Time moved forward with an unrelenting rhythm, offering no respite to those caught in the turbulence of divine interference. On Earth, as Kara, Raven, and the Justice League prepared themselves for Naruto's inevitable return—this time not as an ally, but a potential enemy—their minds carried the weight of impossible decisions.
Kurama, still in his chibi form, guided by purpose and urgency, made his way across the world to find someone who might hold the key to restoring what was lost.
Someone who still carried a fragment of Naruto untouched by Nyx.
Menma.
The clone.
Far from the illuminated halls of the Watchtower, in a modest apartment nestled within a quiet city district, Menma Uzumaki stirred his tea in silence. The soft clinking of the spoon echoed faintly through the room as he sat at the table, his eyes drifting to the woman seated across from him.
Death—his partner in life, in combat, and in the silent spaces in between—rested her chin in her palm, watching the steam curl from her own cup. Her pale hair was tied loosely, and her usual mysterious aura was muted within the comfort of their shared space.
Unlike Naruto, whose life was saturated with grandeur, glory, and endless war, Menma lived with simplicity. It was almost ironic. A clone born from one of the most powerful beings on the planet now spent his days helping civilians, stopping low-level crime, and attending humble charity events as a member of the Hero Association.
Together, Death and Menma had fought side by side in countless battles, most of which would never be told in stories or marked in records. They had saved lives in the shadows, suffered injuries that healed with time, and more than once had watched each other bleed, scream, and cry through the pain.
Those trials had forged an unshakable bond between them.
Love had not come suddenly. It had crept in over late-night talks, shared meals after missions, and the quiet understanding that they would always return to each other no matter what the day brought.
When Kurama arrived—his tiny body battered and his soul mending slowly—he landed on the railing of their balcony like a wisp of red wind. Menma opened the door, as if he had known the fox would come.
The moment Kurama looked into Menma's eyes, he could feel the difference. Though they shared a face, a history, and a name once upon a time, Menma was not Naruto.
Naruto radiated charisma, a solar force impossible to ignore. His steps were always confident, his presence commanding, as if the world itself shifted slightly to acknowledge him.
Menma, on the other hand, was tempered steel—refined through hardship, quieter, with a colder edge to his demeanor. He did not strive for the spotlight, and unlike Naruto, he held no desire to save the world.
He only wanted to protect what he'd built.
"I heard," Menma said calmly as Kurama entered, his gaze flickering to the tea set. "Nyx got to him."
Kurama nodded solemnly.
"His daughter has been altered. False memories. She thinks she's his wife… and he's beginning to believe it too."
Death's eyes narrowed at the mention of Nyx, but she remained seated, expression unreadable.
Kurama explained the situation, every detail from Raven's analysis to the prediction Xanadu had made, his voice weighed down with urgency.
"We thought maybe you… you could help."
But Menma shook his head.
"I'm not Naruto. I don't know the bonds he had. I never wanted to be part of that life, and he never saw me as part of it either. I was… an experiment. A tool."
Kurama frowned but didn't interrupt.
"My existence has nothing to do with him now," Menma continued, voice steady. "I made my own path. I fell in love. I built something of my own. Whatever he's facing, you all were his family. His friends. His light. Not me."
There was no bitterness in Menma's voice—only fact.
Death spoke next, her voice soft but firm.
"I won't interfere. Not with my true power. You know I've stayed out of mortal conflicts for a reason."
Kurama gave a long sigh, tail flicking slightly behind him.
"I figured. But I had to try."
As he turned to leave, Kurama paused. His sharp gaze turned back to Menma, narrowing slightly.
"Still… you're worried, aren't you?"
Menma didn't respond, but the slight tightening of his jaw was enough.
Kurama smirked faintly.
"Don't worry. He'll release you. Deep down, you know that. So why are you still anxious?"
The silence that followed was heavier than words.
Kurama didn't wait for a reply. He simply vanished, a blur of crimson light leaving behind a lingering warmth in the cool breeze.
Menma stood quietly by the window, watching the city's neon lights flicker to life as dusk fell.
Death came to stand beside him, slipping her fingers into his.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away.
"I'm not him," he finally whispered. "But a part of me still… remembers what it felt like."
Death leaned her head against his shoulder, her presence grounding him.
"Then remember why you walked away."
Menma closed his eyes.
He had his own life now.
And he would protect it, no matter what his origin was.
The world held its breath as the sky trembled.
Two days had passed in a suffocating calm. Every second stretched long with dread, for all those who loved Naruto—and even those who simply respected him—knew that when he returned, he would not be the same.
And then, without fanfare, without warning, the clouds parted with a thunderous ripple and he appeared.
Naruto descended like a immortal carved from legend, his golden cloak billowing in the air, the sharpness in his eyes burning hotter than the sun. But the warmth that once accompanied his presence was gone—replaced by an unfamiliar chill that stung far worse than winter. At his side walked Shuten, tall and radiant, a beauty forged through power and illusion, her arm wrapped possessively around Naruto's as if daring the world to judge them.
They landed in the heart of a shattered field near Metropolis, where the remnants of an old battlefield still lingered—a poetic choice, perhaps.
The declaration came like a sword to the chest.
"To every so-called hero who dared to interfere with my life—especially the Justice League—you will kneel."
His voice echoed with the weight of absolute conviction. His chakra flared with suffocating force, felt across the entire globe like a storm bearing down on the collective heart of humanity.
"I will beat you. Break you. Crush your ideals. And if you get in my way, I'll shatter your legs just to remind you what power really means. I won't kill you. But you'll live as reminders."
Every name was spoken. Batman. Superman. Wonder Woman. Diana. Raven. Zatanna. Kara. Even his parents, Minato and Kushina. All named with venom, as if they were strangers who had betrayed him instead of the people who loved him most.
"The rest of you? Buzz off. You were never relevant to begin with."
It wasn't just anger. There was disdain in his tone—cold, impersonal, terrifying in its apathy.
The sky turned darker at his words, reacting to his unfiltered presence. Those who had once followed him—who had loved him, fought with him, and believed in him—stood now across from him, unable to recognize the man before them.
Kara was the first to step forward.
Clad in her battle suit, blonde hair dancing in the wind, her eyes shimmered with hope and pain.
"Naruto… please. It's us. Raven, Kori, Zatanna—me. We're your family."
But he didn't even look at her. He waved her off like one would a buzzing insect, his expression blank, uncaring.
"I don't know you."
The words struck like knives.
Kara staggered, stunned not by the denial, but the emptiness with which it was spoken.
"You're under her control," Raven called, her voice strong but barely holding back emotion. "This isn't you! Shuten isn't your wife—she's your daughter! You love her as a father, not… this!"
Naruto's gaze turned to her then—calm, unreadable.
"That's your reality. Not mine."
The chill in his voice was absolute. Not cruel. Not angry.
Worse.
It was sincere.
Behind him, Shuten tilted her head slightly, giving them a soft smile that made bile rise in Kara's throat. Her grip on Naruto's arm tightened just slightly, possessively.
There was no doubt in anyone's mind—she believed everything she had been told. Her memories, fake and real, were stitched together into a grotesque fantasy. And Naruto, manipulated by Nyx and drowning in the false affection, had no reason to resist.
Yet the sight twisted every stomach watching. They knew Naruto. Knew his boundaries, his love, his pain. And they knew he would never accept this reality if he was in control.
Kushina couldn't even speak. Her lips trembled, and tears silently rolled down her cheeks. She had once held that boy in her arms, protected him from darkness. And now he didn't even recognize her—his mother.
Zatanna grabbed her hand, grounding her.
"He's still in there," Kara whispered, almost as if convincing herself. "We can't give up."
"We won't," Raven affirmed, her eyes never leaving Naruto's. "But this… this is going to break us all before we fix him."
Superman stepped forward, flanked by Batman and Diana. The air had shifted. This was no longer a plea.
It was a confrontation.
"Naruto," Superman called, his voice low but firm, "we're not going to let you destroy the world we've all bled for. I don't care what Nyx has done—if you're hurting innocent people, we'll stop you."
Naruto didn't flinch. He looked directly into Superman's eyes.
"Try."