September, Year 42 of Konoha.
It was the same kind of damp, oppressive rainy day—the kind where even the air carried a heavy, suffocating gloom.
Danzō stood by the window in his home, gazing in the direction of the ninja academy in the distance.
It was lively there today. The son of Hatake Sakumo was graduating early—at five years old, breaking the record for the youngest graduate since the founding of Konoha.
A genius.
Danzō repeated that word in his mind.
Hatake Kakashi.
His father had been the White Fang of Konoha, feared across the shinobi world—yet destroyed himself because of a foolish choice.
That child should be fragile now. Lost.
Danzō thought this was an opportunity.
He intended to pull the boy into Root at the moment when he was most confused, most in pain, most in need of something to hold onto.
The son of Sakumo possessed extraordinary talent, yet his heart was fractured, filled with uncertainty. A child like that was the easiest to forge into the sharpest, most obedient blade in his hand.
So Danzō stepped out of his home. He would go see that child.
He walked along a gravel path toward the Konoha cemetery. Recently, the boy had been coming here almost every day, staying for long stretches of time.
But just as he reached the outskirts of the graveyard, his steps suddenly halted.
He sensed that familiar, faint chakra fluctuation above Kakashi.
The trace of the Telescope Technique.
That old fool Hiruzen was watching this place as well.
Danzō immediately melted into the deepest shadows, suppressing all presence. He decided to wait—wait for Hiruzen's gaze to shift away.
Yet before that happened, another child arrived.
The boy held a dark umbrella, walking from another direction. He raised it over Kakashi's head, shielding him from the suddenly pouring rain.
Higashino Shinichi.
Danzō recognized him—the child who had made a spectacle of himself at the academy entrance months ago, carrying stones on his back, causing a stir even Hiruzen had noticed.
Danzō had reviewed his file then: orphan, civilian, no bloodline, no background. He had immediately lost interest.
But later, that same child had defeated Kakashi in a practical exam. That had surprised Danzō.
Still, he remained uninterested.
Too ostentatious.
Frankly speaking, almost foolish.
In Danzō's view, a true weapon should remain sheathed, hidden in the shadows, sharpening itself where no one could see.
A child so eager to prove himself to the entire world would never amount to much.
Then he heard their conversation.
About missions. About comrades.
Danzō listened, his face expressionless.
What that black-haired child said—about becoming stronger, about changing the rules—sounded nice. But that was all it was.
Nice.
Every young fool says grand words. Only after facing life and death, witnessing betrayal, and seeing the real world of adults would one understand how naïve those words truly were.
Danzō paid it no mind.
Until—
Until Kakashi pressed him with that question.
A question that felt eerily familiar.
Danzō's breathing stopped for a brief instant, as a scene—deeply familiar, painfully vivid—flooded his mind.
Too familiar.
So familiar he never wanted to remember it—yet could not stop remembering it, day after day, night after night.
That day…
His teacher's back faded from his sight, never to return.
That day…
A moment's hesitation became a prison for the rest of his life.
That day…
The step he failed to take became a regret he could never make up for.
That day…
The words he failed to speak became an obsession that trapped him forever.
Whenever the night grew quiet, Danzō would ask himself again and again:
If he hadn't hesitated back then?
If he had stepped forward like Hiruzen?
If he had spoken the words in his heart?
What would his teacher have thought of him?
He didn't know.
He would never know.
But he knew this—
He had lost his teacher's acknowledgment.
Lost the possibility of becoming Hokage.
Lost something he himself could neither name nor explain—but something essential.
From that day on, he could only walk in the shadows, using more extreme, darker, bloodier methods to prove himself right—to fill the endless void and unwillingness born from that moment of hesitation.
What one cannot obtain in youth will haunt them for a lifetime.
At this moment, as Kakashi asked that question, time and space seemed to twist and overlap.
The rain-soaked cemetery before his eyes became the killing fields of the Land of Lightning.
In a daze, Danzō returned to that night—facing that same question once more.
I…
I will…
I will stay behind…
In the darkness, his dry lips trembled slightly, trying to form the words—but no sound came out. It was as if a thousand pounds pressed against his throat, forcing those words back down.
"I'll stay behind."
A clear, calm, decisive voice cut through the rain, falling sharply into his ears.
A light sentence.
Yet it made Danzō freeze in the shadows, as if struck by lightning.
The boy beneath the black umbrella spoke those words calmly—words Danzō had screamed in his mind countless times, yet had never truly spoken.
He said them so naturally.
So matter-of-factly.
Without the slightest hesitation.
As if it were only right.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
As if…
His teacher stood there, borrowing the boy's voice to say those words to him once more.
Rain dripped through the leaves, landing on Danzō's shoulders—but he felt nothing.
A long time passed.
The two children left. The cemetery fell silent again, save for the rain.
Danzō still stood beneath the trees.
He didn't know how long.
Only when the rain gradually lightened and the sky grew darker did he finally turn and walk away.
After a few steps, he suddenly stopped, turning back to glance at the grave.
Through the rain and mist, nothing could be seen.
He withdrew his gaze and continued forward.
He no longer thought about recruiting Kakashi.
That thought had already been shattered the moment the boy spoke those words.
After that day, Danzō often thought of that child—Higashino Shinichi—and the words he spoke in the cemetery.
But that was all.
He did not choose to interfere.
Until two years later, when the news arrived—
"Have you heard? That kid named Higashino Shinichi—at the academy ceremony…"
"A self-developed jutsu? A-rank? No hand seals?"
"The Third Hokage personally took him away…"
Inside the Root base, Danzō set down the document in his hands. His gaze flickered, something within him stirring.
Similar.
Too similar.
Far too similar.
At that moment, for the first time in years, a powerful thought arose in his mind.
He would personally train this child.
Raise him into a great shinobi—just like his teacher.
Once that thought appeared, it spread like wildfire, impossible to suppress.
Danzō immediately set aside all his duties and went straight to the Hokage's office to find Hiruzen.
"No."
Hiruzen's reply was short and decisive—so much so that Danzō almost thought he had misheard.
"Hiruzen, you understand what this means. That child's talent—"
"I see it clearly."
"Then all the more reason you should let me train him—"
"Danzō! I said no!"
Hiruzen cut him off.
His voice wasn't loud—but it carried a firmness Danzō had never seen before.
"Hiruzen…"
"I said no, Danzō! Remember—I am the Hokage!"
Danzō froze.
They had spent a lifetime together. Fought a lifetime.
Yet never had he seen such decisiveness on Hiruzen's face.
No room for negotiation.
No possibility of compromise.
Not even a shred of face left for him.
Even invoking the authority of the Hokage to suppress him.
"You'll regret this!"
For a moment, rage surged within him.
He nearly lashed out on the spot.
But in the end, he only let out a heavy snort, left those words behind, and slammed the door as he walked out.
Bang!
The echo lingered through the Hokage office corridor for a long time.
In the days that followed, that child's apparent lack of focus—and Hiruzen's limitless indulgence—only caused Danzō's anger to grow, nearly beyond control.
He watched helplessly as this child—bearing the will and talent of his teacher, Tobirama—failed to devote himself to refining ninjutsu, failed to hone combat skills, failed to step into the true world of shinobi.
Instead—
Cooking competitions.
Drawing comics for entertainment.
Creating all kinds of noisy disturbances within the village.
Wasting the time that should have been spent striving toward strength on what Danzō saw as trivial, meaningless side pursuits.
Again and again, reports from Root brought him these updates.
Each time, his dissatisfaction with the boy grew.
And his resentment toward Hiruzen deepened.
This accumulating bias and dissatisfaction continued—
Until today.
Until he sat at the Hokage's meeting table and personally opened the three reports written by that child.
He saw—
Cold, penetrating analysis.
Insights that struck directly at the essence.
A thinker.
That word surfaced in Danzō's mind.
The First Hokage, Senju Hashirama, had ended the Warring States era with overwhelming power and vision, establishing Konoha and the one-village-per-nation system.
That was known to all.
But Danzō knew—
The one who truly built the framework supporting this village…
Was another.
His teacher—
The Second Hokage, Senju Tobirama.
The First was the sun—radiant, illuminating all things.
But the sun only shines. It does not decide how that light guides people's steps.
It was his teacher who, beneath that sunlight, laid brick upon brick, constructing Konoha's skeleton.
The ninja village system.
The mission structure.
Administrative frameworks.
Educational regulations.
Departmental responsibilities.
All built from nothing by his teacher's hands.
He did not possess godlike power like his brother.
But he established the true foundation of the village in another way.
Danzō stood silently by the window, looking at the hazy night rain outside.
The usual coldness and gloom had faded, replaced by surging complexity and lingering sorrow.
The same will—
To choose responsibility in desperate situations.
To stand at the front in the face of life and death, as if it were only natural.
The same talent—
The ability to perceive the essence of ninjutsu.
To turn abstract concepts into concrete reality.
The same intelligence—
To see through appearances.
To grasp the essence.
To observe the world with unwavering clarity.
"…You really are so much like him, sensei."
After a long silence, he murmured softly into the heavy night.
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