He stood at the edge of the pier, in faded jeans and a well-worn fishing hat, gazing out over the still waters of the sea. The air around him, thick with the brine of the ocean and the soft whisper of the breeze through the nipa palms, seemed almost to hum. Behind him, a mangrove thicket stood, ancient and knotted, roots twisting out from the mud like grasping hands. Their leaves dark, green against the morning mist.
Jinrui, as he had been named, reflected on the irony of it all. Humanity. What a name to be given for a being such as himself, a coalescence of chakra and sacrifice. He was no human, not in the sense the name implied. Rather, he was chakra, coalesced from the life of a sacrifice. A blood clone, an improvement on the famed shadow clone. A creation of power and will, bound not by the mortal coil but by something far more abstract and enduring.
He was an Ego with autonomy
He baited his rod with care, his calloused hands skewering a live worm on a hook. To anyone watching, he might have appeared entirely absorbed in the simple act of fishing, yet his mind was elsewhere, drifting through thoughts as ephemeral as the mist hanging over the ocean. There was something calming about this place, about the gentle rhythm of the waves, the way the world seemed to narrow down to the present moment, to the simple act of waiting.
He heard the light footsteps before the voice came.
"Jinrui," came the boy's voice, soft but clear.
He didn't turn. "Sup, kiddo. Bored waiting at home?"
Inari nodded. Jinrui patted the wooden boards beside him. "Sit."
For a time, they sat in silence, the boy beside him staring out at the sea with the same quiet intensity Jinrui had felt earlier. Then, after what seemed like an age, Inari spoke again.
"Jinrui... why is there so much hurt in the world?"
Jinrui turned to look at him, the boy staring out at the same sea he did. His face calm, his eyes empty as the horizon. The clone put a hand on the boy’s head, ruffling his hair. "Mortals live cursed lives, Inari. Where power exists, abuse follows. Mortal life is suffering. That’s the way of things."
"Power makes suffering?"
"No. The imbalance of power does."
The boy grew quiet, thinking. After a while, he spoke once more. "The other you... he said he could protect Mama. He said he was strong. How do I become strong?"
Jinrui's gaze shifted to the horizon, his expression unreadable. "Strength... real strength... it comes from something darker than you're ready to understand. Hate, Inari. You don’t have enough hate."
They said nothing more. After some time, Jinrui stood, took his bucket of fish, and headed home. The boy trailed behind him, lost in his thoughts.
When they got home, Inari ran to his mother, hugging her quickly before rushing upstairs. Tsunami watched him go, her eyes lingering on the empty stairwell before she turned to Jinrui.
"How was your day?" he asked, moving to the kitchen with the bucket.
"Fine. And yours?"
"It was fine," Jinrui replied. "Caught some willow, a few eels. Thought we might make fried willow for Inari... Unadon for us."
"...That’s fine," she said, hesitating.
Jinrui paused, wiping his hands on a towel. "Something bothering you?"
She squirmed under his gaze, folding her arms. "It's the village... the rumours." Her voice was quiet, but the weight of her words settled between them like a stone. "They say I... seduced you into staying. They think I’m cursed. First husband dead, second one too. They say you'll be next. Either some thug will come for you, or a shinobi who gets curious. They say it’s only a matter of time."
"It’s not you I’m worried about," she snapped. "I’m worried about what they’ll do to me. Or worse, to my son. I tried to buy rice today. They wouldn’t sell me any. No one would. They're afraid of crossing whoever they think wants you dead."
She was trembling now. "I’m scared, Jinrui."
He studied her in silence, then looked up and saw the boy watching from the top of the stairs. Jinrui blinked and Inari retreated back to his room.
"I’ll sort it out," the clone whispered, his hand smoothing over her back, her breath slowing, her body quieting. "I’ll get the rice. Don’t worry."
She pulled away, wiping her eyes. "Okay."
"Anything else you couldn’t buy?"
"The list’s on the counter."
He grabbed it and headed for the door.
"Jinrui?"
"Yeah?"
"...Thank you."
He smiled. "It’s nothing. Be back in a bit."
----------------------------------------
The slums stretched out before him, a tangle of rotting wood and rusted metal. The air was thick with decay, heavy with the weight of lost hope. Houses stood like broken teeth, their paint long peeled away, leaving only splintered grey wood and rotting innards. Thin lines of smoke rose from chimneys. The people moved through the streets like shadows, their eyes hollow, their bodies bent under the weight of hunger and fear. A child stood by the side of the road, clutching a tattered toy, his cheeks sunken, his gaze dull.
No one spoke. No one laughed. The world here was too far gone for those things.
Jinrui didn’t stop walking. No one dared stop him, though their eyes followed him with fear and uncertainty. His hands, one carrying groceries, the other clutching the severed head of the man who had made Tsunami’s life more difficult than it needed to be, sent a clear message.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
He tossed the head aside when he reached the house. Knocked on the door four times.
"Open up."
Footsteps shuffled behind the door before it creaked open. A young man with short brown hair stood there, his eyes wide, his face flushed.
"Master, you came," he said, his voice breathless.
"Of course, Haruki." Jinrui handed him the groceries. "Take these to Tsunami. No problems, got it?"
"Yes, sir!"
Haruki rushed off, and Jinrui stepped inside, his eyes sweeping the room.
The men inside were laughing, the kind of laugh that comes from too much food, too much comfort. Jinrui smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
"Been eating well, Kenji?" he said to one, his voice low, almost playful.
The men laughed harder.
Jinrui’s smile disappeared. His voice, when he spoke again, was calm, steady—just like the sea.
“How’s the acquisition of Gatō’s shipping company coming along?"
----------------------------------------
A week later. The day dawned cool, sunlight spilling over the village. The leaves had begun to change, their greens transforming into the reds, oranges, and yellows that always marked the arrival of autumn in Konohagakure. The trees, tall and imposing, held their own against the coming of the new season, their kaleidoscope of colours set against a blue sky so clear it seemed unreal. The streets were blanketed in fallen leaves, each step we took sending a soft crunch into the air.
Nature had slowed, the world breathing a little more softly. There was a crispness to the air, a sharpness on the edge of it that hinted at the colder days to come. But for now, it lingered, sleepy and indifferent, moving at its own rhythm. And still, today was a horrible day.
We smiled—our lips twisting, muscles moving out of habit, out of need—because that was what was expected. From where we stood, at the far end of the street, we watched Naruto and Sakura at the village gates. Sakura turned, a quick wave of her hand as her silhouette blurred in the distance. Beside her, Naruto waited, arms crossed, no doubt irritated by some imagined slight. Even with our eyes less than perfect—our Sharingan inert, our right eye little more than a shadow—we could still picture the boy’s impatient glare.
Ahead of them, Jiraiya of the Sannin waited, the Toad Sage. The mission Naruto had boasted of—something of great importance, no less—was laughably clear in its dangers. We had made sure to send Sakura along with him. Naruto, with his naïve sense of purpose, was unreliable in recounting anything with clarity, his view of the world hopelessly narrow. Sakura, for all her faults, would at least remember the things that mattered.
Naruto, of course, was thrilled by the arrangement. His affection for Sakura blinded him to any subtlety. The Toad Sage, on the other hand, was not so easily fooled. His suspicion hung in the air like the bitter tang of the autumn breeze. We’d seen it in the way he checked Sakura’s chakra for any sign of tampering, his caution veiled, but unmistakable.
Two days had passed. Now, they were finally departing on their mission, their noble search for the Senju princess, Tsunade—debtor, gambler, and fool. And her pig. We didn’t forget the pig. It was almost laughable, the fate of Konoha resting on someone like her.
Turning, we headed toward the Mission Assignment Building, our steps measured, unhurried. Somewhere, hidden in the brush, our temporary sensei watched, eyes always on us. ANBU squads circled the area, their eyes trained, waiting. They were a nuisance. A constant reminder of the surveillance we lived under. It would be so easy—so satisfying—to eliminate them, to smear their blood across the concrete. But that would be premature. For now, we endured the nuisance.
The war, after all, had never really ended.
People liked to think there was peace, that the age-old conflict between Konoha and the Uchiha had somehow been resolved. But that was a lie, a convenient fiction. The wars of the past had simply changed form. Hashirama’s dream, imposed with iron fists and false smiles, had always been a Senju dream. Tobirama’s policies, his paranoia, had guaranteed the rest. The Uchiha had been naïve to think they could ever truly belong. The Will of Fire—so often recited, so deeply believed—was never theirs. It had been a cage, an instrument of oppression disguised as unity.
The Senju had won their war long before the Uchiha realised they were fighting it.
We glanced up at the faces carved into the mountainside. The faces of those who had ruled, all tied to the Senju. A symbol of their control. The Senju are the Leaf. Their will is the fire. They were the Will of Fire, the very embodiment of it.
And anyone who says otherwise is either a liar or a stark, raving fool.
----------------------------------------
The Mission Assignment Building loomed ahead, and there, waiting for us, were our new teammates.
"Good morning," we said, our tone neutral, as we approached them.
Tenten hesitated before answering, “Good morning, Sasuke-san.” Her eyes flickered, betraying the discomfort she tried to hide, lingering on the absence of our right arm. Neji, standing beside her, met our gaze without flinching, his face impassive.
“How is a cripple like you still fit for duty?” He asked crudely.
“Neji!” Tenten gasped.
For a heartbeat, we stilled, processing the insult. Then, a smile spread across our face—a real one this time. Neji’s eyes, usually so composed, betrayed the anger and resentment simmering beneath his calm exterior. It was impulsive, reckless even. He hadn’t meant to say it. But now that the words were out, we weren’t about to let them go to waste.
“I see,” we replied, our voice deceptively calm. “You’re still bitter about your loss. Understandable. But tell me, what gives a mere slave like you the courage to speak to your betters in such a manner?”
Tenten looked horrified, her wide eyes darting between us and Neji. But Neji stood frozen, the insult clearly cutting deeper than he had expected.
“What did you just call me?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
“A slave,” we said simply, as if the word were nothing more than a fact. “Isn’t that what you are? A slave to the main branch? I’ll be speaking to Hiashi about this later. It’s disgraceful, really. Seems you need a shorter leash.”
Neji’s expression twisted, his anger flaring into something more primal. "Die!" he shouted, charging at us, arm pulled back, ready to strike.
We didn’t move. We didn’t have to.
Before his palm could connect with our chest, Might Guy appeared, grabbing his arm mid-strike. "Now, now, Neji," the Jonin said with false cheer, his eyes dark. "This isn’t how we treat comrades, is it?"
Neji’s murderous glare never wavered, but he lowered his arm, stepping back, anger still simmering in his eyes. Behind him, Tenten watched, her face pale, her lips pressed together in an expression of disbelief.
We remained silent, observing the Jonin as he placed himself between us and his students. His eyes, though bright with feigned cheerfulness, refused to meet ours directly, darting instead to some safer point just off-centre.
“Sasuke,” he finally said, “I take it you’ve met your new teammates. Shall we begin?”
"Yes, Guy-sensei," we replied, our smile unwavering.
“Good. This mission—”
“I don’t need coddling, Guy-sensei.”
A pause. “...Understood. Let’s go—”
“Wait!” Neji’s voice cut through. “I won’t go on a mission with that cripple.”
Guy sighed. “Neji—”
“I won’t risk my comrades for him. He couldn’t defend himself just now. How can we trust him not to drag us down out in the field?”
“And how do you want me to prove that, slave?”
The Hyuga snarled. “Fight me.”
We tilted our head. “Fight you?”
Before he could respond, a shadow clone peeled from the wall, gently placing the sharpened edge of our poison-coated tanto on his pale neck. We smiled as he froze in horror, the skin around his neck necrotising just from touching the corrosive fluid.
“...You forget, slave,” we spoke into the silence that followed, “we are assassins, not fighters. This isn’t the chunin exams; I have no need, nor inclination, to make a battle between us a long and drawn-out affair. I could kill you now, and you’d never see it coming.”
The shadow clone melted back into the wall, disappearing from view.
“You might want to get him to see a medic,” we turned to face Guy, tossing him a vial. “That’s the antidote. Administer it at your earliest convenience. Might save him. But I wouldn’t count on it.”