Hinata tapped on the glass table, deeply desiring to get more answers. But Michel unfortunately had other plans…
It happened after he found the balance.
After days—maybe weeks—of resisting the pull, guiding fragments of his soul into harmony with the fragile body of the girl below, Michel had finally done it.
He hadn't cured her. He hadn't saved her.
But he had given her enough balance to survive.
By guiding her inner light downward, letting the soul feed the flesh with gentleness, he had stabilized her flickering existence. The storm within had calmed, for now.
And then… she slept.
Not the twitching, shallow rest of a sick infant. But something deeper. A surrender of soul. A dream.
Michel felt it instantly. A subtle shift in the current that flowed between them. A release.
And as she exhaled—not in breath, but in spirit—part of him was pulled away.
He didn't resist. Not this time.
The world around him was made of silence.
Not absence—substance.
A silence so complete, it felt like it had shape and gravity.
The light was colorless, or perhaps all colors diluted into grey.
The air was neither warm nor cold. There was no sun, no sky, only a diffuse glow that clung to everything like breath on a mirror.
Michel stepped forward.
He did not float here. He walked, or something close to it. Each step felt like moving through memory—slippery, but real enough.
"What is this…?" he whispered, though no sound came.
The ground beneath him was smooth. Not stone. Not soil. Not cloud. He looked around and saw… nothing. Until he looked again—and saw her.
Hinata—a fragile infant, only few months old.
Small. Soft. Curled up on a bed of mist that had taken the shape of grass.
She looked peaceful here. Untouched by the fever that haunted her physical self. Her breath rose and fell like a wave made of light.
Michel knelt beside her. She didn't stir.
He reached out—instinctively—He carried her in his arms. And he felt her soul radiating outward. Pure. Dense. Already shimmering with the weight of a Grey Soul—too soon, too fast.
"So this is where your light hides..."
And then he felt something else.
Beyond the grey mist, in the far distance, colors moved.
Shifting shapes. Sounds without sound.
It was as if another world spilled into this one, dripping in fragments.
Dreams she didn't yet understand. Emotions without names.
And Hinata, even in her sleep, seemed aware of it.
She stirred.
Her eyes did not open.
But her tiny hand reached toward him, blindly, and touched his beard.
"She knows I'm here…"
A warmth bloomed in the center of this silent plane.
Not from her. From within him.
He closed his eyes—not because he had to, but because it felt right—and remembered.
Tatami.
Wood.
Laughter.
The snap of cloth on cloth, the scent of sweat and incense.
His dojo.
And when he opened his eyes… he didn't summon it, yet it was there. A response. A reflection. The world formed not from his will, but from the bond they now shared.
It was there, as if summoned by remembering.
It was not a dream. Not memory. It was something between—something born of soul, not mind.
And in his arms, the infant soul of Hinata smiled.
Hinata glanced at Michel, her voice soft with curiosity. "So that's how your dojo appeared here? But… why was everything grey?"
Michel answered thoughtfully, eyes distant. "That changed when my soul ascended to the Silver Stage. The world before… it was more ephemeral than this. But even so, this Silver World still lies within that grey world."
"I see… Grandpa," she hesitated, her voice trembling slightly. "You've shown me so many spiritual things… but what happened in the real world while all of this was happening? I… I want to see her. My mother."
Michel's gaze softened, touched by both her courage and fear. He said nothing at first—just offered a quiet nod.
Then, gesturing toward the glass table, he replied, "It's easier if I show you."
Hinata didn't say another word. Slowly, she placed her hands back onto the surface.
Michel had no body. No voice. But he remained beside her, watching—listening.
In the crib below, Hinata barely moved. Her breath was shallow, fragile. Her mother's voice broke the silence: "She didn't eat again… I tried this morning, but she just turned away."
Michel didn't know the woman's name, but her presence was radiant—gentle, weary, and strong.
Hiashi's reply came without emotion. "I've called the physicians. They'll return by nightfall."
There was no anger in him. Only burden. His soul sagged under the weight of expectation.
Days passed. Doctors came and went—medical ninja, herbalists, chakra specialists. None had answers.
"No fever." "Chakra coils are restricted, but not blocked."
Michel knew the truth: her soul and body were out of sync. Too much spirit for a child so small. And he, the cause.
He had no voice to warn them, but he worked regardless—guiding her soul gently, aligning it with her form.
Slowly, the signs changed. Her breath deepened. Her skin warmed. She moved in her sleep.
Michel had stabilized her. Just enough.
Her mother wept with relief. "She's warmer. She moved when I spoke to her."
Hiashi stood at her side. He didn't kneel, but his soul flickered—with hope.
They left together. Michel remained. And for the first time since death, he smiled.
That night, her grandfather came.
A stern elder, unreadable, rigid. He stood at the crib, cold and silent.
"She's stabilized," Hiashi said. "For now," the elder replied. "She's still weak. Still unresponsive."
"She breathes."
"She still carries the bloodline. That's the only reason we continue monitoring her."
Michel felt it—cold calculation. Not hatred. Only tradition sharpened to a blade.
"If the branch were strong, this would not have happened."
Michel's will tightened. He couldn't act, but his spirit recoiled.
Later, when the house slept, the voices returned.
"She's stronger now. She'll make it," the mother whispered.
Hiashi was silent. Then: "We must plan for what comes next."
"What do you mean?"
"If she can't become what the clan needs... we can't build a future on hope alone."
A pause. Then: "I want to try again."
Michel felt the tremor in her soul.
She reached for Hiashi's hand, clutched it tightly. He didn't return it—at first.
Hinata trembled as she watched her mother hear her voice, her concern for her… but her breathing slowed with the presence of her grandfather and father… she left the room to go train… for that night she had seen enough…