The rain had stopped by the time Ren and Sakura reached the outskirts of Neo-Konoha. The air shimmered with distant sirens, the city's metallic heartbeat echoing behind them. They took shelter in a ruined temple, half-buried under ivy and silence—one of the few places untouched by the Order's scanners.
Ren stood by the cracked window, the dim light outlining his frame in silver and red. Sakura sat nearby, wrapping a strip of cloth around her arm where a shard of glass had cut her. The quiet between them wasn't empty—it pulsed with the weight of what they had seen, what they had done.
Finally, Sakura spoke, her voice soft. "That power you used… it was beautiful."
Ren didn't turn. "It was destruction."
"But it saved us," she said. "You saved me."
He closed his eyes briefly. "I destroyed that city once before… in another time. I promised myself I'd never feel that again."
"And yet you did." Her tone wasn't accusing—it was gentle, like a confession.
Ren exhaled. He turned toward her, and for a moment their eyes met—his crimson and her lilac, two colors born from twilight. "Feeling makes you weak in this world, Sakura."
"Then let me be weak."
Her words hit him harder than any blade. The honesty in her voice disarmed him more than battle ever could.
He stepped closer, kneeling in front of her. "Why do you keep following me? You know what I am."
"Because," she whispered, "I see someone who still aches for something more. Someone who pretends he's empty, but isn't."
Ren studied her—the curve of her jaw, the trembling breath she tried to steady. He realized she was afraid… but not of him. Of losing this fragile connection that tethered them to something human.
"You're wrong," he said finally. "I stopped aching long ago."
"Then why are you shaking?"
He froze. His hands had tightened without him realizing, trembling faintly.
Sakura reached out, brushing his fingers with hers—a touch so light it could have been imagined.
The moment their skin met, the world shifted.
The Memory Within
A rush of crimson light enveloped them both. Sakura gasped as images flooded her mind—a battlefield bathed in fire, a younger Ren standing among the ashes, his eyes hollow, his hands stained with blood.
She saw faces—friends, comrades—falling, fading. And a woman's laughter, soft and fleeting, vanishing into screams.
Ren staggered backward, clutching his chest. Sakura's veins glowed faintly red—the mark of her Ecliptic bloodline. She was seeing what he had buried, living his pain.
"Stop," he gasped, but she couldn't. The memories pulled her deeper.
A voice echoed inside the vision—Ren's own, younger, desperate.
"I swear on the light of Konoha, I will protect them… even if it costs me my soul."
Then came the moment of betrayal—the explosion, the sealing ritual, the endless sleep.
When the vision finally broke, Sakura fell into his arms, trembling. Her eyes shimmered with tears not her own.
"You… you gave up everything for them," she whispered. "And they forgot you."
Ren's breath was ragged. "You shouldn't have seen that."
"I needed to," she said, gripping his robe. "To understand you."
He wanted to pull away—to retreat back into silence—but her warmth anchored him. For the first time, he felt the weight of his years pressing against his ribs, not as armor, but as ache.
"It's easier to forget," he murmured.
"Then remember with me," she said. "Just for tonight."
The Scarlet Sky
Outside, the crimson eclipse pulsed above the ruins. Inside, the air between them thickened with quiet electricity.
Ren's hands found hers again, deliberately this time. "You're playing with something dangerous, Sakura."
"So are you."
Their words were soft, barely audible. The kind of words spoken by people standing too close, hearts beating too loud.
He could feel her pulse through her fingers—steady, human, alive. The contrast to his stillness was almost unbearable.
For a moment, the curse of immortality faltered. He wasn't a god or a weapon—just a man who had forgotten what touch meant.
Sakura's voice was barely a breath. "Your heart's still beating, Ren. That means there's still something worth saving."
He looked at her, truly looked, and saw not the fragile girl he had rescued, but the mirror of everything he had lost—hope, warmth, light.
When he finally spoke, his voice broke like glass. "And what if I can't save myself?"
She smiled faintly. "Then I'll save you."
Outside, thunder rolled across the horizon—the echo of a world stirring from its long slumber.
Ren closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her hand in his, the fragile thread binding them through time and pain.
"Maybe," he whispered, "this world still remembers how to feel."
And above them, for just a heartbeat, the eclipse flickered—as though light itself had hesitated before returning to the dark.