The night hung heavy over Shirashi Village, moonlight pooling across the wooden rooftops and creeping shadows beneath the twisted boughs of ancient cherry trees. The usual sounds of a quiet evening—the soft murmur of voices, the distant flow of the river, a child's muffled laughter—were carried away on a cool breeze, soon replaced by an ominous silence.
A 10 year old Naruto stood near the smithy, the sharp scent of heated metal sharp in the air, his small hands restless at his sides. The deep red scarf around his neck shifted softly with the gathering winds, the fabric a gift from Masaru Kojima—the village's revered blacksmith and Naruto's mentor. Beneath the modest charcoal tunic and dark pants, his posture was tense yet calm, his cerulean eyes reflecting the flickering lantern light.
Suddenly, the silence shattered.
A volley of fiery arrows arced across the night sky, streaking like deadly shooting stars before striking wooden beams and thatched roofs with choking bursts of flame. Villagers screamed as homes ignited, tongues of fire licking violently at the shadows. The air filled with the acrid scent of smoke and fear.
The Sōji descended like a nightmare come to life. Clad in black-lacquered armor streaked with crimson—their segmented masks swallowing their faces in darkness—they surged through the village with ruthless precision. Their banners, emblazoned with the kanji for "Purge," rippled under the blood-red moon.
Clang of steel on steel rang out as defenders scrambled. Masaru Kojima, eyes steeled with grim determination, raised his katana with a thunderous cry that cut through the chaos. His blade met the savage arcs of the enemy's weapons in showers of sparks—each clash a violent punctuation in the horror of the night.
Naruto darted among the smoke and wood splinters, heart thrumming in a wild rhythm. He reached to grab a fallen farmer's pitchfork, his small hands slick with sweat and soot, and swung it instinctively. The clang as the pitchfork shattered against a Sōji's blade was brief, but the man faltered, staggering into the debris.
A scream tore through the night as an enemy samurai lunged at Masaru with merciless speed. The elder parried, sweat slicking his forehead, but the strike sliced deep across his side. Blood blossomed, dark and iridescent, staining his blue smith's robe. Without hesitation, Masaru pushed Naruto behind him, grit biting in pain.
Naruto's breath caught as the whirl of violence closed in around him: sword slashes painting crimson arcs through the air, desperate blocks echoing the clang of metal, agony stifled beneath gritted teeth, shattered limbs twining in a dance of death.
In one breathless moment, a brutal sweep of a curved blade scored down toward Naruto's left side. Instinct flared—he twisted, but the edge caught his face, firework pain blossoming where flesh tore. His left eye burst with unbearable heat before darkness claimed it.
Chaos tore at his senses. The screams of the dying, the roar of flames devouring everything, the weight of helplessness crashing against his ribs. He stumbled, blood dribbling from the gash, breath ragged, eyes wild with shock.
Masaru's voice—harsh, commanding—cut through the storm. "Run! Live, Naruto! Protect yourself!" The blacksmith's sword sang a mournful song as he fought on, relentless, until a final blow sent him crashing against shattered timber.
Naruto lay unconscious in the cold ashes, blood seeping from where his left eye had been torn away. When he finally stirred, dawn's pale light filtered through the shattered remains of Shirashi Village. His body ached, every breath shallow and sharp, but he forced himself to move, driven by a strange and growing unrest.
Shuffling through the rubble, he spotted a broken fragment of mirror lying on the ground. Kneeling, he peered into the cracked glass and froze. The face staring back at him was not the boy he had known. The whisker marks that had always defined him were gone, replaced by smooth, pale skin. His left eye was missing, the empty socket a raw wound, and his right eye gleamed with an eerie, silver light that seemed to pulse beneath his skin. Something inside him had shifted—unseen, silent, and profound.
Tears welled and spilled down his cheeks as the weight of loss crashed over him. Among the ruins, Naruto's trembling hands searched for one last place—a place that still held what little remained of his world. He found Masaru Kojima's lifeless form beneath a fallen beam, the blacksmith's face peaceful but forever still. Collapsing beside him, Naruto clutched his mentor's cold hand as silent sobs racked his small frame. The village was gone, his childhood shattered, and all that remained was grief and the faint, unspoken promise of what he must become.