In the depths of Kirigakure, the fog was so dense it seemed to breathe.The gray-white haze rolled endlessly, cloaking the streets in a dreamlike veil—yet beneath its softness lurked a chilling eeriness, like a graveyard shrouded in mist.
On one such street, two figures walked shoulder to shoulder.
Danzo Shimura, his cane tapping softly against the stone, moved with the calm steadiness of a man who feared nothing. Beside him, the Fourth Mizukage, Yagura, strode silently, his youthful face as impassive as a mask carved from stone.
The guards flanking them on either side, however, made no attempt to hide the hatred burning in their eyes. Their glares at Yagura brimmed with venom, loathing so raw it was almost suffocating.
Danzo noticed, of course. He always noticed. His single visible eye narrowed slightly, and he spoke in a tone so light it almost sounded like idle conversation:"Do you know, Mizukage…? Often, when revenge is beyond reach, all one can do is learn to forgive."
The words hung in the mist, quiet yet cutting.
Yagura's expression did not shift—no flicker of shame, no flare of anger. His voice, when it came, was flat and edged with cold irony."Forgive? Hmph… sometimes that's just another word for surrender."
The words carried not only sarcasm, but also a faint undertone of desolation—an admission of helplessness.
The villagers' hatred for Yagura burned like fire, but Danzo paid it no mind. Their scorn was beneath him. To him, this blood-soaked village was nothing more than a convenient outpost, a nest to exploit. Should they rebel, he and Yagura would simply slaughter them into obedience. Such was Danzo's logic.
From the shadows, Tobirama Senju observed quietly, his form blending into the fog. His senses sharpened, his instincts honed—he moved silently, inching closer to hear more of their conversation.
But then—
Danzo's hand lifted, just slightly, like a man brushing away an insect.
A heartbeat later, the lid of his bandaged eye twitched open.
The air shifted.
The crimson glow of a Sharingan pierced the mist, and an invisible wave of power rolled outward.
For an instant, Tobirama felt the world tilt violently. His vision spun; the heavy stench of blood that clung to the streets dissolved in a breath.
When the dizziness subsided, everything had changed.
The bloodstained streets were gone. The damp walls were clean, freshly plastered. The fog thinned, revealing a village orderly, bright—even warm.
Tobirama frowned, stepping out of the shadows. The ground beneath his feet felt firm, real. Too real.
Villagers strolled past him, their faces open and cheerful, laughter spilling naturally from their lips. None of them seemed to notice the pale-haired man standing among them.
"I much prefer these peaceful days," one villager said warmly, hands folded behind his back. "At last, the nightmare of the Blood Mist has ended."
"Yes," another chimed in with a bright smile. "If not for Elder Gensui's courage, we'd still be suffering even now. We owe him everything."
Gensui?
Tobirama's brow furrowed. Just moments ago, he had seen Danzo and Yagura walking these very streets. Now, this…?
The warmth only grew. Shafts of golden sunlight pierced the thinning fog. The clouds overhead drifted apart, and the light spilled across the village, washing it in a radiance so dazzling it stung Tobirama's eyes.
And yet…
That very warmth unsettled him. His instincts screamed. Beneath this perfect scene lay something twisted, something unnatural. The more flawless it appeared, the more his stomach clenched in dread.
Genjutsu?
The thought flared in his mind, but doubt followed immediately after. Everything was too real. The dirt clinging to his sandals, the damp breeze brushing his cheek, the faint fragrance of wildflowers carried on the air—each detail was exact, flawless. Even for him, distinguishing truth from illusion was near impossible.
His hand brushed against the scroll at his waist. Relief flickered when he felt the markings of the Flying Thunder God array still intact. At least that remained his anchor.
Slowly, he drew the scroll open—
And the village froze.
The laughter of the villagers snapped off like a severed string. Their bodies stilled, smiles locked on their faces, frozen and unnatural.
One by one, their heads turned. Slowly. Too slowly. Their eyes met his.
What looked back at him was not joy.
Pupils darkened, glints of unnatural light shimmering within. Hollow. Empty.
A chill like ice water crawled down Tobirama's spine.
The sunlight vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. Fog poured back in, gray and suffocating. The walls around him bled crimson once more, slick stains spreading across their surfaces like veins, pulsing, alive.
The villagers began to move toward him. Their steps were jerky, twisted, their stiff limbs bending at angles no human body should. Yet their mouths stretched wide, smiles carved unnaturally deep across their pale faces.
The eerie sound of their shuffling feet echoed in the silence.
Tobirama's eyes narrowed. His heartbeat remained steady, but cold calculation surged through him.
This was no ordinary genjutsu.
This was a prison of illusions so advanced, so meticulously crafted, that even his mind struggled to cut through it. Reality and hallucination intertwined seamlessly—an elaborate snare designed not just to deceive, but to consume.
And Tobirama Senju, for all his mastery, was caught inside.
The figures of the villagers shuffled closer, step by step. Their stiff smiles warped grotesquely, stretching wider, sharper, as though carved into their pale faces by some cruel hand. From their throats spilled a sound not quite laughter, not quite speech—hoarse, broken, and hollow.
"You see it too, don't you?" the voices overlapped, echoing as though from the depths of a cavernous abyss."This is the most beautiful Hidden Mist Village…"
The tone was ethereal, distant, yet suffocatingly close. Each syllable carried a bone-chilling cold that seemed to sink into the marrow, gnawing at the edges of Tobirama's soul.
His eyes narrowed. His instincts screamed louder than ever.
No more hesitation.
In one smooth motion, Tobirama's hands blurred through seals. Chakra flared, threads of his formula igniting within the scroll. Space itself convulsed—twisting, warping—as though a veil was being ripped apart.
A jagged crack split open before him, black as midnight. Without a second thought, Tobirama let the vortex seize him.
The world snapped.
A heavy scent of iron slammed into his nose.
When his vision cleared, Tobirama was standing in the Mizukage's office once more. The old furnishings were exactly as he remembered them. The fog outside still pressed against the windows, and that suffocating stench of blood returned in full, sharp enough to sting his senses.
It was as though he had slipped free from the dream and plunged back into reality.
Slowly, his gaze lowered to the street below.
The same scene unfolded, unchanged, as if time itself had frozen into an endless loop. Danzo and Yagura walked side by side once more, their expressions unreadable, their clothes faintly stained with blood.
And then, as if mocking him, the same words returned—unchanged, rehearsed, hollow:
"Do you know…"
"Many times, when you can't get revenge, you can only choose to forgive."
The repetition pressed like a blade into Tobirama's mind.
This time, however, he did not stir from the shadows, nor attempt to approach. He didn't need to. Danzo's voice carried clearly to his ears, as though the man were standing directly at his shoulder.
Tobirama's sharp mind pieced it together at last.
From the very moment I stepped into the village… I was already ensnared.
The corner of his mouth curled into the faintest, bitterest smirk."What a wicked disciple…"
The genjutsu wasn't just layered. It was recursive. Each illusion folded into the next, worlds built upon worlds, blending seamlessly until truth and falsehood were indistinguishable.
The terrifying part wasn't its vividness. It was its structure. Each time he resisted, each time he thought he escaped, he only sank deeper—trapped in yet another perfect shell.
But no technique, no matter how intricate, was flawless.
There would be a seam. A fracture. A single thread out of place.
Tobirama exhaled slowly, forcing his heartbeat steady. His fingers moved again, precise and unhurried, weaving seals not for brute force but for sensitivity.
As chakra threaded through his body, his senses sharpened. Every grain of mist, every drip of blood, every vibration in the air became data. He was no longer reacting. He was dissecting.
The key wasn't to reject the illusion outright.The key was to find the anomaly hidden in its perfection.