Obito floated high above the carnage, his Sharingan glowing faintly in the overcast sky, but his voice—his mind—was silent.
He had seen a lot in his lifetime.
Wars. Betrayals.
Nations fall.
Friends die.
But nothing had prepared him for this.
What he had just witnessed was not a battle.
It was a collapse.
Not of buildings or shinobi—
But of a child's soul.
When Shinudarou had begun to laugh, a raspy, broken sound laced with madness, Obito had been ready. If Menma broke—if his mind snapped under the weight of grief—Obito was prepared to intervene. To grab the boy, pull him away, contain the raw force before it became irreversible.
But then—
Something else happened.
Snow appeared.
And in that moment, Menma didn't rage.
He didn't run.
He didn't scream at the heavens or shatter the sky.
He simply—
Collapsed.
Fell to his knees like a temple crumbling from within.
The scream that tore out of his throat was not one of power.
It was a sound of such raw grief, it tore through reality itself—
A howl so filled with loss, it made Obito flinch.
But before even a single kunai thrown toward the trembling boy could reach its mark—
Menma's chakra exploded.
Obito's eye widened.
He'd seen the Eight Gates before. Guy's wild, noble displays of speed and strength—green flickers of light and fire. But this?
This was different.
It wasn't a gate opening.
It was a dam bursting.
Like the entire ocean of Menma's chakra—his grief, his rage, his anguish—had been compressed into a single cell. And now, the walls of that cell had shattered.
His chakra didn't just surge—it screamed.
It tore through the air like lightning trying to escape water.
It scorched the ground, warped the sky.
Wind spiraled upward, dragging debris into the clouds.
It was as if nature itself was protesting what had been done to this boy.
Obito's mouth was dry. He couldn't count the number of gates Menma had opened. Three? Four? More?
But it didn't matter.
Because unlike Guy, whose chakra was trained and honed, Menma's was a beast unbound. His chakra reserves—already unnatural for a child—were rapidly approaching bijuu levels.
And then it got worse.
Menma didn't move. He simply curled into himself, screaming silently.
And then—
A new chakra emerged.
Thicker. Heavier. Ancient.
It didn't erupt.
It oozed—slow, viscous, and terrifying.
It slid along his spine, coiling with malevolence. And then—
A tail.
Formed of crimson chakra, lined with black veins that pulsed like arteries.
Then another.
And another.
But these weren't Nine-Tails-style wisps of fur and fury.
These were long, lean, predatory—like the tails of a great wolf, dragging along the ground, twitching with intent. Tails of a creature not made for balance or power—
But for the hunt.
Danzo moved instantly.
The old war hawk knew danger when he saw it. And this—this was beyond danger.
It was annihilation incarnate.
He spun, barking orders to his elite guards.
"Retreat. Now. MOVE!"
But the moment he turned—
The moment he tried to flee—
The earth answered Menma's pain.
Cling! SHUA! BANG!
Red chakra chains burst from the ground like spears.
They fell from the sky like divine punishment.
They snapped together, weaving themselves into a crimson cage.
A prison made not to protect, but to condemn.
Obito whispered under his breath.
"…He's not letting them leave."
Not this time.
Not after Snow.
Menma's scream finally ceased, leaving a deafening silence in its wake.
His breath was shallow, but steady.
Chains now poured from his back and shoulders like wings made of blood and vengeance. They dug into the earth, rose high into the sky, humming with dark chakra.
He stood.
But this time—not to survive.
He stood for vengeance.
Danzo turned to face the child—but what he saw…
It shattered him.
The boy—if he could even be called that anymore—had Shinudarou by the throat.
Lifting him like a doll. Holding him close.
Too close.
So close that Shinudarou could see it—
That thing forming on Menma's face.
His mouth—
It was no longer human.
It was stretching.
Twisting.
Jaw elongating.
Teeth sharpening.
Rows and rows of blades inside flesh.
It was a maw.
A predator's mouth—built not to speak, but to consume.
And consume it did.
CRACK.
CRUNCH.
GROUNCH.
Blood splashed in all directions.
Shinudarou's head disappeared into the nightmare's jaw.
Silence.
And then—
Screams.
Danzo panicked.
He yanked the bindings from his arm and eye, preparing to use forbidden seals. Even if it cost him lives—it was better than dying here. The boy's chakra would alert every major faction within minutes.
But Obito watched from above, heart pounding.
Those five minutes?
They were worse than war.
Menma didn't fight.
He slaughtered.
He tore ANBU limb from limb, heads bitten off and tossed like fruit.
He snapped bones to use as weapons.
He stitched bodies together with chakra chains like grotesque puppets.
He shoved hearts into the wrong chests just to hear people scream.
He painted the battlefield with horror.
Obito had seen evil.
But never like this.
He made a vow, right there and then:
"If I ever face Menma again—
And can't kill him in his calm state…
I will never awaken this side.
Not even if the world burns."
Obito had, at least, been cautious.
The cat Menma saw "die" had been a fake—a clone with scent and warmth copied perfectly. He still had the real Snow tucked safely away, just in case this moment came.
And thank the gods he did.
Because as Menma stood in the sea of corpses, crimson steam rising from his skin—
A white shape walked through the blood.
Obito's heart froze.
Snow.
She wasn't afraid.
She didn't flinch.
She walked straight through the hellish storm her boy had created.
And in the next instant—
The monster vanished.
Leaving behind a broken frame.
A child.
Kneeling.
Crying.
Breathing.
Alive.
---
Menma knelt in the center of carnage, holding Snow in his arms as if she were made of glass.
She was shaking. Wet. Mud-streaked. But alive.
And right now—she was his entire world.
His hands trembled as he cradled her close to his chest.
He was sobbing, soft but shattered.
Even though a quiet part of him now understood—it had been a fake, a cruel illusion meant to break him—it didn't make the memory of that moment any less unbearable. The pain had already etched itself into his soul.
He had believed she died.
And in that belief, something inside him had died too.
"Meow! Meow! Meow!"
Snow pawed at his cheeks, tugged at his hair, nipped at his fingers—tiny protests and endless complaints. Her tail flicked wildly, her body pressing into his as if to say: You idiot. You left me.
"Yes... I'm sorry—I'm sorry!"
His voice cracked between sobs.
"I'll never leave you again. I swear. I swear, Snow. I promise—sob—I promise..."
He pulled her tighter. Not enough to hurt—but close enough that her heartbeat pressed against his.
Her warmth.
Her scent.
Her existence.
It was the only thing keeping his fractured soul from flying apart.
Snow nestled into him, her golden eyes half-lidded with both scolding and love. Her body had warmed slightly, stealing heat from Menma's blood-boiling skin. At first, he feared he'd hurt her. His chakra still ran hot—uncontrolled from opening too many gates too fast—but she held strong.
Somehow, she had always been immune to his storms.
Unless it was true fire, true harm, Snow could weather every wave of him.
And for that, he owed her everything.
---
His mind—finally cooling—clicked back into place.
He stood slowly, scooping her carefully into his arms before lifting her onto his shoulder. She clung tightly, wrapping her tail around the back of his neck, her claws delicately dug into his shoulder—not to harm, but to anchor.
He examined himself.
His body hurt—but not like before.
If he was right, he had opened six of the Eight Gates. Maybe even partially brushed the seventh without realizing it. His chakra still flowed—now more freely than ever. The gates should've crushed his system, snapped bones and muscle alike—but somehow, his chakra network had adapted.
He didn't understand it fully, but one thing was clear:
He was changing.
Fast.
He patted his gear.
Still had the short sword, strapped behind his back.
Still had his ninja pouch—smoke bombs, shuriken, emergency supplies.
He wasn't empty-handed.
Snow, perched atop him like a small, furious queen, sniffed the wind and growled at the bodies around them.
He didn't need to look again.
He knew what he'd done.
And even if he hadn't fully been himself—he would carry that blood on his hands. No jutsu could wash it off. No chakra could undo it.
He didn't regret killing them. These people had hunted a child. Had thrown away lives like spare parts. Had tried to destroy the only innocent thing in his life.
But he had never wanted to become this.
A child standing in the ashes of hell.
----
Beyond the chains—beyond the divide between him and the rest of the world—he saw the shinobi of Konoha. Dozens. Possibly hundreds now. Faces he recognized, some who had trained him, others who had avoided him.
Their eyes told him everything.
Fear.
Disgust.
Confusion.
Only one held true care.
Kakashi.
His chakra whispered compassion. It was steady—not shaken, not afraid.
The closest thing to home Menma had ever known… was standing there, heart aching for him.
But even that wasn't enough to keep him here.
Not anymore.
He closed his eyes.
His chakra ignited again—but this time, it didn't rage.
It flowed.
Smooth. Controlled.
Like a current that had found its riverbed.
Snow ducked lower on his shoulder, sensing the intent in his bones. She wrapped herself tighter, claws gripping gently, tail coiling like a scarf.
She didn't ask questions.
She just held on.
Menma opened his eyes.
Red still glimmered—but no longer from madness.
Only resolve.
He cast one final glance across the sea of bodies… to the people who hadn't tried to understand him.
Then his eyes locked with Yoruusagi.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
His silence said it all.
Goodbye.
He turned, and in a single burst of chakra, he vanished—speeding toward the far edge of the village, the part of the wall where no one stood, where no guard would dare intercept him.
He was leaving.
Not just the battlefield.
Not just the village.
He was leaving the cage they'd all tried to keep him in.
Yoruusagi stepped forward, ready to follow—but Kakashi held her back.
"Not now," he whispered. "He needs space."
She looked up at him. Her lips trembled.
"You think he's coming back?"
Kakashi didn't answer.
Because deep down—he feared the truth.
This wasn't just a temporary retreat.
This was departure.
From a home that had only ever given him pain.
Obito, watching from above, finally allowed himself to breathe.
"He's gone…"
He vanished, slipping into the void—tracking Menma's trail like a shadow. Not to stop him.
But to be ready.
For what would come next.
---
A storm had left Konoha.
But the eye of that storm… still burned red.
And it was out there—wandering the world, rewriting its destiny.