There was no light. No tunnel. No warmth. Only wind.
Neji Hyuga awoke standing—though he didn't remember rising. No breath filled his lungs. No heartbeat echoed in his chest. But he was alive. Or something close to it.
Around him, the landscape shimmered with eerie beauty. The ground glittered like crushed moonlight, soft and cold beneath his feet. Overhead, clouds of chakra drifted through the sky, winding like rivers of silk, casting ghost-light through the heavens.
He looked down at his hands. Unscarred. The wound in his chest—gone.
"...Impossible."
He activated his Byakugan.
The world lit up—but not with the familiar chakra networks of the living. Instead, strands of free-floating energy shimmered around him, suspended like memory fragments. And somewhere far away, a dark pulse boiled at the edge of perception, like rot in a sea of light.
"Death had claimed him. And yet—he remained. His voice was met with silence. No echo. No reply.
The Wandering
He took a slow, uncertain step forward, the strangeness of it all anchoring deep in his chest. He walked.
Time meant nothing here, but the hours felt endless. The sand beneath his feet hissed like whispers. Trees lined the path—tall and pale, with bark like frozen nerves. Faces were etched into their knots, some half-formed, others locked in silent screams. He averted his gaze.
He passed a lake of broken mirrors, its surface trembling with alien visions: a crying child, a kunoichi cradling the dead, a man shouting at a grave. Each time he focused, the images vanished like breath on glass.
The air itself was heavy—not with heat or weight, but memory.
"This wasn't peace. It was something older. Hungrier."
A sudden shift in the air, like a held breath released, broke the stillness. Then a flicker. A memory.
A swirl of chakra burst overhead, and for a breathless moment, he saw it: Naruto's face. Hinata screaming. The warmth bleeding from his body. The end.
His breath caught. He blinked. It was gone. He walked on.
Shadows flickered. A figure appeared ahead—still, featureless. Neji called out. No answer. He approached. The figure unraveled like ash caught in a forgotten breeze. Another shape appeared. Then another. Flickers. Echoes.
The air changed. Thicker. Wrong. Chakra pressed around him like cold breath. Something was coming.
The Enemy Approaches
From beyond a ridge, five spirits emerged.
They twitched unnaturally, like memories glitching. Pale skin split down the seams, revealing ragged chakra veins, pulsing like roots through dead wood. Hollow eyes churned with black chakra.
Some wore shinobi headbands—Leaf, Mist, Sand. The symbols were cracked, their meanings long lost.
Neji's Byakugan flared. Deep in their cores pulsed a foreign presence—a sickness.
"They were shinobi," he murmured. "What happened to them?"
One spirit shrieked and lunged.
Neji spun. "Eight Trigrams: Palm Rotation!"
A dome of chakra erupted outward, scattering them. Two charged again. He countered fast: "Gentle Fist: Sixty-Four Palms!"
Strikes landed true. Clean. Measured. But they didn't fall.
They twitched. Regrew. Corruption rewove their chakra like mold in a wound.
More rose—from beneath the sand, from the trees, from the lake.
Neji pivoted, blocked, countered. His flow slowed. Surrounded. Outnumbered. Fading.
"This place... drains me," he realized. "It feeds on regret."
One tackled him. Another grabbed his arm. Teeth gnashed at his neck.
He slammed an elbow. Kicked away. But they kept coming.
Then—
A voice like dry leaves scraping glass: "He's watching..." "It spreads through you..."
A cold shiver.
Another came for his back. A flicker—too fast to trace—rushed in from behind. Too fast. He turned. Too slow.
The Inferno Arrival
"Fire Style: Bomb Blast Dance!"
The world turned crimson. A wave of fire exploded across the battlefield, incinerating the spirits in a wall of chakra flame.
Neji rolled free, coughing.
From the smoke stepped a figure—coat billowing, Sharingan gleaming.
"...Obito," Neji growled.
"I'm not your enemy."
"You were," Neji snapped. "You are. I died because of you."
Obito didn't flinch. "If I wanted you gone, you wouldn't be standing here."
Another spirit rose behind Neji.
A blur of motion. A flash of silver. The creature's head fell.
"Watch your six, kid."
Neji turned.
Asuma Sarutobi stood tall, chakra knives in hand, cigarette tucked behind his ear.
"...Sensei?"
"Reflexes are still sharp," Asuma smirked. "But you're in over your head."
The last corrupted spirit crumbled into ash, its scream lost in the glow of fading chakra.
Together, the three held the line—Neji with precision, Obito with ruthless clarity, Asuma with seasoned calm.
A Fire in the Sand
A small silver flame crackled between them. It gave no heat, but its light kept the dark at bay.
"Where are we?" Neji asked.
"The space between," Obito replied. "Not life. Not death. The Spirit Realm."
Asuma added, "It used to be quiet. Before the Ten Tails died. Now it's bleeding."
"That black chakra..."
"The Karma Scar," Obito said. "A parasite. It twists souls that die in pain."
"So why am I here?"
"Because you died with clarity," Asuma said. "That makes you different. It calls you back."
Neji watched the flame as the conversation settled into silence. The quiet around them was not empty, but full—charged with echoes and unspoken truths. Faces flickered in the smoke, vanishing before he could name them.
"...Even here," he murmured. "We're still fighting."
Obito looked to the sky. "No. Here, it begins again."