No one moved.
Even the Red Author paused, brow furrowing as he stared across the fragmented space at the cloaked figure. The presence of this newcomer wasn't just powerful—it was old. It carried the weight of unfinished thought, the gravity of abandoned intention.
Naruto's breath caught. "Who…?"
The figure stepped forward, the ground beneath their feet not reacting like normal terrain. It shimmered, rewriting itself to support the weight of presence, not mass.
"I was the prototype," the figure said, voice layered with echoes. "The version that never saw publication. The soul of the story before the edits. Before the polish. Before the compromises."
His hand opened, revealing a page—half-burned, crumpled, ink faded—but pulsing with raw narrative energy.
"The Original Draft," Kakashi murmured. "The myth. The rumored foundation every shinobi tale was built on. The one version before canon split and fanon exploded."
The Red Author narrowed his eyes. "You should be deleted."
"I was," the Original Draft replied. "But I never disappeared. I waited, buried in unused memory. You erased the Programmer. You bent Madara. You corrupted canon. But you never found me."
Sasuke took a half-step toward the figure. "Are you on our side?"
"I'm on the side of story," the figure answered. "And stories… belong to those who live them."
The Red Author's book slammed shut with a thunderous crack. "There is only one narrator now."
He raised the book again—and this time, it opened itself, pages flaring like wings.
Dozens of silhouettes burst from it. Not remnants, not characters—constructs. Twisted, author-designed beings stitched together from stolen tropes and recycled ideas. Shinobi that had never existed. Jutsu with no origin. Weapons imbued with mechanics that didn't obey the world's logic.
Kai's eyes widened. "He's unleashing Anti-Archetypes."
Kakashi growled. "Blank templates filled with meta-code. They'll rewrite anything they touch into something generic."
Naruto cracked his knuckles. "Then we don't let them touch."
The sky opened like a server crash.
The battle began.
Naruto was first—hurling a Rasengan so dense it warped the text of the world itself. It tore through one Anti-Archetype, unmaking it mid-scream, only for two more to reform from its fragments.
Sasuke followed, slicing through constructs with Amaterasu-charged Chidori strikes, forcing them to stay dead by sealing them in Rinnegan patterns that looped false code.
Sakura roared, chakra laced with rewritten biology. She wasn't just strong—she was raw vitality, a walking contradiction to the Red Author's sterile, stripped-down creation.
Kai floated above them all, limbs wrapped in glyphs. "I'll handle the code stream!"
She extended her hands and began typing midair. Reality responded. Anti-Archetypes around her slowed, stuttering in corrupted logic.
Kakashi leapt toward the Red Author himself, only to be intercepted mid-air by a copy of Obito.
Not Obito.
Just a data-form of him—rewritten as the ultimate betrayer archetype. Soulless. Programmed.
Kakashi didn't hesitate.
"I knew the real one," he said, and tore through the mimic with a Raikiri enhanced by memories instead of lightning.
Meanwhile, the Original Draft never moved.
Instead, he held up his pen.
And wrote a single word into the air:
"Remember."
The battlefield shook.
Anti-Archetypes screamed and melted. Trees grew real again. The floating code rivers turned to chakra streams. The Restitch began to stabilize—not under control, but under consensus.
Naruto glanced at him. "What did you do?"
"I reminded the world who it's supposed to be," the Draft said calmly.
But the Red Author wouldn't be undone so easily.
He leapt forward, slamming his book into the ground.
And the world fractured.
Everyone fell—Naruto, Sasuke, Sakura, Kai, Kakashi—tumbling through lines of broken logic and twisted scenery. They landed somewhere new. Dark. Familiar.
The original Hidden Leaf Village.
But it wasn't Konoha.
It was Konoha Prime.
The earliest version. A test bed of settings. A place that predated plot and structure. Raw, untamed. Ninja fought with shuriken and honor. Clans warred in shadows. Children trained not to pass exams, but to survive.
Naruto looked around. "This… this was the first version."
Sasuke's Sharingan flared. "The environment is unstable. Everything's based on ancient drafts."
The Red Author floated above them. "Welcome to the origin. Let's end this where it all began."
Dozens of constructs emerged—versions of familiar faces but with twisted history. A young Itachi with no remorse. A Naruto who never knew friendship. A Sakura trained only in poisons. Kakashi with both eyes stolen. Even a version of Sasuke who'd never left the village—and turned into its silent tyrant.
Each one a possible outcome.
Each one an unfinished idea.
"Fight your ghosts," the Red Author commanded.
Naruto stepped forward. "I've lived my ghosts."
And then the real battle began.
Naruto faced the other version of himself—a cold, efficient, ANBU-trained weapon. He had no orange, no smile, no will of fire. Just orders.
"You're what I could've been if I gave up," Naruto said.
The clone attacked—lightning-fast, silent. But Naruto was faster.
Not because of speed.
But because of choice.
He didn't fight with fists. He fought with heart.
And as he landed the final punch, he whispered, "I chose to be me."
The clone shattered into fragments of outdated dialogue.
Sasuke faced his loyalist self—a shadow dictator of the Leaf. The irony burned.
"You stayed," Sasuke said.
"I fixed the village," the other replied.
"You controlled it."
They clashed. Susanoo vs Susanoo. Genjutsu so deep the battlefield turned to ash and memory. But Sasuke broke through. Not by overpowering.
But by letting go.
"You were just afraid to leave," he said, eyes clear.
The tyrant Sasuke vanished.
Kai rewrote the battlefield as she fought. Every line of combat code she parsed restored a truth.
Sakura faced herself—a medic who never learned to punch. She won with a single blow.
Kakashi met the worst version of himself—a man who abandoned everyone.
He didn't speak.
He just stared.
And then… walked away.
That was enough.
And through it all, the Original Draft stood still, watching.
The Red Author screamed.
"This is my domain! You don't get to decide how it ends!"
Naruto stepped forward. The sky above him wasn't red anymore—it was blue. The true Konoha sky.
"No," he said. "We all do."
The Original Draft handed Naruto the pen.
Naruto turned the page.
And wrote:
"To be continued…"
The Red Author faded, screaming into unrendered silence.
The battlefield calmed.
The Restitch closed around the core.
And then… the world stabilized.
Naruto looked up, exhausted but alive.
The Original Draft nodded. "You've reclaimed the narrative."
Then vanished.
Kai dropped to her knees. "Is it over?"
Sasuke shook his head. "No."
Naruto stared into the sky.
"There's still one chapter missing."