Konohagakure
The gates of Konohagakure creaked open with a slow, deliberate groan, metal catching against wood like the sigh of a tired beast. Dust rose underfoot as Team Minato stepped into the village, their silhouettes sharp against the fading afternoon sun. Kakashi walked at the front, posture straight but weighed down by grime and silence. Rin trailed just behind him, her sleeves torn at the edges and her face drawn with worry. Obito brought up the rear, his orange goggles pushed up over tangled black hair, scratches lining his jaw like a map of every near-miss.
They didn't speak.
Not because there was nothing to say—but because the words had drowned somewhere out in the Land of Grass.
The mission had been a success, technically. They'd intercepted a Sunagakure scouting unit near the border of the Land of Grass—just before they crossed into Fire Country. The enemy had retreated after a skirmish, but not before they'd made their message clear:
"We're looking for her. The girl with the red streak. Where is she?"
Obito hadn't forgotten the look in their eyes when they said it.
Neither had Kakashi.
They approached the mission debriefing hall, boots clicking faintly against the stone as they passed. ANBU agents flanked the doors. One of them nodded. "The Hokage is waiting."
The room was dim, the lanterns casting long shadows across the floor. Inside sat Hiruzen Sarutobi, already speaking in low tones to Sakumo Hatake, who stood beside him, arms folded and eyes hard with thought.
The moment the door closed behind Team Minato, Hiruzen's voice quieted.
"Report."
Kakashi stepped forward, spine straight. "We intercepted a Sunagakure unit near the border. Minimal injuries. The enemy retreated"
Rin shifted beside him. "But they weren't just scouting for territory," she added softly. "They were asking about someone."
Sakumo's head turned slightly, "What kind of questions?"
Obito glanced sideways at Kakashi, then stepped forward himself. "They asked for a girl. Said she had a red streak in her hair. That she was from here." He hesitated. "They didn't say her name. But they said... she reminded them of Raiden Arakawa."
A pause filled the room. Like a held breath.
Hiruzen's fingers interlaced under his chin. "You're certain of that phrasing?"
Obito nodded. "Yeah. Word for word. I didn't understand it at first, but... the way they said it—it was like they already knew. Like they were looking for proof."
Sakumo didn't move, but something in his expression sharpened. "So now it's not just Iwa. Suna's in it too."
"They're not probing for land anymore," Sakumo added quietly, his arms crossed, expression dark. "They're probing for Rei."
The silence thickened like mist.
Kakashi stepped forward, voice calm but sharp. "We stopped them this time. But they weren't just scouts. If they come again, it won't be with questions—it'll be with force."
Sarutobi leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "That's what I'm afraid of."
Outside the window, the village moved on—unaware. Children chased kites. Merchants called out closing prices. The sky ripened into amber as the sun dipped toward the trees.
Far from the shadowed walls of the Hokage's office, the whisper of war took a different shape.
It carved itself through the scorched trees lining the border training grounds, threaded beneath broken branches and discarded kunai. Here, silence wasn't peaceful—it pulsed with tension. The crack of steel against bark, the rasp of breath, the hiss of wind displaced by a thrown weapon: these were the sounds of a storm building.
Rei landed hard on the balls of her feet, a fresh gash trailing across her arm where a kunai had sliced skin. She didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. The blood smeared red against the dust and ash clinging to her skin, but she moved like it meant nothing. Because to her, it did.
She didn't feel it.
Orochimaru's form stood twenty paces away, draped in shadow. He didn't move. Not yet. His yellow eyes gleamed beneath his brow, sharp and lazy all at once—like a snake basking before the strike. His hands remained tucked inside the long sleeves of his robes, but Rei knew better than to think that meant he wasn't ready.
"I hope you're not slowing down," he drawled, his voice slithering between the trees.
Rei didn't answer. Instead, she pivoted, throwing two shuriken in a tight arc before following with a low chakra burst at her feet—sending her forward, fast, low to the ground like a blade drawn from a sheath.
Orochimaru dodged with liquid grace, shifting just enough to let the shuriken whip past his cheek. He caught her movement with a glint of curiosity in his eyes, like a researcher observing a new variable unfold in real time.
Rei reached him in a blur and struck upward with her elbow. He parried with the flat of his hand, twisting around her and hooking a foot behind her ankle. She should have fallen, but her body bent in a fluid spin, catching herself on a tree trunk and flipping back into the clearing. Dust exploded where she landed, scattering leaves.
She didn't pause.
She couldn't afford to.
Every strike that followed blurred into the next—sharp, reckless, relentless. Her chakra surged with each motion, not because she had the reserves of a seasoned shinobi but because she forced her body to move like she did. There was a kind of madness in it, the way she threw herself into each exchange without hesitation. She never blocked. Only evaded, struck, and pressed forward.
She didn't need to guard against pain.
She only needed to survive.
And Orochimaru was testing exactly how far she'd go to prove she could.
At last, he deflected a kunai aimed for his throat and stepped back, raising one pale hand. "Enough."
Rei dropped into a crouch, shoulders heaving. Her lungs burned—not from pain, but from the sheer effort of keeping up. Dirt clung to her sweat-slicked skin. The wound on her arm had stopped bleeding. Her muscles trembled. She was shaking, though she hadn't noticed when it started.
"Good," Orochimaru said at last.
He circled her, hands still calmly folded in his sleeves. His gaze trailed her arms, her legs, her back—all angles, all sharp, all worn raw by her own demands.
"Though I'm not sure you know what your body is telling you," he said thoughtfully. "Not that it matters. It will give out long before your will does."
Rei lifted her chin, jaw clenched. "Then I'll just keep moving before it does."
That made him pause.
His lips curled—not into a smile, but something smaller. A flicker of interest.
"Fascinating," he murmured.
He stepped closer. Close enough to make her tense. Close enough for her to see the dust clinging to his sandals, the faint traces of ink on his sleeve.
"Do you know what I learned today?" he asked, almost gently. "While you were busy bruising your bones beneath my heel?"
She didn't answer. Her silence was its own reply.
Orochimaru didn't mind. He tilted his head, voice lowering as if confiding something delicate.
"My scouts observed joint camps along the western corridor of the Land of Grass. Sunagakure shinobi with Iwagakure banners. An alliance. Tentative, yes—but more than whispers."
Rei's brow twitched. Her body didn't react much, but her eyes sharpened.
"They weren't searching for territory," Orochimaru mused, his voice slow and deliberate. "Even during our last mission, it was obvious. The camps were too closely aligned, too quiet for enemies supposedly watching each other."
He circled her again, hands still tucked behind his back like this was a lesson and not a warning. "Two rival villages, Iwagakure and Sunagakure, operating in tandem along the borderlands? Not because they trust each other—but because they fear something more."
He paused behind her, the air stretching thin.
"One shinobi. Red streaks in her hair. Just a glimpse. But enough."
Rei's breath caught, her shoulders stiffening.
"They asked about you," he continued, tone softening into something like amusement. "Didn't name you outright. But they didn't need to. They were looking for what only you could be."
He moved again, this time to her side, crouching until his pale, serpentine gaze met hers.
"You've never truly asked what you are," he murmured. "But they already believe they know. Those two—Koji and Mayu, wasn't it? Cousins, you said. Former Arakawa clan. They weren't just wandering shinobi. They were scouts. Messengers. Proof that history remembers more than we'd like."
Rei's fingers curled into the dirt beneath her. She didn't speak.
"You may not feel pain," Orochimaru said, his voice dropping, "but this world will teach you another kind of wound—one that has nothing to do with nerves."
He stood, the tips of his robes catching the breeze as he moved past her again.
"The village knows," he said. "They won't say it to your face. But you've seen how the elders watch you. Why they keep you at arm's length. Not because of what you've done."
He looked over his shoulder.
"But because of what you are."
The silence that followed was long. Rei didn't look up.
He turned fully to her again. "If you want to survive it—if you want to make them see you as something more than a symbol or a threat—you'll need to grow faster."
He raised his hand.
"Again."
And Rei moved—not because she had strength left, but because she had to. Because her heartbeat was the only thing she could trust anymore. Because she had already been erased once.
The rhythm of fists against wood echoed through the Hatake backyard like a drumbeat of determination. The afternoon sun filtered through the tall branches of pine and maple trees that bordered the training yard, casting shifting patterns of golden light and dappled shadow on the hardened ground. Dust stirred in the air with every step, every movement, but none of it distracted the two sparring figures at the yard's center.
Takeshi moved in tight, calculated motions—still recovering, but unmistakably sharp. His breath was steady despite the recent strain of returning to physical life after five long years of silence. His arms trembled only slightly as he ducked under a sweeping kick from Shikaku Nara, who had joined them at Sakumo's invitation. It was an odd pairing—Takeshi's sharp force versus Shikaku's deceptive smoothness—but it worked. They pushed each other in ways no one else could.
Shikaku smirked between panted breaths as he circled again. "You're supposed to be the one recovering, not making me look bad."
Takeshi didn't smile. Not really. Just a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he blocked a jab and pivoted smoothly. "I had a long time to imagine breaking your nose."
Sitting on the edge of the porch, Sakumo chuckled, arms folded across his chest. "You'll need that spirit when it counts," he called out. "Next time, it won't be a spar. It'll be a battlefield."
Kakashi sat nearby, leaning against the outer wall of the house, silent and observing. His face was unreadable, and though he hadn't joined in, his eyes tracked every movement. For most of the session, he'd remained quiet, arms loosely folded, expression neither approving nor critical. Just distant.
But as Shikaku finally stepped back, sweat gleaming across his temple, Takeshi adjusted his stance again, preparing to continue. That's when Kakashi stood and stepped forward.
"You've gotten stronger," he said plainly, not offering it as a compliment, but not denying the fact either.
Takeshi didn't respond immediately. He picked up a towel from the porch, wiped the sweat from his face, then looked at Kakashi. "I have to."
Kakashi nodded slightly, then tilted his head as if turning something over in his mind. "So... you don't have one?"
Takeshi blinked. "What?"
"The streak," Kakashi said, his tone casual but his gaze sharp. "Rei's got that red streak in her hair. Everyone knows it. But you don't."
Shikaku, who had crouched near the edge of the yard to retie his sandals, glanced up—but said nothing. He watched instead.
Takeshi paused. The towel lowered in his hands. For a moment, his body went still, like something old had been stirred.
"It's not automatic," Takeshi finally said, voice low. "Not all of us are born with it. Not everyone ever gets it."
Kakashi narrowed his eyes. "But you're both Arakawa."
"We are," Takeshi agreed.
"So why does she have it, and you don't?"
Takeshi's jaw flexed, but he didn't bristle. Instead, he tossed the towel aside and sat on the low wooden steps that overlooked the training yard.
"It's not just hair color," he said after a beat. "It's... ancestral. Spiritual, maybe. They say the streak shows when a bearer is awakened—when they've seen enough, done enough, lost enough. When they carry the will of Raiden Arakawa himself."
Kakashi didn't answer right away. His arms were still crossed, but his posture had shifted—no longer idle, but engaged. His gaze, once casual, now narrowed with curiosity. Thoughtfulness crept into the edges of his silence.
Takeshi caught the change. He exhaled, sitting back against the steps of the porch, his knuckles still raw from sparring.
"She's been through things," he said, voice quieter now. "Things you don't know about."
Kakashi tilted his head. "And you haven't?"
It wasn't sharp. Just... honest. The kind of question only someone who had seen battles too young could ask.
Takeshi stared out across the yard. The training post stood like a sentinel—battered, scorched, unbroken.
"I was gone," he said simply. "She lived through it while I was in a coma. Alone."
His tone wasn't bitter. Just heavy. Quiet. A truth he still couldn't fully carry.
Kakashi stepped forward, brows slightly furrowed. "The streak. It's not just a symbol, then?"
Takeshi shook his head. "No. Not for her."
Kakashi hesitated. "But it didn't show up from trauma, or awakening like others?"
"No." Takeshi glanced at him, something flickering in his eyes. "She was born with it. The only one of us who ever was."
Kakashi blinked, startled. "She didn't... earn it?"
"It's not about earning anything," Takeshi said, his voice steel under the surface. "It's about what it means. What it costs."
Kakashi frowned. "So she's... special."
"That's one word for it." Takeshi ran a hand through his hair. "You've heard the rumors. People whisper that she's Raiden Arakawa's reincarnation. His will reborn. They think the streak proves it."
Kakashi didn't reply, but the name—Raiden Arakawa—hung in the air like the echo of thunder. A name buried in Konoha's classified history. A founder. A threat. A ghost.
"Our mother and father tried to hide it," Takeshi went on. "Did everything they could to protect her from what people would say. From what the village might try to make of her."
Kakashi's eyes widened slightly.
"She's a kid," Takeshi continued, bitterness creeping into his voice. "Just a kid. Full of life. Full of questions. And the village saw a weapon. I saw my sister. And then I... wasn't there to stop any of it."
There it was—the weight behind his words. The ache. The regret.
"I should've protected her," he murmured. "But I couldn't. And now... they're coming for her."
"Who?" Kakashi asked, but he already knew given his recent mission.
"Suna and Iwa," Takeshi said. "They've been seen together. Near the border. Asking questions. Always the same ones. You saw them"
He looked up, meeting Kakashi's gaze. "They're not looking for documents. Or land. They're looking for Rei."
Silence.
Sakumo stepped down from the porch, folding his arms as he moved between them. "That's why we're training now," he said. "Not just to fight, but to prepare. To take positions that matter."
He turned to Takeshi. "You, Shikaku—you'll be old enough soon to advise the Hokage directly. When this war begins, the next generation will need minds just as much as muscle."
Kakashi looked at his father, surprised.
Sakumo gave a small nod. "I won't be able to hold this position forever. And someone will have to stand between politics and the battlefield. Someone the village can trust."
"But what about Rei?" Kakashi asked quietly.
Sakumo's gaze hardened. "She's not the problem, Kakashi. The people hunting her are. But the Council doesn't see it that way. They see danger where they should see potential."
He turned to Kakashi, his voice low. "You want to protect this village? Then learn to see clearly. Beyond fear. Beyond suspicion."
Kakashi's mouth pressed into a thin line. "I didn't mean to insult her."
Takeshi stood slowly, his muscles stiff but his voice sure. "No. You just don't trust her."
Kakashi didn't deny it. "I don't trust people who hide things."
Takeshi met his gaze evenly. "Then you must really hate yourself."
The words weren't sharp. Just quiet and direct.
And for a moment, Kakashi's breath caught—just slightly. He said nothing.
Sakumo stepped between them again, not in anger but in quiet finality. "Enough."
He looked to both boys. "You're not enemies. Not now. Don't let the village make you forget that."
He turned to Takeshi. "You're not her shield anymore. You're her brother. That's the role she needs."
Then to Kakashi. "And you? You need to decide if you'll stand beside her—or against her—before that choice is made for you."
Shikaku, having stayed silent through most of the exchange, finally rose and offered a half-wave. "Same time tomorrow?"
Takeshi gave a slow nod. "Yeah."
Kakashi turned to go, but something in his posture had shifted. He didn't look back.
And when Takeshi looked back toward the training post—its surface scarred from years of blows—he felt something settle cold and sharp in his chest.
Time was running out.
And this time, he would not sleep through what was coming.
The soft creak of the front door echoed through the hallway as Takeshi stepped inside, kicking off his sandals with a slow exhale. He rolled his shoulder once, testing the soreness, and caught a glimpse of Rei's shadow slipping into the kitchen ahead of him. The house smelled faintly of chamomile and dust.
He didn't need to ask where she'd been. She always returned from Orochimaru's sessions with that same haunted silence, like something had been peeled back beneath her skin but not yet stitched together. Tonight, though, it was different. Not sharp-edged or heavy with defiance—but muted. Wrapped up in something deeper. And quieter.
He followed her into the kitchen.
The lights were low, just one paper lantern glowing above the sink, casting a soft warmth across the counters. Rei stood near the table, absently fingering the rim of a chipped teacup. Her eyes flicked up when she heard him enter but quickly looked away.
Takeshi didn't press. He moved past her, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove, the clatter of metal on ceramic louder than it needed to be in the silence. Rei had already laid out the tea leaves, two cups, and the small honey jar without saying a word.
He noticed.
"Still like yours plain?" he asked, voice casual as the kettle began to hum.
She didn't answer right away.
Then, softly: "Yeah."
The room went quiet again.
He kept his eyes on the stove flame, but every sense was tuned to her—the way her shoulders didn't relax, the way her fingers stayed wrapped too tightly around the edge of the counter.
He turned to speak, but before he could—
"I'm sorry."
The words came so fast they almost overlapped his breath.
Takeshi blinked, straightening slowly.
Rei didn't meet his eyes. "For that night. When I said all those things. I was angry. Scared. I didn't mean most of it, and the parts I did... I didn't say right."
The kettle hissed quietly in the background.
"I thought you wouldn't understand," she continued, voice low. "And it was easier to push you away than risk hoping you'd actually stay this time."
Her voice cracked, just a little.
Takeshi stepped closer, turning off the stove with a twist and gently pouring the water into their waiting cups. The scent of tea filled the air, grounding and familiar.
He handed her one, then sat down across from her at the small table, letting the steam curl between them like a fragile thread.
"I get it," he said finally. "And I'm sorry too. For how I acted when I got back."
Rei glanced up.
"I walked in here thinking I could still be your big brother," he said, "but I'd missed too much. I saw everything you'd become, and instead of being proud... I judged you."
"You had a right to," she said quickly. "I've done things—"
"No," Takeshi interrupted gently. "I didn't. I hadn't earned that anymore."
Rei looked away, blinking hard. "You're still my brother."
He nodded slowly. "And I should've acted like it. I should've listened first. Been here for you now instead of trying to lecture you for what I wasn't around to see."
There was a long pause. Neither of them touched their tea.
Outside, the wind passed quietly through the wooden slats of the house, and somewhere in the distance, a cat meowed.
"I was just so angry back then," Rei murmured. "At the village. At the elders. At everyone. I thought... if I kept moving, kept training, maybe it would mean something. Maybe I could protect you next time."
Takeshi's expression softened. "You already did."
Rei finally looked at him. Her eyes shimmered in the dim light, but no tears fell. "Then why does it feel like I'm always too late?"
He reached across the table, placing his hand over hers.
"Because you care too much," he said. "That's not weakness. That's what makes you strong."
Rei held his gaze for a moment longer before finally lowering her eyes.
The silence that followed didn't feel sharp anymore. It felt like healing.
Takeshi stood, taking both cups to the sink. "We should get some rest."
Rei rose to follow him toward the hallway.
But just before they parted to their rooms, she paused beside him.
"I'm glad you're here," she said softly. "Even if we're both different now."
He smiled faintly. "That just means we get to know each other all over again."
Rei nodded and turned toward her room.
Behind her, Takeshi watched for a moment longer.
And this time, the quiet in the house wasn't emptiness.
It was peace.