Laura stormed out of the chamber of judgment, her fists clenched so tightly that her nails drew blood from her palms. She barely registered the faces of the shinobi around her as she walked through the dimly lit halls of the alliance headquarters. Their murmurs were nothing more than static to her ears, drowned out by the deafening roar of her own rage and grief.
It wasn't enough.
The judgment had been too lenient, too merciful. Hotaru, the Silver King, and Genryu were monsters—they had ripped everything from her. They had taken her father, her mother, her home, her peace of mind—and yet, they got to live. They were sent away, as if that could erase what they had done.
It was unacceptable.
She stumbled into the nearest empty hallway, pressing her back against the cold stone wall, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, and when she looked down at her trembling hands, she saw nothing but failure.
A hot tear slid down her cheek, and she gritted her teeth in frustration. She wasn't supposed to cry. She was supposed to be strong, like her father had been. Like Ay, the Raikage. But now, the only thing left of him was a grave, a memory, and a legacy of unfulfilled justice.
Her body shook with emotion—rage, grief, helplessness.
And worst of all… betrayal.
She had trusted Ino. She had believed that those closest to Naruto would understand. That they would want justice as much as she did. But instead, they had let the monsters walk away. They had placed Naruto's rule above their pain, above their fallen.
Did her father's life mean so little?
A sob broke past her lips before she could suppress it, and she punched the wall, the force of it sending cracks through the stone. The sharp pain in her knuckles grounded her, but it did nothing to quell the storm raging inside her chest.
"I'll never forgive them," she whispered, voice hoarse. "Never."
She wasn't sure if she meant Hotaru and her clan, or the people who had spared them.
Taking a deep breath, she wiped her tears away violently, steeling herself.
This wasn't over.
Not for her.
If no one else would make them pay… then she would.
Toshiro stood at the edge of the chamber, his face betraying nothing, but inside, a storm raged. He had spent his entire life fighting, leading, sacrificing, all in service to the Uzumaki clan. And now, he had been given what many would consider the highest honor—leadership of the Uzumaki.
But it was not a victory.
It was a sentence.
The council had spared him, but only to exile him back to Uzu, to return to a home that was now little more than a graveyard of their ambitions. His people had fought for revenge, for dominance, for survival—but in the end, they had lost. And he had been powerless to stop it.
The weight of failure pressed against his chest like an iron chain.
Toshiro knew why he had been spared. He was needed—a leader to prevent further rebellion, a figure to keep the remnants of their once-mighty clan under control. He understood the reasoning, but it didn't ease the bitter taste in his mouth.
And worse than that, worse than the defeat, worse than the exile…
He would have to face Naruto.
His grandson.
The boy he had abandoned, the child he had never once held, the man who had now become something far greater than anyone in the Uzumaki clan had ever dreamed of.
Naruto had saved the world.
And Toshiro had nearly destroyed it.
He could still remember the day his daughter, Kushina, had left their home—defiant, determined, choosing love over duty. He had thought she was a fool, that her love for a foreigner would bring nothing but pain. And yet, in the end, she had found joy, a family, a future.
And what had he done?
He had thrown away everything, sacrificed everything, all in the name of vengeance. And now, Naruto—the son of his daughter, the grandson he had never acknowledged—had built something greater than he could ever hope to achieve.
The irony stung.
When the judgment was over, and the council members dismissed him, Toshiro walked out in silence. The world outside felt hollow, empty, as if the very air carried the weight of the war's aftermath.
The Uzumaki survivors awaited him. They looked to him for guidance. They waited for their new clan head to speak, to lead them into their new future.
But Toshiro did not speak.
His eyes turned to the sky, knowing that somewhere, out there, Naruto still existed—stronger than all of them, greater than anything the Uzumaki had ever been.
He would have to face him one day.
And when that day came, he knew—
Naruto wouldn't greet him as family.
He would judge him.
And that judgment might be final.
The Uzumaki warriors—his people—stood lost, uncertain, their pride stripped bare by the weight of their loss.
The Silver King took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he stepped forward.
Toshiro was still frozen in thought, unable—or unwilling—to accept the reality before him. The burden of command had finally crushed him, and the Silver King knew this moment could not be delayed.
He turned to the worn, battle-weary Uzumaki, his voice calm, steady, despite the fatigue in his own bones.
"Rest now. Mourn those we have lost."
His words carried across the ranks, over the scattered remnants of what was once a mighty army.
"We must remember them, not as warriors who fell in vain, but as proof of what we have become. And as a warning of what we must never be again."
The weight of the war settled deeper into his chest as he looked into the eyes of his people—the survivors, the remnants of what was once the mightiest clan in the world.
This was the second time in history they had nearly been erased.
And this time, it was their own doing.
The Silver King had always been a warrior, a leader—but not a fool.
The loss of their homeland decades ago had burned hatred into their souls, a hatred that had now driven them to mimic their oppressors. They had fought with honor, but they had also spilled the blood of innocents.
How many homes had they destroyed?
How many children had they orphaned?
They had told themselves that they were better—that they were not like Kumo and Iwa, that they had not committed genocide or sought conquest for the sake of power. And yet, they had brought ruin to the very lands they wished to reclaim.
They had fought like monsters.
And they had been defeated like monsters.
The Silver King closed his eyes, feeling the exhaustion sink deeper.
This time, they had not been victims.
This time, they had been wrong.
He understood why Genryu had chosen Toshiro.
Toshiro was a military genius, a warrior and commander beyond compare. But he was also Naruto's grandfather.
Genryu was gambling on hope.
He had chosen Toshiro not for his leadership, but for the thin, fragile connection that tied them to Naruto Uzumaki—the one man who now held the world in his hands.
Did Genryu truly believe Naruto would embrace them?
Would the boy his clan had ignored—the orphan abandoned by his own blood—ever accept them back?
The Silver King wasn't sure.
But he knew one thing—if Naruto ever extended his hand, the Uzumaki had to be worthy of standing beside him.
They could no longer be the warriors who sought destruction and revenge.
They had to change.
The path forward was unclear.
Exiled. Their armies broken. Their kings defeated.
The Uzumaki clan was alive, but powerless.
Yet… power was not everything.
The Silver King looked out at the people who still stood—the survivors, the craftsmen, the scholars, the warriors who had fought for a better future, even if they had lost sight of it.
They had lost their place in the world.
But perhaps…
Perhaps they could build a new one.
No more wars. No more hatred. No more pointless revenge.
The Uzumaki had to rise again—but not as conquerors.
Not as monsters.
They had to earn their redemption.
And so, with tired eyes and a voice that carried the weight of his people, the Silver King finally spoke his final decree:
"We rebuild. And we wait."
Wait for a time when the world no longer fears them.
Wait for the day when they can stand beside Naruto—not as invaders, but as his kin.
And maybe, just maybe…
One day, they would be worthy of calling themselves Uzumaki again.
Makoto walked, his footsteps slow, heavy with exhaustion. His body still burned with the remnants of the Red King's power, the last embers of an inferno that had nearly consumed him. His uniform was torn, bloodied, his muscles aching from a battle that should have been his last.
But he had survived.
He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
For a long time, he had made peace with the idea of dying—a warrior's death, a sacrifice that would ensure the future of those he protected. When he had stepped onto the battlefield, when he had taken Anna's power into himself, he had already accepted his fate.
But fate had denied him.
And now, as he stood before the gathered survivors, as he saw the familiar faces of his comrades—he realized he had no idea how to face them.
A sudden impact slammed into his chest, forcing him to stagger back.
Small fists pounded against him, over and over again, weak but filled with fury.
Makoto barely had time to process before he heard her voice.
"You LIED!"
Anna stood before him, her red eyes blazing, her face twisted in a mix of anger and sorrow.
She was shaking, her body trembling, her tiny hands still clenched into fists as they pressed against his chest.
"You told me we'd have a party after! You promised!" Her voice cracked, tears spilling down her cheeks as she glared up at him, betrayed, furious, heartbroken.
Makoto opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come.
Because she was right.
He had lied.
He had never intended to survive.
When he had taken the Red Symbol's power from her, he had done so knowing it would burn him away. He had done so ready to die—ready to leave her behind.
And now, standing here, looking at her tear-streaked face, he realized how cruel that decision had been.
Anna's fists pounded against his chest one last time before she collapsed against him, gripping onto his uniform tightly.
"You left me," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You were going to leave me alone."
Makoto's throat tightened.
He placed a hand on her head, gently, his fingers threading through her white hair.
"I'm sorry."
It was all he could say.
It was all he had.
Anna's grip on his uniform never loosened.
She refused to let go, even as the others gathered around them, even as the weight of their losses settled over them like a suffocating fog.
Makoto had believed that dying for the next generation was the right thing to do.
But Anna was the next generation.
And he had nearly left her behind, without thinking about what that would mean for her.
He had been so focused on protecting the future that he hadn't stopped to consider if he was part of it.
Makoto exhaled slowly, looking down at Anna, feeling her warmth, her presence, her grief.
Maybe…
Maybe he had been wrong.
The sky, once split apart by storms of lightning, now lay heavy and gray, as if even the heavens mourned.
Nagare stood amidst the ruins, his once-proud emerald cloak tattered, the remnants of his lightning armor flickering weakly before fading into nothingness. His body ached, not from battle, but from a weight far greater than any wound.
The weight of failure.
The weight of guilt.
His warriors were gone.
He looked around at the devastation. The bodies of his subordinates, the men and women who had fought under him, who had trusted him, now lay scattered across the battlefield—some reduced to mere ashes, others frozen in death's embrace, their last expressions twisted in pain or confusion.
This is my fault.
Not the shinobi.
Not Naruto.
Not even the war itself.
Me.
He had led them here. He had given the orders. He had fed them empty promises of victory and justice.
And now, they were gone.
He knelt down beside one of his fallen warriors—Reika, one of his most loyal lieutenants. Her lifeless eyes stared at the sky, her body still crackling with faint embers of his own lightning.
Nagare clenched his fists.
They had followed him without question. They had believed in him.
And he had led them to die for nothing.
He had once believed that he was different from the leaders of the shinobi world.
That his war was just. That he was right.
But now…
Now, he saw the truth.
He was no different.
He had allowed his hatred, his grief, and his anger to cloud his judgment. He had let the past dictate his present, and in doing so, he had doomed his people to a future of nothing but death.
His mind echoed with the words of Kiba and Choji, the ones who had fought against him.
"You people are stuck in the past and don't deserve to rule anything."
"You chose the easy way out when Naruto disappeared."
"The world is close to annihilation because you made it into a fight."
They had been right.
Nagare had been so blinded by vengeance that he never stopped to consider if his war was even necessary.
Would there have been another way?
Could he have protected his people without throwing them into battle?
Could he have saved them, instead of leading them to ruin?
The answer was obvious now.
But it was too late.
Nagare exhaled, his shoulders slumping.
He felt hollow.
His title, Green King, meant nothing now.
What was a king without his kingdom?
What was a leader without his people?
He looked at the corpses around him. Some of them had been his friends. Others, he had barely known. But they had all trusted him.
And he had failed them.
"I should have died with you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
But that would have been too easy.
Death would have been an escape.
Living, remembering, **suffering—**that was the real punishment.
He had to carry this burden.
He had to live with it.
And so, as the last remnants of his lightning flickered out, Nagare, the Green King, stood alone—not as a victor, not as a leader, but as a man who had destroyed everything he sought to protect.