The sun hung low, veiled behind drifting smoke and cloud.
Elias walked through dust. His sandals left prints on cracked earth, the occasional weed curling out from the edges of ruined stones. The "village" barely deserved the name. No walls. No chakra defenses. Just huts made of old wood and scrap metal, patched together like desperate prayers.
He passed an old woman sitting outside a broken stall, her eyes sunken and white. She didn't speak. Just watched.
Children peeked from behind worn curtains. Thin. Silent.
No laughter. No chakra training. No games.
Just survival.
So this is the world I've fallen into, Elias thought.
The Jougan burned faintly under his bandage. It wasn't warning him — just pulsing. Like it felt the decay around him.
He reached what must've once been a town square. A broken statue stood at its center, likely of some forgotten warrior or clan head. Now, it was chipped and blackened, birds nesting inside the skull.
"Not much to take," Elias muttered.
But that's what made it all the more cruel.
Because when he heard the thunder of hooves, when chakra surged like an electric charge, and when shadows crested the ridge beyond the fields — he understood:
They weren't coming for riches.
They were coming to remind these people they could be broken.
Hakari Clan.
He didn't recognize their crest at first — a jagged thunderbolt etched in crimson on black — but the name echoed in the memory of one of the scrolls he'd found. A clan of raiders. Opportunists. They didn't hold land; they scorched it and moved on.
And they were here now.
The first arrow struck the statue's head — splitting it down the middle.
Screams.
Dozens of riders descended the hill, lightning crackling around their fists and blades. Their chakra felt unnatural — almost artificial — as if borrowed from storms rather than molded from within.
Villagers scattered like leaves.
A boy was cut down before he could reach the alley.
A man tried to throw a stone — his hand was severed before it landed.
Elias stood still. Watching. Breathing.
Not my fight, his mind whispered.
Survive. That's all.
But the Jougan didn't look away. It tracked every movement, every strike, every pain-soaked ripple in the air. And with each second, Elias could feel that part of him growing colder.
He ducked behind a burnt-out hut, staying low.
He wouldn't reveal himself. Not yet. Maybe not at all.
But even then, even hidden — they noticed.
Not by sight. By chakra.
His was foreign. Refined. Wrong.
A kunai came hurtling through the roof of the hut — he dodged left just in time, rolling out into the street.
Three hakari clan members surrounded him.
One laughed. "Didn't think a little shinobi like you'd hide in this trash heap."
Another: "He's not from here. That eye…"
The leader stepped forward, blade humming with crackling energy.
Elias's hand moved to his satchel.
Ghost Drive would kill them instantly… but draw the rest.
Raging Mountain God would destroy the village with them.
So run.
He dashed right — chakra exploding through his legs, creating a flicker of illusion behind him.
The three lunged at the afterimage — too late.
He vanished into smoke.
He darted between crumbling buildings, letting the Jougan trace enemy movement like threads in the fog. His body burned with tension. He didn't fight. He evaded. Slipped between combat zones. He watched, recorded, survived.
At one point, a child ran into his path — bruised, limping.
Behind them, a bolt of lightning screamed through the air.
Elias didn't think.
He caught the child and rolled behind a shattered wall as the bolt struck where they'd stood. Stone cracked. Fire bloomed.
The child whimpered.
Elias whispered, "Don't move. Don't cry. You'll live."
He left them there, hidden.
He kept moving.
By dusk, the raid was nearly over.
The hakari had taken what little the village had — food, tools, lives. Fires burned freely, silhouetting the riders against the orange sky.
But Elias had learned something vital.
The world wasn't just divided by clan borders or old bloodlines.
It was carved by power — and those too weak to wield it were pawns or casualties.
Smoke clung to Elias like a second skin.
He walked past burning homes, their thatched roofs curling inward like petals of ash. Corpses lay scattered, eyes wide open as if still trying to understand what had happened. Some of them had never touched a kunai in their lives.
He didn't flinch.
He couldn't afford to.
This is the world, he thought, his right eye glowing faintly under the blood-soaked bandage. Not the stories. Not the shinobi legends. Just this. Smoke, hunger, and death.
Lightning still cracked in the distance. The hakari were leaving — slowly, methodically. Not in a hurry. They'd done what they came to do.
Elias didn't follow them. He turned away from the road.
Instead, he cut across the outer edge of the village, weaving through the wreckage. He was looking for distance. For silence.
For the space to think.
He stopped near a well — half-shattered, one side collapsed. A child's shoe lay beside it, soaked in red mud.
He sat.
And finally… he allowed the weight to settle.
Those too weak to wield power are pawns… or casualties.
The words echoed in his head — but it wasn't arrogance. It wasn't pride.
It was truth.
This world didn't offer mercy to the helpless. It barely offered justice to the strong.
And that thought — that truth — broke something in him.
Not like glass shattering. More like a rope snapping in his chest, one strand at a time. A tie to something he hadn't realized he still held onto.
I used to believe I could do the right thing when the time came. That I'd know. That someone would step in.
But the time came.
And I hid. And ran.
He clenched his fists. The scrolls in his pack rustled — a whisper of violent potential.
He could've fought.
He could've killed dozens.
But would it have mattered?
Would the villagers have lived?
Or would more have died just being near him?
He leaned back against the stone wall of the well and stared up through the smoke-choked sky.
The stars had begun to pierce through.
Cold. Distant.
Watching.
You gave me this eye. This cursed gift. Why?
To witness? To weep?
Or to burn the world back into shape?
He didn't know.
But something had changed. Not in his powers — in his resolve.
Before, he was drifting. Surviving. Avoiding.
Now?
He understood the stakes.
Not clans. Not glory. Just this:
If he didn't grow stronger…
He'd be next.
⸻
He stood up.
The Jougan dimmed beneath the bandage, but its presence pulsed — no longer an alien thing, but something rooted inside him. Connected to every thread of chakra he'd sensed. Every scream he'd ignored.
He wouldn't be a savior. Not yet.
But he would never be a pawn.
⸻
He turned and disappeared into the trees, just as the last fire died behind him.
The village — nameless and forgotten — faded into smoke and memory.
And Elias, burdened by power he hadn't asked for, walked into the cold night as something inside him sharpened:
A survivor no longer content with merely surviving.
.
.
.
The flames had faded behind him, but the smoke still clung to his cloak like a ghost.
Hours passed beneath the forest canopy. The path was uneven, roots curled like grasping hands and mud thick from recent rain. Twilight bled into night — and still, Elias pressed forward, his steps steady, his body silent.
But the forest… wasn't.
Birds had gone quiet.
Leaves whispered things they shouldn't.
The Jougan throbbed.
He stopped, breath held.
There's chakra nearby.
His eye, hidden beneath his bandage, flared to life. The world split into layers — threads of light tracing movement, heat, tension. A fight had happened here, recently. Claw-like chakra burns scorched the air, and half-dried blood painted the bark of trees.
He crept forward through the underbrush.
A clearing opened before him — wide and torn by violence.
Bodies.
Some armored in crimson and black, their eyes sharing the same cold sharpness: Uchiha.
Others wore mossy green flak and forest tones — hardened faces and sturdy builds: Senju.
A massacre, recent. Maybe just an hour ago.
But it wasn't over.