Shikamaru sat in the war room, his fingers interlocked, his forehead resting against them. The dim candlelight flickered, casting long shadows on the walls.
The reports had been coming in one after another—battle updates, strategies, casualties.
Too many casualties.
He was tired. So damn tired.
But war didn't care.
Neither did death.
A shinobi rushed in, breathless, his face pale. He was holding a scroll.
Something about the way his hands trembled told Shikamaru everything he needed to know before the words were even spoken.
Bad news.
Still, he took the scroll, his heartbeat steady but heavy, as he unraveled it.
He skimmed the first few lines.
Then his eyes stopped.
His breath hitched.
Temari and Kankurō fell in battle today.
No remains could be retrieved.
The words were ink on paper, but they might as well have been a kunai to his throat.
Shikamaru felt the world blur around him.
For a moment, it was as if time had stopped—like the air had been stolen from his lungs, leaving him stranded in a suffocating void.
Temari is dead.
Kankurō is dead.
He read the words again.
And again.
It didn't change.
His hands curled into fists, the paper crumpling between his fingers.
"…Tch."
He forced a breath out, shaky, uneven.
The room felt too small, too silent.
He felt like he was falling—but there was no ground beneath him, no sky above.
Just nothingness.
His mind flickered to memories, like leaves caught in the wind.
Temari.
Her sharp eyes, her unrelenting voice, the way she always challenged him, never letting him slack off, never letting him be less than what he could be.
The way she smirked when she won their arguments.
The way she looked at him like he was someone worth believing in.
The way her fan sliced through the air, a force of nature—strong, proud, unstoppable.
And now…
She was gone.
Kankurō.
The guy was rough around the edges, but he was a good shinobi.
A good brother.
A good man.
And now…
He was gone too.
Shikamaru closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the chair.
It was too much.
A part of him wanted to scream.
A part of him wanted to cry.
A part of him wanted to disappear into the darkness, so he wouldn't have to think, wouldn't have to feel.
But he didn't do any of those things.
Because he was Shikamaru.
And he still had a war to fight.
He inhaled sharply and forced himself to sit up straight.
His hands trembled as he lit another cigarette, the tip glowing faintly in the dim light.
The smoke filled his lungs, but it didn't ease the ache in his chest.
Didn't fill the hole that had been carved out.
Didn't bring them back.
His voice was quiet, but firm when he finally spoke.
"…Get me an update on Gaara."
If Temari and Kankurō were gone, that meant Gaara was alone now.
And as much as this pain was drowning him, as much as grief was clawing at his throat—
He knew one thing for certain.
Gaara had lost his siblings.
But Shikamaru would not let him lose his friends too.
Kurotsuchi staggered through the gates of the last stronghold before the Land of Lightning fell to the Uzumaki.
Her body was battered, her armor stained with dirt and blood. But she didn't stop.
Not until she reached the war room.
The room was buzzing with murmured reports, tense voices discussing strategies, but the moment she walked in, the atmosphere shifted.
The shinobi inside turned to her, their expressions grim.
Something was wrong.
A messenger approached, hesitating, clutching a scroll so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Kurotsuchi's stomach twisted.
She snatched the scroll from his hands, unrolling it in one sharp motion.
Her eyes scanned the words.
Then the world around her collapsed.
"No… no, no, no—"
Her fingers tightened around the parchment.
The Silver King erased Ohnoki.
He reversed time for him… leaving nothing.
Her hands trembled.
Her chest felt hollow, like something had been ripped from inside her.
Ohnoki, the Third Tsuchikage.
Her grandfather.
Her teacher.
The stubborn old man who had guided her, scolded her, shaped her into the leader she was today.
Gone.
Not even a body left to mourn.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
The war room blurred. The voices, the murmurs, the battle plans—none of it mattered anymore.
She needed air.
She turned sharply and walked away, ignoring the worried looks from her commanders.
She kept walking—past the corridors, past the exhausted shinobi, past the city's defenses—until she found a place where no one could see her.
A dark alley. Silent, empty.
She leaned against the wall.
Her breath came out shaky.
Her legs gave out.
She slid down to the cold ground, pressing her forehead against her knees.
And then, she cried.
She wasn't a child anymore.
She was the Tsuchikage now. A leader. A warrior. A survivor.
But at that moment, she was just a granddaughter grieving for her grandfather.
Tears slid down her cheeks, falling onto the cracked stone beneath her.
Her fists clenched.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to fight back.
She wanted vengeance.
But what could she do against an enemy who could erase someone from existence itself?
Her grandfather—the man who had shaped an entire era—had been wiped away like he was nothing.
And there was nothing she could do to bring him back.
Her shoulders shook.
For the first time since this war began, she felt truly powerless.
Her grief felt endless, but she couldn't stay like this.
She wiped her tears, forcing herself to breathe.
She thought of the warriors still fighting.
Ino.
Hinata.
The ones who could actually make a difference.
She wasn't strong enough to stop the Silver King.
But maybe… just maybe… someone else was.
And so, she did the only thing she could.
She held onto hope.
Laura stood in the makeshift medical camp, her body trembling.
She felt it before she heard the words—a crushing, suffocating emptiness in her chest, like the world itself had caved in.
Then, the words came.
The Raikage is dead.
His secretary… your mother… is gone too.
She had barely processed the first blow before the second one landed.
Both of them.
Gone.
Her father—her indestructible, unshakable father—was dead.
Her mother, who never wavered, never let her see weakness—gone.
She gasped, but no air filled her lungs.
Her body froze, her mind screaming at her to move, to breathe, to react—
And then she saw him.
Bee.
Her uncle lay on a stretcher, motionless, unconscious. His breathing was shallow, his body wrapped in bandages.
Luffy had pulled him from the battlefield, but even that hadn't been enough.
He was barely hanging on.
She was alone.
Her breath hitched. Her fingers dug into her arms as she tried to hold herself together.
But she couldn't.
It was too much.
The first sob tore through her like a knife, loud, raw, and filled with an agony she had never known before.
Then another.
And another.
She collapsed to her knees, her cries echoing through the room.
She clutched her head, her nails digging into her scalp as if trying to tear the pain out.
But it wouldn't stop.
It wouldn't go away.
Her hands hit the ground, fists pounding against the earth, her storm chakra flaring uncontrollably as lightning crackled around her.
"No! No, no, no, no—this isn't real! They can't be gone!"
She screamed.
Screamed like a child.
Screamed like someone who had just lost everything.
And no one could stop her.
She thought of her father's thunderous laughter, his booming voice, the way he stood tall like nothing could break him.
She thought of her mother's stern but kind gaze, her gentle hand brushing against Laura's hair when no one was watching.
They were always there.
They were supposed to always be there.
But now they weren't.
And they never would be again.
The realization hit her like lightning to the chest.
Her sobs grew louder, her vision blurred by tears as she curled into herself, body wracked with grief.
The shinobi around her said nothing.
They simply watched.
What could they say?
This was war.
Everyone had lost someone.
But for Laura, this was her first loss.
And she had lost everything.
Her fingers clutched at Bee's hand, the only family she had left.
But he wasn't there.
Not really.
He was trapped in unconsciousness, and she didn't know if he would ever wake up.
Would she lose him too?
Would she be left completely alone?
The thought made her body shake even harder.
Her chest felt like it was crushing itself inward, her stomach twisted in knots.
She was strong.
She had trained her whole life to be strong.
But this wasn't something she could fight.
She had nothing left but her pain.
The wind was still.
Too still.
It was unnatural—like the world itself was holding its breath.
The man's hands shook as he raised his binoculars, standing on a crumbling rooftop miles away from the battlefield. He wasn't a soldier, not a warrior or a shinobi—just a simple farmer who had once lived in a peaceful world.
A world that no longer existed.
Through the glass lenses, he saw monsters.
They wore human shapes, but they weren't human.
Not anymore.
He saw the sky split apart, rifts in reality forming like open wounds in the heavens.
He saw a woman with glowing silver eyes, floating above the battlefield, her mere presence distorting the space around her.
He saw a man engulfed in golden flames, moving faster than his eyes could follow, his punches collapsing the very air itself.
He saw a shinobi's attack erase a mountain in an instant, as if it had never existed.
And then he saw another bring it back.
A immortallike being simply rewound time, undoing destruction like a careless artist fixing a brushstroke.
The farmer's stomach churned.
How could they fight such creatures?
How could any normal person hope to survive in a world where men and women wielded powers that mocked reality itself?
He swallowed hard.
Then, he saw it—
A black blur streaking across the battlefield, and in its wake, an entire city vanished.
Not destroyed.
Not reduced to rubble.
Gone.
As if it had never been there at all.
His hands clenched the binoculars so tightly they creaked.
How?
How was this happening?
His mind raced with a single, terrifying realization.
We were never meant to live alongside them.
They had coexisted with shinobi for generations, believing that they were just warriors, just humans with a gift.
But that was a lie.
These were not humans.
Not anymore.
They were immortals and demons, beings that could shape the world as they pleased.
And the rest of them?
They were nothing.
Just ants, crawling on the surface of a fragile world, at the mercy of beings who could crush them without even noticing.
He slowly lowered his binoculars, his breath shaky.
In the distance, the sky turned red, and the ground split open, swallowing entire villages.
The war was coming closer.
His town, his home, his entire life—it would all be gone soon.
Erased in the crossfire of titans.
He turned away.
He didn't want to see anymore.
He didn't want to watch the end of the world.
Inside a grand temple, deep within a hidden sanctuary, the faithful gathered.
The war raged across the world, shaking the very foundations of reality itself. Cities crumbled, nations fell, and the sky itself was torn asunder. Yet within these sacred halls, there was only silence.
Kneeling before a massive golden statue, hundreds of robed figures prayed in unison. Their voices were soft but unwavering, chanting hymns in Naruto's name.
"The Lightbringer walks among immortals and monsters."
"The Savior who carries the burdens of all."
"He shall return, and the world shall know peace."
Their words were not spoken in despair, but conviction.
To them, Naruto was not just a man—he was the bridge between mortal and divine, the one hope in a world drowning in chaos.
Even as the battlefield burned and the earth was scarred beyond recognition, they did not fear.
They believed.
Because they knew—
He would come back.
He would stop this madness.
He would bring the dawn after the darkest night.
Yet, not all were so resolute.
A younger acolyte, barely more than a child, trembled as she clutched her prayer beads. Her eyes darted across the room, filled with uncertainty.
"High Priest…" she whispered, voice weak. "What if… what if he does not return?"
The room fell silent.
A slow, deliberate breath filled the space before the High Priest stood—an elderly man draped in pure white robes, his golden eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight.
He turned to her, his gaze both kind and unyielding.
"Do you doubt the Lightbringer, child?"
Her lips trembled. "I… I just don't understand why he left. Why did he abandon us when we needed him most?"
The High Priest closed his eyes for a moment, before speaking.
"He did not abandon us."
"He carries burdens beyond our understanding."
"If he has left, it is because he must."
His voice grew stronger, echoing through the chamber.
"And if the world burns in his absence, then so be it. It shall rise anew, forged in the fire of his return."
The other worshippers nodded solemnly, their faith unshaken.
But the young acolyte?
She could only clutch her beads tighter, staring at the statue of the man she had never met, wondering—
Would he really return?
Would he really save them all?
Or were they simply praying to a ghost?
Deep within the shadows of the world, in the forgotten ruins of temples long abandoned, the demon worshippers gathered.
Where others saw despair, they saw opportunity.
Where others wept, they laughed.
The war had done what they never could—it had torn the world apart.
It had filled the air with screams, soaked the earth in blood, and cast the people into hopelessness.
And in hopelessness, demons found their way in.
The largest congregation of demon worshippers had gathered in the blackened ruins of an ancient fortress, deep underground. Thousands knelt in a circle of writhing flames, their hands raised in prayer to the void.
At the center, atop an altar of bones, stood their High Priest, his eyes black as the abyss itself.
"Rejoice, my brethren! The Age of the immortals is crumbling!"
His voice was mad with glee, echoing against the cavern walls.
"The world burns, and the people have lost their faith! Where they once prayed for salvation, now they pray for an end to their suffering."
A chorus of cheers and laughter erupted from the gathering.
"The Lightbringer is gone! The so-called 'heroes' have failed! The weak cry out for help, but their immortals do not answer!"
"And when faith dies…"
"…we rise."
Thousands pounded their fists against the stone floor, chanting in eerie unison.
"We rise! We rise! We rise!"
From the shadows, beings that should not exist stirred.
Eyes blinked open where there were no faces.
Maws grinned in the darkness, too wide, too full of teeth.
The demons were watching.
The war had made it easy—with so much pain, hatred, and grief, they barely needed to whisper to corrupt the desperate.
Entire villages abandoned the old ways, turning to dark rituals for protection.
Soldiers, broken and betrayed, offered their souls in exchange for power.
Even some shinobi, once loyal to their nations, had begun to doubt.
And doubt was all the demons needed.
"Soon," the High Priest whispered, as he gazed into the burning abyss before him.
"Soon, the gates will open."
"Soon, the world will kneel before the darkness."
"And this time—"
"There will be no one left to stop us."
And as the war raged on, far above the depths of the abyss, the demon worshippers smiled.
Because they knew—
The real war hadn't even begun yet.