The night was too quiet.
Raizen sat alone beneath the fractured arch of the ruined temple, his sword resting across his knees. Moonlight spilled across his pale face, but his eyes—his Mangekyō—glowed faintly with an unnatural silver streak that hadn't been there before.
His body felt wrong. Every vein burned, every breath was shallow, as if something else inside him demanded to breathe as well.
"…You are not worthy…"
The whisper slid through his mind again, like claws scratching glass. Raizen's hand tightened around his blade.
"Shut up," he muttered.
The whisper laughed softly. "…You begged for power. Now you carry ours. Do you think it comes freely?"
Raizen spat blood into the dirt, his vision momentarily blurring. His Sharingan spun instinctively, trying to hold onto reality.
"You're just a corpse I consumed. A shadow. I'm in control."
The whisper stilled. Then—chuckled. "…Keep telling yourself that."
---
Hours later, Raizen staggered from the ruins into a nearby village. The people froze when they saw him—bloodied, pale, eyes burning with eerie light. Mothers pulled children inside. Doors shut.
He ignored them, dragging himself toward the well. He hadn't eaten in days. His reflection rippled in the water.
He stopped breathing.
The face staring back at him was not entirely his own. His hair was streaked faintly silver, and veins glowed faintly under his skin, crawling toward his eyes.
"…No." Raizen touched his cheek, trembling. "This isn't… mine."
Before he could move, a hand shot out from the shadows and gripped his wrist.
"You shouldn't be here, stranger," a deep voice said.
Raizen whipped around, blade flashing—but his strike was parried by a spear wreathed in lightning.
The man before him was no ordinary villager. His armor bore the markings of a forgotten clan, and his eyes glimmered with a faint golden hue.
"You reek of them," the warrior said, spear pushing Raizen back. "Kaguro filth."
Raizen's breath hitched. "…You know about them?"
The warrior's expression darkened. "Everyone who has ever hunted their remnants knows. The question is—how much of you is still you?"
They clashed in the street, steel against lightning, each strike ringing like a warning bell. Villagers hid behind doors, peeking out in fear as the night exploded in sparks.
But Raizen noticed something—every time his sword connected, the Kaguro's silver whisper grew louder in his mind, feeding on the fight, urging him forward.
"…Yes… bleed him… take more…"
Raizen screamed, his Mangekyō twisting violently. Black flames erupted, swallowing the spear's lightning. The warrior staggered back, barely alive.
But Raizen wasn't looking at him.
He was staring at his own burning hands. The flames weren't only black—they were streaked with silver.
His body trembled. His mind was cracking.
The whisper purred in satisfaction.
"…You cannot stop what has already begun…"
Raizen fell to his knees, clutching his head, torn between triumph and terror.
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