The disturbance began at the eastern checkpoint.
It was reported as a maritime anomaly—nothing more. A small vessel found drifting near the Fire Country coastline, partially damaged, its sails torn but not destroyed. No insignia. No identifiable origin.
Ordinarily, such things were ignored.
This time, it was not.
Root intercepted the report before it reached standard intelligence channels.
He knew because the surveillance around him increased again that evening.
Not dramatically.
Subtly.
Measured.
Something had triggered concern.
The following morning, the Academy drills were interrupted by a temporary lockdown. Civilian traffic rerouted. Shinobi patrol routes adjusted under the pretext of a "foreign infiltration risk."
He did not need confirmation.
It had arrived.
Whatever system the fruit belonged to—
It was no longer theoretical.
He walked home that evening under a sky thick with distant clouds, the air unusually still. As he passed through the outer streets near the Uchiha district, he felt it.
The pressure inside him shifted.
Not violently.
But distinctly.
Like a compass adjusting direction.
He paused.
The sensation was faint, but it wasn't random. It pointed.
East.
At the abandoned outskirts near the river crossing.
He changed direction without hesitation.
The riverbank was quiet, though fresh footprints marked the damp soil near a concealed storage transport. Konoha shinobi had moved something recently. Something heavy.
He crouched near the water's edge and closed his eyes briefly.
The density within him responded more clearly now, aligning toward a structure partially hidden beyond the tree line.
A temporary holding facility.
Guarded.
He approached carefully, avoiding direct lines of sight while observing the perimeter.
This was not Root security alone.
Standard Konoha shinobi stood guard as well.
Which meant—
The Hokage knew something.
That complicated things.
Through a narrow gap between stacked supply crates, he caught sight of it.
Not a fruit.
Not an artifact.
A man.
Tall. Unfamiliar attire. Skin darker from sun exposure. Chains secured around wrists forged in reinforced metal.
But the chains were bent.
Slightly.
The man's posture remained upright despite visible injury. His expression was not fearful.
It was irritated.
He spoke in a language unfamiliar to most of the shinobi nearby.
But one word repeated.
"Darkness."
His pulse remained steady.
The pressure inside him intensified—not in aggression, but recognition.
The man lifted his head slowly.
And for a single second—
Their eyes met across the distance.
The stranger's expression shifted.
Not surprise.
Understanding.
A faint smile touched the corner of the man's mouth.
The chains around his wrists groaned under sudden strain.
The shinobi guards stiffened instantly.
"What did he just say?" one asked.
No one answered.
Because none of them felt what he did.
The density.
The pull.
Something had crossed into this world.
Not by accident.
And it recognized him.