"Don't tell me this is…"
The words died on Renjiro's cracked, blistered lips, choked off by a fresh wave of agony that crashed over him like a physical blow.
"Ghhhk—!"
The pain wasn't localised; it was a symphony of suffering conducted by the closing Gates. Muscles, strained far beyond their limits, screamed in protest as the artificial chakra floodgates slammed shut.
Five internal locks, or maybe four in Renjiro's case, slamming home in rapid, brutal succession. The crimson flush receded from his skin like a tide, leaving behind a landscape of ruin: angry red burns, blisters weeping clear fluid, deep bruises blooming purple and black beneath the soot and grime.
Simultaneously, Renjiro willed the Mangekyo away. The transition wasn't smooth. His vision doubled violently, the desolate basin splitting into two overlapping, nauseating images.
"Ngh!"
He squeezed his eyes shut, a spike of fear lancing through the fatigue. 'Blindness. Already?'
He held his breath, bracing for the worst. Seconds stretched agonizingly slow, filled only by his own frantic heartbeat pounding in his ears. Then, slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes again. The world snapped back into a single, blessedly clear, if painfully bright, image. The relief was temporary, drowned by a cold wash of dread.
"Careless. Idiot."
The self-recrimination was a harsh whisper in his mind. He forced himself to remain upright on trembling limbs, acutely aware of his vulnerability. Most of his clothes were ash, clinging only in charred, ragged strips around his waist and thighs.
'No Eternal Mangekyo. Every use is a gamble. A step closer to Blindness.' The thought was terrifying. This world… it felt like those cultivation novels he vaguely remembered from Before.
'Breakthrough? Congratulations! Here's a stronger opponent to test it on immediately.'
A bitter, humourless sound escaped his lips, more a pained wheeze than a laugh.
Renjiro needed the EMS. Desperately. The options were grimly limited. 'Find a pair of Mangekyo siblings willing to donate? Unlikely.'
Or… a more disturbing path surfaced, born of his unique biology.
'My healing… it let me regrow eyes before. If I lose these… could I regrow them? Could I… combine them?'
The potential for catastrophic failure, for permanent blindness or worse, was immense. But the alternative – slow descent into blindness as the Mangekyo consumed his sight – was unthinkable. The dilemma churned in his gut, adding to the nausea already swirling from the Gates' backlash.
His gaze drifted down to his left arm, where the worst of the numbness had been. Motor control had returned, thankfully, fingers flexing slowly, stiffly. But the skin… it wasn't healing, his Chakra Seinou was dormant.
Suppressed? Blocked? The realisation hit him like a physical blow, colder than the night air.
'What did that thing DO to me?'
He probed the burned flesh gingerly. Agony flared, but no telltale warmth of accelerated healing followed. Only the raw, persistent throb of damage. The fear intensified, a cold serpent coiling around his spine.
'If I've lost my healing…'
His mind raced through the implications. Reduced durability. Extended recovery times. Vulnerability. A crippling blow to his combat effectiveness, his very survival in this brutal world.
'Thank the Sage my eyes are intact… for now.'
The thought offered little solace.
He closed his eyes again, not against pain this time, but to focus inward. Deep meditation was impossible in this state, but he could attempt a basic chakra cycle. He drew in a slow, shuddering breath, ignoring the protest from his ribs, and focused on the pitiful dregs of chakra swirling in his core, like scooping water from a near-empty well.
He willed the thin stream to flow through his tenketsu, down his arms, towards the damaged tissue. The chakra moved sluggishly, encountering resistance – not blockages, but a profound weakness in the pathways themselves, like trying to push water through parched, cracked earth.
It reached the burns, a faint, cool sensation momentarily easing the sting, but the deep cellular response, the accelerated mitosis that defined his healing… it simply didn't ignite. The energy is dissipated uselessly, absorbed by the damaged tissue without triggering regeneration. The anxiety threatened to spiral into full-blown terror.
'Is it permanent?'
Desperation clawed at him.
'Chakra exhaustion.'
It had to be. Expelling nearly everything to fuel the Gates, the barrier, and finally the annihilating green flames … his reserves were utterly depleted, far below the threshold needed to kickstart his Seinou.
The theory did not completely make sense since his green flames were supposed to give him more power, but it seemed that he even used what he received.
Renjiro fumbled with a scorched pouch still miraculously clinging to the remnants of his belt. His fingers, clumsy with pain and fatigue, scraped against the rough fabric. Inside, his fingertips found the familiar, slightly gritty texture of soldier pills.
He didn't hesitate. He scooped out a handful – far more than the recommended dose – and dry-swallowed them. The chalky, bitter taste coated his tongue and throat, making him gag.
The effect wasn't immediate healing. It was a violent jolt to his system. "WHUMP!"
A surge of chakra, harsh and chemical, slammed through his depleted pathways. It felt like injecting lightning into dry wood. His heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic drum. His vision tunnelled, dark spots dancing again. A metallic taste flooded his mouth. Sweat, cold and greasy, broke out across his brow despite the chill.
He gritted his teeth, riding the uncomfortable, dangerous wave. But within the artificial storm, a tiny spark flared deep within his core. A minuscule trickle of his own chakra, stimulated by the pills' frantic energy, began to well up. Not much. A pittance compared to his usual reserves. But at least it was his.
He focused every shred of will on that trickle, guiding it, begging it towards the burns on his arm. The sluggish pathways resisted, but the fresh energy, small as it was, pushed a little further. It reached the ravaged skin. And this time… something happened. A faint, almost imperceptible warmth bloomed beneath the pain. Not the blazing furnace of full Seinou, but a weak, flickering ember. The edges of the largest blister… seemed to soften slightly.
A tiny patch of angry red inflammation faded infinitesimally towards pink. It was agonizingly slow, barely noticeable, but it was there. Healing. Triggered by his own chakra, however meagre. The relief that washed over him was so profound it momentarily eclipsed the pain and the harsh buzz of the soldier pills. He hadn't lost it. It was just starved.
"Hah…"
The breath escaped him in a shaky, grateful sigh, misting in the cool air.
The immediate, paralysing fear of permanent damage receded. He still felt like death warmed over – burns stinging, muscles screaming, head pounding from the pills, utterly exhausted – but the foundational terror was gone. He could heal. He just needed chakra. Mountains of it.
His gaze, clearer now despite the lingering discomfort, snapped back to the object of his earlier horrified whisper. It was the only thing left untouched by his green flames, the only remnant of the White Zetsu.
Hovering his hand inches above it, Renjiro took one last, shuddering breath.
A single, fervent plea, barely a whisper, escaped his cracked lips, echoing in the desolate silence of the ruined basin:
"Please… let this be Hashirama cells."