As we walked toward Konoha, the weight of grief pressed against us, silent and suffocating. The road of mud and dust stretched endlessly, winding through towering trees that whispered with the wind. My father's arms held me close, but I felt the tremor in his grip, the sorrow buried beneath his rigid composure. The cool breeze touched our skin like a ghostly reminder of what we had lost, yet we pushed forward, step by step, toward the village that had called us home at the highest cost.
The gates of Konoha loomed ahead, a symbol of safety and duty, yet they felt more like an unmarked grave for what we had sacrificed. My father had given his loyalty, my mother had given her life, and I—too young to understand it all—had been left with only the echoes of their choices. The village would take us in, and offer shelter and purpose, but no walls could shield us from the emptiness left behind.
Yet, as much as pain had led us here, this was not the end. It was a beginning forged from loss, a path stained with blood yet open before me. I would carry the weight of this sacrifice, not as a burden, but as a fire to shape my future. I would grow stronger—not just to survive, but to ensure no one I loved would ever be taken from me again.
The gates of Konohagakure loomed before us, tall and unyielding, a silent testament to the village's strength. Standing guard were two young shinobi, Izumo and Kotetsu, barely past adolescence—likely around fifteen years old. Their youth struck me immediately, an indication of the village's reliance on young talent. If they were at the early stages of their careers, then this must be before the major events that would later shake the world. If Itachi's generation was just emerging, then Kakashi, the prodigy known for graduating from the Academy at five, must be around seven or eight years old at this time.
As we approached, their expressions shifted from curiosity to caution, their inexperience evident in the way their hands hovered near their weapons but lacked the hardened edge of true veterans. This was a village at peace—or at least in the illusion of it. My father, now Yuma Nara, carried himself with the heavy burden of a man who had seen too much in too short a time. His presence alone seemed to unnerve them, as if they could sense the weight of loss clinging to him like a shadow.
His grip on my shoulder tightened briefly—a silent reassurance, but also a warning. He spoke, "I am Yuma Nara. I request entry to report to the Hokage."
Izumo and Kotetsu exchanged wary glances, their fingers subtly shifting toward their weapons. "Yuma Nara? That name isn't familiar," Izumo said, his tone edged with suspicion, though a hint of unease flickered in his eyes.
"It wouldn't be," my father responded voice even but laced with quiet menace. "I was stationed deep undercover in Iwagakure. My mission is now compromised. We must speak to Lord Third immediately."
A tense silence hung between them. The weight of those words settled in, their meaning unmistakable. A compromised mission meant blood had been spilled, and death had followed in our wake. The guards stiffened, their stances shifting, bodies instinctively preparing for the possibility of violence.
Kotetsu nodded briskly, masking his unease. "Understood. We will escort you directly."
My father gave no response, only a slow nod as we moved forward. Even as we stepped through the gates, I felt it—watchful eyes, silent calculations. We were home, but safety was an illusion.
The walk to the Hokage's office felt endless. Every step echoed with memories of our escape, of my mother's last moments, of the blood and fire left behind. I swallowed hard, fighting back the sting in my eyes. I couldn't break down now. Not here.
The streets were filled with the illusion of peace—children's laughter rang through the air, merchants called out their wares, and shinobi leaped between rooftops, moving with the ease of a well-oiled system. To an outsider, it was a thriving village, a place of warmth and community. But I saw past the facade. This was no ordinary village. It was a military institution, a machine built for war, where children were molded into weapons, trained to kill before they even understood the weight of a life. Every smile, every moment of normalcy, existed only because those who walked these streets had been conditioned to accept it. To live was to serve. To serve was to fight.
And those who could not fight were discarded, one way or another.
As we entered the Hokage's chamber, the presence of Hiruzen Sarutobi was overwhelming. He sat behind his desk, his posture relaxed yet exuding quiet dominance, his every movement deliberate. Deep lines creased his face, marking the toll of time and leadership, but the gentle smile he wore was a mask—polished, practiced, deceiving. His expression spoke of warmth, of wisdom, of a grandfatherly benevolence, yet beneath it lurked something more calculating.
His gaze was sharp, weighing us without emotion, dissecting our presence with the precision of a man who had long since learned to separate sentiment from duty. There was no true kindness behind his eyes—only assessment, only control. This was a man who commanded respect not through words, but through the sheer weight of his existence. He had shaped generations of shinobi, guided the village through war and bloodshed, and still sat unshaken at the top, a symbol of stability.
But stability required sacrifice. And in Konoha, sacrifice was the foundation upon which everything was built.
"Yuma," he said, his tone carrying the weight of knowing far too much. "You made it. I feared the worst."
My father gave a short nod, his voice low, almost hollow. "We barely did." He hesitated, his breath catching for the briefest moment, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. Then, as if forcing himself to say the words aloud, he whispered, "Jina did not."
The room fell into silence, suffocating and absolute. My father did not move, did not blink, but I could feel the storm raging beneath his skin. His jaw clenched, his shoulders squared—he was holding himself together through sheer will alone. There was no outburst, no show of grief, only the quiet, crushing weight of a man who had lost the love of his life and had no time to mourn her.
Hiruzen sighed deeply. "I am truly sorry for your loss. Jina was a remarkable kunoichi, dedicated to Konoha to the very end."
My father gave no reply, his expression unreadable. He was holding back. Holding everything back.
Hiruzen continued, his voice heavy. "The mission was already dangerous, but with her pregnancy, it became an impossible burden. When we called you back, we believed we could bring you home safely. We did not expect betrayal."
My father inhaled sharply but nodded. "Someone leaked our return to Iwagakure. That is why we were ambushed. Four jōnin and one elite. The one who killed Jina… he was the elite."
Lies. Empty words wrapped in silk. My father's face did not change, but I could feel the heat rising beneath his skin. His nails dug into his palms, his entire body rigid with the effort to remain composed. He knew the truth—Konoha had ordered them back, knowing the risks, knowing my mother's condition, and yet they had done nothing to ensure our safety.
My father inhaled sharply, controlling the storm within him. "Then tell me, Hokage-sama… who will answer for this?"
Hiruzen did not flinch. "The truth will be found. I give you my word."
Another lie. Another illusion. My father knew it. I knew it.
My father's face remained impassive, but I saw his fingers tremble slightly at his sides. "We have lost too much, Hokage-sama. No words will change that."
The Hokage's expression darkened, but he slowly nodded. "I understand. However, do not forget the Will of Fire. It is what binds us as a village, what gives us purpose beyond our own existence. It is the flame that unites us, the belief that our sacrifices pave the way for the next generation. It is through this unyielding will that Konoha stands strong, not as a collection of individuals, but as a family dedicated to protecting one another. To protect is to endure. To endure is to fight. And to fight is to honor those who gave their lives before us."
Hiruzen's gaze did not waver. "It is the reason we continue. Without the Will of Fire, this village would crumble, lost to war and chaos. Sacrifice is painful, but it is necessary. If we do not uphold our duty, then what will remain of what we have built?"
My father's hands clenched at his sides, his voice low but unwavering. "Tell me, Hokage-sama… is there any value in saving the village if you lose your loved ones along the way?"
Silence fell like a blade. The Hokage studied my father for a long moment, then let out a weary sigh. "I will not argue with you today, Yuma. Your grief is still raw. But I ask you to consider this—what you choose to believe will shape the life your son leads."
My father did not reply. His posture was rigid, his grip on me tightening slightly.
Hiruzen finally exhaled, his gaze softening just enough to seem genuine. "You both need rest," he said. "Yuma, take Akira to the Nara Compound. You will be safe there. Shikaku has already been informed and is expecting you."
He paused for a moment, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Once you have recovered, I expect you to visit the Yamanaka Clan as well. Jina was Inoichi's sister—your presence there is necessary. They deserve to know what happened."
Yuma remained silent, his face unreadable, but his grip on Akira tightened slightly. Without another word, he turned and left, his footsteps heavy with the weight of the past and the uncertain road ahead.
As we arrived at the Nara Clan compound, a man awaited us. His presence was as heavy as the air before a storm. Shikaku Nara, my father's older brother and the clan's leader, stood with arms crossed, his sharp eyes filled with unreadable emotion.
"You survived," he said simply, his voice unreadable. Then his gaze shifted downward to me. "And this is… Akira?"
My father nodded. "Yes."
My father's jaw tightened. "Jina didn't make it."
Shikaku's posture stiffened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, he inhaled deeply, rubbing a hand over his face. "Inoichi…" he muttered, shaking his head. "Does he know?"
Yuma shook his head. "Not yet. Hokage-sama wants me to go to the Yamanaka Clan once we've recovered."
Shikaku's fists clenched at his sides, but his voice remained steady. "You're not doing this alone, Yuma. You and Akira will stay here. No arguments." He sighed heavily.
My father didn't answer right away. But his silence spoke louder than words.
He glanced at me again, his gaze softer now. "Akira needs stability. And you… you look like hell, little brother."
A ghost of something crossed my father's face, but it vanished before it could take shape. "Thank you," he murmured, voice thick.
Shikaku sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "Don't thank me. Just… don't break apart, Yuma. Not now. Not with him depending on you."
A heavy silence hung between them, the weight of loss settling deep. Then Shikaku looked at me once more, his sharp eyes softening. "He's got her eyes."
My father swallowed hard. "He does."
Shikaku sighed again, then gestured toward the entrance. "Come inside. I'll have someone prepare a room for you both. You need rest."
As my father followed him, I looked up at the darkening sky, the weight of everything pressing down on me. I didn't fully understand it all yet—but one truth had already carved itself into my soul.
I will become stronger. No matter what it takes. I will never be this powerless again. I will protect those who remain because I refuse to let fate steal from me again.
And then, deep within me, something burned hotter than my grief—rage. A hatred for whatever cruel god had stolen my mother the moment I entered this world. Was my birth the reason she died? Was I nothing more than the cause of her suffering? I will find him. And when I do, I will demand an answer.
Because if she was fated to die just because I was born—then I will tear fate apart with my own hands.