The aroma of sizzling meat filled the air, mingling with the rich scent of spices unique to the Akimichi Clan's restaurant. The place was quiet at this hour—reserved for clan members and close friends.
Shikamaru sat across from Choji, his fingers interlaced as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wooden table. His sharp eyes studied his best friend, taking in the subtle shifts in his aura—the weight of something greater now woven into him.
Choji had always been a large presence, but now… now he felt different.
Stronger. Hungrier.
Not just for food, but for something more.
The Ōtsutsuki power running through his veins had awakened something primal—an urge beyond mere sustenance. A desire to cultivate, consume, and grow.
But Shikamaru knew that if left unchecked, that hunger could become a curse.
That's why he was here.
That's why this talk mattered.
"Shikamaru," Choji finally said, his voice steady. "I know you're hurting."
Shikamaru exhaled softly. He didn't flinch, didn't avert his gaze. Instead, he let Choji's words settle between them.
Temari was gone.
The pain was constant, but dwelling on it wouldn't bring her back.
Choji knew that too.
"You're trying to distract me," Shikamaru muttered, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Not very subtle."
Choji grinned. "Hey, what are friends for?" He leaned back, resting his arms over the back of the seat. "Besides… I do need your help."
Shikamaru gave him a lazy but knowing look. "Your new power."
Choji nodded. "I can feel it, Shikamaru. It's not just about eating anymore. It's about nourishing. About growth. The energy inside me doesn't just take—it transforms. I think… I think I can create something incredible with it."
Shikamaru thought about it. The Akimichi clan had always revolved around food and energy. Now, Choji's Ōtsutsuki bloodline gave him something far greater than just consuming calories.
He could refine energy itself.
If harnessed correctly, he could create food that enhances power—that could revolutionize shinobi strength, stamina, and even evolution.
A true cuisine of the immortals.
Shikamaru exhaled, tapping his fingers on the table.
"Alright," he said. "If you want to do something with this, don't just focus on the technique. Focus on the materials."
Choji listened intently.
"You're not just cooking anymore, Choji. You're crafting power. The ingredients have to be special—rare plants, powerful creatures, energy-rich substances. If you can gather those, refine them with your power, and mix them into dishes… You might just create something that changes the entire shinobi world."
The idea struck something deep inside Choji.
A hunger not of the stomach, but of purpose.
Shikamaru could see it in his eyes—the primal spark of the Ōtsutsuki, merging with his own Akimichi instincts.
And then—
The room shifted.
The very air warped around them, responding to the sheer weight of Choji's presence.
The wooden walls groaned, the plates on the table vibrated, and for a split second, Shikamaru felt as if they were not in a restaurant anymore—but in a space of boundless possibility.
Choji was changing.
Or rather, he was awakening.
Shikamaru smirked. "Guess you really liked that idea, huh?"
Choji took a deep breath, the distortion around them fading. He grinned, his eyes glowing faintly with an inner power.
"Yeah," he said, his voice filled with excitement. "Yeah, I did."
Shikamaru didn't react outwardly, but inside, he felt a sharp sense of unease.
The shift in reality had been instantaneous, smooth—too smooth.
One moment, they were sitting in a restaurant.
The next, they were in a fully equipped kitchen, surrounded by stainless steel counters, pots, and exotic ingredients that shouldn't exist.
Choji didn't even notice.
He was still talking, still grinning, completely unaware that his power had rewritten the space around them.
That's bad.
Shikamaru masked his concern with a yawn, stretching his arms behind his head. "You're getting carried away, huh?"
Choji blinked. "Huh?"
Shikamaru gestured lazily. "The room, idiot."
Choji looked around—and froze.
"What the hell—?" His voice trailed off as he finally realized what had happened. The kitchen felt real, smelled real. He could see the steam rising from an unseen heat source, could smell the richness of flavors in the air.
"I… I did this?" he muttered.
Shikamaru nodded. "Yeah. And you didn't even notice."
Choji exhaled, clenching his fists. He hadn't tried to do anything. He'd just been excited. Focused.
And his Ōtsutsuki instincts had reacted.
That was dangerous.
Shikamaru leaned forward, his gaze sharpening. "Listen, Choji. This isn't just chakra anymore. You're dealing with something far bigger."
Choji swallowed, nodding slowly.
"You have to be careful," Shikamaru continued. "If you let your instincts run wild, you might reshape things without even realizing it. One moment you're excited about food, the next—" he gestured at the kitchen, "—reality changes to fit your desires."
Choji's hands trembled slightly. The power felt natural, almost right. But now he understood the risk.
"I need to control it," he muttered.
Shikamaru gave him a smirk. "Damn right you do." He leaned back again, acting casual. "Don't get me wrong. The idea is still solid—gather rare materials, make the ultimate cuisine, help the shinobi world grow stronger. But you need to master yourself first."
Choji took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
He focused.
Slowly, the kitchen faded. The walls, the equipment, the unreal ingredients—everything shifted back to the warm, wooden interior of the Akimichi restaurant.
When he opened his eyes, the restaurant was back to normal.
Shikamaru let out a small breath of relief.
"Good," he said. "That's step one."
Choji wiped sweat from his forehead. "Damn… That was harder than I thought."
Shikamaru gave him a rare, genuine smile. "Yeah. But that just means you're making progress."
Choji chuckled. "Guess I better start training, huh?"
Shikamaru nodded. They had a plan now.
Choji would master his instincts.
And once he did—he would cook meals that could change the shinobi world forever.
Kiba ran his hands through Akamaru's fur, feeling the familiar warmth of his oldest companion. Beside them, Cerberus, the three-headed beast gifted to him by Hades, lay curled up, his three sets of glowing eyes fixed on the guest before them.
Hades sat across from Kiba, draped in robes of shadow, the air around him thick with a presence that felt ancient and absolute. Though his form resembled a man, his golden, predatory eyes betrayed something far beyond human.
This was the King of the Underworld—a being whose domain stretched across the abyss, ruling over hungry souls and forgotten monsters.
And Kiba wanted a piece of it.
Hades studied the young man before him. Kiba had changed.
The remnants of his Ōtsutsuki transformation were unmistakable—his once wild features had become sharper, more defined, his body carrying a new predatory grace, his aura flickering with something dangerous. His once reddish-brown eyes now glowed faintly, and his fangs were longer, sharper.
Yet, there was something else.
A wildness.
It was subtle, but Hades could sense it. During their conversation, there were moments when Kiba's voice grew rough, his instincts bleeding through his words, his control slipping just slightly.
It was clear.
Kiba was not fully in control of himself.
And in a place like the Hungry Realm, where monsters thrived on bloodlust and hunger, that could be fatal.
Kiba leaned back against Akamaru, crossing his arms. "So? What do you think?"
Hades rested his chin on one hand, eyes gleaming. "You wish to bring your clan into the Hungry Realm? To train them?"
Kiba grinned, sharp and confident. "Yeah. I was thinking about it during the war. The Inuzuka fight best in packs. If I'm getting stronger, I want my clan to grow with me."
Hades tapped a finger against the table. "Interesting."
"It makes sense, right?" Kiba continued. "The Inuzuka already have strong hunting instincts, but if we train in the Hungry Realm, we can evolve beyond what we are now."
His eyes flickered with Ōtsutsuki energy, his aura briefly expanding before he reined it back in. "We'll become the strongest hunters the world has ever seen."
Hades chuckled. It was a deep, rumbling sound that sent shivers through the room. "Your ambition is commendable. But you are not yet ready."
Kiba stiffened. "What?"
Hades met his gaze, unwavering, unrelenting. "You lack control."
Kiba's jaw tightened, his fingers twitching. "I've been training—"
"You have," Hades interrupted. "And you have done well. But you do not yet understand the depths of the power you wield."
He gestured at Kiba, his voice turning colder. "I see it in you, boy. The way your energy flickers when you speak. The way your instincts threaten to take over. You are stronger, yes, but you are also closer to becoming a beast rather than a man."
The room fell silent.
Akamaru let out a low growl, sensing his partner's frustration. Even Cerberus lifted his three heads, sniffing at Kiba as if testing his control.
Kiba exhaled sharply, his fists clenching.
"Then I'll control it," he said.
Hades smirked. "Will you? Or will you lose yourself?"
Kiba's lips curled in irritation, but he forced himself to stay calm.
Hades leaned forward slightly. "If you cannot master yourself, you have no right to lead a pack." His gaze darkened. "Do you understand, boy?"
The words hit harder than Kiba expected.
For a moment, the fire in his chest urged him to snap back, to bare his teeth, to challenge the immortal sitting before him.
But deep down…
He knew Hades was right.
Kiba took a deep breath. The Ōtsutsuki instincts inside him wanted to run wild, to claim dominance, but he needed to be better than that.
He needed control.
After a long pause, he nodded. "I get it."
Hades observed him for a moment before standing. "Then prove it."
Kiba tilted his head. "Huh?"
Hades' smirk widened, shadows swirling around him. "You will come with me. Alone."
Kiba blinked in surprise. "Wait, you mean—?"
"You will enter the Hungry Realm," Hades confirmed. "But your clan will not." His voice turned sharp. "Not until I deem you ready."
Kiba hesitated, glancing at Akamaru. The loyal dog stared back at him, unwavering.
Then Kiba smirked. "Fine. Let's do it."
Hades chuckled, stepping into a swirling portal of darkness.
"Then come, boy," he said. "Let us see if you are truly worthy."
Kiba grinned fiercely, cracking his knuckles before stepping forward.
He was ready.
Or at least…
He would be.
The world was in chaos.
The endless wars between monsters and immortals had left behind more than just destruction—they had sown despair in the hearts of the people. Nations that once stood proud had crumbled beneath the weight of battles far beyond human comprehension. Mortals were forced to live in constant fear, knowing their lives could be snuffed out in an instant by forces they could neither understand nor oppose.
The immortals had abandoned them.
Izanagi and the celestial deities had long cut their ties to the mortal realm. Where once temples and shrines had been filled with prayer, now they stood silent, their altars gathering dust, their priests left without answers.
And in that silence… something else spoke.
In the shadows of ruined temples, new gatherings took place.
The people, desperate for something—anything—to believe in, began to turn to whispers that had once been feared. The old stories of the Demon Lords, long thought to be nothing more than myths to scare children, now spread like wildfire.
And with those stories came promises.
"The immortals see you as nothing more than insects."
"But the Lords of the Abyss… they have not forgotten."
In dark corners of the world, men and women gathered in secret, listening to the sermons of robed figures who preached not of patience and virtue, but of power and vengeance.
They spoke of a new order, one where the weak would not suffer beneath the feet of the strong. One where those who had lived in fear could become the ones to be feared.
For the first time, the powerless were offered something tangible.
Not distant, indifferent immortals. Not empty prayers.
But power.
A path to strike back against the immortals, the monsters, the ones who had destroyed their world.
The first steps were small—an oath whispered in the dead of night, a ritual made in the blood of a lamb. But soon, these whispers became movements.
Villages that had once lived in terror now stood with newfound confidence, their elders wearing dark insignias, their children raised on tales of fire and conquest.
In the cities, powerful merchants and disgraced nobles sought alliances with the unseen, trading wealth for protection, knowledge for curses.
And beneath the very noses of the so-called heroes, entire cults were being born.
As the heroes worked tirelessly to rebuild what had been lost, another force was rising from beneath them.
A force built on resentment, pain, and anger.
A force that did not seek peace—but revenge.
And in the depths of the abyss, far beyond mortal comprehension, the Demon Lords watched.
Their time was coming.
The world was in ruin, and where there was ruin, faith was born anew.
Among the many dark faiths rising in this era of despair, one cult stood above the rest. The Cult of Pale Night, devoted to the so-called Mother of Demons, spread its influence like a quiet plague.
They spoke not of war, nor of vengeance, but of salvation—of an existence free from the endless suffering that plagued the world. The immortaldess they worshipped, Pale Night, was an unknowable being, so dreadful that reality itself recoiled from her form. To glimpse her true essence was to invite madness or to be remade into something unrecognizable.
And yet, she was seen as a mother, a protector who offered a way out from the horrors of existence.
Those who followed her did not seek power in the same way as other cults. Instead, they sought to erase desire, to eliminate the chaos of human ambition.
They wished for a world of perfect silence.
A world where passion, violence, and suffering were things of the past.
A world where all would be one under the Pale Veil.
At the head of this movement stood a man whose voice carried the weight of conviction and inevitability.
Hikawa.
A tall, pale-skinned man, with short black hair forming a widow's peak, and cold gray eyes that seemed to pierce through all who met his gaze. He was always dressed with immaculate precision—a light brown suit decorated with golden diamond-like patterns, polished brown loafers with gold accents, and a strand of purple Buddhist prayer beads wrapped around his left wrist.
To the world, Hikawa was the head of a prestigious medical company, a man of science and healing. But behind the veil, he was the voice of Lady Pale Night, the high priest of her coming reign.
He did not see himself as a villain.
Hikawa was a man with a dream.
A dream of a world without pain, without conflict, without suffering.
A world where mankind's dangerous passions were neutralized and all things became one with the eternal silence.
He did not recruit through force.
He did not need to.
The world was already broken.
People had lost their homes, their families, their purpose. And when Hikawa spoke, his voice was a balm to the wounds of the hopeless.
"Do you wish to suffer?"
"Do you wish to struggle endlessly in a world that only brings pain?"
"Or do you wish to be free? To be safe beneath the Veil of the Mother?"
The cult of Pale Night worked in hospitals, in orphanages, in the ruins of cities where the immortals and heroes had failed to protect the weak.
They offered food, shelter, kindness—not with the promise of war or vengeance, but with the gentle assurance that in the embrace of the Pale Mother, all would be at peace.
And so, the cult grew.
The weak, the abandoned, the hopeless—they flocked to Hikawa's side, whispering prayers to a immortaldess they could never see, and yet felt all around them.
And when they had given themselves completely to the faith, they received her blessing.
They vanished, drawn into the Pale Veil, their bodies dissolving into something else.
Something no longer human.
Hikawa knew the time was near.
The world was crumbling. The immortals remained silent. The mortals were desperate.
Soon, the Pale Mother would descend fully, and the world would become silent.
And in that perfect silence, there would be peace.
The village of Tanoshiro had been a quiet place once. Before the wars. Before the immortals turned away.
Now, it was a graveyard of the living—souls weighed down by sorrow, bodies moving without purpose.
Hunger. Grief. Despair. These were the only immortals they knew.
And so, in the ruins of their faith, the Cult of Pale Night took root.
A robed figure strode through the desolate streets, his light brown cloak flowing like water. The golden diamond-like patterns shimmered faintly, pulsing with an unnatural rhythm.
Around his wrist, purple Buddhist prayer beads swayed, each bead inscribed with an unreadable script, symbols that flickered between reality and something else.
The man's name was Shiga, a devoted disciple of Hikawa, and he had come to deliver the Mother's salvation.
Before him, a cluster of gaunt villagers huddled around a dying fire pit. Their faces were drawn, sunken, lifeless.
They had lost everything.
Their homes. Their families. Their faith.
Shiga smiled, his voice soft and soothing, like a lullaby made of shadows.
"You suffer."
The villagers barely reacted. Too many promises had been made before. The shinobi had failed them. The samurai had abandoned them. The immortals had turned away.
"The immortals have forsaken you," Shiga continued, stepping closer, his words wrapping around them like silk. "They have left you to rot in a world where men are nothing but insects beneath the feet of monsters."
Something stirred in the eyes of the broken.
Truth.
Recognition.
"The shinobi, the warriors, the immortals—they fight their battles, waging wars that burn your homes, steal your loved ones, and leave you with nothing."
A woman, thin as a withered branch, clutched a child against her chest. The boy had not spoken in days. His eyes were empty, his lips cracked and dry.
"Then what choice do we have?" she whispered.
Shiga knelt before her, his smile warm, his eyes fathomless.
"You have a choice," he murmured.
The air grew still.
"Come to the Pale Mother."
Something shifted. The very world shuddered, as if reality itself was bending toward the words.
"She does not promise power, nor vengeance, nor false hope. She offers you only one thing:* freedom from suffering.**"*
He raised his hands, and from his sleeves, darkness pooled like liquid silk, flowing toward the villagers.
Not to consume them.
To embrace them.
One of the men, his face etched with years of hardship, gasped as the shadows touched his skin—and suddenly, he staggered, his breath hitching in his throat.
His pain was gone.
The ache in his bones. The gnawing hunger in his stomach. The grief that had crushed his heart since his wife had been taken by the war.
Gone.
He trembled, hands shaking as he clutched his chest, eyes wide in disbelief.
Others watched in stunned silence.
"This… this can't be real," a woman breathed.
Shiga gently cupped her hands, and at his touch, the pain in her limbs melted away, as if it had never existed.
She sobbed, not in sorrow, but in relief.
The child in the mother's arms blinked, his dull eyes flickering with something unfamiliar—light.
Then, for the first time in days… he laughed.
A soft, innocent sound, untouched by suffering.
The mother wept, pressing her lips to his forehead, her shoulders shaking as hope—true, undeniable hope—filled her once-broken heart.
Shiga rose, his presence growing, his voice deepening, carrying across the village like the whisper of the abyss.
"She will take your pain into her Veil. And in return, you will be at peace. Forever."
The villagers stared at him now, not with fear, but with longing.
They wanted this.
They needed this.
"What… do we have to do?" the mother asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Shiga smiled.
"Walk with me."
One by one, they stood, their eyes fixed on him with something akin to devotion.
And as they followed him toward the temple at the village's edge, the shadows stretched a little longer, the night grew a little darker, and the world became a little quieter.
The Pale Mother had claimed her children.
The city of Kurogane was a place where power ruled over all. It was a city of elites—the wealthy, the strong, the untouchable. A city where laws bent for those with power and the weak were nothing more than stepping stones.
In such a place, it was only natural that the Ring of Dwiergus thrived.
Where the Cult of Pale Night preyed upon the desperate, offering salvation, the Ring of Dwiergus took a different approach.
They didn't seek the broken.
They sought the ambitious. The ruthless. The ones who craved power above all else.
At the heart of Kurogane stood a tower of glass and steel, a monument to excess and dominance.
The Red Tower.
Owned by Rugal, the undisputed kingpin of Kurogane.
Tonight, in the penthouse floor, a select few had gathered.
Men and women of wealth and power—corporate leaders, crime lords, fighters who had climbed over the bodies of the weak to reach the top.
They had been invited.
Not summoned.
The Ring of Dwiergus did not beg for followers.
They offered power—and only those worthy could take it.
Rugal stood at the head of a long obsidian table, his crimson suit catching the glow of the dim, golden chandeliers.
His red eyes swept across the room, piercing, calculating, measuring the worth of those before him.
At his side stood Skarlet, his second-in-command. A woman of impossible beauty, her skin the color of fresh blood, her eyes like molten gold.
She was proof of the Ring's promise.
A warrior reshaped by Dwiergus's will—powerful, untamed, inhuman.
"You all came here for the same reason," Rugal said, his voice a smooth, deep purr.
"You know the world is changing."
He gestured toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing the city skyline—a world still reeling from war, from the chaos left by the battles of immortals and monsters.
"The old ways are crumbling. Nations fall. Empires burn. The weak scramble for protection."
He smiled, sharp and predatory.
"But we are not the weak."
A man at the table, a billionaire industrialist, leaned forward. His expression was skeptical, but his eyes burned with curiosity.
"What exactly are you offering?" he asked.
Rugal chuckled.
He raised his hand—and his flesh shifted.
For a brief second, his arm was no longer human—it became something grotesque, powerful, alien, before snapping back into perfect form.
Gasps rippled through the room.
He had their attention.
"Dwiergus is the future," Rugal said, his gaze locking onto each of them.
"The world belongs to those who are strong enough to take it."
He gestured to Skarlet.
She stepped forward, placing a glass vial on the table.
Inside, a dark red liquid pulsed—alive, shifting, hungry.
"This," she purred, "is your key to power."
She picked up the vial and tilted it, letting the liquid swirl.
"Demonic essence. A gift from the Chrysalis Prince himself."
The room went silent.
This was no ordinary power.
This was something beyond human, beyond chakra, beyond anything the shinobi had ever wielded.
A warrior, a seasoned champion of underground fights, leaned forward.
"What's the price?" he asked.
Rugal's grin widened.
"Loyalty," he said simply.
"To the strong. To the future."
"To Dwiergus."
Silence.
Then the billionaire reached for the vial.
The others watched as he uncorked it—and drank.
For a moment, nothing.
Then, his body convulsed.
His veins darkened, his eyes flared red, and something inhuman rippled beneath his skin.
He gasped, gripping the table as power coursed through him.
He laughed—a deep, exhilarated sound.
"I… I can feel it," he whispered, clenching his fists as his flesh flexed with newfound strength.
The others stared in awe.
Some with hunger.
Some with fear.
Rugal only smiled.
"The world is changing," he said again.
"You can rule it."
"Or you can be ruled."
One by one, the others reached for their own vials.
The Ring of Dwiergus had claimed more followers tonight.