The morning air was cooler than expected, biting against his skin as a soft breeze slid through the narrow gaps between the rooftops.
It swept past the crumbling edges of Konoha's residential blocks, weaving its way into the tight market paths like a whisper too soft to be caught.
Akai walked in silence, the chill creeping beneath the blood-soaked fabric clinging to his body, the remnants of a fight still fresh in the fibers.
He didn't need to look up to know they were watching.
It wasn't the faces—he didn't care about those—but their movements. The slight hesitation in their steps. The half-turned backs. The stares that lingered just a beat too long on the tear in his clothes, the stains on his side. And the quiet mutterings passed without a single word.
But still, no one dared approach him.
His steps carried him toward a modest shop wedged between a teahouse and a fabric merchant's stall. It wasn't grand or polished. Just practical. A quiet place, out of sight, out of mind.
He pushed the door open, and a faint chime rang in the stillness.
The woman behind the counter looked up, then froze. Her gaze flicked over him, pausing on the dried blood smeared across his side. Her lips parted in an unspoken question, but no words followed. Akai didn't acknowledge her. There was no need to.
His attention shifted to the racks of clothes. Fingers brushed over the stacks, the fabric cool against his skin.
These are... light.
He picked up a shirt—simple cotton, worn at the seams but still intact. It was nothing like the stiff, formal robes or ceremonial attire he was accustomed to. No embroidery. No frills. No high collars or long sleeves meant to sweep behind him like a show of status.
Casual, he thought, inspecting the shirt.
He blinked, staring at the fabric, unsure of what he was supposed to feel.
His mind flickered back to the past—the countless outfits chosen for him by someone else. For ceremonies. For training. For appearances. Always with purpose. Always for someone's eyes.
But not this. Not now.
He turned the shirt over in his hands, as if expecting it to speak, to guide him, to show him how to wear it.
Across the aisle, something familiar caught his eye: wide-legged shinobi pants, the kind Neji often wore. Black, gray, and a few faded blue pairs bunched together at the bottom. Akai knelt, moving with practiced efficiency, rifling through the pile until he found one of each.
As he stood, he caught his reflection in the nearby wall mirror.
His hair—long, disheveled—fell into his face. His pale skin looked even paler against the dried blood crusted against his ribs, the tear in his shirt revealing the bruised flesh beneath. The faint, lingering presence of his Sharingan still pulsed in his left eye, a reminder of the battle.
He stared at himself, caught between the man he was and the one he was forced to become.
A moment passed, and he didn't look away.
So why had she looked at him like that?
Akai's brows furrowed as Shion's face resurfaced in his mind. Her expression—shock, recognition, horror.
He was certain he'd never met her. Never even seen her before.
But still... something about her gaze suggested she knew more than she let on.
He shook the thought off and walked toward the haori section, the cool, musty air of the shop settling around him like an old memory. His eyes drifted across the garments—darker shades, sturdier fabrics, more traditional. They seemed to call to him, echoing something he couldn't quite place.
He lifted a deep blue haori from the rack, its weight tangible in his hands. Slipping it over his shoulders, he felt the fabric settle against him, and for a moment, it felt right. Like it had always been there, like a familiar hand brushing across his back, offering something that resembled comfort.
"Um, that one's—oh..." The shopkeeper started to speak, but her voice faltered when Akai turned his eye on her. The Sharingan pulsed faintly, just enough to remind her who stood before her.
"I'll take these," he said, his tone even, emotionless.
The haori. Two shirts. Three pairs of pants.
He placed them on the counter with a quiet finality.
The shopkeeper hesitated, fumbling with the tags. "We... don't get many Hyuga in here," she muttered, more to herself than to him.
Akai didn't reply. His gaze drifted toward the street outside instead, watching the bustle through the dusty window.
"Ah, um... well, that'll be 5,600 Ryo," she stammered, still not quite used to the quiet intensity of his presence.
He reached into his pouch and pulled out a small, neatly folded stack of bills, placing it gently on the counter. The woman blinked at the neatness of the money, clearly surprised.
"...Please wait a moment," she said, her hands shaking slightly as she processed the transaction.
"Keep it," Akai replied, already turning toward the door.
The bell chimed softly as he stepped out onto the street.
The sunlight hit him immediately—brighter, warmer—but still, Akai tugged the haori tighter around his chest, fingers clenching into the fabric. He adjusted the weight of the bag in his other hand, but his steps didn't take him directly home.
Instead, he turned down a narrow alley, moving with a quiet determination.
Just to make sure.
He glanced up at the balcony above—her apartment.
He wasn't sure why he looked. Maybe she was still watching.
But the curtains were still. Nothing stirred behind them.
Despite that, a knot of unease tightened in his stomach.
Why did she look at me like that?
Who the hell is she?
The market around him had grown louder as he stepped back onto the main road. Children dashed past, their voices shouting about something insignificant. A vendor called out discounts for soba near the crossroads. Two Chuunin moved down the street, laughing about how loud Naruto had been that morning.
Akai kept walking, the unsettling feeling still gnawing at the back of his mind.
Akai didn't bother to blend in.
He had no need to. People moved around him instinctively, stepping aside like they would when a blade was half-drawn, never meeting his gaze, as if looking at him directly might cut them.
He passed a stationery stall and paused.
On the second shelf from the top, spine wrapped in pale yellow, edges stitched with blue thread, was a binder. Simple. Clean.
He reached out and lifted it, the motion fluid, practiced.
"Looking for something to write in, young man?" the shopkeeper asked, her voice tentative, a slight smile curving her lips once she saw the white eye on his socket.
Akai held the binder up, eyes steady. "Two more of these. And a dozen folded paper sets."
The woman blinked in surprise but nodded quickly, moving with swift efficiency to gather the items.
He watched her hands move with practiced speed, every motion familiar, precise.
The last one's with Shisui, he remembered, watching the way she folded the paper. Shouldn't have given it to him. Shouldn't have acted like I didn't notice the curse spirit lingering around...
Without a word, Akai reached into the folds of his new haori, pulling out a small pouch of coins. He handed it over silently, the transaction done without ceremony.
As he turned to leave, his gaze lingered for a moment on the edge of the binder, the blank pages within whispering a strange sense of reassurance.
He stepped out into the cool midday air, the bag of folded clothes rustling softly with each step.
The apartment was quiet when he returned.
Plain. Wooden floors. A small table in the center. A futon tucked neatly against the wall. No decorations. No distractions.
Just how he liked it.
He set the bag down without ceremony, stripping off the ruined kimono and slipping into a simple dark-grey shirt. The wide shinobi pants followed, comfortable and unpretentious. The pale haori came next, its lightness unfamiliar against his skin—too soft, too civilian. But it would do.
I'll adjust, he thought, tying the haori firmly in place.
Not long after, he left again, this time with purpose.
The town hummed with life—vendors shouting their wares, children darting between legs, shinobi in idle chatter at stalls. Akai moved through the crowd like a shadow, unnoticed yet fully aware of everything around him.
His destination was a small stationery shop tucked at the market's edge.
The bell above the door jingled softly as he entered.
Akai scanned the shelves, his eyes grazing over pens, brushes, scrolls, and various binders.
His gaze landed on a simple black one, its clean edges unassuming. A far cry from the one he'd left behind.
With Shisui... that journal's already compromised, he thought, the memory of it slipping into his mind.
He picked up a new binder and selected a stack of blank paper to go with it. His movements were methodical, the task routine, but inside, something felt different. He didn't know if it was the new clothes, the change of pace, or something else entirely.
But for once, there was a small weight lifted from his shoulders, like he could keep moving forward.
As he stepped out of the store, Akai flipped through the sheets of paper, his movements automatic.
I'll start over, he thought. New framework. Keep the chakra formula for reinforcement. Strip the emotion regulation notes. They were too crude anyway. Maybe—
His thoughts faltered.
Her face surfaced again.
That girl. That look. Recognition. Dread... and that damn curse.
It was as if the echo of her reaction still buzzed inside his skull.
He snapped the binder shut.
This is becoming inefficient.
His feet carried him forward without thought, the riverbank appearing before he realized it.
A quiet spot. Worn grass. A tree hanging over the slow current. It was a place where he and Naruto would meet sometimes—though Naruto wasn't here now.
He sank down beneath the tree, the binder resting on his lap.
The pen in his hand trembled slightly at the tip as he pressed it to the paper—
—but no words came.
Only a blot. One, then two.
The ink spread across the fibers aimlessly, meaningless.
He stared at the smudge, hand frozen.
Focus.
But then he felt it.
To his left—low chakra signatures, curling with malevolent intent. Twisting, tightening like invisible threads pulled too taut.
Fox-faced cursed spirits.
Small. Low-level. But insistent.
Akai's brow twitched.
Their stench was faint, but ever since yesterday, his nerves were frayed. His senses were sharper, rawer, like a cut that had never quite healed. These pests pressed on him like flies crawling over an open wound.
He let the binder fall closed, the motion silent.
He stood, the movement fluid, instinctual.
He drew the kunai.
The blade flashed in the quiet air.
Then it was over.
No sound but the soft rustle of disturbed grass and the sickening, wet splatter of something being shredded by chakra-infused steel. No hesitation. No flourish.
Just extermination.
He carved through the cursed spirits with cold precision. Their twisted faces dissolved into ash before they could even scream. Their forms crumpled into nothingness, the malice in the air dissipating as quickly as it had come.
Akai moved like a machine. Efficient. Unfeeling.
When the last of the cursed spirits blinked out of existence, Akai stood still, barely winded. Only a quarter of them had been consumed—he absorbed the remainder, letting the energy seep into the dense chakra center buried deep in his core.
He returned to the tree, sat down, and placed the binder back on his lap. The blank paper stared back at him, an empty challenge.
Still no words.
He sighed—not out of frustration, but out of routine—and tilted his head back toward the pale sky above.
What a waste of a day.
Thwack.
Something hit him. Hard.
A sharp, plasticky thud against his skull.
Akai didn't flinch. He blinked once, assessing. That impact... That shape. That sound.
His fingers snapped out, catching the object midair with reflexive precision.
It was his old binder.
He turned swiftly, finding the source.
Shisui.
There he stood, perched on a branch above with a crooked grin, arms crossed, his posture as casual as ever.
Shunshin no Shisui.
He appeared as he always did—like a rumor made real.
"Yo," Shisui called out, dropping from the branch above with the grace of a falling leaf. He landed beside Akai without so much as a sound, the way only he could. In his hand was a familiar binder.
"You dropped something."
Akai didn't look at him at first. He reached for the binder, fingers brushing against the worn cover. His voice was flat.
"You kept it."
"You left it," Shisui countered, his grin stretching wider, that maddening Uchiha smugness in full force. "I figured if I returned it, I might get to see that adorable 'what the hell do you want' face again."
Akai's eyes lifted slowly, expression blank.
"I'm still deciding whether to gut you."
"Aw, c'mon. I brought snacks."
With a flick of his wrist, Shisui lobbed a paper bag onto the grass beside them.
The smell of sweet red bean mochi wafted upward—soft, warm, nostalgic. Akai said nothing. He placed both binders—old and new—side by side on his lap, fingertips lingering at the edges as though weighing their worth.
A quiet beat passed.
"...You read it."
"Skimmed," Shisui said with that same infuriating nonchalance, plopping down beside him like they were just two friends sharing the morning sun. He rested his arms on his knees, leaning back slightly. "Half of it was equations and chakra theories. The other half was... very creative drawings."
Akai still didn't turn to him. His gaze stayed on the pages.
"Which half made you return it?"
"The one where I'm described as a 'barely tolerable liability with a strong body and very, very, super nice guy with a handsome face.'"
Akai's lip twitched—an almost-smile, quickly suppressed.
I don't remember writing that.
Did I even write about him...?
But he played along, voice as dry as ever:
"Must've been a mistake. Let me revise: 'A fool with a grin like it's been glued on, who enjoys stalking people. In short: a pervert.'"
"Hey!" Shisui barked, scandalized.
Akai finally glanced his way, eyes cool but faintly amused.
"And that," Shisui said, pointing an accusing finger, "is the exact face I missed."
.
.
.
A hush settled over them, like the trees themselves were holding their breath.
Then—quietly, barely above the rustle of leaves—
"That girl..."
Akai's voice dropped, a flicker of something unplaceable shadowing his tone.
Shisui's gaze shifted, subtle but immediate. Sharp. Watching.
"What girl?"
Akai shook his head once, curt. "Never mind."
He turned back to the old binder, flipping it open again with the precision of a surgeon returning to familiar anatomy. The pages were dense, every inch filled with scrawl and scribbled corrections—arcane notes, layered theories, thoughts that spiraled inward like traps meant only for him to navigate.
A breath escaped him—not exhaustion, not annoyance.
Just the quiet weight of returning. Of holding something that still obeyed rules. That didn't stare back at him with haunted eyes.
And yet—
Her face lingered anyway.
It refused to leave him.
And now, Shisui knew it too.
The older boy leaned back, one hand bracing against the tree's bark, the other fishing into the paper bag with casual ease. He pulled out a piece of mochi and bit into it with theatrical laziness, eyes never fully leaving Akai.
Like someone watching an old relic being unearthed.
"So..." he said, voice drawn out like the start of a joke. "What are you working on next?"
Akai didn't glance up. His fingers hovered over the edge of the page like he was debating whether it deserved his attention.
"The reconstruction of cursed energy reactions post-ingestion. Observing how chakra reshapes under dual subtractive processes—specifically how degradation patterns differ from deliberate compression. I'll need more samples to validate the disruption ratios."
Shisui blinked once. Then slowly brought a hand to his eye and wiped away an invisible tear with the grace of a theater actor in mourning.
"...Right. I almost forgot how soul-crushingly boring you are."
Akai paused. Not long. Just enough for Shisui to notice.
"It's not for your entertainment."
"Obviously," Shisui muttered, popping another mochi in his mouth. "Ever think of writing something fun? Fiction, maybe? Like the kind Kakashi-senpai tries to hide under all those fake mission reports."
Akai looked at him this time. Just a flicker of acknowledgment.
"I don't know who 'Kakashi-senpai' is. And it'd be a waste of paper."
Shisui clicked his tongue. "You've got all that imagination, and you use it on cursed things and human misery. Come on. You've never wanted to write a real story?"
Akai stared.
Unblinking.
No shift in expression.
He thinks I'm talking about imagination like it's a child's toy.
"I mean with characters."
"The curses are the characters."
Shisui groaned and threw his head back dramatically. "How depressing."
Then he leaned in, eyebrows arching in mock provocation.
"If it were me? I'd write a heroine. A princess. Born cursed. Marked for death unless protected by the main character, who's obviously emotionally constipated and probably possessed by some ancient evil."
He waved a lazy hand through the air like painting with a brush. "They grow close. A slow burn. Constant danger. Tragic death flags. But he keeps saving her anyway, because he thinks she's the last part of him that's still human."
A beat. Then a sly smile.
"Ah... too cliché?"
Akai blinked once.
And without a word, lowered his eyes back to the page.
A thin smudge of ink stretched across the paper from earlier.
"Princess...?" he murmured.
Shisui stopped.
For once, he didn't immediately respond with a joke.
Because the shift in Akai's tone wasn't dismissive, nor was it sarcastic.
It was distant. Like the word had pulled a string buried too deep to be intentional.
Akai wasn't even looking at the page anymore.
His mind had slipped.
The dark eyes under his lashes seemed to glaze, like they were seeing through the trees, the town, the world itself.
That girl.
Lavender eyes.
Light blond hair.
A flash of panic. A curse spat from her lips.
And a door slammed in his face.
He could still hear it echo.
Who are you?
Why did you react like that?
Why do you feel familiar even though we've never met?
"Don't tell me you're actually thinking about it," Shisui teased lightly, though his eyes were still watching him carefully now.
Akai didn't respond.
He stared at the ink stain that had dried earlier.
Princess.
There was a faint pulse in his chest—dull, like a note struck on a broken instrument.
Unfamiliar.
Unpleasant.
Yet... not entirely unbearable.
He closed the binder slowly.
"...Do you think people dream of meeting someone like that?" Akai asked, voice low.
Shisui blinked.
"Like what?"
"A cursed princess."
The wind rustled faintly through the grass.
Shisui studied him for a moment, then leaned back with a small grin.
"...Only if they're a fool. Or a romantic."
"Then I must be a fool," Akai muttered.
Shisui raised a brow. "Wait, what?"
But Akai had already stood up, the binder under his arm, the haori fluttering behind him as he began to walk back toward the village.
Shisui squinted after him, holding his last mochi in midair like he forgot it was there.
"...Okay but whose princess are we talking about now?!"
No answer came.
Because Akai don't want to answer it.
Her image refused to leave him.
And that word—princess—kept tolling in his skull like a funeral bell lost in fog.
Over and over.
Insistent.
Dissonant.
Then came the headache. Not dull. Not pulsing. But sharp—a white-hot needle threading through the back of his eyes. Cold sweat beaded down his temples, soaking into his collar. His expression didn't change. But his breath... hitched.
Then—
Like a matchstrike in a tunnel.
Memories.
Not dreams.
Not fragments.
Memories.
A jagged bolt of clarity cracked down his spine, sudden and merciless. His knees nearly buckled as he staggered to a halt just outside the training grounds, binder clenched in his hands like a lifeline. Something inside him gave way—a splinter, a tear, a fracture.
These weren't Akai Hyūga's memories.
No.
These belonged to someone else.
Someone who once wore discount uniforms, scribbled in the margins of cheap notebooks, snorted over fan comics during lunch breaks. Someone who laughed. Who complained about class schedules. Who spent late nights doomscrolling and—
Interviewers.
He saw them now—blurry suits, sterile rooms, someone asking with clinical precision:
"What would happen if a Hyuga and an Uchiha banged?"
He had laughed.
Of course he had.
It was fiction.
Ridiculous. Disposable. Meaningless.
And yet, that moment—
That absurd, laugh-out-loud moment—had stayed with him. Latched on like a parasite. And now, with brutal inevitability, it cracked open the dam.
A title surfaced from the deep:
"Naruto: Reborn as a Time-Limited Filler."
He remembered it. Not all. But enough.
Enough to cringe. Enough to taste the artificial sugar and paper-thin wish fulfillment.
The protagonist—a girl.
She'd transmigrated. Into Naruto. Of all things.
Reborn as Shion, the priestess from that one movie no one ever watched twice.
And of course she tried to fix everything.
Butterfly effects. Emotional speeches. Phantom tears.
Protecting the boys. Slapping the villains. Stealing the spotlight.
And eventually—inevitably—
Marrying Sasuke Uchiha.
Because that's what they all did.
He stared down the dirt path, lips parting slightly.
"...What a mess," he muttered. Half a sigh. Half a laugh.
But the memories weren't stopping.
They tangled. Twisted. Merged.
Neural static reverse-splicing across identities.
That girl—Shion—she wasn't supposed to feel this real.
Not with this weight.
Not with this clarity.
And then—
"No, I must still continue as a priestess."
That line.
That line.
"I realized it when I was inside of him—"
Akai stopped walking.
His hand trembled.
"It is the evil in people's hearts that give rise to Mōryō. Who can say a second or third won't appear?"
His grip tightened. The leather of the binder creaked beneath his fingers.
Curse spirits.
That line—that movie line—was real.
It aligned.
With everything.
His Theories. Observations. The malignant birth of spirits from raw emotional residue.
Not delusion.
Not madness.
Proof.
He was right.
He was—
Right.
His pulse surged.
Not with fear.
Not confusion.
Despite the headache...
Exhilaration.
His breath quickened, shallow and uneven. His frame swayed, just slightly, like the air itself couldn't hold him steady. He turned and leaned against a tree, head tilting upward toward fractured sunlight bleeding through the leaves.
He smiled.
Not the polite mask he wore around adults.
Not the dead-eyed courtesy he reserved for his peers.
No.
This was real.
A slow, crooked smile that had no place on a child's face—the kind born at the jagged crossroads of genius and madness, where the world begins to peel back at the edges and you find yourself grinning anyway.
The same smile Akai always wore when his curiosity was satisfied, when a breakthrough split his mind wide open. The trance. The tremors. The rush of fulfillment. At this point, he might have been addicted to it—the rapture that came when everything clicked.
No panic.
No fear.
Just that quiet.
That sacred, terrible quiet where the world made sense.
The fanfiction.
The priestess.
The curse.
If she was real—if that story had bled through—then what else?
What else had slipped past the veil?
What else lay buried beneath retcons, parody, and broken canon?
His hand rose slowly to his temple. Beneath his left eye, the Byakugan pulsed faintly under the skin.
And now... he could see it.
Not just chakra.
Not just cursed energy.
But intent.
Threads.
The narrative.
The broken lattice of a world stitched together from someone else's script, thin and strained and ready to tear.
It was beautiful.
A crack in reality.
And Akai would tear it wide open.
.
.
.
To be continued.