Inside the cold, timeless space of the seal, Menma sat cross-legged, his gaze fixed on the massive iron bars in front of him. A storm still raged in the real world, but here, everything was deathly still—except his thoughts. They spun, loud and unrelenting.
So much happened today. Too much. And now, all he could feel was confusion, tightly wound with something deeper: fear.
He had tried to calm himself, to silence the storm within, but his thoughts kept drifting—outside, to the people waiting, the weight on his shoulders. So instead, he focused on a puzzle he still hadn't solved.
Why wouldn't the fox accept his friendship?
He played back their conversations again and again. Every word is exchanged. Every glance. Every pause. The dreams. The memories. All of it. And each time, his mind returned to the same image—the thick bars that separated them.
That was the answer. The seal.
To gain Kurama's trust, Menma knew he had to let go of the cage protecting him. But he hesitated. Could he really trust the fox? What if he was wrong? What if this creature—the one he'd slowly come to see not as a beast, but as something more—betrayed him?
He had already been betrayed enough.
He didn't think he could survive it again.
Menma reached inward, toward his physical body—feverish, trembling, but still clinging to life. He could feel his heartbeat, heavy but steady. His body was still breathing, still fighting. And he needed to give it a reason to keep going.
He had seen the path ahead. This world—its systems, its leaders, its gods of money and war—was fundamentally broken. It needed to be destroyed and rebuilt from the ground up. And for that, he would need power. Real power. The kind Kurama could offer.
But the doubt whispered: What if he leaves you? What if he refuses to help? What if he turns on you the second he's free?
That fear was a poison. It paralyzed him. Made every step forward feel like death.
And yet, staying still would mean all his suffering—everything—was for nothing.
Outside, the rain softened. The rhythm became a gentle murmur against the stone and glass of the world beyond. Inside the seal, Menma breathed in and out. His chest rose and fell steadily, like a wave refusing to crash. The fever didn't matter. The pain didn't matter.
His heart beat like a war drum.
He stood.
Fear had ruled him long enough.
If he was to become the man this world needed, he had to stop hiding behind bars—both literal and emotional. Kurama was the only soul, aside from Snow, who had never lied to him. And that was enough.
He would break the seal. He would tear down the gate. And then he would disappear—become a shadow lost to the world. He'd find the ocean, train beneath the thunder, wrestle storms until his body was carved into steel.
And when he was ready, he would return—not as a boy, but as a storm of his own.
He would take the stage, speak to the hearts of the people, tear down the false kings, and cleanse the world of its poison. A new era, forged from truth, justice, and love—not just ideals, but foundations.
He already knew how the world worked.
Now, he would change it.
He stepped forward.
"Mr. Fox," he said, voice steady, "I've been thinking. What stopped us from taking that last step?"
Another step. The gate loomed. Kurama's golden eyes narrowed, watching him silently.
"We've known each other since the day I was born. We truly saw each other, what—six months ago? And since then, something's been pulling us together. We've grown closer. You know it too."
He reached the center of the gate, where the sealing tag hung just above. Kurama's heart trembled. Menma could see it in his eyes.
"This seal—it's all that's left. The final barrier. If I remove it... will you finally trust me?"
He smiled—soft, knowing—and rose. Not by his own jump, but as if the space itself lifted him, bringing him face-to-face with the tag.
Kurama's breath caught. Was this boy completely insane?
"Wait!" he roared. "Do you even understand what you're doing?! If you remove that tag, I can kill you. I could rip out your soul and flatten this village with tail beast bombs! Do you honestly think I won't?! Just because I never lied to you?! Just because I never hated you?!"
Menma looked at him and… smiled.
It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't madness. It was something deeper—calmer.
"I've told you before, Mr. Fox," he said softly. "You're not a monster. You never were. And you know it. If you were even slightly better at lying, maybe I'd believe those threats. But I don't. Not when I can feel what's in your heart."
He reached up, wrapped his fingers around the corner of the tag, and—
Grab.
A hand caught his wrist.
Menma froze.
"Menma," came a calm voice behind him. "Think carefully about what you're about to do."
The man wore deep blue clothing beneath a white cloak that shimmered faintly, like morning mist. His hand held Menma's tightly, but his eyes avoided his own.
Kurama's eyes widened. For the first time in a long time, he looked afraid.
"You...! You! Fourth! How?!"
Menma's mind reeled. "What—who—no. Why are you here?! Since when?!"
The air around them shivered with questions left unanswered.
And silence fell like thunder.
---
Shinudarou and his partner moved swiftly, eyes fixed on the faint trail left behind. From the narrow alley where the Jinchūriki had last been spotted, the chase had taken them on a winding, maddening loop.
First, through the cemetery.
Then past the towering walls of the Hatake mansion.
Finally, they stopped before the gates of the Namikaze estate.
"That idiot spy!" Julian hissed, her voice sharp with rage. "Does he have to leave a mark at every turn?! We've crossed the entire damn village—twice! What's next, a scenic tour of the sewer system? Maybe he wants us to find out what it feels like to run a marathon without using chakra!"
Her complaints escalated from mild irritation to full-blown fury. The more she cursed, the more colorful her language became, her voice bordering on hysterical.
Shinudarou cut her off with a raised hand, not out of patience, but to refocus. He, too, was grinding his teeth. Some of the marks had been placed absurdly close together—just a house apart in some places. If the spy had taken a more strategic route, they could've avoided a pointless jog through the Hokage's Temple and that ridiculous detour past the barrier surrounding the elite's private party.
Behind them, another squad trailed in frustration, their curses aimed at both the spy ahead and the unlucky duo leading the chase. Their voices echoed like angry ghosts through the streets of Konoha.
After another infuriating loop around the village, the trail finally led them to Training Ground Seven.
There, standing with arms crossed and an expression of absolute boredom, was Obito.
He had been waiting for them far too long—long enough, in fact, that he'd wandered off to investigate the Hyūga compound out of sheer tedium. It, too, had been sealed off with another protective barrier, chaos barely contained within.
What he'd witnessed there was no less than a masterstroke of hidden warfare.
The eight infiltrators had reached the outskirts of the Hyūga district undetected. As they neared the compound, the vanguard unsealed themselves and began sweeping the area for traps. Chakra pulses stretched out like ghostly fingers, but they found nothing. No resistance. No alarms. It seemed too easy.
And it was.
Assured the coast was clear, they marked the location of the children inside.
With a silent nod, the first squad leapt into action, moving with surgical precision into the compound.
Moments later, the remaining three unsealed and slipped in after them. Together, the teams crept closer, their goal within reach. Just one more room—just one door—stood between them and their targets: two Hyūga children and their mothers.
And then everything shattered.
A hexagonal barrier erupted around them, flaring with chakra the color of searing gold. The room itself twisted, folding like a trap closing on a fly.
Before they could even raise their voices or attempt a retreat, the walls, floor, and air shimmered—and Konoha struck.
Shinobi poured forth like shadows from every direction—ANBU in bone-white masks, Hyūga clan elites with pale, unblinking eyes, every hand already mid-seal, every strike calculated.
The enemy hadn't just been spotted.
They had been expected.
They had walked directly into a meticulously laid kill box.
It became clear in an instant: Konoha had baited them, letting the infiltrators get close—too close—so they could crush both the strike force and any morale their allies had left. The village had chosen psychological warfare over diplomacy.
Outnumbered nearly twenty to one, the infiltrators had only two options: die screaming in a dungeon—or fall fighting.
Their choice was swift.
And so the bloodbath began.
One side—cornered, desperate, already dead in spirit.
The other—disciplined, prepared, and ruthless.
A massacre masked as a battle.
Obito had seen enough. He turned from the scene and walked back toward Menma, his cloak fluttering behind him.
There was no joy in the slaughter. No thrill.
He had only one thing left in this world that made his heart beat—a boy with wild eyes and an impossible dream. Menma.
Not even Kakashi mattered anymore. Not really.
This world, as it was, had failed. When it finally crumbled and turned to ash, Obito would stand by his side—by their side—and help rebuild it.
That had always been the goal.
That had always been his truth.
---