I felt the words slip out before my brain caught up.
"Anything but that!"
My voice cracked like a whip in the stale, damp air of Ame's tower, echoing off stone walls slick with rainwater that had seeped in through cracks. I didn't even know what an Akatsuki was supposed to be — some kind of elite ninja chess club? A cult with a dress code? Either way, it didn't sound like balloons and cake.
My throat burned as I tried to swallow down the panic. The way their eyes bored into me — no, not eyes, rings. Those concentric ripples glowing lavender in the shadows — it was like drowning in a bottomless well. Each pair belonged to a different face, different body, but somehow, all of them were looking through me at once.
I forced a laugh, thin and brittle."Look, I don't know what you people think I am, but I promise, I'm not Akatsuki material. You want accountants? Gardeners? Maybe someone to scrub your weird tower walls? I'm your guy. Cult member? Not so much."
Silence. That was the worst part — they didn't even blink. Six statues carved out of flesh, all connected by some unseen current I couldn't understand.
My heart was hammering, sweat slicking my palms. It hit me then: they weren't asking. This wasn't an invitation.
I shifted back a step, heel scraping stone. My brain whispered: Run. My legs answered: Like hell. Because where was I going to go? Straight into the storm that never stopped? Into a village that wasn't mine, guarded by the very people staring me down?
Still, my mouth refused to quit."I mean it, I'll do anything else. Anything. You want me to juggle? I'll juggle. You want me to clean Konan's… origami supply closet? I'll alphabetize it. But Akatsuki? Nah. Sounds like the kind of club where you don't get a membership card, you get a gravestone."
My voice trailed off, and for a heartbeat, I thought maybe they'd consider it. Then the tallest one — Yahiko's body, the so-called leader — tilted his head, expression blank as a corpse.
It was like staring into the eye of a storm and realizing the storm noticed you back.
And suddenly, "Anything but that" didn't sound like sarcasm anymore. It sounded like begging.
The words hung there, echoing against wet stone. No one answered. No one ever answered.
I blinked once. Twice. Then the tallest one moved.
No warning. No hesitation. A massive hand clamped down on my collar, fingers like iron hooks digging into the fabric, and suddenly I was yanked forward. My feet left the floor like I was nothing but laundry being hauled to dry.
"Wait—HEY!" My voice pitched up as my neck nearly snapped. I clawed at his wrist, but it was like trying to bend rebar. "I said anything but that, not drag me like a stray dog through your creepy murder tower!"
He didn't slow down. Didn't even acknowledge I was speaking.
The corridor stretched on forever, carved of dark stone and dripping with condensation. The whole place reeked of mildew and iron, like a basement that doubled as a battlefield. Torches sputtered against the damp air, their flames snapping each time the storm outside howled through hidden cracks. I swear I could hear rain inside the walls.
And all the while, that iron grip on my collar kept jerking me forward. My heels scraped the floor, sandals slapping stone. My knees banged against corners as he turned, every jolt rattling up my spine.
"This is kidnapping, you know!" I shouted, half-strangled, half-desperate. "Do you people not have HR departments? Civil rights? At least a complaint box?!"
The only answer was silence. Six sets of footsteps fell in unison behind me, like a funeral march I hadn't volunteered for.
Then—abruptly—we stopped. My body lurched forward as he shoved me into a side chamber. I stumbled, caught myself on cold stone, and gasped like I'd been let up for air.
The room was… different. Wider. Bright with the flicker of oil lamps. And stocked.
Rows of kunai glinted on racks like butcher knives waiting for hands. Shuriken were stacked in neat trays. Sandals in every size, chainmail shirts folded with military precision. And there — at the far end of the table, sitting like some kind of holy relic — a black cloak embroidered with red clouds, folded into a perfect square.
My gut twisted.
"…Oh, hell no."
I turned back to them, to him — the one still holding my collar, his hand slowly letting go, his gaze never once leaving me. My throat went dry.
They weren't joking. This wasn't a costume fitting. This was an execution sentence dressed up as a wardrobe change.
The word slipped out before I could stop it, my eyes locked on that folded cloak at the end of the table. Red clouds stitched into black fabric — somehow it looked heavier than the chainmail stacked beside it, like wearing it meant carrying the weight of every corpse these people had ever left behind.
Deva Path stepped forward, his presence filling the room like gravity itself. He didn't need to raise his voice. Didn't need to threaten. His words were carved in stone long before they left his lips.
"Change."
I barked a laugh — thin, nervous, the kind of laugh that buys time when your brain is sprinting for the exit your body can't find."Yeah, no. Hard pass. Thanks for the invite, but I'm not really the… dress-up-and-slaughter type. More of a jeans-and-t-shirt guy, you know? Maybe a hoodie on cold days. Definitely not into the whole 'death cult fashion week' thing you've got going on."
Silence. He didn't blink. Didn't move.
Then, his hand lifted.
For a split second, I thought maybe he'd clap. Maybe he'd summon Konan back in to scold me. But no. His palm opened, and in the center of it, darkness began to swell. Not a chakra that I could see — no glowing aura, no spark of power. Just black. Pure, suffocating black, stretching and hardening into something long and jagged.
A rod.
My chest went tight. Every instinct screamed at me. That thing wasn't for show. That thing was meant to go through me.
"Okay, okay, okay!" I shot both hands into the air, words tumbling out in a panic. "No need for the medieval skewers, I get it! Loud and clear! Look, I'll change, alright? Pants, shirt, whatever you want — hell, I'll even try on the sandals! Just—just put the barbecue stick away!"
The rod gleamed faintly in the firelight, hunger in its shape. He didn't lower it.
I scrambled to the pile of gear, fingers fumbling like I'd never dressed myself a day in my life. My heart hammered so hard I thought they'd hear it. My throat was dry enough to choke on.
Every second, his silence pressed heavier on me. Every second that rod hung there, black as the void, a silent promise: One wrong move, and you're nothing but another body on this floor.
I muttered under my breath as I clawed at a shirt, chainmail slipping through my sweaty grip."Great. Kidnapped by a death cult and now bullied into a fashion show. Mom would be so proud."
I yanked the chainmail over my head, nearly choking myself with the collar. The thing smelled like rust and rain, like it had been worn by ten dead guys before me. My hands shook as I fumbled with the ties, sweat dripping down my forehead.
Then I froze.
Because they were still there.
All six of them.
The Six Paths of Pain, lined up like grave markers, silent, unblinking, watching me.
Watching me change.
My brain short-circuited."…Are you serious right now?"
No answer. Just those Rinnegan eyes, endless rings drinking me in like I wasn't even human. My skin crawled.
I raised my arms halfway, shirt dangling in my grip, then slowly lowered them. "No. Nope. Not happening. I don't care if you're some death god with a bad haircut — you don't just stand there while a guy's getting undressed. That's messed up."
Still silence. Still staring.
I snapped."Hey! Perverts! Out!"
Nothing.
Panic twisted into defiance. My mouth ran faster than my survival instincts. "Don't test me. I'll do it. I'll start spinning. Helicopter mode. You think I won't?"
For the first time, they moved. Not much — just a glance between them, like a hive mind processing the threat. Then, without a word, they all turned at once and filed out the door, leaving me standing there half-naked and vibrating with adrenaline.
The silence they left behind felt heavier than their presence.
I exhaled, chest heaving. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Who's in control now? That's right—me."
A voice floated from the doorway, cool as steel folded in water.
Konan.
She didn't even try to hide the smirk tugging her lips as her paper-white eyes flicked over me. "You're an idiot."
My ears burned. "What? No. That was a strategy. Psychological warfare."
Her smirk widened — then she was gone, paper wings rustling into the hall, leaving me to stew in my own humiliation.
I stared at the cloak again, lying folded at the far end of the table. The red clouds seemed to pulse in the firelight.
"…God, I hate my life."
I finally peeled the chainmail top over my head and stared at the pile they'd dumped on the table for me.
Mesh armor with navy trim. A dark blue shirt to throw over it. Loose pants. A simple white belt. It looked almost… normal. Like something you'd wear to a martial arts class — right up until you remembered the guys wearing it also leveled nations on weekends.
I sighed, dragging the mesh over my shoulders. It clung to my skin like a wet fishing net, every movement scratchy and stiff. The navy shirt followed, rough cotton sliding down over my chest. At least it wasn't some spandex nightmare. Small mercies.
The pants were another story. Getting one leg in was fine. Getting the other in, without tripping, falling, and cracking my skull on the stone floor? Not so much. I hopped once, twice, and nearly faceplanted into the table of shuriken. I could feel the Rinnegan eyes in the hallway, probably enjoying the show.
"Yeah, laugh it up," I muttered, cinching the belt tight around my waist. "Kidnapped, starved, threatened with voodoo sticks, and now humiliated by pants. Real classy."
That's when I spotted the rest of the gear.
A kunai pouch with straps that looked like a Rubik's cube had exploded. Bandages coiled neatly, like they were waiting to turn me into a mummy. Weapon holsters, buckles, ties — enough hardware to outfit a small army.
I picked up the pouch, turned it over once, twice, stared at the straps. There was no beginning. No end. Just endless leather loops and buttons mocking me.
"…Am I supposed to have a degree for this?"
I tried sliding it onto my thigh. Wrong. Tried my waist. Wrong again. At one point, I think I accidentally wore it as a shoulder sling. The whole time, the pouch dangled uselessly, knives clattering against my shin with every step.
My voice dripped with sarcasm."Fantastic. This should come with a manual. Maybe some IKEA instructions. Step one: embarrass yourself. Step two: give up."
I tossed the pouch back on the table and threw up my hands. "Forget it. This is my look now. Half-assed ninja chic. Deal with it."
I glanced at the cloak again, still folded neatly and untouched. The clouds stared back, red as blood. Reserved. Not for me. Not yet.
"…Fine by me," I muttered, though the knot in my stomach said otherwise.
I shoved the pouch aside, muttered something halfway between a curse and a prayer, and stepped out of the room.
The hall was darker now, lit only by sputtering torches that hissed against the damp. My sandals slapped the stone, loud in the silence. My outfit? A masterpiece of incompetence. Pants on. Mesh and shirt in place. Belt crooked. No bandages. No pouches. No weapons. Nothing strapped where it should be. I looked less like a shinobi and more like some drunk who'd stolen half a uniform from a laundry line.
The Six were waiting.
They stood like statues, heads tilting in eerie unison when I stumbled into view. Those ringed eyes locked onto me — reading every flaw, every missing strap, every undone tie.
Deva's voice rolled over me like thunder."Where is the rest?"
I froze, caught like a kid sneaking out past curfew. My mind blanked, then kicked into survival sarcasm.
"…Couldn't figure it out." I shrugged, tugged at my crooked belt for emphasis. "So, uh… this is me now. Minimalist look. Streamlined. Who needs weapons when you've got personality?"
Nothing. No smirk, no twitch. Just silence.
The weight of those eyes pressed into me until I felt about two inches tall. I coughed, trying to fill the void."Besides, you've got six of you, plus origami-lady. Do I really need gear? I'll just, y'know, clap encouragingly from the sidelines. Rah rah death cult, go team."
For the briefest flicker, I thought Konan's lips twitched at that. But Deva Path didn't move, didn't blink.
It was like standing in front of a firing squad and trying to tell jokes to the bullets.
I barely had time to blink before something slammed into my side.
"WH—HEY!"
The Naraka Path came out of nowhere, tackling me with the grace of a brick wall. My back hit the cold stone, and air punched out of my lungs. Before I could even gasp, another weight crushed down on my legs — Asura Path, all jagged metal and inhuman strength, pinning me like I was nothing more than a bug under a boot.
"What the hell!?" I wheezed, thrashing uselessly. My arms flailed, my legs kicked, but they didn't budge. Their grips were inhuman, unrelenting, like they were carved to hold me in place.
Then I realized what they were doing.
Not killing me. Not stabbing me. Dressing me.
Naraka shoved a pouch strap around my thigh, yanking the leather tight enough to cut off circulation. Asura was busy threading a bandolier across my chest, the buckles clicking into place with mechanical precision. My arms jerked with every tug and pull, my body jerked upright, then forced down again, as if I was nothing but a mannequin being fitted in a shop window.
"This is hazing!" I shouted, my voice echoing down the hall. "Don't think I don't know hazing when I see it! This is the part where someone brings out a marker and starts writing on my forehead, isn't it!?"
Asura yanked another strap, nearly wrenching my shoulder from its socket. I screamed — not from pain, but from indignation."I'm a person, damn it, not a dress-up doll!"
They ignored me. Completely.
Deva stood above it all, silent, eyes watching, arms folded. He might as well have been a king overseeing peasants clothe his newest servant. Those eyes pinned me harder than Naraka and Asura combined. He didn't need to move. His presence was enough to crush whatever scraps of dignity I had left.
I tried one last desperate quip as they finished strapping the kunai pouch to my thigh, holsters to my hips, a bandage roll across my waist."You know, back where I come from, we at least buy dinner first before tying someone up!"
Nothing.
No answer. No smirk. Not even from Konan this time.
Just silence. And the suffocating weight of the fact that, whether I liked it or not, I was being fitted into their world.
The last strap clicked into place, the last pouch tugged tight. Naraka and Asura released me in perfect sync. For a single, blissful heartbeat, I thought it was over.
Then Asura's metal hand clamped back onto my collar.
"Not again—"
Too late.
He yanked me forward, my heels scraping stone as I was dragged like a sack of grain down another endless corridor. My head jerked with each step, my voice breaking into a sputtering string of protests.
"Hey! Time out! I didn't sign up for the full tour package! Where the hell are we going now?!"
From somewhere behind us, soft as paper rustling, I heard it: a giggle.
I twisted my head just enough to catch Konan out of the corner of my eye. Her lips curled, the smallest smile tugging there, and for once, she didn't bother to hide it. Watching me get hauled away like a naughty puppy had apparently crossed the line from tragic to comedic.
I wanted to shout at her. Maybe even beg. But the words died when Deva's voice filled the corridor — low, steady, final.
"Quiet."
The sound of that word carried more weight than the storm rattling outside. The walls seemed to hum with it, the air itself pressing down on my lungs.
Then he finished it.
"Training."
My stomach flipped. My head spun. Training? With them? That could mean anything. Weapons. Jutsu. Torture. Hell, maybe they'd just throw me into a pit and see if I climbed out.
I swallowed hard, trying to muster some scrap of bravado."Y-You know… back home, 'training' usually involves, like, push-ups. Maybe a jog. Sometimes, dodgeball is the coach is feeling mean. I'm just saying."
No one laughed. Not even Konan this time.
Asura's grip tightened, dragging me onward into the shadows.
My sandals screeched against the stone floor as Asura continued to haul me like a sack of potatoes. My arms dangled uselessly at my sides, the pouches they'd strapped on clattering with every drag. If humiliation were a sport, I'd be breaking records.
"Y'know," I wheezed, trying to angle my head back toward them, "if this is how you treat your recruits, I can't wait to see the retirement plan. Probably involves a shallow grave and a rain puddle."
No answer. Just the steady march of their footsteps, precise and inhuman.
My eyes darted around, desperate for anything to grab onto, anything to distract from the choking weight of their silence. That's when it hit me.
The cloak.
That ominous black fabric with red clouds, folded back in the supply room like some holy relic. The one thing that, for all its sinister vibe, at least looked… badass.
I cleared my throat, loud as I dared, with Asura's grip crushing my collarbone."Hey. Question. Where's my cloak? You know, the whole black-with-red-clouds thing. Kinda the only cool part of this death cult cosplay."
For a moment, nothing. I thought maybe they'd ignore me, like always. Then Konan's voice drifted from behind, smooth as paper sliding across stone.
"You haven't earned it."
I twisted my neck as much as I could, craning for a glimpse. She walked with the calm grace of someone who'd already dismissed me as irrelevant, eyes forward, lips flat, not even glancing in my direction.
"What?" I sputtered, kicking against the floor as Asura dragged me around another corner. "Not earned it? You strapped me into all this—" I rattled the pouch against my thigh, "—but you're holding back the cape? That's cruel and unusual punishment!"
Finally, her gaze flicked to me. Cold. Sharp.
"Not a member," she said, voice like steel. "Reserved."
The words hit harder than Asura's grip. Not a member. Reserved. Like I was nothing but a placeholder, a draft, some tool they weren't even ready to label yet.
I forced a weak laugh, trying to hide the knot twisting in my gut."…Reserved, huh? Great. So I'm basically on the waitlist for Evil Hogwarts."
No one answered. No one slowed.
The drag continued, pulling me deeper into the heart of their tower. And with every step, the cloak's absence felt heavier than all the gear strapped to my body combined.
One second, it was endless stone corridors. The next — a door.
It loomed suddenly at the end of the hall, tall, iron-banded wood set into the tower like it had been waiting just for me. No markings. No handle on my side. Just a slab of inevitability.
Before I could even process it, Asura yanked me forward, the motion jerking my head so hard stars burst behind my eyes. The door groaned open on its own, hinges screaming like they hadn't moved in years, and then—
I was inside.
My knees buckled as Asura tossed me across the threshold like garbage. I hit the floor, palms slapping cold stone, gear clattering around me. The door slammed shut behind with a finality that rang in my chest.
I looked up.
The chamber stretched wider than I expected, walls lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves of scrolls and stacked books. Some were ancient, spines cracked and flaking. Others were pristine, sealed with neat tags and wax marks. A single bed crouched against the far wall, thin as a coffin lid, with a blanket that looked about as inviting as sandpaper. A narrow desk stood opposite, bare except for a single lamp.
It wasn't a cell. It wasn't a room. It was a library someone had gutted and rebuilt into a cage.
Deva Path's shadow fell over me, blotting out the lamplight. His voice rumbled low, carved in stone."Studying. Jutsu."
My stomach dropped.
"You will not leave until you learn."
I blinked at him, then the shelves, then back. "Wait. Hold on. This? This is your grand plan? You drag me through a storm, threaten me with barbecue skewers, dress me up like a budget ninja Barbie — and now it's cram school?"
No one answered.
In the far corner, one of the Six Paths stepped forward. Animal Path, maybe. Or Preta. Didn't matter — his dead eyes stared through me the same way as the rest. He moved with mechanical precision to stand in the corner, folding his arms. The message was clear: I wasn't going to be alone. Not for one second.
I laughed — high, shaky, hollow. "So that's it? Ninja summer school? With a proctor who doesn't blink? Fantastic. I always dreamed of being homeschooled by a corpse."
Silence pressed back against me, thicker than the storm outside.
And that's when it hit me — this wasn't training. This was molding. Shaping. Filing down every rough edge until I wasn't me anymore.
I sat back on my heels, heart thudding, the shelves of jutsu staring down like judges in their robes.
"…I'm screwed."
I stayed kneeling there on the cold stone, staring at shelves stacked with more paper than my old school library, my pulse still racing from the drag-and-drop treatment. My throat clicked dry when I swallowed, the adrenaline finally bleeding off and leaving me with nothing but emptiness.
And hunger.
It hit me all at once — the hollow twist in my stomach, the dryness coating my tongue, the fact I hadn't eaten since… God, I didn't even know. Hours? A day? Time in this rain-drenched tomb didn't make sense anymore.
I raised my hand halfway, like a kid in detention."So… uh… quick question. You guys got a cafeteria in here? Maybe a vending machine? I'll even take stale crackers or, I don't know, cup ramen. Something."
For the first time, Deva's gaze dipped, pinning me to the floor. His voice rolled like thunder breaking across the valley.
"Two meals a day."
That was it. Final. Unmoving.
I blinked. "…Two?"
"Until you prove you are not useless."
The words punched harder than the tackle earlier. Cold, clinical, absolute. Not a punishment — a condition.
I laughed, though it came out strangled."Right. Two meals. Sure. Love a good diet plan. Kidnapped by a death cult, and I get to lose weight. Perfect."
No one laughed back. Not even Konan this time.
The silence swallowed me whole. My stomach growled loud enough for the stone to carry it, and even then, no one moved. No one cared.
I collapsed backward onto the narrow bed, springs creaking like bones under my weight. Staring up at the damp ceiling, I muttered to myself:" Great. Kidnapped by a death cult and shoved into ninja summer school. Five stars. Would not recommend."
The guard Path in the corner didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't move.
I shut my eyes, trying to pretend the silence wasn't alive.