[I'm using grok to translate, so I'm sorry if there are any mistakes, after all, English is not my first language and I'm not very good at it]
"Huff… huff…" The small lungs of the girl heaved, each breath tearing through her chest like a jagged blade as her bare feet slapped against the cold stone ground. The icy chill of the cobblestones bit into her soles, but she barely registered the pain, driven forward by sheer survival instinct.
She couldn't have been more than six years old. Her long hair, a vivid crimson as bright and unsettling as fresh blood, whipped chaotically with every desperate step she took. Her pale skin, almost luminescent under the dim moonlight, was marred with fresh scratches and smudged with dirt, evidence of her frantic escape. Her blue eyes, once sparkling with the innocent curiosity of childhood, now quivered with raw, unfiltered panic. Yet, what stood out most were the three whisker-like marks etched on each cheek, a distinctive feature that branded her identity to anyone who saw her.
This was Narue Uzumaki.
And at that moment, she was running for her life.
Behind her, a furious mob surged forward, their enraged shouts echoing through the narrow alleyways like a storm. They brandished an assortment of weapons: kitchen knives glinting with malicious intent, makeshift clubs fashioned from broken wood, and even pitchforks scavenged from nearby homes. Among them, a few civilian ninjas, their faces twisted with hatred, hurled kunai and shuriken with ruthless precision. The metallic clanging of the blades reverberated through the alley as they embedded themselves into the stone walls and ground, missing Narue's fragile frame by mere centimeters.
Narue dodged as best she could, her small body stumbling and weaving through the onslaught. Her legs trembled under the strain, threatening to give out, but she refused to stop. Fear dilated her pupils until her eyes seemed to hold nothing but terror. The air burned in her throat, each gasp a struggle against the suffocating dread that gripped her. She dared a glance back, and the sight of those distorted, hateful expressions—snarling mouths and eyes gleaming with malice—made her legs wobble even more.
"P-Please… someone…" she murmured between choked sobs, her voice barely a whisper, lost in the cacophony of the mob's fury.
Tears blurred her vision, streaming down her dirt-streaked face, but she didn't dare pause to wipe them away.
'I-I… I just wanted to be loved…' The thought echoed in her fragile mind, a desperate, looping plea that mingled with the salty tears cascading down her cheeks.
And then… her feet stopped.
A dead end.
Narue's heart pounded like a war drum as she turned, pressing her small frame against the damp, unyielding stone wall. The shadows of the advancing villagers loomed larger, swallowing her in their darkness. Their cruel smiles, illuminated by the flickering light of makeshift torches, seemed even more terrifying, like the grins of demons in some nightmare she couldn't escape.
The weight of their hatred and her own crushing loneliness pressed down on her chest, suffocating her. There was nowhere left to run.
Before she could scream for help, a shuriken sliced through the air toward her face. Time seemed to slow as the deadly blade spun closer, its sharp edges glinting with lethal promise. Narue squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the pain—but it never came. Instead, a deafening crack echoed through the alley as the shuriken was smashed into the ground, crushed as if by an invisible force. The distinct sound of wooden geta clacking against the stone followed, steady and deliberate.
Narue, trembling, slowly opened her eyes. Standing before her was a man, his back to her, his presence as commanding as a storm. His long, straight hair flowed down to his knees, jet-black and shimmering faintly in the torchlight. His skin was pale, almost ethereal, and he wore a traditional, flowing robe that evoked the garb of ancient shamans. The dark fabric, adorned with subtle golden embroidery, billowed slightly in the night breeze. Over his shoulders, a mantle lined with furs and intricate ancestral ornaments gave him an air of timeless authority.
An oppressive aura radiated from him, a palpable force of retribution that seemed to choke the very air around them. His brow furrowed as he gazed at the mob, his expression unreadable but heavy with intent. In the dim light, his features were obscured, but three glowing red eyes pierced the darkness, unnatural and terrifying, like a void in the fabric of reality itself.
"W-What the hell are you!?" one of the men in the mob shouted, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance. To the villagers, he was an anomaly, an incomprehensible entity. All they could see were those three crimson eyes, burning with an otherworldly intensity.
"I am the husband of this little one," the man replied, his voice low and resonant, carrying a weight that made the air itself seem to quiver. His presence was intoxicating, as if merely looking at him could unravel one's sanity. The mob froze, their bravado crumbling under the sheer force of his gaze.
In an instant, the alley was consumed by fire—not ordinary flames, but a blaze that seemed to embody the very concept of fire itself, a primal, terrifying force that every soul instinctively feared. Strangely, there was no chakra in it, no trace of ninjutsu. It was something else entirely, something beyond comprehension. The flames were so precisely controlled that they incinerated the mob without leaving a trace—not even ashes remained. It happened so quickly that there were no screams, no cries of agony. The fire burned in a realm apart, sparing the cosmos itself from its wrath.
"You can open your eyes, little one," the man said softly, kneeling to Narue's level. His large hand gently ruffled her disheveled red hair, a gesture both tender and reassuring.
Slowly, Narue opened her eyes, tears still clinging to the corners. Her gaze met his, and though her heart still raced, curiosity began to overtake her fear. "W-Who are you?" she asked hesitantly, her voice small but laced with wonder. After all, this man had just declared himself her husband.
Even at her young age, with her limited understanding of propriety, the idea felt wrong to her, given the vast difference in their ages.
The man scooped her up into his arms, and though her initial instinct was to panic, that fear melted away as he gently pressed his cheek against hers, his touch warm and comforting. "Yakou Madara," he said, his voice soft yet carrying an unshakable confidence. "That's my name, my little Narue." He pulled back slightly, offering her a faint, warm smile before asking, "Where is your home, my wife?"
Narue, still processing the whirlwind of events, began to guide him toward her home. When they arrived, Yakou's expression darkened, as if he had witnessed an unforgivable blasphemy. The place was little more than a dilapidated shack, its walls crumbling and its interior sparse and dreary.
"I-It's not much, but it's enough for me…" Narue said, her voice tinged with sadness as she looked up at Yakou, her blue eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"This place is unworthy of you," Yakou declared, his tone firm but not unkind. With a snap of his fingers, the room transformed in an instant. The dilapidated shack became a vision of opulence—polished wooden floors, intricate tapestries, and furnishings that radiated wealth beyond Narue's comprehension. To her young mind, it was simply "riches," a concept so grand she could barely grasp it.
Her eyes widened in awe, sparkling with admiration as she turned to Yakou, a wide grin spreading across her face. "What kind of ninjutsu was that?!" she exclaimed, bombarding him with questions, her earlier fear replaced by childlike excitement.
"Kukukukuku," Yakou chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that held no mockery, only amusement. "My dear wife, that was no ninjutsu."
"Not ninjutsu? Then what was it?" A giant question mark seemed to hover above Narue's head as she tilted it in confusion.
"Taikyoku," he said simply, the word carrying a weight that hinted at profound mysteries far beyond her current understanding.
"Taikyoku…?" Narue repeated, her brow furrowing as she tried to make sense of the term.
"Kukukuku, hahahaha," Yakou laughed again, his eyes softening. "Don't worry about it, little one. You'll understand in time."
"S-Stop laughing! And stop being so cryptic!" Narue huffed, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment as she pouted, the enigmatic words frustrating her young mind.
Unbeknownst to her, Yakou's gaze shifted briefly to a point in the air, his lips moving silently as he muttered with a hint of disdain, "I expected more from your security, Hiruzen."
◆ ◇ ◆ ◇
High above in the Hokage's tower, Hiruzen Sarutobi sat, his eyes fixed on a crystal ball that allowed him to monitor Narue through a jutsu tied to her chakra signature, as long as she remained within Konoha's borders. When he saw the mysterious man with her, he had been moments away from summoning the Anbu. But what unsettled him—what sent a chill down the spine of the seasoned Hokage—was the fact that this man had sensed his surveillance. Hiruzen would be lying if he said the stranger's words didn't leave him deeply uneasy.
The heavy wooden door of the Hokage's tower creaked open, its hinges groaning under the weight of years of use. Standing in the threshold was an older man, his presence as foreboding as the shadows he commanded. His single visible eye gleamed with a cold, calculating intensity, and the bandages wrapping half his face and arm only added to his enigmatic aura. This was Danzō Shimura, the shadow of Konoha, a man whose name was whispered in fear as much as in reverence, and Hiruzen's longtime friend and rival.
"Hiruzen, we must do something about this man!" Danzō's voice was grave, laced with urgency. His words carried the weight of someone who understood the delicate balance of power within the village. "Anyone who gets close to a jinchūriki risks triggering catastrophe. That girl is a ticking time bomb!" His tone left no room for debate, his concern rooted not in compassion but in the pragmatic need to protect Konoha from the potential chaos a jinchūriki could unleash.
Hiruzen, seated behind his desk, his pipe smoldering faintly with the scent of tobacco, fixed Danzō with a steady gaze. The lines on his face seemed deeper in the flickering lamplight, betraying the weight of his responsibilities. "Danzō," he said firmly, his voice calm but resolute, "I will handle this."
◆ ◇ ◆ ◇
Several minutes later, in the newly transformed room that now served as Narue's home, Yakou sat cross-legged on a plush rug, his imposing presence softened by the playful scene before him. With a subtle gesture of his hand, he conjured an array of colorful sweets—vibrant mochi dusted with powdered sugar, glistening candied fruits, and delicate pastries that seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly allure. The air was filled with the faint, sugary aroma, a stark contrast to the grim reality Narue had faced just moments ago.
Narue, her cheeks still flushed from Yakou's earlier affection, sat close to him, her small hands clutching a piece of mochi. Her crimson hair spilled over her shoulders, and Yakou's fingers gently wove through the strands, teasing them into playful disarray. The sensation of his touch, warm and deliberate, was foreign yet comforting to her. For the first time in her young life, someone was treating her not as a monster or a burden, but as a person—someone worthy of kindness. Only "Grandpa Hiruzen" had ever shown her such care, and even then, it was tinged with the weight of duty. Yakou's affection felt different, unburdened by obligation, and it stirred something deep within her fragile heart.
She opened her mouth to say something, her lips parting hesitantly, when a sudden shift in the air made her pause. A figure materialized in the room—an Anbu operative, clad in the signature black cloak and porcelain mask of Konoha's elite. The mask, painted with sharp, angular lines, concealed the operative's face, but Yakou's piercing gaze seemed to see straight through it. The air grew heavy, charged with an unspoken tension.
"The Hokage requests your presence," the Anbu said, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of unease. Though trained to face danger without flinching, he could not fully mask the dread that Yakou's oppressive aura inspired. To him, Yakou was not a man but an entity—a "thing" that defied comprehension, radiating a power that pressed against the senses like a storm about to break.
"Very well," Yakou replied, his tone calm but carrying an edge that made the air hum with latent energy. His crimson eyes flicked to the Anbu, analyzing the man behind the mask with effortless precision, as if peeling back layers of flesh and bone to see the soul beneath.
Narue's brow furrowed, her blue eyes wide with confusion. "Wait, what does the Hokage want with Yakou?" she asked, her voice tinged with worry. The sudden appearance of the Anbu and the summons to the Hokage unsettled her, stirring memories of the mob's hatred.
The Anbu turned slightly toward her, his masked face unreadable. "Just a conversation," he said, his tone deliberately softened to ease her concern. "Nothing for you to worry about, Narue."
With that, the Anbu vanished in a flicker of shunshin, leaving behind only a faint ripple in the air. Yakou, however, did not rely on any technique. One moment he was there, kneeling beside Narue; the next, he was gone, as if the world itself had bent to his will, erasing his presence without a trace.
◆ ◇ ◆ ◇
The Anbu reappeared in a subtle flicker of motion near the towering structure of the Hokage's residence, his form materializing from the faint distortion of a shunshin. The cool night air clung to his dark cloak, and the porcelain mask gleamed faintly under the moonlight, its angular design casting sharp shadows across his hidden face. As his senses adjusted to the surroundings, he froze momentarily, his breath catching. Yakou was already there, standing just a few paces away, his imposing silhouette framed against the stone facade of the tower. The man's long, dark hair swayed slightly in the breeze, and his traditional robe, with its subtle golden embroidery and fur-lined mantle, seemed to absorb the surrounding light, making him appear both regal and otherworldly.
"You took your time," Yakou remarked, his voice low and smooth, carrying a faint undercurrent of amusement. A smile curled his lips—a smile that sent an involuntary shiver down the Anbu's spine. It wasn't overtly threatening, but there was something unsettling about it, as if Yakou could see through the mask, through the Anbu's very soul, and found something faintly amusing in what he saw. The Anbu, trained to remain unshaken in the face of danger, felt an unfamiliar pang of discomfort but refused to acknowledge it. Without a word, he brushed past Yakou, his movements deliberate and controlled, though the weight of the man's presence pressed against him like an unseen force.
The two entered the Hokage's tower in silence, their footsteps echoing faintly in the grand hallway. The air inside was heavy with the scent of aged wood and burning incense, a testament to the tower's role as the heart of Konoha's leadership. The Anbu led the way, his steps measured, while Yakou followed with an effortless grace that belied his towering stature. After climbing a winding staircase, they reached the heavy oak door of the Hokage's office. The Anbu paused, raising a gloved hand to deliver three precise knocks, each one resonating with a dull thud against the polished wood. After a brief moment, he pushed the door open, its hinges creaking softly as it swung inward, revealing the chamber beyond.