Seraph crouched by the stream, the muffled gurgle of water blending with the distant cracking of trees in the wind. He opened the small wallet he'd found in the guard's uniform. A few crumpled bills, an ID, and some cards—enough to get him started once he reached civilization. He tucked it into an inner pouch, pressed against his chest where he could feel it but it wouldn't hinder movement.
His eyes scanned the rest of the uniform and gear. The pistol felt heavy but reassuring in its holster. He checked the magazine—loaded. Flashlight clicked on with a soft beam, a small comfort in the shadowy forest. Gloves were snug, perfect for climbing or scaling obstacles if needed. He stripped the useless keys and ID cards of the guard, burning them with a flick of fire jutsu, watching them curl to ash in his hand. Handcuffs, flash drives, photos, and anything that could trace him went the same way.
Everything left was practical. Pocket knife, bandages, small survival tools, and a single protein bar. He stashed them neatly into the belt pouches. Each item he kept, he told himself, could mean the difference between life and death once he emerged from this forest.
Seraph inhaled the damp, earthy air. Freedom smelled different here, richer, cleaner than anything he had ever known. He couldn't linger. The explosion had surely alerted someone; the facility would not stay silent for long.
Two goals formed clearly in his mind: first, get out of the forest and reach civilization by the fastest, stealthiest route possible. Second… he would think about it later. Plans of revenge, survival, or purpose could wait until he was truly free.
With one last glance at the ruined facility's direction, he flexed his fingers. The Mokuton still tingled with residual energy, a silent promise of power if needed. The forest stretched before him—dense, shadowed, and full of paths.
Seraph Senju stepped into the underbrush, silent as a predator, moving with careful precision. Every sound, every scent, every shadow was a potential threat, but also a guide. And in the back of his mind, a faint, almost imperceptible thrill: freedom, at last, was his to claim.
Seraph moved through the forest like a shadow born of the trees themselves. Each step was deliberate, light, and precise. Hashirama's memories whispered through him, guiding every movement: the way to move without snapping twigs, how to glide over moss-covered roots, how to vanish into the undergrowth. To him, stealth in the forest was second nature—a walk in the park, a game he had played in another life, in another world.
He approached a cluster of towering trees. Normally, a human would have had to circle around or climb laboriously, but Seraph was no ordinary man. He leapt onto a low branch, landing silently, and paused, letting his senses extend into the wood. The veins of the trees pulsed faintly beneath his touch. Without webs, he improvised: roots and wooden threads sprouted from the palms of his hands, curling and latching onto the thick trunks. With a sharp pull, they contracted, launching him forward in a swinging arc.
Like a pendulum of bark and muscle, he swung past the next tree, launching again, then again, each motion fluid and almost effortless. The forest became his playground. Memories of Peter Parker's acrobatics merged seamlessly with Hashirama's natural understanding of trees and terrain. He twisted in midair, landing on a branch barely thicker than his wrist, balancing perfectly before propelling himself forward once more.
Branches snapped and leaves rustled underfoot, but the forest made room for him, as if recognizing its new master. The web of his Mokuton allowed him to swing across ravines, scale rocky outcrops, and move faster than any human or predator could imagine. Each swing, each leap, each silent landing reinforced the dual legacy within him: Peter's instinctive timing and body control, Hashirama's connection to the living world around him.
He paused briefly atop a ridge, looking down at a stream far below. From here, he could continue his escape to civilization. His chest heaved slightly—not from exhaustion, but from exhilaration. Freedom was close, and for the first time, he felt alive in a way the facility had never allowed.
Then, the faint crack of underbrush reached his ears—a sound out of place in the rhythm of the forest. Seraph's senses sharpened instantly. He crouched, body melding with the moss-covered bark, eyes scanning. Someone—or something—had noticed the aftermath of the facility.
With a whisper of motion, roots and tree veins curled around him, anchoring and camouflaging him against the wind. The forest bent to his will, a silent ally, as Seraph prepared for whatever had tracked him this far.
He was no longer a clone, no longer a number. He was Seraph Senju, born from destruction, shaped by memories, and moving with the precision of two worlds fused into one. And now, nothing could stop him from claiming the freedom he had earned.
The forest was alive, every whisper of wind and creak of branch a potential signal. Seraph moved like liquid wood, gliding across the canopy, his hands trailing threads of Mokuton veins that latched onto the thick trunks. The memories of Peter Parker made each swing instinctive, each leap flawless; Hashirama's guidance ensured he moved in harmony with the forest, never disturbing more than necessary.
A sudden rustle froze him mid-swing. A pair of glowing eyes reflected from the underbrush—larger than a dog, smaller than a wolf. A forest predator, curious and hungry. Seraph's body tensed, reflexes sharpening. With a barely perceptible movement, he sent a thin root skimming across the forest floor, creating a subtle barrier between him and the animal. The creature hesitated, sniffing the air, then turned and slinked away, leaving Seraph untouched.
He exhaled softly. No harm done. No unnecessary chaos. That was the rule now: stealth and efficiency, brains over brawn. Each step, each swing, each landing was calculated to avoid detection. The facility's remnants may have sent scouts, drones, or trackers, but he would remain unseen—untouchable.
The faint buzz of something mechanical caught his attention next—a scouting drone, its red sensor eye sweeping the canopy. Seraph didn't panic. Using a thin tendril of wooden thread, he anchored himself above the drone, letting it pass beneath unnoticed. His pulse remained steady; his movements precise. To the outside observer, the forest was untouched, pristine.
Further ahead, a narrow stream cut through the mossy landscape, water glinting in the fading sunlight. He followed it, moving along its edge, feet barely leaving a trace, roots curling for subtle support over slippery stones. Civilization was near—he could smell it in the air, faint smoke, metallic tangs, distant engines. And with that, he felt the tension rise. Somewhere out there, someone was watching, waiting, or hunting.
Seraph's gaze lifted to the forest canopy, golden light filtering through the leaves. He allowed himself a brief moment of peace, letting the shadows and branches cloak him completely. His body and mind were in sync, a perfect fusion of Spider-Man's agility and Hashirama's control over life itself.
Yet, he knew this was only the beginning. Civilization meant challenges, eyes, and questions. The quiet of the forest would soon give way to noise, conflict, and scrutiny. He was ready.
With a final glance at the sun-dappled forest floor, Seraph launched himself forward, swinging from branch to branch, moving faster, lighter, a lone silhouette in the fading light. Freedom was just ahead—but so too was the unknown.