Ghosts of Tomorrow

by Vs_writing_nook

Summary:

The war is lost. Kaguya has returned, the world lies in ruin, and nearly everyone they love is gone.
In a final desperate act, Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura are sent back in time—before the wars, before the betrayals, before everything went wrong.

But they arrive in a world still on the brink, where the future Sannin are only children, the shadows of Madara still linger, and the roots of corruption run deep within Konoha.

They came to change history.
What they didn’t expect was how much of themselves they’d rediscover along the way.

Notes:

So uh… I have a deep, possibly unhealthy love for time travel fix-its, and my brain said: “Hey. What if Team 7 mentored the baby Sannin?” And I—obviously—couldn’t say no. (´∀｀)

Is this a good idea? Probably.
Will updates be slow? Absolutely.
Do I have other WIPs already? That I also have to finish first? Also yes.
But did I write this prologue instead of sleeping or finishing anything else? 100%.
¯\(ツ)/¯

Please enjoy this spiral into emotional damage, soft breakfasts, questionable Hokages, and Team 7 trying to re-parent the past.
Hope you like it!! 💖🔥

Chapter 1: Before the End

The sky had long since forsaken even the faintest glow of light, as if the heavens themselves had turned their gaze away from the war-torn earth below. Thick, black clouds stretched from horizon to horizon, suffocating the land in a shroud of gloom. The rain fell in heavy, ceaseless sheets—more a flood than a storm—its cold fingers clawing at rock and soil alike. Each drop struck with weight and purpose, echoing like dull drums of mourning across the barren hills. The air was soaked through with the scent of wet earth, scorched ash, and blood faded by time. Thunder rolled in the distance like an ancient beast stirring in restless slumber, and each flash of lightning carved stark shadows across the tortured landscape.

Far below, hidden behind jagged rock formations and the curling mist of steam rising from warm stone meeting cold rain, a cave lay concealed—its mouth barely wider than a man’s shoulders. It was not a place of comfort. It was survival incarnate. Within its shadowed maw, the shattered remnants of the Allied Shinobi Forces clung to fragile threads of hope, their breaths shallow, their chakra thinned. Here, nature's rage became their shield. The storm outside masked their presence, drowning chakra signatures beneath its relentless roar. It was not safety. But it was something. A borrowed moment in borrowed time.

Sasuke stood at the entrance like a statue carved from the very mountain, his cloak soaked and billowing faintly with the wind. His Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan turned slowly, lazily, yet alert—an eye honed by war and trauma, always watching. One eye remained closed—his Rinnegan hidden for now, kept in reserve. Rain slicked his raven hair to his face, and still he did not blink. A flash of lightning danced across the sky, casting his face in sharp, unnatural light. There was no tension in his body, but he was coiled like a spring. His katana hung at his side, sheathed but within reach, humming faintly with the charge of his suppressed energy.

Beside him, Kakashi stood just as silent. His lone visible eye moved methodically, scanning every rock, every flicker of shadow beyond the storm’s veil. Water ran in rivulets down his mask and the lining of his flak vest. Despite the cold, he didn’t shiver. He was still. Focused. A predator in waiting. He said nothing, needed nothing. They were the wall—cold, unbreakable, ready.

Deeper in the cave, past the watchful eyes of sentinels, Naruto knelt on slick stone, hunched low. His clothing clung to him like second skin, drenched not just from rain but from sweat. His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts. He had long since stopped feeling his legs. His limbs were numb, his muscles locked in place, but still he remained unmoving, rooted to that stone as if willing his soul to remain tethered.

His eyes were shut, brows furrowed in anguish. Inside him, the familiar presence of Kurama—his oldest companion—was dim, nearly absent. The bond they once shared like fire and storm now flickered like a dying ember. Naruto’s hands trembled as they formed the meditative seal, fingertips barely touching. His chakra was nearly gone, drained down to the marrow. Rain dripped steadily from his hair, forming a tiny pool beneath him. His voice was inaudible, a whisper of breath shaping old mantras of resilience, of friendship, of never giving up.

A short distance away, Sakura knelt beside Ohnoki’s prone form. Her hands glowed a soft, pale green as they hovered centimetres above his back. Her face was drawn tight with exhaustion. Her pink hair hung limp with moisture, clinging to her face as she worked. His breath was ragged, teeth clenched. Every movement of her chakra through his bones sent tremors through the ancient Tsuchikage’s frame. His spine—fragile and twisted with age—fought her efforts with every pulse.

“Hold still, Ohnoki-sama,” Sakura said, her voice low, focused, but thick with exhaustion. The chakra in her hands flickered once, dangerously, before stabilizing.

“Pfah,” he muttered, a crooked smile on his lips despite the pain. “You’re pouring miracles into a fossil.”

“You’re the last one who can wield Particle Style,” she replied, narrowing her eyes. “That makes you our miracle, not a fossil.”

In a shadowed corner, Hinata crouched over the still bodies of Gaara and Killer B. Her remaining Byakugan eye glowed faintly in the gloom, her face pale and strained. A blood-soaked bandage wrapped her other eye, still damp at the edges. Her chakra was thin, nearly translucent, but she pushed it forward with painstaking care.

She pressed her fingers gently to Killer B’s chakra points, her movements slow, deliberate. “They’re... almost completely shut. Fused, like they’ve been crushed.” Her voice was a whisper, almost lost to the rain. “But the bijuu... I can still feel them. Far away. Quiet.”

She inhaled shakily, forcing more of her dwindling chakra through his system, coaxing his pathways open. Her skin shimmered faintly from exertion. Every second brought pain behind her eye, but she pressed on, sweat mixing with rain, her teeth gritted.

Not far from her, Choji lay curled on his side, his massive frame trembling. His breathing was ragged, his cheeks hollow. Blood crusted the corners of his mouth. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, save for a near-silent whisper to no one. “Just a bit more... just need a bit more time...,” he muttered to himself, voice barely above a whisper. The red Akimichi pills had wrung everything from him, and now he hovered on the edge of collapse.

Even his appetite, once bottomless, had abandoned him.

And in the deepest chamber, where the air thrummed with old power and red light danced against the stone, four figures worked in silence. The reanimated forms of Uzumaki Kushina and Mito glowed with unnatural chakra, their fingers tracing the intricate lines of an ancient seal sprawled across parchment older than memory. Their movements were unnervingly graceful, spectral in the torchlight, as though their bodies were guided by memory rather than muscle.

Orochimaru hovered nearby, hands tucked into his sleeves, eyes gleaming with unknown desperation. Every so often, his gaze flicked toward the seal, then toward Kushina, as if calculating something unspoken. Tsunade knelt beside them, her arms slick with blood—some hers, some not. Her breathing was labored, her body taxed to its limit.

“The blood seals of the Uzumaki... they were never meant to be reopened,” Mito said softly, voice unnaturally still, as though echoing from across time.

Kushina scowled, her fingers tightening around a calligraphy brush. “They were never meant to lose either. We don’t have the luxury of fear.”

Tsunade’s brow furrowed as she wiped her forehead with a shaky hand. Her eyes scanned the growing lattice of symbols, looking for failure. “This seal is our last shot. If we fail... it’s not just the war we lose. There’ll be nothing left.”

Orochimaru gave a hollow chuckle. “Then we don’t fail.”

No one responded. Only the storm answered, howling through the cave’s narrow mouth like a dying god’s cry, as outside the world continued to drown.

And still, they worked.

 

 

 

Ten years.

A span of time both long and heartbreakingly short. A decade had passed since the sky was torn open by celestial fury, since a goddess of ancient power descended upon the earth like a meteor of despair. Kaguya — the Rabbit Goddess, mother of all chakra — had returned again to unmake the world. Her presence had distorted reality itself, warping time and space with every step she took. And it was Team 7, bruised, battered, and broken, who stood as the final line between existence and oblivion.

Ten years since Uzumaki Naruto, overflowing with unyielding hope and burning determination, fought side by side with Uchiha Sasuke, his equal in strength and shadow, to banish that divine threat. Their battle had lit the sky like a second sun, the fury of their jutsus tearing across the heavens, illuminating the world in a light forged from desperation and resolve. Fire and wind clashed with dimensions unravelling around them. The earth trembled beneath their feet, the air thick with raw chakra.

When it was over — when Kaguya was sealed, her scream echoing into the void — a silence fell. The kind of silence that settles only after something impossibly ancient has ended. The world, broken but alive, dared to breathe again. It was not victory they felt, but survival.

A single battle, fueled by the pain of generations and the stubborn will of those who refused to yield, had brought an end to a cycle that had spanned lifetimes.

In the days that followed, as fire was replaced with rain and ash gave way to green, Hatake Kakashi was chosen to bear the mantle of Sixth Hokage. The village, cloaked in grief and scarred by loss, hovered at a precipice. But Kakashi, no stranger to loss himself, led not with force but with quiet resolve. He spoke little, but when he did, people listened. His leadership was not a banner raised in triumph, but a hand held out in reassurance. Brick by brick, he helped rebuild Konohagakure. A place for orphans to live. A home for widows to heal. A future for those left behind.

Sakura, unshackled from the screams of the battlefield, turned her gaze to healing not just wounds but the system that let so many bleed. With Tsunade’s wisdom at her side and Shizune’s meticulous care anchoring her, she did more than reform the medical corps — she revolutionized it. No longer would medics be afterthoughts on the field. They were trained, respected, prioritized. Hospitals replaced tents. Education replaced guesswork. She created life where death had once lived. And in the quiet of that healing, she discovered someone who had always been near.

Rock Lee, all unwavering discipline and fierce honesty, stood beside her. What had once been camaraderie deepened, as shared days became shared goals. He bore her strength when she faltered, just as she steadied his heart when doubt crept in. Love, for her, came not in grand confessions but in the small things — in morning tea, in sparring matches that ended in laughter, in the simple joy of being understood.

Across the world, a similar stillness grew. Borders that had been battle lines became threads that connected. The Five Great Nations began to communicate, not in code or suspicion, but in diplomacy and shared resolve. Trade routes flourished. Joint training began. The younger generation of shinobi trained without the burden of enmity. Children played without knowing the weight of their surnames.

And somewhere amidst all this peace, Naruto and Sasuke found each other.

They had always been bound — by fate, by chakra, by wounds that mirrored one another. But now, with the world no longer demanding they be symbols or saviours, they learned how to simply be. Naruto, all sunshine and stubborn loyalty, and Sasuke, quiet fire and sharp perception, came to understand what had always lived between them.

It started in the silence. In glances held too long. In missions taken together not out of duty, but choice. In long walks under stars, they had once fought beneath. Their love was not fireworks. It was the steady beat of a heart long denied peace. It was a whisper, not a roar. And in that stillness, they flourished.

Konoha thrived around them. Markets bustled. Training grounds rang with laughter. Weddings were held in spring, births celebrated in summer, and the old were honoured in autumn. The Will of Fire, once something clung to in desperation, now burned warmly in every home. Children learned of heroes not through tragedy, but through tales of kindness and strength.

Ten years passed.

And for those ten years, the world believed it had healed.

But peace is delicate. And sometimes, it is only the silence before a scream.

In the deepest places — beneath mountains that had not moved in millennia, in ruins swallowed by time, in the cracks of forgotten jutsu — something began to stir. Not the loud hatred of warlords or the twisted vengeance of the past. No, this was quieter. Colder. A breath held too long. A presence that waited, not out of weakness, but out of certainty.

Ten years after peace bloomed, its petals began to wilt.

This time, it would not be war.

This time, the world would end.

Chapter 2: Where Peace Begins to Rot

Summary:

What really happened.

Notes:

Heya！(≧▽≦)/

It’s been a while, huh? ☆ミ I’ve been busy juggling my other stories (trying to actually finish them, lol), but I hit a bit of a writer’s block there... so I decided to dive back into this one for a little change of pace—and, well... it kinda ran away with me! ｡ﾟ(TヮT)ﾟ｡

This chapter is all about what happened before the main plot kicks off. Since the core of this story will be focused on time travel and all the chaos that comes with it, I thought: “Hey, why not put all the ‘what led up to this’ in one chapter?” That way I don’t have to be all mysterious or sneaky about it—just throw it all out there! ヽ(＾Д＾)ﾉ

Of course, there’ll still be flashbacks in future chapters—some from the timeline Team 7 originally came from, and others about what happens as things spiral forward. But for now, I hope you enjoy this chapter, however long it ended up being (cough very long cough)! (〃▽〃)ゞ

Thanks for reading~! (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

 

It began like any other day.

Morning crept gently over Hi no Kuni, casting warm light on rooftops and dew-laced leaves. The streets of Konohagakure bustled with merchants setting up their stalls, shinobi returning from night patrols, and children racing through the academy gates with laughter echoing behind them.

There was peace.

Familiar. Enduring.

But peace is never still. Beneath it, something had shifted.

The air was too quiet.

The winds that usually danced through the trees had dulled. The birds paused between songs. Chakra moved slower in the veins of the land.

No one noticed at first.

Because peace, once earned, is easy to trust.

But in the deepest part of the sky, the seal had begun to stir.

And the world, in its joy, had already forgotten how to listen.

 

 

 

 

 

It was a normal Tuesday in Konohagakure. The kind of day bathed in gentle sunlight that warmed the rooftops and caught in the tiny droplets left from last night’s rain. The sky stretched wide and cloudless above the village, painted in hues of soft blue, where only the occasional hawk soared lazily over the tiled rooftops. The leaves in the great trees swayed just enough to whisper, and somewhere in the distance, the cheerful cries of academy students practicing in the courtyard broke the tranquil silence.

The scent of sweet dango mixed with the smoky aroma of grilled fish from the market, drifting in and out of the open Hokage office window. The wind was playful, tugging at scrolls and stirring the corners of the Hokage’s robes that hung on the coat rack like a relic waiting for battle. Peace hung over the village like a comfortable blanket—familiar, warm, and almost suspiciously quiet.

Inside the office, Kakashi, sat slumped at his desk, a permanent fixture among the endless stacks of scrolls, reports, and budgets that seemed to multiply by the hour. His face was buried in one gloved hand, the other limply flipping through yet another lengthy scroll. His eyes blinking slowly, glazed over with the dull ache of repetitive administration. The document in his hand—a mission and territorial report from Gaara—was as dense as it was dry. Precise, methodical, and maddeningly detailed.

He sighed—long and theatrical—and let his forehead fall forward onto the desk with a soft thud, rattling a nearby paperweight and sending a few sheets sliding out of place. His wild silver hair flared slightly with the impact, strands splaying over the parchment like a frayed brush. For a moment, he didn’t move at all, revelling in the small act of surrender.

The door creaked open with practiced subtlety.

Shikamaru entered, moving with that familiar lazy stride that had somehow never failed to carry him exactly where he needed to be. In his hand was yet another scroll—larger, thicker, and somehow more intimidating than the one Kakashi had just abandoned.

“Yo,” Shikamaru greeted, voice low and casual, as he dropped the scroll onto the desk with a heavy thump. “Your favourite.”

Kakashi groaned, face still pressed to the desk. “You enjoy this. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’re a black-hearted man, Nara.”

Shikamaru leaned against the window frame, arms folded, the faintest of smirks tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not black-hearted. Just efficient.”

“You thrive on my suffering,” Kakashi muttered, voice muffled by parchment.

Ignoring the accusation, Shikamaru nodded toward the scroll Kakashi had buried his soul under. “That Gaara report done? Temari’s heading out soon, she can carry your reply.”

Kakashi lifted a limp hand into the air, holding the scroll aloft with two fingers like a man offering tribute to some cruel god. He didn’t bother lifting his head.

Shikamaru crossed the room, took the scroll, and was halfway to the door before he paused.

“Oh, almost forgot,” he said, reaching into his vest and pulling out a smaller envelope. “You’ve got mail—from your favourite pair of troublemakers.”

Kakashi blinked and finally stirred. He sat up slowly, eye sharpening with mild interest as he took the letter. The seal was unmistakably Naruto’s—haphazard, slightly off-centre, and smudged with something that could only be ramen broth. Sasuke’s signature was printed next to it, neat and firm, grounding the chaos like always.

A soft chuckle escaped Kakashi’s throat as he cracked open the seal and unfolded the letter. The paper was rumpled, the ink smudged in places, but the tone was unmistakably Naruto: chaotic, excitable, and endearingly sincere. He rambled about their journey, the food (so much ramen), the strange towns, and the quiet days filled with laughter. They were celebrating their fifth wedding anniversary—two months into a journey with no real destination. Just the road, each other, and freedom.

“Still writes like he’s trying to punch the paper,” Kakashi murmured with a shake of his head, though a smile tugged at his mouth beneath the mask.

He folded the letter carefully and tucked it into a drawer, his hand lingering on the edge of the wood for a moment before letting it go. A quiet pause.

“They’re good,” Kakashi said. “Happy. Eating too much ramen. They’ll be home soon.”

Shikamaru raised a brow, his mouth quirking. “Good. I was starting to think they’d retired to live behind some ramen stand in the Land of Iron.”

As he turned to leave again, scroll in hand, he added, “I’ll give this to Temari before she heads out. I’ve got to pick up Shikako from the academy anyway.”

Kakashi leaned into his hand again, elbow resting lazily on the desk. “How’s your little mini-me doing?”

Shikamaru sighed in the resigned way only a father could. “Too lazy. Just like her old man.”

Kakashi raised a single brow, expression unreadable but amused.

Shikamaru chuckled and scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah. I know what you’re thinking.”

Kakashi tilted his head, stretching slightly, and glanced at the ornate Hokage hat perched on the shelf behind him. It looked heavier than ever.

“You know,” he said with a quiet sigh, “I really can’t wait to toss that stupid hat onto Naruto’s head. The second he sets foot back in the village, I’m done. I’ll glue it to him if I have to.”

Shikamaru snorted. “You’ve been saying that for two years.”

“And I’ll keep saying it until he takes the damn job,” Kakashi replied, half-serious, half-hoping.

Outside the window, the sun continued its lazy crawl across the sky. Another paper fluttered off the edge of the desk.

And for that moment, the day remained undisturbed—quiet, ordinary, and full of small joys only peace could allow.

 

 

 

 

 

Temari stood in front of the small cabinet by the entryway, double-checking the contents of her travel pack with the precision of a seasoned kunoichi. Each item she touched had purpose, its placement deliberate. Scrolls were carefully bound in waxed cloth, secured with string. Rations wrapped in linen and sealed against moisture. A tin of medical supplies clinked softly as she tested the lid. Her spare fan strap was coiled like a serpent, resting besides a pack of polished kunai, and at the top of the pack—tucked carefully between a field notebook and a sealing tag—was a tightly sealed scroll bearing the Hokage’s wax emblem. Shikamaru’s handwriting marked it clearly for Gaara.

Satisfied, she closed the pack with a practiced tug and pulled the strap snug across her chest. Her eyes drifted around the room—a momentary stillness falling over her. The house was quiet, holding the gentle hush of late morning. A woven basket of clean laundry waited on the table, soft steam rising faintly from the folds of fresh cotton. Through the shoji doors, the garden basked in sunlight; jasmine vines climbed lazily along the fence, their sweet scent carried in by the breeze. A wind chime above the door rang once, delicately, as if bidding her farewell.

She stepped into the hallway and picked up the brush from the counter. With smooth, swift strokes, she left a short note for the other Nara clan members:

“Shikamaru is out with Shikako. I’ve left some stew on the stove—keep an eye on the temperature. Water the orchids before dusk, and don’t forget to feed the koi in the pond. I’ll be back in a few days. —Temari.”

Temari slid the note into place under a polished stone paperweight and reached for her sandals. The leather creaked faintly as she pulled them on, her fingers moving automatically through the familiar clasps. One last glance to the window, one deep breath of jasmine and paper, and she opened the door.

Sunlight poured in, golden and clear, stretching long fingers across the floorboards. The village was alive with its usual rhythm—quiet conversations, clinking shop bells, and the soft chatter of birds perched along the rooftops.

At the edge of the Nara compound, one of the clan’s own stood at his post, his vest marked with the household crest, posture attentive but relaxed. Temari approached with brisk, confident steps.

“I’m heading out for Sunagakure,” she said simply. “Back in a few days. Keep an eye on the east koi pond’s irrigation valves—last week’s rain overfilled them. And tell Naka-oba to check the archive room for moisture again.”

The young clansman straightened at her words and dipped his head respectfully. “Safe travels, Temari-sama.”

She nodded once, curt and efficient, before stepping onto the main path. Gravel crunched beneath her sandals, the sound sharp in the stillness. The wind, light and cool, played at the hem of her cloak as she made her way through the village streets, every footstep deliberate, steady, unaware of how near the horizon truly was.

The academy bell rang just as she reached the corner near the school. Children’s laughter echoed through the courtyard, high and bright. She was about to enter the building when she spotted them—Shikamaru was already there, standing with a relaxed slouch near the academy doors, his hands in his pockets, watching a blonde child dart down the steps toward him.

Temari smiled.

“Oi!” she called out.

Shikako, her six-year-old daughter, turned at the sound of her mother’s voice and squealed in delight. She had her mother’s straw-gold hair, tied up in a messy ponytail, but her eyes—those were Shikamaru’s through and through. Quiet, observant, sharp.

“Kaa-chan!” Shikako ran full speed into her arms, and Temari scooped her up effortlessly.

“You came!” the girl beamed. “Are you going on a mission to see Gaara-ojisan and Kankuro-ojisan again?”

Temari chuckled, her arms tightening gently around her daughter. “I am. Someone has to keep those two in line.”

Shikako giggled and leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder. Shikamaru approached, his expression softening in that way it always did when he looked at the two of them together.

“You were fast,” Temari said, eyeing him.

“I’m motivated when I know I don’t have to deal with late homework,” he replied lazily.

She rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her gaze lingered. After a moment, she set Shikako down and straightened her pack.

“I have to get moving,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter’s face. “I’ll be back in a week, alright?”

Shikako nodded solemnly, though her lip quivered a little. “Okay... Will you bring me a new fan?”

“I’ll see what I can find,” Temari promised.

As she turned to go, Shikamaru stopped her.

“Wait,” he said, reaching into his sleeve. “Almost forgot. This—” he held out a tightly rolled scroll, sealed in red, “—Rokudaime´s reply for Gaara. Don’t lose it.”

Temari took the scroll and tucked it into her side pouch. “Thanks.”

“You’re not taking the new rail line?”

She snorted. “Please. I need the exercise. I’d rather walk.”

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“Love you too,” she replied without missing a beat.

She turned then, heading down the path that led toward the gates. As she walked, she paused once—just at the bend in the road—and turned back.

Shikamaru and Shikako were still standing there, framed by sunlight, waving.

She lifted a hand in return and smiled.

None of them knew that it would be the last time they saw each other.

 

 

 

 

 

Temari stepped beyond the towering gates of Konohagakure, the last threshold between the safety of the village and the open road. The wide wooden doors stood tall behind her, etched with the scars of history and the pride of peace. A Chūnin on gate duty nodded as he inscribed her departure into the mission log.

"Safe travels, Temari-sama," he offered politely, pen scratching lightly across parchment.

She returned the nod, her steps smooth and unhurried as her sandals met the sun-warmed stone of the familiar path. The road southward unspooled like a golden ribbon ahead of her, gently bending between whispering pines and fields touched by spring’s hand. Temari walked with the ease of someone who had taken this route dozens of times, her stride firm, her fan secured across her back.

The wind shifted.

Subtle at first. The steady mountain breeze that typically rustled the grass and stirred the leaves began to thin—fading into a stillness too soft, too unnatural. She stopped.

Her green eyes lifted to the sky.

At first glance, everything appeared unchanged. The sun was still bright, the clouds drifting lazily across the blue expanse like idle thoughts. But something was off. A quiet tension had crept into the air, the kind that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up beneath her sleeves. She remained motionless for a breath longer, watching, listening.

Then, a crow broke the illusion.

It shrieked overhead, veering sharply from its flight path mid-air. Its wings clipped at an awkward angle, like it had been startled—or pulled—by something unseen. Temari’s eyes narrowed. The breeze didn’t return.

And then she felt it.

The great iron fan strapped to her back vibrated faintly, a soft, resonant hum that only she could hear. It was not sound. It was chakra—faint, but present. A ripple across the current of nature. Her fingers flexed at her side, unconsciously itching toward the weapon.

She didn’t speak. There was no one to tell.

But her expression changed. Her jaw tightened. Her eyes sharpened. The serenity that had marked her morning had fallen away like a mask.

She had felt this before—once. Long ago, in the moments before the Fourth Great Shinobi War ignited. That same pressure. That same whisper beneath the surface. The world had felt it then, too—just before everything broke.

Still, Temari was not one to jump at shadows. It had been over a decade since the last war. Peace had held through storms, negotiations, births, funerals. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was a phantom echo, old nerves remembering old wounds.

She exhaled slowly.

"Not yet," she murmured, more to herself than anyone. Not yet.

Resolute, she turned her gaze forward again and resumed walking, though her pace had changed. Less casual. More alert. The tension did not fade as she moved, but she kept going.

Just before the path curved into the distant treeline, she glanced back.

Konoha stood framed in the light of late morning, rooftops glinting gold beneath the sun, trees swaying softly inside its sturdy walls. Children’s laughter echoed faintly even from here. A village at peace.

Temari’s gaze lingered.

Then she turned away, not knowing it would be the last time she saw it whole.

 

 

 

 

 

As Temari made her way farther down the path, the village behind her continued to hum with life.

Konoha basked in the glow of early midday, its rooftops aglow with soft sunlight, the cherry trees in the lanes dusting the breeze with fragrant petals. The soundscape was one of familiar comfort—vendors calling out wares in the marketplace, sandals tapping along stone paths, and the distant clang of a training bell near the academy. Everything pulsed with a steady, peaceful rhythm, unaware of the tension blooming quietly in the distance.

Outside the academy, children had taken over the yard, their voices loud and unruly beneath the long eaves. It was that lazy hour after classes had ended, when no one wanted to go home just yet. Groups sprawled across benches and steps, trading jokes and snacks.

Near the gate, six-year-old Yamanaka Inoru sat with his arms tightly crossed and brows drawn together, his face the picture of concentrated annoyance. His pale skin flushed red with indignation as he glared across the space at the pink-haired girl opposite him.

“I said yakiniku is better!” Inoru snapped, puffing his chest.

Haruno Hanami didn’t flinch. Her green eyes burned with equal fire, arms set defiantly at her sides. “You just like it 'cause your papa eats it all the time! Curry is way better!”

“It’s not!”

“It is!”

“It’s slimy!”

“It’s healthy!”

A boy sitting nearby leaned toward his friend and whispered, “They fight every day. It means they like each other.” The girl beside him giggled behind her hands.

More children spilled out of the school doors as the sun tilted toward late day. Some parents stood nearby, chatting with teachers about test scores and playdates, while others gathered their children in warm embraces, the stress of the day dissolving into routine.

 

 

 

 

 

Further east, the sounds changed. In a wide training field, shouts echoed—sharp, rhythmic, relentless.

“KEEP YOUR GUARD UP! YES! JUST LIKE THAT!”

Rock Lee’s voice thundered through the open air. His green jumpsuit gleamed under the sun, and his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he supervised a cohort of exhausted Chūnin going through high-speed taijutsu drills.

“You must let the flames of youth ignite your soul!” he called out, his grin impossibly wide, one thumb held up like a badge of honour.

One of the trainees collapsed onto the dusty ground, wheezing.

“This is... my soul... leaving my body,” she groaned, half-laughing.

Lee knelt beside her instantly, helping her to her feet with that unshakable optimism. “Then we must chase it down and bring it back even stronger!”

Laughter rippled through the group despite their exhaustion.

 

 

 

 

 

Near the heart of the village, the hospital corridors echoed with quieter, more purposeful footsteps. Sakura strode down the hall, clipboard in hand, white coat shifting with each step. She paused outside patient rooms, checking in with a smile or soft touch to a forehead, ensuring wounds were healing and chakras balanced. Her voice was calm, but sure.

Once her rounds were complete, she returned to the classroom near the medical wing, where a dozen young medics sat at neat desks, eyes wide and fingers poised over notebooks.

“All right,” she said, placing her clipboard on the desk. “That’s it for today. Your homework: one page on diagnostic chakra flow—without using any jutsu. Pure theory. And I expect clean penmanship this time, Kaito.”

The student in question groaned, and his classmates snickered.

Sakura raised an eyebrow. “You can thank me when you’re saving lives without having to shout incantations like a stage magician.”

She lingered a moment longer, answering a few questions as the group slowly packed up. A younger girl with nervous hands approached, holding out a diagram.

“Sensei, do you think I shaped the flow correctly here?”

Sakura took the page, studied it, and gave a nod. “Better. You’re visualizing the nodes clearly—just remember to keep them symmetrical near the spine.”

The girl nodded quickly, scribbling a note.

Outside, the sun had dipped slightly lower.

 

 

 

 

 

In another wing of the hospital, Tsunade leaned over a desk cluttered with folders, her eyes narrowed with the deep intensity of someone deeply immersed in the bureaucratic battlefield.

“I want this batch of transfers logged by noon tomorrow,” she muttered, scratching a note onto a report.

Shizune stood a few feet away, going over supply charts. “We’re ahead on disinfectant, but short on chakra stabilizers.”

“We’ll request from Suna,” Tsunade replied. “Or beg Orochimaru. Depends on who’s less irritating this week.”

On the opposite side of the desk, a young woman with ink-stained fingers nodded dutifully, taking notes with rapid, focused movements.

“You’ll handle the next shift schedule,” Tsunade added without looking up. “If the surgical thread’s even a millimetre off, I want to hear about it.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“And don’t wait on Shizune to hold your hand. She’s got enough on her plate.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Shizune chuckled faintly. “She means well.”

Tsunade snorted, murmuring. “She means not to drown in paperwork so she can go drink sake with that snake the next time he visits.”

“I HEARD THAT,” said Shizune, sending her former mentor a stink eye.

 

 

 

 

The village was steeped in warmth, routine, and a peace so deep that no one stopped to wonder how long it might last.

Unseen by any eye, a ripple passed beneath the surface of the earth. It hummed through the veins of chakra that threaded through tree roots, foundations, bloodstreams. And in its wake, something recoiled. Or stirred.

No one noticed when three chakra-sensitive plants in the botanical greenhouse blackened at the tips and withered in seconds. A researcher scratched his head, assuming it a soil fault.

No one paused when a Jōnin at the mission desk sneezed hard, clutching his temple with a puzzled frown. “Weird pressure,” he mumbled, but dismissed it with a shrug.

And when a sudden, inexplicable hush rolled across a sunlit street—brief and unnatural—no one said a word.

They breathed it in.

Then life went on.

A silence too sudden.

 

 

 

 

 

The morning sun had only just begun to break through the mist when Temari reached the outskirts of Hi no Kuni after a full day of traveling. Pale gold spilled over the treetops, casting shifting shadows along the narrow dirt path that wound through the borderland woods. The mist clung to the underbrush, thin and glistening, reluctant to retreat. She walked with steady grace, her eyes keenly observant, every step echoing her discipline and experience.

Ahead, nestled between two gentle hills, stood the border outpost—quiet, functional, and surrounded by the low bustle of morning movement. It was the kind of place where the world paused: a midpoint between territories, between purposes. Traders passed in and out with creaking carts; shinobi exchanged coded scrolls; and travellers took slow comfort in warm food and a place to rest their feet.

The checkpoint itself was built from pale wood and time-smoothed stone, unassuming but solid. Along its perimeter sat several vendor stalls arranged in a neat half-circle. Their painted signs bobbed gently in the morning breeze, offering grilled skewers, rice balls, medicinal teas, and sweet dango. The scent of roasted meat, fresh leaves, and syrup clung thick in the air, wrapping around the senses like a familiar story.

Temari approached one of the quieter stands, her fan resting comfortably against her side, its weight familiar. The vendor behind the dango stall gave her a respectful nod, which she returned with the briefest smile. She didn’t speak as she settled onto the wooden bench, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the table. A porcelain cup was placed before her a moment later, filled with fragrant, earthy tea. Steam curled lazily from the rim, catching in the sunlight.

She sipped in silence, letting the warmth seep through her fingers.

Her eyes roved the scene before her, missing nothing. Two shinobi sat at the registration desk, heads bent together in hushed conversation, their armour glinting with dew. Beneath a nearby tarp, a pair of older travellers shared their breakfast from lacquered bento boxes, talking in low tones. A merchant passed with a squeaky cart, muttering about axle repairs to no one in particular.

Everything appeared normal. But the stillness beneath it scraped at her instincts.

Since departing Konoha, that tension hadn’t left her. A subtle pressure behind her ears. The quiet too symmetrical. The wind, too light. It was like the world held its breath.

Her cup paused halfway to her lips.

A tremor. Brief. Barely perceptible.

The ground beneath her feet shifted—once—like a breath caught in the chest of the earth itself. Her tea rippled in its cup. Birds did not cry out. The trees did not sway.

She didn’t move. Not yet.

No one else seemed to notice. The merchant kept walking. The shinobi didn’t look up. The travellers continued to eat. But for Temari, the silence was no longer comfortable.

Then her fan stirred.

Not with wind, but with chakra. It was faint—so faint it would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But she knew it. The subtle internal thrum, like chakra veins answering a distant call. It pulsed through her side, curled along her spine, settled at the base of her neck.

She lowered her cup without sound and reached slowly for the fan, her hand wrapping around the smooth grip like muscle memory.

Something was happening. Something big.

She rose from the bench in one fluid motion, shouldering the fan with care and precision. Her decision was already made—this wasn’t a time to linger. She would reach Sunagakure as quickly as her feet and chakra could take her.

But fate moved faster.

A sharp thud interrupted the air, feathered and soft.

A pigeon hit the ground near her feet, its wings sprawled unnaturally. Temari blinked once. The bird had no wounds. No arrow. No sign of trauma. It had simply fallen, mid-flight, lifeless.

Her pulse quickened.

Then a shout split the silence.

Temari's head snapped up. Near the registration table, a man dropped to his knees with a sickening sound. His body convulsed, mouth agape as he gasped for air. Blood burst from his nose and lips, splashing onto the dry dirt. His hands clawed at the earth as if trying to hold himself upright.

One of the stationed shinobi bolted from his post, crouching beside the man and pulling on gloves with practiced efficiency. He shouted for support.

Then came the second sound.

A racking, wet cough. Then another. A woman near the entry checkpoint clutched her side, staggered, and fell hard to the ground. Her cloak parted as she collapsed, revealing the Kumo symbol on her hitaiate. Blood poured freely from her mouth.

Temari’s body moved before her mind could catch up.

She sprinted, the cup forgotten behind her, chakra surging under her sandals as she dashed toward the guards.

“Temari of Sunagakure,” she barked, flashing her hitaiate with a precise motion that brooked no delay. Her voice cut through the confusion like steel. “Registration number 027019. Jōnin rank. Send a hawk to Konohagakure immediately—code red. I repeat, code red.”

The guards stiffened. One had already turned toward the emergency station, fumbling for the crimson-marked scroll stored in a glass case beneath the desk.

Temari exhaled tightly and looked back over her shoulder.

The pigeon. The man. The woman.

This wasn’t chakra sickness. It wasn’t poison. There was no jutsu smoke, no visible seal work, no sign of an external agent.

No. This was something else.

 

 

 

 

 

The morning sun had barely crested the horizon, casting a soft golden glow through the high windows of the Hokage's office, painting warm slashes of light across scroll-strewn desks and worn floorboards. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, swirling with each quiet movement. Yet, despite the serene beauty outside, the atmosphere within was anything but restful.

The familiar soundscape of administration echoed through the chamber: the deliberate scratch of pen on parchment, the faint rustle of shifting documents, and above it all, the long, beleaguered sighs of a man rapidly approaching his breaking point.

Kakashi sat slouched behind the massive desk, which seemed more like a trap than a workspace at this point. His forehead rested in one gloved palm, obscuring half of his face, while the other hand turned the brittle pages of yet another mission dossier—his fourth that hour. The muscles in his back ached from disuse, his eyes stung from too much reading, and the tepid mug of tea beside him had gone cold over an hour ago.

He shifted slightly, trying to find some comfort, but the chair creaked its protest, as if mocking him for even daring to think rest was a possibility. His gaze drifted to the window for a fleeting second—outside, the village bathed in golden morning light, blissfully unaware. He had been awake since well before dawn, and his patience was hanging by a thread thinner than a chakra wire.

“I swear,” he muttered, not for the first time that week, “the next time I see Naruto, I’m shoving this hat into his hands and vanishing into the hot springs.”

His voice was dry, laced with exhaustion and the kind of frustration that only came from being Hokage long past the point of voluntary service. He glanced at the ceremonial hat sitting on the nearby shelf—stiff, immaculate, and smug in its silence. It mocked him with every day he continued to wear the title.

On the desk in front of him sat a tower of paperwork tall enough to intimidate even the most seasoned Chūnin. There were finalized mission reports, detailing everything from minor border patrols to joint operations with Suna. Charts and memos on troop redistribution, each with hand-drawn annotations and seal markings, spilled into a pile of Shinobi Academy reform proposals—the ink still drying where new training regulations had been outlined. Stacked neatly beneath those were requisition forms from the medical corps, requests for new chakra stabilizers and surgical-grade steel. There were budget revisions for the market district’s post-renovation maintenance, as well as the freshly inked treaty with Kawa no Kuni, its pages still stiff from pressing.

Kakashi eyed them with the same resigned dread a man might give a sleeping tiger lying across his bed.

Only the presence of Shikamaru—ever-efficient despite his endless grumbling and signature slouch—kept the Hokage’s desk from vanishing beneath a tide of bureaucratic chaos. The younger man moved with practiced ease, thumbing through reports and muttering under his breath about what was and wasn’t worth Kakashi’s time. He had a knack for knowing what could wait and what would explode if left untouched. They worked in quiet harmony, words often unnecessary. Shikamaru’s presence, unassuming but sharp, was the only reason Kakashi hadn’t staged his own mysterious disappearance by now.

Just as Kakashi reached for his lukewarm tea—a bitter, half-finished cup that had lost its warmth hours ago—the office door creaked open on its hinges, a sound that always brought with it a fresh wave of dread or paperwork. Occasionally both.

“Ah, just in time for a break,” Kakashi mumbled, though his tone lacked all hope. He leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers still curled around the teacup, his eye flicking toward the door like a man expecting either salvation or another stack of files.

A low, velvety voice followed the creaking door, smooth as silk yet unsettling in its calm. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

The sound of it made the air in the office shift subtly, like the presence of a cold breeze that hadn't passed through the open window.

Kakashi didn’t look up right away. He didn’t need to. That voice could belong to no one else. “Orochimaru,” he said, his voice flat and tired, the name like a dull blade dragging along the edge of his patience.

The sannin moved with that effortless grace of his, each step deliberate, his lilac robes whispering against the floor with a sound too soft to be trusted. His eyes flicked around the office as if cataloguing its disarray, before settling on the chair across from the desk. He lowered himself into it with a kind of poised arrogance, spine perfectly straight, hands folding with elegant precision. The thick scroll he carried gleamed faintly with old sealing ink, the kind that soaked into parchment like blood and never quite faded from memory.

“You were about to take a break?” Orochimaru asked, his voice dripping with feigned innocence, lips curling ever so slightly in what might have passed for a genuine smile—if it didn’t carry the distinct scent of mischief. “How terribly rude of me. I do hope I’m not disrupting your sacred morning tea ritual.”

Kakashi sighed, the sound long and drawn out, like the air escaping a balloon too weary to stay afloat. “You’re like a summoned spirit,” he muttered. “Always appearing at the exact moment, I let myself believe I might rest. I should’ve had your name put on a summoning scroll by now—at least then I’d get a warning seal.”

“I do my best to be consistent,” Orochimaru purred, amusement flickering in his golden eyes. His hands were perfectly still, resting on the parchment between them, but something about his stillness felt coiled, patient, like the long pause before a snake strikes.

Despite the lingering distrust that coiled in the back of his mind like a stubborn root, Kakashi had no choice but to accept Orochimaru’s presence—pardoned at least, for now. The former sannin's intellect was unparalleled when it came to the obscure and the forbidden, and his access to Root’s inner archives had already uncovered more than months of intel sweeps ever had.

Orochimaru had been combing through everything—unsealed Root documents, lost clan scrolls, and fragmented research notes kept under Danzou’s personal protection. He moved through them with a hunger that was almost reverent, decoding records on chakra disruption, spiritual transfer, and containment techniques so old they predated even the first shinobi war. Some of the materials referenced rituals so arcane they bordered on myth, tied to times when chakra wasn’t wielded, but worshiped.

His current assignment was the most delicate yet: decrypting a vault of Danzou’s final experiments, many written in half-forgotten sealing dialects. Kakashi could feel the chill those papers brought with them, even just sitting unopened in the drawer beneath his desk.

The scroll between them was cracked open with care, its brittle edges hissing faintly as Orochimaru unravelled the old parchment. The ink, though faded, still pulsed faintly with preserved chakra, binding seals woven so tightly that even after decades they shimmered with subtle warning. It was the kind of document that reeked of suppressed knowledge, of truths hidden away for fear of their consequences.

“These files,” Orochimaru murmured, his fingers tracing the ancient text with something close to reverence, “are especially curious. Danzou, in his endless pursuit of control, was attempting to quantify something even most sealing masters feared to name—spiritual decay. The slow erosion of a person’s chakra, not through combat or overuse, but through trauma. Emotional fragmentation. Fear. Grief. Regret.”

He paused, letting the weight of the words settle like dust in the silence.

“His hypothesis,” Orochimaru continued, “was that under extreme emotional duress, chakra not only becomes unstable but vulnerable—open to manipulation, redirection... even removal. His goal, I suspect, was both control and eventual weaponization. Or perhaps... to render certain people easier to eliminate. Take away the source before they can ever retaliate.”

Kakashi rubbed at his temple, the pressure building behind his eyes like the start of a migraine. His voice dropped a register, tinged with reluctant curiosity. “And this is related to what happened at the Uchiha massacre?”

“Some of it,” Orochimaru replied, tapping one pale fingertip against a line of faded ink. “But there are notes here—ancient ones—that reference a technique unlike anything in the shinobi arsenal. Not a jutsu. A siphon. The language is obscure, but the intent is unmistakable. This technique didn’t manipulate chakra. It extracted it. Systematically. Without residue.”

Kakashi leaned in, the weariness in his expression temporarily replaced by focused concern. “Natural?” he asked, though his gut already whispered the answer he didn’t want to hear.

“No,” Orochimaru said, his golden eyes narrowing to slits, voice hushed and deliberate. “Deliberate. And precise. Like a hand reaching through the air, grasping the very threads of life.”

Before Orochimaru could elaborate, the office door slammed open with a sharp crack, the hinges groaning under the force. A Chūnin from the hawk post rushed in, his vest slightly askew, pale-faced and panting as though he’d sprinted from the farthest edge of the tower without pause.

“Hokage-sama!”

Kakashi rose from his chair in one fluid motion, the weariness gone in an instant, replaced by the sharp reflexes of a seasoned shinobi. He took the scroll from the Chūnin’s trembling hands, his fingers moving with calm precision as he cracked the seal. His eye scanned the message once, then again, slower. Each line he read deepened the furrow above his brow. By the end, his expression had hardened into something unreadable.

“Shikamaru.”

The name left Kakashi’s lips like an order, and the aide was already in motion before it finished echoing in the air. He crossed the room swiftly, snatching the scroll from Kakashi’s hand with a fluid motion honed by habit. As his eyes moved across the contents, his brows pulled together. A hard line formed along his mouth, and the familiar weight of tension settled in his shoulders.

“Temari sent this,” Shikamaru said, voice low but steady, though a shadow passed over his face. “Code red. Two deaths reported near the border outpost. One civillian, one shinobi. No injuries. No trauma. Both victims bled from the nose and mouth—violently. Their chakra signatures were completely gone. Not diminished—gone. One pigeon dropped dead midair, no sign of cause.”

Kakashi swore under his breath, a quiet, vicious sound that barely escaped through his mask. “Send for Sakura and Tsunade. Now.”

His voice left no room for hesitation. The air in the room had shifted entirely. What had begun as routine now rang with warning bells only those long-experienced in war could hear. This wasn’t a coincidence. It was a pattern—and a dangerous one.

The Chūnin gave a sharp nod and vanished in a flicker of movement, disappearing through the open door as quickly as he had come, his sandals barely scuffing the polished floor.

Orochimaru hadn’t moved a muscle during the exchange. He sat unnervingly still, fingers steepled before him, golden eyes watching every shift in expression. “May I?” he asked finally, his tone as courteous as it was unsettling.

Kakashi hesitated, his eye´s narrowing slightly. A moment of silence passed, heavy and unspoken. He glanced toward Shikamaru, whose face remained unreadable—but he gave a single, small nod of assent.

Wordlessly, Kakashi extended the scroll across the desk. Orochimaru reached out with slow, precise movements and accepted it like one would a sacred text, the seal still glinting slightly in the morning light.

The sannin read slowly, his eyes scanning each line with deliberate slowness. His fingers tapped once, then rested still, the only motion in a silence that had stretched taut.

“Fascinating,” he murmured at last, more to himself than anyone in the room. “This doesn’t read like an illness. There’s no chakra imprint left behind. That’s rare. It’s as if... the chakra itself was consumed. Not scattered, not sealed—devoured.”

Shikamaru blinked, tension threading through his voice. “Consumed?”

“Like draining a lake dry,” Orochimaru said, setting the scroll down with exaggerated care. “Without chakra, the body collapses. But for there to be no residue... the extraction must have been perfectly clean. Too clean. Surgical.”

“Is that even possible?” Kakashi asked, his voice low, though he already had a feeling he wouldn’t like the answer.

Orochimaru’s lips curved into a slow, thoughtful smile. “It shouldn’t be.”

He trailed off, his eyes gleaming with that all-too-familiar look of fascination—the one he wore when treading too close to forbidden knowledge.

Before the tension could settle, the door swung open again—this time not with panic, but purpose.

Tsunade strode in with her usual authority, her steps brisk, golden hair catching the morning light like a lioness arriving at the front. Sakura followed closely, clipboard still in hand, eyes already narrowed as if she’d sensed trouble before even hearing the details.

“What’s going on?” Tsunade demanded, her tone clipped but controlled.

Kakashi handed her the report without a word, his expression grim. She took it with a quick flick of her wrist and began scanning the contents, Sakura leaning in beside her.

Sakura scanned it over Tsunade’s shoulder, her brow furrowing with each passing word until her hand flew to her mouth.

“There’s no chakra left in the victims?” she asked, her voice tight.

“None,” Kakashi confirmed. “Nothing to trace, no leak, no fragment. Just... gone.”

“This isn’t a virus,” Sakura murmured, her mind already running through every known pathogen and chakra-related illness. “Not any I’ve ever seen. Even with poison, the chakra remains. It sounds like something... drained their life force.”

Shikamaru rubbed his temples slowly, as if trying to ease away a creeping headache. “Temari said she felt a tremor. A subtle one, just before it started. Her fan reacted—internally, like it did during the war. Internal chakra vibration.”

Tsunade frowned, the lines on her face deepening with the weight of her thoughts. “That sounds like a shift in natural energy. Something’s not just affecting people—it’s pulling from the environment.”

Orochimaru gave a small, chilling laugh, one that echoed faintly in the suddenly too-quiet room. “You’re catching up,” he said with a strange sort of admiration. “My theory is this: something is drawing on chakra—parasitically. Bleeding it in perfect synchrony. Not just people. The bird, too. Perhaps even flora. Maybe even the chakra network that spans the world—subtly.”

Sakura’s eyes widened, her heart thudding as she took a step forward, whispering, “But why? Who could benefit from draining the planet’s life energy like this?”

They fell into deep discussion, voices overlapping, theories unfolding like tactical maps on a battlefield. They debated unknown pathogens, experimental jutsu, ancient bloodline abilities, and latent curses left to awaken.

But for all their brilliance, none of them grasped the truth.

Because they were still thinking like shinobi.

And the threat—ancient, buried, waiting—was not one born of jutsu or war. It was older than nations. Older than bloodlines.

Far beneath the surface of their world, something had begun to stir. It pulled at the ley lines of chakra, feeding in silence, gathering strength.

And it would not stop until every last drop of life was devoured.

 

 

 

 

 

The sky stretched high and endless above them, the colour of sun-warmed sapphires, not a cloud in sight. It was the kind of day made for wandering—crisp sea wind brushing against skin, the scent of salt in the air, and the soft hush of waves somewhere in the distance. Birds flitted overhead in lazy arcs, their songs carried softly on the breeze. The path beneath their feet crunched with sea-worn stones, winding along cliffs and patches of tall grass. Far ahead, the shimmering coast glowed under sunlight.

Naruto squinted into the horizon with a grin tugging at his lips, one hand clasping his backpack, his gait relaxed and rhythm slow. Beside him, Sasuke walked with the same careful grace he always had—measured, silent, perceptive. His hands rested in the deep folds of his cloak, the fabric shifting gently with each step, and though his expression was neutral, his eyes scanned the scenery with quiet appreciation.

They had spent the past few days in Nami no Kuni. The once-battered land of waves had become a small marvel of restoration. Where broken roads and crumbling piers once stood, there were now paved markets, arching bridges, and polished docks filled with fishing boats and merchant sails. Naruto, of course, had insisted they visit Tazuna and Inari.

The old man had nearly cried when they showed up on his doorstep. Tazuna’s hair had thinned to wisps of silver, and his hands trembled slightly with age, but his laugh still echoed like it used to—loud and proud. Tsunami, now in her fifties, had given Naruto a sound scolding for staying away so long before smothering him with onigiri and dried fish. Inari, taller now and carrying the poise of a young leader, had introduced them to his wife—sharp-tongued, clever-eyed, and clearly amused by Inari’s devotion.

“You’re like a legend here,” she’d told Naruto over dinner. “Half the kids think you fly through the sky and talk to foxes.”

Naruto had laughed so hard he nearly choked.

Now, as they left the coastal village behind, the two walked side by side along a quiet path toward Yugakure—their last stop before finally returning to Konohagakure. The light sea breeze tugged at Naruto’s blond hair and the edge of Sasuke’s cloak.

Naruto let out a slow breath, his voice breaking the silence. “Y’know... we should do this more often. Just disappear for a bit. Walk till our feet hurt. Sleep wherever. Eat everything.”

Sasuke gave him a sidelong glance. “You already do that. You’d sleep on the roof of Ichiraku if Ayame let you.”

Naruto grinned wider. “Yeah, but with you it’s better. Way better.”

Sasuke didn’t reply immediately. His lips twitched into a faint smirk, but he kept walking. After a few paces, he spoke again, more softly. “You’re annoying. Loud. Unpredictable.”

Naruto snorted. “Yeah?”

“And somehow,” Sasuke added, glancing up at the sky, “the quiet feels wrong when you’re not around.”

Naruto slowed, blinking at him. “Wait. Was that... a compliment?”

“No,” Sasuke said smoothly. “An observation.”

Naruto’s laughter rang out along the path. Then, without warning, he sidled closer and slid his bandaged arm—what remained of it after their fight—around Sasuke’s waist. He tugged him in with an easy, familiar motion, the one he'd perfected over years of quiet affection.

“Besides,” he murmured, nuzzling into Sasuke’s hair, “you’re the only one who puts up with me.”

Sasuke rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. A faint flush crept into his cheeks as he allowed himself to lean in.

“Tch. It’s not putting up with you if I enjoy it,” he muttered.

His hand, also wrapped in pale bandages—his own arm rebuilt from Hashirama’s cells—came up to rest over Naruto’s. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked. Enough.

The breeze picked up, brushing their cloaks together as Sasuke tilted his chin upward. His dark eyes, softened by peace and love, met Naruto’s with a glimmer.

“Idiot,” he said gently, and leaned forward.

Naruto’s eyes fluttered shut. He leaned in as well, their breaths mingling, foreheads nearly touching. The world narrowed to just the two of them.

Then—

A low growl pulsed through Naruto’s mind, reverberating deep and ancient.

<Something’s wrong, brat. Something stirs.>

Naruto’s entire body went rigid. He inhaled sharply, his heart skipping. Kurama’s presence, usually dormant and warm, had surged forward like a tidal wave of instinct.

At the same moment, Sasuke’s Sharingan flared to life, the crimson light spinning with speed and intensity. The Rinnegan activated without his command, glowing with cold, celestial awareness.

Naruto stepped back, his eyes narrowed. “Sasuke...”

Sasuke didn’t answer immediately. His gaze swept the sea, then the cliffs, then the sky. Everything looked normal. But it wasn’t.

“Yeah,” Sasuke said. “Something’s off. The air feels—”

“Too quiet,” Naruto said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The breeze had stopped. The warmth of the sun felt dulled. Their chakra hummed in discord.

They stared at each other.

They didn’t need to say it aloud. They both knew.

Sasuke’s chakra surged without restraint. In a flash of violet light, his Susanoo unfolded around them—the towering, spectral figure solidifying in a heartbeat. Wings expanded wide, casting sharp shadows on the path. The earth trembled beneath its weight.

Naruto didn’t hesitate. He reached up and gripped Sasuke’s shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he said.

And then they were gone.

A burst of wind. A shock of power.

Flying back toward home.

Toward the storm.

 

 

 

 

 

The outpost had become a hive of movement. Dust swirled beneath hurried footsteps as voices rose and fell in clipped urgency. Under Temari’s sharp guidance, shinobi and civilians alike scrambled to reorganize the growing crowd of travellers and merchants stranded by the sudden halt in border activity. The morning had started like any other—clear skies stretching over the desert horizon, a cool breeze rolling in from the distant dunes, and the usual bustle of commerce passing between Hi no Kuni and its neighbouring nations. But now, tension coiled in the air, invisible but tangible, like the moment before a sandstorm breaks.

Temari stood near the edge of the checkpoint, the wind tugging at her blonde ponytails, her hands planted firmly on her hips. Her expression was all steel.

“Form a proper line, and keep the wagons moving!” she shouted, voice cutting clean through the commotion. “No one panics, no one splits off. Chūnin, stick with the civilians—make sure they stay grouped. Any shinobi of Jōnin rank, you’re with me.”

The barked command snapped heads around. She was Sabaku no Temari, sister of the Kazekage and no stranger to command. People listened—not just out of respect, but because her voice offered structure where chaos threatened to break.

Three shinobi had already joined her at the centre of the outpost’s defence: two from Iwagakure, one from Kirigakure. Each bore the worn look of seasoned field experience and nodded at her in terse solidarity. Travelers whispered as they passed—grateful, frightened, and confused.

That was when the sunlight began to fade.

It didn’t dim like the start of dusk. It was abrupt—unnatural. Temari paused mid-order, narrowing her eyes as something inside her stirred.

The wind stilled.

She turned her face to the sky. Around her, voices stopped. Children fell silent. One little girl dropped the onigiri clutched in her hands, eyes fixed on the heavens.

The sky remained cloudless, but the light was off. Too dull. Too dark. Temari’s stomach turned as she followed their gaze.

The moon.

There it hung, swollen and bloated, an alien sphere hovering too close to the earth. Its pale surface shimmered with a strange, ivory hue. And worse—across its face stretched jagged, web-like cracks, too deliberate to be natural.

Her fingers twitched around the handle of her fan.

Cracks. On the moon.

A beat of silence, then she acted.

She yanked her fan free, the snap of it opening loud in the quiet. The weight of it steadied her.

“Move!” she commanded, her voice like thunder. “All of you—get out of here, now! Chūnin, keep the civilians together and get them across the border into Hi no Kuni! Jōnin, you stay here with me!”

There was a moment of hesitation—but it was only a moment.

The shinobi broke into motion. Orders flew, people were herded, and the confused crowd started moving like a single current. Parents called for children, traders grabbed what they could carry, and the first wave of frightened humanity began to flee.

A Kiri Jōnin rushed to her side. “Temari-sama, what is this?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, eyes still locked on the cracked moon. “But it’s wrong. Everything about this is wrong.”

She turned and bit into her thumb, the metallic taste of blood sharp on her tongue. Without pause, she smeared it across her palm, used the hand signs and dropped to one knee.

“Kuchiyose no Jutsu!”

A burst of wind and smoke erupted, stirring the already frantic air. When it cleared, Kamatari crouched before her, blades glinting beneath the haze.

His large ears flicked nervously. “Temari?” he rasped. “This... this isn’t normal.”

“No,” she agreed. “Something’s started. I don’t know what, but it’s bad. Go to Gaara. Tell him the moon has cracked. That we’re evacuating the outpost. Give him these.”

She handed over a tightly rolled bundle of scrolls, her fingers lingering briefly.

“Tell him I’m staying to investigate. We might not have much time.”

Kamatari gave a grim nod, tucking the scrolls under his cloak. “I’ll reach him fast.”

“Good.”

With a leap and a gust of chakra-imbued wind, Kamatari vanished.

Temari turned back. The outpost was half-empty now. Civilians were being ushered into long lines, walking at a near-run pace along the trade road deeper into Hi no Kuni. The remaining shinobi held defensive positions, eyes sharp, nerves taut.

Then it came.

A pulse.

It rolled through the soles of her feet like a ripple in the earth—like a heartbeat, but too slow, too deep. She staggered slightly, catching herself with the base of her fan.

Her head whipped around. South.

Her eyes narrowed.

There was something in the desert.

“Jōnin,” she called, pointing to the remaining shinobi. “Stay. Get them all to safety. And once the civilians are clear, spread word to your villages. This isn’t isolated. Something’s happening.”

The Kiri shinobi nodded with tight lips. “Understood. And you?”

“I’ll investigate.”

She looked south again, her silhouette framed against the growing gloom. Her jaw was set.

“There’s something in the desert. And I have to know what it is.”

With that, she turned and ran—fan strapped to her back, sand beginning to swirl in her wake as she vanished into the wind.

 

 

 

 

 

Temari ran, her breath steady but quick, every step eating away the distance between her and the source of that strange pulse. Her body moved on instinct now, honed by years of training—her mind parsing through possibilities, none of them good. The edge of the border outpost disappeared behind her, swallowed by sand and shadow. Her fan, heavy and solid against her back, reassured her. She could feel its slight hum—attuned to her chakra, ready to answer her call at the first sign of danger.

But the desert did not resist.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

The world around her seemed muffled. The sound of her sandals brushing the fine desert sand was the only accompaniment to her breath. No whisper of wind. No rustle of movement from hidden animals. The usual low hiss of heat rolling across the dunes had vanished. Even the sun, though blinding above, seemed distant—as if its warmth no longer touched the earth.

It unsettled her more than battle ever could.

Still, she pushed forward.

The pull of chakra ahead was unmistakable. At first, it had been faint—like catching a stray scent on the breeze—but now it was undeniable. It dragged at her like an invisible tether, steady, insistent. Not aggressive yet... but awakening.

Then it came.

The second pulse.

It was not sound—it was a sensation. A weight, a throb in the soles of her feet and the pit of her stomach. It reverberated through the air, through the earth, like a deep drum echoing from beneath the world. She stumbled, the unexpected force halting her forward charge. Her sandals skidded on the sand, and she crouched slightly, eyes darting.

The chakra had changed. It was no longer a call. It was a threat.

Heavier. Hungrier.

She clenched her fan tighter, her hand trembling for the first time.

"That came from a different direction…" she muttered under her breath.

She turned. South by southwest. Her instincts twisted, urging her to go.

The wind still did not return.

Her feet kicked up fine plumes of dust as she sprinted toward the new pull, the landscape flattening out as she moved deeper into the desert. The oppressive silence made it feel like she was running underwater, or through a memory that wasn’t hers. She couldn’t tell how long it took, only that she was breathless and coated in sweat by the time the ground beneath her began to change.

The basin appeared without warning. A natural hollow, but unnatural in its stillness.

Temari’s stride slowed. Her gaze swept across the clearing—and froze.

The scene before her was grotesque.

The bodies of desert creatures lay strewn like discarded puppets. Giant lizards with sun-baked hides, their eyes open but lifeless. Scorpions—massive, armoured—splayed like shattered pottery. Every beast was whole. Unwounded. Yet utterly dead.

No chakra.

No heat.

Not even the stench of rot.

Temari’s stomach turned. She lowered her fan slightly, mouth dry.

It wasn’t natural. It was deliberate. Controlled.

Something had taken their chakra—and left everything else.

She stepped cautiously into the basin.

Then the ground pulsed.

Not a tremor. A pulse. A humming vibration that made her teeth clench and the hairs on her arms stand on end. And then—

A seal began to emerge from the earth.

No—it was already there. Buried under sand and now awakening. It came to life with a slow burn, lines of red light spreading outward in a web from the centre. A diameter of nearly twenty meters, the seal was massive and terrifying in its scale.

Temari gasped as she felt its chakra erupt upward—rising in thick, invisible columns. The air grew dense, unbreathable. Her lungs struggled.

“What the hell is this...?”

Her voice barely escaped. Her knees buckled and she nearly fell.

Without pausing to think, she grabbed her fan with both hands, snapping it open with a sharp flick of her wrist.

“Fūton: Kamaitachi no Jutsu!”

The wind obeyed, catching beneath her like a trusted ally. She launched upward into the sky, her fan angled to catch the currents she conjured.

From above, the seal was worse.

It wasn’t just large—it looked ancient.

Concentric rings, meticulously etched, framed a central spiral that pulsed with rhythmic light. Interwoven lines twisted like veins or thorns between each ring. Four claw-like runes, too angular to be decorative, pointed inward at cardinal points. Between them flickered characters she didn’t recognize.

It looked like a curse.

A funnel.

Temari hovered, heart pounding. The wind that lifted her should have been cold, but it wasn’t. It was nothing. The seal was feeding on the world around it—on the chakra in the land, in the animals, in her.

She descended, gliding slowly back to the ground, teeth gritted against the overwhelming pull.

As soon as her sandals met the sand again, the dizziness returned in force. Her legs gave out and she collapsed to one knee.

With trembling fingers, she reached into her pouch. She pulled out a blank scroll, an ink brush, and a small bottle. Her teeth uncapped the bottle as her hands fumbled to hold the brush steady.

Her vision swam. Sweat stung her eyes.

Still, she forced her wrist to move.

The outer ring. The four marks. The branching veins. The central spiral.

“Focus,” she hissed to herself. “Get it down... get it right...”

Ink smeared slightly. Her lines wavered.

Still, she drew.

 

 

 

 

 

Temari’s hand trembled violently as she etched the final swirl into the scroll, her brush skidding slightly before she corrected it with a strained breath. The lines were uneven, the ink already beginning to dry in streaks, but the core structure of the seal was accurate. She had captured the most important elements—the concentric rings, the jagged, claw-like arcs, and the central spiral that radiated a sickening energy. Even in replication, the image seemed to pull at her, drinking the warmth from her skin and the breath from her lungs.

Her hand lingered over the parchment, sweat dripping onto the edge of the scroll. For a moment, she simply sat there, shoulders heaving, as if the act of copying it had drained the last of her strength.

She forced herself to move.

Wiping her brow with a sleeve that left a dark smear of grit and ink, she rolled the scroll gently and slid it into a protective tube, sealing the cap tightly. Her chakra was flickering now—thin, ragged, like the last breath of a dying flame.

“Stay with me,” she murmured to herself, her voice barely audible. She didn’t know if she meant her body, or her chakra, or perhaps the world itself.

She bit down hard into her thumb, wincing as the sharp pain cut through her dizziness. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth, grounding her as her fingers smeared the blood across her palm. She shifted to one knee, her other leg trembling as she braced herself in the sand.

“Kuchiyose no Jutsu!”

The smoke burst was smaller this time—dampened by her fraying chakra reserves—but within it appeared a second weasel. This one was smaller and leaner than the last, its fur sleek and dark, its eyes alert and glinting with intelligence. It tilted its head at her, nose twitching.

“Take this,” she said, thrusting the scroll forward. “Get it to Gaara. Immediately. The Fūinjutsu corps too. No detours. Fly.”

The weasel didn’t hesitate. It took the scroll delicately between its sharp teeth, nodded once, and shot off in a burst of chakra, vanishing into the rising heat mirage of the desert.

Temari stood slowly, breath hitching. Her legs felt like stone. The very air around her was becoming dense, syrupy with tension. The sky above her had grown darker, casting an unnatural pall over the red-gold sands. The sun still shone, but it was pale, eclipsed by something else.

She looked up.

And her breath caught.

The moon.

It was no longer just cracked. It was moving. Shifting. Tilting slowly, as if the heavens themselves had bent from some invisible force. The fractures along its surface glowed faintly, like fresh wounds leaking light, and they had grown—arcs of new damage stretching like veins across its surface.

The moon was aligning with the seal.

“No...” she breathed. Her voice was thin, hoarse. The nausea returned, along with an instinctual fear that clawed at the base of her skull.

She had no time.

With trembling hands, she unslung her fan and drove it into the sand before her, the sound of its impact dull and final. It stood like a monument, defiant in the face of the unnatural glow.

Then she fell to her knees once more, closer this time to the edge of the glowing seal, where the hum of power was almost deafening. Her fingers went for her brush, uncapping the remaining ink with a numb sense of purpose. She dipped it, then leaned forward.

She wrote slowly. Painfully.

Each stroke carved with deliberation, her brush dragging through the wind-swept grit. The symbols she drew were old—older than Sunagakure’s founding. She had found them in the crumbling ledgers of Chiyo-obaasama’s archives, pages annotated with warnings and revisions.

A stalling seal. A wind-sealing technique once used on Shukaku when he had first rampaged through the sands, uncontrolled and furious.

She copied it now, the runes slanted and jagged under her shaking hand. Her vision swam. Her chest ached. Still, she moved.

It wasn’t meant to seal. Only to hold. To delay.

Enough to buy time.

She finished the final character and stood, swaying. Her fan pulsed faintly, the symbols glowing along its folded blades. She hoisted it, staggered back, and drew in a breath that felt like swallowing sand.

Then she leapt.

The wind obeyed her call, lifting her into the air in an arc that arced high above the glowing formation.

“Now,” she whispered, teeth clenched.

She threw the fan.

It cut through the air like a blade, spinning once, twice—then slammed into the exact centre of the pulsing seal with a low, resonant thud.

Temari dropped back to the ground, knees hitting the sand hard. She ignored the jolt of pain, pressing her palms together.

Dog. Ox. Boar. Hare. Snake.

She slammed her palm into the earth.

“Fūton: Kaze Fūin!”

Chakra burst from her like a tide, crawling outward in branching lines. The ground quivered beneath her. The seal flared in resistance, sucking at her chakra greedily—like a mouth pulling breath from lungs.

Temari gritted her teeth. A scream tore from her throat, half pain, half fury.

Then the seal accepted it.

A blast of wind exploded outward in a perfect ring, kicking up sand in a violent storm and flattening the surrounding dunes.

The pulsing slowed.

And high above, the moon seemed to hesitate in its descent.

 

 

 

 

 

From the embedded fan, the symbols began to shift slowly, almost reverently, like ancient ink dissolving into sacred water. The black lines crawled outward from the metal, slithering with unnatural grace into the massive seal carved into the desert floor. The contrast between light and shadow deepened as the ink wove through each etched path, cutting through the vibrant crimson like veins overtaking a heart.

The seal pulsed once—resisting. Then again—yielding.

The colors merged, not seamlessly, but in battle: black seeping into red like poison into blood. The pulsing dulled. What had been blinding now dimmed to a heavy, breathing glow.

Temari exhaled sharply. Her knees buckled slightly as the crushing pressure around her chest finally lifted. Her ribs ached, but her lungs expanded freely again, and the nausea that had churned like acid in her gut now receded like a wave drawn back to sea. Her chakra, though frayed and bleeding at the edges, settled.

Her arms dropped slightly, her shoulders quivering. A thin, trembling smile ghosted across her lips—one of both relief and fragile pride.

It was working.

But triumph, she had long learned, was a fleeting thing.

The sand whispered.

Not like a breeze.

Like breath.

The fine grains trembled beneath her feet, not from the wind—still dead silent—but from something underneath. Something ancient. Slow. Crawling. The desert didn’t quake. It exhaled.

Temari’s brow furrowed.

She turned slowly, each muscle taut with readiness.

Five shapes rose from the sand.

They were not summoned. Not created by hand seal. They rose as if the ground itself had given birth to them—white and bone-pale, humanoid but not human, dripping with ash and silence. Their bodies unfurled in strange motions, like wet fabric peeled from a corpse.

Zetsu. Or something worse.

Temari’s muscles tensed, her fingers already dipping into her pouch. Chakra flared in her core, what little she still had.

The four outermost forms began to distort.

Limbs cracked and extended, skin stretching over newly formed muscle and bulges. One hunched with a lumpy, swollen back that twitched with unnatural spasms. Another grew too tall, arms jointed in three places, reaching with claws that trembled in rhythm. A third’s body rippled, but its head remained faceless—no eyes, no mouth. The fourth dragged bone-fused hair across the ground like a burial veil.

The fifth... did not change.

It solidified.

A woman’s form—almost. Thin, flickering. Her limbs too long, her head cocked unnaturally. Her eyes were wide and sunken, her mouth curled into a permanent, jagged sneer. One horn remained; the other was cracked, split down the centre.

Her outline blurred at the edges like a drawing half-erased.

Kaguya.

Temari froze for the briefest moment. Not out of fear. Out of recognition.

But this was no goddess.

This was a fractured nightmare.

With a snap, Temari unfurled her scroll. Her fingers were steady. She slammed the parchment into the sand and pressed her palm to the centre seal.

“Kuchiyose: Kyodai Sensu!”

A dense plume of smoke erupted, revealing her other fan—gleaming, wide, and battle-forged. She seized it with practiced speed, snapping it open with a hiss of steel.

The distorted Kaguya tilted her head.

“How dare you,” the voice scraped out, dozens of tones stacked in dissonance. “How dare you resist the rise of the divine. You oppose your ruler?”

Temari narrowed her eyes. Her lips twitched into a smile, hard and cold.

“Divine? Please,” she said, her voice sharp as wind through canyon walls. “You look like a half-melted shrine doll someone dug up and forgot to finish cursing.”

The entity shrieked.

The sound shattered the air.

And the monsters charged.

Temari moved.

Her fan arced—

“Fūton: Dai Kamaitachi no Jutsu!”

Wind tore the world apart.

It screamed down the line of her swing, colliding with the first creature mid-lunge. It shrieked as its limbs were sheared off like brittle twigs. The second beast was hit full-on—its torso torn open, ribcage flayed as it collapsed in a heap.

Temari didn’t wait.

She pivoted.

“Fūton: Senpūjin!”

Columns of air shot up like spears. One drove through the faceless monster’s neck. Another shattered its knees. It fell twitching, head imploding under pressure.

She stumbled slightly. Her chakra—drained.

Not spent.

Stolen.

The seal pulsed again, and she could feel her chakra being leeched—sucked by something deep and ravenous.

Still, she stood.

The last two moved in tandem. Quicker. Smarter.

Temari’s eyes narrowed.

Her grip tightened. Her breath shuddered.

One more.

“Fūton: Hōkamaitachi no Jutsu!”

The wind became a wall.

A vortex surged outward from her core, rising with a shriek of fury. It tore through the advancing beasts, their bodies spiralling upward before being shredded, fragments scattering like dead leaves in a storm.

Silence fell.

Only sand remained.

Temari stood alone, the fan sagging in her grip. Her legs shook.

The false Kaguya still hovered. Flickering. Watching.

Temari raised her head. A smile curled across her lips.

“It’s over,” she rasped.

Pain.

Sharp. Blinding.

She gasped, the sound strangled.

Her eyes dropped to her abdomen.

A sharp, white-coloured limb—rootlike and gnarled—protruded through her stomach.

She coughed, blood painting her tongue.

Her fan slipped from her grasp.

She turned.

Behind her stood another.

Another broken Kaguya. Hollow-eyed. Silent.

A branch—thin and cruel—extended from its arm, buried in her body.

Temari’s breath hitched.

And the blood finally touched the sand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sixth form grinned.

Its face, or what remained of it, twisted upward into a warped facsimile of a smile. Jagged teeth jutted from lips stretched too thin. One eye bulged wide and glowing, the other sunken deep into a cracked socket. Its half-deformed features glistened with an oily sheen, a mockery of what it once might have resembled—less a face, more a reflection twisted by a broken mirror.

Temari moved, dragging her body through the agony. Her arm trembled as she reached for her thigh holster, fingers slick with blood but determined. She closed them around the hilt of a kunai, the cold steel anchoring her to the moment, reminding her that as long as she drew breath, she could fight.

With a desperate growl, she twisted her torso and drove the blade upward. It struck the creature’s torso with a wet thud—but it didn’t pierce. No resistance, no injury. Just the hollow sound of futility.

Nothing.

The Kaguya aberration laughed.

It wasn’t a laugh—it was a dry, gurgling rasp that scraped against her ears. Each exhale sounded like shredded paper and choking roots, like joy dissected into something vile.

Then came the second stab.

The thing's other arm jerked forward without warning. A jagged spike of wood, barked and gnarled, slammed through Temari’s side. The pain was volcanic. It tore through her chest and arched her spine backward as she screamed—a sound raw, primal, and full of rage and horror.

Her kunai slipped from numb fingers.

The creature leaned close, its head tilting, studying her like a specimen.

And then, from the fringe of her blurred vision, came movement.

Another figure limped forward across the sand, dragging her grotesque form with a slow, rhythmic motion. The earlier Kaguya—a mockery still flickering with stolen chakra and perverse elegance—glided closer. Her limbs dangled unnaturally, bones jutting from her skin like the roots of an old, dying tree.

Her presence pressed down like a fog.

Mocking eyes, too large and hollow, glinted above sunken cheeks.

"Pitiful," she said, each syllable coated in rot. "The insects who dared defy me... thought they had won."

She walked a slow circle around Temari, bare feet smearing blood and chakra across the sand.

"This world will pay," she continued, and her voice deepened into something inhuman. "Every creature. Every breath. Every root and vein of chakra... will be mine again."

Temari coughed, her entire body spasming. Blood spilled from her lips and trickled down her chin. Her lungs heaved. But she lifted her gaze.

Eyes narrow.

Spiteful.

“You’re a fucking bitch,” she spat, her voice cracked, voice hoarse—but defiant.

The Kaguya copy paused, then let out a crooked laugh. Her mouth twitched, too wide to be natural.

"Strong words for someone moments from death," she purred. "But I’ll savour them."

With a snap, her arm twisted grotesquely—bone shifting, skin splitting as the limb extended and hardened into a jagged spear. Without ceremony, she stabbed downward, plunging it into Temari’s shoulder with such force that her entire frame jolted against the earth.

Temari screamed again, louder than before, the pain wrenching through her like fire.

Then came the pull.

Her body seized as the grotesque Kaguya’s fingers curled. There was a sensation—like something warm and vital uncoiling from her core, being pulled away, unwound like silk. Her chakra. Her essence.

It was being drawn out slowly. Exquisitely.

Temari trembled, her hands fluttering weakly against the branch that impaled her.

But the creature didn’t drain her fully.

Not yet.

The monster went still.

Its eyes glowed.

It was syncing.

Trying to find resonance. Matching her chakra. Tasting it.

Then it withdrew. The spear pulled free with a sickening squelch, leaving behind a gaping hole, oozing blood and light.

The abomination turned.

Toward the seal.

Temari’s head slumped. She could barely move, her breath rasping in shallow gasps. Her blood painted the sand beneath her in a widening pool.

She watched, half-conscious, as the creature made her way toward the centre of the glowing seal. Her stride was sure. Unstoppable.

She didn’t stop at the edge.

She stepped into the heart of the seal.

There, glowing faintly, stood Temari’s fan—her last act of resistance, still pulsing faintly with her chakra, etched with the ancient fūinjutsu.

The creature grasped the fan in one long hand. Her fingers curled around the handle.

And she yanked.

The moment the fan was removed, the seal spasmed.

The black lines sizzled and began to vanish. The red—once dimmed—now surged again.

It pulsed.

Hard.

Faster. Brighter.

The rhythm of the seal turned wild, erratic. Like a second heart waking from slumber.

Temari’s stomach heaved. Her body convulsed with dread.

It was starting again.

The Kaguya figure turned back.

There was no laughter now.

Only intent.

She returned to Temari and raised her hand again. The branch reformed, longer this time. Sharper.

And then she drove it into Temari’s chest.

This time, there was no resistance.

No scream.

Only the sudden, terrible sensation of everything unravelling.

Her chakra exploded out of her in a final, violent rush.

She felt herself go cold.

Empty.

Her vision darkened.

The world narrowed to a pinprick.

Temari knew.

She was dying.

And there was nothing left to fight with.

She had done all she could.

As her body slumped sideways into the sand, her thoughts drifted not to war, or fate, or even the seal.

But to the soft things.

To her daughter’s laughter—the way it rang through their home like sunlight.

To Shikamaru’s lazy, warm smile, so rare and precious.

To Kankuro’s ridiculous jokes, told with far too much confidence, that always made her laugh, even when she didn’t want to.

To Gaara’s voice—steady, calm, the weight of a thousand storms contained in every word.

She hoped they would survive.

She hoped they would win.

She did not see the sky turn light again.

She did not see the seal roar open.

And she would never know that this time... the world would not remain the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peace is a precarious thing.

A fragile breath held between storms, whispered into the hands of those brave enough to believe in it.

But peace is not always salvation.

Sometimes, peace is the silence before the fall.

The world had forgotten that the seal which held the goddess was not forged in stillness—it was born of motion, of battle, of chakra alive and ever-flowing.

The Sage never intended for conflict to be its lifeblood. But unknowingly, it became so. The roar of jutsu, the cry of the wounded, the very clash of ideals—these were the drumbeats that kept the seal grounded. In strife, the world pulsed. In motion, it held.

Bound not only to the moon, but to the living weave of the earth itself, the seal was anchored to chakra in circulation—to tension, to resilience, to survival.

And so, when the world laid down its arms, when the bijuu were freed, when swords were sheathed and nations learned the quiet language of peace, the seal grew still.

It loosened.

It breathed.

It dreamed.

And through those dreams, she returned.

Not with a scream.

But as a whisper.

Not as war.

But as absence.

The Sage had once warned: if ever the world grew too still, the earth would no longer remember how to hold her.

Now the moon bleeds.

And the world, lulled by its own hope, forgets the shape of its guardian fire.

 

 

 

 

 

The wind across Hi no Kuni had changed.

No longer gentle, no longer familiar. It carried weight now—pressure. A subtle hum beneath the leaves. Trees bent toward the east as if pulled by an unseen hand. Birds no longer sang; even the crickets had fallen silent.

In a quiet farming village nestled between the hills near the border, a chakra flare split the morning sky.

Bright. Sudden. Wrong.

It screamed across the horizon like a lightning strike, but there was no thunder, no storm. Only a terrible stillness in its wake. The kind of silence that pressed against the lungs. Unnatural. Expectant.

The villagers dropped where they stood. Some clutching their heads, others seizing in the dust as their chakra coils spasmed in wild, uncontainable pulses. Those attuned to chakra cried out in anguish—some sobbing, others choking. Animals fled without direction—cattle breaking fences, chickens fluttering madly, even the dogs burying themselves in the dark corners of the barn. The world below the sky trembled.

Then the flare vanished.

Gone. As if it had never been.

But something had changed.

Something vital was no longer there.

The air hung limp and wrong. Heavier.

The local medic-nin, a seasoned kunoichi named Himeko, ran into the street, her arms already glowing with chakra—only to stumble. Her chakra flickered violently and dissipated with a hiss.

"No," she muttered, trying again. "No, no... come on."

She gritted her teeth, fingers trembling as she tried to focus her energy. The green glow of healing chakra stuttered to life.

"It’s like trying to catch smoke," she whispered, her forehead damp with sweat. "Something’s drained it before I could even hold it."

Beside her, her young apprentice, wide-eyed and pale, stared up at her. "Sensei… what’s happening?"

"I don’t know," Himeko said again, but even she could hear the fear in her own voice. It sounded too much like the end.

 

 

 

 

 

Far to the north, in Kaminari no Kuni, the skies churned.

Storm clouds began to spiral—slow at first, then tightening, winding into columns of unnatural motion. They weren’t storm clouds in the natural sense. They didn’t move with the wind. They pulsed.

From the jagged mountain peaks overlooking Kumogakure, a patrol unit watched.

It started as a wall of fog. Low and slow, like mist pouring from a shattered kettle. But as it crept along the ridgelines, shapes began to stir within it.

Figures.

They walked without sound, through the mist as though it obeyed them.

Not human. Not anymore. Their eyes glowed faintly in the haze. Their faces—if they could be called that—twitched with expressions that seemed too broken, too distorted to belong to the living. They moved with a marionette’s grace, limbs bending wrong, their movements mimicking shinobi long buried.

Captain Mibuchi’s fingers flew across the parchment as he wrote the emergency report. The hawk was sent skyward before they even drew weapons. The scroll attached to its leg burned from the inside before it ever reached the tower.

"We saw her again. Or something that looked like her. It’s not—"

The rest was ash.

 

 

 

 

 

In Tsuchi no Kuni, tremors groaned through the bones of Iwagakure.

Not quakes. Not random shakes. But beats. Rhythmic. Methodical.

As if something below the ground had a pulse.

The buildings creaked. Dust spilled from between the ancient stones. The statues of fallen Tsuchikage leaned just slightly off their axes, as if bowing to something neither wind nor time had caused.

Wells split open. Bridges trembled. Civilians ran into the streets, clinging to each other with pale faces and wild eyes. Children cried into their mothers’ shoulders. Monks lit old talismans they hadn’t touched since the Third War.

In the highest spire of the city, the Tsuchikage stood motionless before the glass of his tower, flanked by his top advisors.

He said nothing at first. His face was drawn, heavy with years. His eyes remained on the horizon, where clouds curled like claws and the ground shifted like water.

Finally, he spoke.

"This isn’t war," he said, voice grave and low. "This is extraction."

He turned to his people, his gaze grim.

"And we’re the soil."

And somewhere in the distance, as if to answer him, the ground cracked wide.

And something breathed from within.

 

 

 

 

 

At the heart of the desert, where the golden sands of Kaze no Kuni kissed the border of Hi no Kuni, the world had gone still.

The sky hung heavy above, a leaden sheet of pale white cloud veiling the sun. Its light was distant, blurred, as though filtered through a dream. No birds flew. No wind whistled between the dunes—not anymore. Even the ever-shifting sands seemed frozen, the land bracing for something it couldn’t name. Only the long, deep breaths of the earth—slow, thunderous—echoed through the basin like a sleeping giant exhaling in its slumber.

Gaara stood at its edge.

His crimson cloak snapped once, twice, then fell still. The tattered hem brushed quietly against his legs, disturbed by the faintest of unnatural breezes. His hair, usually swept back by the desert wind, fell loose across his forehead. But his face—his face was carved from granite.

Beside him, Kankuro stood motionless. His arms crossed so tightly they shook. His jaw clenched, unmoving. He didn’t blink. His eyes were locked on the centre of the basin. The dark paint on his face was cracked and streaked with dust, but his grief was etched in something deeper than lines.

Before them, the seal writhed.

Black veins twisted across the scorched crimson surface like the roots of some great bleeding tree. At its heart, a pulsating symbol flared with rhythmic light. Thump. Thump. Slow at first. Then stronger. A heartbeat that did not belong to any living creature.

Behind them, Temari’s body lay in silence.

Wrapped in white linen, her form was still, untouched by the wind. The woman who once tamed the fiercest storms of Suna now lay quieter than the dunes. Her shattered war fan rested beside her, the steel mangled and scorched, still thrumming faintly with chakra. A ghost of her final breath.

A hush fell.

A sudden gust lifted the edge of the linen covering her face. Gaara stepped forward before it could rise any further, and with a reverence born not of ritual but of love, he pulled it gently back into place.

His voice broke the silence.

"It’s drawing chakra."

The words fell like pebbles into water, vanishing without echo.

Kankuro nodded. “Even the air feels thin. Like it’s being pulled in.”

They had come as soon as the summons arrived. Temari’s chakra animal had collapsed in Gaara’s office. Its paws torn, its eyes wild. Another scroll arrived moments later, with shaken writings and coordination’s. And then—the summons just disappeared.

Gaara knew. He knew before they ever set foot in the sand.

They brought five sealing teams. Veterans. Survivors. Experts who had stood against the worst the Fourth War had offered.

And still—it was not enough.

One stepped too close. His body twisted into ash before his scream finished.

Another—an elder inscriber—collapsed before his brush met the sand. Blood spilled from every orifice, and his eyes rolled back in horror Gaara would not forget.

They tried everything. Ink burned before touching the ground. Symbols faded mid-formation. Fūinjutsu, old and powerful, fell apart like wet paper.

“She slowed it,” Gaara murmured. His eyes never left the centre. “But she couldn’t stop it.”

Kankuro exhaled, voice cracking. “She wasn’t meant to.”

He looked back at her, shoulders rigid. “She bought us time. Enough to stand here now, instead of finding this too late.”

Another pause.

Then the sand stirred.

Not with wind. Not with life.

But with breath.

A shudder ran through the basin, the grains trembling as if the dunes themselves exhaled.

Gaara turned his head slowly.

“Kankuro,” he said, low and even. “Get them back. Get the teams out.”

No hesitation.

Kankuro bolted toward the ridge. His voice rang out in clipped commands, sharp, cutting through the gathering tension.

The sand moved again.

Then rose.

At the far end of the basin, something stirred beneath the surface. Not emerging from above. Crawling. Climbing. Pushing through the very skin of the world.

Gaara stood firm at the edge of the abyss.

The seal pulsed brighter. Its heartbeat now faster. Hungrier.

Behind him, the white cloth shrouding Temari lifted in the wind—and this time, it did not settle.

 

 

 

 

 

Three days later, the world began to fracture.

The first of the malformed did not arrive with sound or fury. They seeped into the world quietly, their presence spreading like a sickness beneath the skin. They did not come from the sky or from great portals torn open by jutsu. They rose from earth and shadow, from the stagnant places where chakra had grown still. Some slipped out of riverbeds. Others crawled from dead forests. Fog carried them, and silence welcomed them.

They emerged in corners of the Five Great Nations. Forgotten footpaths. Derelict shrines. Old battlegrounds left to the elements.

They were not White Zetsu. Not quite.

Their skin was pale—too pale—but not smooth like the clones of the Fourth War. Their forms were unstable, erratic. Limbs lengthened without symmetry, joints cracked in ways that defied bone and tendon. Some mimicked those who had died long ago—warriors once beloved or feared, their faces stretched and softened like clay left in the rain. Others had no faces at all. Blank ovals where eyes should have glowed. Mouthless. Silent. And from the hollows of their skulls, chakra mist curled and drifted.

They did not speak.

They did not reason.

They devoured.

The first incidents were quiet.

A patrol vanished in Mizu no Kuni. Their last known location marked only by torn fabric and the impression of feet that ended mid-stride. A farming commune in Hi no Kuni was discovered empty, its fields withered, the houses collapsed inward like lungs exhaling their last breath. Livestock, pets, people—nothing remained but husks.

Witnesses—what few there were—spoke in whispers, unable to forget what they’d seen: figures that moved like memories. That moved like friends. That moved like nightmares.

Three in the first report. Then five.

By the end of the week, they came by the dozen.

Then they swarmed.

Border camps were wiped out in a night. Entire forests were reduced to dust, stripped of all that lived within them. In Taki no Kuni, a whole mountain village was lost. Not attacked. Not burned.

Erased.

Only bodies. No signs of struggle.

Just silence.

A residual hum of broken nature.

The Sealing Corps responded first. With courage. With caution. With desperation.

Teams from all corners—Konoha, Suna, Kiri, Iwa, Kumo—rushed to meet the unknown. They brought barriers drawn in sacred ink, chakra-dampening rituals, techniques older than memory. But nothing held. The enemy changed. Evolved. What worked once failed the next day.

One seal would slow them.

The next time, it turned to ash before it finished forming.

Ink smoked.

Salt lines shattered on contact.

Even the chakra barriers—the most powerful, the most sacred—collapsed inward like breath sucked into a void.

Strategy gave way to panic.

The reports from the front lines blurred:

"Identical figures..."

"Looked like my squad leader, but hollow."

"Drank the chakra out of the shrine tree like water."

"I couldn’t form seals. My chakra was... gone."

"They looked like us. Only wrong."

 

 

 

 

 

The Allied Shinobi Council—once a relic of war—reassembled in fear. Message hawks darkened the skies. Alliances reactivated. Old call signs spoken for the first time in a decade.

Because the truth was unbearable.

The Fourth Shinobi World War had ended in unity.

The Fifth began in silence.

And now, the world was unravelling.

Naruto and Sasuke had returned. Their presence brought hope. Their chakra, light.

But even they, once gods among men, could not hold the tide forever.

Above them, the sky had begun to crack.

Thin fissures laced the heavens like spiderwebs drawn in silver.

And the moon—

The moon was bleeding.

 

 

 

 

 

Peace had once been their triumph. A hard-won dream held together by scarred hands and silent promises. But peace, they now saw, was not an ending—only a breath between chapters.

The world wasn’t burning. Not yet. It was unravelling—quietly, carefully, like thread tugged loose from ancient cloth. Shadows walked in the faces of the dead. The ground no longer remembered spring. Jutsu failed to form. Children cried without knowing why.

Even the strongest among them—gods in another age—could feel it. This was not a war for land or legacy. It was a return. A reclamation.

And as enough chakra was taken, as the world’s lifeblood was quietly drained, the tether that had once held her finally gave way.

The moon cracked.

The seal broke.

And the forgotten goddess opened her eyes.

Above them, the sky split.

And still, the world did not look up.

Notes:

And that’s a wrap on this chapter~! (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧

So, yep... the world is officially on the edge of total collapse—hooray~! ＼(＾▽＾)／
Writing Temari’s scenes was honestly so hard for me (ಥ﹏ಥ) because I love her. She’s such a queen, and it genuinely pained me to put her through that... but from the start, I always kind of imagined that the Earth Seal would be hidden somewhere out in the vast desert of Sunagakure. It just made sense: wide, open, ancient—and Temari, constantly traveling between Suna and Konoha, felt like the perfect person to discover it.

Even though her part is done in this timeline, she’s such an important key to everything. ಥ_ಥ
But don’t worry—the main plot (yes, the juicy time travel chaos~!) kicks off in the next chapter! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Thank you so, so much for reading!! I’ll see you again soon in the next chapter!
(ﾉ≧ڡ≦)

Chapter 3: When the World Ends, We Begin Again

Notes:

Soooo, I’m back! (≧▽≦)ゞ
This chapter really fought me hard — I honestly thought I’d already be at the time-travel part, but when I tried, it just didn’t make sense to rush it. So, I kept expanding, and more and more ideas kept popping up… and before I knew it, BAM! Nearly 15,000 words again! (╯✧▽✧)╯
I really hope you’ll enjoy it despite (or maybe because of?) the long ride! Thanks so much for sticking with me! 💛

It took Kaguya only a year to reclaim most of the world’s chakra.

It began as a whisper in the earth.

No one noticed at first — the way trees dropped their leaves too early, how rivers began to taste of iron, how crops failed under cloudless skies. Birds wheeled in circles until they dropped. Wolves tore at the ground as if sensing something crawling beneath it. Entire flocks collapsed without reason. It started in places where no one looked. By the time it reached the edges of human habitation, the forests were already silent.

Her hunger moved slowly, deliberately. Kaguya had learned from her past. She was no longer a being of rage, but of patience — her will fractured, scattered into abominations moulded from her own essence. They came on soundless feet. Pale. Mouthless. Breathing not air, but energy. They bore no chakra, could not be sensed, had no heartbeat to track. By the time they struck, it was too late. They did not fight. They consumed.

Villages vanished overnight. Border settlements, merchant stops, temples tucked between mountains — erased. The few who survived were driven mad with what they’d seen. Descriptions came back garbled: things that wore the faces of loved ones, that melted and reformed, that learned.

Ninjutsu failed.

Fire turned them to ash, and they returned in smoke. Wind scattered them to dust, and they reformed with claws. Water drowned them, and they grew gills. Each encounter strengthened them. With every opponent devoured, they gained — a jutsu, a mannerism, a memory. They adapted faster than any scroll could warn against.

The shinobi villages became sanctuaries, gathering what remained of the continent’s population. Every gate saw an endless stream of hollowed faces — farmers, monks, orphans, entire clans clinging to the last strongholds. But fewer shinobi returned with them. Fewer still survived the next attack.

The Great Nations stood together once more. Patrols were unified, strategy shared. But every victory was pyrrhic. Naruto and Sasuke led the charge, their presence alone keeping the front lines from collapse. Naruto’s Rasenshuriken carved gorges into the battlefield, while Sasuke’s Rinnegan read the rhythm of combat before it unfolded. Together, they were legends reborn.

But legends bleed.

And even gods grow tired.

With each soul Kaguya consumed, her power grew. Her scattered mind stitched itself whole. Her broken flesh reknit. And slowly, the seal that bound her — ancient and vast — began to unravel.

 

 

 

The first to fall was Kirigakure.

Shrouded in mists and surrounded by perilous terrain, it held longer than any expected. Terumī Mei fought like a storm unchained, hurling lava and scalding tides upon the advancing horrors. For days, the land boiled beneath her fury.

But then they found the bijuu.

Isobu and Saiken, hidden deep within the islands of Mizu no Kuni, were unearthed by Kaguya’s spawn. Alone, even their might was not enough. Waves of twisted, adaptive abominations broke against them until they, too, fell. And in their collapse, Kaguya devoured their chakra.

It was enough.

The last chain snapped.

The seal on the moon cracked wide.

She came like smoke poured from heaven, white as bone, her form restored — her voice not a cry, but a silence so deep it swallowed the wind.

Kaguya had returned.

Not as myth.

Not as story.

But as death made manifest.

 

 

 

It didn’t stop at Kirigakure.

Kumogakure fell next. Then Iwagakure. Then Sunagakure. One after another, the great pillars of shinobi civilization crumbled, until only Konohagakure remained—a flickering candle against the coming dark.

Refugees poured in from all corners of the continent. Not just civilians, but shinobi too—wounded, exhausted, hollow-eyed warriors dragging the remnants of their squads behind them. Children who had never known war now screamed in their sleep from memories that would never fade. Elders wept for a peace they had once dared believe would last.

But peace had become a ghost.

Kaguya's abominations continued to surge. Inhuman and unrelenting. They did not come with fanfare or announcement. They slipped into forests and rivers, across roads and through forgotten alleys. Some mimicked loved ones, some had no face at all. All of them devoured chakra indiscriminately—plant, animal, human. Wherever they passed, the world thinned.

The Raikage and his elite guard held Kumogakure’s gates for three days without rest. Lightning split the skies. The mountain fortress trembled with their fury. But even they could not hold forever. The abominations came in endless waves, and one by one, even the strongest fell.

In Iwagakure, Ohnoki stood alone above his crumbling village, bones creaking beneath the weight of Jinton one last time. His final blast carved a crater into the encroaching tide, but his legs buckled after. He was carried away in silence.

Kakashi, returned to the field not with bravado but weary determination. The Sharingan was gone, but his mastery of jutsu, his instinct, his insight—they had only sharpened with time. He fought beside ANBU remnants, directing strikes that bought precious hours. In the end he still had to sacrifice one of his eyes again.

Gaara, quiet and solemn, looked to the past for strength. Shukaku, once unwilling, agreed. The One-Tail returned to his old host willingly. Not because he wanted to fight, but because he understood: if Gaara fell, everything else would.

The other bijuu were not so fortunate. Saiken and Isobu were captured in the fall of Kirigakure. Matatabi, Son Goku, Kokuou, Choumei—one by one, they were overwhelmed. The forests burned. Rivers turned black. Mountains cracked. Kaguya’s abominations were endless, each one more refined than the last, more insidious.

The rabbit goddess grew stronger with every pulse of chakra she consumed.

So strong, not even Naruto and Sasuke could push her back. Their strength, once thought boundless, now chipped away like glass under pressure.

Wherever she passed, decay followed. The soil rotted. Rain turned to ash. The sky lost colour. Even the animals—birds, hares, foxes—vanished. The world was unravelling, thread by thread.

Hi no Kuni became the last refuge. There, the remaining clans and their leaders rallied. Tsunade and Sakura, haggard and pale, worked day and night, developing a jutsu that could suppress chakra to nearly nothing. It wasn’t perfect, but it gave them cover. A breath longer. A heartbeat more.

It still wasn’t enough.

The capital fell within weeks.

Then came the final order: evacuation.

It wasn’t a plan—it was desperation. They would flee east. To the ruins of Uzushiogakure. The place that birthed seals and sacrifice.

Three ships were arranged. Enough for the final two hundred. Civilians. Shinobi. Children. Elders.

Only one arrived.

The other two were ambushed at sea—swallowed by Kaguya’s advancing reach.

The last vessel—a single battered fishing boat—arrived on the broken shores of Uzushiogakure under a blood-washed sky.

The survivors—less than thirty—stepped onto land soaked in ghosts.

And thus, the last embers of civilization came to rest on the bones of the forgotten.

 

 

 

At the shore, the last few survivors disembarked, their steps heavy, their bodies moving as though through water, slow and burdened by grief. Naruto, his cloak tattered and smeared with ash, helped steady Sasuke, whose breath came in shallow gasps as they crossed the jagged rocks. Each footstep was deliberate, as though the earth might shatter beneath them. Sakura followed close, her arms laden with medical scrolls, her fingers raw and reddened from days of unending healing, shoulders shaking from exhaustion and grief she dared not voice. Kakashi limped, one eye bound in fresh bandages, his gait uneven, leaning slightly on Choji, who bore the weight of an unconscious Ohnoki on his broad back, his own breath ragged but determined. Tsunade and Shizune moved with grim efficiency, exchanging brief glances, their faces pale but set with stubborn will. Orochimaru and Kabuto drifted at the edges, silent, sharp-eyed, watchful, their movements almost serpent-like, tasting the air for the next sign of disaster. Hinata cradled a trembling civilian child, her pale eyes shimmering with unspoken grief and quiet prayers. Gaara walked apart, the sand curling anxiously at his heels like an animal sensing a coming storm. Killer B, unusually quiet, kept pace with the rear, his usual songs stilled, a faint hum under his breath, as though trying to drown out the unbearable silence pressing on them all.

Eight civilians had made it. Only eight. Their clothes torn, their skin bruised and weathered by the sea and the madness left behind.

The air on Uzushiogakure was sharp with salt and old chakra. The ruins stood like broken teeth along the coastline, their walls half-swallowed by vines and time. The survivors' footsteps echoed faintly against stone pathways littered with driftwood and debris. Above, the sky rumbled — clouds thick with strange hues, the weather made cruel and erratic by a world whose chakra was bleeding out.

They settled in what remained of the inner village: a cluster of houses still half-standing, their wood warped but sheltering. They had no choice.

The first days were brutal. Food was scarce. Whatever had once grown on the island had long withered. Fish were sparse, the sea churned wild, unpredictable. The storms came without warning, battering what little they had erected for shelter. Even the chakra in the air — what once had been a lifeline for shinobi — was thin here, brittle and strange.

Tsunade and Orochimaru took to the ruins, searching, unearthing old Uzumaki scripts, hoping to find even the faintest hint of a forgotten salvation. They moved through the fallen temples and hollowed-out homes with grim purpose, speaking little, their faces lined with exhaustion and something darker: the knowledge that they were running out of time.

Sakura, Shizune, and Kabuto worked tirelessly among the survivors. Sakura spent long hours tending to Kakashi, her hands trembling only when no one watched. She repaired the wound where his eye had once been, whispering reassurances she barely believed herself. Shizune sat beside Ohnoki, carefully monitoring the brittle rise and fall of his chest, while Kabuto moved from person to person, checking vitals, sharing what little herbs they had left.

The others searched the island for anything — food, clean water, shelter, a sign of hope. Each return brought thinner smiles, quieter steps.

Weeks passed. The civilians, their bodies weakened by the stress of running, began to fail. One by one, they slipped away — not to Kaguya, but to hunger, to cold, to the simple, cruel exhaustion of being mortal in a world devouring itself.

Each was buried with quiet dignity. Stones laid. Names murmured. Hands folded. No great speeches. Only the knowledge that they had been seen, that they would be remembered.

The last civilian, a woman in her late thirties, smiled faintly as her breath waned. "At least," she whispered, voice rasping against Kakashi’s gloved hand, "it wasn’t the goddess who took me." Kakashi bowed his head, eyes shadowed and gently closed hers when the light faded.

 

 

 

Naruto, Sasuke, Gaara, and Killer B trudged back from another foraging run, their clothes damp with mist and sweat, boots sinking into the muddy earth with each slow, deliberate step. Their arms were laden with meagre spoils — a few bruised fruits, their skins soft and too-ripe, dangling from a net slung over Naruto’s shoulder; two small rabbits hung limp from Gaara’s hand, caught in snares laid days before with dwindling hope. It wasn’t much — it was never much — but it would stretch a few more days if they rationed carefully, if no one fell sick, with the constant gnaw of emptiness in their bellies.

The path back to the crumbling village was soaked in silence. But it was not the quiet of peace — it was the hush of people too afraid to speak, too afraid to name the dread sitting cold on their shoulders. Every snap of a twig underfoot made them stiffen; every sudden gust of wind that hissed through the ruined archways felt like a warning whispering through the bones of the earth.

As they neared the largest of the structures — the main house, half-collapsed but still standing with stubborn defiance — Sasuke’s voice broke softly through the hush. "Did you reset the northwest snares?"

Gaara gave a faint nod. "Killer B handled it. I checked the southern ones." His voice was hoarse, cracked from thirst and the sting of desert air, even here.

Killer B let out a tired grunt, adjusting the rope slung over his shoulder. "Ain’t much left out there, but we keep trying." His usual sing-song tone was gone, buried under the weight of too many lost battles.

They were nearly at the door when the sharp sting of raised voices pierced the stillness. Inside, a fight. The four exchanged a glance — brief, wary — and quickened their pace.

The moment Naruto pushed the door open, the tension hit like a wave. Tsunade’s voice roared through the room, raw from strain, fists slamming on the scarred table, making faded scrolls and yellowed books jump. Orochimaru leaned forward beside her, pale hands braced on the wood, his  golden eyes sharp and bright, his voice a low, hissing thread weaving through Tsunade’s anger.

Across from them, Kabuto stood rigid, shoulders tense, arms crossed tight over his chest, while Shizune, pale and trembling, hovered at his side, her expression torn between exhaustion and pleading. Open scrolls littered the table, their ink shimmering faintly in the dim light, as if the paper itself trembled with the weight of what was written.

Sakura stood off to the side, arms wrapped tight around herself, her back pressed to the wall as if holding herself up by force. Her brow was furrowed deep, jaw clenched, eyes red-rimmed from too many sleepless nights. Hinata lingered in the far corner, hands twisting in the hem of her sleeve, her gaze darting between the figures, fear drawn delicate across her face.

Kakashi slouched in one of the old chairs, but his posture was deceptive — one leg crossed, arms folded, his single eye cold and sharp, watching every word, every gesture. Choji sat a little apart, hunched forward, fists clenched on his knees, his head bowed low, breath held as if bracing for the next blow. Ohnoki sat on one of the other chairs in the room.

Naruto set the net of fruit down gently, hands tight at his sides. "What’s going on?" His voice came rough, rasped by the sea air and long days. "What Edo Tensei?"

The words fell into the room like stones. The shouting stopped. The air itself seemed to thin.

For a long, raw heartbeat, no one answered. Then Sakura drew in a breath — shaky, thin — and lifted her head, eyes meeting Naruto’s with a tired ache.

"They found something," she murmured. "A chance. Maybe. But... it would mean summoning Uzumaki Mito. And... Kushina."

Naruto froze, just for a moment, something flickering across his face — grief, disbelief, the old wound reopening — but his shoulders held.

"But to do it," Sakura went on, voice cracking like old glass, "Kabuto and Shizune say... we’d need to sacrifice them."

The silence that followed was suffocating. No one moved. No one spoke. Outside, the wind rattled the warped walls, and a lantern trembled faintly on its hook, casting long, thin shadows across the walls.

 

 

 

The days blurred, sleepless and bitter, dragging like heavy chains around their ankles, as the two remaining Sannin led the others through the shattered remains of Uzushiogakure. Cold salt air whipped through the cracked streets, rattling broken shutters, whispering through the ghostly remains of a village that once thrived. It was Tsunade who first noticed the faint shimmer of an old blood ward, half-buried beneath the rubble of a forgotten house on the outskirts. Her sandals crunched carefully over broken tile as she knelt, fingers brushing dust from the seal, calling Orochimaru over in a voice low and tight. Their footsteps, side by side, barely disturbed the silence of the ruins as they spent days peeling back layers of stone, running trembling fingers over half-erased kanji, piecing together the delicate mechanism of an Uzumaki vault long untouched.

It took Naruto’s blood — a single cut across his palm, pressed to the scarred surface — for the vault to finally stir. The old seal flared dimly, like a dying heartbeat, and then faded, the stone door creaking open with a groan that echoed through the hollow streets. Inside, a chamber waited: scrolls stacked in neat rows, books lined carefully on low shelves, all preserved beneath a faint stasis seal that shimmered in the air like mist.

"It’s the archivist’s house," Orochimaru murmured, his voice soft with something like respect — or hunger. "The last Uzumaki keeper of scripts."

What followed was a slow, meticulous search. Tsunade and Orochimaru spent days bent over ancient pages, their faces drawn, fingertips stained with old ink. Kakashi joined them often, his expression grim, his knowledge of Minato’s teachings the only bridge left to the lost art of Konoha’s fuinjutsu. They found marvels: barrier seals, battle wards, household protections, things so delicate and precise they could barely comprehend them. But none of it was what they needed.

Until, one night, something surfaced leading to this moment.

Sasuke stepped forward, arms crossed, his voice low. "What did Sakura mean? Explain it."

Orochimaru straightened slowly, the dirty, tattered remains of his kimono hanging from his slender frame. His pale face was half-veiled by tangled dark hair, eyes glinting gold in the dim light.

"A time seal," he murmured, and his voice, usually smooth, trembled faintly. "A temporal binding — designed to anchor, to reset, perhaps to fracture time itself. But it’s incomplete. We can’t decipher all of it. The wording is… fragmented."

He lifted a brittle scroll with careful fingers, unrolling it just enough to reveal the tangled kanji.

"If Jiraiya were here," Orochimaru said, mouth twisting in something that might have been grief or bitterness, "we might have had a chance to reconstruct the lost parts."

At the name, Naruto flinched, his fists curling at his sides.

Orochimaru’s gaze flicked to him but didn’t soften. "In the end, we need fuinjutsu masters. The best ones. And the best… were Uzumaki Mito and Kushina."

The room seemed to narrow, the shadows pulling closer, as if even the walls were listening.

 

 

 

The room remained frozen, as if the very air held its breath. No one dared move; the faint crackle of the lantern’s flame was the only sound in the suffocating silence, flickering shadows across tired, drawn faces.

It was Shizune who broke it. Slowly, as though lifting a weight from her very bones, she raised her head. Her eyes glistened — not from fear, but quiet resolve — and when she spoke, her voice carried a steadiness that belied the tremble rippling through her thin shoulders. "That’s why we have to do it. That’s why we have to take them." Her words fell soft but unshakable, like a stone dropped into still water.

Kabuto stepped forward beside her, folding his hands with a practiced calm, though the flicker in his dark eyes betrayed the storm within. "We have no time left," he murmured, voice low but firm. "If this is our only option, then let me do it. Let me atone. For everything I’ve done. For every life I’ve helped ruin." His eyes slid briefly to Orochimaru — a fleeting glance, heavy with years of unspoken guilt, regret, and some faint, bitter echo of loyalty that clung to him like a scar.

Tsunade’s fists clenched at her sides, knuckles pale, jaw tight as a bowstring. "No. No! This is insanity! We will find another way! We have to!" Her voice cracked under the weight of desperation, raw and shaking. "I won’t sacrifice you, Shizune. I won’t—"

"Shishou." The word slipped from Shizune, soft and sharp all at once, cutting through the air like a whispering blade. "If we’re being pragmatic… I hold the least value here. You know that." Her smile flickered — brittle, sad, but real. "If there’s even a chance, even the smallest crack of light to bring Kaguya down… I’ll take it. Gladly."

Orochimaru’s lips pressed into a thin, pale line, his golden eyes narrowed, flickering like slits of polished glass. "It’s not guaranteed," he murmured, voice tight with something between disdain and unease. "Even with a vessel, even if we had the right sacrifice — we don’t have the necessary DNA. The seal demands purity of line. We can’t summon them from memory or legend."

Kabuto inhaled, slow and measured, lifting his chin with a kind of resigned clarity. "Obtaining a DNA sample isn’t the problem. We have Naruto. We have Tsunade. And you, Orochimaru-sama, are the only one capable of splicing what we need." His mouth twitched upward in a small, knowing, almost wistful smile. "You brought your scroll, didn’t you? With your equipment. You always do."

A hush coiled through the room, heavy as storm air. Even Orochimaru blinked, a flicker of something — surprise, perhaps even grief — passing over his face before his usual cold mask slipped back into place.

Finally, Kakashi shifted. Slowly, deliberately, his lone eye swept across them all — the two remaining Sannin, his students, his fellow Kage, the shinobi gathered like worn-out shadows, the trembling hands of Hinata, the clenched fists of Choji, the thin shoulders of Shizune, the bowed head of Kabuto.

"They’ve made their choice," Kakashi said, voice rough with weariness but edged with quiet steel. "And we owe them the respect to hear it. We don’t have time to argue, to flinch. Kaguya could arrive tomorrow, or tonight, or in the next breath. We can’t afford to pretend we have the luxury of waiting."

He paused, gaze resting briefly on each of them, softening just slightly when it landed on Shizune and Kabuto. "They know the stakes. They carry knowledge no one else here has — healing, sealing, the skills to prepare what none of us can. They’re… the only ones who can walk into that circle fully knowing what it will cost."

For a long heartbeat, the room held its silence. And then, slowly, Shizune smiled again — a real smile, small, tender, aching. "Thank you, Kakashi-san."

Outside, the wind scraped against the battered walls, rattling the eaves, as if the world itself braced for the price they were about to pay.

 

 

 

Naruto couldn’t hold it in anymore.

His chest tightened, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs as he stepped forward, fists clenched so tightly at his sides his nails bit into his palms. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, the edges of his vision sharp with unshed tears. The words ripped from him like a dam splitting apart. "What sacrifice?! Are we really okay with this? Sacrificing our own friends?!"

His voice cracked through the heavy room, raw and sharp, ricocheting off the cracked stone walls. Faces turned, slowly, weighed down by exhaustion and dread — Kakashi, Orochimaru, Tsunade, Ohnoki, Hinata, Choji, Gaara. Naruto’s eyes darted between them, wide with fury, disbelief, and something achingly young. "We’ll find another way! We can defeat Kaguya — but not like this! Not at the cost of someone else’s life!"

His fists trembled. His breathing was uneven, ragged, his voice shuddering between grief and defiance. "This — this isn’t who we are! How can you —" his gaze snapped to Kakashi, eyes bright, wet, raw with anguish, "— how can you just sit there and accept this, Kakashi-sensei?! How can you be okay with this?! This won’t make us any better than Kaguya!"

Gaara moved then, quietly, his hand resting gently on Naruto’s shoulder — the weight of shared pain, long-won trust, silent and solid. But Naruto jerked away, his shoulder tense, trembling. "No! This is insanity! We can’t — we can’t do this!"

The room felt like it was folding inward, the weight of grief and exhaustion pressing down, anger coiling in every shallow breath. Hinata’s hands fluttered, half-reaching, then clutching at her chest. Choji’s gaze fell to the floor, eyes shadowed. Tsunade turned away, shoulders trembling, lips pressed into a thin, pale line.

Then, without warning —

A sharp crack split the air.

Sakura’s hand came down across Naruto’s cheek, the sound ringing through the room like a whipcrack. Naruto’s head snapped to the side, his breath caught, eyes wide, stunned as they met hers.

Sakura stood before him, chest heaving, her hand still lifted mid-air, trembling. Her green eyes locked onto his — blazing, fierce, but beneath the anger was something deeper, more ragged: grief, desperation, raw fear, and a hollow ache that had no name. Pain that sat like a stone in her chest.

"Do you really think," Sakura’s voice was low, shaking, jagged at the edges, "that we don’t care? That we want this?"

Her fingers slowly curled into a fist, trembling at her side. "Do you think I want this, Naruto? My husband is dead. My daughter is dead. Everyone we loved — gone." Her voice cracked, her throat working to push the words out. "We don’t want this. We never wanted this. But what choice do we have?"

Naruto’s mouth parted, a faint, broken sound catching in his throat — but no words came.

"We’re living on borrowed time," she continued, her voice raw, breaking, shoulders shaking with the force of it. "We’ve been running on scraps and prayers and empty hope. And if this — if this is what it takes to take that fucked-up goddess bitch down — then we take the chance."

Her fists clenched, white-knuckled, her eyes glimmering. "I love Shizune. I’ve made peace with Kabuto. If there was any other way — any other way — I’d take it. But we’re out of time." Her voice softened then, just barely, but the weight of it landed hard. "And you, Naruto… you need to grow up. We can’t afford to be idealistic anymore. Not now. Not when the whole world is burning around us."

The room held still, breathless, the air shivering on the edge — like the quiet before the storm breaks.

 

 

 

Shizune took a slow, trembling step forward, her breath catching faintly as she moved. To everyone’s quiet astonishment, she wrapped her arms around Naruto — fiercely, tightly, as though holding him together when he was moments from splintering apart into jagged pieces. Naruto stiffened at first, a sharp breath lodging in his throat, his fists clenched so hard they trembled. But then he felt it — her warmth, the fragile yet unyielding heartbeat against his chest, the steady anchor of her embrace — and the rigid tension in his shoulders began to crack, just slightly, just enough.

Her voice, soft as a breath, brushed his ear. "Thank you, Naruto," she whispered, her words delicate but firm. "For your loyalty. For your heart. But Sakura’s right. We don’t have time anymore. And if someone must go… it’s better it’s me. Because you, Sakura, Sasuke — you all still have a chance. A future. If this works… let me be the one to make it possible."

Naruto’s eyes stung sharply. His vision blurred as tears welled, spilling over hotly, tracing wet, unbidden paths down his cheeks. His arms, shaking, lifted at last — hesitant, desperate — and he wrapped them around Shizune, clinging to her with a desperate strength, as though she were the last steady thing left in a world crumbling to ash. And then, finally, the dam inside him shattered.

The sobs came hard, gut-wrenching, from somewhere deep inside his chest, shaking his whole body. He buried his face into her shoulder, the coarse fabric of her cloak muffling his broken cries, his fingers clutching tight at her back as if to hold the very shape of his grief together. Shizune’s hand lifted, trembling slightly, and threaded through his hair, gentle, steady, caressing as she murmured something soft only, he could hear.

Across the room, Tsunade’s hands trembled helplessly at her sides. Her face turned away, lips pressed tightly, but the tears escaped anyway, slipping down her cheeks in silent, relentless trails. She didn’t brush them away; they fell freely, dampening the floor where they landed.

Sakura’s chest hitched once, then again, the sharp breaths rattling in her throat, and then she crumpled slowly to the floor, folding in on herself, hands clutching over her face as quiet, shaking sobs spilled free — raw, unhidden. Hinata moved without a word, kneeling close, wrapping her arms carefully around Sakura, drawing her close. She pressed her forehead gently to the back of Sakura’s head, their grief folded together, fragile and trembling like a thread about to snap.

Ohnoki lowered his gaze, the deep lines of his face etched heavier with something wordless, a sigh pulling from his chest — soft, resigned, almost imperceptible. Choji swallowed hard, his hands fisted on his knees, fingers digging into the fabric, knuckles pale, his breath uneven as his chest rose and fell.

And Kakashi? He now stood silent, arms crossed as though to hold himself together, but his fingers dug deep into his sleeves, nails biting into fabric, his one visible eye dark and faraway, fixed on something only he could see.

Gaara, Killer B, and Sasuke exchanged glances, something tight and searching flickering between them — unspoken questions, unspoken ache. Then, quietly, Sasuke turned, his dark gaze falling to Kabuto standing beside Orochimaru. His voice came low, rough at the edges. "Are you sure about this?"

Kabuto let out a soft chuckle — not bitter, but tired, small, strangely light. "Yes," he murmured, pushing his glasses up with a slow, steady hand. "Since Itachi used Izanami on me… I’ve had time. Time to reflect, to think, to see myself for who I really am. And now — I finally have the chance to choose. To choose as myself. As Kabuto. And that’s… the most important thing to me."

Orochimaru’s golden eyes watched his former apprentice, a faint flicker crossing his pale features — something sharp, fleeting, too complex to name.

 

 

 

Kabuto turned, the dim light catching the faint gleam of his glasses and faced Orochimaru directly. His voice, though soft, carried a thread of urgency that seemed to stretch across the room like a drawn wire. "Orochimaru-sama," he murmured, the old honorific slipping from his tongue with an almost wistful ease, "how long will you need for the DNA splicing?"

For a long moment, Orochimaru said nothing. His golden eyes moved slowly across the room, unblinking, drinking in the raw edges of grief and exhaustion around him — Naruto collapsed into Shizune, his shoulders convulsing with silent sobs; Sakura crumpled on the floor, Hinata holding her close, their grief woven together; Tsunade, standing rigid and pale, her hands trembling faintly, her eyes rimmed red, the weight of Shizune’s decision etched deep into her face like a scar carved by time.

Finally, Orochimaru’s gaze slid back to Kabuto — then to Sasuke, standing near, arms folded but his jaw tight, eyes sharp and wary. A slow breath hissed past Orochimaru’s pale lips, barely audible, more serpent’s exhale than sigh. With deliberate, unhurried precision, he reached to his obi, fingers curling around a small, tightly wound scroll no larger than his palm. Moving with fluid grace, he crossed to one of the few tables not buried under the sprawl of cracked books and curling scrolls and laid it out with a careful, almost reverent touch.

His fingers, long and sharp, unrolled the scroll. The faint shimmer of fuinshikishi seals spread across its surface like silver veins, glowing faintly in the dim, flickering light. Orochimaru brought a long finger to his mouth, pressed it to one sharp fang, and drew a bead of blood — the motion practiced — then smeared it across his palm. The seals pulsed as he wove a series of swift, intricate hand signs, each movement cutting the air with controlled precision.

A final press of his blood-marked palm to the seals, and the scroll flared softly to life. With a flicker, a small arsenal of tools materialized: a compact centrifuge, a slender microscope, delicate glass pipettes, thin sample slides, a miniature spectrometer, a chakra-stabilizing plate, a fine-tuned microarray for isolating genetic strands, a sealed vial set with containment seals, and several other refined, portable instruments — a makeshift laboratory born from Orochimaru’s private arsenal, scaled perfectly for fieldwork, unmistakably his.

He straightened slowly, turning back to the group, arms folding across his chest, sleeves draping loose around pale wrists. His gaze swept the room, cold and measuring, before his lips curled faintly. "Two days," he said softly, silk over steel. "If we begin now, I will need two days."

Tsunade’s voice shattered the hush, cracked and raw. "Two days? And how," she demanded, her eyes wet and burning, "do you think you can pull this off? You don’t even have working examples to compare."

Orochimaru’s eyes flicked toward her, narrow and glinting. For a heartbeat, something flickered across his face — not quite cruelty, not quite sorrow, something sharp, old, and coiled. "Tsunade," he murmured, almost gently, almost fond, "I know the genetic makeup of nearly every powerful shinobi Konoha has ever birthed." His voice dipped, dark and smooth as a blade sliding free of its sheath. "Back then, when I was in Root… Danzou supplied me with samples. Blood stolen from hospital reserves. Hair. Tissue. Even residual chakra traces. Every scrap he could hoard, I studied. For years."

The room fell still. Even the wind beyond the broken windows seemed to hush, as if the world itself leaned in to listen.

 

 

 

It had been, Orochimaru continued softly, for Danzou’s twisted dream — the dream of the perfect shinobi, the flawless soldier, the ultimate weapon. The perfect blending of bloodlines, the taming of chakra affinities, the elusive compatibility with the coveted Mokuton. His golden eyes lifted slightly, glinting in the dim, flickering candlelight as they settled on Tsunade, something flickering there — not quite apology, not quite pride, something tired and old. "You know me," he murmured, voice a delicate thread of silk and venom. "If I have seen a thing, Tsunade… I do not forget it."

The words hung in the air, delicate as spider silk, sharp as a blade’s edge. Orochimaru let the silence stretch, let it tighten around the room like a noose before his gaze slid, slow as a serpent’s coil, to the others. His voice remained smooth, but its weight pressed against the room, against their chests. "There were samples from Mito. From Kushina. Danzou wanted to unravel the genetic weave of a jinchuuriki — to understand their resilience, their limits. Only later did I discover his ambition to claim the Kyuubi itself."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the crackle of the small fire seemed to die down, leaving only the sound of shallow, ragged breaths. Tsunade drew in a sharp breath, then exhaled, a bitter sound edged with grief. "That bastard," she muttered, one trembling hand coming up to her face, dragging down slowly, as if to wipe away something that clung to her skin. Her gaze flicked to Sasuke, her lips pulling into the faintest, wryest grin despite herself. "You did us all a favour, you little shit."

The words — jagged, poorly timed — somehow cracked the heavy air. A brittle laugh escaped Sakura, more a breath than a sound. Even Naruto let out a half-choked, broken sound, rubbing at his face with the heel of his palm, his eyes still red and glassy.

Orochimaru’s mouth twitched faintly, but his voice stayed calm, even. "I will need your help, Tsunade. And yours, Sakura." His gaze swept between them, a flicker of something unreadable in his golden eyes — calculation, or perhaps, a reluctant trust. After a long, weighted pause, both women gave short, stiff nods, shoulders set, the weight of acceptance settling onto their backs.

Shizune stepped back at last, her arms falling away from Naruto, though her hands lingered on his arms a heartbeat longer, as if anchoring them both. She offered him a soft, weary smile, her eyes warm, shadowed with quiet resolve. "We’ll need your help, too, Naruto. Your blood."

Sasuke moved forward, quiet, his steps measured, his eyes soft as they met Naruto’s. His hand reached out, fingers curling around Naruto’s, grounding, steady. With his other hand, he reached up, brushing away the damp trails on Naruto’s cheeks, slow and careful, thumb tracing the skin beneath Naruto’s eye. Naruto leaned into the touch, his lashes fluttering shut, a soft, almost reverent kiss pressing to Sasuke’s thumb — a flicker of fragile love in the storm gathering around them.

Gradually, like a tide turning, the room stirred back to life. Tasks emerged. Plans — fragile, desperate — began to take shape.

Sasuke, Killer B, and Choji gathered what little supplies they had, preparing to head out once more, grim-faced, the weight of survival etched deep into their bodies. Ohnoki, Kakashi, and Gaara huddled near the back, murmuring low, tracing rough perimeter routes into the dirt floor, Hinata kneeling beside them, her Byakugan the sharpest eye they had left.

Shizune and Kabuto settled side by side at a battered table, shoulders squared, quiet but determined, the air between them heavy with unspoken resolve. Orochimaru moved with fluid grace, fingers deft as he unsealed two slender blood-drawing devices from his scroll, the glass tips catching faint points of light as he approached Tsunade. She rolled up her sleeve without a word, exhaling slow and long, steadying herself, the muscle in her jaw flickering tight.

Sakura crossed softly to Naruto’s side, her voice gentle but sure as she prepared the second device, her fingers precise even through the faint tremble in her hands. Outside, the wind rose and fell, rattling the splintered walls, a keening note threading through the ruined house — a reminder that the world outside waited, hollow and hungry, and their time was running out.

 

 

 

As soon as the blood had been drawn, Orochimaru moved like a shadow, gliding into the cleared corner they had made into a makeshift lab, his pale fingers unrolling scrolls with delicate precision, lips murmuring soft instructions to Tsunade and Sakura. The three of them settled into a fragile rhythm under the flicker of dim lantern light, their movements careful, breaths held at times, as if even a tremor of air could undo what they worked for.

The process was meticulous, slow, exacting. First, they spun the blood in the portable centrifuge, separating plasma, drawing out the dense layer of nucleic fragments. Orochimaru, eyes narrow with focus, worked the extraction, his glass pipette never trembling as he transferred minuscule droplets onto thin sample slides. Tsunade leaned over the mini spectrometer, brow furrowed, scanning the molecular patterns, searching not just for genetic markers but for the faint, interwoven traces of chakra unique to their lineage.

Sakura hovered nearby, her hands pulsing faintly with medical chakra, guiding the stabilizing chakra plate to hold the fragile sequences intact. "Steady," Orochimaru murmured at one point, voice low and even, "we are sifting through legacy strands — grandmother to granddaughter. Generational drift softens the trail, but the chakra imprint resonates through blood."

Unlike Naruto’s sample, where Kushina’s genetic footprint was near-direct — bold, almost luminous in the spectrometer readings — Tsunade’s required peeling back layers. Mito’s influence was buried deep, thinned by recombination, wrapped in the folds of decades. They worked through it like archaeologists, brushing aside noise, isolating resilience markers, rare chakra tolerances, and sealing compatibilities. It was as much chakra mapping as it was genetics, a delicate dance of biology and jutsu.

"We’re seeing ancestral drift," Sakura murmured, eyes focused, voice soft as her fingers danced over the readings, "but it’s still there. Still holding."

The hours blurred into each other, thick with exhaustion. When the others returned that night — carrying the meagre spoils of their hunt, roots, wild greens, another small rabbit — they barely spoke. No one asked how the work was going. No one dared give shape to the truth heavy in the room: that two comrades, two friends, would give themselves up so the rest might have a future.

The second day dawned colder, the wind biting through the cracked walls. Orochimaru turned his focus to Naruto’s blood, his fingers sure, the work smoother. "Direct maternal line," he murmured with faint satisfaction, "the markers are vivid, undiluted." With Tsunade and Sakura at his side, they layered the samples within the containment seals — a complex weave of chakra-infused ink, glowing faintly along the scroll’s surface as the preparation neared its end.

By the time dusk bled into night, Orochimaru leaned back slowly, shoulders tight with tension, eyes gleaming with quiet, brittle triumph. "It’s ready," he said softly, his voice brushing across the room like a cold draft.

The survivors stilled. Even the low-burning fire seemed to shrink.

It was Kabuto who spoke first, voice calm, too calm. "We’ll perform the Edo Tensei in the morning. I’ve spent the past two days preparing the scrolls." His eyes met Orochimaru’s, then Tsunade’s.

For the first time, Tsunade wavered. She stumbled forward in two uneven steps, arms wrapping fiercely around Shizune, her breath hitching in her chest. "Are you sure?" she whispered, her voice raw, cracking like old glass. "Shizune — we can switch, I can—"

But Shizune only clung to her tighter, smaller hands pressing hard into Tsunade’s back. "No," she murmured, voice muffled but steady. "You’re too important. You’re needed here. Please… let me do this." She leaned back just enough to meet her mentor’s eyes, tears trembling but not falling, her mouth set with quiet determination. "This is my choice. My last wish, Tsunade-sama. Please… let me give it."

 

 

 

Tsunade continued to hold Shizune, her arms wrapped around her as if she could anchor her to the world, as if her sheer will could hold back the dawn. Shizune trembled faintly in her embrace, fingers digging gently into Tsunade’s back, drawing shaky breaths that caught in her throat. Tsunade pressed her face into Shizune’s hair, eyes squeezed shut, the faintest whisper of, “My girl… my brave girl…” breaking past her lips. Neither spoke beyond that; the silence between them was heavy, full, unspoken.

A few steps away, Orochimaru stood beside Kabuto, his slender frame unnaturally still, pale hands folded loosely before him. His golden eyes drifted downward, studying Kabuto with a quiet intensity. He didn’t ask if Kabuto was sure — he knew. He knew Kabuto too well, every stubborn edge, every fractured piece that had soldered itself back together over the years. Without a word, Orochimaru raised one pale hand, resting it lightly atop Kabuto’s head, fingers sliding through the silver strands with surprising gentleness. "Thank you," he murmured, voice low, roughened at the edges, "for your years… and for your loyalty."

Kabuto’s breath hitched. His eyes, wide and glassy, snapped up — and for the first time in years, he saw Orochimaru smile. Small. Sad. Real.

The sight cracked something inside him. Kabuto let out a small, shaky sound, and before anyone could react, he stepped forward, arms tightening around Orochimaru’s thin waist, face pressed to the familiar shoulder. Orochimaru stiffened, sharp intake of breath barely audible — and then, slowly, cautiously, a pale arm came up, resting on Kabuto’s back. One soft, awkward pat. And then another. No one spoke. No one even breathed too loudly. The room held still, the moment fragile and aching and utterly human.

The night stretched long and hollow, the wind whispering through the battered walls, rattling loose boards, sweeping cold fingers across weary faces. No one slept. They only waited, each wrapped in their own silence, their own quiet grief.

When morning came, it was cruel in its haste. Pale light crept across the ruined floorboards, cold and thin. Outside, the survivors gathered, their breaths misting in the frosted dawn, faces drawn, hands buried deep into sleeves or pockets, shoulders hunched against a chill that went far deeper than skin. The Edo Tensei scrolls waited, unfurled on the ground, their seals glowing faintly like dying embers. Shizune and Kabuto stood nearby, hands loosely clasped, faces calm, resigned, eyes tired but bright with quiet resolve. Orochimaru stood apart, the delicate tubes of DNA samples cradled in his fingers, his mouth a thin line, jaw tight.

The goodbyes came in hushed murmurs, trembling touches. Sakura wrapped Shizune in a fierce embrace, burying her face in her shoulder, muffling a sob. Naruto followed, pulling them both into his arms, his voice cracking, barely holding together as he whispered something into Shizune’s ear. Sasuke approached Kabuto, wordless, only offering his hand; Kabuto took it, firm, a silent thank you, a final acknowledgment.

Then, at last, it was time.

Shizune and Kabuto turned, stepping each onto their prepared scroll, movements slow, deliberate, almost devout.

Orochimaru approached, every line of his body wound tight, a coil barely holding. His fingers hovered above the seals, trembling once, just once, before he took in a sharp breath, teeth clenching, and began — weaving the hand signs with a precision honed over decades, his voice cutting through the cold: "Kuchiyose no Jutsu: Edo Tensei."

The seals surged to life. The air thickened, heavy as water. Paper and ash stirred, rising like pale serpents at their feet, curling around Shizune and Kabuto’s legs, their waists, their shoulders, their chests. Neither flinched. Neither made a sound. They stood calm, eyes wide open, soft smiles lingering on their lips as the ash crept higher.

Naruto’s voice broke the stillness. A raw, strangled sound, torn from his chest. He stumbled forward, arms outstretched, voice cracking into a scream as the last threads of ash swept over their faces, stealing away the smiles, stealing everything.

 

 

 

As the last delicate threads of ash and paper settled, the air hung heavy — thick with chakra, thick with silence. Before the gathered group, where moments ago Shizune and Kabuto had stood, now rose two figures: Uzumaki Mito and Uzumaki Kushina.

Their forms shimmered faintly in the dim morning light, pale outlines laced with fine black cracks that etched across their skin like the delicate veins of fractured porcelain. The marks of Edo Tensei ran thin over their arms, their faces, their necks, but beneath the jutsu’s unnatural shimmer, the core of who they were pulsed unmistakably: life once gone, now called back.

It had worked.

For a moment, the world held its breath. Mito’s eyes, once serene, narrowed slightly in confusion; Kushina’s lips parted, her chest lifted with a sharp, instinctive inhale. Around them, the ragged circle of survivors stood frozen — their hollowed faces, their dirt-streaked clothes, the weight of too many losses pressing down on bent shoulders.

It was Mito who steadied first. Graceful, composed, she stepped forward, the gentle sweep of her movement like silk over stone. Her gaze found Tsunade, and something shifted — a softness, a tremor, a memory long buried rising to the surface. "My granddaughter," Mito breathed, her voice a thread of wonder and sorrow, ash-dusted hands lifting, trembling slightly as they cupped Tsunade’s stunned face. "You… you haven’t changed. My, how the years… Oh, what has happened, child? What have you lived through?"

Tsunade, trembling, reached up halfway, fingers hovering near her grandmother’s hands as if afraid that touching would break the fragile illusion. Her throat tightened, no words finding their way past the grief lodged deep, deep inside.

But before she could speak, a sudden, piercing cry cleaved through the stillness.

"NARUTO!"

Kushina’s voice rang out — bright, sharp, fierce — tearing through the heavy hush like a blade.

Her eyes locked onto him across the way: the shock of gold hair, the unmistakable blue eyes, the posture so achingly familiar even beneath the weight of years and war. Older, yes. Hardened. But still — her son.

"My baby boy!" she gasped, feet moving before thought caught up, stumbling forward with wild, breathless urgency. She pushed past Gaara, past Sasuke, heedless of the startled flinches, arms outstretched — and crashed into Naruto, wrapping herself around him with a ferocity that spoke not of jutsu, not of summoned existence, but of love. Pure, undiminished, all-consuming love.

Naruto’s breath caught, a choked sound punching from his chest. His arms snapped around her instinctively, crushing her close. She was small now — or maybe he was just taller — but it didn’t matter. "Kaa-chan…" he whispered, voice cracking, forehead tipping forward until it pressed to her hair.

Kushina clutched him tighter, burying her face in his shoulder as if she could hide from the world there, if only for a moment. Around them, no one dared intrude. The air was too thick, too holy, too heavy with grief and miracle intertwined.

At last, Kushina pulled back slightly, her hands rising to cup his face, thumbs brushing away the wet trails along his cheeks. She smiled — wide, brilliant, tremulous. "Look at you," she breathed, voice trembling. "Look at you, Naruto. Sage above, you’re… you’re beautiful. Minato and I… we did a pretty damn good job, huh?"

A breathless laugh, a broken sob shuddered through Naruto’s chest. His hands came up, covering hers, holding her touch to his skin like a lifeline. His forehead leaned against hers, eyes squeezed shut. For one heartbeat — maybe two — they were just mother and son, standing in the ruins of a world that had taken too much from them.

Finally, Kushina drew back, exhaling shakily as she turned her gaze outward, taking in the scarred remnants of the village, the sunken eyes, the wary stances, the frost curling at the edges of crumbled walls. Her brow furrowed, the warmth slipping from her face, replaced by sharp-eyed concern. "What… what’s happened?" she asked softly, voice tightening, edged like kunai steel. "The last thing I remember… I was dead. And now… now I’m not?"

 

 

 

This time, it was Kakashi who stepped forward, his gait slow, almost hesitant, as though his legs remembered battles long past, and every scar weighed him down. His single visible eye softened under the weight of years, exhaustion etched deep into the lines at its corner, a tired gaze that had seen too much and survived too long. But before a word could rise to his lips, Kushina’s eyes snapped to him — and her face broke open, radiant and fierce, like sunlight punching through a storm.

"Kakashi!" she cried, a breathless laugh breaking on the name, and she crossed the space in a heartbeat — stumbling over loose stone, past debris, without pause, without asking. Her arms flung around him, pulling him into a hug that was tight, desperate, and unapologetically motherly. "Look at you — tall, so tall now!" she murmured, hands rising to cup his masked face, fingers tracing the hollows beneath his eye, brushing over the faint laugh lines, the grief lines, the years. "Oh, sweetheart," her voice cracked, thick with feeling, "I wish the world would give you a break… just once."

Kakashi stood frozen, his arms hanging for a long, fragile second — and then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, they lifted. His fingers gripped at the back of her ghost-pale shirt, and he let his eye slip closed, pressing his forehead to her shoulder with a shaky exhale. For the space of a few breaths, just a few, he let himself pretend. Pretend she was warm. Pretend he was young. Pretend the world hadn’t ended around them.

The others watched in silence, some lowering their heads, others clutching at arms or shoulders as if to hold themselves together.

At last, it was Orochimaru who stepped forward. His presence sent a faint ripple through the tension — not forceful, but cold, measured, cutting through the hush like a scalpel through silk. His pale fingers folded loosely, sleeves stained with ash, his golden eyes sharp and fixed as they moved from Mito to Kushina.

"We don’t have much time," he murmured, his voice a low sound, drawing them all back from the edges of their scattered, fragile reunions.

And then he spoke, swift and precise, laying bare the ruin. Of Kaguya — her rise, her fall, her return ten years later, more merciless, more cunning. Of the abominations she commanded: creatures without chakra, undetectable, unrelenting, devouring everything in their path. He spoke of the great villages, proud fortresses of the shinobi world, falling like brittle towers one by one. Of Naruto and Sasuke, once godlike, now outmatched, straining and breaking against her growing power.

He told them of the flight, the desperate exodus to the shattered bones of Uzushiogakure, where even the sea had not spared them — where more than half of their people were lost to storms and ambushes before they ever reached land. Of the civilians who withered away in the cold, one by one, leaving only the hardened core, the last stubborn embers of resistance.

Finally, Orochimaru’s voice softened, a faint thread of something — regret, perhaps, or weariness — curling at its edge. "We found the old Uzumaki archives," he said quietly. "With Naruto’s help, we opened them. We reached the fuinjutsu records. There was a clue, a faint path. But we lacked the hands to follow it. And so… two of our comrades chose to give themselves, so we could bring back the only ones who might still know how to save us."

His gaze lingered on the black cracks spidering delicately across Mito’s and Kushina’s skin — a flicker in his serpent eyes: acknowledgment, apology, and the brittle, desperate edge of last hope.

 

 

 

Mito’s blackened eyes widened slightly, the faintest crease of her brow deepening as the truth sank in like a stone into still water. "Edo Tensei…" she whispered, the words rough, tasting old and bitter on her tongue. Her gaze lowered, fingers trembling faintly as they brushed over the black-veined cracks spidering across her pale hands, tracing the mark of the jutsu that tethered her here. She exhaled, a long, steadying breath that barely hid the tremor at its end. "I told Tobirama this jutsu was a mistake," she murmured, her voice like the rustle of old parchment, half to herself. "I should’ve pulled his ears until they turned red and made sure every last scroll was burned."

Slowly, her sharp eyes lifted, pinning onto Orochimaru with a look that was equal parts assessing and weary. "And you… you were always too clever for your own good."

Orochimaru’s lips curved, just faintly — not quite a smirk, not quite a smile, but something mischievous and knowing. "How could I let such brilliance go to waste, Mito-sama? Some legacies refuse to sleep." His voice was silk over steel, smooth but never without edge.

Nearby, Kushina still held Naruto’s hand, her fingers curling tighter around his, confusion flickering in her eyes. Her brows knit, mouth twisting slightly. "What are you talking about? I’ve never even heard of this jutsu."

Mito turned slightly, graceful even in this half-cracked, half-living form, and regarded Kushina with a bittersweet softness. "The short version, dear? It’s a forbidden jutsu. It demands sacrifices — the body, the blood, the memory. It drags a soul back from the Pure Lands, binds it here. But we’re not alive, Kushina. Not really." Her eyes flicked once more to Orochimaru, sharp as a blade. "It was Tobirama’s creation — and it seems he perfected it."

Kushina scrunched her nose, the corners of her mouth tightening as though she’d bitten into something sour. Her mouth opened, closed again — a protest on her tongue that never found air. Instead, she just let out a breath, low and shaky, and clung to Naruto’s hand as though anchoring herself.

From the side, Killer B shifted, weight rolling heel to toe, arms crossing over his chest, sunglasses glinting even in the dim light. "Yo, yo, gotta break this gloom, back to the room! Time’s tickin’ loud, no goddess allowed! Catchin’ up’s sweet, but it’s time to compete — rise to our feet, no time for defeat!" His rap lilted over the heavy air like a spark in smoke, playful and sharp, laced with urgency.

Mito drew in another slow breath, closing her eyes just for a beat before they opened, clearer, colder, eyes drifting briefly to Tsunade and Orochimaru. "We will finish this conversation later," she murmured, her voice sliding back into its regal cadence. "For now… two souls were given to bring us here. We will honour their choice. Lead the way."

The group moved, slow and sombre, feet crunching over frost-laced earth, past shattered archways where ivy clung to crumbling stone. The ruins seemed to breathe around them — cold, damp, heavy with memory. Inside, the largest room still waited, the air tinged faintly with the metallic scent of old blood and burned parchment. Scrolls lay cracked open across battered tables, glass instruments gleamed dully in pale light, and the great scroll at the centre lay splayed, its seal half-drawn, half-understood, a desperate puzzle clawing for answers.

They gathered close, Tsunade, Orochimaru, Kakashi, Kushina, Mito — the weight of too many lives, too many hopes, settling onto their shoulders. Around them, the others watched from the walls, hearts clenched tight, every breath measured, every heartbeat loud in the silence, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

 

 

 

The five stood clustered around the battered table, shoulders brushing, the soft rustle of cloth and the faint scrape of shifting feet the only sounds in the heavy, breathless room. Tsunade drew in a deep, deliberate breath, bracing her hands against the worn wood, knuckles pale and trembling slightly from exhaustion. She spoke quietly, voice raw and gravel-edged from sleepless nights, each word falling into the silence like a stone into still water.

“We’ve deciphered part of the seal,” she murmured, eyes flicking over the half-faded scroll. “The outer ring—it’s a time seal. Designed to fracture temporal chakra, send it through a fixed point. But the centre…” She trailed off, exhaling shakily. “The kanji are damaged, unclear. We can’t tell if it’s meant to anchor the user… or the target. Without that, it’s a shot in the dark.”

Orochimaru’s arms were folded, his golden eyes glinting with sharp thought, the curve of his lips thin and unreadable. “We believe it requires a stabilizing core—an energy source capable of enduring the rupture without collapsing.” His gaze slid meaningfully to Naruto, Gaara, and Killer B, eyes lingering. “Bijuu chakra is the strongest candidate. But it’s not the only one. The seal is unfinished, possibly experimental. There may be other… dangerous alternatives.”

Kakashi’s voice was a low thread beside them, his hands buried in his cloak. “We’re counting on you two,” he said softly, his single eye meeting Mito’s and Kushina’s with a rare, open vulnerability. “You’re the best Uzumaki fuinjutsu masters the world’s ever known. This is… our last chance.”

Mito and Kushina leaned over the parchment, their eyes skimming the curling ink lines under the flickering, dying candlelight. Kushina’s fingers hovered just above the surface, trembling faintly as they traced symbols blurred by age. Mito’s eyes darted swiftly, mouth murmuring silent thoughts, her calm presence radiating a quiet intensity. She motioned for fresh scrolls and brushes, her movements graceful, deliberate.

Time blurred. Minutes, or hours—it was impossible to tell. Every brush stroke felt thunderous. Every breath was held too long. The others waited, muscles stiff, hearts clenching in their chests.

At last, Kushina straightened sharply, a flicker of steel-hard determination flashing through her tired eyes. “The key component,” she said, voice firm, “is the temporal anchor. It needs a living chakra network to bind to. Without it, the seal collapses as soon as it activates. That’s why no one’s succeeded. They were sending power into the past… with nothing to tether it.”

Mito lifted her gaze, nodding slowly, her voice calm but carrying weight. “The seal’s handwriting… it’s Suijin’s. My uncle. He was always brilliant, but reckless. This was theory to him. No one ever dared try it.” She paused, catching Gaara’s quiet question—was it impossible? Her lips curved, faint and resolute. “I never said that.”

Her fingers moved over the seal again, explaining softly—the delicate pulse balancing chakra currents, the twin pathways bridging past and present, the fragile channels that, if aligned precisely, might hold the rupture open long enough for one, maybe two or three, to pass through. But only if it held.

Kakashi’s voice cut softly across the tension, steady, resolute. “Then we’ll make time. Whatever it takes.”

But before his words could settle, the world outside answered first—a sound like the earth’s spine cracking, a brutal, grinding roar that tore through the walls. Dust cascaded from the ceiling; the floorboards jumped beneath their feet as a massive, echoing crash shook the building’s bones.

They froze, breath caught in their throats, hearts thundering. In the silence that followed, one truth settled into the marrow of their bones like ice.

She had found them.

 

 

 

Naruto was the first out the door—the battered wood creaked, splintering on its hinges, as his sandals hit the cold stone steps. The chill bit at his skin, sharp and raw, but it was the smell that stopped his breath: thick, metallic, clinging to the air, like decay and ash, like something neither alive nor dead. Behind him, Sasuke and Sakura followed at a sprint, feet pounding, breath puffing in white clouds.

What awaited them twisted the stomach. The ruins of Uzushiogakure were no longer empty. Through the fractured alleys, broken archways, and crumbling towers, shapes moved—hundreds of them, sliding, crawling, lurching. Kaguya’s abominations. They flickered between shapes: long-limbed creatures bent backward, bulbous masses of bone, half-formed faces twitching like mockeries of the people they once were. A slow, tightening ring. A noose of monsters.

"How the hell are they already here?!" Naruto’s voice cracked, panic slicing through the cold. His fists clenched; golden chakra bloomed at his heels in trembling bursts. Inside, Kurama’s growl vibrated through his bones.

>They’ve been probably sniffing us out for days, kit. Suppressed chakra or not, that spike—the Edo Tensei—it screamed through the earth like a flare. And they’re faster now. Smarter. Don’t underestimate them.<

A flicker. A lunge. A clawed maw opened wide—but before Naruto could turn, chains, brilliant and gold, lashed past, spearing the creature midair. It shrieked, a wet, guttural noise, just as Ohnoki’s Jinton beam cut it clean through, disintegrating it into dust and bone ash.

Naruto spun, heart hammering. Kushina stood behind him, adamantine chains snaking from her back, eyes hard. Behind her, Ohnoki floated, breathing hard. Gaara, Killer B, Choji, Hinata—they were there, scattered across the cracked stone square, faces set, hands raised. Gaara’s sand coiled at his feet like a living shield; Killer B’s swords glinted in both hands, his cloak rippling with Gyuki’s chakra. "The others are gathering the scrolls!" Gaara’s calm voice rose over the chaos. "We hold them here!"

They spread out fast, the nine of them a line of desperate defence. Choji clenched the red Akimichi pill, heart hammering. Without waiting, he swallowed it—chakra bursting outward, his form swelling, butterfly wings of chakra flaring. With a roar, he smashed through the abominations, the ground shaking under his strikes. A glance: Gaara stumbled, Choji’s fist slammed an enemy aside, a shaky grin thrown his way. But his body trembled—the pill tore at his coils, burning through muscle and chakra alike. Still, Choji roared, charging again: "For the village… for everyone…!"

Hinata surged forward, Byakugan flaring, striking with sharp precision as she tore through a cluster of writhing figures, her vision cutting through their chakra paths—until suddenly, she gasped. Her left eye dimmed, a burst of pain ripping through her skull. A clawed hand had swiped past, just shy of her temple—barely a graze, but enough. She staggered back, blood slick down her cheek, one eye clouded.

"Hinata!" Sakura was there in an instant, arms looping under Hinata’s to drag her back, eyes wide with fear and fury.

Killer B let out a battle cry, spinning through the crowd with sharp arcs of his blades, Gyuki roaring in his mind, their twin chakras slamming outward in waves. But even B stumbled as one beast lunged, its jaws clamping momentarily over his shoulder—not piercing, but crushing, twisting, sending sharp crackles through his chakra network. He swore, staggering as Gyuki’s voice rumbled, >Careful, fool! Your coils—! <

Gaara’s sand surged high, swallowing another wave of creatures whole—but his breath hitched. His knees buckled for half a second, eyes wide. The pressure inside—sharp, needling—compressed against his own chakra coils, sand trembling under the strain. "They’re… feeding on it," he murmured, voice tight. "They’re learning how to break us."

The ground split. A sound like mountains breaking. From the earth, it rose—a giant, monstrous thing, stitched from bone and ooze, its grotesque face twisted into Kaguya’s likeness. It let out a roar that trembled through the sky, through their bones, through their hope.

Naruto roared back. He lunged forward, Kurama’s golden cloak bursting to life around him, nine tails lashing outward, his body a streak of light as he slammed into the beast with a deafening crash. For a moment, it worked—Naruto drove it back, chakra pulsing in brutal waves, each strike shaking the earth.

Then the pull began.

"Naruto! Pull back!" Sasuke’s voice rang out, but it was too late. The creature’s chest split open, a gaping maw of black seals and writhing hands, and Naruto felt it—the wrenching, violent drag, chakra tearing away in floods. His limbs buckled, cloak flickering, his vision narrowing to a tunnel of gold and black.

"Kurama—?!"

>Hold on, kit—! <

And then, stillness.

Naruto collapsed, breath ragged—but strong arms caught him. Kakashi, kneeling, held him firm, voice tight. Across the square, a flare of crimson light erupted. Chains roared from the ground, a net of red seals lashing out, binding, holding.

Mito stood at the centre, hands together, her voice weaving ancient words in the old tongue of the Uzumaki, that thrummed in the very air. The beast froze mid-scream, mid-lunge, trapped in a web of light. For one fragile moment, the world held its breath.

Naruto’s chest shuddered, tears burning his eyes as he whispered hoarsely, "She… stopped it."

And Mito, surrounded by a glowing web of seals, turned her head just slightly, a faint, fierce smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. "We are not done yet."

 

 

 

With swift hands, Mito doubled down on the seals, her fingers weaving through signs as the crimson glow deepened to a fierce, blinding red. The abominations roared, snarling and shrieking as they slammed against the barrier, but the seals did not budge. Faint light flickered across Mito’s cracked form, her eyes steady, her voice edged with the weight of pressure. “Gather everyone!” she shouted, her voice sharp, commanding. “These seals won’t hold for long—I don’t have the chakra I once did in this form.”

At the building’s entrance, Tsunade and Orochimaru emerged, cloaks pulled tight around their shoulders, scrolls clutched as if their lives hung on them. Their boots splashed through shallow puddles forming in the broken earth. “We have everything,” Tsunade called, her voice hoarse but resolute. Sasuke appeared at Naruto’s side, slipping an arm around his husband to steady him, quiet words murmured into blonde hair as Naruto staggered, pale and gasping. Kakashi crouched by Choji, helping the trembling Akimichi to his feet, feeling the faint quiver in Choji’s overstrained muscles. Kushina, her chains flickering like restless serpents, supported Gaara, whose shoulders hunched, steps dragging as his chakra coils throbbed painfully under every breath. Killer B gave a shaky thumbs-up, his grin tight, swords strapped across his back, though his knees buckled faintly. Sakura cradled Hinata carefully, pressing her against her shoulder, a rough bandage soaking crimson over her ruined eye.

Mito stood firm, hands pressed to the earth, pouring every ounce of her borrowed strength into the glowing seals. When she sensed them all ready, she lifted her gaze, eyes crackling with power. "We have one hour at best. Move!"

They fled—not a word wasted. Down crumbling paths and sharp, narrow hills, through brush tangled with thorns and under twisted olive trees, across rocky ground that crumbled underfoot. The rain came without warning, a heavy, drumming downpour, soaking them to the bone, blurring the world into grey and green. But the rain helped too: it masked their chakra, thinned their scent, covered their tracks. Behind them, through the howl of wind and storm, the faint red glow still pulsed at the edge of the broken village—a fragile barrier, holding back the end.

 

 

 

After long hours stumbling through the soaked hills, their legs heavy and faces raw from the sharp wind, they found the entrance to a cave—purely by accident. As they reached the jagged mountainous edge, Tsunade, her fingers numb and trembling, fumbled a scroll from her cloak. It slipped from her grasp and tumbled several meters down a rocky slope, splashing into a shallow puddle below. Muttering under her breath, her voice thin with exhaustion, she half-crawled down to retrieve it, pushing through sodden brush and jagged stones. Moments later, she called back up, her voice slicing through the storm like a frayed rope snapping. “There’s a small opening here—looks like a cave!”

The group, exhausted to the bone from cold, hunger, and the relentless drain on their bodies, made their way down carefully, one by one. Sure enough, a narrow crack in the rock opened into a hidden cave, easily overlooked from above. They slipped inside, dripping wet, breaths steaming in the chill air. The first chamber was small but high enough to stand, allowing the group to gather together, pressed close. Beyond it, the cave widened—a spacious hollow with scattered stone ledges, even a flat outcrop at the back that could serve as a table.

Without wasting a moment, Mito, Kushina, Tsunade, and Orochimaru headed toward the back, unrolling scrolls and lighting a small lantern for their work. Kakashi eased Choji onto a patch of dry ground; the Akimichi was shaking, his muscles spasming painfully from the red pill’s toll. Gaara and Killer B collapsed with exhausted gasps, their chakra coils tight and burning. Ohnoki, pale and stiff, sank slowly to the floor with a grimace. Hinata slid down beside a wall, clutching her bandaged eye, pale but silent.

Sakura moved swiftly between them, healing hands glowing soft green as she treated Hinata first, whispering gentle words before turning to check Ohnoki, then Gaara and B. She paused briefly at Naruto, asking quietly if the chakra drain left any lasting damage. Naruto, managing a faint smile, shook his head. “Just tired… I’ll try to gather natural chakra, in the front.” His voice was soft, hoarse, but determined, and Sasuke lingered at his side a moment longer, fingers brushing Naruto’s arm briefly, silently.

Sasuke and Kakashi volunteered to guard the entrance, stepping quietly toward the mouth of the cave, eyes sharp even through the pounding rain. Around them, the group fell into a tense hush—each to their task, each carrying the brittle weight of survival, while the sound of the storm outside hummed like a reminder that time was slipping through their fingers.

 

 

 

Mito, Kushina, Orochimaru, and Tsunade were completely absorbed, their figures hunched close under the dim flicker of lantern light, shadows playing over the worn scrolls spread across the cave’s rough stone table. Mito’s fingers traced the aged parchment, her lips moving in silent rehearsal of each looping kanji, cross-referencing every stroke with the faded marginalia her uncle Uzumaki Suijin had once left. Her brow furrowed, sharp eyes flicking between symbols, murmuring patterns under her breath, mapping out connections as though she could untangle the heartbeat of the seal itself.

Beside her, Kushina worked with rapid precision, her calloused fingers sketching possible anchor seals across fresh scroll paper. "These might act as stabilizers," she murmured, voice tight with focus, "but they’ll need to interlock perfectly with the primary matrix, or they’ll collapse the central axis."

Orochimaru and Tsunade crouched on the opposite side, poring over calculations in a soft, tense duet—chakra flow rates, temporal load distribution, the threshold of dimensional stress. Orochimaru’s pale hands gestured deftly over points where a single misaligned pulse could snap the tether between timelines; Tsunade’s voice, low and raspy, counted the chakra mass ratios that would be needed to keep the present world intact even as they pulled the past into reach. “If the seal fractures mid-transition,” she murmured, “it’ll shred both ends—past and present.” Orochimaru’s thin smile flickered. “Then we don’t let it fracture.”

Time stretched, the only sounds the faint scratch of brushes and the restless patter of rain. Across the cave, Hinata knelt between Gaara and Killer B, her remaining Byakugan glowing faintly as she worked trembling fingers across their tenketsu, trying to coax open the damaged coils. Choji, pale and shivering, leaned against the stone, Sakura kneeling at his side, feeding him slow waves of healing chakra while casting worried glances toward Ohnoki, who scowled as he stretched under her guidance. At the entrance, Naruto knelt alone in the rain-damp air, skin tingling as he strained to gather fragments of natural chakra, while Sasuke and Kakashi stood like silent sentinels, eyes sharp, weapons ready.

Finally, near nightfall, a soft sound echoed through the chamber: Mito exhaling sharply as her brush stilled. "We have it," she said quietly.

They gathered, all of them, around the makeshift table where diagrams layered over diagrams, ink-smeared notes crowding every surface. Mito’s fingertip hovered over the core. “The seal moves in nested paths: primary, secondary, tertiary. They interlock, reinforce—one fails, the rest fall. But balanced, they form a bridge—not only sending, but binding past and present, so what’s changed there reshapes here.”

Orochimaru’s eyes glinted, voice soft. “It will drain enormous chakra reservoirs. Too little, it breaks. Too much, it burns out.”

Kushina added, voice steady, "And the bridge will only hold long enough for three people. That’s the limit of the structure. Three sent back—three to carry the world’s last hope."

The quiet spread like mist. Soon the group gathered around the stone table, their faces pale in the flickering lamplight. Mito’s voice was firm but kind as she explained the seal’s function again, how the woven kanji worked like threads—drawing power, holding it in tension, focusing it through the anchor points Kushina had designed. It wasn’t just time travel. It was a weave of chakra, memory, and will, threading through the heart of the world to pull at the past.

When Kushina’s voice fell quiet, the cave was hushed, heavy with breath and unspoken words. Then Kakashi, without hesitation, lifted his gaze and said softly, "Naruto. Sasuke. Sakura."

No one spoke against it. Only the hush of rain answered, curling against the stone like a breath from the dark.

 

 

 

Naruto was the first to break the silence, his voice rough, raw with emotion. “You can’t just decide that!” he burst out, fists clenched at his sides, shoulders trembling as though to physically hold back the grief, eyes blazing and wet. But Kakashi was already moving—stepping forward with quiet purpose, sandals soft against the cracked stone floor, laying a steadying hand on Naruto’s shoulder. His touch was firm, fingers tightening slightly, the way he had once steadied a reckless Genin boy on the edge of collapse. His gaze softened, a small crinkle at the corner of his single visible eye, tired but full of quiet love. “Naruto,” he murmured, his voice low but unwavering, almost fatherly, “the three of you are the strongest among us. You always have been. If anyone has to be sent back, it has to be my cute little students.”

Naruto’s breath hitched sharply, chest rising and falling in ragged waves, but the protest caught in his throat like a stone. His gaze flicked helplessly toward Sasuke, who was already at his side, dark eyes steady, fingers closing silently around his hand, a firm anchor in the storm of emotion threatening to pull Naruto under. Sakura stood just behind, her face pale, jaw clenched tight, hands trembling faintly at her sides, knuckles white. She had no words either—just the sharp sting of tears burning behind her lashes, a battle she refused to let fall across her cheeks.

It was Hinata who stepped forward next. She moved quietly, her remaining eye glistening faintly in the lamplight. “Naruto-kun,” she said softly, “I know you. I know Sakura. I trust Sasuke.” Her voice trembled but held. “You three have faced the impossible before. You’ve carried this world on your backs, again and again. You’re not alone. We believe in you.”

One by one, the others added their voices. Gaara, his face carved with quiet determination, said, “You understand Kaguya’s power more than any of us. That knowledge matters.” Killer B grinned faintly despite his exhaustion. “Yo, little bro—you’re the beat this world needs. Go drop the verse on fate.” Even Choji, pale and shivering, managed a small, wavering smile. Ohnoki gave a rough sigh, muttering, “If you’re going to rewrite history, at least do it properly.”

Slowly, almost reluctantly, the three members of Team Seven stepped closer to the table, to Mito and Kushina, who had been watching quietly. Sasuke’s voice was low, measured, when he finally spoke. “What do we have to do?”

Mito gave a slight nod, calm and commanding. “I’ll draw the seal on the floor. You’ll need to stand at the centre of the matrix. Kushina, Tsunade, Orochimaru, and I will anchor the jutsu. The rest will lend their chakra. All of it.” She met each gaze in turn, voice steady despite the weight in it. “We have to hurry. There’s no guarantee we’ll get another chance.”

Her expression softened, just slightly. “Say your goodbyes.”

 

 

 

While Mito turned to begin preparing the seal, the others instinctively gathered around Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura. Hinata was the first, her steps hurried despite the tight bandage across her lost eye. She grasped Naruto’s hands in both of hers, trembling but firm, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Naruto-kun… it’ll be okay," she whispered, voice thin but steady. "I believe in you. In all three of you." She squeezed his hands tightly, as if willing her remaining strength into his palms, her head dipping briefly, dark hair brushing his knuckles.

Gaara approached next, silent as wind over sand, pale eyes calm. He rested one hand on Naruto’s shoulder, the other briefly on Sakura’s. "You are our hope," he murmured, voice low, like the dunes whispering at dusk. "You taught us to believe in something beyond ourselves. You can do this. You must."

Killer B, limping but grinning faintly, swung his bandaged arm forward in a loose, shaky gesture. Gyuki’s presence pulsed faintly behind his gaze. "Yo, little bro, you’re the spark, the beat that won’t break! Go spit fire at fate, ya feel me? Light up the track, make destiny quake!" His grin wavered, but the fire in his eyes did not dim.

Choji, pale and sweat-damp, pulled himself upright, wobbling but resolute. He offered Sakura a trembling smile, voice hoarse. "You’ve always been the strongest of us, Sakura… you just never saw it. Go show the past what you’re made of."

Ohnoki gave a rough grunt, arms crossed over his stooped frame, lips twitching at the corners. "Rewrite history, eh? Then don’t you dare half-ass it, brats." For a moment, just a flicker, his eyes softened.

Then, Tsunade was there, striding forward without hesitation, her sandals crunching softly on the damp cave floor. She pulled Sakura tight against her chest, arms trembling faintly as she cradled her like a daughter, the faint scent of herbs and ink clinging to her battered cloak. "You were the daughter I never had… and I’m proud of you," Tsunade murmured, her voice rough at the edges, the words barely holding back the quiver in her throat. "Promise me you’ll live, Sakura. Promise me you’ll help the Senju survive." Sakura broke, at last, the dam of tension shattering as she clutched Tsunade with shaking hands, burying her face in the fabric, feeling the trembling heartbeat beneath. "We’ll do it… I swear. We’ll do it."

Orochimaru watched Sasuke for a long moment, unreadable eyes half-lidded, as though weighing a thousand unspoken things. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, resting a pale hand atop Sasuke’s dark hair, his fingers cool, unnervingly soft, sliding briefly through the dark strands as though committing the sensation to memory. "Sasuke… you reminded me of things I buried long ago," he murmured, voice silk over glass, the faintest rasp of regret. "Once, I valued you. Even when I failed you." His lips curved, faint and sad, the shadow of a smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Whatever time you land in… watch Danzou. Much of Konoha’s decay flows from his shadow." His hand pressed just slightly firmer, a faint squeeze, before loosening again. "And Sarutobi… he was no hero. It should have been Uchiha Kagami as Third. Remember that." For a heartbeat longer, his palm lingered, like a cold blessing, then slipped away. His voice lowered, sharp as a blade’s edge, and something unspoken flickered behind his gaze. "The secrets lie behind the Shodaime’s portrait. Stop the rot, before it consumes Konoha."

 

 

 

Naruto moved toward his mother with a quiet, almost reverent step, but Kushina didn’t wait. With a rush of motion, she wrapped him in her arms, fierce and trembling even in her Edo Tensei form. Her hands cradled the back of his head, fingers threading through his messy blond hair. "My baby," she whispered, her voice thick with love, a love no jutsu could strip away. "I’m so proud of you, Naruto. I’m so, so sorry I had to leave you so soon. I hope you can forgive me for not being there, for everything you faced alone."

She pulled back slightly, her hands cupping his face, thumbs brushing tenderly along his cheeks. Her fingers trembled faintly, though no heat, no true heartbeat, pulsed beneath her skin. "You’re my sunshine boy. My precious, precious son. I love you so, so much." She pressed a long, trembling kiss to his cheek. And though her black-rimmed Edo eyes couldn’t weep, it felt as if the sorrow and pride shimmered there anyway.

Naruto gazed at her, chest tight, heart raw, voice thick. "Kaa-chan… you’re the best. The prettiest. You and Tou-chan… you gave everything so I could live. It was hard sometimes, yeah, but… I’m grateful. Because of you, I’m here. Because of you… I met Sasuke. Married the person I love most." His voice cracked into a soft, aching laugh as he glanced at Sasuke, whose dark eyes softened. Kushina’s smile grew, bright and teasing despite the faint cracks in her body. "You’ve got good taste, kiddo. Mikoto-chan would’ve been over the moon." They laughed softly, bittersweet, and leaned in, foreheads pressed together, still as if savouring the fleeting moment, holding on with everything they had.

Finally, with a last squeeze, Kushina stepped back, hands lingering on Naruto’s cheeks. "I’ll be praying for you, my Naruto. Always."

The three turned then — Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura — to where Kakashi waited, arms already open. No words needed. They rushed into him, arms wrapping, bodies trembling, heads bowing into his chest. Kakashi gathered them in tightly, his own breath catching as he whispered rough and sure: "You’ve made me proud every step of the way. No matter how rough it’s been, you three held onto each other. That’s everything. That’s all we ever needed."

He drew back just enough, his single eye crinkling with a rare, full smile. "I love you, my cute little students." His voice dropped, a soft breath against their hair. "Make sure… make sure my father finds happiness, too."

For a long moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, Kakashi let them go, his hands brushing their shoulders one by one, as if memorizing them by touch, holding on in the only way left.

 

 

 

The three finally stepped forward, feet heavy yet resolute, moving to the centre of the vast seal Mito had painstakingly drawn on the cold, cracked stone. The lines shimmered under the faint glow of torches, each stroke etched with desperate precision, the culmination of hours of labour and centuries of Uzumaki knowledge. Around them, the others gathered — faces pale, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and grim hope. The scent of damp earth mingled with the faint, sharp tang of burned chakra, the air tense, vibrating with the weight of what was to come.

Before they began, Mito approached Sakura, her movements graceful despite the unnatural stillness of her Edo Tensei body. She pressed a scroll into Sakura’s trembling hands, cracked fingers curling gently. "This holds the seal to bring you back," Mito murmured softly, her voice like the hush of old paper. "When you finish your mission… you’ll need it." Sakura’s throat tightened, her breath hitching as she whispered, "Thank you," slipping the scroll into the pouch at her hip with care. Mito’s smile was faint, wistful, before she turned and floated back to her place at one of the four cardinal points.

Kushina, Tsunade, and Orochimaru joined her, their gazes locking in a brief, wordless exchange. Around them, the others spread out, circling the seal like the last defences of a crumbling world. No one spoke; they all knew — pour in what remained, hold nothing back.

Mito’s voice rang clear and calm: "We’ll begin the jutsu. When we finish the signs, you all push your chakra in together — it will stabilize the flow." Silent nods answered.

Mito and Tsunade activated their Byakugou Seals, violet diamond marks blooming and pulsing with ancient power on their foreheads. Orochimaru’s skin rippled faintly as he slipped into Sage Mode, golden eyes slitting and the faint scales of the snake sage creeping along his cheekbones. Kushina’s chains stirred, glimmering faintly at her back, humming with old chakra as if they remembered the world they had left.

Naruto turned, reaching out without hesitation. His fingers locked around Sasuke’s on one side and Sakura’s on the other, hands warm and tight, anchoring them together. They squeezed back, a silent promise, a pact they didn’t need to speak aloud.

Then — the four masters moved.

Their hands blurred, weaving through the long, complex sequence of signs, their lips whispering words older than memory. As they reached the final seal, all four slammed their palms down onto the earth as one, voices rising, calling out the invocation. Instantly, the ground thrummed, a deep pulse rattling up through stone and bone alike.

The others followed without hesitation — Gaara, Killer B, Hinata, Choji, Kakashi, Ohnoki — each pressing their hands to the edge of the seal, pushing chakra forward. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a glow appeared — soft at first, then surging brighter, gold and crimson threading through the matrix, racing toward the centre.

Team 7 felt the pull — like a rope tightening around their hearts, around their souls. Naruto’s grip never loosened; Sasuke’s fingers clenched back, Sakura’s nails bit faintly into his skin. The light grew blinding, swallowing shape, sound, breath. And then —

A free fall.

It was like tumbling through space with no end, no direction, no up or down. Wind rushed past, or maybe it was just the sensation of motion with no air, no world, no body. They clung to each other by sheer will, eyes pressed shut, refusing to break the bond even as the world was ripped away.

Then, just as suddenly —

Nothing.

A soft, consuming black, like the world exhaling. And Team 7 was gone.

Notes:

So, next chapter they’ll finally be in the past! ＼(≧▽≦)／ I’m so excited!

Honestly, writing this chapter was such an emotional ride — like, I just wanted to get to the time travel part, BUT NO, the characters were like “no, no, no, we’re going to make it SAD first.” (ಥ﹏ಥ)
I really hope I managed to show how desperate and raw their situation is, because I felt it hard while writing.
Thank you so much for reading and coming along on this absolute rollercoaster with me — I’ll see you in the next chapter! ❤️

Chapter 4: Children of Tomorrow, Legends of Yesterday

Notes:

Hello and welcome back! :DDD
Technically, I should be studying for a new training program at work right now (📚😅), but instead I thought… why not finally finish Chapter 4 of this story? And in the end, this chapter won XDDD. It’s a little shorter than the previous ones, but—big milestone—they’re finally back in the past! 🎉✨ Plans are made, secrets stirred up, and already the first faces of the past show up. 👀💫

I’ll stop rambling now and actually go learn a little 🙈—have fun reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! 💖

Darkness. It stretched endlessly, swallowing sound, sight, and sensation until only the echo of a heartbeat remained. That faint thud, dull and unrelenting, reverberated in the void like a drum lost in fog. Naruto drifted within it, untethered, thought rising and sinking like flotsam on a black sea. Was he alive? Or had everything ended in Kaguya’s suffocating rage? The question circled endlessly, a whisper gnawing at the silence. He tried to move, to call out, but there was nothing—no mouth, no hands, no body. Only a fragile spark of consciousness suspended in the abyss.

Then, from deep within, a sound shattered the oppressive quiet: a growl. Low, resonant, edged with familiar ferocity. It rolled through the void like distant thunder, rough and grounding.

Kurama.

The fox’s voice followed, rumbling with sharp impatience, tearing through the dark. >Brat. Wake up.<

Naruto strained, desperate to obey, but the emptiness clung to him like chains. Panic licked at his mind, clawing for answers. Maybe he was dead after all, maybe this hollow place was all that remained—

Another growl cracked through, louder, heavy with biting scorn. >Idiot. You’re not dead. Stop flailing around like a fool.<

The words raked across his being, dragging him back toward something tangible. Naruto clung to them, to Kurama’s irritation, like a lifeline. From his core, warmth stirred—thick, suffusing, alive. It spread outward in sluggish waves until, at last, sensation bled into numb limbs.

A twitch in his fingers. The faint curl of knuckles closing, stiff but real. His legs jerked, weighted but responsive. Air burst into his lungs in a ragged gasp, and his chest began to rise and fall, shaky but steady. A violent shudder wracked him, breaking the stillness, and then his eyes snapped open.

The first breath seared his throat, sharp and cold, yet so pure it almost hurt. He dragged it in greedily, as if starved, filling his lungs with more and more until dizziness crept in. This was no choking miasma of death, no stench of decay that Kaguya had smeared across the battlefield. This was clean air—crisp, alive, threaded with the earthy scent of damp soil and the faint sweetness of grass.

Blinking rapidly against the sudden blaze of daylight, Naruto forced his head up. The sun glared down on him, brilliant and merciless after the void’s black. He raised a trembling hand to shield his eyes, squinting as light stabbed at them. His palm pressed into the ground—cool, damp earth. Solid. Real. He clawed at it, fingers digging deeper, anchoring himself, needing proof that it wasn’t a cruel illusion.

“Where… what—” His voice cracked, rasping, rough as gravel. The words faltered, his tongue heavy, his body sluggish. It was as though the remnants of the jutsu that had ripped them from time itself still clung to him, weighing down every motion, dragging at every breath.

Before his scattered thoughts could knit together, another voice slid into the air. Familiar. Dry. Irritated.

“Finally,” it drawled, sharp as ever. “Took you long enough.”

 

 

 

Naruto’s vision cleared slowly, painstakingly, the blinding haze peeling back layer by layer until shapes began to take form at the edge of his perception. Each blink was heavy, lashes still damp and weighed down, and the world swam before his eyes like water disturbed by stone. At last, the blurred silhouette before him sharpened into a figure he recognized as surely as the beat of his own heart.

Sasuke.

He was seated close by, posture taut with tension yet held together by the steel of his composure. Every line of his body seemed carved between exhaustion and discipline, as if he was forcing himself to remain upright by sheer will. Strands of raven hair clung to his pale face, plastered against his cheek and partially veiling the Rinnegan beneath. That eye, once so piercing, burned faintly now, dulled by strain, its glow muted as though smothered. The slump in his shoulders betrayed a weariness Naruto rarely witnessed, but still—he was there. Breathing. Alive.

Naruto’s breath hitched, his chest tightening with a surge of relief so fierce it hurt. His hand lifted before thought could intervene, trembling, hesitant, then closing around Sasuke’s own. The skin beneath his palm was cool, firm, achingly real. Naruto clutched it tightly, almost desperately, as if afraid it might dissolve into mist. He lifted that hand toward his lips, pressing a shaky kiss across the knuckles—a silent plea, a wordless confirmation that his partner stood here with him, not lost to the void. Relief coursed through him in a raw shudder.

Sasuke exhaled, a soft huff, the sound caught between exasperation and his own relief. Yet, even with fatigue pulling at his limbs, he raised his other arm—the bandaged prosthetic—and with careful steadiness cupped Naruto’s cheek. The touch was solid, reassuring warmth despite the wrappings, grounding Naruto in this fragile moment. Dark eyes softened, their sharpness gentled, carrying an unspoken vow: I’m here. We both are.

The stillness fractured at once when a sudden, sharp gasp cut through the quiet. Both their heads snapped to the side, instincts sharpened despite their fatigue.

Sakura.

She lay slumped against the rough trunk of an oak, the bark pressing into her back while one trembling hand held fast against her temple. Dirt streaked her cheeks, and her pink hair hung in tangled strands across her face, dulled by grime and sweat. Her chest heaved unevenly, lips parting as she fought for air. Yet when her green eyes blinked open—hazy at first, then clearing—and found theirs, relief burst within them like a flame rekindled. It flooded them both with undeniable force.

Without a word, Naruto and Sasuke moved as one. They pushed shakily to their feet, then dropped to their knees before her, each of them grasping one of her hands. Their fingers locked around hers, tight, steady, anchoring her in the moment and anchoring themselves in her presence. And then, almost instinctively, they leaned forward together, drawing her into the circle of their arms. Shoulders pressed, foreheads brushed against fabric streaked with dirt, and for a long breath they simply held on. A group embrace—fierce, unyielding, forged in exhaustion but stronger than any barrier.

Sakura’s arms closed around them in return with equal desperation. Her fingers curled into their jackets, nails biting into the fabric as though to make certain they were solid and unshaken. She inhaled sharply, trembling, then exhaled in a long release against their shoulders, steadier, calmer, letting herself believe. For that single heartbeat, the vast, broken world beyond them ceased to exist.

When at last they drew apart, Sakura’s gaze swept over their faces, slow and intent. Her eyes lingered on every line, every bruise and scratch, drinking in the proof that they were still breathing. They were all marked by battle—clothes shredded and smeared with soil, eyes ringed with fatigue, sweat streaking paths through dust and ash—but alive. Together. Her lips parted, her voice hoarse, but steady with conviction.

“You guys… we made it.”

The words resonated, settling into the space between them like a balm. Naruto felt something inside him clench tight before releasing in a rush of breath. He allowed their hands to slip from his grip, pressing his palms against the ground as he slowly rose. His senses stretched outward cautiously, no longer fixed on watching for Kaguya’s abominations, no longer narrowed to bare survival. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs until they ached, and opened his eyes wide to the sight around them.

Towering trees rose in every direction, stretching proudly into the sky, their canopies alive with the whisper of leaves stirred by a crisp morning breeze. Pale shafts of sunlight broke through the lattice of branches, spilling across mossy roots and tangled underbrush, scattering brilliance across the forest floor. The very air vibrated faintly with chakra, ancient and strong, a living pulse woven into the land itself. Naruto felt it thrumming at the edges of his awareness—familiar, grounding, undeniably home.

Hi no Kuni. No other land bore forests like these. They had landed home.

 

 

 

Sasuke rose to his feet with measured grace, though fatigue clung to him like an ever-present shadow. His movements were deliberate, every shift of muscle restrained, as though his body carried the weight of more than just exhaustion. He extended a pale hand to Sakura, his fingers steady despite the tremor that lingered in his shoulders. His voice, when it came, was low and steady, threaded with quiet resolve. “Yes. We made it. We’re alive.” The words carried a gravity that spoke of more than survival, as if he needed to voice them aloud to accept their truth. Sakura accepted his hand, gripping it firmly as he drew her upward. Her knees wavered under her, but between the three of them, balance returned, and together they stood.

For a long heartbeat, none of them moved. They simply listened. In the silence that followed their struggle, the sounds of the forest seeped into their awareness like water filling a vessel. Birds trilled high above in the canopy, their calls sharp, playful, alive. Wings brushed through leaves with a soft rustle. From the thicket nearby came the faint stir of small creatures darting through underbrush, the tiny snap of twigs beneath their weight, the quiet crackle of life moving unseen. Natural sounds. Ordinary sounds. Sounds they had been starved of for months. Not since Kaguya had drained the breath from the world, leeching vitality until even silence had felt hollow. Now, the chorus of life returned to them, fragile yet overwhelming in its simple gentleness.

Sasuke’s dark gaze swept the trees. He turned in a slow circle, eyes catching on each detail with the sharp precision of a hunter, but unease creased the lines of his brow. “We need to find out not just where we are in Hi no Kuni,” he murmured, voice quiet but intent, “but when. The land doesn’t look the same as what we’ve known.”

Naruto let out a long, theatrical sigh, raking his hand through his unruly blond hair before scrubbing at the back of his neck. His other hand fell to his hip, posture slouched with exasperation. “Great. So, the time-travel seal worked, but it didn’t bother to drop us off with a damn calendar.”

The words had scarcely left him when a deep rumble stirred in his chest, primal and resonant, snapping his body to attention. Kurama’s voice followed, thick with dry amusement and sharpened by familiar derision. >Honestly, you really are a dumbass, kit. If you weren’t, you’d have realized it already. Smell the air. Listen—really listen to what’s around you.<

Naruto’s brows knit together as he pouted, lips pressing in frustration at the reprimand. He didn’t protest. Instead, he closed his eyes, inhaling slowly until his lungs ached with the deliberate breath. He released it in a long exhale, shoulders easing as his awareness began to stretch outward. The air brushed against his skin differently—lighter, cleaner, freed from decay. Kurama was right. This world wasn’t rotting. No saturation of corrupted chakra pressed down on them. No oppressive heaviness drained life from the marrow. The balance felt intact, unscarred.

Naruto pressed further, pushing his chakra outward in a steady ripple that flowed through the forest. The trees answered first, their chakra vibrant and unblemished, fresh in a way he had never felt—as if their roots had only recently claimed the soil. No trace of Kaguya’s foul presence remained, no weight of despair pulling the world down. But faintly, at the edges of his reach, he felt it: threads of chakra residue clinging to the land. Heavy, acrid, steeped in the echoes of violence. Rage. Desperation. The remnants of a battlefield long since abandoned. They clung faintly, like an old scar left to fade with time.

His eyes opened sharply, blue gaze thoughtful as he turned back to his husband and best friend. “Kurama says this world isn’t dying. No overcharged chakra in the air. And he’s right—what I felt just now wasn’t Kaguya. But there is something… lingering. A trace of heavy chakra. Like a fight happened here. Like hate burned itself into the ground. But it’s not strong. Just… echoes.”

Sakura crossed her arms over her chest, her gaze lowering in thought as she considered his words. Her lips pressed together before she spoke, her tone calm but edged with certainty. “If there’s only a faint trace of battle energy, then it might be left over from the First Shinobi War. That would explain why you sensed conflict, but not the crushing weight of the later wars. If the residue is this weak, then the others haven’t happened yet.” She lifted her head then, green eyes steady as they met theirs. “Which means… we’ve gone further back than we thought.”

 

 

 

The three of them exchanged a long, wordless look, the silence thick and weighted as though the forest itself held its breath with them. Each of their gazes asked the same unspoken question: what came next? Sasuke exhaled at length, the sound edged with quiet resignation, before folding his arms across his chest in that familiar, guarded posture. His black eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating, though the fatigue dragging at his features softened the usual steel. “We should make our way to Konoha. Start there. It’s the only way we’ll find answers.”

Naruto groaned, shoulders slumping as he ran a hand through his unruly blond hair, fingers snagging in the dirt-clumped strands before dropping heavily to his hip. His movements were rough, weary, but his voice still carried its typical grumble. “Yeah, but we’ve gotta be careful. We can’t just waltz in looking like this. People are gonna start asking questions, and we especially can’t let anyone know we’re from the future.”

Sakura’s laugh slipped out, soft and almost startling against the taut air. It was lighter than the tension that clung to them, a flicker of something familiar amidst the strangeness of their situation. She leaned in and nudged him playfully in the ribs, shaking her head with a small smile. “Look at you, actually using your brain for once.”

Naruto’s lips pulled into a pout, his blue eyes bright with mock indignation as he straightened a little. “Oi, I do think sometimes.”

Sasuke tilted his head just enough to catch Naruto’s gaze, his expression unreadable but his tone flat, clipped, and mercilessly dry. “Sometimes?”

Naruto scowled deeper, arms flinging upward in exasperation. “You two are ganging up on me. That’s not nice at all.”

Sakura’s smile widened, the soft curve of her lips betraying her amusement, and even Sasuke’s mouth twitched at the corner before he looked away as if to conceal it. Deep within, Naruto felt the rumble of Kurama’s chuckle vibrate through him, low and amused, wrapping him in a strange warmth.

The levity ebbed as Sakura’s eyes sharpened once more. She turned her head slowly, scanning the clearing, her gaze sweeping tree trunks and undergrowth with the precise thoroughness of a seasoned medic-nin assessing a battlefield. “We need to get moving. But first, we should wash up. Even with disguises, people will notice if we show up like this. Dirt, blood… they’ll smell us, henged or not.”

Naruto blinked, following her gaze, then looked down at himself properly for the first time since awakening. His jacket hung in tatters, caked in grime, the once bright orange dulled beneath smears of dried blood and mud. His arms bore streaks of filth, and the wounds lacing his skin throbbed faintly. Sasuke’s cloak fared little better, the dark fabric stiff with dust, tears pulling at its seams, while Sakura’s own uniform was streaked and damp, her pink hair tangled with dirt and clinging to her face. The truth of their appearance settled over them with quiet weight, undeniable and inescapable.

They moved out together, steps sinking into the soft loam as the forest accepted them with creaking branches and the faint rustle of leaves. The sound of their progress—sandals crunching twigs, fabric whispering against bark—was steady and cautious. It didn’t take long before the steady gurgle of water reached their ears, drawing them forward until they emerged at a small spring. Crystal water spilled down into a slender stream, weaving a silver ribbon through the trees. Shafts of sunlight broke the canopy above, catching the ripples until they glittered like scattered shards of glass. The sight pulled them closer with an almost magnetic inevitability.

They knelt at once, each drawn by instinct to the water’s edge. Hands cupped into makeshift vessels, scooping the icy flow to their lips. The first swallow hit hard, its sharp coldness cutting down their throats, burning in its unfamiliar purity after so long without. They drank greedily, water spilling at the corners of their mouths, unable to stop as parched throats begged for more. Only when their thirst dulled, hidden exhaustion easing fractionally with each gulp, did they finally pause.

Sakura lowered herself back onto her knees, catching her breath as she pulled her pouch into her lap. Her fingers worked with care, rummaging through its contents until she drew out a neat bundle of scrolls bound together. Her green eyes flitted over the seals with focus, each one scrutinized in turn until her hand stilled. She froze on one in particular—the scroll Mito had pressed into her palms with solemnity before their departure. Her grip firmed, lips tightening, and with a swift motion she pushed it back into the pouch, tucking it securely so it wouldn’t be lost to clumsy hands or fate’s cruelty.

Naruto and Sasuke remained silent, their eyes drawn to her concentration as though sensing the weight in her movements. She sifted further, finally extracting the two scrolls she had sought all along. With the rest slid carefully away, she held the chosen pair in her lap, unrolling them one after the other with deliberate care. The parchment whispered as it spread across her knees, edges curling as if eager to reveal their contents. Naruto and Sasuke leaned in, curiosity stirring through their fatigue, their gazes fixed on the scrolls as they waited to see what Sakura had uncovered.

 

 

 

Sakura bit down on her thumb until a bead of blood welled up, crimson against pale skin, glistening in the shifting light of the canopy above. The droplet clung for a moment before she pressed it against the fuinshikishi of the first and second scrolls, her touch steady, purposeful. She laid the scrolls on the ground with care, as though handling something fragile, and then her hands moved into a practiced rhythm of seals. Each gesture was measured, deliberate, her fingers weaving the patterns with quiet certainty. At last, she pressed her palms against the paper, chakra flowing outward in a controlled pulse. The seals shimmered faintly before releasing their charge with two muted puffs of smoke, dispersing in the cool air to reveal what lay within.

On the earth before them now rested neatly folded towels, designed for one time use, pale against the dark soil, their edges crisp as though freshly laundered. A small glass bottle of medicinal soap gleamed faintly, catching slivers of sunlight that filtered through the leaves overhead. Beside it were orderly stacks of plain clothing, the folds sharp and untouched. Against their own filthy, tattered appearance, the neatness was almost disorienting, as if some reminder of civility had been pulled into their battered reality.

Sakura moved with quiet efficiency, gathering the items. Her expression was composed, focused, betraying none of the exhaustion in her eyes. She handed a towel to Naruto first. He blinked at it, then at her, his brows lifting as though words hovered on his tongue but failed to form. Sasuke accepted his without comment, though the faint crease between his brows showed his curiosity as his gaze followed Sakura’s hands while she sifted through the stack of garments.

She paused, fingers lingering over the fabric, before drawing out a set and placing it into Naruto’s hands: plain brown pants long enough to brush his ankles, a kimono top in shades of brown and gray, and a simple haori folded atop them, underwear tucked neatly beneath. For Sasuke she chose another set, dove-gray cloth in the same cut, restrained and functional yet carrying an understated dignity in its simplicity. For herself, she lifted a plain taupe yukata, the fabric rougher than silk but sound, with a slightly darker obi to secure it, and at last a green haori. Its shape recalled Tsunade’s, though the material was humbler, more practical, suited for necessity rather than show.

The two men stared at the bundles in their hands, surprise flickering over their dirt-streaked faces. Their gazes shifted toward one another, silent acknowledgment passing between them, before Sasuke turned back. His voice was quiet but clear, edged with intent curiosity. “Where did you get this from?”

Sakura did not lift her eyes. Instead, she set the towel aside and slipped the ruined remains of her red uniform top from her shoulders, movements unhurried. The torn fabric slid down her arms until it crumpled to the ground, leaving her pale skin exposed beneath the streaks of grime and faint bruises. With calm hands she began to unwind the bindings at her chest, the strips of cloth falling away until her body was bare, unmarked by hesitation. She stood tall, shoulders squared, utterly unashamed before the two men who had fought and bled beside her for so many years.

Her voice was steady, almost detached, though a weary undercurrent lingered beneath the calm. “I took some emergency scrolls before we had to flee Konoha. They were prepared in case disaster ever struck the village.” A sigh slipped past her lips, her lashes lowering briefly before she turned to meet their stunned expressions. Crossing her arms loosely over her chest, she added with a faint edge of annoyance, “I’d forgotten about them at some point. But given where we are now, I hope you can forgive me.”

Without waiting for their reply, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her ruined pants and tugged them down, shaking the shredded cloth free until it pooled at her ankles. She stepped from the pile, unburdened, and reached for the bottle of soap. The glass was cool and slick against her damp fingers as she moved toward the water. At the spring’s edge, she descended without hesitation, the surface breaking in ripples around her legs, then her waist. She lifted the soap, worked it into a lather, and began scrubbing with firm strokes, each pass over her skin stripping away the crusted dirt, the dried blood, the heavy scent of battle clinging to her.

Behind her, the hush of the forest pressed close. The sound of water moving against stone mingled with the faint rhythm of her washing. Naruto and Sasuke stood rooted where they were, clothing still in hand, caught between astonishment and the quiet recognition of necessity. Her composure, her utter lack of self-consciousness, left them silent. In that silence, the urgency of their circumstances loomed, insistent, reminding them there was no time to waste.

 

 

 

Finally, Naruto and Sasuke stirred from their stunned stillness. The shock that had kept them momentarily rooted began to dissolve beneath the simple, undeniable practicality of Sakura’s actions. Without a word, they crouched and laid the fresh clothing she had handed them carefully upon the ground, as though the clean fabric deserved more reverence than their own weary forms did. Fingers clumsy with exhaustion tugged at the frayed seams of their garments until the ruined cloth slipped free, piling at their feet alongside the tattered remnants of battle that clung stubbornly to them.

The air was cool against their skin, a contrast to the oppressive heat that had lingered through blood, sweat, and dust. Each breath came slower now, carrying with it the scent of earth and leaf, untarnished by war. They took up the towels Sakura had passed them, each gesture slow, deliberate, following her steps toward the spring as if drawn into her rhythm. The sound of moving water grew clearer with every stride, mingling with the whisper of the breeze through leaves, beckoning with a promise of renewal. They laid the towels beside Sakura’s, forming a small, orderly row upon the grass, then stepped into the pool.

The water bit into them with an icy sharpness, enough to shock the breath from their lungs. Sasuke, despite his usual composure, shivered visibly as the chill climbed to his waist, his breath shuddering faintly in the morning air. His jaw tightened, but he did not retreat, the sheen of determination etched across his face. Naruto grimaced at the cold, shoulders hunching as he exhaled a sharp hiss, yet his eyes softened as he glanced at his husband. A faint nod passed between them before both pressed forward until they stood shoulder to shoulder in the depths.

Sakura extended the small glass bottle of soap, its surface glistening with moisture, the faint reflection of light rippling across it. She poured a measure into her palms, working it into her tangled hair, her movements steady, unhurried, the froth building into white strands that clung briefly before the water carried them away. The sharp, clean scent of herbs rose with the suds, curling into the air, a stark contrast to the foul tang of blood and decay that had clung to them for too long. Naruto accepted the bottle next, tilting it carefully to spill a small amount into his hand before passing it on to Sasuke. Each of them set about scrubbing, skin prickling under the cold water as layers of grime melted away. The surface of the spring clouded briefly as the weight of months—the blood, the dirt, the ash of ruin—loosened and drifted from their skin, carried downstream until it vanished from sight.

Silence hung heavy among them, broken only by the occasional murmur: a request to scrub a back, the splash of water against stone, the faint sigh of relief. It was a silence born not of distance but of understanding, each of them bound by exhaustion too deep for words. When at last they emerged from the spring, the world itself seemed sharper, clearer, as though the cold had scoured their senses clean along with their bodies. Droplets clung to their lashes, catching the morning light before sliding down to fall into the earth.

They reached for the towels, cloth rasping gently against raw skin as they dried themselves beneath the dappling of sunlight that broke through the canopy. The discarded dirt and blood drifted away in the stream, vanishing into the current, leaving behind only the faint ripple of moving water and the hushed music of leaves overhead.

Dressing in fresh garments was its own kind of revelation. Naruto drew the brown pants up over his legs, the fabric smooth, unfamiliar, yet solid, grounding him in the present. He slipped into the kimono top, tied his obi, and at last pulled the haori across his shoulders, the plain folds settling against him with quiet weight. Sasuke dressed in turn, gray cloth clinging to his damp frame, his movements practiced and precise even in weariness, fingers combing quickly through his wet hair to order it into place. Sakura wrapped her yukata around her form, tying the darker obi with deft hands before pulling the green haori close, its fabric brushing her knees as it settled.

The shift was striking. Where moments ago, three war-torn shinobi had stood, clad in ruins and blood, now three figures appeared who might almost pass for wanderers, unremarkable save for the heaviness in their eyes. Their reflections shimmered faintly on the water’s surface before the ripples consumed them.

Naruto fastened his pouch to his obi, the gesture familiar and grounding, then turned to look at the heap of rags and used towels that remained. His blue eyes flicked from the pile to his teammates, the faint wrinkle of concern appearing between his brows. “What do we do about this?” he asked quietly.

Sakura, cinching her own pouch beneath the line of her haori, regarded the mess with a practical frown. “Burn it,” she answered simply, her voice even, unshaken. There was no room for hesitation.

Sasuke, standing with his damp hair falling into his eyes, lifted a hand, his tone almost dismissive as he replied, “See it as already done.” A flicker of chakra moved through him, and with a small katon, flame curled into life, consuming the tattered cloth. Smoke rose in thin tendrils, acrid and swift, until the last fragments of their former state were reduced to ash.

When the embers faded and the forest reclaimed its hush, only clean earth and drifting air remained. Their past had been left behind, burned to nothing. The three of them, clad in borrowed simplicity, stood as strangers in a world they no longer knew.

The forest spread wide before them, lusher and larger than memory, its canopy alive with sound and movement. Shafts of golden sunlight pierced the leaves, scattering across moss and stone, while distant birdcalls threaded through the air. It was different, changed, unfamiliar despite its familiarity. Pathways hidden to their eyes stretched endlessly beneath the green, a labyrinth without guide. They would not find Konoha easily here. And so, as the quiet lingered, it was Kurama’s rumble that broke it at last, guiding them forward.

 

 

 

 

The three of them lingered in the hush of the forest, the weight of how to reach Konoha pressing down like an unseen hand. The air was crisp, carrying birdsong that felt almost alien after so many months of silence. Every chirp was sharp, alive, a painful reminder of how different this place was compared to the wasteland they had left behind. Naruto, shifting restlessly, was the first to disturb the stillness. He rubbed at the back of his head, mouth twisting in thought, the motion betraying both frustration and hope. “What if we call our summons? They’d know where Konoha is. They could lead us back.”

Sasuke turned slowly, his dark eyes fixed on him, their tiredness cut by steel. “Too risky.” His tone was low, deliberate, each word precise. “We don’t even know if the contracts survived the time jutsu. If they didn’t, you could be dragged away—or worse, nothing might happen at all.” His gaze lingered a moment longer, unflinching but not cruel, as if to anchor Naruto to reason.

Naruto’s lips thinned, the words sticking in his throat, but Sakura stepped in with the even cadence of practicality. “Sasuke’s right. Even if the contracts held, remember Tsunade-sama and Orochimaru—they both signed their summons very early. If we call anyone now, we could alert them. Even Jiraiya.” Her green eyes shifted between them, thoughtful yet heavy with regret. “Given when we’ve landed, they may already be old enough here. We can’t risk it.”

The certainty of her reasoning sank heavily into Naruto’s chest. His shoulders drooped. For a fleeting second, he remembered Gamakichi’s careless chatter, Gamabunta’s gruff reprimands. The thought that he might never see them again twisted like a knife. “Tch… guess you’re right,” he muttered, the grin he tried to force trembling before it failed.

It was then Kurama stirred, his presence reverberating in Naruto’s mind like thunder rolling low and deep. The fox’s voice carried dry amusement beneath its gruff fatigue. >Kit. Quit moping. Go into chakra mode. Find where my counterpart is in this time. If this is after the First Shinobi War, then he’s already sealed into Mito. Rage and hate like that… you’ll sense it without trouble.<

Naruto’s breath caught, hope sparking like a sudden flame. >That’s… actually smart, you grumpy old fox,< he replied inwardly, lips tugging into a small smile. Kurama snorted, a rumble of annoyance, before pulling back into silence, conserving his strength.

When Naruto turned to Sakura and Sasuke, his eyes glowed with new determination. “Kurama’s got a plan,” he said quickly, words tumbling. “If I go into chakra mode, I can sense where Kurama of this time is. If Sakura’s right, he’ll be in Mito-baachan. That means he’ll still be in the village.”

Sasuke inclined his head in a single sharp nod, expression unreadable. “We’re far enough out. No one will feel your chakra here. Do it.”

Sakura stepped closer, her voice calm, grounding. “Tsunade-sama once told me that after Mito-sama sealed Kurama, she never left the village again until her death. If that’s true, this will work.”

Their trust steadied him. Naruto clasped his hands together, breath slowing as he reached deep. Kurama’s chakra rose to meet him, golden light bleeding through his skin until it flared bright and alive. His whisker marks deepened, his eyes blazed in molten amber, pupils crossed, and the chakra cloak spread across him with a low, humming power. The forest shifted beneath it—the leaves trembled, the air quivered, as though the world bent toward the pulse of his energy.

Naruto closed his eyes, surrendering to the sharpened senses. He felt every root twisting through the ground, every shiver of leaves in the canopy, the delicate trickle of water far off. He reached further, expanding outward, pushing beyond the trees. Then it struck him—like a tide of poison and fire—a wave of hate, sorrow, and fury. It bled through the distance, massive and undeniable. Kurama’s presence, but not his own. The one of this era.

His eyes flew open, certainty blazing. The golden cloak flickered, then dissolved into nothing, chakra folding back into him. Breathless, exhilarated, he turned to his teammates, his grin wide and triumphant. “Got it.”

 

 

 

The three of them sat together in the hush of the forest, the enormity of their task pressing down with each breath. The canopy overhead swayed softly, scattering patches of sunlight that danced across their faces, yet none of them felt its warmth. Every sound of life—the rustling leaves, the faint bubbling of water—only seemed to sharpen the gravity of what they needed to decide. They had found their heading, yes, but the question of how to reach Konoha and what to do once there loomed over them like an unspoken shadow.

Sakura broke the silence first. Her brows were drawn, her voice low but deliberate, weighed with practicality. “We can’t just walk in. If we go as travelers, or even merchants, it gives us a reason to be there. But… it restricts us. Merchants can’t move freely. They’re expected to stay to certain streets, certain places.” She folded her arms across her chest, as though bracing herself against her own reasoning, and glanced sidelong at her teammates.

Sasuke tilted his head slightly, his profile hard as stone. A faint crease appeared between his brows. His voice came calm, measured, but with the ring of finality. “Too narrow. Merchants won’t be allowed the freedom we need. Every step near the Hokage Tower will be questioned. Eyes will follow us everywhere. That won’t work.”

Naruto had been staring at the ground, hand dug deep into his blond mess of hair, his knee bouncing restlessly. When he finally looked up, his blue eyes caught the light with a stubborn gleam. A faint grin tugged at his lips, though determination burned stronger beneath it. “Then… what if we go in as mercenaries? Just three wanderers looking for work. Nothing flashy, nothing suspicious. It would make sense for us to drift in, ask at the mission desk, maybe even edge close to the Hokage’s office if we’re careful.”

Sakura and Sasuke shared a glance, silent but loaded with consideration. When Sakura turned back, her expression softened, the faintest smile brushing her lips. “That’s… actually a good idea.”

Sasuke gave a low hum, short but clear. “Hn. It’s workable.”

His gaze shifted upward to the canopy, as though memory itself hung there among the leaves. “We should also decide what we’re searching for once we’re inside. Orochimaru told me—watch Danzou, he´s the root of many evils done in Konoha. Sarutobi cannot be trusted. The secrets are hidden behind the Shodaime’s portrait.” His eyes narrowed, darkened, each word carrying the weight of old poison. “He also said that Uchiha Kagami should have been the Third Hokage, not Sarutobi. If Kagami’s alive here… he may hold answers. He could know about Madara. And Madara was the one closest to Zetsu. If we find that link, we can cut it—and with it, Kaguya’s will.”

The words lingered. Sakura’s emerald eyes flashed with resolve as she gave a firm nod. Naruto’s fists curled, nails biting into his palms, the fire in him rekindled by both dread and the raw determination to protect.

Together, finally, they sketched their plan in the silence between them. They would enter Konoha disguised as wandering mercenaries seeking employment. Find Uchiha Kagami, and through him, learn of Madara. Uncover Danzou’s influence and end it, by whatever means was necessary. Reach the Hokage’s office and expose the hidden documents concealed behind the Shodai’s portrait. The order was uncertain, the path unclear, but each task carved itself into their hearts with unyielding resolve.

They would finish it all. They would ensure Kaguya never rose again. They would see every promise kept. And when it was done, they would return to their own time.

Simple, Naruto thought, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. Almost too simple.

But none of them knew what truly awaited them. After all, in their world, easy had never been an option.

 

 

 

Before departing into Konoha’s direction, they took no risks. The three of them knew well enough how dangerous it would be to enter the village radiating the sheer scale of power they carried. The air itself seemed heavier with the decision, silence stretching between them as Sakura finally crouched down, her hands steady though her eyes were sharp with focus. She shaped her fingers into practiced seals, every motion deliberate, until faint ripples of chakra shimmered around them like heat waves. The perfected chakra suppression technique—born of nights of desperation between her and Tsunade when Kaguya’s prowling abominations hunted their every trace—settled over them in a still hush. What had once been overwhelming torrents of power dimmed, pressed down, and hidden, leaving only the faint flicker of chakra signatures no stronger than higher Genin or perhaps a low Chuunin. Nothing threatening, nothing that would draw a second glance.

Naruto shifted uneasily, rolling his shoulders as though testing the invisible weight pressing his chakra flat. The frown on his face betrayed how unnatural it felt, like his very body rejected being less. Sasuke, in contrast, stilled instantly, his presence turning sharp and unreadable, eyes hooded as though even his breath had been smoothed into silence. To them, the absence of power was like missing a limb, the constant hum of strength gone—but it was necessary.

Then came the henge, more than a simple disguise. They had built and refined it together, improving it until it fed from the faint trickle of chakra they still permitted to flow, sturdy enough to hold indefinitely, so natural it was impossible to pick apart from reality. Their outlines blurred, colours shifting, features bending. When the haze faded, three strangers remained where once had stood the legends of their age.

Naruto’s wild blond hair dulled into an earthy brown, his bright eyes settling into a flat, ordinary brown. His frame drew inward, just enough centimetres shaved away to strip him of that commanding height, leaving nothing but an average traveller’s build. His skin darkened into the warm tone common in Hi no Kuni, forgettable and plain. Sasuke’s changes were subtler—his onyx hair lightened to chestnut and cropped shorter, his Uchiha-black eyes softening into hazel touched with green, his pallor exchanged for a healthier bronze. A wanderer, unremarkable to anyone looking. Sakura’s transformation, however, erased her most defining marks: her luminous pink hair slipped into glossy black strands brushing her shoulders, her Byakugou seal on her forehead disappearing and her vibrant emerald eyes dimmed into olive green, the brightness of her presence folding into something muted. Just another young woman on the road, indistinct, a face that would slip from memory moments after passing.

They turned to one another, eyes trailing over details, searching for flaws. What looked back at them was not greatness nor legacy, but anonymity perfected. Plain, unremarkable, the kind of travellers who melted into the crowd without leaving a shadow.

Naruto tugged at the edge of his haori, restless fingers betraying his unease, and broke the silence with forced determination. “Remember—low profiles. No standing out, no crazy stunts.”

Sasuke’s scoff came quick, laced with dry amusement. “That advice is mostly for you.”

Naruto bristled, already drawing breath for a retort, shoulders squaring, but Sakura’s voice cut across their bickering like a blade through mist. Calm, firm, unwilling to bend. “Enough. Stay focused. We don’t know what kind of security Konoha has in this time. Don’t slip.”

Their gazes clashed, a brief spark of old tension, but under her steady look the fire dulled, leaving reluctant compliance. The forest around them seemed to listen in—the rustle of wind through leaves, the murmur of branches brushing together, the muffled tread of their feet now disguised and quiet. Side by side, they stepped forward, three shadows swallowed by the trees, beginning the long march toward the village that had once been home—and toward the uncertain mission that waited within its walls. With their new faces settled into place, there was nothing left but to test the strength of their deception against Konoha’s watchful eyes.

 

 

 

With Konoha’s location pinpointed thanks to Naruto’s earlier search, the three finally began their journey. The trek through Hi no Kuni’s vast forests stretched longer than they expected, each step weighed down not by enemies but by uncertainty. Hours stretched heavy, dragging into a full day, and still the village was nowhere in sight. The trees rose endlessly, towering trunks gnarled with age, their thick canopies blotting out much of the sky. The uneven dirt path wound like a serpent between roots and rocks that seemed determined to trip them, forcing constant vigilance. Even for seasoned shinobi, the road felt long, more a trial of patience than stamina.

By the time the sun sank low, painting the horizon in amber and violet, the trio accepted they would not reach the gates before nightfall. They chose a place beneath a cluster of pines, where resin scented the damp air and the chorus of cicadas echoed through the gathering dark. Their fire was modest, no larger than a cupped hand, its glow flickering faintly against the trees so as not to betray them. Shifts were agreed upon—two resting, one awake—and silence fell between them except for the occasional crackle of kindling. In their search for food, they stumbled across a neglected apple tree not far from their camp. Its branches twisted toward the sky, bark rough, but still it clung to fruit, skins dulled by time yet edible. Naruto’s eyes lit with boyish delight as he plucked one free, sinking his teeth into it with an eager crunch. Juice ran down his chin and he laughed, muffled but genuine. For the first time since awakening in this dislocated past, they laughed together, quietly, sharing the apples as though they were a banquet. The sweetness lingered, fragile comfort in the face of looming uncertainty.

Morning came pale and cool, dew sparkling on leaves and mist clinging low to the undergrowth. They resumed their march, and as the hours passed the landscape itself seemed younger, untouched by scars of future wars. The soil had not yet drunk the blood that would one day soak it. And then, at last, the walls of Konoha rose before them.

Konoha’s walls stood tall and unblemished, their stone unscarred by siege or flame. Sunlight gleamed across their surface, gilding them in brilliance. It was the same village and yet not—theirs was marked by battles, weathered and weary. This Konoha pulsed with vigour, every clean line of mortar a reminder of its youth.

But youth was not naivety. Security here was tighter than they expected. At the broad gates stood two Chuunin guards, uniforms pressed and spotless, flak jackets neat, hitaiate polished to a shine that caught the morning light. Their stances were disciplined, eyes sharp, every breath measured. Beyond them, two wooden booths flanked the entrance, each manned by pairs of Chuunin working in rhythm beneath the scrutiny of a Jounin seated behind. Scrolls and papers were checked, signatures examined, movements watched with hawk-like intensity. Every traveller was halted, their names and faces scrutinized before a decision was made. The process was slow, deliberate, and mercilessly exacting.

The three disguised shinobi melted into the queue outside the gates. The air was filled with the shuffle of sandals, the low murmur of merchants, farmers, and wanderers, their carts and bundles shifting restlessly. Naruto adjusted his haori, tugging it closer as he leaned subtly toward his companions. He released a slow breath, voice pitched low enough for only them. “Damn… they’re really thorough.”

Sasuke’s altered hazel eyes swept the scene with cold precision. His voice, quiet and steady, betrayed no fear. “At least they’re taking their work seriously.”

Sakura folded her arms, her olive gaze narrowing on the rhythm of the inspections—the crisp exchanges, the sudden gestures that sent some back or pulled others aside. “We’d better hope we can get through without any issues,” she murmured, tone edged with caution.

The line inched forward, slow as dripping resin. One by one travellers reached the booths, some waved through after tense inspection, vanishing into the village. Others were refused, their protests useless against the impassive guards. Then came a ripple of unease—a man’s henge broke beneath the scrutiny, the illusion tearing apart like smoke. His curse was cut short as guards seized him, iron shackles clamping tight before he was dragged away struggling, probably into the heart of T&I, the watching crowd falling silent.

Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura exchanged a glance, the weight of dread pressing cold against their ribs. Their own disguises held, chakra suppressed until they were barely embers yet doubt gnawed. These techniques had fooled Kaguya herself—surely, they could withstand the eyes of simple guards. Surely.

And yet, as the gates loomed vast and imposing, hope was the only shield they had left.

 

 

 

The line inched forward with agonizing slowness, each rejected traveller only tightening the knot in their stomachs. Finally, it was their turn to approach one of the booths. The crowd’s murmur thinned around them, replaced by the scrape of a pen across paper and the soft clack of a wooden stamp. Every shuffle of their sandals seemed too loud in the expectant hush. Up close, the details sharpened: the Aburame-looking Chuunin was wrapped as his clan often was, high collar and hood shadowing most of his face, only the lenses of his glasses catching the light beneath the heavy fabric. Beside him sat another Chuunin—plain, unremarkable, with no clear clan markers—his pen already moving with neat, precise strokes across a ledger open before him. Behind them, the Jounin’s presence pressed like a weight; his pale hair, the cool focus in his eyes, the posture radiating command marked him unmistakably as a Yamanaka. It could make their descent into the village much more troublesome, but the three were not deterred. Not yet.

The Aburame Chuunin looked at them directly, his voice level and without ornament as he posed the ritual demand: “State your names and business in Konoha.”

Sakura—already prepared—stepped forward first. She inclined her head with quiet deference, gestures compact and controlled. “Our names are Hajime,” she indicated Naruto with a slight tilt of her hand, “Akira,” her palm turned briefly toward Sasuke, “and Ren,” she showed to herself. Her voice carried the careful steadiness of someone who had rehearsed the lie many times. “We’re travellers looking for work.”

Sasuke moved a half step forward, shoulders square but not aggressive, his altered hazel eyes hooded. “We specialize in general mercenary services,” he said evenly, “protection, scouting, minor mission contracts. We heard Konoha offers general missions—tasks not worthy of a true shinobi’s time.” His delivery was calm, practical, but under the words he willed his tone to sound faintly self-deprecating, as if their skills were ordinary, unthreatening.

The Aburame Chuunin tilted his head a fraction, glasses flashing. “We do offer such missions,” he admitted after a pause. “Though only for residents of Hi no Kuni.” His unseen eyes lingered on them. “From which village do you come?”

Naruto’s turn. He took a slow breath, stepping forward with a faint shrug as if to dismiss the matter. “Ose-village,” he replied, letting the name fall casually. “Tiny place on the outskirts of Hi no Kuni, too small to be worth mentioning.” His mouth quirked into a modest smile as though embarrassed by their obscurity. Inside, though, his heart pounded. He silently thanked the memory of passing through Ose with Sasuke on their anniversary trip before Kaguya had attacked; the detail might save them now.

The Aburame looked at his fellow Chuunin. The second man scanned the ledger, where apparently the towns and villages of Hi no Kuni were written down, fingers trailing across the paper until he found the entry. He nodded, returning the gesture. The Aburame’s shoulders eased just slightly, but his voice gave nothing away.

Then, with measured care, the Aburame produced a small scroll, sliding it across the desk between them. “Place your hands upon it,” he instructed. “It will reveal any henge disguises.” He rolled it open to reveal a seal, intricate lines curling across the parchment, one they did not recognize.

A moment of taut silence stretched between them. Sakura’s hand flexed nervously at her side. Sasuke’s gaze narrowed, weighing the seal’s design. Naruto glanced between them, then gave the smallest nod. Together, they stepped forward. One by one, they pressed their palms to the scroll, willing their chakra-suppression to hold, praying their careful masks would not shatter under scrutiny.

 

 

 

As soon as Team 7 laid their hands on the scroll, the Aburame Chuunin formed the rat seal. The parchment flared faintly, ink lines shifting as chakra rippled outward like water disturbed in a still pond. The pulse washed over them, subtle but invasive, tugging at their henge like probing fingers searching for a flaw. The sensation was unnerving, as though invisible claws were peeling back their borrowed faces. Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura held their breath, every heartbeat strung out into aching silence. For a suspended moment, it felt as though the disguise might rupture, illusions unravelling into bare truth. But their suppression remained firm. The henge shivered faintly, like a candleflame caught in a breeze, and then steadied. To the watching guards, nothing had changed—only three unremarkable travellers, chakra muted and dull.

A lesser shinobi might have sagged with relief, lungs heaving. They did not. Their faces stayed composed, lids heavy with indifference, expressions bordering on bored, suggesting there had never been any doubt. War had taught them to mask every crack; they had carried too many lies on their skin to falter here.

The Aburame Chuunin inclined his head, quiet approval in the gesture, and rolled the scroll closed. “You may remove your hands,” he intoned.

They obeyed together, slow and deliberate. The scroll was tucked away. In the hush that followed, the Jounin stepped forward, his pale hair catching the sun like a blade’s edge. His eyes were sharp, detached, the faint curve of his lips betraying nothing. He produced three slips of paper stamped with seals. His brush danced over them—swift strokes, each line confident, each loop final. When at last he handed them over, his words carried the resonance of law.

“These are temporary grants. Present them at the mission desk if you seek official work. Keep them always. If stopped, you will show these. Follow the protocols. Cause no trouble. Welcome to Konoha.”

They accepted with shallow bows and murmurs, measured gestures that neither grovelled nor defied. The guards stepped aside. The gate opened, and with it the village.

Crossing the threshold was like walking into another world. Sound crashed over them in a tide—the singsong calls of vendors hawking grilled dango, the rich scent of soy and smoke, the faint iron tang of fresh ink drying in a scribe’s shop. Colour spilled across awnings in waves of red, blue, and gold, cloth fluttering with the breeze. Children darting between legs, laughter piercing the hum. Rooftops gleamed beneath the high sun, tiles burnished to warm gold. Life throbbed here, untouched by the wounds that would one day scar it.

Naruto let out a rough breath, hand flattening over his chest as though to calm the thunder there. “That… was really close,” he admitted, voice rasped thin.

Sasuke’s lips twitched faintly, more grimace than smile, his hazel eyes narrowing. “Too close,” he said, even as his shoulders remained squared, coiled with restraint.

Sakura’s arms folded over her chest. She exhaled, long and low, gaze sweeping across the scene. Relief softened her features, though unease still clung to her voice. “At least we’re in.” Her eyes lingered on two children racing each other, their shrieks of mirth slicing the air. “How long has it been since we’ve seen this kind of peace?”

“Too long,” Sasuke replied at once, voice low and certain.

Naruto turned in a slow circle, eyes scanning the familiar yet alien streets. Every corner, every shop sign pulled at his memory—yet each was just slightly different, younger, unscarred. His throat tightened. “It’s the same… but not. Like walking through someone else’s dream of home.”

For a moment they simply stood there, hushed, caught between belonging and estrangement. Then Naruto squared his jaw, forcing a crooked grin to life. “We should head to the mission desk. Get started before anyone starts looking too closely.”

He had barely turned when a sudden weight crashed into his side. Naruto staggered, almost losing balance before Sakura and Sasuke steadied him with swift hands. Whipping around, a complaint ready, he froze.

A boy sprawled on the ground, rubbing the back of his head with a pained grunt. No older than thirteen, with wild white hair spilling over his brow and dark eyes flashing with embarrassment and defiance, he looked up sharply.

Naruto’s lungs seized. The world narrowed to that single figure, recognition slamming into him like a storm.

Jiraiya. Young, untested, alive before him.

 

 

 

As the three looked down at the boy, the white-haired child blinked up at them with open irritation, as though they were the ones at fault for blocking the path. His scowl deepened as he rubbed the sore spot on his head where it had struck the ground, the sound of his palm smacking lightly against his hair sharp in the air.

“Oi! What’s wrong with you people, just standing there in the middle of the street? Can’t you watch where you’re going?” His voice was loud, petulant, already hoarse from complaining, the edges of adolescence cracking through.

Naruto’s mouth parted, but no words emerged. His throat clenched tight, his breath uneven. Sakura’s eyes flew wide, disbelief painted across her face, while Sasuke’s brows drew together, his expression controlled but his gaze fixed on the boy as if trying to reconcile the impossible. None of them managed a reply before another voice cut through the bustle of the street—sharper, impatient.

“Jiraiya!”

A blur of gold pushed into view. Striding forward with the authority of someone twice her age came a girl, her ponytail of sunlit hair swaying behind her as her sandals slapped against the stones. She reached the boy without hesitation and seized his ear between her fingers, yanking him upright. Her amber eyes flared with temper, cheeks flushed with frustration.

“How many times have I told you not to go charging through crowds like that? You’re going to break something one of these days—probably yourself, if we’re lucky!”

Jiraiya yelped, twisting under her grip, both hands clutching at hers. “Ow, ow, ow—let me go! Damn it, Tsunade, I didn’t even do anything this time!” He wriggled, voice cracking higher in protest. “You’re just mad because you’re a flat-chested gorilla woman!”

The insult landed like a stone in a pond, making her grip tighten until his ear reddened. Her voice rose with fury. “What did you just call me, you brainless ox?! You never pay attention—always barrelling around with nothing but muscle and no sense at all!”

The two broke into fierce bickering, Jiraiya cursing and tugging against her hold, Tsunade dragging him along as if he weighed nothing. Passersby turned to watch, some amused, others annoyed, while Naruto, Sakura, and Sasuke stood rooted. These were their teachers—legends who had shaped their lives—reduced to quarrelsome children before their eyes. The strangeness of it left them hollow, their bodies unwilling to move as disbelief tangled with recognition.

A sound cut through—the deep, weary sigh of someone who had seen this spectacle countless times. The noise was deliberate, heavy, designed to be heard. All heads shifted toward it.

From the cool shadow of a nearby wall, another boy stepped forward. His presence was stiller, quieter, but carried a weight that pressed the air around him. His pale skin caught the light, long black hair framing sharp features, and golden eyes, accentuated by purple clan marks, gleamed with intelligence far beyond his years. His arms folded across his chest, his expression carved in annoyance. His gaze swept over Tsunade and Jiraiya, half condemnation, half resignation.

“Orochimaru,” Sakura breathed, the name leaving her lips in a whisper.

He crossed the distance with deliberate calm, sliding between his teammates until they stood separated. His posture bore unhurried authority, though shorter than both, his displeasure plain. “Why are you fighting again?” The words were cool, clipped, his tone weighted with disapproval.

Tsunade exhaled sharply, pointing at Jiraiya with a jab of her finger. “He stole my special Uzushio kunai and ran off with it! And then he ploughed into these people because he wasn’t watching where he was going!”

Jiraiya, now crouching behind Orochimaru as if the slimmer boy could shield him, protested hotly. “I didn’t steal it! I picked it up by accident, and then she started screaming and charging at me—like she always does! What was I supposed to do, stay put and get pounded into the dirt?!”

Orochimaru closed his eyes briefly, lifting a pale hand to rub across his face. Another sigh escaped him, quieter, fraying with thinning patience. “Sometimes,” he muttered, “I still question how they ever allowed you two to become Chuunin.”

Then he turned toward the three strangers. Unlike his teammates, he noticed them fully, the tilt of his head and the bow of his body unexpectedly formal. His words emerged precise and courteous. “Forgive them please. I apologize on behalf of my teammates if they caused you any inconvenience.”

Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura remained frozen, silence gripping them. Naruto’s heart pounded a relentless rhythm; Sakura’s hands trembled slightly; Sasuke’s gaze remained fixed, unreadable. The vision before them was a memory come alive, both familiar and impossibly distant.

Within Naruto, a chuckle reverberated—low, sardonic. Kurama’s voice rumbled into his thoughts with amused weight. >Well, kit… seems we’ve landed far earlier than you expected. Now what?<

 

 

 

It was Sakura who had found her voice first. Her breath hitched before she forced it steady, and she inclined her head, her movements measured though her chest still felt tight. She spoke softly, assuring them it was no problem, that they weren’t really hurt. Her tone carried polite steadiness, and she offered a faint smile as she added her thanks for the boy’s concern. Even as her pulse still raced, the words anchored her, reminding her she had to think quickly and seize the moment before it slipped away.

She pressed forward, not allowing hesitation to creep in. “We’re new to Konoha,” she explained, her voice clearer now though carefully pitched low to protect their guise. From within her sleeve, she drew the slip of their temporary grant, presenting it carefully for him to see. “We’re looking for work. Could you perhaps show us the way to the mission desk?” Her fingers trembled almost imperceptibly, but she held the paper steady. Sasuke’s eyes flickered briefly toward her, acknowledging the clever play.

The three children traded looks, an entire silent debate flashing across their young faces. Jiraiya blinked, curiosity bright but restrained, lips pressed thin as though weighing if he should speak. Tsunade’s eyes narrowed in appraisal, irritation shading into suspicion, but she stayed silent. Orochimaru’s golden gaze shifted to the slip in Sakura’s hand. He studied it intently, not with a glance but with deliberate focus, as if deciphering more from the seal than mere ink. His expression remained cool, but at the corners of his mouth there was the faintest softening, as though he found what he needed.

“They’re genuine,” he murmured under his breath, before raising his voice politely. “We were heading there. If you wish, you may follow us. Consider it an apology for my teammates’ behavior.”

Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura exchanged a quick look. Their practiced masks slid back into place. Naruto leaned forward with a grin, too broad, too eager, but convincing enough. “We’ll gladly follow. Please, show the way.”

Orochimaru inclined his head with a precise motion. Then, with a single, decisive gesture, he seized Jiraiya’s and Tsunade’s arms, tugging them forward with unspoken authority. “Come. We’re wasting time. Sensei is already waiting.” Jiraiya muttered curses under his breath, Tsunade clicked her tongue in annoyance, but both yielded to the pull.

Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura fell into step just behind them. The weight of the moment pressed against their ribs, every sight and sound sharper, heavier.

Naruto’s gaze clung to Jiraiya. The boy was taller than his teammates, his limbs long and awkward, like a sapling straining too fast toward the sun. His tunic sat uncomfortably across his shoulders, the seams frayed, hems tugged by growth spurts he hadn’t yet adjusted to. He moved with reckless energy, feet scuffing, arms gesturing wide, laughter raw and unrestrained. But beneath it, Naruto saw the cracks. He saw how Jiraiya’s eyes flicked, again and again, toward Tsunade and Orochimaru—seeking, pleading for acknowledgment that never quite came. Naruto’s fists curled, a hot ache swelling in his chest. You never got the recognition you deserved, did you, old man?

Beside him, Sasuke’s eyes sharpened on Orochimaru. The boy’s frame was slight, almost fragile at a glance, his skin pale as porcelain, every motion measured with uncanny poise. Black hair spilled like ink down his back, framing features still untouched by madness or time. Even at thirteen, there was an unsettling beauty about him—delicate and severe all at once, like something carved too finely for the roughness of the world. There was grace in his steps—controlled, deliberate grace that seemed too practiced for his age. Yet Sasuke caught the tension in the faint curl of his fingers hidden in his sleeves of his purple kimono, the flicker of his golden eyes scanning not the road but the people. Orochimaru was watching how they watched him, cataloguing each lingering glance, each whisper, as though beauty itself had become both shield and brand. He had already been marked as different. Sasuke’s jaw tightened. How much of your fate was ever truly yours?

Sakura let her gaze linger on Tsunade. The girl’s stride was purposeful, chin lifted high, her grip on Jiraiya firm even as she muttered complaints. Strength poured from her stance, not only physical but carried in her certainty, as though she already knew she would carve her place in the world. Yet Sakura noticed the shadows between her breaths—the way her eyes darted toward Orochimaru when she thought no one looked, the subtle quiver of her exhale once the shouting was done. It was in those fleeting moments that Sakura sensed the weight behind her bravado, as if every gesture had to prove she was more than just the granddaughter of legends, that faltering was never an option. Beneath all that boldness, all the beauty, there was already the trace of someone carrying burdens too heavy for her years. Sakura’s throat tightened. You were already preparing to hold the world, weren’t you?

The six of them threaded through the crowded streets together. The three from the future trailed in silence, their minds echoing with disbelief and memory, while the three of the past strode ahead—children unaware that behind them followed the echoes of the lives they would one day shape.

 

 

 

Lost in their thoughts, they hardly noticed the village streets slipping by until the looming tower rose into view. Its presence was commanding, the curved roof catching the light of the sun and the banners swaying lightly in the breeze. For Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura, it was a sight that struck a deep chord—familiar, yet not. Here stood the same building that had once framed so much of their lives, but in this time, it was pristine, unmarred by the future battles and scars they had known. Every stone of its walls gleamed with fresh polish, and even the guards at its doors stood straighter, untouched by the long years of attrition that had shaped the village they knew.

Naruto’s throat tightened as they approached. His chest burned with memory, but he forced his eyes forward, shoving the flood of emotion into silence. Not now. Focus. You can’t falter here. He drew in a long breath, shoulders rolling back as he sculpted his expression into one of mild disinterest, as though none of it mattered. Beside him, Sasuke moved with his usual quiet confidence, gaze narrowing at every detail—the placement of guards, the strength of the seals etched into the wood, the rhythm of footsteps around them. Sakura matched their stride, her back straight, every inch of her radiating calm professionalism, though her fingers brushed the edge of her sleeve as if grounding herself. Together, they walked as strangers who belonged, weaving themselves seamlessly into the rhythm of the village.

Crossing the threshold of the tower, they were engulfed in a rush of activity. The air was alive with sound—shouts, hurried footsteps, the scrape of sandals against polished wood, the murmur of urgent reports delivered from mission to mission. Genin teams bustled in with wide grins, eager voices carrying the thrill of hard-won accomplishments. Chuunin rushed past them, arms stacked with mission scrolls and reports, the tang of ink and parchment trailing in their wake. And among them moved the Jounin: men and women dirt-streaked, uniforms torn, the faint coppery scent of blood clinging to their cloaks. Their eyes were weary but sharp, every step filled with purpose, every gesture heavy with the weight of survival.

The three from the future were guided deeper into the main hall, where rows of desks sprawled beneath hanging lanterns. Unlike the mission counter they remembered from their own time—polished, standardized, and almost ceremonial—this space felt raw and untamed, still finding its form. Shinobi clustered in uneven lines, mission slips were stacked in precarious piles, and the very air vibrated with the pulse of a village constantly in motion.

Jiraiya, grinning with irrepressible energy, spun slightly to face them, his voice booming above the din. “Here we are! Mission assignments are just ahead. You’ll find what you’re looking for there.” His teeth flashed in a grin too wide, his excitement contagious even here, in the middle of chaos.

Tsunade crossed her arms, her amber eyes sharp, their weight too heavy for her thirteen years. The authority in her tone clipped through the noise as she warned, “Don’t mess around. The Hokage doesn’t like timewasters—or people who don’t take the work seriously.” For the briefest flicker, Sakura caught the way Tsunade’s shoulders set tighter than necessary, as though each word spoken was not only her own, but an echo of expectation pressed onto her.

Naruto gave a faint half-smile at her words, though his chest ached. Some things never change.

Orochimaru then stepped forward, his movements precise, a quiet elegance threading every gesture. Even here, in the crowded bustle of shinobi, he seemed apart—dark hair spilling like silk down his back, golden eyes steady as candlelight. A faint curve softened his lips as he bowed his head slightly. “Good luck,” he said, voice smooth and even, carrying just enough weight to be heard.

Sasuke inclined his head in return, his voice low but respectful. “Thank you.”

Without another word, the three young Chuunin turned and slipped down a side corridor, their footsteps fading into the constant tide of shinobi heading deeper into the tower. Likely, they were making for the Hokage’s office—to their sensei.

Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura stood where they were, watching until the last glimpse of them disappeared into the swell of the crowd. The silence that followed seemed to ring louder than the bustle around them. Reality pressed down heavy and unyielding on their shoulders. They had made it inside. They had their foothold. The game was set upon the board.

And this time, they had to win. At all costs.

Notes:

What awaits them in the next chapter? 👀
Will they slip up and get caught… or will they manage to uncover hidden secrets buried in Konoha’s past? 🕵️‍♀️✨

Thank you so much for reading 💖 I’ll see you in the next chapter! 🌸

Notes:

Hope you liked it! See you in the next chapter!
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