The Hatake compound was silent, a state colder and more oppressive than any Konoha winter. The air still carried the metallic scent of fresh blood, which Kakashi, sitting cross-legged and rigid on the worn tatami mat, refused to acknowledge. He was seven, and he had just executed the proper burial rites for his father, Sakumo Hatake, the White Fang of Konoha.
His mind was a sterile, unforgiving landscape. He had performed every step of the ritual with meticulous, mechanical precision, avoiding any moment of reflection. Grief was a luxury, a weakness that had been proven fatal.
The villagers had not killed Sakumo. The Kunoichi and Shinobi he saved had not killed him. Kakashi realized, with chilling clarity, that the killer was a simple, unbreakable concept: The Rule.
A ninja must always prioritize the success of the mission over the lives of their comrades.
His father had chosen the opposite. He chose sentiment. He chose the living over the mission scrolls, and for that, he was broken, cast out, and destroyed. The irony was a bitter, icy taste on Kakashi's tongue. His father had followed his heart, only to be judged by the merciless logic of the Shinobi world.
Kakashi stood abruptly, the sudden movement tearing the silence like canvas. He walked to the storage rack where the White Light Chakra Sabre, Sakumo's legendary short sword, lay sheathed. He didn't touch it. It was a monument to failure. His father's strength had been legendary, yet it was his morality that made him fragile enough to be snapped by public scorn.
In that moment, the fundamental precepts of the Shinobi Code warped in Kakashi's mind. He did not reject the code itself; he simply refined it into an absolute, single doctrine.
If strength is absolute, then the Rule becomes irrelevant, because an absolute power is never questioned.
The Will of Fire, the gentle warmth of camaraderie that the Sandaime Hokage spoke of, felt like a pathetic lie told to children. Love, loyalty, and protection were merely vulnerabilities that allowed others—be it superiors, rivals, or the fickle populace—to manipulate and destroy you.
He recalled the face of the Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi, attempting to offer comfort hours earlier. The old man's eyes were full of pity. Kakashi had met that pity with a gaze so utterly devoid of warmth that even the Professor had momentarily flinched.
"Kakashi," the Hokage had said, his voice heavy. "Your father was a hero. His actions were noble, even if the world failed to see it."
Kakashi's reply was a low, cutting whisper, memorized from the scathing reports he had found on his father's desk. "Noble action is irrelevant. Mission failure is relevant. A hero who fails is a dead man walking. The only heroes who matter are the ones who are too powerful to fall."
He saw the realization dawn in the Hokage's eyes—a flicker of concern that this boy was now something broken, something dangerous.
Kakashi turned away from the memory and focused on the only thing that felt real: the constant, throbbing potential of his chakra. He was a prodigious genius, but genius was meaningless without application. He had to surpass his father's fame not with his father's doomed morality, but with a terrifying, unassailable power that would make him immune to judgment.
He retrieved a large, heavy scroll—a compendium of advanced elemental Ninjutsu and high-level Taijutsu katas compiled by the Hatake clan generations ago. His father had always said he was too young for it, that he needed to master the basics first.
Kakashi unrolled the scroll, its dry parchment scent filling the room. He needed no sleep, no meals, no comfort. He needed only knowledge and the raw, unyielding discipline to consume it.
His goal was no longer to protect the village, or honor his clan, or follow the rules. His goal was to make himself a natural force, a weapon of such refined cruelty and power that no one, living or dead, would ever dare to impose a Rule upon him again.
The sun rose, painting the dusty window with orange light. Kakashi did not notice. He was already deep into the first set of lightning manipulation diagrams, his mind calculating vectors and charge capacity, drawing the first, dark blueprints of the being he was determined to become. The kindness of his youth was gone, replaced by the relentless drive of a scourge.