The sun dipped low behind the jagged ridges of the valley, casting long shadows across the war-torn land.
The scent of blood still lingered in the soil, and scorched earth bore silent witness to generations of hatred.
Yet in the heart of this desolation, two men stood—neither as enemies, nor as strangers—but as something far more complicated.
Hashirama Senju, with his broad shoulders and warm gaze, stood steady, as if the weight of countless lives rested on his back.
His armor bore scratches from battles long passed, but he smiled—a rare, almost foolish expression on a battlefield.
Before him, Madara Uchiha, ever imposing, stared across the divide with eyes sharp as tempered steel.
The Sharingan burned faintly in his gaze, though the tension in his shoulders suggested something else: weariness.
"…So, you're really proposing this," Madara muttered, voice low and skeptical.
Hashirama stepped forward. "I'm not proposing peace for just our clans. I want to stop this cycle for everyone. You've seen enough loss, Madara. I have too."
Madara's jaw tightened. "Peace, you say… after our brothers died? After Izuna…?" His voice cracked, and for a moment, the iron facade faltered.
Hashirama bowed his head. "I would give my life a hundred times over if it could bring Izuna back. But I can't. All I can do is make sure no child ever has to bury their sibling for the sake of clan pride again."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Madara turned his gaze skyward. "You speak of dreams, Hashirama. But dreams are fragile. This world crushes them."
"Then let's build something that can protect dreams," Hashirama insisted, stepping closer now. "A village—a place where our children train, live, and grow strong. Not for war, but for each other. United under one banner."
Madara looked away, the wind tugging at his cloak. "And who leads this village? A Senju, no doubt? You?"
Hashirama chuckled, raising both hands in a playful gesture. "Not if you don't want me to. We'll decide together. Fairly. I don't want power—I want peace."
A silence followed.
Madara's eyes flicked toward the distant mountain ridge, where stone and forest met. "And what of the others? Will they come?"
"They'll follow," Hashirama said, certain. "Once they see us—Senju and Uchiha—together… they'll believe peace is possible."
The Uchiha's brow furrowed. He closed his eyes for a long moment, perhaps imagining the faces of children playing in the streets, or his younger brother smiling under sunlight unmarred by war.
"…What would you call this place?" he finally asked.
Hashirama smiled, his voice gentle. "A village… hidden among the leaves."
Madara turned, his eyes searching the terrain that would one day cradle their dream. He didn't speak for a time. Then, he nodded once.
"Fine. But know this, Hashirama—peace built on fragile trust can crumble with a single betrayal. I'll build this village… but I'll watch it. And if it turns against the Uchiha, even once..."
"I wouldn't expect anything less," Hashirama said, solemn. "Then it's settled."
As they stood side by side, the last light of day bathed the valley in gold. The wind carried no whispers of war tonight—only the rustle of unseen leaves.
And beneath those leaves, a dream began to take root.
***
Somewhere across an open grassland, bordered by distant trees and framed by towering mountains on the horizon, the earth rested in peace beneath a bright yet gentle sun.
A breeze swept softly through the yellow-flowered fields, stirring the calmness with whispers of movement.
From the green-carpeted ground, a man slowly pushed himself up, his body swaying slightly as though waking from a long, uncertain slumber.
He was striking to behold.
Short, spiky silver-white hair framed his pale face, sharply contrasted by the burning intensity of his crimson eyes.
A snug black leather jacket—decorated with orange highlights—clung to his lean, athletic frame.
Black combat pants and heavy boots completed his look, giving him a silent authority, like a soldier returning from war.
Fingerless gloves encased his hands, worn and rugged, but it was the peculiar device on his right glove—mechanical, glowing faintly—that drew the eye.
It was no mere ornament. It hummed with restrained energy, hinting at something dangerous hidden beneath his composed exterior.
His sunglasses rested lazily on his forehead, completing a look that could only be described as aloof and rebellious.
The man—Herwd—stared blankly at the horizon, confusion written clearly across his face.
"I… Where am I?" he muttered, his voice rough and unsure, carried by the wind across the field.
His gaze fell upon himself—his body—and a sudden wave of disbelief overtook him.
"The hell! Why? How!?"
Herwd gasped, staring down at his gloved hands, his jacket, his boots, even the tightness of his muscles. He staggered a step back.
None of this was his.
He had been in the middle of preparing lunch just moments ago—he remembered the clatter of utensils, the hiss of boiling water—when his vision was suddenly consumed by a blinding white light. Then, nothing. Just the sun beaming down on him from a different sky.
A growing terror stirred in his chest. It felt too real.
"This definitely isn't a dream," he whispered, pinching his forearm hard enough to leave a red mark. "I can even feel pain…"
With cautious excitement, Herwd began testing the body. He threw a few punches—quick, precise, heavy.
He ran a short distance and jumped. He twisted, stretched.
Everything moved with perfect balance and strength, far beyond anything his old body was capable of.
No doubt remained. This body was different—stronger, faster, honed.
"A hundred times better," he murmured, a hint of admiration in his tone.
But admiration gave way to practicality.
"First, I need to find people. I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to."
Without a destination in mind, he picked a direction and began walking, hoping to come across signs of human civilization—anything to explain this bizarre situation. A village, a city, even a road would do.
As he moved, Herwd took time to examine the clothes he wore—familiar, somehow nostalgic.
Then it hit him.
"Isn't this what K' wears in The King of Fighters series?" he said aloud, disbelief blooming into giddy realization. "Don't tell me… I am K'? That would be… awesome!"
Herwd was more than just a fan of The King of Fighters—he was a devotee. The series had inspired him since childhood, guiding him toward martial arts and mixed combat training.
He had even tested himself in street fights, winning most, though not all. He learned early that fists, no matter how skilled, struggled against steel pipes and firearms. Life, after all, wasn't an arcade game.
Still, his passion for fighters like K' remained unshaken.
Then, as if his thoughts summoned it, he focused.
Woosh!
A bright red flame burst alive in his gloved right hand, flickering with wild energy. He stared, wide-eyed.
"So it's true…"
K'.
Not just the costume, not just the face.
He was K' now—the genetically altered protagonist from KOF '99, once a normal boy before he was kidnapped by the NESTS cartel.
Subjected to cruel experiments, K' had been infused with the Kusanagi clan's sacred flames—powers stolen from another bloodline. It cost him his memories, his identity, and a normal life.
Now Herwd, reborn in that very form, held that fire in his palm.
"Now that I think about it…" he murmured, gazing into the flame, "K' is an enhanced human, isn't he? An experiment. A living weapon."
The flame dimmed as he clenched his fist, and he exhaled slowly.
With each step, he walked further from the man he once was—a simple person with a quiet life—and closer to something unfamiliar, thrilling, and dangerous.
A new life had begun, beneath the open sky.
***
As K' grew more familiar with the movements of his new body, he leaned forward and broke into a run—his boots thudding rhythmically against the grassy earth. His dash was fluid, swift, as if his limbs remembered something his mind had yet to learn.
It wasn't long before the open fields gave way to dense woodland. Towering trees rose high into the sky, their bark dark and cracked, their canopies casting deep shadows over the forest floor. The shift in scenery didn't go unnoticed by his sharpened red eyes.
"It still feels… unreal," K' muttered, halting before a thick trunk.
He reached out with his left hand, fingers brushing over the rough bark. The texture was dry, brittle in some places—undeniably real.
That simple sensation grounded him. Whatever this world was, it wasn't an illusion.
He pushed deeper into the forest, though his pace slowed. Where the grasslands had offered freedom, the trees demanded precision.
He moved like a predator—measured, deliberate—stepping over roots and ducking under hanging vines.
Even in silence, he remained in awe of himself.
His vision was far sharper than it had ever been—almost avian in clarity. He could pick out minute details from a great distance, his gaze piercing through the shadows.
His hearing had evolved too; the forest hummed with life, and he could discern each sound. A snapping twig, a fluttering wing, a breath too quick.
But it was his strength that impressed him most.
With a casual swing of his left arm, he struck a tree—one thick enough to take a decade to grow. The bark exploded on contact.
The trunk split, cracked, and fell in two thunderous pieces. A follow-up kick shattered another pair of trees, their fragments spraying outward like splinters from a storm.
And he wasn't even trying.
Snap!
A sudden sound jolted him to stillness. It came from deep within the forest—sharp, precise. Not natural.
He stilled, lowering his head slightly. His body tensed. Ears tuned. The scent of motion rode the air.
"People…"
He muttered, narrowing his eyes.
Faint voices carried through the trees, light and hurried. And then he caught it—six distinct sets of footsteps, not on the ground, but gliding across the branches above, moving swiftly like trained operatives.
Like ninjas.
K' didn't move. Not yet. He simply listened, the fire within him flickering low and ready.
***
"The noises came from there!"
The voices were sharp, disciplined—spoken with the clipped certainty of trained soldiers.
Six figures darted through the forest canopy, moving swiftly and silently across thick branches.
Their coordination was impeccable, their presence like a storm about to descend.
They weren't ordinary fighters.
Each wore dark combat gear reinforced with armor plates, designed for both speed and protection.
Metal forehead protectors gleamed under slivers of sunlight breaking through the canopy.
Etched into each plate was a familiar insignia: a stylized leaf, curled at the center with a spiral and a short tail—the unmistakable symbol of Konohagakure, the Hidden Leaf Village.
They were shinobi. But more than that, they were elite.
In a practiced motion, the six surrounded K' from all sides, dropping from the branches like hawks diving for prey. Their formation was tight, no room left for escape.
Weapons already drawn—kunai in steady hands, shuriken at the ready—they eyed K' with a mix of caution and threat. None dared make the first move, but none lowered their guard.
One among them, slightly taller and carrying the insignia of a higher rank on his vest, stepped forward with authority.
"Who are you?" he demanded, voice cold. "And what business do you have here in Konoha's territory?"
K' stood motionless, his crimson eyes scanning each of their faces. The forest was silent around them now—birds had gone quiet, and even the wind held its breath.
The tension crackled like a dormant flame on the verge of ignition.