Land of Fire
The air hung still and heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint tang of metal. Pale moonlight spilled through cracks in the rocky ceiling of the hidden training cavern, casting fractured beams across the stone floor like the shattered edges of a broken mirror. Every surface was cold, and every sound—the distant drip of water, the soft hum of chakra in the air—felt sharpened by the silence. This place wasn't meant for comfort. It was meant for transformation.
Rei stood alone at the heart of the cavern, her breath controlled and even despite the trembling in her limbs. Sweat clung to her skin, sliding down her temples in silent rivulets. Her body felt slow, sluggish beneath the weight of exhaustion that no warning pain could herald. That was the danger. Her nerves never screamed when she went too far. There was no burning, no aching. Just a growing sense of wrongness in the way her limbs moved. A subtle imbalance. A mounting weight in her bones. She had learned to feel damage in ways others never had to.
It had been a month since she walked away from everything—her team, her friends, the weight of Obito's words—and stepped into the quiet shadow Orochimaru offered. In that time, she had grown stronger. Faster. But also colder. Harder.
Her hands blurred through a rapid series of seals. "Release," she said softly.
The Red Streak burst to life, racing across her skin in a blaze of crimson light. Her hair lifted with the force of it, the streak through it glowing like molten fire. She felt the storm surge inside her again, wild and overwhelming. It was raw, chaotic chakra—Raiden's gift awakened inside her—but it would not be tamed through hesitation. Only will.
From the edge of the cavern, Orochimaru observed her in silence, his golden eyes glinting like coiled serpents in the moonlight. "Stay focused," he said at last, his voice smooth and cool. "Control is not the absence of restraint. It's knowing how far you can go before the damage becomes irreversible."
"I know what I'm doing," Rei snapped without turning.
Orochimaru's smile curled faintly. He held a long scroll open in one hand, fingers brushing its surface with idle reverence. "Knowing is not the same as understanding. And you've only just begun to grasp the cost of pushing beyond natural limits."
Rei didn't answer. She threw herself into the routine he had drilled into her—fluid strikes at the glimmering chakra-reactive discs embedded in the stone. Her speed bordered on reckless, each blow shattering its mark with raw power. The streak amplified everything—her strength, her reflexes, even her rage. But it also pulled at her. Drew from her. Demanded everything.
She struck again and again, her momentum barely controlled, until the final target shattered beneath a downward blow that cracked the stone beneath it. She landed in a crouch, the glow from her streak flickering violently before fading.
Silence followed.
She remained still, her breaths quick, her chest rising and falling with controlled precision. Her vision shimmered at the edges, a faint static blur clouding her focus. Her body wasn't screaming in protest—it never did. But it was failing her in small, quiet ways that she had taught herself to recognize. Her legs trembled when she rose. Her fingertips were slow to uncurl from fists.
"Remarkable," Orochimaru murmured, stepping forward. "You're adapting faster than I anticipated."
"I can go again," Rei said. Her voice was hoarse but steady. She straightened, the shadows under her eyes stark in the pale light.
"No," Orochimaru replied at once, firm and final. His tone cut across her resolve like a blade. "Pushing further right now would not make you stronger. It would break you."
"I don't break," she said quietly.
His gaze flicked over her—calculating, thoughtful, and amused all at once. "Everyone breaks, Rei. Even those who cannot feel the warning signs."
She fell silent, jaw clenched. There was nothing to argue with. Not when she knew he was right.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the scroll still in his hand—old, brittle parchment filled with jagged script she couldn't read, its diagrams drawn in dark, looping ink that felt too precise to be random.
"What's in that?" she asked before she could stop herself.
Orochimaru's expression shifted into something guarded. He rolled the scroll closed slowly, deliberately. "Curiosity is natural," he said, voice light. "But some knowledge is earned, not given. When the time is right, you'll understand why this matters."
Rei frowned, the heat of frustration building in her chest. She hated that tone—the way he dangled information just out of reach, like a carrot on a string. Like she was a pet, not a person.
"We're done here," he said, already turning toward the tunnel that led back toward the surface. "You've exceeded the parameters for today's session."
Reluctantly, Rei followed. Each step dragged, her body sluggish from depletion—but it didn't hurt. Not in the way most would recognize. She was beyond pain. Beyond the warnings her body refused to give.
The cold breath of the cavern gave way to the gentler wind of the forest as Rei and Orochimaru emerged into the night, moonlight slicing through the canopy like pale threads of silk. The sudden openness felt strange after hours underground. Trees loomed tall and quiet, their shadows long and lean across the forest path.
Orochimaru walked ahead with his usual ease, his pace unhurried. Rei followed at a measured distance, her steps steady but clouded by the weight of her thoughts. Her body felt drained—she couldn't feel pain, but she could still read the signs: the shakiness in her knees, the unresponsiveness in her arms, the slow drag of her movements. Fatigue was a silent language, and she'd learned how to listen.
But that wasn't what unsettled her most.
Her mind reeled, not from exertion, but from the questions that training had unearthed—about the scroll, about her limits, about Orochimaru's ever-watching gaze. He hadn't said much on the way out, and that silence unnerved her more than any lecture would have.
She clenched her fists as she walked, her nails digging into her palms—not that she could feel them. It was habit now. A tether. A way to center herself when the inside of her head spun too fast to follow.
The closer they drew to Konoha's gates, the more vivid the village lights became—glowing like embers behind layers of stone and tradition. At this late hour, the village was still alive with movement. Lanterns lined the walkways, shinobi passed silently through the open gates, and chatter spilled out from the mission towers in soft bursts.
Rei's gaze lifted at the sight of a small group near the mission entrance. She stopped briefly, instinct tugging at her when she recognized the familiar figures.
Akira stood with his usual straight-backed confidence, his mission scroll pack slung across his shoulder. Hiro and Yumi stood beside him—no longer her teammates in name, but still bound to her in ways she couldn't quite shake. Hiro's headband gleamed under the lantern light, his gear crooked like always. Yumi was as precise as ever, her hands moving efficiently as she double-checked their supplies.
Rei lingered at the edge of the path, caught somewhere between fatigue and nostalgia. Orochimaru slowed beside her, and she glanced up, sensing his awareness of the moment. He said nothing.
Akira turned first, his sharp gaze landing on Rei. His mouth twitched into a faint smile—more acknowledgment than warmth. "Didn't expect to see you out of the training grounds," he said, his voice measured. "Still chasing perfection?"
Rei smirked faintly. "Someone has to."
Hiro lit up the moment he spotted her. "Rei!" he called, waving with the kind of unshakable enthusiasm that made him impossible to dislike. "Long time no see! Are you still alive under all that training?"
"Barely," she said dryly, eyes flicking to the scrolls on his back. "Looks like they're putting you to work too."
"Yumi's no joke," Hiro joked, elbowing her. "She says missions don't count unless we finish them with textbook form."
Yumi rolled her eyes, her arms crossing. "Because someone has to make sure you don't trip over your own kunai."
Rei let out a soft snort, the tension in her shoulders easing for just a moment. But the ease evaporated when Orochimaru stepped forward.
"Akira," he greeted, voice low and unassuming—yet carrying the same unnatural gravity it always did.
Akira's posture shifted almost imperceptibly. His smile vanished, replaced by something neutral. "Lord Orochimaru," he replied with a polite nod.
Rei watched closely. She had never quite understood what connected the two of them, but it was clear Akira did not enjoy these encounters. His shoulders always drew a little tighter, his voice lost its casual edge.
"You've trained them well," Orochimaru continued, his eyes flicking toward Hiro and Yumi before landing briefly on Rei. "Your influence lingers."
Akira's jaw tightened. "I don't influence Rei," he said carefully. "She made her own choices."
Orochimaru's smile deepened, amused. "So modest," he murmured. "But you underestimate the impact of your presence. Even silence shapes direction."
Rei's brows drew together as she glanced between them, something twisting uneasily in her chest. Akira was rarely unsettled. But here, now—he looked like someone walking a very narrow line.
Hiro, oblivious to the tension, broke in with a grin. "Hey, Rei, rumor has it you've got another mission soon."
"In two days," she confirmed.
"Six this month, right?" Yumi asked, a hint of something sharper beneath her words.
"Maybe," Rei replied coolly. She didn't elaborate. There was nothing else to say.
Orochimaru began walking again without a word, and Rei moved to follow. She didn't look back until Akira's voice stopped her.
"Take care of yourself, Rei," he said, quieter now. Not casual. Not teasing. Just sincere.
She hesitated, her fists clenching slightly at her sides. The weight of everything left unsaid sat heavy on her tongue. But she gave a single nod and turned away.
As they continued toward the heart of the village, Rei's thoughts remained tangled in the strangely tense interaction. Akira rarely faltered—he was always confident, always composed. What had Orochimaru meant by "influence"?
Her chest tightened slightly at the memory of Akira's expression—a flicker of something like regret, carefully concealed but unmistakable. She shook her head, forcing the thought away.
She'd made her choice.
Let them think whatever they wanted.
Rei kept her steps steady as she approached the heart of the village, her mind restless despite her outward calm. Orochimaru had already disappeared, leaving her to navigate Konoha's familiar streets alone—a path she knew well but no longer felt at home walking. The glow of lanterns and the chatter of locals buzzed around her, but none of it seemed to reach her.
The interaction with Akira lingered at the edges of her thoughts, no matter how hard she tried to shove it away. Take care of yourself, Rei. The words echoed, pulling at a thread of unease she wasn't ready to unravel. Was that guilt in his eyes earlier? Regret? It was the kind of look people gave when they thought you were going somewhere they couldn't follow—or somewhere you shouldn't.
She shook her head sharply. Letting those doubts creep in was pointless. She'd made her choice, and second-guessing it wouldn't change anything. This was her path now—her fight to prove herself, to understand the secrets buried in her clan's history, and to forge something stronger than what Konoha's rules could offer.
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted as an ANBU operative materialized before her, their masked face tilting slightly downward in silent acknowledgment.
"Rei Arakawa," the operative said simply, their tone clipped yet emotionless. "You've been summoned to the Hokage Tower."
Rei raised an eyebrow, her posture straightening instinctively. "Summoned? What for?"
The masked shinobi didn't elaborate, gesturing slightly toward the towering building in the distance. "Sakumo Hatake is awaiting your arrival."
Rei's stomach twisted—not in fear, but in anticipation. She didn't need an explanation to know what this was about.
Orochimaru.
Without a word, she followed the operative, her gait steady as the tension churned beneath her skin. She climbed the steps to the Hokage Tower, the faint creaks of the wooden staircase echoing her movements until she reached the top floor. The operative disappeared the moment she stepped through the doorway, leaving her alone before the imposing office at the end of the hall.
The doors to the Hokage's office creaked open under her hand, the wood cold and worn smooth from decades of conflict and counsel. Sakumo stood behind his desk, arms folded behind his back, his gaze sharp and unreadable.
"Sakumo-san," she said evenly.
"You've been spending a lot of time with Orochimaru." His voice was calm, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable. "I'm concerned."
Rei raised an eyebrow. "Why? Because I'm actually learning something?"
Sakumo stepped forward, the lantern light casting shadows across the lines of his face. "Because I know what he is. And I know what he's capable of doing to people like you."
Rei crossed her arms. "People like me?"
"Young. Gifted. Desperate for answers."
Her jaw tightened. "So, what—I'm just another helpless child to you?"
Sakumo's voice stayed quiet, but his words struck hard. "No. You're someone I believe in. Someone I've watched fight her way forward through pain no one should've carried alone. But you're standing at the edge of something you don't understand."
"You think I don't understand pain?" she snapped, stepping toward him. "I don't feel it, Sakumo. I've lived my whole life knowing I could break my bones and keep walking. You think I'm afraid of a little darkness?"
"I think you're not afraid enough," he replied, his voice heavy. "And I never told you to follow the rules blindly. You know that. I told you to protect the people who matter. Even if it meant breaking everything else."
Rei faltered—but only for a breath. "You think Orochimaru doesn't care about people? That's where you're wrong. He's the only one who doesn't treat me like a child or a ticking time bomb. He talks to me like I'm capable. Like I matter."
"No," Sakumo said, his voice firm now. "He talks to you like you're a tool. Because that's what he sees. You're powerful, and that excites him. But the moment you stop being useful, Rei—"
"Don't," she cut in, her voice raw. "Don't act like you're different. You didn't care about me either. Not when it mattered."
Sakumo looked at her then—really looked—and the hurt in his expression made her chest tighten despite herself.
"I cared," he said. "I still do. That's why I'm telling you this now. You're chasing power like it's going to fix everything. But it won't. And when it doesn't, when the answers you find only hurt more—he won't catch you. He'll let you fall."
Rei's fists clenched at her sides. She couldn't feel the sting of her nails against her palms, but she could feel the pressure building behind her ribs. The confusion. The anger. The fear she wouldn't name.
"Then let me fall," she whispered. "If that's what it takes to understand the truth."
Sakumo didn't argue. He just nodded—once, slowly, the light in his eyes dimming with something like resignation.
"You have a mission in two days. Be ready."
Rei turned and walked out, the door closing behind her with a soft finality.
The hall felt colder now, quieter, the faint creaks of the staircase louder than before as she descended. Sakumo's warning replayed in her mind, each word lingering despite her attempts to shove them aside.
The next day the morning light filtered through the curtains of Rei's apartment, soft and golden—but she didn't bother to open them. The room was dim, quiet except for the faint clink of porcelain as she set her empty teacup on the low table in front of her. The scent of chamomile still hung in the air, warm and ghostlike. She didn't drink it to relax anymore. It just gave her something to do with her hands. A ritual. A moment to feel normal.
Sakumo's words clung to her like mist.
"Orochimaru doesn't care about you—he cares about what he can make you into."
Rei's fists tightened, nails digging into her palms. He's wrong, she thought bitterly. They all are. They think I don't know what I'm doing.
She pushed the thought down, sealing it behind the steel resolve that had carried her this far. I don't have time for doubt.
A knock snapped her out of it—quick, light, familiar.
"Rei! You up? Get dressed—we're going out!"
Anko.
Rei stood, brushing her hands down her shirt and pulling open the door. Sure enough, Anko stood there grinning, Academy bag slung over her shoulder and her hair in a half-tamed mess of curls. She stepped inside like she owned the place.
"You look like you slept on a kunai," she said, flopping onto the couch.
"Good morning to you too," Rei replied dryly, closing the door behind her.
Anko leaned back, one leg kicked over the armrest. "You've been hiding again," she said, not bothering to sugarcoat it. "I barely see you. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were avoiding me."
"I've been training," Rei said, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. Her voice was flat. Controlled.
Anko raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. With him. You're starting to get that spooky stare he has too."
Rei didn't take the bait. "I'm not avoiding anyone. I just don't have time for... distractions."
There was a pause.
"Distractions?" Anko echoed. "Is that what we are now? Me, Rin, Obito... just a bunch of distractions to your creepy mentor time?"
Rei exhaled through her nose, resisting the urge to snap. "That's not what I meant."
"Sure," Anko said. Her voice had shifted—still light, still teasing, but softer now. "I just—look, you're not the same lately, okay? You're still you, but you feel like you're ten steps ahead of everyone else and walking away without saying why."
Rei didn't answer. She stared at the corner of the room, where sunlight barely reached the floor.
"I don't care what weird training you're doing," Anko said. "I just don't want you to disappear, Rei."
Rei turned to face her. Her voice was even. "I'm still here."
"For how long?"
That landed harder than it should have. Rei forced a small smirk. "You're being dramatic."
"Maybe," Anko admitted. "But you forget, I know how to spot someone building walls around themselves."
Silence stretched between them. Finally, Anko stood, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeves.
"I'm not gonna beg you to hang out," she said lightly. "But don't wait too long to look back. If you turn around and no one's there anymore... that's on you."
Rei didn't respond. She waited until Anko left, then slowly sat down again, her eyes falling to the empty teacup on the table.
Anko was wrong.
She had to be.
Rei wasn't walking away—she was moving forward. Pushing toward something no one else had the strength to reach. She didn't need reassurance. She didn't need doubt. She needed answers. Power. Clarity. Control.
The distance between her and the others?
It was temporary.
Once she had what she needed, she'd fix everything.
But even as she repeated the thought to herself, something quiet lingered in the air—a feeling she couldn't name, gnawing at the edges of her conviction like wind against a closed door.
She got up, opened the curtains—and blinked against the light.
Two days until the mission.
That was what mattered.
The streets of Konoha bustled with their usual rhythm, the early afternoon sun bathing the village in warmth that Rei barely noticed. She walked with purpose, her pace brisk as she moved toward the market square, her thoughts still lingering on the interaction with Anko that morning.
Her friend's words had stuck to her like burrs, irritating and impossible to fully ignore.
You're gonna look back and realize you were running toward something that wasn't worth it.
Rei scoffed under her breath, brushing the thought aside as she turned the corner into the market square. She wasn't running—she was choosing. That was different. Anko didn't understand, Sakumo didn't understand, no one did.
As she crossed the square, her eyes caught movement at the village gate in the distance. A small group of shinobi had just entered, their silhouettes unmistakable even from afar. The orange of Obito's goggles gleamed in the sunlight, his carefree posture a stark contrast to Kakashi's colder, straight-backed stance beside him.
Rei stopped mid-step, her gaze narrowing slightly as familiarity washed over her.
Team Minato.
They had been gone on a mission for weeks, and she hadn't thought much about them during that time—hadn't allowed herself to think about them. But now, seeing them return, she felt something strange settle in her chest.
Obito was the first to notice her. He paused mid-laugh, his goggles pushed back as his wide grin brightened even further. "REI!!"
Rei blinked, startled by the sheer enthusiasm in his voice. "Obito?"
He practically bounced toward her, his stride energetic as he closed the distance, waving wildly. "Man, you've been hiding for forever! I was starting to think you ditched us for some secret mission."
"Something like that," Rei replied dryly, her smirk faint but present.
Obito grinned even wider, tilting his head as he got a better look at her. "Whoa, your hair got long!" he exclaimed, his tone somewhere between impressed and amazed. "It suits you. Way cooler than mine, though—mine always sticks up no matter what I do."
Rei felt her lips twitch slightly, her smirk breaking into a fleeting smile despite herself. "Some things never change," she teased.
"I'll take that as a compliment," Obito replied, laughing as he adjusted his goggles.
Before Rei could respond, Rin approached from behind him, her usual gentle warmth radiating even as concern flickered in her eyes. She stopped a few steps away from Rei, her gaze immediately drifting toward her arms.
"Rei..." Rin's voice was soft, almost hesitant. "Your arms... Have you been okay?"
Rei stiffened slightly, her smile fading as she glanced down at the faint scars crisscrossing her forearms—marks of training sessions and missions that hadn't gone perfectly. They weren't fresh, but even old scars had a way of drawing attention.
"I'm fine," Rei said quickly, brushing off Rin's concern with a dismissive wave. "You're worrying over nothing."
Rin didn't look convinced. Her brows furrowed as she stepped closer, her voice quieter but still steady. "You've... changed a lot, Rei. Are you sure you've been—"
Rei cut her off with a sharp laugh, raising an eyebrow. "Come on, Rin, don't turn into my nurse. I've been fine. Really."
Rin hesitated, her struggle to believe Rei's words clear in the way she bit her lip and glanced at Obito uncertainly.
Before Rin could say anything else, Kakashi spoke from behind her, his tone low and detached. "Worrying over nothing? That's what you always say, isn't it?"
Rei's head snapped up, her gaze locking onto Kakashi as irritation sparked immediately. He stood a few feet away, his arms crossed tightly, his eyes narrowed in quiet judgment.
"What's your problem now, Hatake?" Rei shot back, her voice sharp. "Don't you ever get tired of trying to police what everyone else is doing?"
Kakashi's gaze didn't waver, his posture stiff as he replied. "I wouldn't need to say anything if you weren't constantly throwing yourself at situations without thinking about the consequences. You're reckless, Rei. Always have been."
Rei scoffed, her fists tightening at her sides. "And what? You think you're better because you're always hiding behind your rules and perfect form? Give me a break."
The tension between them thickened as Kakashi took a step closer, his tone colder than before. "Rules keep people alive. They keep you alive, whether you like it or not. But I guess that doesn't matter to someone who keeps ignoring them at every turn."
Rei's lip curled in defiance, her frustration mounting. "Oh, right, let's all live by the great Kakashi Hatake's rulebook. Because that's never failed anyone before."
Rin and Obito exchanged worried glances, watching the argument escalate in uncomfortable silence.
"You don't get it," Kakashi said finally, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "You pretend you're invincible, but everyone can see what you're really doing: throwing yourself at danger like you've got nothing to lose. And one day, you're going to regret it."
Rei narrowed her eyes, her defiance bubbling over into bitterness. "At least I'm doing something with my life instead of standing around judging everyone else. You think you're a hero, Kakashi? You're just another shinobi too scared to live like the rest of us. Don't pretend you care about me or anything I do."
For a moment, the world seemed to grow quieter, the weight of her words hanging heavily in the air between them. Kakashi didn't flinch, though his eyes narrowed further as a flicker of something passed across his face—anger? Frustration? Guilt? It was hard to tell, but it didn't last long.
Rin finally stepped between them, her voice shaking slightly. "That's enough," she said, her hands raised carefully to keep them apart. "Both of you."
Rin's words hung in the air, but neither Rei nor Kakashi moved. Their eyes stayed locked, an unspoken battle raging between them as if words alone weren't enough to settle the clash of their ideologies.
"It's always the same with you, Kakashi," Rei muttered, her tone sharp but quieter now. "You act like you know everything, like you have all the answers. But you don't. You don't know me. You don't know my decisions."
Kakashi's jaw tightened, his voice colder than ever. "I don't have to know everything about you to see what you're turning into—to see that you're reckless enough to destroy yourself for something you don't even understand."
Rei felt her fists tighten again, the frustration bubbling beneath her skin threatening to overflow. Rin stepped forward again, her presence calm but trembling slightly. "Stop it," she repeated, her eyes darting between them. "This isn't helping anyone."
"Kakashi doesn't help anyone," Rei snapped, her voice rising again. "He hides behind rules and lectures because he's too scared to admit that he's just as flawed as the rest of us."
The insult hit home, and Kakashi's eyes hardened. For a second, it looked like he might say something in return, but before he could, a voice interrupted them sharply.
"Enough."
Both Rei and Kakashi turned suddenly, their attention snapping toward the source of the voice as the air in the plaza shifted.
Shikaku Nara stood a few feet away, his posture calm but commanding, his sharp gaze cutting through the tension like an icy wind. The faint shadows cast by the afternoon sun seemed to gather around him, emphasizing his presence in a way that demanded immediate attention.
"Rei. Kakashi. This isn't the time for petty arguments," Shikaku said plainly, though his tone carried a weight that silenced them both. "Takeshi has woken up."
The announcement hit Rei like a hammer, the fire of her anger extinguished in an instant. She froze, her breath catching as the words replayed in her head.
Takeshi has woken up.
"What?" It was barely a whisper, but the disbelief was clear in her voice.
Shikaku's gaze softened slightly, though his tone remained steady. "At the hospital. He regained consciousness an hour ago."
Rei didn't hesitate.
She turned sharply on her heel and bolted toward the village center, her steps quick and purposeful, her earlier anger forgotten completely.