After dashing his way through the forests and alleyways of Konoha, Menma finally reached the outer wall. The tall, wooden fence that separated the place he was born in… from the world he was about to storm.
He stood on the edge of it, a shadow framed against the flickering lanterns of the sleeping village behind him. He turned back, staring down at the familiar skyline.
So many bright windows.
So many dark alleys.
It was weird how both had shaped him.
He knew the truth now—once he left, he wouldn't be coming back.
Not willingly.
Not for a long time.
For a moment, he hesitated.
A flicker of memories flashed in his mind, painting the back of his eyelids:
Yoruusagi's gentle smile.
Kakashi's heavy, tired sighs.
A's quiet sulking in the corner.
Guy's burning eyebrows screaming about youth.
And Phantom and Raven, huddled with him in the library, whispering about sealing techniques and snacks they weren't supposed to steal.
Sweet.
Bitter.
But all undeniably… his.
He wondered—was it really right to throw all of that away? To become someone with no place, no home, and no backup?
Meow.
Snow, his ride-or-die furball, purred on his shoulder and licked his cheek like a little emotional life-jacket.
Menma blinked.
Looked at her.
And smiled.
Yeah. That's right. He wasn't alone.
He never was.
Mr. Fox was still in his seal, and Snow was still on his shoulder—judging him, yes—but loving him in her claw-happy, bite-the-ear-if-you-ignore-me way.
Muah!
Meow?!
"Oh? You didn't hate that one?" Menma raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm sorry, but we gotta go, fluffball. So hang on, alright?"
Meow.
(A serious meow. Like a cat-knight accepting a quest.)
Menma gave the village one last look. His gaze softened. He lowered his head slightly and whispered, just loud enough for the wind to carry:
"Let the adventure begin. Let's find ourselves a real home."
And then—he jumped.
The earth rushed up to meet him, but chakra caught his fall.
With every step, his veins lit up, burning chakra flowing like molten fire through his body. His right eye flared, a blazing red lantern in the dark.
He ran like a comet with no destination—just a desire to escape.
Finally, the trees opened up, and he reached a wide river, reflecting the moon like it owed it money.
Realizing he might be tracked, he chose the shallow waters, letting the river erase his prints and his scent. For once, thank you, muddy strategy!
But before he could get far—
Gurgle. Clench. Pain.
His stomach twisted, the kind of twist you don't get from bad food, but from bad memories. Menma fell to his knees, water splashing against him.
Then—
Bleeeurgh!
Cough!
Choke!
More bleurgh!
He puked like his soul was trying to escape through his mouth.
Water turned red.
Bits of… hair?
Bone?
Some piercings floated by like ghosts on vacation.
He gagged again, clutching his chest.
The realization hit him—some of the people he killed… he had consumed.
Swallowed.
Bitten.
Torn.
His body convulsed again.
Even Snow turned away, ears flat, tail low.
Eventually, after what felt like hours of shivering misery, he dragged himself up, soaked and pale. He crossed to the other bank using stones and driftwood—anything to get away from what he'd just seen.
Behind his eyes, he could still see the battlefield.
Hear the crunch.
Smell the blood.
Inside the Seal
Inside Menma's inner world, Kurama and Minato finally dared to look away from the chakra maelstrom outside.
Minato sat on the ground, eyes hollow.
He had seen things. Things no parent should ever see.
His son had eaten people.
And not in a metaphorical, "he crushed the competition" kind of way.
Kurama, lounging against the bars with one eyebrow raised, spoke with the kind of sass only a fox who's lived for centuries can pull off.
"Now do you see what kind of monster you and that red-headed meatball left behind?"
Minato didn't answer.
Kurama wasn't done.
"Now do you understand why I babysat this brat for two years like my tail depended on it? Do you know how many times I've handed over chakra like a vending machine just to keep him from going nuclear?"
Minato gave a sad smile.
He couldn't argue.
He had seen it.
The chakra Menma released had burned through Kurama's own chakra like it was paper in a storm.
Kurama's tone grew heavier.
"Listen, yellow flash. I'm not here to fight. I'm not here to nag. I'm here to make a deal."
"I need you to hide behind me. Teach the kid what you can. Help me keep him steady. Because whether you like it or not… your boy can destroy the world."
Minato nodded slowly.
He could see it too.
And perhaps the most terrifying part?
Menma didn't want to.
He just wanted to be loved.
Minato raised his head and whispered.
"Kushina… I don't know how to teach our child."
But somehow, he knew—
He and the fox would have to learn.
Together.
Because if they didn't… no one would survive what came next.
---
Menma didn't stop.
Not once.
Not for the cold soaking his skin, or the wind slicing his cheeks. Not for the exhaustion building in his joints or the river numbing his bones.
He ran like a whisper down the water's edge—a shadow in motion, too fast to trace, too quiet to catch.
Despite being soaked to the neck and chilled to his marrow, his body felt oddly… light.
His chakra hummed.
His muscles burned hot, evaporating water into steam that trailed behind him like a ghost shedding its past.
Snow, nestled in his arms, slept peacefully. Her body, warmed by his heat, didn't shiver.
Menma, however, wasn't tired in the body.
His mind was what ached.
The images.
The memories.
The things he did and didn't want to believe he did.
They chased him harder than any shinobi could.
He longed to sleep, to let his head fall back and his thoughts go quiet—but he couldn't.
Not yet.
He wasn't safe.
And worse… he wasn't ready to face himself.
Then—
Sunlight.
A single blade of light cut through the mist rising off the river.
He slowed his pace.
He closed his eyes.
And for just a moment…
He let the sun bathe him.
Like a broken sword left to soak in morning dew.
The warmth didn't fix anything, but it soothed.
Just enough.
After a few long breaths, he ran again.
Villages passed.
Bridges passed.
Fishing camps passed.
Boats.
He dodged all of them.
Silently slipping behind rocks, trees, low-hanging brush.
He didn't exist.
He was already a ghost.
By the time the exhaustion clawed back into his legs, the river had widened.
The banks stretched apart like a mouth giving way to a howl.
The sea.
He reached the coast just as the sky grumbled with distant thunder.
A storm was brewing.
Mist and salt stung his skin.
Menma looked out at the water. It glittered in parts—but far ahead, a thick fog was curling in. Trouble was coming.
And with it, a decision.
He needed a new method.
Running was no longer smart.
He was still too traceable.
Too... fresh.
He needed to vanish.
Then he saw it—
A dark silhouette on the water, cutting toward the port like a knife through silk.
A ship.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Time to stow away.
He quickly drafted a plan in his head, the kind of crazy ninja logic that only worked if the world didn't kill you for trying:
He would Sneak aboard a ship. Then he would Ride until the first port or when another ship was passing nearby. Then he would Switch ships with any order, or rule, pure randomness, numbered of times. Repeating until no one, not even fate, could follow him or his tracks. Perfect plan for dozens of seconds.
He scooped Snow up and placed her gently on his shoulder.
"Hold on tight. We're about to disappear."
And then—
Boom.
A streak of red chakra carved across the shoreline, kicking up sand, salt, and shattered footprints that would vanish before nightfall.
An hour later, Menma arrived at the port city, crouched on a high rooftop, watching silently.
Below him, dozens of ships bobbed in their docks, ropes snapping, guards patrolling, sails flapping in the salty wind.
He scanned the scene.
There.
A large vessel labeled Bartholomew.
The name rang a bell...
Wasn't that some famous pirate in an old tale?
Or maybe a cooking show?
Whatever. Cool name. Cool ship.
Unfortunately, the ship was too well-guarded.
Menma assessed quickly.
Physical sneak-in? Impossible.
Too many eyes.
His irritation built, but then—
Raft.
A busted, half-sunk, moldy old ferry raft, drifting lazily near the docks.
It was ugly.
It was pitiful.
It was perfect.
He slid down silently, crept through the fog like a rumor, and untied the raft.
Then, using the mist and the slowness of the ship's preparations, he paddled the raft toward the rear hull, avoiding detection.
Once there, he tied the raft tight to a hidden protrusion and, with a graceful leap, used his chakra to guide a silent swing of a rope loop, hooking onto one of the ship's decorative pillars.
No one saw.
No one heard.
By the time the ship began to pull away from port, Menma was already part of its shadow—tethered behind it on his little broken raft, Snow curled against his chest, the ocean unfolding around them like a curtain.
Above them, the storm rolled in.
Below them, a legend was being born.
And for the first time in his life, Menma was untraceable.
Not a boy.
Not a weapon.
Not a number.
Just a ghost with a fox in his seal, a kitten on his heart, and a future no one could see coming.
-------
Obito was losing his mind.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Piece by piece.
The great master of shadows, the twisted puppeteer behind half the chaos in the shinobi world, was now running around soaked in ocean water, chasing a two-year-old.
"TWO! YEARS! OLD!"
He shouted that into the wind at one point.
The wind didn't answer. It was too busy laughing at him.
It had all started so smoothly.
He left Konoha after the boy, confident.
Cocky even.
He had a plan—
Track him.
Contact him.
Confuse him.
Twist him.
Mold him into a tool for his own ends.
Just like every other lost soul he'd manipulated.
Easy, right?
Wrong.
So very wrong.
Menma hadn't just run away.
He blazed away like a miniature hurricane in sandals.
A two-year-old hurricane with a chakra battery strapped to his soul and a cat on his shoulder.
Obito had been tracking high-level shinobi for years, but this was something else entirely.
The kid moved at jonin-level speed for literal hours.
Even Obito had trouble keeping up.
And the only reason he didn't lose him entirely was thanks to a clever trick he'd deployed months earlier:
White Zetsu spores.
He'd marked the boy with a few of them as a backup plan, hoping to always know his location in case things went sideways.
Well.
The spores... failed.
Again. And again.
Why?
Because apparently Menma's body treated chakra like toxic waste. The spores would disappear after a few hours if Menma was calm—or after just one hour if he was moving. Which, spoiler: he always was.
Plan B: Mark the cat.
Yes, the cat. Snow.
Maybe she would stick around, easier to track.
Nope.
Snow would literally EAT the spores.
Find them.
Sniff them.
Chomp.
Gone.
And if Obito didn't know better, he'd say she looked smug about it.
So here he was.
Soaked.
Storm-battered.
Furious.
Following fragmentary trails across soaked dirt and slippery stone.
By the time he got to the port city, Menma's tracks were gone.
Completely.
Washed away by the tide and the storm.
He was chasing a ghost.
Obito stood in the rain, panting, glaring at the four ships that had departed.
One of them had to be it.
Had to be.
He scanned them one by one, moving through the mist like a phantom.
Deck to deck.
Cargo hold to upper rigging.
He even considered checking the captain's tea stash just to be sure.
Nothing.
He reached the last ship.
Opened every locked hatch.
Peered under every loose plank.
Still nothing.
Menma had disappeared.
The boy had vanished into the ocean with nothing but a cat, a sword, and the world's worst bedtime schedule.
Obito stood silently in the rain for a long moment.
And then, like a proper villain on the edge of a nervous breakdown, he whispered to himself:
"I just got outmaneuvered... by a toddler."
Thunder rolled overhead.
His dignity shriveled like wet laundry.
He groaned and covered his masked face.
If Madara heard about this, he'd never live it down...