The Theater of Eternity
Beyond the multiverse, in a realm where time held no dominion and existence bent to the whims of a singular will, there lay a city unlike any other.
A city of books.
It was not made of stone or metal, nor wood or glass, but of endless shelves stretching beyond the horizon, containing tomes that pulsed with ethereal light. Each book was not merely a collection of words but a world in itself, a recorded history of all that was, is, and could be. This was Featherine Augustus Aurora's dominion, a personal stage where the great witch watched the multiverse unfold like a never-ending play.
At the heart of this vast library, upon a floating throne of gold and ivory, Featherine sat with an air of casual disinterest.
Her dark violet hair, styled in a perfect hime cut, framed a face that was the very picture of elegance. Her purple eyes, ancient and filled with untold wisdom, flickered as she turned the pages of a grand tome. She held it lazily, as though it were a mere entertainment piece rather than the chronicle of an entire universe.
Her long sleeves draped over the armrests as she exhaled softly, watching the ink upon the pages shift and dance, rewriting itself in real time.
"Ah… how delightful," she mused, a slow, knowing smile gracing her lips.
The book before her was titled Emperor of Mankind—the tale of a boy named Naruto.
A boy who had not yet become an emperor. A boy still struggling with the weight of destiny.
A boy whose path she had already touched.
Featherine's fingers hovered over the pages, her nails painted a soft lilac shade, before gently tapping the surface. Instantly, the pages rippled, a faint glow emanating from the ink as a memory surfaced from deep within the fabric of time.
A moment from long ago.
A moment when she had met the boy named Naruto.
The streets of Konohagakure were quiet that evening.
A cold drizzle had settled over the village, painting the cobblestone roads with a damp sheen. The shops had long since closed, and only the faint glow of lanterns flickered in the windows of distant homes.
It was in a lonely alley, tucked away from the bustling main streets, where a young boy sat on the ground, his back pressed against the wall, a small piece of half-eaten bread in his hands.
Naruto Uzumaki.
Six years old.
His blonde hair was unkempt, damp from the rain, and his cheeks were smudged with dirt. His clothes were ragged, a size too big for his small frame, and yet despite his shivering form, his blue eyes held a quiet warmth.
Sitting across from him, beneath the faint glow of the streetlight, was a woman he had never seen before.
She was strange.
Beautiful, yet alien in presence, as if the world itself tried to blur her existence. She wore a long, elegant robe, untouched by the rain, and her violet hair cascaded like silk down her back.
She gazed at him with indifference, as if he were no more than a passing curiosity.
For a long while, neither spoke.
Naruto hesitated, then broke his bread in half and held it out to her.
"You look hungry, lady," he said, his voice small but sincere.
A flicker of something unknown passed through Featherine's amethyst eyes.
Curiosity? Amusement? Surprise?
She had not expected that.
No one had ever offered her anything before. She was above such trivial mortal gestures.
And yet…
She reached forward, taking the small piece of bread from the boy's hands. A immortal accepting an offering from a mortal.
"You are an amusing child," she murmured, rolling the piece of bread between her fingers before taking the smallest of bites. It had no taste to her. Mortals concerned themselves with such things, but she indulged him nonetheless.
Naruto grinned, rubbing the back of his head.
"You talk funny, lady."
A rare chuckle escaped her lips.
"You are interesting, child of man."
Naruto tilted his head, chewing on his own piece of bread.
"What's a child of man?"
Featherine leaned back, resting her cheek against her palm.
"A being of fleeting existence," she said smoothly. "A creature of temporary joys and sorrows, doomed to perish before their true potential can be reached."
Naruto frowned.
"That sounds sad."
Featherine studied him.
A mortal would have flinched under her gaze, but the boy merely looked up at her, eyes filled with something other mortals lacked.
Determination.
Defiance.
"It is not sad," Featherine corrected. "It is merely how your kind exists."
Naruto thought for a moment, then shook his head.
"Well, I'll prove you wrong!"
Featherine raised an elegant brow.
"Oh?"
"Yeah!" Naruto puffed out his small chest. "I'll live forever, and I'll be the strongest! Then I can help everyone, and nobody will be sad anymore!"
For the first time in eons, Featherine was taken aback.
His words were not arrogance.
Nor childish naivety.
They were a declaration.
She gazed into his blue eyes and, for a fleeting moment, saw something unfathomable—a future that had not yet been written, an ending even she could not predict.
How… fascinating.
A slow, knowing smile crept onto her lips.
"Then prove it, child of man," she murmured, reaching out with a single finger to tap his forehead.
The moment her touch made contact, a strange energy settled within him—a mark, a gift, a fragment of something beyond mortal comprehension.
Naruto blinked, tilting his head.
"Huh? What was that?"
Featherine simply smiled.
"A story yet to be written."
And with that, she vanished into the night, leaving the young boy alone with his half-eaten bread and an unshakable feeling that something had changed.
Featherine's lips curled into an amused smirk as the memory faded, leaving her once again within the grand halls of the City of Books.
Her fingers drummed lightly against the golden pages of the tome.
"I wonder if he remembers our encounter," she mused aloud.
Naruto was no longer that small, hungry boy in the rain.
He was now standing at the precipice of greatness or oblivion.
Would he rise and earn the gift she had given him?
Or would Isshiki claim it instead?
The possibilities thrilled her.
Boredom was a fatal illness, after all.
And Naruto's story?
It was far from over.
The golden tome in her lap hummed softly as if eager to be read further, but for now, her attention was elsewhere.
A ripple in the vast library signaled the arrival of another presence.
From the shadows of the towering bookshelves emerged a young woman clad in a Gothic Lolita dress of black and white, her steel-blue hair swaying ever so slightly as she walked with a deliberate grace. A small black cat tail flicked behind her, the blue ribbon tied around it standing out against the darkness of her attire. Her expression remained impassive, her purple eyes betraying neither curiosity nor amusement.
Bernkastel, the Witch of Miracles.
She came to a stop beside Featherine's throne, her gaze briefly flickering toward the golden tome.
"So," Bernkastel began, her voice as monotonous as ever, "you've taken an interest in that boy again."
Featherine turned another page with an idle flick of her fingers, the ink upon it shifting and reforming, retelling Naruto's tale as she pleased.
"Interest is a strong word, Bern," she mused, a smile tugging at her lips. "Amusement is a better fit."
Bernkastel tilted her head slightly, her fingers grazing one of the countless books lining the shelves beside her. The tome reacted to her touch, pages turning of their own accord, yet she paid it no mind.
"You claim amusement," Bern replied, her voice eerily calm, "and yet you interfered. A gift, a touch of power, something beyond his mortal reach… Why?"
Featherine let out a light chuckle, resting her cheek against her palm as she gazed down at the words forming upon the pages.
"Because he is unlike most of his kind," she said. "A child of man who declared to me, with utmost certainty, that he would live forever and surpass the limits placed upon him."
Bernkastel's lips barely curled in what might have been the ghost of a smirk.
"Foolish words from a foolish child," she remarked. "A mortal clinging to the delusion of eternity. I've seen countless like him before."
Featherine tapped her fingers against the book's spine, her expression unfazed.
"And yet… this one intrigues me," she countered. "Tell me, Bern, what do you think of his original tale?"
Bernkastel closed her eyes for a moment, as if sifting through memories she had long since discarded. When she opened them again, her voice remained impassive.
"It's predictable," she stated bluntly. "A child born from misery, rejected by his people, rises to become their hero. An inevitable march toward an idealized conclusion. He fights, he suffers, he grows. Friendship and perseverance carry him forward. It's a tale woven countless times in different variations."
Featherine hummed in thought, nodding along.
"And yet," Bern continued, her eyes narrowing slightly, "it is flawed. The enemies he faced were bound by their own idiotic rules. The wars he fought were a cycle endlessly repeating. His struggle? Orchestrated. His triumph? A convenience, handed to him when the plot deemed it necessary. If you ask me, he was a piece on a board, never truly in control of his own destiny."
Featherine smirked, her amusement growing.
"You dislike his journey?"
"I despise it," Bernkastel said without hesitation. "If I were to rewrite his tale, I would remove the sentimentality, strip away the contrived bonds of friendship. Let him see the world for what it truly is—a game where those who hesitate perish. Let him break, let him shatter, and only then would he be worthy of something greater."
Featherine chuckled, her golden tome closing with a quiet snap. She studied Bernkastel with the lazy interest of one who had seen eternity unfold and still found amusement in the little things.
"Ah, my dear Bern," she sighed. "Your cynicism is ever delightful. But tell me—do you truly believe his tale was written so simply? Or could there be… another path hidden within its pages?"
Bernkastel remained silent for a moment before tilting her head slightly, the flick of her cat tail betraying her mild interest.
"A miracle?" she asked. "For him?"
Featherine's smile deepened.
"Perhaps," she mused. "Or perhaps a tragedy."
"Should I play with him?" Bern asked as cruelty flashed in her eyes, for the horrors she would unleash on a new toy.
"Patience, my child."
Bernkastel remained quiet for a moment, absorbing her master's words. Then, ever so slowly, her lips curled into a smirk—one devoid of warmth, yet filled with wicked amusement.
"Patience?" she echoed, tilting her head as if testing the taste of the word on her tongue. "How very dull."
Featherine let out a soft, knowing chuckle, reclining against her floating throne with effortless grace. "Dull, perhaps. Necessary? Without question." She lifted a hand, idly tapping the cover of the golden tome in her lap. "He is not ready to play with you, Bern. Not yet."
Bernkastel's expression barely shifted, but her cat-like tail flicked, betraying her displeasure. "He embodies everything I despise," she murmured, her voice laced with faint irritation. "A creature of sentimentality. A fool who clings to meaningless bonds. I would so enjoy watching him break."
Featherine's eyes shimmered with amusement. "Oh, my dear Bern… would you break a toy before it has reached its peak entertainment value?"
Bernkastel exhaled through her nose, brushing her gloved fingers against the spine of a nearby book. The tome trembled under her touch, as if fearful of her very presence.
"And what of the others?" she asked, her voice flat but thoughtful. "If I were to guide his tale into something of true significance—if I were to mold him into something worthy of my attention—would the other overlords not take notice? Would they not seek to claim him for themselves?"
Featherine merely smiled, tapping her fingers against the tome.
"No," she said simply.
Bernkastel narrowed her eyes. "And why is that?"
Featherine's voice was soft, yet carried the weight of absolute certainty. "Because this is a story I have made my claim on." She let the words settle, her gaze drifting back to the book in her lap. "Unless the child of man reaches the stage where he is called by his true name, they will not interfere with my interests."
Bernkastel hummed, considering the implications. "So as long as he remains below that threshold, he is yours to shape?"
Featherine nodded. "Precisely."
Bernkastel chuckled, her amusement returning. "How fortunate for me."
Featherine smirked. "How fortunate for him."
Bernkastel let out a breath of laughter, a rare sound that carried a note of true delight.
"And tell me, master…" she drawled, tapping her fingers against her own armrest. "Does he know?"
Featherine's expression turned ever so slightly… playful. "Not yet," she admitted. "But I believe it is time for him to be aware of the game being played."
Bernkastel's smirk widened, her purple eyes gleaming with dark anticipation. "Then shall I remind him of your favors?"
Featherine's gaze never left the tome, but her smile deepened, her voice carrying an undeniable air of amusement.
"Yes."
In the void of the dark dimension, where the echoes of demons prowled and twisted whispers filled the air, Naruto sat cross-legged, his eyes closed in deep meditation. Around him, an eerie silence stretched across the ruined landscape, an unnatural stillness in a world overrun by chaos. He was searching—searching for a way out of this forsaken place.
Not far from him, Kakashi and Sakura moved in tandem, their attacks clashing against his shadow clones. Each strike, each movement, carried the unnatural grace of their newfound Otsutsuki power, an inheritance that neither of them had asked for, but one they now had to master. The air crackled with shifting energy as they adapted, pushing their bodies beyond human limitations.
Yet, in the midst of his focus, something shifted.
Naruto's mind wavered, his meditation disrupted by an alien sensation. The darkness around him bled away, the scent of damp earth and cold rain replacing the thick, acrid air of the demonic realm. His breath caught. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in the abyss.
He was in Konoha.
A thin drizzle coated the streets in a reflective sheen. Water dripped from rooftops, the golden glow of lanterns casting soft halos on the cobbled pathways. But this was not the Konoha of the present.
Naruto stood in an alleyway, looking at a small, familiar figure curled against a damp wall. A child, no older than six, his wild blonde hair matted with rain and grime. Clutched in his small hands was a half-eaten piece of bread, his oversized clothes hanging loosely on his frail frame.
Him.
Naruto's eyes widened as the scene unfolded before him, the heavy weight of déjà vu settling in his chest. He had never remembered this moment, and yet, it was happening.
And then, she appeared.
From the shadows of the streetlight, a woman stepped forward—one who did not belong in this world.
Her violet hair cascaded like silk down her back, untouched by the rain that soaked the rest of the world. An elegant robe adorned her form, too pristine for the muddied streets of Konoha. The way she carried herself, as though reality itself bent around her presence, set her apart from everything Naruto had ever known.
Featherine.
She gazed at the small boy with unreadable eyes, the weight of eternity hidden behind them.
Naruto watched, powerless as his younger self hesitated before breaking his bread in half and holding it out to the woman.
"You look hungry, lady," the boy said, his voice small but sincere.
A flicker of something unknown passed through Featherine's amethyst gaze.
Amusement? Surprise? Curiosity?
No one had ever offered her anything before.
She took the bread, rolling it between her fingers as though inspecting a foreign object before taking the smallest of bites. It had no taste to her, but she indulged the child regardless.
"You are an amusing child," she murmured.
The boy grinned, rubbing the back of his head.
"You talk funny, lady."
A rare chuckle escaped her lips.
"You are interesting, child of man."
The conversation played out exactly as before, just as Naruto—the real Naruto—watched in silent awe.
Then he felt it.
A shift.
The scene was no longer bound by memory. The Featherine in the memory turned, her gaze meeting his—the present Naruto's gaze.
She had broken free from the illusion.
"You do not remember this moment," she said, stepping toward him, her presence towering over both his child-self and his adult form. "Because I did not allow you to."
Naruto instinctively took a step back, his mind racing.
This wasn't just a memory.
This was something she had rewritten.
Featherine smiled, a slow, knowing smirk.
"I am here to remind you of what you are against. Do you regret this path?" she asked, her voice smooth and languid. "Do you wish to go back to the path of the average?"
Naruto clenched his fists.
"I—"
Before he could speak, the world around him shifted again.
A new reality spread before him.
A peaceful Konoha. The Hokage Monument proudly displayed his own face among the greats. The Seventh Hokage.
The streets were lively, filled with laughter and warmth. He saw his friends—Kakashi, Sakura, Sasuke. Boruto and Himawari ran through the streets, carefree. His home was intact. His family was there. The world was at peace.
It was everything he had fought for.
Everything he had once believed was the perfect ending.
But Naruto's breath hitched.
This world—this delicate world—was nothing but an illusion. It existed in a fragile peace, one that could be shattered the moment the Otsutsuki arrived.
A nightmare waiting to happen.
Naruto's fingers twitched, his body trembling—not from the cold, not from hesitation, but from the weight of what he knew.
Featherine's voice echoed behind him, smooth as silk, yet sharp as a blade.
"I can give this to you, if you desire. A world where you are content, unburdened by the truth."
Naruto exhaled slowly.
"I don't regret," he said firmly.
He turned to face her, eyes ablaze with determination.
"I will carry the burden of this truth for the world. No matter how powerful you may be, I will continue walking until I have accomplished what I need."
Featherine tilted her head slightly, as if regarding a particularly interesting page in a book.
Naruto stood in the delicate illusion of peace, his hands clenched into trembling fists. The warm, golden hues of Konoha bathed his skin in a gentle light, but it was not real. It was never real.
He knew this.
And yet, as Featherine loomed over him, her voice smooth and omnipresent, he could feel something creeping into his soul—doubt.
"Child of man, why do you shake so much?"
A cold shiver crawled up his spine. His breath hitched, and he forced himself to exhale steadily.
"Is that fear in your eyes?"
Naruto's heart pounded against his ribs.
No.
No, he wouldn't—
His body betrayed him.
His hands, no matter how hard he willed them to still, quivered at his sides. His throat was dry. His legs felt heavier than they ever had in his life.
Fear.
It wasn't the fear of death.
It wasn't the fear of losing a battle.
It was the absolute powerlessness that sank its claws into his chest like an abyss that could never be escaped.
Featherine watched him with detached amusement, the way one might observe a tiny insect attempting to scale a glass wall.
The world around them flickered.
Konoha vanished.
They stood in the void—a black, endless expanse where no light existed. Where no sound could comfort him.
Then the nightmares began.
Naruto saw it.
He saw them.
The true Otsutsuki.
Not the ones he had fought before—Kaguya, Isshiki—no, they were mere followers, the weak.
What stood before him now were beings so far beyond his understanding that the very fabric of reality bent in their presence. Their existence was not limited to a singular form. They were shifting, warping, ever-present—eyes that peered from every corner of existence, gazes filled with nothing but cold calculation.
He could feel them.
Watching.
Calculating.
Rewriting.
His story was already written in their hands.
Naruto felt sick. He staggered back, breath hitching. His hands clutched his chest, as though trying to ground himself, to remind himself that he was still real.
But was he?
Or had they already changed that?
Am I even real?
His vision blurred. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to not fall to his knees.
Featherine's presence was right beside him now, though she had never moved.
"You see it now, don't you?"
Her voice was almost pitying.
"There is no winning against them. No technique, no power, no indomitable will can stand against what they are. They do not fight—they rewrite. They are not bound by time, nor space, nor consequence. They are inevitability itself."
The void around them twisted again.
Naruto was standing in Konoha once more.
But this time…
It was empty.
The Hokage Monument was cracked. The streets deserted. The wind howled through hollow buildings, lifeless and desolate.
It was a future where he had failed.
No blood.
No battle.
No resistance.
Only nothingness.
Because they had erased everything.
And there was nothing he could do.
He staggered, his breathing uneven.
"Shut up…" he muttered.
Featherine merely tilted her head.
"I do not need to speak," she mused. "You are the one seeing the truth. Your mind is unraveling it all on its own."
Naruto clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his skin.
It was too much.
The weight of helplessness.
The knowledge that he could be rewritten at any moment.
What was he to them?
A character in a story.
A mere speck beneath their notice.
Featherine raised a single, delicate finger.
The world shifted again.
Naruto found himself back in his childhood.
He was six years old again, in that alley.
But now—Featherine was holding his body like a doll, turning his head this way and that, adjusting his posture, even changing his expressions.
His young self's eyes were empty, his lips moving as if being forced to speak.
"I want to be Hokage."
The voice was his.
But it wasn't him.
Featherine flicked her hand, and the young Naruto collapsed lifelessly to the ground.
She smiled.
"See? It is as simple as that."
Naruto could hardly breathe. His mind was spiraling. His heart slammed against his ribs.
This was his worst nightmare.
Not losing.
Not death.
Irrelevance.
A story that was already written before he could even struggle. A fate beyond his own control.
Something worse than death.
For the first time in his life, Naruto felt like a caged animal—small, insignificant, powerless.
But then…
Then something shifted.
A flicker.
A single spark.
Naruto took a deep breath, steadying his shaking hands.
Yes. He was afraid.
Yes. He knew now that what lay ahead was beyond anything he had ever imagined.
But.
He was still standing.
And that was enough.
Featherine observed him as he straightened his posture, the tremors in his hands slowing.
His breath steadied.
His eyes—still shaken, still filled with fear—held something else now.
Resolve.
He turned to face her fully.
"Are you the creator?" he asked, voice hoarse yet firm. "Did you make us? Did you make this world?"
Featherine regarded him with an amused smile.
"Now that," she mused, her fingers lightly tracing the air, "is a very interesting question."
The world around them rippled.
Naruto stood firm, his breath steadying as Featherine's answer hung in the air.
"I am an Otsutsuki."
The words echoed in the void around them, reverberating through the very fabric of his mind.
"However, is this answer enough to claw out from your despair?"
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Then—Naruto exhaled.
His fear had not disappeared, but something within him shifted.
His fingers curled, not in weakness, but in quiet defiance. His heartbeat slowed, no longer erratic with panic but rhythmic, controlled.
It made sense now.
Featherine—even her.
She was not some untouchable, divine entity that existed beyond reason.
She was an Otsutsuki.
One of them.
And that was enough.
Naruto lifted his gaze, staring at her not as an insurmountable force, but as an opponent.
"It is enough to know that I am not fighting against the impossible."
Featherine arched a delicate brow, intrigued.
Naruto clenched his fists, the weight of his own existence settling into him like a heavy but familiar burden.
"If you are another creation, then you have no superiority over me."
There was a Creator.
Something—someone—above even them.
And that truth gave him an anchor.
A foundation in this shifting, terrifying sea of uncertainty.
Because it meant that no matter how much they rewrote his existence, no matter how much they altered his path, he was still real.
His soul was his own.
And that was something even they could not take away.
A slow, knowing smile curled at the edges of Featherine's lips.
"Ah… fascinating. The mind of a child of man is truly remarkable."
She stepped closer, her presence brushing against him like a phantom wind, unreadable and limitless.
"Even in the face of the absolute, you find comfort in a mere possibility. Tell me, Naruto Uzumaki—do you truly believe knowing of a higher being grants you power?"
Naruto met her gaze, unwavering.
"It's not about power. It's about the truth."
His voice was quiet, but steady.
"As long as I know that truth exists… then I can still fight. I can still move forward."
Featherine chuckled softly, amusement dancing in her violet eyes.
"Then let us see how far this truth will take you, child of man."
And with a flick of her finger—
The world shattered once more.
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A.N. These are Umineko characters.