The instant Shinnōsuke crossed the threshold of the Fire Temple, his transplanted Sharingan flared faintly, reacting to something unseen. A chill like ice water rushed through his veins, and his body shivered despite himself. His face darkened, solemn and cautious.
Asuma and Chiriku walked beside him, seemingly unaffected. Neither man showed the slightest abnormality as the three advanced into the main hall.
To their eyes, the hall was tranquil and majestic—sunlight still poured in through the high windows, illuminating the serene form of the central Buddha statue.
But to Shinnōsuke's vision…
The air was heavy and murky, thick with a cold, oppressive gloom, as if no sunlight had touched this place in years. Each breath seemed labored, each step weighed down.
His gaze froze on the Buddha statue at the heart of the hall.
The figure sat in silent dignity, yet across its stone surface, Shinnōsuke saw smeared crimson stains, like blood flung carelessly by unseen hands. The dark blotches marred the serene expression of the Buddha, twisting holiness into something grotesque.
"After that incident, it became like this," Chiriku said quietly, noticing the shift in Shinnōsuke's expression. His tone carried sorrow and resignation. "They say those stains are the blood of the monks who ended their lives here. No matter how many times we cleanse it, the marks never fade."
Shinnōsuke barely heard him. His eyes were locked onto the Buddha's calm, closed lids.
A pressure welled inside his chest—unseen, suffocating. It was as if the statue's eyes themselves contained something vast and malignant, something watching him from behind stone.
Then, suddenly—
A pair of scarlet tomoe whirled open where the Buddha's eyes should have been. Sharingan.
"Sharingan…" Shinnōsuke's voice cracked. "There are Sharingan on the Buddha statue!"
Asuma and Chiriku both turned sharply, startled. But where he pointed, they saw only the ancient, solemn face of stone.
"Big brother," Asuma said, frowning, "you must be mistaken. There's nothing there."
Chiriku studied carefully, even weaving a quick hand sign to probe for chakra. After a moment, he shook his head gravely. "This statue holds no abnormalities. Shinnōsuke… are you truly well?"
But Shinnōsuke's mind was already unraveling. His Sharingan vision blurred, his head throbbed, and dread clawed through his thoughts. He shut his eyes tightly, unable to endure the sight any longer.
And the moment he did—
A flood of alien memories surged into his mind like a crashing tide.
He stood, in that vision, at the temple gates years ago. Several monks barred the entrance, their faces pale with terror. Before them, a young man stood calmly, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes faintly amused.
"Why do you block me?" the young man asked softly. "Who are you?"
"I am Uchiha Gen," came the answer, spoken with a casual smile. "Representative of Konoha's Hokage—Seventh Hokage Uzumaki Naruto. I only came to look upon the Buddha statue."
The monks stiffened in disbelief. "Seventh Hokage? There is no such thing. Do not mock us!"
Gen chuckled lightly, tilting his head. "A joke, then. Call me only a traveler. But why such fear in your eyes? Why must you stop me?"
The monks' leader broke into a sweat. His voice trembled. "The aura about you… it is like that of a demon. Leave this place at once!"
"A demon?" Gen repeated, his smile widening, though his gaze turned sharp as a blade. He stepped forward, slowly climbing the temple stairs.
"You already see me as a demon—so your hearts are tainted with prejudice. Whether one is a demon or not is only a matter of cause and effect. But to shrink back in fear, to cling to distinctions… that is no true compassion."
His voice, calm yet suffocating, sank into their chests like a curse. The monks gasped, their faces drained of blood, their bodies trembling.
"You—what do you intend to do?" one whispered, almost choking on his fear.
Gen pressed his palms together in mock piety and smiled brilliantly. "I only wished to see the Buddha statue."
And in the next instant, his eyes flared scarlet, the Sharingan whirling alive—
His gaze turned, piercing through time and memory, locking onto Shinnōsuke himself.
The statue's eyes, the youth's eyes—they overlapped, fusing into one.
And then—screams, blood, slaughter.
Images arise from the heart; a Buddha heart sees Buddha, a demon heart sees demon…
The words echoed endlessly in Shinnōsuke's skull—until suddenly they cut off, and he awoke with a violent gasp.
Cold sweat drenched his skin. His chest heaved as if he had fought for his life.
The hall around him was silent again. The Buddha statue stood calm and still, its stone eyes closed, untouched by blood or scarlet light.
Nothing was amiss.
And yet Shinnōsuke's heart still pounded, refusing to believe.
In the Kurama Clan's camp, grief hung like a shroud.
The sudden and tragic death of the Kurama Clan Head had thrown the entire clan into chaos. The weeping of women and the hollow gazes of the elders mingled with the unease of the younger generation. Fear spread quietly—if their leader, the pillar of their clan, could fall so abruptly, then what future remained for the Kurama name?
Into this suffocating atmosphere stepped Senju Tobirama.
Clad in a dark robe, his presence was as cold and sharp as winter steel. His footsteps were steady, unhurried, yet every sound of his sandals striking the earth seemed to echo like a judgment. Wherever his pale eyes fell, the clan members instinctively lowered their heads, too overwhelmed to meet his gaze. To them, Tobirama was not a man—he was authority incarnate.
The Second Hokage stopped directly before the young girl, Kurama Yakumo. His voice, cutting through the silence, was firm and inescapable:
"Kurama Yakumo. From this day forth, you are my disciple."
The camp froze.
Shock rippled across the Kurama clan. Elders exchanged bewildered looks, while children and women gasped quietly. For them, this pronouncement was unthinkable: that the Second Hokage himself would personally take a fragile young girl as his student.
Yakumo trembled, her small shoulders quivering under the weight of Tobirama's piercing gaze. Her pale face betrayed a fleeting trace of fear, but within her eyes, something else flickered—resolve.
After a brief moment of silence, she straightened her back, her voice trembling but resolute:
"Yes, Lord Second. I will shoulder the burden of the Kurama Clan's honor. I will not disappoint my grandfather."
Tobirama studied her carefully. Though delicate in appearance, there was steel hidden beneath her frailty. That inner flame reminded him of another era, of other young shinobi who had once pledged to walk alongside him.
This was no whimsical decision.
He had just witnessed with his own eyes—Uchiha Gen's Sharingan, twisting reality itself, consuming the Kurama Clan Head in an instant. That event had carved a truth into his mind: such precision in Gen's methods could not be coincidence. He had deliberately targeted the Kurama Clan.
Why? Because of their bloodline—the Kurama's unique ability to blur illusion and reality. If that power could counteract, or even unravel, the Mangekyō Sharingan… then Yakumo was not simply a girl. She was a potential key.
And Tobirama understood all too well: a key, if left unchecked, could also become a weapon in enemy hands.
Therefore, within his limited borrowed time, he would personally forge this weapon. Yakumo would not merely survive—she would awaken, control, and wield her clan's cursed gift.
He placed a heavy hand on her thin shoulder, his expression like carved stone.
"The path ahead will not be easy. You must be ready to endure pain few could withstand."
Yakumo nodded, her eyes flickering with a determination beyond her years.
For the first time in a long while, Tobirama's lips curved ever so faintly.
"Good. Then we begin."
Deep inside, his thoughts darkened.
Uchiha brat… no matter how well you hide, no matter how cleverly you weave your illusions, I will find you. And when I do—I will crush you utterly.
Meanwhile, far from the Kurama camp, dusk bled across the horizon.
On the ridge overlooking the ravaged village of Konoha stood Uchiha Itachi. His black cloak stirred in the wind, its red clouds billowing like blood on silk. His scarlet Sharingan glimmered faintly, reflecting the ruins below.
He was the sole survivor of the Uchiha clan who had neither fallen in the massacre nor succumbed to Uchiha Gen's corruption. That alone weighed on his conscience like iron shackles.
When word reached him—of Sasuke being taken, of Konoha burning—he had abandoned everything, pushing his body beyond exhaustion to return. He did not possess the Flying Thunder God like Tobirama; his journey had been made in the flesh, step by agonizing step, every hour sharpening his dread.
Now, as he stood upon the high ground, reality struck him.
Konoha was no longer a village. It was a corpse.
Half-charred buildings clawed upward like broken bones, smoke coiled from smoldering ruins, and the once-proud walls lay in jagged heaps of rubble.
Itachi's expression wavered, his breath catching in his throat. His composure, as cold and unyielding as stone, fractured for just a moment.
"…Konoha."
His whisper trembled with grief and disbelief. He had known, yes, but knowing and witnessing were two different things.
He closed his eyes briefly, his heart tightening. Beneath the mask of a shinobi, sorrow churned—a sorrow mixed with guilt, questions, and a silent fury.
Opening his eyes again, his gaze hardened, the Sharingan glowing brighter in the encroaching night.
I must find the Hokage-sama.
No matter what remained of Konoha, no matter what ghosts still lingered in its ashes, Itachi knew this: the answers he sought would only be found at the village's heart.