Chapter Twenty-Seven
The air in Obito's hideout was thick and still, stale with the smell of damp stone. Six months had passed since Madara and Kenshin had vanished into the world. Obito sat in the gloom, his lone visible eye fixed on nothing.
A ripple stirred the floor, and Black Zetsu oozed upward, his form dark and slick against the stone.
"They are still traveling," Zetsu announced, his voice a dry rustle.
Obito didn't turn.
"It's surprising. That Lord Madara would indulge the whims of a child."
"Perhaps it is the seal," Obito suggested. "The Edo Tensei may bind his will to the caster's intent."
"Unlikely." Zetsu's voice was flat. "Lord Madara's will has never been so easily shackled."
"Then perhaps it's because of Kenshin himself," Obito murmured. "He could be an old relic, like Madara himself. Have you found any record of him before Konoha?"
"Nothing."
"A jutsu of rebirth, then. Or possession." Zetsu's form shifted thoughtfully. "Orochimaru's research suggests a soul could migrate. The boy's sudden blossoming after graduation… it was as if another consciousness woke within him."
"Do you have proof?"
"Circumstance," Zetsu admitted. "But compelling. He went from an undistinguished genin to a shinobi who could kill the Third Hokage within months."
Obito went very still. "He killed Hiruzen?"
"All evidence points to him. A mysterious black-haired man—never seen before or since—penetrated the Four Violet Flames Formation during the invasion. The Third died moments later."
Obito absorbed this, the gears of his mind turning silently. "What is his motive, then?"
"His motives are irrelevant for now," Zetsu said smoothly. "What matters is the Eye of the Moon. It is Lord Madara's true will. Even if Kenshin has turned him into… a tourist for a time, once the Tailed Beasts are gathered,I'm sure Lord Madara will begin the plan in earnest."
"Have you located the Three-Tails?"
"It will resurrect soon. Then we begin."
"This world will finally be cleansed."
---
One year after Madara's revival.
"Yo."
Kenshin's voice was a cheerful intrusion in Nagato's chamber. He leaned against the wall near the entrance, one hand raised in a casual wave.
Nagato, propped in his chair of tubes and machinery, turned his Rinnegan eyes toward the sound. Konan, standing vigil nearby, stiffened almost imperceptibly.
"What do you want?" Nagato asked, his voice thin but steady.
"Me? I'm here to do you a favor." Kenshin pushed off the wall and strolled further into the room, his footsteps light on the stone. "Can't have the leader of my illustrious organization stuck in a chair, can I? Not when I can fix it."
Konan's eyes narrowed. "You know medical ninjutsu?"
"Of course." Kenshin spread his hands, a faint smirk on his lips. "Has it been so long that you've forgotten my title?"
"I have not," Konan said coolly. "'Most Knowledgeable Man.'"
"You should add 'most intelligent.' And 'most handsome.'" He winked. "I'm at least two Kakashis' worth of handsome."
Konan's expression did not change.
"Anyway," Kenshin continued, his tone shifting back to business. "I'll be dropping by periodically. Patch you up, bit by bit. Oh, and a reminder—my teenage self has built up quite the reputation. It's time to think about recruiting him. He'd fit the group's aesthetic nicely. He'll be my partner."
"You have it all planned out," Konan observed, her voice flat.
"Naturally." His smirk returned, sharp and knowing. "Ciao."
He gave a two-fingered salute and vanished, leaving the chamber feeling suddenly emptier.
---
A week later, in the depths of one of Orochimaru's hidden labs, the air was thick with the scent of formaldehyde and decay.
"Aiya. You're not looking your best, Snake Sage."
Kenshin materialized from the shadows beside a table of scrolls and specimen jars. Orochimaru, his pale skin almost luminous in the low light, did not startle. He turned slowly, a thin smile on his lips.
"You've come," Orochimaru rasped. "I had wondered if you'd forgotten our… arrangement. It has been two years."
"I wanted to let you enjoy your new toy," Kenshin said lightly, examining a preserved eyeball in a jar. "The young Uchiha. I trust you received my instructions about not switching bodies immediately?"
"I did." Orochimaru's smile didn't reach his golden eyes. "I must admit, I did not expect you to follow through on your threat to check."
"I'm full of surprises. And I like talking to smart people who understand consequences." Kenshin set the jar down. "So, let's get to it. I need your stock of Hashirama's cells. And the Second's, Third's, and Fourth's. Also, you will rescind your Edo Tensei on the First and Second Hokage."
Orochimaru's tongue flicked out. "You have learned the Edo Tensei. I am not surprised."
"Learned?" Kenshin chuckled. "No, Snake. I perfected it. And because I'm such a nice guy, I'll help your research along." He pulled a small, dense notebook from his cloak and tossed it onto the table between them. "My notes. No thanks necessary."
Orochimaru's eyes lingered on the book. "And the price for this… generosity?"
"It's not a price. It's me helping you again." Kenshin's voice remained light, but his gaze hardened. "All you have to do is let Sasuke leave when he chooses. You'll find a perfect vessel detailed in those notes—one that won't reject your soul. Give up your Sharingan obsession."
Orochimaru's smile vanished. "Why should I? I have invested years in the boy. The Sharingan has been a goal of mine for decades."
"Fate has decided you're not getting one," Kenshin said, his voice dropping to a soft, dangerous register. "I've given you the better option. I even like you, in my way."
The atmosphere in the lab grew heavy. Kenshin's chakra flared for a single, violent instant—a pressure that made the glassware vibrate and the lantern flames gutter.
"But if you think you have a choice," Kenshin continued, stepping closer, "I will end your little immortality project here and now. Do not think I am unaware of your Curse Mark network. I will hunt down and exterminate every last one of your vessels."
He stopped beside Orochimaru and placed a hand on his shoulder. The touch was deceptively gentle.
"Don't test me, Diddymaru."
He smirked, and then he was gone, leaving only a fading chill in the air.
In another chamber of the complex, where Kabuto was organizing scrolls, a identical notebook appeared soundlessly on his desk.
---
One year and three months after the revival.
"Yah yah, another ninja dead, who's next, come here, come here—boom, he's dead!"
Teenage Kenshin half-sang, half-rapped as he moved through the clearing, a silver-blur of motion. His hair, the color of pale moonlight, was tied back in a practical ponytail. At fifteen, he stood taller, his features sharper—handsome, by any measure, if one ignored the blood spraying across his clothes.
The last of the rogue-nin bounty hunters slumped to the forest floor. Kenshin flicked his wrist, clearing his chakra-tempered blade of blood in a single, practiced motion—a move he'd stolen from a pirate in his memories.
"How did Killer Bee make this look easy?" he muttered to himself, sheathing the sword. "Rapping is definitely not my style."
He'd been hunting rogue ninja relentlessly, building his portfolio in the underworld and, secretly, easing pressure on Konoha. It was his way of signaling Shikaku that he hadn't truly gone rogue—that the defection was still part of the plan.
He avoided direct fights with Konoha shinobi, except for the occasional, purposeful "trolling." During those encounters, he would place them under genjutsu, implanting messages for Shikaku during their post-mission debriefs.
After the first time, Shikaku had caught on. His response was an order to all jōnin, special jōnin, and chūnin team leaders: any sighting of Kenshin Yogen was to be reported directly to him. That was the signal—the acknowledgment.
Kenshin had then established a proper channel. After one particularly fruitful "trolling" session, he'd left behind a summoning contract scroll for a species of chakra-sensitive arachnids. Now, a tiny, nearly invisible spider would linger after each encounter, waiting to scuttle back to him with Shikaku's encoded replies.
Through this fragile thread, Shikaku fed him intelligence—locations of high-value rogue ninja who possessed village secrets. Kenshin would hunt them, scour their memories with genjutsu, and implant the cleansed information into the next Konoha shinobi he "accidentally" let escape.
This latest batch had been on that list.
The name "Kenshin Yogen" was now whispered with fear in bounty offices and black-market taverns. He made a point of turning in his kills, collecting the ryo, and maintaining the legend.
All in a day's work.
---
Madara's Perspective
A year. Seven months. Three hours. Five minutes. Forty-two seconds.
The brat had made sure I knew the precise span. "So you cherish our time together," he'd said, that infuriating grin on his face.
We had traveled. We had seen the minor villages, the hamlets clinging to the edges of the great nations. I had witnessed what I had long ignored in my focus on the shinobi cycle.
The suffering was not confined to the battlefield.
I saw villages where the soil was dust and the children's bellies were hollow. I saw the desperation that turns men into bandits, that sells daughters into slavery, that breeds a different kind of war—a slow, grinding war of attrition against hope itself.
The children of the great villages play at being shinobi, dream of being Kage. The children of these forgotten places dream of a full meal. Of a morning without fear.
This world is sick. Its illness runs deeper than clan rivalries or national borders. Hashirama's village system sheltered some, but it cast long shadows where the light did not reach.
I once believed the Infinite Tsukuyomi was the only surgery sharp enough to cut out the pain. A dream for all.
Now I know that dream is a lie. It is anesthetic, not a cure. It is Kaguya's tool for harvest, not salvation.
Kenshin's idea—raw, brutal, pragmatic—holds a terrible appeal. With ultimate power, one could force the world to heal. Not by offering an illusion of peace, but by mandating its conditions. By breaking the systems that create want and distributing the resources that foster life.
One could build a world where the sun and moon shine on all, not just on those born under a lucky flag.
Hashirama, I thought, looking inward at the ghost of my friend. Your heart was right, but your method was naive. I have seen a harder path. Perhaps it is the only one that leads to a dawn that does not fade.
—
Konohagakure – Hokage's Office
The heavy oak door of the Hokage's office swung shut behind Shikaku Nara with a soft, definitive thud. Late afternoon light streamed through the high windows, catching motes of dust that swirled in the wake of his entrance. He crossed the room in three measured strides, the scent of old paper and Tsunade's faint medicinal herbs filling the air. Without ceremony, he placed a manila folder on the polished surface of her desk with a crisp tap.
Tsunade, who had been studying a different report, didn't look up immediately. Her eyes, sharp and amber, scanned the final line before shifting to the new file. Her brow arched slightly. "Another one?"
"Yes," Shikaku confirmed, a small, knowing smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Kenshin is proving… remarkably effective."
Tsunade finally looked up, her gaze leveling on him. "Did you relay my message? Exactly as I gave it to you?"
"Word for word," Shikaku replied, the smile not fading. "He is to expect a thorough beating upon his eventual return to the village."
"Then why," Tsunade said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register, "are you smiling?"
"A personal thought, Hokage-sama." He met her stare, his own eyes tired but alert. "I merely recall you instructing me, quite clearly, not to bring you any further news regarding Kenshin Yogen."
Tsunade leaned back in her chair, which creaked in protest. She exhaled a sharp breath through her nose. "Who could have predicted he'd be this useful?" Frustration bled into her tone. "That brat had the audacity to walk out the front gate, flouting my authority before I even had the chance to give the order."
"To be perfectly fair," Shikaku interjected, his voice calm and reasonable, "he departed before you issued those instructions. Furthermore, the… spectacle of his exit lent invaluable credibility to his cover. If his mission succeeds, he returns not as a rogue, but a hero."
"Hero, my ass," Tsunade snorted, crossing her arms. Her sleeves rustled with the motion. "After all this time playing shadow games and rogue ninja, has he even made contact with the Akatsuki? Or is he just out there enjoying his extended vacation?"
"It remains a mystery how he attained such strength," Tsunade mused, her gaze drifting to the window and the village beyond. "His genjutsu mastery alone is high-level enough to execute these memory purges and implants. Tch."She shook her head "Everything about him is high-level. And a shinobi of that caliber is out there… playing."
"That 'play' is precisely why he's running our covert operations," Shikaku Stated. "The intelligence he's filtering back to us—locations, techniques, hidden loyalties—we'd have none of it if he'd stayed within the village walls, grinding through standard mission protocols."
"One could argue," Shikaku said, turning his attention back to her, "he has made a greater strategic impact on Konoha's security from the outside than he ever could have from within."
"Tch. I'm well aware of the arithmetic, Shikaku." Tsunade waved a dismissive hand, the gesture both acknowledging his point and ending the debate. She picked up the new folder, her fingers tapping its edge. "You're dismissed. And remind me—immediately—when he uncovers anything substantive about the Akatsuki's leadership or their timetable."
Shikaku dipped his head in a shallow, respectful bow. "Yes, Hokage-sama."
He turned and left the office, the door clicking shut softly behind him once more. Alone in the hall, the faint echo of his own footsteps accompanying him, he let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the village itself.
What a drag.
—
Konohagakure – The Gates
The late afternoon sun gilded the rooftops of Konoha. The village gates stood open, the familiar carved faces of the Hokage looking down.
A figure in orange paused at the threshold. He was taller, his shoulders broader. The whisker marks on his cheeks were the same, but the look in his blue eyes was different—calmer, deeper, steadied by time and trial.
Naruto Uzumaki took a long, slow breath, smelling the familiar scents of home: ramen broth, tree blossoms, forge-smoke, and earth.
He was back.
Behind him, Jiraiya stood with his arms crossed, a proud, quiet smile on his face. The student had surpassed the master in ways neither could have predicted.
The Son of Prophecy had returned.
And in the growing shadows of the shinobi world, other pieces continued to move. Time would tell how those shadows would touch the sun.