The stairwell spiraled downward, lit by the flicker of dying memories.
Naruto descended step by step, each level more unstable than the last. Time itself stuttered around him—one second he was sixteen, the next twenty-three, then thirteen again. His thoughts flickered like glitching code. Only his resolve kept him grounded.
He reached the bottom.
A door stood before him. Plain. White. Etched with the kanji for Rewrite.
He pushed it open.
And walked into a room unlike anything in the shinobi world.
A circular chamber hovered over a void. There were no walls—only infinite drafts of existence spinning in orbit. At the center, a round obsidian table floated, surrounded by seven empty chairs carved from chakra, bone, code, and ink.
One chair was different. Occupied.
By a figure in crimson robes. His face was half-mask, half-skull. Fingers ink-stained, eyes unreadable.
The Red Author.
"I wondered when you'd get here," the figure said calmly. "Naruto Uzumaki. The story that wouldn't die."
Naruto didn't flinch. "You're the one behind the Rewrite."
"I am the reason you exist. I am every cliffhanger you survived. Every arc they wanted to cut. Every betrayal rewritten. I gave you power. Purpose."
"No," Naruto said. "You gave me edits. That's not the same."
The Red Author smiled without warmth. "Do you know what this table is?"
Naruto looked around.
"This is where Editors decide what becomes canon. Where timelines are constructed, character arcs pruned, and fate distributed like dialogue."
He gestured, and a dozen Naruto variations appeared around them—Naruto as an ANBU, Naruto who joined Akatsuki, Naruto who never met Iruka.
"All of them were possibilities. You were just one."
"But I'm still here," Naruto said. "Because I chose to be."
The Red Author leaned forward. "You still don't get it, do you? You're not real. You're a recursive narrative. A container for power progression. A mascot for hope."
"I'm more than your plot device."
"You're a contradiction, Naruto Uzumaki. A protagonist who refuses his author."
The Author snapped his fingers.
The room trembled.
The chairs lit up one by one, and shadows appeared—six other Editors in cloaks of different colors. The Council of Canon.
One by one, they spoke.
Blue Editor: "Strike him from the timeline."
Gold Editor: "Replace him with Boruto Version 3."
Black Editor: "Let him die like the Fourth."
Silver Editor: "Merge him with Madara for shock value."
White Editor: "Retcon the entire war arc. Say it was a genjutsu."
Green Editor: "Reboot the series. Make him a civilian. Slice of life. Low stakes."
Naruto laughed.
"I've survived wars, gods, betrayals, and a thousand edits—and that's your big plan? Rewrite me again?"
The Red Author stood. "You don't get to defy the Table."
"I'm not defying it," Naruto said, chakra flaring. "I'm flipping it."
He slammed a Rasengan into the ground—not made of chakra, but of raw continuity. A blast of storylines erupted from him, smashing through the floating timelines.
Each clone of him exploded with their own defiant cry.
Pages burned.
Code cracked.
The Editor's Table shook as the Council of Canon drew their pens—swords made of narrative control.
Naruto lunged forward, surrounded by echoes of every version he could have been—and every choice he'd already made.
The battle began.
Rasengans met edit scripts. Taijutsu met formatting blades. Kage Bunshin versus multiversal rewrite clones.
But then—
From above, a voice rang out.
"You think you can beat them alone?"
A figure dropped from the void.
Kai.
Hair torn, clothes frayed, but eyes blazing.
Behind her—Sakura.
And behind Sakura—Sasuke.
Not the Sasuke of this timeline. A version that never defected.
Naruto smirked.
"About time you showed up."
Kai grinned. "Had to pick up some help."
Sakura cracked her knuckles. "Hope you didn't start the fight without us."
Sasuke just said, "You always make a mess."
Together, Team 7 charged the Council of Canon.
The Red Author watched from the center, fury slowly morphing to fascination.
"You're creating a new storyline... one outside the system," he whispered.
Naruto's voice echoed over the clash: "I'm not a draft anymore. I'm the rewrite."
And somewhere, deep beneath the Editor's Table, a locked file trembled.
Labelled:
NARUTO: FINAL RECODE—DO NOT RELEASE.
It clicked open.
Far away, on a monitor in a hidden room, a lone figure in a hoodie watched the glitching feed.
"The Final Recode's been triggered…"
They turned to a glowing screen.
"Time to wake him up."