Reaching the place, Menma leapt over the fences, pushing through the thick weeds and long grasses swaying in the wind. The area was overgrown, forgotten by most, but not by him. His steps grew slower as he ventured deeper. A stone pathway, aged and cracked by time, led through the trees like a whisper of the past. Each footstep echoed dully on the mossy surface, swallowed by the stillness.
The air grew heavier as he walked. The sunlight, already muted by cloudy skies, seemed to fade even more. The canopy above thickened, shrouding the road in a shadowed hush. The deeper he went, the more the path blurred beneath his feet, becoming little more than shapes lost in the darkness between the trees.
Snow, ever vigilant, stopped ahead of him. Her ears perked up, eyes narrowed. When he reached her side, she gracefully leapt onto his shoulder, taking her place like a silent sentinel. She didn't speak, didn't move—just sat there, watchful and protective, her presence quietly grounding him.
At last, the forest parted to reveal a solemn clearing. Before him stood four massive stone tablets, their faces etched with words—legends etched into stone. Behind them, a grand temple loomed, ancient and noble, its presence like a silent guardian of history.
Menma stepped forward, gaze drawn to the tablets. He squinted in the dark, trying to read the inscriptions, but the twilight made the words little more than shadows.
He took off his shirt and found a dry, broken branch. Wrapping the fabric tightly around it, he held it out in front of him. Closing his eyes, he let his chakra flow—slow and steady—from his left hand into the right, guiding it with precision. The branch warmed in his grip, then suddenly sparked and caught fire.
The flame flickered to life, warm and alive in the cool gloom. He gripped the makeshift torch by the unlit end, raising it to the first stone tablet to read the words carved upon it.
Here lies the remains of the First Hokage, Hashirama Senju
First Hokage of the Hidden Leaf
A man of unmatched strength and endless kindness. He dreamed of peace and built a village to unite all shinobi. May those who rest here remember his will to protect, not destroy.
Beneath those lines were more notes and symbols, but Menma scanned them quickly and moved to the second.
Here lies the memories of the Second Hokage, Tobirama Senju
Second Hokage of the Hidden Leaf
A brilliant mind and fierce protector. He shaped the village's future with duty, law, and sacrifice. May those who rest here honor the balance he fought to keep.
He paused briefly but didn't stop to read the third—he already knew the man enshrined there, had spoken to him, even fought under his shadow. No words could add to what he already knew in blood and breath.
The last tablet looked newer, less worn by time and weather. The words carved upon it seemed to echo more sharply in the night air.
Minato Namikaze
The Fourth Hokage — The Yellow Flash of the Leaf
A genius of unmatched speed and heart, he was a hero not only in battle but in sacrifice. As the Fourth Hokage, he gave his life to protect the village he loved, sealing the Nine Tails at the cost of his own future.
He was a son, a husband, a father—gone too soon, yet never forgotten. May those who rest here remember the man who chose peace over power, love over legacy, and who gave everything for the next generation.
Menma's gaze lingered. He read the words again. And again. His heart beat harder the longer he stared. Finally, he lowered his head, gripping the torch a little tighter, and stepped forward to face the temple.
He took a breath, looked to Snow for strength, and then pushed open the heavy doors.
They creaked loudly, the sound cutting through the silence like a cry. Light from the sky and his torch spilled inside, casting long shadows over the stone floor.
The temple was vast and ancient. Tall pillars reached toward a ceiling lost in darkness. Gravestones lined the walls, their names etched in solemn reverence. Menma walked forward slowly, sweeping the torchlight to see clearly. The first grave bore the name of Hashirama Senju. He gave it a brief glance but moved on without pause.
The next grave made his steps falter.
Kurama, watching quietly from within, stilled. His voice was silent, but memories surged through him—scenes of warmth and rage, peace and sorrow, all tied to the woman buried before them.
Her picture, aged but vibrant, looked out with quiet pride. Red hair cascaded down her back, and a presence of calm royalty surrounded her even in death.
Menma stepped closer, reading the name beneath the picture:
Mito Uzumaki
First Jinchūriki of the Nine Tails — The Quiet Strength of the Leaf
Born of the Uzumaki Clan, her chakra was vast, her spirit unshakable. As wife to the First Hokage, she carried not only a great burden, but the will to endure it with grace.
She sealed the Nine Tails within herself not for glory, but for peace—choosing a life of sacrifice to protect future generations. May those who rest here remember: true strength is not loud; it is steady, and it endures.
Menma's heart pounded. Mito... Uzumaki? Kurama's first Jinchūriki? She was an Uzumaki. Then—his mother... could she be...?
He didn't wait. He moved swiftly now, torch in hand, footsteps echoing louder with every step. He found the Fourth's grave—Minato Namikaze—and then saw it. Right beside him.
Another grave. One history never told him about. One forgotten by time... and by the very child she left behind.
The picture above the grave showed a young woman with fiery red hair and a smile that reached the stars. She looked strong, full of life—and heartbreakingly young.
Menma froze.
This time, he didn't look away. He let the flame flicker across her face, the face of a woman fate had stolen from him. Words beneath the name caught his eye.
Kushina Uzumaki
Red-Hot-Blooded Habanero — Mother, Wife, Shield of the Leaf
She came from a distant land with a fierce heart and a dream to be loved. With laughter like sunlight and rage like fire, she was a storm no one could tame—and a warmth no one could forget.
She bore the Nine Tails in silence, endured in the shadows, and gave her final breath not in fear—but in love. In her last moments, she cradled her son in dying arms, whispering hope into a newborn's ear as the world around her burned.
May those who rest here never forget: Kushina loved loudly, fought fiercely, and died with the gentlest heart. Her love became the strength that saved the world.
Kushina Uzumaki, wife and lifelong friend of Minato Namikaze—whom even death couldn't separate.
Lies.
Lies... lies... and more lies.
She didn't cradle him. She wasn't there when he cried alone. If she had held him—then she had forgotten him afterward. A child was too delicate to be abandoned to this cruel world, no matter the reason. How could love allow that?
Menma held his chest, his fingers digging into the fabric over his heart. The pain spread like poison. He stared at her name, at her smiling face, unable to tear his eyes away.
With shaking hands, he reached out and gently cleaned the dust from the photo with his sleeve. She looked so familiar. He had seen her once—black and white, smiling beside the Fourth Hokage in a photo that hung in Ichiraku Ramen.
"…Mother…"
The word slipped out, soft and hollow. He couldn't say anything more. Just stared.
"So, you finally figured out the truth…"
Kurama's voice echoed inside his mind, deep and quiet. "Hey brat. Do you want to know what truly happened that night?"
Menma didn't speak, but he nodded. Slowly.
Kurama exhaled. Then, he began.
He told the story of a woman who moved to a hidden place, waiting in peace. Of two children born moments apart. Of a masked man who appeared from the shadows and tore everything apart. Of a beast, once bound, unleashed in rage. Of illusions and manipulation. Of Minato—the man of gold and fire—who sealed the beast away. Of a family, together for just a moment, clinging to each other inside a sealing space where time stopped. And then—of sacrifice, and silence.
A child left behind. A sibling saved. A village ignorant.
Menma stood still, his world tilting with every word. Someone had known. Someone had taken everything. Someone had struck in the dark, stealing a future and leaving behind a boy without a mother's touch.
He stood up slowly.
He had questions—so many questions. And now, he needed answers.
He gently removed the photo of his mother from its frame and tucked it into his pocket. One last look—just one—at his parents' resting place.
"I'll come back," he promised.
With Snow at his side, he turned and began walking back toward the village. The path was still dark, but this time... he wasn't lost.
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