The crowd howled like some frenzied beast as we walked into the arena with the others. Our name rumbled through the stands, words spat with fervour, the hungry sound of it swelling like a tide. We smiled, let the Sharingan spark to life, and waved, indulging them, acknowledging their presence only in the most perfunctory way. They roared back, louder this time, and we thought, without irony, that this was exactly how it should be.

"Show off," Kiba muttered, his voice a pitiful thing. The stink of envy clung to him like sweat.

A voice, sterner, cut through the din. "Stand still," barked Genma, the proctor. Hinata flinched as though struck. The crowd, the arena, the stench of anticipation—all of it seemed to weigh on her. We caught her eye, offering a thumbs-up, and, as expected, she shrank further into herself. Amusement flickered briefly before our gaze drifted upwards, towards the place where power sat, watching. The Hokage, distant and shrunken in his seat, leaned towards the Kazekage, exchanging words we couldn't hear but knew all too well. We met the Kazekage's stare for a breath, then let the Sharingan fade. There'd be time for chit-chat later.

"Ahem!" The Hokage's voice, amplified, filled the arena. "Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests. Welcome to the final round of the Chunin selection exams. We will now begin the matches between the twelve qualifying candidates. Please enjoy."

Another roar. As predictable as the tide. And yet, as we stood there, watching them bay for blood, for violence, we couldn't help but feel… bored. It was all so small, so trivial, these human pleasures. Still, we smiled again, indulging them as one might indulge a child.

Genma, already moving on, gestured to the field. "This is the final exam. The terrain's different, so are the rules. You fight until one of you dies, admits defeat, or until I step in. Clear?" He paused, looking at each of us. "First match, Lee versus Gaara. The rest of you, to the waiting room."

Dismissed, we shuffled off to wait for our turns.

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What is the meaning of meaning? It struck us, as we sat there, watching the proceedings unfold below, how absurd the concept was. What does it mean for something to mean something? Such a frail, human thing. To find meaning in words, in gestures, in names.

Human language—words—in its most reductive state was a coalescence of unintelligible noises that, on their own held no meaning, but when pieced together, incomprehensibly found meaning. The tone; the pauses; the little lilts in words give further meaning to this… meaning.

Colours on their own had no meaning, but mortals always find ways to inexplicably assign meaning to them. Red—rage. Green—envy. Black—solitude. White—purity. How small their minds must be, to need such things

Of course, in our highest state, we found no use for meaning. For something to mean something, it must be explainable. Understandable. Comprehensible. For something to be comprehensible, is for it to be named. When you know something's True Name—not just a descriptive term for it, but an accurate, all-encapsulating term—you can control it. A name is a symbol that allows you to reduce the thing, to reference it simply. It allows you to capture the identity of something much greater in just a few syllables. To encapsulate it, make it small.

To give yourself some power over it.

But what of that which cannot be named? The ineffable. The unnamable. The thing beyond comprehension. Thoughts about divinity. Infinity. Experiences so strange they cannot be related; emotions so poignant they cannot be meaningfully expressed. What does it do with these things? If not with language, how does it describe it? Something the rational mind, eager to describe—and thus, understand—strains against.

"...There is no language for such abysms of shrieking and immemorial lunacy, such eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order. A mountain walked or stumbled. God! … The Thing of the idols, the green, sticky spawn of the stars, had awaked to claim his own."

These were the words of an enlightened mortal, one whose work we had the pleasure of perusing earlier in this life. In a way, it was the most beautiful thing the mortal world ever offered us. We had read it with a kind of distant appreciation, as one might admire a fleeting glimpse of something almost familiar.

Our gaze returned to the arena, where the thing below—Gaara, was it?—toyed with its opponent. A creature of sand and hatred, not much unlike the little fox. The taste of blood in its chakra was sickeningly sweet, yet it could not crave it more. Consume and destroy, that was the code carved into its grains. It sought to verify its existence through the suffering of others. Its existence seemed to hinge on violence, on the suffering of others. It was trying, desperately, to define itself. We watched, bemused. It was a crude effort, but no less pitiable for that.

The match ended. Gaara stood, bloodlust in his eyes, and for a brief moment, our gazes met.

Truly, we thought, an inferior existence.

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The rest of the battles blurred into insignificance. Meaningless. It was all so tiresome, so predictable. Temari, Shino, Tenten, Neji—they advanced through the ranks, and our teammates, unsurprisingly, fell. Kakashi, no doubt, was somewhere watching, perhaps already resigned to the fact that only the student he hadn't bothered to train was still standing.

Then, it was our turn. We descended into the arena, the wind catching the edges of our kimono, billowing them out in a manner that, we were sure, the crowd found suitably dramatic. We could hear them above, a chorus of squeals, the clamour of excitement thick in the air.

"Done with the theatrics?" Kankuro's puppet rasped. The boy hung from the construct's back, wrapped up in bandages from head to toe and disguised as a puppet himself. Hidden. Poorly. We could see the chakra threads shimmering in the sunlight, connecting his twitching fingers to the grotesque thing he hung off.

We flicked off the Sharingan, tilting our head slightly. "I suppose."

He sneered, though the effect was lost in his disguise. "I hate your kind. You think you're better than the rest of us, don't you? I'm going to beat that smug look off your powdered face."

We smiled, a soft, almost indulgent smile. "I'll go easy on you. For Temari's sake."

His snarl deepened, but we'd already moved. The match, such as it was, ended before it began. By the time the dust settled, we were holding him against the wall. Our grip tightened around his neck, chakra seeping into him, disrupting his control over his puppets. The bandages around him began to unravel, his face growing pale. He clawed weakly at our hand, his breath shallow.

"I yield," Kankuro gasped, his voice barely a whisper.

We turned to Genma, who still seemed stunned by the speed of it all. "He yields," the proctor managed in the end, blinking, his senbon nearly falling from his mouth. "Winner: Uchiha Sasuke!"

We let Kankuro drop, his body crumpling to the ground, gasping for breath. The crowd's silence stretched for a moment longer, then the roar returned, louder than before. They screamed, shocked, more fervent than before.

We flickered back to the waiting room, leaving behind the noise. Truly, what had they expected?

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"Any leads yet?" Hiruzen asked, his gaze lingering on the slim form of Sasuke as the boy returned to his seat in the waiting area. His expression was inscrutable, though the furrowed brows betrayed a quiet unease.

"No, Hokage-sama," Raidō Namiashi replied. "We've still got several ANBU squads combing through the leads, but it seems the trail has gone cold. The forensics team has also finished their analysis of Gekkō's murder. It was a clean job—the killer was very skilled. Nothing of value to be found."

Hiruzen grunted softly, his eyes narrowing. "Keep searching. If Orochimaru is involved, we won't have to wait long. He'll strike again soon."

Raidō bowed and vanished, nothing more than a flicker in the dying light. Left alone with his thoughts, the Hokage turned his attention once again to the Uchiha boy across the arena. A prodigy, terrifying in his potential. Yet, what were Orochimaru's intentions with him?

"The Uchiha is quite interesting," came a voice to Hiruzen's left, like gravel underfoot. The Kazekage, his face obscured, leaned forward slightly. "The rumours, then. True. Shisui of the Body Flicker taught him well. Such speed in one so young is remarkable."

"Indeed," Hiruzen murmured, keeping his tone neutral. Speed. He hoped, almost desperately, that's all Shisui had given him. But hope was a thin thing, weak. Fugaku wouldn't have let his son pass through the hands of another Uchiha without more than a few secrets being shared. It was, he thought, just wishful thinking to hope otherwise.

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The Hokage watched the match below, eyes never blinking. Tenten was up, Might Guy's student, but the outcome had never been in doubt—her skills were no match for the precision of the Aburame scion, his movements like a slow crushing weight—she had held her own long enough to earn the audience's respect.

Yes, she would likely become a chunin, despite her loss. She already had his vote.

As the medics arrived to escort her depleted form from the arena, the proctor stepped forward again. "The next match: Temari Sabaku versus Gaara Sabaku! Please come down."

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"I withdraw," came Temari's firm response from the stands.

A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd, though there was little surprise in their tone. Few had forgotten the cruelty Gaara had shown in his previous match. Fewer still wished to witness a repeat.

The proctor barely paused before calling out again, "Hyuga Neji versus Uchiha Sasuke!"

Both competitors appeared on the field almost instantly, the air between them thick with palpable tension. They stood apart, measuring each other from a distance of a hundred meters, their black manes stirred by the same breeze that ruffled their loose sleeves. A sudden stillness fell over the arena.

"Begin!"

Sasuke was the first to move, his hands forming a blur of seals before his form split into five afterimages. He closed the distance with unnerving speed, while Neji, calm and composed, shifted into the familiar stance of the Hyuga clan's Gentle Fist. Hiruzen leaned forward in his seat as the first wave of blows was exchanged—Sasuke's afterimages attacking from multiple directions, Neji countering each with the fluid grace that had made his clan's taijutsu so feared.

And then, a moment of clarity: one of Sasuke's clones fell back, forming seals at an astonishing speed. A fireball roared across the arena, its heat intense enough to send ripples through the air. Neji, still engaged with two other clones, spun just as the fire engulfed him. The explosion that followed sent shockwaves through the arena, ruffling Hiruzen's robes even at this distance.

As the smoke cleared, Hiruzen squinted, trying to make out the scene below. Slowly, the dust began to settle, revealing Neji, still standing in the centre of a smouldering crater. His face was smeared with soot, his clothes singed at the edges, but he remained upright, bruised yet unyielding. Sasuke's clones, pristine and untouched, stood at a distance, their forms flickering slightly.

"Impressive," the Kazekage remarked, his voice oddly detached. "The Revolving Heaven. He's mastered it well. To survive that..."

Hiruzen didn't answer. His eyes were on the boys.

"Give up," came Sasuke's voice, disembodied yet present in all three of his forms. The subtle flicker in their movement suggested at least two were Afterimage Clones, a technique Hiruzen recognized from the long-dead Shisui. Sasuke hadn't yet mastered it—it was still possible to tell—but the boy's talent was unmistakable. "You can't win."

For a moment, there was silence. The arena seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Then, almost imperceptibly, Neji shifted, taking a stance.

"Very well," Sasuke sighed, his expression unchanged. His hands came together, forming the Ram sign, and from where Hiruzen sat, he could feel the boy's chakra churn, thick and cold. Aberrant. Spilling across the earth like oil.

At that instant, the barrier tags hidden beneath the dirt flared to life, lighting up the arena floor with a sudden, blinding intensity. Neji, realizing too late, tried to move, only to be intercepted by one of Sasuke's clones. Ribbons of kanji erupted from the ground like tendrils, wrapping around Neji in an instant, sealing him away in tightly bound paper cocoons.

The arena fell silent.

Genma, the proctor, took a step forward, his voice breaking the stillness. "Hyuga Neji is no longer able to compete. The winner is Uchiha Sasuke."

As the crowd processed the outcome, murmurs rippled through the stands, growing louder with each passing second. The clamour returned. Awe. Fervour.

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"I withdraw."

There was no surprise in Shino's decision, though it amused us that two out of three of Gaara's matches had been forfeitures. Gaara had certainly left an impression, particularly in his battle with Rock Lee.

"Shino Aburame has withdrawn from the match," Genma's voice flat, chewing on that senbon of his. "By default, the winner is Sabaku Gaara! The next pairing: Uchiha Sasuke against Sabaku Gaara! Participants, make your way down now!"

We flickered into the arena, turning to face our opponent still in the waiting area. His gaze—hungry, almost feral—locked onto ours. He didn't move, not yet. My brow rose, questioning, but he turned, slow as molasses, and walked toward the stairs, choosing to descend slowly. Taking the long way. It didn't matter. Results wouldn't change, no matter how much he dragged it out.

In fact, his delay played to our advantage. Despite the rest periods between battles, we were still down by seventeen per cent of our total chakra. The longer we waited, the more chakra we recovered, and the more hopeless his struggle would become. A minute later, his feet finally hit the arena floor, the proctor chewing his senbon, nodding.

"At long last," Genma muttered. "Begin."

We blurred backwards, slipping out of reach just as his massive sand claw came crashing down, cleaving the space where we'd been. "Bind," we whispered, pulling on the seal we'd laid earlier. Neji had fallen to it; the proctor hadn't removed it, so it remained, waiting. Ribbons of kanji sprang from the ground, wrapping themselves around Gaara, twisting tight. The crowd murmured.

Then the cocoon began to bulge, swelling like something rotten. The sealing kanji strained, the paper tearing at the seams. An explosion of sand burst free, and with it, a spike flew, aiming for us.

We flickered away, narrowly dodging the strike, then launched forward, closing the distance between us and our opponent. From his earlier matches, it was clear Gaara possessed immense power and resilience, but those came with a price. Speed. He was slow—painfully so.

Fist met face before he could even register the attack, the blow sending him hurtling across the arena. His sand shield rose too late, reacting only after the blow had landed. Comically. We were already gone, attacking from another angle. We didn't even need Genjutsu to toy with him. We struck again, and again, each time landing before his defence could form.

But it didn't matter. His body was coated in sand, hard as stone. Our blows barely touched him, merely chipping at the surface.

Enough! We let our Sharingan flare, the red whirl of it sharp in our vision. Flickered in front of him, locking eyes. A Genjutsu here would be simple. End him in seconds. But that would be foolish. Orochimaru had leaked enough to know: Gaara was a Jinchūriki, like Naruto. Tied to something primal. Using high-level Genjutsu here, in front of so many, would give away too much. Tactically, it was dangerous. Strategically? Suicidal.

Instead, we reached for a simpler illusion. One of our own. "Demonic Illusion: Void Sea." The technique held. His senses collapsed inward, his world shrinking to nothing but the beat of his own heart. He flailed, blind, striking at ghosts. The sand around him writhed, as if in pain.

Then he screamed.

A wail, guttural and unearthly, ripped from his throat, reverberating across the arena. His sand convulsed, rising in jagged, twitching streamers. "mOTHeR!" Gaara shrieked, his voice warped, broken. "MoTHEr! PleaSE! I aM sORRY! FoRGIVe mE! don'T LEAvE Me! I AM SOR—"

The inhuman cry curdled abruptly, twisting in the air. We felt the Genjutsu dissolve. A dark, sinister chakra surged from the boy's hunched form, unmistakably potent. The tailed beast? He rose slowly, his crazed eyes locking onto ours.

Our left brow lifted in curiosity.

"I wILL kiLL YoU!" Gaara screeched, his voice raw with rage. His hands came together in the Tiger seal, his lips moving in frantic, barely coherent mutters.

Jin

Saru

Hebi

Saru

Jin

Saru

Tori

Tatsu…

The sand whirled faster, forming a dense dome around him. We watched, bemused, as he retreated into the earthen shell, seemingly preparing something. It was clear now—he needed time. And whatever he was about to unleash would require a vast amount of chakra.

Troublesome.

Our hands blurred through a series of hand signs. Chakra surged in our chest, igniting as it reached our throat. A torrent of fire burst from our mouth, hurtling toward the dome in a blazing inferno. The explosion rocked the arena, the heat forcing us to narrow our eyes despite the chakra veil shielding our vision.

As the dust settled, we saw the dome had withstood the blast, though a small portion had been liquefied. No matter. We hadn't expected to destroy it outright. Instead, we observed the now molten surface of the sand, the edges slagging off in rivulets of molten glass. Perfect. Our hands blurred again.

"Water Release: Water Severing Wave!"

A high-pressure jet of water shot from our mouth, slicing through the molten sand. As the stream struck the dome, the sand rapidly cooled, vitrifying into brittle glass. Cracks splintered across the surface before, finally, the jet punched through, exiting the other side and continuing into the Colosseum wall. An explosion. Bystanders screamed in fright; none were hurt.

The dome crumbled, shards of glass cascading to the ground. Gaara stood in the open, a gaping wound in his side, blood pooling at his feet. His Jinchūriki status made his survival uncertain, but for any normal human, such a wound would have been fatal. We hadn't aimed to kill. But we could have. Orochimaru had hinted we might need this one later. We could see why now.

Gaara looked down at his wound, bewildered. His mouth opened, but only a bloody cough emerged. Then, he collapsed, unconscious before his body hit the ground.

The medics were on him in seconds, swarming like crows. We ignored them. He would live. Jinchūriki ought to—extraordinary regenerative abilities. we'd seen Naruto heal as such.

Genma's gaze lingered on us, something dark flickering behind his eyes. But he had a job to do.

"Sabaku Gaara is no longer able to compete," he declared.

"The winner is Uchiha Sasuke!"