Yakushi Kabuto was far too mature for his age. Since he was a small child, he had considered the well-being of Yakushi Nono above all else.
Everything he had painstakingly constructed—his voluntary sacrifice, his silent endurance, the dark path for which he had traded his soul...
It turned out that from the very beginning, it was all built upon deception and a cruel conspiracy! He had been a complete and utter fool! Not only had he failed to protect the Dean, but he had also become an accomplice in pushing her deeper into hell!
The young Menma stood quietly on the water's surface not far away. His pitch-black eyes watched the boy collapsing on the brink of sanity; he offered no rush, no empty comfort. His tranquility, so far beyond his years, acted instead as an invisible pressure.
"Kabuto, I told you I would help you."
Only when Kabuto's screams and wails faded into low, desperate sobs did Menma speak again. His voice remained clear and calm, yet it possessed a piercing resonance.
Kabuto snapped his head up, adjusting his tear-blurred glasses to stare deathly at Menma. His eyes held the flickering hope of a dying man grasping at a final straw. "You... why would you..."
Menma's words carried a heavy weight: "I joined the Organization. Currently, I am an undercover agent in Konoha."
"During this time, I learned of Danzo's plan. I petitioned Lord Shura, saved her life, and secretly transferred her to the Land of Stars."
His dark eyes stared directly into Kabuto's broken ones. "But if you cannot join the Organization and swear fealty to Lord Shura..."
The rest of the sentence was left unsaid, cut short like a cold blade hanging over his head. But the meaning was self-evident. Yakushi Nono's life would no longer be guaranteed.
Silence.
On the surface of the starlit water, only a deathly stillness remained. Kabuto's heavy breathing was amplified infinitely in the absolute quiet. He looked at the five-year-old child before him, seeing the bottomless calm in those dark eyes. The massive impact of the information and the contrast in identity almost made it impossible for him to think.
An Organization? Menma is Shura's mystery organization's spy in Konoha? Why would Shura choose a child like Menma? Does he have something special about him too?
But all doubts, all weighing of options, and all fears became insignificant in the face of those hollow brown eyes and the photos of the Dean's tender gaze directed at an "imposter."
Dean Nono is still alive! That was his only light! And the switch to that light was held in the hands of this "Shura."
Towering hatred pointed toward Danzo, who had used him as a pawn, and toward Konoha! Now, it seemed there was only one path left.
Without a shred of hesitation, the collapse and reconstruction of his inner world were completed in an instant. Kabuto raised his arm, violently wiping the tears and wreckage from his face with his sleeve.
He stood straight. Though he still trembled slightly, the spy's mask and the "Kumamoto Kabuto" cowardice completely vanished from the depths of his eyes. They were replaced by the icy resolve of someone pushed to a dead end. He looked directly into Menma's eyes, his voice hoarse but exceptionally clear, each word squeezed from his soul:
"I'll join."
He paused, adding a final, nearly humble plea. "But... let me see her. Let me and the Dean... recognize each other."
He needed to confirm that the Dean still "existed," to confirm that this light wasn't just another phantom lure.
Menma watched him quietly, his small face showing no expression. After a moment, he gave a slow nod.
"I will relay your request to Lord Shura."
As the words fell, Menma's small figure began to blur and become transparent, like a reflection in water disturbed by a stone. The vast starlit water and the brilliant river of stars began to dissipate and peel away like a fading scroll.
The sensation of cold stone snapped back beneath his feet. The pungent smell of miso soup, the moldy scent of the stone walls, the guard's lingering anger, and his teammates' worried gazes—the sounds and scents of the real world flooded back into his senses.
Kabuto was still in his crouching position on the floor, clutching the soup-stained ceramic shard. He jerked violently, as if just hauled out of deep water, gasping for air. His forehead was slick with cold sweat, and his clothes were soaked, sticking to his skin with an icy, clammy grip.
"Kabuto! Are you okay?" Hazuki's concerned voice rang in his ear. She and Katsuhito had already cleaned most of the mess, and a new bucket of soup sat nearby.
Natsuhi stood a few paces away, her gaze heavy on him, full of scrutiny and inquiry.
Everything that had just happened... it was a genjutsu! In reality, it seemed only a single second had passed.
The sting of the cold ceramic shard in his hand was undeniably real. The heavy thud of the iron doors in the prison was real. But even more real were the photographs etched into his mind, Menma's dark, calm eyes, and the sentence: "I will relay your request to Lord Shura."
Kabuto took a long, deep breath. The stagnant, cold prison air filled his lungs, bringing a sharp pain but also a strange, icy clarity.
He looked up, slowly piecing back together the expression of "Kumamoto Kabuto"—the panic, the self-reproach, the clumsiness. But this time, behind those glasses, something in the depths of his eyes had shattered completely, replaced by something colder and harder.
"I'm... I'm fine now, Hazuki," his voice carried a faint rasp he couldn't hide, but he tried to maintain his usual gentleness. "I just felt a bit dizzy... maybe I was too nervous."
As he spoke, he stood up slowly, his movements stiff as if re-adapting to his own body. He crouched back down, picked up a clean rag, and began to wipe the last remnants of the stain with silent, forceful intensity. His movements were mechanical, yet carried a near-obsessive focus.
The salty, sticky smell of the miso soup filled his nose, mixing with the cold stone and the scent of despair. This nauseating smell now served as a brand, clearly marking the boundary between reality and that starlit water.
It marked the watershed of his life.
The Root spy named Yakushi Kabuto had died. What remained was "Kumamoto Kabuto," a man standing on the ruins, taking his first step into the unknown darkness.
He wiped the floor, as if wiping away everything from his past. Dean Nono's hollow eyes and the tender smile from the photos flashed alternately in his mind, eventually fusing into a cold, bone-chilling strength that sustained his forward movement.
He waited. He waited for the response.