flashed before his eyes. Bonds and friendships that had taken years to form now seemed unbearably fragile.

“Danzo…” he whispered, voice trembling.

Danzo drew the withered wooden sword in his hand slowly, the tip pointing downward as if inviting Hiruzen to strike. “Kill me, Hiruzen. You are the Hokage… Tobirama Sensei is merely a resurrected body. You decide.”

Hiruzen’s heart quaked violently. He recalled every battle, every strategy, and every secret Danzo had executed for the good—or ill—of the village. The weight of decades of loyalty and betrayal pressed down on him, threatening to shatter his resolve.

The Sharingan in Danzo’s palm glowed with intense focus, locking eyes with Hiruzen. It was a gaze that pierced not just flesh, but the very heart, demanding a resolution. And in that moment, Hiruzen realized he could no longer retreat.

Tears streamed down his face, yet beneath them arose a resolute will, intertwined with anguish and determination. Slowly, he rose, reclaiming the mantle he had once almost abandoned.

“I’m sorry, Danzo…” he whispered, voice quivering but firm.

With a swift motion, Hiruzen seized the withered wooden sword from Danzo. In a single decisive strike, he severed Danzo’s head with precision. Blood erupted from the wound, yet for a fleeting second, time seemed to shudder. The death of Danzo, even momentarily, sent tremors through the very fabric of the Ninja World.

Two Sharingan on Danzo’s body closed simultaneously. Their power, long tethered to desire and ambition, was released into the world.

Kakashi, returning to the village with Jiraiya, felt a sudden, violent pounding in his chest as if an invisible force had brushed against his soul. Far away, in the Land of Rice Fields, Uchiha Obito also felt an abnormal heartbeat. He withdrew a small bottle, observing Uchiha Gen’s Sharingan.

At that instant, the Sharingan began spinning rapidly, releasing power unprecedented in its intensity. Uchiha Gen’s words echoed clearly in Obito’s mind:

"When the owner of the Mangekyo Sharingan enhanced by my left eye dies, the concepts and desires he possessed during life will permanently transform into the power of my right eye..."

Danzo was dead. Even if only for a fleeting moment, his death had set into motion forces beyond comprehension.

The withered trees surged wildly, spreading over more than half of Konoha. Shadows engulfed streets, homes, and lives, snuffing out sound and light in an instant.

Within the Konoha Ninja Academy, the faint text Uchiha Gen had left behind appeared again on his old homework papers:

"Danzo and Hiruzen… both sought to become Hokage and illuminate the village. The shadow of the fire will illuminate the village, and then new leaves will sprout again. This is the dream of every Hokage."

Suddenly, a terrifying heat erupted from the heart of Konoha, spreading like an unstoppable inferno. Streets, buildings, and lives were engulfed. Flames devoured the withered trees, turning the village into a hellscape. Shockwaves shattered walls and earth alike, and screams of panic echoed across every corner.

Kakashi, watching from a distance, could only stare in horror and awe. “What… what exactly is happening?” he whispered, breath caught in his throat.

The death of Danzo had permanently transformed his desire to become Hokage into a formidable, tangible power within Uchiha Gen’s right eye. Obito, clutching the Sharingan, hesitated: which eye was in his hand—left or right? All he knew was that the power had surged once more, granting him and Kakashi abilities far beyond their previous limits.

Meanwhile, Hiruzen Sarutobi collapsed to the ground, staring blankly at the burning village, wracked with pain and despair. He had ended the life of his lifelong friend and rival—and had, inadvertently, ignited this catastrophe.

“Danzo…” he murmured, voice heavy with regret. “What… what have you done?”

As Konoha became a world of fire, the very light that once illuminated the village had transformed into a raging blaze of destruction.

And then, at the outskirts, Danzo’s figure reappeared. He surveyed the inferno with a calm, contemplative expression. The Root operatives gathered around him, their presence unwavering. Two Sharingan had been consumed, their energy spent.

“Let’s go,” Danzo said quietly, his voice steady. “We will leave Konoha for now. One day, I will return… as Hokage.”

Kakashi, gazing at the flames, whispered to himself, repeating the ancient words he had heard countless times:

"The shadow of the fire will illuminate the village, and then new leaves will sprout again…"


---

Chapter 46: Wherever Leaves Flutter, Fire Burns

Withered and twisted trees, like vengeful spirits writhing in hell, sprawled wildly around the Hokage Office Building. Their gnarled branches twisted toward the sky as if reaching out to snare anyone who dared approach. The area had been quickly and completely sealed off by the dense, lifeless wood, forming a natural fortress that cut off all prying eyes and any possible reinforcements from outside.

Several Konoha Anbu ninjas attempted to approach the perimeter, but as soon as they stepped forward, the twisted trees reacted violently. Branches shot out with impossible speed, piercing through armor and flesh alike. Their screams echoed through the area one after another, creating a chilling symphony of terror. No one from outside could hope to reach the center, let alone provide any meaningful support.

From all directions, a large number of Root operatives soon arrived. Initially, the sheer horror of the scene caused them to hesitate. But when they recognized the Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi, standing at the center, their initial fear was replaced by conflicted resolve. Their gazes briefly flickered to Danzo, whose expression remained as cold and indifferent as ever. After a moment’s hesitation, they silently reaffirmed their loyalty to their commander, choosing to stand behind him unwaveringly.

Danzo’s eyes swept across the area, his cold stare appraising every detail. “You all guard the perimeter. No one is allowed to enter. I will handle this personally.”

“Yes, Lord Danzo,” the Root members responded in unison before quickly dispersing to establish a near-impenetrable defensive line.

Senju Tobirama’s cold gaze lingered on Hiruzen Sarutobi, his expression unreadable but his eyes brimming with silent judgment. Hiruzen, in contrast, lowered his head, burdened by a wave of bitter guilt. He knew that, despite the outward appearance of control, the village had long placed him in impossible positions, forcing him to compromise again and again.

Danzo’s hesitation vanished. With a sudden, almost imperceptible movement, he released the restraints on his body. In that instant, an astonishing sight emerged.

Countless crimson Sharingan eyes had taken root across his right arm, shoulder, and even half of his torso. Each eye opened simultaneously, their red pupils radiating a malevolent aura so oppressive it made the air itself feel heavy. Anyone in their presence would find their scalp tingling from the sheer force of their power.

“Danzo… what have you done?” Hiruzen’s voice fell low, laden with sorrow and disbelief.

With a swift stomp, Danzo propelled himself forward with astonishing speed. In his hand, a withered wooden blade condensed from chakra slashed outward, aimed directly at Tobirama.

Even Tobirama, the Second Hokage, was taken aback by the velocity of the strike. Instinctively, he activated the Flying Thunder God Technique, vanishing in a blink to narrowly evade what could have been a fatal blow.

But the attack was not truly meant for him. Tobirama’s sharp mind quickly deduced the truth—the real target was Hiruzen Sarutobi. Danzo’s strikes were a deliberate tactic: engage the immortal Edo Tensei body of Tobirama only enough to distract, while directing the lethal force at Hiruzen.

“Oh no…” Tobirama’s heart sank as he realized the strategy. Danzo had been calculating this from the start.

Hiruzen raised the Adamantine Staff in a desperate attempt to defend himself, but his movements lacked conviction. His fighting spirit had been sapped over the years by countless internal struggles, compromises, and compromises within the village he had sworn to protect. His blows were clumsy, half-hearted, insufficient to pose any real threat.

Danzo’s eyes glinted sharply, his attacks growing increasingly ruthless. Each strike of the wooden blade pressed upon Hiruzen with unrelenting intent, seeking to pierce the very chest of the Third Hokage. Tobirama remained on high alert, his body a living barrier, deflecting Danzo’s strikes to protect his old comrade.

The strategy was elegantly simple, yet devastatingly effective. Danzo knew Tobirama could endure any attack thanks to his Edo Tensei immortality. By focusing on Hiruzen, he forced the Hokage to defend continuously, gradually breaking down his spirit and forcing him into hesitation.

Hiruzen’s mind was a battlefield. He could not bring himself to strike Danzo—the man he had known and worked with for decades. Yet he could not fully ignore the threat. Tobirama’s orders and the memory of Konoha’s delicate balance weighed heavily on him, leaving him trapped in a web of indecision.

“Damn it…” Tobirama muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing. Anxiety gnawed at him. Who had fed Danzo the knowledge of Edo Tensei’s weaknesses? Orochimaru? That could be managed. But if Uchiha Gen himself knew… the danger escalated to a level beyond calculation.

The withered wooden blade surged again, more violently than before. Danzo channeled the full power of the crimson Sharingan into it, the surrounding chakra coalescing into a nearly tangible wave of oppression. The attack headed straight for Hiruzen, who, drained and despondent, made no effort to counter.

It seemed as though the end had come. Hiruzen’s hands hung limply on the staff, his eyes clouded with guilt and resignation. Perhaps this was the fitting conclusion for a Hokage who had endured so much inner turmoil and compromise.

Yet just as the blade threatened to pierce him, Danzo hesitated. “Why, Hiruzen?” he demanded, his voice low but seething with unbridled emotion.

Hiruzen did not answer, lost in a labyrinth of memories, regrets, and self-reproach.

Anger flared within Danzo. His suppressed emotions erupted, spinning him into a whirlwind of frustration. He withdrew the blade and delivered a brutal punch to Hiruzen’s chest, sending the old Hokage crashing against a nearby wall. Dust billowed around him, but Danzo’s intent was clear.

“As Hokage, you are indeed unqualified!” Danzo spat, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.

Hiruzen struggled to sit up, coughing blood, but memories flashed through his mind—Uchiha Fugaku, the weight of leadership, the Sharingan of his old friend. He whispered bitterly, “Yes… I am indeed not a qualified Hokage.”

The Sharingan implanted within him spun wildly, urging Danzo to continue, to end what seemed an indecisive life. Yet Danzo held back, suppressing the urge to kill.

“Don’t you really want to resist at all, Hiruzen?” he demanded, voice tight with barely contained fury.

As Danzo readied his next strike, the blade’s momentum charged with the concentrated power of the Sharingan, a sudden barrier of water erupted between them. The blue curtain shimmered with unyielding strength, intercepting the lethal attack.

“Hiruzen! What are you doing?!” Tobirama’s furious roar shook the battlefield, jolting Hiruzen from his stupor.

“Sensei…” Hiruzen’s gaze met Tobirama’s, pain and guilt reflected in his eyes.

“How long are you going to keep running? You are the Hokage of Konoha, not for your own comfort, and certainly not for Danzo!” Tobirama’s voice thundered, awakening a long-buried resolve within his mentor.

Danzo’s expression remained unreadable, though a subtle twinge of curiosity crept into his gaze. “Hiruzen… do you remember your dream?” he asked quietly.

The Third Hokage’s eyes hardened as fragments of a long-forgotten vision resurfaced: “Wherever leaves dance, fire will burn. The shadow of the fire will illuminate the village, and then new leaves will bud again… My dream… is to become that fire.”

At that moment, the Sharingan from Fugaku’s influence on Hiruzen mysteriously vanished. A quiet determination replaced the exhaustion and doubt. His staff gripped tightly, he rose with renewed purpose, ready to confront Danzo—not as a weary, guilt-ridden man, but as the true protector of Konoha.

The battlefield seemed to pause, the air thick with tension, as the flames of old dreams ignited once more. Whatever darkness lay ahead, Hiruzen Sarutobi would face it as the Hokage the village deserved, no longer hiding behind hesitation or regret.


---

Chapter 45: Danzo vs. Tobirama

“Danzo…”

Hiruzen Sarutobi’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant. His eyes lifted toward the man who had once been his comrade, his rival, his shadow. His tone trembled with conflict, but beneath it ran an undercurrent of determination.

“Someone… wants to see you.”

The words had barely left his lips when the air split apart.

A torrent of water surged forth like a silver serpent, sharp as lightning, aimed mercilessly at Danzo’s throat.

Water Release: Water Blade!

The attack carried all the cold precision of Senju Tobirama. It was not a warning. It was an execution.

The water blade ripped through the air with terrifying speed, so fast it gave its target almost no time to react.

Yet Danzo did not flinch. His single visible eye narrowed, but his face betrayed neither shock nor fear. His body trembled briefly—then, without hand seals, the ground erupted.

Countless withered branches and leaves burst from the earth, twisting together into a shield of dead wood. The torrent of water struck it with a screeching hiss, carving deep grooves, but it could not pierce the barrier.

The shrill sound of water grinding against rotten bark filled the Hokage Office.

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed sharply. A chilling realization flashed through his mind.

“Big Brother’s cells…!”

But almost instantly, he knew something was wrong.

This was not Hashirama’s Wood Release. Not the vibrant, living trees that brimmed with life-force. This was its opposite. The branches were brittle, lifeless, saturated with decay. What should have been a symbol of creation radiated only corruption and death.

The aura it exuded was not life—it was curse.

Danzo lowered his arm slowly, his voice hoarse yet strangely calm. A faint shadow of melancholy crossed his features.

“Tobirama-sensei… So it’s true. Orochimaru has made his move and resurrected you.”

He turned his gaze toward Hiruzen, lips curling faintly into a mocking half-smile.

“Hiruzen… can’t you see it yet? From the moment your teacher returned, you ceased being the Hokage who truly commands Konoha.”

Hiruzen’s breath caught. He clenched his fists, torn between denial and recognition.

Danzo’s tone grew sharper, laced with bitterness.
“I don’t blame you. Who could resist his authority? You’ve always been under his shadow. And now, he must think I’ve fallen—corrupted by the Uchiha’s Sharingan.”

His voice dripped with irony as he stood tall, defiant.

“If Tobirama-sensei wishes to unify the Ninja World his way, he must claim both light and darkness. That means eliminating me, whether I wield the Sharingan or not.”

“Nonsense!”

For the first time, Tobirama’s composure cracked. His cold, disciplined voice rose in fury.

“Evil Uchiha tricks! Provocations this crude will not work!”

Yet even as he cursed, his mind was razor sharp. He knew this Danzo was no longer the man he once tolerated in Konoha’s shadows. Something inside him had already been twisted—corrupted by Uchiha Gen’s influence, or worse, consumed entirely.

Allowing Danzo to speak further could be dangerous. If the corruption had spread to his very will, then words themselves could become weapons. There was no room for hesitation.

Tobirama’s hands flashed through seals again. In the blink of an eye, another torrent of water formed, thicker, sharper, more lethal than the first. It roared toward Danzo like a guillotine.

This time, Danzo’s expression hardened. He no longer restrained himself.

His right palm opened.

A crimson eye gleamed within, spinning violently—a hidden Mangekyō Sharingan.

Tobirama’s heart jolted. “In his palm…?!”

The eye whirled, radiating suffocating power. The branches of withered wood around Danzo writhed, veins of rot twisting grotesquely. They fused together, coiling upward, condensing into a single weapon—a sword of blackened bark and bone.

Its edge pulsed with decay, exhaling malice.

“The Jumang Blade…”

Danzo’s voice was low, guttural, carried by the crimson glow of his Sharingan. He swung it, and the weapon answered.

A pillar of red light burst forth, surging with unholy chakra. It carved through the Hokage Office, shredding walls, ceilings, and stone as though paper.

The explosion shook the village.

BOOM!

The Hokage Office shattered, collapsing in a storm of dust and fire. The shockwave thundered across Konoha, windows rattling, tiles shattering, night sky alight with crimson glow.

When the smoke parted, Danzo emerged unscathed, his silhouette framed in ruin.

Beneath his feet, the ground glowed faintly—dense lines of sealing arrays, etched in preparation.

With a low rumble, four blazing pillars of fire erupted upward, forming a cage around him.

But Danzo’s reaction was mercilessly swift.

He stomped. Dead wood burst from the ground, like spears lunging upward. In the blink of an eye, they pierced through two Anbu hidden nearby, the very ones sustaining the barrier. Their blood stained the branches.

The array shattered instantly.

Danzo retreated several steps, evading the collapsing seals with surgical precision.

The streets around them were deserted. Every villager had already been quietly evacuated, leaving only silence and the acrid scent of smoke.

Danzo stepped forward, his movements steady, each footfall deliberate. His cloak swayed in the night wind, his palm-eye glowing ceaselessly with a sinister light.

Across from him, Tobirama and Hiruzen stood side by side, their faces grim.

Hiruzen finally found his voice, though it wavered.
“Danzo… how could you use the First Hokage’s cells?”

But Tobirama did not speak. He knew his elder brother’s cells had always tempted ambitious men. Even he, a man of logic, had studied them. Perhaps this, too, was his fault.

Danzo’s voice was steady, sharp as a blade.
“Sanity? I’ve never been more clear. But my clarity is not the same as yours.”

Hiruzen’s chest tightened. He tried once more, voice thick with sorrow.
“Danzo… stop this. Let Sensei free you from the Sharingan’s control.”

But Danzo shook his head slowly. The red glow of the Mangekyō reflected in his gaze, tinged with contempt, tinged with pity.
“Hiruzen… the one who is controlled is not me. It’s you. Forever shackled to Sensei’s shadow. Don’t you see? He is nothing but a dead man.”

Hiruzen flinched. The words cut deeper than any blade.

Tobirama’s brow furrowed. He spoke in a low growl to his student.
“Monkey. Do it. Now. No more hesitation.”

Hiruzen hesitated one last time. He looked at Danzo—the man who had once fought beside him, who had carried the village’s darkness for decades. Now he stood alone, burdened by power that twisted his body and soul.

For a fleeting moment, Hiruzen felt pity. He saw not an enemy, but a lonely figure, a shadow severed from the world, carrying curses he had chosen and those forced upon him.

But the time for pity had passed.

With trembling hands, Hiruzen unclasped his Hokage cloak, letting it fall to the ground. His fingers moved rapidly into seals, chakra surging as he prepared to fight.

Danzo lifted the withered blade, and the air warped around it, saturated with malignant chakra. The moonlight shone upon his back, stretching his shadow long across the broken street.

His eye was cold as he advanced.

Hiruzen stared, heart heavy. In that moment, he realized—Danzo was no longer simply an adversary. He was the embodiment of the darkness Konoha had always relied upon, now walking into judgment.

And it would be Hiruzen himself—the Hokage—who had to deliver it.

“I am the Hokage,” Hiruzen whispered to himself.

His resolve hardened. His chakra flared.

The night over Konoha trembled as the battle began.