We pulled the scarf tighter around our face, instinct more than thought, trying to keep the dust from filling our nose. The heat shimmered off the sandstone walls of the city, the sun glaring down like some ancient eye. The wind brought with it the dry, scorched breath of the desert, and the capital stood gleaming under that same assault, the buildings pitted and scarred by years of sandstorms that came with relentless fury and left nothing unscathed. The kind of place where you couldn’t do much without feeling the grit in your teeth, the dust in your throat. Busy enough though. People moving through the streets like they had nowhere else to be, traders in bright cloth peddling their wares, spices thick on the air, and the smell of tea brewing somewhere nearby. Who would drink tea in this heat was beyond us, but there were plenty who did. The road was lined with peddlers selling it in small cups, a ritual that made little sense but persisted all the same.
The people wore loose clothes, light fabrics that barely clung to their skin, and the breeze teased at their faces as they walked. We caught the eye of a group of young women passing by, their laughter rising like the sound of bells carried on the air, the kind of sound that stuck in your head long after it had passed. Their cheeks were flushed, brown from the sun, streaked with sand, and they clutched at fans or shaved ice, trying to stave off the worst of the heat. They vanished down a side street, and we let them go with a glance. Ahead, in the town square, musicians had gathered, the slow strum of a shamisen mingling with the beat of drums, their music drawing a crowd, a few people clapping and swaying, losing themselves in the sound.
We paid for a scoop of ice, pineapple-flavored, and layered it with chakra to keep the dirt from spoiling it. As we licked at the frozen treat, we glanced at our teammates, tense as ever. The mission was done, the bounty dropped off without a hitch, and still, they wouldn’t loosen up. We didn’t care much, not really. A hassle, sure, but one we were used to by now. Shinobi who couldn’t breathe easy after a job well done were a nuisance, but we had no use for them beyond what they could do.
The city peeled away behind us, and the road stretched out, long and empty. We were heading east, back toward the Land of Fire. Another week of travel, maybe two more before we saw Konoha. But we were in no hurry. In fact, we found ourselves content to let the journey stretch on. The village would still be there when we got back. We chewed at the ice and let our thoughts wander.
It was then that we saw him.
The man sat on a rock by the roadside, cloaked, waiting. He had the look of a shinobi about him, and we stiffened, the ice forgotten for a moment. We hadn’t sensed him until we were close, closer than we should have been. A testament to his skill. His face was hidden, but he watched us, unmoving.
“Are you… Uchiha Sasuke?” His voice carried no malice, but the question was foolish all the same.
We tilted our head. “No.”
A pause. The air seemed to hang between us.
“...Funny,” the man said, though he didn’t sound amused. Behind us, Guy tensed. His posture shifted, and he was at our side before the breath of a second passed.
“Who are you?” Guy asked, his voice steady.
“It doesn’t matter,” the masked man replied, his tone almost gentle. “I see the Will of Fire burns brightly in you. But it saddens me to see you standing beside this cursed child.”
“I won’t ask again,” Guy said, his expression darkening. “Who. Are. You.”
The man sighed, a soft, wistful sound. “It’s of no consequence. I’ll be taking the Uchiha boy from here. You should be grateful. Or, you could try and stop me. I doubt you’ll find much success.”
He barely finished speaking before we felt the shift in the air, the subtle pull of chakra.
“Demonic Illusion: Bringer of Darkness!”
Guy staggered, raising his arms defensively, struggling against the technique. His chakra network scrambled, the illusion taking root. Useless. The man turned his gaze on us then, a weight behind his eyes we could feel. He moved, faster than we’d expected, his hand blurring as he hurled a kunai toward our head. We shifted slightly, letting it pass harmlessly by, our eyes never leaving him.
Then, he vanished.
For a heartbeat, we blinked, sensing him again at our back, his chakra surging like a wave.
Teleportation, we thought, irritated.
“Water Style: Water Prison Jutsu.”
We felt the chakra flooding into the air, twisting reality into something slow and viscous. Water. It swirled around us. The jutsu, slow at first, but inescapable. We could sense everything—every breath, every movement—our body reacting, attempting to flicker away. But the tendrils of water were already closing in, too fast, too precise. They crisscrossed in front of us, and we slammed into them, the pain sharp and immediate, dragging us back into the moment.
The water tightened around us, forming the prison, growing heavier, denser with chakra. Breathing was harder, movement restricted. Trapped.
We glanced toward our teammates, but they were frozen, staring at the masked man in shock. Useless. They wouldn’t help, couldn’t help. Our mind raced, calculating the best response. But the man wasn’t finished.
“Flying Thunder God Jutsu,” he whispered.
The world shifted. We blinked and found ourselves by the sea, the sound of waves crashing against the shore. We could taste the salt in the air, even through the prison of water.
We weren’t in the Land of Wind anymore.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Don’t bother,” the man said, confirming our thoughts. “We’re far from your friends now.”
We chuckled. A tactical blunder if ever there was one.
----------------------------------------
Tobirama’s words came soft, clipped. “Don’t bother. We’re no longer in the Land of Wind.” His voice a razor’s edge that hardly stirred the wind. The Uchiha brat, pale-eyed and silent, stared back at him through the water’s shimmer. Unbothered. Like the Kami themselves weren’t bearing down on him, ready to take his soul. It was a curious thing, the way the boy looked at him. Not with fear, not even with surprise—just a kind of quiet observation, as if he were weighing the moment, measuring Tobirama as though the situation were a puzzle he was content to sit and examine. The Senju, old reflexes kicking in, refused to meet those cursed crimson eyes. A man fights ghosts long enough, he learns to respect them. The Uchiha made a man learn.
“Any last words, Uchiha?” The chakra scalpel in Tobirama’s hand hummed with death, barely held back. He’d slit the boy open quick and clean. It was not cruelty, nor even hatred—merely the necessity of erasing a potential threat. The boy was talented, yes, but Tobirama knew all too well how dangerous an Uchiha could become. Blood soaked in hate and old vengeance. Tobirama didn’t blink when the boy shrugged, like it didn’t matter if he lived or died. That too was Uchiha. The mask of a devil’s calm.
Suspicious.
Tobirama pushed his arm forward, his hand slipping through the water prison and towards the boy’s chest. It pierced clean through, the blade of chakra blooming red in the water. The sphere around them bloomed with blood, swirling. The boy’s heart skewered, pulse gone.
But something was wrong.
Tobirama blinked, and the world seemed to stutter. His arm — or what was left of it — floated before him in the water prison, severed at the elbow, and the child’s pale hand gripped a poison-slicked blade. The boy’s eyes still glared out, dark with hate. Tobirama withdrew, ash breaking off from the stump of his arm, gaze narrowing. A sickly sheen coated the cut, wicked, ancient. He recognized it. Felt the weight of its death, knowing.
“...Poison?” Tobirama’s voice came low, almost amused, like he couldn’t help but marvel at the malice wrapped up in the boy’s bones. “You would’ve killed me… had I still been living.”
The Uchiha’s lips barely curled. A boy playing at games far too dangerous for children, yet somehow keeping pace. Tobirama let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “You show promise, Uchiha Sasuke. That was… remarkably well-executed.” A flicker of disappointment passed through him, a thought unbidden—What a waste. Such talent, if only it had belonged to a Senju, or at least to one loyal to Konoha. But this child… no, his path was already set. And Tobirama’s purpose was clear.
He released the jutsu, letting the water prison collapse, spilling the bloodied liquid onto the sand along with the boy’s dying body. He bent down, reaching for those accursed eyes. His hand hovered, just for a moment, over the boy’s face.
Then there was a sharp pain—a blade, driven through the porcelain mask he wore. The mask cracked, slipping from his face, exposing wide eyes. He didn’t need to look. He could feel the two Sharingan, glowing crimson, waiting. Mocking him. His hand twitched, ready to crush the child’s bones, but his strike passed through the boy like mist.
An afterimage.
He looked up and there the boy was, standing. Alive. Tobirama’s eyes narrowed as he felt the sickening churn of chakra around the boy’s chest. His second heart, the grotesque thing, thudding beneath the wrong lung—he had restarted it. With a quiet horror, Tobirama watched the mask of death slip from Sasuke’s features. Blood still poured from the gash in his chest, but the flow had slowed. The Uchiha boy, all but whole.
A child was outplaying him. Tobirama’s mind raced. Weak though he was in this fractured state, still—twice?
“Lord Second.” The voice was cool, almost mocking. The boy’s arrogance creeping through despite the blood on his skin. “What do I owe the pleasure?”
Tobirama narrowed his eyes. This child, this Uchiha, was trying to buy time. He would not allow it. No more words. His hands blurred. Kunai flew. Sasuke caught one, dodging the rest, but Tobirama pulled upon the kunai with his chakra. A flicker of motion, and he was on the boy, fist aimed at his skull. But then the boy’s chakra rippled—light. Bright and cruel. The ground beneath him erupted in kanji, seals bursting from the earth, binding, grasping, sealing. Tobirama flickered again, reappearing just out of reach, kunai arcing through the air once more. Sasuke popped in a cloud of white smoke.
A shadow clone.
Tobirama tensed, eyes scanning the battlefield. The boy’s fist came from behind, whistling past his skull. He dodged, caught the boy’s ankle mid-air, but then the child locked his arm in a tackle, forcing a palm strike at his face. Tobirama caught the blow, holding the boy in midair.
He almost smiled.
But Sasuke’s grin split his face wide, and before Tobirama could react, the boy’s free hand manipulated his own, forcing him into a sequence of hand seals. Sasuke twisted from his grip, kicked off his chest, and inhaled deep. Fire swelled in the boy’s belly, a wall of heat exploding forth.
“Fire Release: Great Fire Annihilation!”
Tobirama’s response came swift, his hands moving faster than thought.
“Water Release: Exploding Water Colliding Wave!”
A surge of water shot forward, crashing against the flames in a chaotic explosion of steam and heat. Sand swirled, whipping into his face, stinging his dead eyes. Tobirama stood, surveying the wreckage, his intent sharp and clear. Sasuke Uchiha must not leave this place alive.
In a blink, he was on the boy again, kunai raised, teleporting to the mark he had placed on him earlier. But Sasuke was waiting. His shadow lashed out, pulling Tobirama’s down into its grip.
Tobirama grunted, trying to break free. But the boy held firm, the Uchiha’s eyes gleaming with the old curse of their clan. Infernal. Unyielding.
No matter.
Tobirama sneered, pulling chakra into his form. “Mutually Multiplying Explosive Tags!”
The world stilled.
Sasuke’s eyes widened, realization dawning. Too late. The tags erupted. Fire and death swallowed the beach whole.
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Tobirama blinked. His reformed body struggled to sit up amidst the smoking crater, ash swirling in the air. He glanced around at the charred remnants of the earth. Surely the boy was gone now.
Alas, through the haze, a figure loomed.
A towering silhouette, monstrous and spectral. Six skeletal wings arched behind it, and from the twisted mass of bone and hatred emerged three faces. One skull, crowned in wings. Another featureless, engraved with three rows of magatamas. The third… Tobirama dared not look. His soul recoiled at the very thought.
Susanoo. Yūbu no Aragami. The Tempestuous God of Valour.
And there, within the ghastly figure, was Sasuke. Burned, bloodied, but alive.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Tobirama,” the boy rasped, his voice cold, barely human, the creature looming above him in silent rage.
Tobirama felt a flicker of something dark, crawling in the pit of his stomach. Without a word, he wrenched himself free, pulling his soul and his shattered body back to Konoha. Away from the thing that was no longer a boy.
Hiruzen stood before him, wide-eyed, but Tobirama barely saw him. His thoughts were trapped in that beach, in the towering thing that still haunted the smoke-filled sky.
“...What was that?”