Chapter 4: The Kazekage's Fall - Part 1
POV: Kole
The emergency bells shattered dawn like breaking glass, their bronze voices screaming across Konoha with the urgency of a village under siege. Kole bolted upright from fitful sleep, sweat cooling on his skin as the sound dragged him from dreams of red clouds and crimson sand.
It's happening.
He'd known this moment was coming, had counted down the days like a man marking time until his own execution. But knowing and experiencing were different creatures entirely. The bells meant Gaara was gone. Stolen. Probably already dying as the One-Tail was ripped from his body by monsters who saw tailed beasts as nothing more than components in a weapon.
Kole threw on clothes and stumbled into the street, joining the flow of civilians emerging from their homes like confused ants from a disturbed hill. The village was transforming around him—shutters slamming shut, children being herded indoors, chunin appearing on rooftops with the practiced efficiency of a military unit shifting into wartime posture.
"What's happening?" someone shouted.
"Emergency mobilization!"
"Is it an invasion?"
No one had answers, but the fear was infectious. Kole pushed through the crowd, using his knowledge of Konoha's layout to navigate toward the main gate. If Team Kakashi was being deployed to Sand, they'd leave from there. He needed to see them go, needed to witness the moment when fiction became reality.
The gate plaza buzzed with controlled chaos. Jonin materialized and vanished like ghosts, carrying sealed orders and grim expressions. Medical teams loaded supply scrolls with mechanical precision. And there, standing in a loose formation near the gate, Team Kakashi waited for deployment.
Naruto was practically vibrating with nervous energy, the easy humor from yesterday replaced by something harder, more focused. Sakura stood beside him, medic pack secured across her shoulders, green eyes scanning the crowd with professional assessment. Kakashi simply waited, visible eye fixed on the horizon like he was already seeing their destination.
A chunin pushed past Kole, voice sharp with authority: "Civilians, clear the area! This is official village business!"
But Kole couldn't move. Couldn't tear his eyes away from the three people who were about to walk into hell because he was too powerless to stop them. His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood.
Say something. Do something. Anything.
He opened his mouth, sucked in air, and screamed: "SASORI AND DEIDARA! BEWARE THE—"
The words twisted and writhed like living things, meaning dissolving into chaos: "FLYING PURPLE SPATULA PROPHECY!"
Heads turned. A few shinobi exchanged glances, probably wondering why a civilian was having a breakdown in the middle of a military operation. Naruto's gaze found him across the plaza, blue eyes widening with recognition.
"Hey, it's the weird ramen guy!" he called out, waving with genuine enthusiasm despite the circumstances.
Weird ramen guy. If Kole survived this war, that would probably end up being his legacy. The strange civilian who spouted gibberish and fixed things with his bare hands.
"Naruto, focus," Kakashi said mildly, but there was steel beneath the casual tone. "We have a mission."
"Right! Sorry, Kakashi-sensei!"
A chunin grabbed Kole's arm, grip firm enough to leave bruises. "Sir, I need you to step back. Military operations require—"
"They're going to die," Kole said desperately. "All of them. The enemy is too strong, they have abilities you don't understand—"
"BANANA HAMMOCK TUESDAY DEATH PROPHECY!"
The chunin's expression shifted from professional annoyance to genuine concern. "Sir, are you experiencing a medical emergency? Do you need—"
"I'm fine," Kole snapped, jerking his arm free. "I just—I need to help. Let me come with them. I can—"
"You can what?" The voice cut through the plaza like a blade. Elder Homura approached with the measured pace of someone accustomed to absolute authority, council robes rustling around his aged frame. "You're a civilian, boy. What possible assistance could you provide to trained shinobi?"
I know what's coming. I know about the Akatsuki, about Pain, about the war that's going to tear this world apart. I know because I've seen this story before, because I'm from a place where your lives were entertainment.
But the curse wouldn't let him say any of that. Instead, Kole straightened his spine and met the elder's gaze directly. "I have skills. I can repair equipment, treat injuries, provide support—"
"Without chakra?" Homura's laugh was dry as autumn leaves. "Boy, do you have any idea what this mission entails? We're potentially facing S-rank missing-nin. Enemies who could level a small village without breaking stride. You think civilian first aid is going to make a difference?"
"I could try—"
"You could die. Uselessly. And force our shinobi to waste time protecting you instead of completing their objective." Homura gestured dismissively. "Return to your home. Fix doors. Leave warfare to those capable of surviving it."
The dismissal burned worse than any alchemical rebound. Kole stood in the plaza, surrounded by shinobi preparing for battle, and felt the gulf between them yawn like a chasm. No chakra meant no ninja registration. No authorization for military operations. No travel papers to leave Fire Country. The system that had seemed quaint in fiction revealed itself as steel bars, trapping him in helplessness while people died.
Around him, the deployment continued. Teams formed and dispersed, carrying orders and supplies toward Wind Country. Team Kakashi received their mission scroll, Kakashi's visible eye scanning the contents with professional detachment.
"Severe urgency," he murmured. "We leave immediately."
"Let's go save Gaara!" Naruto declared, fist pumping the air.
They were moving, flowing toward the gate with the fluid efficiency of a well-oiled machine. In minutes, they'd be gone. Racing across the continent toward a battle that would nearly kill them all.
Kole watched them go, each step taking them farther from safety and closer to nightmare. His knowledge screamed at him—every detail of the coming fight, every injury they'd sustain, every moment of terror and pain. But knowledge without power was just another form of torture.
"Fix doors. Leave warfare to those capable of surviving it."
Homura's words echoed in his mind as Team Kakashi disappeared into the distance. Fix doors. That's all he was good for in this world. A handyman with delusions of heroism.
But maybe... maybe he could be ready for what came after.
Kole's apartment had transformed into something that would have made Edward Elric proud—if Edward Elric had been operating on a shoestring budget and the constant threat of nosy neighbors. Alchemical arrays covered every flat surface, drawn in chalk and charcoal and his own blood when more permanent materials ran short. Medical texts borrowed from the public library lay open beside notebooks filled with frantic calculations and half-formed theories.
If he couldn't save Gaara, he'd damn well be ready to save whoever came back broken.
The mysterious box had been generous over the past three days, providing biological catalysts that shouldn't have existed outside of advanced laboratories. Plant extracts with impossible purity. Mineral compounds that defied the periodic table. And most crucially, a series of detailed notes on "Rapid Biological Transmutation" that read like a medical textbook written by someone who understood both healing and alchemy.
Kole worked through the night, transmuting and retransmuting until his hands were raw and his head pounded with exhaustion. Antidotes. Painkillers. Coagulants that could seal arterial bleeding in seconds. Each creation was tested, refined, tested again until he was confident it would work when lives hung in the balance.
Because they would. Soon.
The reports filtered back in fragments, carried by chunin messengers and worried merchants. Team Kakashi had reached Sand. The Kazekage was confirmed dead. The rescue mission was proceeding, but casualties were expected.
Casualties. Such a clinical word for the horror Kole knew was unfolding. Gaara's agonized screams as Akatsuki tore his bijuu from his body. The One-Tail's extraction, leaving behind nothing but a cooling corpse. Chiyo's desperate sacrifice to restore life to a boy she'd helped destroy.
On the third night, exhaustion finally claimed him. Kole collapsed across his makeshift laboratory, surrounded by the tools of salvation he'd never have the chance to use.
He woke to dawn light streaming through his window and the sound of bells—not emergency warnings this time, but the measured tolling that announced returning teams. Kole bolted upright, scattering papers and vials as he rushed to his window.
There, moving through Konoha's streets with the careful precision of people carrying precious cargo, came the rescue mission. Team Kakashi was intact—exhausted, battered, but alive. Behind them, a small convoy of Sand ninja bore a stretcher.
On that stretcher, breathing peacefully in unconscious recovery, lay Gaara of the Desert.
Relief flooded through Kole like a physical force, washing away three days of accumulated dread. They'd done it. Somehow, despite everything the Akatsuki could throw at them, they'd brought the Kazekage home alive.
But even as relief filled him, guilt followed close behind. He'd done nothing. Contributed nothing. While heroes risked their lives to save a friend, he'd sat in his apartment playing with chemistry sets and feeling sorry for himself.
The Entity's gifts suddenly felt less like tools and more like accusations. Power without purpose. Knowledge without the courage to act.
Next time, he promised himself, watching the convoy disappear toward the hospital. Next time, I'll be ready to help.
He just had to survive long enough to figure out how.
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