Kabuto shuddered violently, as if struck by a whip.
He snapped his head up, his gaze frantically scanning Nono's face. Those hollow brown eyes remained unfocused, as if that whispered "thank you" had been nothing more than the residual instinct of a living corpse. Holding her bowl, she moved woodenly back into the shadows of the iron door.
"Kabuto? Why do you look so terrible?" Murahashi Hazuki walked over, holding an empty basket. Her sensory keenness had immediately picked up on her teammate's anomaly.
In the dim light, she saw that Kabuto's face was as white as paper. Fine beads of cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and behind his glasses, his eyes flickered violently, failing to hide the massive, overflowing agony within. This was a complete departure from the usually gentle and composed "Kumamoto Kabuto."
"I'm... fine." Kabuto squeezed the words out through gritted teeth, his voice rasping.
He lowered his head sharply to avoid Hazuki's searching gaze. Speeding up his pace, he haphazardly scooped a spoonful of dried vegetables and dumped them into the next prisoner's bowl. His movements were hurried and frantic—a loss of control. The edge of the ladle scraped against the wooden bowl, creating a piercing, discordant noise.
He needed to do something, anything, to fill the sudden, terrifying void that threatened to tear him in two.
He forced his focus onto the food and the next cell, but the trembling in his fingers was uncontrollable. Dean Nono's haggard, soulless face, those eyes that had shattered his courage, and that cold "thank you" echoed and magnified in his mind. Each repetition felt like a sledgehammer slamming into the foundation of his convictions.
Lord Danzo's promises still rang in his ears, clear as day. As long as I complete the mission... the Dean will be free... we can start over in a place of warm sunshine. This was the drive that allowed him to endure the masks, the loneliness, and the danger. It was the only glimmer of light he held onto while submerged in darkness.
But now?
The Dean was right in front of him! In a prison in the Land of Stars! And she didn't recognize him!
An icy, brutal realization wound itself around his heart: Does she... simply not care about me anymore?
What was the meaning of everything he had done—joining Root, executing spy missions, playing these roles? Was the promise of "freedom" nothing more than a carrot dangled before a donkey, forever out of reach?
The fear and sense of betrayal were colder than the prison air. He felt as if he were standing naked on the edge of a bottomless abyss. The hand that had pushed him... its face was blurred, yet it carried a scent he had once trusted implicitly.
The pillar of his faith finally gave a loud, agonizing crack.
Clang!
A sudden, sharp crash broke the oppressive silence of the corridor. The heavy iron bucket filled with hot miso soup slipped from Kabuto's trembling, strengthless hands, slamming hard against the cold stone floor.
The thick, steaming, dark brown liquid splashed everywhere, soaking Kabuto's pant legs and shoes, even splattering onto a nearby guard's trousers.
"Ah!" The guard yelped from the heat and jumped back. "Hey! Kid! What the hell are you doing?!"
Kabuto stood there blankly. He felt the scalding heat and stickiness on his legs. He stared at the steaming mess, the broken ladle, and the wooden bowl rolled into the corner. He saw the guard's angry face, and the shocked, worried expressions of Hazuki and Katsuhito.
The world seemed to enter slow motion. Sounds became distorted and colors faded, leaving only this filthy mess that reeked of failure and collapse. This wreckage was a perfect mirror for the world crumbling inside him.
"I'm sorry... I... my hand slipped..."
A dry, unfamiliar voice squeezed out of Kabuto's throat, carrying a hypocritical calm that disgusted even himself. He bent down, his glasses sliding down his nose, revealing eyes that could no longer hide the daze and agony within.
He crouched, mechanically reaching out to pick up the shards. His fingers touched the hot soup and the sharp edges of ceramic, bringing a sting of pain. Strangely, this minor physical pain brought a moment of clarity.
Hide it. I must hide it!
No matter how much he had collapsed inside, he had to remain "Kumamoto Kabuto" for now. He forced his head up, squeezing out an expression of panic and self-reproach suitable for a clumsy Genin as he looked at the angry guard and the approaching Natsuhi.
"Natsuhi-sensei, I'm sorry! I was too careless!" His voice trembled with the right amount of regret.
Natsuhi frowned, her sharp eyes scanning between Kabuto's pale face, his shaking hands, and the mess on the floor. She didn't scold him. She simply nodded to the guard. "We will take responsibility for the cleanup. Kabuto, Hazuki, clean this up. Katsuhito, go get another bucket of soup from the logistics team."
Her voice was steady, but her commands were faster than usual.
"Yes!" Hazuki and Katsuhito replied. They cast worried glances at the soul-shaken Kabuto before moving into action.
Kabuto crouched on the cold stone, clutching a soup-stained shard. The sting in his fingertips was clear. He looked at his distorted reflection in the murky soup—the face of "Kumamoto Kabuto." Dean Nono's hollow, stranger's eyes were branded onto his retinas, a wound that tore at his soul with every blink. He was trapped in this ruin of despair.
Natsuhi stood a few paces away, her gaze heavy on Kabuto's trembling back. She didn't rush him. She simply watched as her usually most composed and reliable student looked as if the very marrow had been sucked from his bones.
From deep within the prison came the heavy, hollow thud of an iron door closing—an echo of Kabuto's chaotic mind.
As Kabuto mechanically scraped at the mess, that hollow "thank you" continued to burn through him. Lord Danzo's promised future and his lifelong pillar of faith had turned to ash. He was an empty shell, held upright only by the inertia of his persona.
Suddenly, an indescribable sensation of weightlessness—as if coming from the depths of his soul—seized him.
The hard, cold stone floor vanished. The guard's anger, his teammates' worry, the filth on the ground... all of it distorted and shattered like a reflection in a disturbed pool. The suffocating air of the prison was replaced by a vast, cold, and ethereal emptiness.
Kabuto found himself standing on a limitless surface of water.
The water was as smooth as a mirror, reflecting an equally infinite, heart-stoppingly deep night sky. Countless stars burned, swirled, and flowed across the black canvas, gathering into a brilliant river of light. The space was bathed in a cold, pure, dreamlike radiance.
The water beneath his feet wasn't solid; his steps created only the faint ripples, yet it reflected his pale, soul-shaken silhouette with perfect clarity. Absolute silence wrapped around him. No wind, no sound—only the silent rotation of the stars and the roar of his own heart.
Where is... this?
Massive shock temporarily overrode his internal collapse. Kabuto looked up, the pupils behind his glasses constricting.
This isn't reality! A genjutsu?
What terrifying genjutsu could drag me from a physical prison into such an unimaginable world in an instant? And when was it cast?
"Kabuto."
A clear, calm voice with a strange hint of childishness rang out in the silence, piercing through the sound of his racing heart.
Kabuto jerked as if struck by an invisible current. He spun toward the sound.
Standing about ten paces away was a small figure. It was a boy, roughly five years old. He had black, spiky hair and a handsome face, dressed in black casual clothes. His open-toed ninja boots rested on the water reflecting the stars. He possessed a maturity completely out of place for his age.
The boy's eyes were as dark as deep pools, staring at Kabuto with an unnerving, tranquil stillness. Those eyes held a depth that didn't belong to a five-year-old—as if they harbored thousands of years of secrets.
Menma!
Kabuto's breath hitched. His mind went blank. How is he here?
"You..." Kabuto's voice was like sandpaper, trembling with disbelief. "You... how can you..."
A thousand questions fought in his throat, only to turn into a confused void. "Is this still a genjutsu?"
He stared at the small figure, his body instinctively tensing into a defensive stance, though he knew that in this bizarre space, any defense was laughably futile.
Menma didn't answer his question about the space. Those dark eyes remained motionless, as if he had already seen through every struggle and mask in Kabuto's soul.
"Long time no see." The small lips moved, the voice clear and stable. Each word was like a cold stone dropped into the lake of Kabuto's mind. "It has been nearly two years since we last met. It seems you haven't been doing well in the Konoha Root. And you aren't a medical ninja, as you once claimed you would be."
Kabuto swayed violently, as if struck by an invisible hammer.
"Why... do you know this?" Kabuto's voice was hoarse, the struggle of a cornered beast. "The Dean... why is the Dean in the Land of Stars?!"
Kabuto knew that the child before him must know exactly what was happening.
"Do you want to know the truth?" Deep within Menma's dark eyes, a faint, almost pitying light flickered.
He slowly raised his small right hand. The movement carried a sense of control and gravity that defied his childish appearance. Several light slips of paper slid silently from his palm.
They drifted through the silent, starlit space, eventually drawn by an invisible force to land precisely on the water at Kabuto's feet. The water rippled slightly but did not dampen the paper.
They were color photographs.
Kabuto's gaze was drawn to them like a magnet.
The first photo showed a boy with round glasses, a gentle smile, and clear eyes. The features, the curve of the lips... they were seventy to eighty percent similar to his own. The boy wore a Konoha Academy uniform, and the background appeared to be a street in Konoha.
The second photo showed the same boy in a Konoha medical ninja uniform, looking slightly tired but still smiling brightly at the camera.
The third photo was set in a dimly lit room; the boy sat at a desk covered in books, writing something intently.
Each photo bore a resemblance to Kabuto, constructing the growth trajectory of a young man. In just two years, "Yakushi Kabuto" had become a completely different person.
"This... this isn't me..."
"THIS ISN'T ME!!!"
Kabuto's eyes widened, staring hollowly at the photos. His face was a mask of shock and unbelievable agony. He stumbled back, sending ripples across the calm water.
He stared at the face of the stranger in the photos. A cold, cruel, poisonous truth—like a sharp ice pick—bored into his mind.
Danzo... that man who controls Root...
He hadn't just used the Dean's safety as a shackle to drive him; he had used a method so despicable and malicious!
He had found a double! A boy who looked like him to replace his position in the Dean's heart! The Dean's tender gaze was now fixed on that imposter!
"Both you and the Dean were naive," Menma's voice sounded slowly, cool and pitying. "Naive enough to think a man like Danzo would keep his word. Little did you know he was already planning for you to kill each other—to erase the last bit of kindness left in a spy and turn you into a perfect tool in his hands."
This cruel truth nearly suffocated Kabuto.
"GRAAAAHHH!!!" A suppressed, primal scream of a wounded animal erupted from Kabuto's throat.
He doubled over, his hands clutching his hair so tightly his knuckles turned white and his nails dug into his scalp. Massive pain, the rage of being toyed with, bone-deep regret, and towering hatred... a thousand emotions roared through his body like a tsunami.
He understood! He understood everything!
Why she didn't recognize him! Why her eyes were so hollow!
Because in her "memory," Yakushi Kabuto was already someone else! If Danzo's plan had played out—if Danzo had sent the Dean to eliminate him while he remained in the dark...
"It's me... I'm the one who hurt her... It's me..." Kabuto's voice was broken, filled with self-destructive despair and guilt.
If he hadn't followed Danzo of his own accord, the Dean might not have been so passively blackmailed.
Tears surged uncontrollably, mixing with snot as they flowed down his distorted face, dripping onto the star-reflected water and creating ring after ring of small ripples.