"Augh—what's that?!"
"A... meteorite?!"
The cries of confusion rang out across the battlefield. Shinobi from every village, hardened veterans and wide-eyed rookies alike, stared skyward in awe and horror. The ground trembled. The air crackled.
It was him.
Madara Uchiha—the ghost of legends, the nightmare from a bygone era—had returned.
Across the torn landscape of the battlefield, the Allied Shinobi Forces were in disarray. Some lay dead, their bodies broken. Others twitched, still dying. Many stood frozen, paralyzed not by injury, but by fear—overwhelmed by a power so immense, so divine, it defied comprehension. What could they do but accept it? Accept their insignificance in the face of a living god?
Among them was one shinobi. Nameless, forgotten. His dust-brown flak jacket—torn, bloodied—marked him as a chūnin… or perhaps a jōnin of Sunagakure. It hardly mattered now.
He lay half-buried in rubble, his lower body mangled, blood seeping from his mouth and wounds both visible and internal. One of the many faceless soldiers crushed beneath Madara's overwhelming power, struck down during the Uchiha's terrifying first appearance.
Through his fading vision, he saw the battlefield continue to rage.
The first meteorite had been stopped—but another one descended. The Tsuchikage struggled, hands shaking, barely holding back the second falling titan.
Then—two enormous hands of sand erupted from the earth, grasping the meteor with all the strength of nature itself.
Floating above it all was a single figure. A boy, yet not a boy. Vivid red hair danced in the wind, eyes strained with concentration. His arms were outstretched like a puppet's strings holding up the sky.
Gaara.
The Kazekage.
Once feared. Once reviled. A weapon. A monster. A boy more demon than human—until he was saved by the one who dared to call him friend: Naruto Uzumaki.
"H-heh…" the dying shinobi chuckled bitterly, blood bubbling in his throat. "I guess… I should've tried a little harder in life, huh?"
The cold crept in. First his legs, then his fingers, then his heart. The heat bled from his body, and with it, his life.
He died.
And yet…
In the vast, endless silence of death, something stirred. A stillness that lasted forever—and yet no time at all.
Then—a voice.
"Shisha Haka! Wake up and go help your father at the store!"
The peace shattered.
Shisha Haka's eyes snapped open, stung by sudden light. The warm image of his mother filled his blurry vision—alive, smiling, real.
His mother.
The same woman who had died years ago from an incurable illness. The same illness that only Lady Tsunade might've cured… if only he had the power, the status, the courage to ask for such a miracle.
Tears welled in his eyes as he threw his arms around her, burying his face in her soft chestnut hair.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I missed you—I love you—"
She laughed gently, patting his head, ruffling his hair the way she always used to.
"Okay, okay—what was that, a bad dream? Or are you trying to sweet-talk your way out of helping with the store again?" she teased, a playful smile in her hazel eyes.
Haka sniffled, blinking away the tears. "Aww, do I have to…"
He pouted—not from reluctance, but to mask the whirlwind in his heart. If this was real, he needed to act normal. If it wasn't… then someone was watching.
The moment he hugged her, his mind had begun racing. Possibilities. Scenarios. Could this be his life flashing before his eyes? A final memory? But no—he could move. Interact. Change things.
Then maybe… time travel?
No. Impossible.
A genjutsu?
He'd already tried dispelling it—biting his tongue, causing himself pain, using hand signs once his mother had gone downstairs. No reaction. No distortion. No shift in reality.
Not a genjutsu—at least not one he could break.
And so, only one possibility remained.
"Even if this is a genjutsu," Haka murmured to himself, wiping his eyes, "I should try living without regrets."
Dead or not—this was his second chance.
And he wouldn't waste it.