Akira opened his eyes to darkness.
The wooden ceiling above him was unfamiliar, its beams warped and cracked with age. The faint glow of moonlight filtered through a small window, casting pale shadows across the room. But something was wrong. The other bed—the one Ichika had been sleeping in—was empty.
"…Ichika?" he whispered softly. No reply.
He sat up, his senses sharp. The air felt unnaturally still, thick, and suffocating—as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. Akira instinctively reached for his storage scroll, the one where he kept his weapons and supplies.
It wasn't there.
No… I always keep it beside me, he thought, unease prickling the back of his neck.
Quietly, he rose and crept toward the door. The hallway stretched out in front of him, a long corridor lined with dark wooden walls. It was utterly silent, not even the faint creak of settling wood or the whisper of wind outside. The kind of silence that made you feel like the world had stopped turning.
Halfway down the hallway, he saw it—a figure, standing motionless at the very end.
It faced the window, back turned toward him. Completely still. Completely black.
Akira's breathing slowed. His hand itched for a weapon that wasn't there. But he was no ordinary child—not mentally. At eleven years old, his mind carried the experience of his past life, of someone who had lived to twenty-five. Still, that didn't stop unease from worming its way into his chest.
He took a step. Then another. Slowly, carefully, he approached the figure.
When he was close enough, he reached out and tapped its shoulder.
The figure turned.
Akira's breath caught in his throat.
It was him.
His own face stared back at him, pale and lifeless, eyes empty yet piercing. Suddenly, the hallway warped, twisting like liquid. The wooden walls cracked and bled, crimson running down like tears. The floor dissolved beneath his feet, and in an instant, he was standing ankle-deep in a river of blood.
The other Akira moved closer. Its grin widened unnaturally, stretching across its face. It leaned close to his ear and whispered, almost gently,
"…Akira."
The voice was wrong. Too slow. Too soft. Too hungry.
He stumbled backward, but the figure lunged, grabbing his shoulders with cold, iron strength. Its face began to twist and ripple, shifting from one familiar face to another—his father, Toshiro, eyes wide in accusation. His mother, Umiko, whispering his name with blood on her lips. His mentor, Lady Mochizuki, broken and asking why.
And finally… Tsunade.
"Why didn't you protect us…?"
The words pierced him deeper than any blade. Fear surged, hot and choking, as the doppelgänger screamed—an inhuman sound that rattled his bones.
Akira gasped and snapped awake.
He was back in his bed. Sweat clung to his skin, his heart pounding in his chest. Across the room, Ichika slept soundly, breathing slow and steady.
Just a dream, he told himself, though the taste of fear still lingered. He rose, walked to the washroom, and splashed his face with cold water.
The moon hung outside the window, pale and watchful. Yet the air around the village carried a weight he couldn't explain.
Something was here.
He lay back down, eyes half-open, waiting for dawn.
Elsewhere, at the edge of the village, mist began to gather—thick and unnatural, rolling in like a creeping tide. Hidden within it, a figure moved silently, its form barely distinguishable from the darkness itself.
It stopped before a modest two-story home.
Inside, a family slept peacefully. A father, a mother, and their young child.
The screech came first—high-pitched, metallic, like claws dragging against glass. The father woke, disoriented. He stumbled to the window to check, still half-asleep.
And froze.
A woman stood outside. Or what had once been a woman. Her nails were long, black, and curved like sickles. Her face was a grotesque mask of stretched skin and empty eye sockets.
He couldn't move. Couldn't scream.
The thing burst through the window, its claws flashing in the dark. His head rolled across the floor before his body even realized it was dead.
The monster turned to the mother and child. Both screamed—briefly—before it silenced them, gripping them with bone-cracking strength and leaping back out into the mist. It bounded from tree to tree, carrying its prey with impossible speed.
But tonight, it wouldn't escape so easily.
The Battle – Outskirts of Aragi Village
The night exploded with light.
A blazing sphere of fire roared through the air, striking the creature full in the face. It screamed—an unearthly sound that made the entire village stir in fear. Those brave enough to peek through their shutters quickly turned away, praying the darkness would swallow whatever was out there.
The creature tumbled across the forest floor, smoke rising from its burned flesh.
From the shadows, Hawk stepped forward—ANBU mask gleaming in the firelight. Behind him, his team emerged, weapons drawn and chakra flaring just enough to kill.
"Target is confirmed hostile," Hawk said coldly. "Team Hawk—engage."
"Copy," Ichika replied, her Sharingan spinning to life.
Haru's Byakugan activated, veins bulging at his temples. "No signs of others nearby. Just this one."
Akira drew his twin blades, Odaichi and Seanbon, feeling chakra swirl around him. The earlier nightmare was gone from his mind. Here and now, only the fight mattered.
Ichika moved first. She leaped into the air, hands flying through seals. "Phoenix Great Fireball Jutsu!"
A storm of flaming projectiles burst forth, pelting the monster with relentless heat. It howled, claws shielding its face, but Ichika wasn't alone.
"Wind Release: Great Balloon Jutsu!" Akira shouted, exhaling a powerful gust that expanded Ichika's fireballs into a massive, flaming barrage. Each explosion lit up the trees like a battlefield at dawn.
The creature staggered, its skin blistered, yet it lunged—fast, vicious, enraged.
"Crow—now!" Hawk barked.
Haru slammed his palms together. "Wind Release: Gale Storm!"
A sudden whirlwind roared to life, trapping the monster mid-leap and hurling it backward into a tree with bone-snapping force.
"Spectre," Hawk said, "finish it."
Akira nodded. His chakra surged, wrapping around his twin blades like a raging current. He inhaled deeply, feeling the pressure build, then roared:
"Wind Release: Final Gambit!"
The air around him exploded into motion, forming a spiraling tempest. The flames from Ichika's jutsu merged with the vortex, igniting it into a roaring inferno of wind and fire. Haru's gale fed the storm, driving it faster, sharper, deadlier.
The creature shrieked, thrashing, but the combined technique held it pinned.
Akira's body blurred, moving faster than the eye could track as water chakra coursed through his muscles, boosting his speed beyond human limits. He appeared in front of the monster—then above it—then behind it—all in a heartbeat.
One strike. Then another. And then—
The final cut.
The windstorm erupted with a flash as Akira's twin swords cleaved the monster cleanly in half, the halves disintegrating into ash and black ichor as they hit the ground.
Akira landed softly, his blades glinting in the firelight. A quick water release cleaned the blood from their steel before he sheathed them.
The forest fell silent.
Hawk sealed the remains of the creature into a storage scroll while Haru gently lowered the rescued mother and child, both trembling but alive, onto the forest floor.
Ichika exhaled deeply, letting her Sharingan fade. "That thing… it didn't fight like a shinobi. It fought like an animal."
Akira glanced at the ashes. "Then who's pulling the strings?"
Far Away…
Miles from the village, in a hidden chamber carved into black stone, a figure watched through a crystal sphere. The battle replayed within, showing every strike, every technique, every scream of the dying monster.
A slow smile spread across the watcher's face.
"Excellent," the figure murmured. "So… these are the little pieces moving on the board. Let's see how long they survive."
The crystal dimmed, leaving only darkness.
And laughter.