The two weeks of medical leave passed in a blur of physical recovery and mental torment for Sakumo Hatake. His leg healed, the wounds on his back scarred over, but the wounds to his spirit festered. The formal reprimand had been delivered with cold efficiency. The investigation was a sham, a public performance designed to placate unseen forces. But the true punishment came not from the Hokage's office, but from the streets of Konoha.
Whispers.
They followed him like shadows, clinging to him in the marketplace, echoing in the training grounds, even seeping through the thin walls of his small home.
"The White Fang… they say he chose his friends over the village."
"Cost us the war, he did. The Kazekage's still out there, all because Hatake lost his nerve."
"My cousin was on the western front. They needed those supplies. Now… more will die."
He saw it in their eyes: the shopkeepers who once greeted him with smiles now offered curt nods; the children who once looked at him with awe now averted their gazes; even fellow shinobi, men and women he'd fought alongside, kept a subtle, uncomfortable distance.
His comrades from the mission – Shinnosuke, Hyou, Taji, and Kagura – had tried to defend his actions to their peers. They spoke of his bravery, his sacrifice for them. But their words were drowned out by the louder, more insidious chorus of condemnation. Konoha, in its fear and frustration with a seemingly endless war, needed a scapegoat. And Sakumo Hatake, the fallen hero, was the perfect candidate.
He spent his days in the solitude of his home, the silence broken only by the occasional concerned inquiry from his young son, Kakashi. Kakashi, barely old enough to understand the complexities of war and village politics, only knew that his father, his hero, was sad. And that the village, which once revered him, now seemed to scorn him.
Sakumo would force a smile for Kakashi, ruffle his silver hair, and speak of missions and duty in vague, hollow terms. But when Kakashi was asleep, Sakumo would sit by the window, staring out at the moonlit village, "White Light" resting on his lap. The blade, once a symbol of his strength and Konoha's pride, now felt like a burden, a reminder of his perceived failure.
He replayed the mission in his mind, over and over. The Kazekage's taunt. The closing walls of the Grand Mausoleum. The faces of his team. Had he made the wrong choice? The shinobi code was clear: the mission comes first. Always. But his heart, the Will of Fire that burned within him, had screamed otherwise. Comrades were family. You protect your family.
Was that weakness? he wondered, tracing the familiar lines of his tanto's hilt. Or was it the very thing Konoha was supposed to stand for?
The whispers grew louder, more pointed. He heard talk of denied promotions for his former teammates, of their mission pay being docked. He knew, with a sickening certainty, that his "failure" was a stain that was spreading, tarnishing not just him, but those he had tried to protect.
One evening, a chilling realization began to dawn. The precision of the rumors. The way they specifically targeted his decision to save his team, rather than the myriad other factors that could lead to a mission's compromise. The way Danzo Shimura had been conspicuously absent from the debriefing, yet his influence felt like a phantom limb in the council's decision.
He remembered the disarmed explosives at the factory. The Root agents appearing as if from nowhere. Matsuri's final, desperate act. It was too orchestrated. Too… convenient.
They wanted me to fail, he thought, a cold dread seeping into his bones. Or, if I succeeded in killing the Kazekage, they had other plans for me. The faces of Shinnosuke's team, their initial tension, their shared, unspoken burden – it all clicked into place. They had been given orders concerning him. Orders that likely involved his death.
The village hadn't just turned on him. Parts of it had engineered his downfall. The Hokage, his old friend Hiruzen, had either been complicit or too weak to stop it. Danzo… Danzo had likely orchestrated the entire symphony of betrayal.
This wasn't just about a failed mission. This was about power. About control. About eliminating a potential rival, a popular hero who could challenge the established order. His loyalty, his dedication to Konoha and its ideals, had been twisted, used against him. The Will of Fire he'd cherished, the belief in protecting comrades, had been deemed a flaw, a weakness to be exploited and then condemned.
The realization was a heavier blow than any the Kazekage could have landed. His village, the entity he had dedicated his life to, had betrayed him. The very principles he fought for were being subverted by those in power.
He looked at "White Light." His father's legacy. His own. What did it mean now? To be a hero in a village that devoured its own? To uphold a code that was selectively enforced?
The pain in his heart was a gaping wound, far deeper than any physical injury. The whispers had done their work. Konoha had broken him.
He stood, walking to the small shrine where a picture of his late wife rested. He touched it gently. Then, he looked towards Kakashi's room. His son deserved better than a disgraced father, a pariah.
With a deep, shuddering sigh, Sakumo Hatake made his final decision. If this was what Konoha had become, if this was the "greater good" the higher-ups pursued, then he could no longer be a part of it. His suicide would be a final, silent protest against a system that had rotted from within. But more than that, it would be an escape. An escape from the whispers, from the shame, from a village that had forsaken its own ideals.
He picked up "White Light." The blade felt cold, alien in his hand.
Next Day
The house was too quiet.
That was the first thing Kakashi noticed when he woke. Usually, even if Father was asleep, there was a comforting presence, the faint scent of tea or the soft rustle of him moving about. But this morning, an oppressive stillness filled their small home, a silence so profound it felt heavy, like a blanket smothering all sound.
He was only five, but he knew quiet. He knew the quiet of Father training, the quiet of Father reading, and the strained, unhappy quiet that had filled their house these past few weeks. This was different. This was an empty quiet.
He slipped out of his futon, his small feet padding softly on the wooden floor. The early morning light, grey and weak, filtered through the shoji screens. "Father?" he called out, his voice a small, hesitant thing in the suffocating silence.
No answer.
A knot of unease tightened in his chest. He padded towards his father's room, the one where he'd spent so many nights listening to Father's soft breathing after nightmares. The screen was slightly ajar.
He peeked inside.
Father was there, sitting. But not like he usually sat. He was slumped, leaning against the wall, his head bowed. And there was… red. A lot of red. It stained the tatami mat beneath him, a dark, spreading pool. It was on Father's clothes, on his hands. And "White Light," his father's beautiful sword, lay beside him, its usually gleaming blade now sullied with the same terrible red.
Kakashi's breath hitched. He didn't understand, not fully. But a primal fear, cold and sharp, pierced through him.
"Father?" he whispered, his voice trembling. He took a step into the room, then another. The metallic, coppery smell hit him then, thick and cloying. He reached out a small hand, intending to shake his father awake. Maybe he was just… very tired.
His fingers brushed against his father's arm. It was cold. So terribly cold.
And then he saw the wound, the deep, gruesome gash across his father's stomach, the source of all that red.
The world tilted. The silence in the room became a roar in Kakashi's ears. This wasn't sleep. This was… something else. Something final. The whispers he'd heard in the village, the sad look in Father's eyes, the way people turned away – it all crashed down on him with the force of a physical blow.
A sob tore from his small chest, a raw, ragged sound of pure agony. Then another, and another. Tears streamed down his face, hot and blurring his vision. He sank to his knees beside his father, his small hands reaching out, touching the cold, still form. "Father… Father, wake up! Please!"
He cried until his throat was raw, until his small body shook with the force of his grief. He didn't understand why. Why would Father do this? Why would he leave him? He was supposed to be a hero. Heroes didn't just… stop.
The tears eventually slowed, not because the pain lessened, but because something inside him, some vital spark, began to dim. The sobs subsided into shuddering breaths. He stared at his father's lifeless face, at the terrible red that stained everything. The vibrant, strong man he knew was gone, replaced by this cold, still thing.
A strange emptiness began to fill him. The pain was still there, a vast, aching void, but it was as if a switch had been flipped. His emotions, so raw and overwhelming moments before, receded, replaced by a chilling numbness. He stopped crying. He just… stared. Unblinking. His small face, usually so expressive, became a blank mask. He sat there, on the bloodstained floor, next to his father's body, unmoving, hollow.
Hours might have passed. The sun climbed higher, its weak rays now illuminating the horrific scene with stark clarity.
A knock came at the door, followed by a familiar voice. "Sakumo? Are you in? It's Teuchi, I brought some ramen from Ichiraku, thought you could use it."
The door slid open, and Teuchi, a kind-faced ramen chef and one of Sakumo's few remaining friends who dared to visit, stepped inside. His cheerful greeting died on his lips. He saw the scene in Sakumo's room – the blood, the sword, the still form. And then he saw Kakashi.
The boy was sitting ramrod straight, his silver hair disheveled, his face pale and tear-streaked, but his eyes… his eyes were wide, vacant, staring fixedly at his father's corpse. He didn't react to Teuchi's presence, didn't even seem to register him.
"Kakashi?" Teuchi whispered, his heart clenching. He rushed forward, kneeling beside the boy. "Kakashi, what happened? Speak to me!" He gently shook Kakashi's small shoulders, trying to break through the horrifying stupor.
But Kakashi remained unresponsive, his gaze locked on his father. It was as if the boy himself had become a ghost.
Panic seized Teuchi. He backed away, his face ashen. He had to get help. He turned and fled the house, his mind reeling, shouting for the Uchiha Police Force.
The investigation was swift, perfunctory. The Uchiha officers surveyed the scene, their expressions grim but professional. The evidence was clear: a self-inflicted wound, the tanto still clutched loosely in Sakumo's hand before Teuchi had moved it in his initial shock. The ruling was suicide.
Hokage office
Hiruzen Sarutobi received the news in his office. He dropped his pipe, the ceramic shattering on the wooden floor. A profound sadness settled over him, a grief mixed with a discomforting pang of guilt. He hadn't wanted this. Not this. He had believed Sakumo was stronger, that he would weather the storm of public opinion, that the disgrace would eventually fade. He had underestimated the depth of Sakumo's honor, and the crushing weight of the village's condemnation. Was this my fault? he wondered, the question a bitter taste in his mouth. But outrage? No. Outrage implied a sense of injustice he couldn't fully afford to feel. Sakumo had made his choice. And Konoha, as always, would endure. The report also mentioned young Kakashi, found in a catatonic state. Hiruzen made a mental note to ensure the boy received care, though what care could mend such a wound, he did not know.
Rootbase
Danzo Shimura, upon hearing the news, allowed himself a rare, almost imperceptible smile in the privacy of his Root headquarters. It had all unfolded even better than he'd planned. The Sannin's mission against Hanzo had been a costly "stalemate," yes, but it had forced Hanzo to negotiate, which was the true objective. A few teams of civilian-born Jonin were a small price to pay for bringing the Salamander to the table; they were, in Danzo's eyes, easily replaced. The main ninja clans, spurred by their own pride and Konoha's might, had successfully pushed back Iwagakure. The Rock shinobi, Danzo scoffed, had grown arrogant after their victory against Uzushiogakure – a victory achieved with overwhelming numbers and outside help, not true strategic brilliance.
And now, Sakumo Hatake, the White Fang, was dead by his own hand. His name was tarnished. The Third Kazekage was also dead, eliminated by Danzo's own Root operatives, a fact he would keep close to his chest, a trump card to be played when the time was right. Imagine the prestige, the power, when Konoha learned that Root, under his command, had slain a Kage while the Hokage's chosen hero had "failed." His own path to the Hokage seat looked clearer than ever. Toru… that agent had proven exceptionally useful.
The funeral for Sakumo Hatake was a somber, sparsely attended affair. Few shinobi of rank dared to show their faces, fearing association with the disgraced hero. The whispers had done their work too well.
A small, silver-haired boy stood before the simple grave marker, his face pale, his single visible eye red-rimmed but dry. Kakashi Hatake, brought there by a reluctant ANBU guard assigned by the Hokage, clutched a worn, child-sized tanto. He didn't understand all the words being spoken, the hushed condemnations that had driven his father to this. He only knew his father was gone. And the village that his father had loved, had fought for, seemed to hate him in the end. A cold seed of resentment, of disillusionment, began to take root in the boy's young heart. He would follow the rules. He would complete the mission. He would never make the same "mistakes" his father had.
News of Sakumo's death, and the preceding disgrace, spread to the other Great Nations.
In Iwagakure
Onoki, the Third Tsuchikage, grunted. "One less Konoha dog to worry about. They devour their own. Good." It was a small comfort, given the pressure Iwa was under.
In Kumogakure
the Third Raikage, A, merely noted it as a sign of Konoha's internal instability, a potential weakness to be exploited later.
In Kirigakure, the atmosphere was too consumed by its own bloody purges and civil unrest for Sakumo's fate to register as more than a passing footnote.
in Sunagakure
the reaction was different. Chiyo, the renowned puppet master and elder of Suna, heard the news of Sakumo's suicide. A grim satisfaction settled upon her features. The White Fang, the man who had killed her son and daughter-in-law, was dead. It was justice, of a sort. Yet, a part of her felt cheated. She had yearned to be the one to deliver the final blow, to avenge her family with her own hands. Sakumo's self-inflicted end felt… incomplete. Her hatred for Konoha, and for the name Hatake, did not diminish. It merely simmered, waiting for another chance, another generation. The Kazekage was still missing, presumed dead by many in Suna after his long absence following the Tanigakure incident, but without a body, uncertainty lingered. Chiyo, however, suspected Konoha's hand in that too.
The death of Sakumo Hatake closed a chapter in Konoha's history, but its echoes would resonate for years to come, shaping the lives of those left behind, and further cementing the shadowy ascent of Danzo Shimura.
The news of Sakumo Hatake's suicide ripped through Konoha like a shockwave. Disbelief warred with a grim, almost vindictive satisfaction among some. The hero had fallen, his end a quiet, desperate act in the solitude of his own home.