The dream returned, but it was no dream.
Kaito opened his eyes within the red mist once more, that endless, suffocating sea of haze that had haunted him in every moment of unconsciousness since the crimson chain first awakened. Only this time… it was thinner.
He could breathe. He could see.
The fog no longer smothered him like a blanket of molten air. Instead, it shifted, rippling, opening in jagged rents as though something within it resisted being concealed.
And in one of those rents, he saw them.
The chains.
Crimson, grotesque, yet beautiful. They swayed lazily as though tasting freedom, glistening with something that was not entirely blood and not entirely light. They pulsed faintly in rhythm with his heart, each beat echoing like a war drum across the mist.
Kaito's stomach tightened. They were not passive tools. They looked at him. Not with eyes, but with hunger. He felt it deep within—their existence mirrored his own will to destroy, but magnified, twisted, sharpened into something lethal beyond comprehension.
He stepped closer, breath unsteady.
But then the fog peeled again, tearing back in another jagged wound—and there it was.
An eye.
Not merely drawn, but alive. An eye that was his, and not his, staring back at him from within the void. Its iris spun with the spiral of his clan, golden light burning like molten suns. It pulsed with knowledge, with unbearable truth. The Eye of Reality.
Kaito staggered. To look at it was to drown in infinity. To see it was to be seen in return, every lie stripped, every weakness exposed. His chest ached, his mind recoiled.
And then, without warning, the ground fell away.
The mist collapsed into emptiness. He plunged downward as though from the peak of the highest mountain, the wind of nothingness screaming in his ears, the eye and the chains vanishing above him. The fall had no end. No bottom. Only the sensation of descent into some place that could not be named.
He opened his mouth to scream—
—And awoke.
Agony was the first sensation. A skull-splitting headache hammered him from within, his temples throbbing, his eyes burning with lingering fire. His body screamed with pain in every limb, torn muscles and deep bruises igniting in tandem.
A sound pulled him from the haze.
"Kaito…"
Her voice.
Soka.
He turned his head, slow as stone grinding, and saw her sitting by the bedside, her hand resting on the sheets beside him. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes ringed with exhaustion, her body still bandaged and trembling from her own wounds. But her expression—her expression was soft, alive, her lips trembling into the faintest smile.
"You're awake," she whispered. The relief in her voice was so heavy it nearly broke him. "You… you're alive."
Kaito tried to speak, but his throat cracked, his voice rough. "How… long?"
"Two days," she answered. "You were unconscious. Feverish. I thought…" She swallowed, shaking her head as if to chase the thought away. "But you pulled through. Idiot. You always do."
His lips twitched into something between a grimace and a smile. He wanted to thank her, to apologize, but his body betrayed him. He sank back into the pillow, breath ragged.
For a moment, silence hung between them. Just the sound of his heartbeat, her shallow breaths, the distant creak of the inn's wood.
Then Soka reached out and pressed her palm gently against his hand. Her skin was warm, trembling, but steady. "Rest. You've done enough. More than anyone should."
Kaito closed his eyes, the crimson chain and golden eye still burning at the back of his mind. He wondered if they would ever leave him. He doubted it.
Far away, in the stone halls of Konoha, chaos was brewing.
The doors to the hospital were thrown open, and Orochimaru stumbled in, cloaked in shadows yet stained with reality's harsh truth: blood. His pale skin was torn in slashes, his arm swathed in fresh bandages, the smell of venom and rot clinging to him. Nurses gasped; ANBU rushed forward. The serpent of Konoha, one of their rising stars, had returned broken, his robe shredded, his body trembling with wounds too deep to dismiss.
"Get the medics!" a voice barked. "Now!"
He was taken on a stretcher, though he hissed at the indignity, his long tongue tasting the air, his golden eyes narrowed with murderous hunger. But his strength had limits, and the children had pushed him to them.
At once, the report reached the Hokage's desk.
Hiruzen Sarutobi sat alone when he read it. The pipe in his hand grew cold, forgotten, ash falling silently onto the floor. His eyes scanned the parchment again and again, but the words did not change.
Children. Uzumaki children. One wielding golden adamantine chains, the other wielding… something else. Crimson chains, mutating into forms unseen. And worse—an eye.
An eye that carried the spiral of Uzumaki within it.
Hiruzen's chest tightened. He had lived through wars, he had seen the terror of bloodlines rise and fall. The Senju, the Uchiha, the Hyūga. He had seen men with kekkei genkai tear through armies like parchment.
But this… this was new.
Mutation? Evolution? Or perhaps… something darker.
He leaned back, exhaling smoke that no longer calmed him. "Another cursed power in this world," he murmured. "And it awakens in children…"
Outside, the village remained ignorant, but within Konoha's highest tower, dread grew roots.
In Kumogakure, the report arrived in blood-stained scrolls carried by ANBU with shaken faces.
The Raikage read in silence. The words described a battlefield drowned in serpents and crimson chains, where Orochimaru himself had fought—and failed to subdue—two children. Children who left the outcome uncertain.
The Third Raikage's fist clenched, the parchment crumpling like paper under stone. His growl reverberated through the chamber.
"These brats," he spat. "They slaughter shinobi of every side as if the war were their hunting ground. Do they even know what lines they've crossed?"
The ANBU knelt, heads bowed. None dared answer.
The Raikage stood, his frame towering, chakra bristling with storm-like intensity. "Uzumaki… you always meddle with the balance. But this time, this time you breed monsters." He turned away, lightning sparking faintly around his shoulders. "We will regroup. Pull back. Organize. When we march again… we will crush them."
His words were iron, his intent absolute.
And in Iwagakure, word reached the Tsuchikage.
Onoki, the old stone, sat with his hands clasped behind his back, listening to the trembling messenger. His eyes, sharp despite age, narrowed as the tale was told: crimson chains, eyes of spirals, Orochimaru forced into retreat.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he chuckled. A low, bitter sound.
"Madara," he whispered to himself. "I thought I had buried your shadow long ago. Yet here it is again. Not Uchiha this time. Uzumaki."
The messenger shifted uneasily. "Lord Tsuchikage…?"
Onoki waved him off, his face turning grim. "Power like that doesn't simply fade. It twists the world around it. And when children carry it… it only grows faster." He leaned forward, eyes burning. "Pray these Uzumaki fall before they mature. Or this war will not be ours to win."
Days passed.
Amegakure drowned in whispers.
Rumors spread of two demon children, wielding chains of fire and eyes of madness. Tales twisted in every retelling: some said they fought Orochimaru to a standstill, others claimed they killed him outright. Some swore they were not children at all, but vengeful spirits of the Uzumaki clan, reborn to curse the world.
The truth was buried beneath fear.
And yet, in the same breath, another tale seized the world's ear.
The battle of Jiraiya, Orochimaru, and Tsunade against Hanzo the Salamander had spread like wildfire. They had stood against the god of Amegakure and survived. They had been named—the Three Legendary Sannin.
Their names carried hope, awe, and terror alike.
The war shifted. Sunagakure declared its entry into Amegakure, joining the fray with blades sharpened and puppets prepared. Kumogakure withdrew temporarily, licking its wounds, marshalling its thunder for the next strike.
But the children? The Uzumaki?
Gone.
Vanished from the field.
Villages scoured the reports, ANBU hunted, scouts searched. But no trace surfaced. The demon children of Amegakure had slipped into myth, for now.
And in a small, forgotten inn, a boy rested while his sister sat watch, their world reduced to four quiet walls.
The storm outside gathered, nations plotting, bloodlines feared, wars deepening.
But within, Kaito dreamed of crimson mist and golden eyes.
And Soka kept her vigil, silent, unbroken.
For monsters or legends, for demons or saviors, they were still children.
And the world had already begun to tremble in their wake.
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I saw that most of the votes were for Kaito to be a villain and to explore the world or form his organization, so I'll do that. I'll see if he will form his organization or not depending on your votes.
If you review or give a Power Stone, I'll give you an extra chapter.
A Power Stone: an extra chapter.
A positive review: an extra chapter.
This would help me a lot and would also attract more people, so I'd make more chapters per day.