The stranger did not look like a prisoner.
He stood as though the chains were an inconvenience rather than restraint, shoulders straight despite the visible strain across the metal binding his wrists. His clothing was unfamiliar—stitched differently, reinforced at the seams in ways shinobi armor was not.
He did not scan the guards.
He scanned the air.
As though searching for something unseen.
When his gaze met his across the clearing, the reaction was immediate and unmistakable.
Recognition.
Not of his face.
Of what lay inside him.
The faint smile that followed was not friendly.
It was certain.
The guards tightened formation as the stranger spoke again, his voice low but carrying weight even through language most of them did not understand.
Only fragments translated through context.
"Not lost."
"Here."
"Chosen."
The pressure inside his chest deepened, not violently, but in steady alignment, like gravity adjusting toward a familiar mass.
He did not move closer.
Not yet.
Instead, he observed the shinobi stationed around the temporary holding structure. Standard patrol. No Root insignia visible. That meant this was no longer entirely in Danzō's control.
The Hokage knew.
Which meant the balance of secrecy was already slipping.
The stranger rolled his shoulders slightly, and the reinforced chains groaned again under tension.
"Contain him!" one of the shinobi ordered.
Too late.
The ground beneath the stranger fractured outward as though something heavy had struck from above, yet no impact had occurred. The chains snapped—not outward, but inward, crushed by sudden compression before shattering entirely.
The shinobi reacted instantly.
Wind techniques. Earth bindings. Restraining seals.
The stranger did not dodge.
He absorbed.
Not chakra absorption.
Impact absorption.
The force of incoming techniques seemed to collapse toward him before dispersing uselessly across the air.
He moved once.
And the nearest shinobi was gone.
Not slain.
Gone.
Displaced in a distortion that rippled briefly before sealing itself shut.
The remaining guards faltered, unsure whether to pursue or retreat.
The stranger turned slowly toward the direction where he stood concealed.
"You," the man said clearly now, switching to heavily accented but understandable speech. "You consumed it."
Not question.
Statement.
His pulse did not quicken.
He stepped from concealment deliberately, drawing attention not with haste but with control.
The shinobi guards shifted, uncertain whether to treat him as reinforcement or liability.
The stranger studied him openly.
"You feel it," the man continued. "The pull."
He did not answer.
The pressure within him intensified subtly, responding to proximity.
"You were not meant to," the stranger said. "That fruit crossed oceans. Many died seeking it."
The clearing remained tense, charged with anticipation rather than noise.
"And you came to retrieve it," he replied evenly.
The stranger smiled faintly.
"No," he said. "I came to ensure it does not awaken incorrectly."
Incorrectly.
Interesting word.
Before he could respond further, the air shifted sharply.
ANBU.
Multiple.
Arriving fast.
The stranger exhaled once, almost disappointed.
"Not here," he muttered.
The space around him bent suddenly, compressing inward before expanding in a violent distortion that shattered nearby trees. The shockwave knocked several shinobi off their feet, but when the dust settled—
The stranger was gone.
Not fled.
Gone.
The clearing fell silent.
ANBU surrounded the perimeter instantly.
Weapons drawn.
Masks unreadable.
He remained standing at the center.
Watching the space where the distortion had collapsed.
The pressure inside him did not fade.
It lingered.
Acknowledging.
The hunter had confirmed something critical.
The fruit was not unique.
It was sought.
And he was no longer anonymous.
From the rooftops beyond the riverbank, he felt a familiar presence observing.
Danzō.
The line between containment and catastrophe had just thinned.
And for the first time since consuming the fruit—
He understood that someone else knew how this power worked.