The name of the White Fang echoed across the world like a steel wind cutting through the clouds. His blade was whispered of in camps and trenches, a phantom stroke of silver that could end dozens in a breath. Wherever his kenjutsu reached, it left behind silence—majestic, yet terrifying. He had become a symbol: not just of Konoha's strength, but of inevitability. The battlefield bent around him.
Tsunade, meanwhile, carved her legend in a different way. Against poisons that withered men in seconds, against toxins so intricate they were whispered to come from the veins of demons themselves, she stood unshaken. Chiyo of Sunagakure, the poison mistress, had thought herself untouchable. But Tsunade dissected her venoms, defied them, and cured the incurable. Her hands restored what others had already buried in their hearts as lost. It was then the world began to murmur—the greatest medical-nin alive, the woman who conquered even death's whispers.
Jiraiya? He vanished from the eyes of his village. To the Hokage, to his comrades, he was absent; to the war, he was missing. But in the ruins of rain-drenched Amegakure, he found something the world had forgotten: three children starving on the bones of their families. Nagato, Yahiko, and Konan. His legend in the villages dimmed while another light began—quiet, fragile, born in shadows and loss.
And Orochimaru—of all of them, he remained drenched in war. He commanded outposts, strongholds, men who worshipped him and men who feared him equally. He dissected corpses in hidden tents, experimented in the dark, while his forces carved their way through the frontlines. His reputation was that of a genius consumed not by loyalty or hope, but by hunger—hunger for what lay beyond mortality itself.
Yet among these legends, a different shadow whispered in the dark.
The secret of Konoha's new Nine-Tails Jinchūriki had leaked: Kushina Uzumaki. Her name spread like a wildfire between villages. To some, she was a target to assassinate before her power grew; to others, she was an opportunity, a vessel to be captured, a beast to be stolen. Silent councils in the great villages debated the path of blood. Assassins sharpened blades. Entire war strategies shifted just to account for a single red-haired child.
But as the world calculated, planned, schemed, two names had simply vanished.
The Demon Children.
Whispers still clung to battlefields. In Ame, men recalled blood-soaked chains, eyes that glowed like suns tearing open the night. But for three years, nothing—no corpse, no sighting, no rumor of movement. It was as if the earth itself had swallowed them whole. Some thought them dead. Others thought them reborn as monsters lurking deeper. But none could prove the truth.
Far from the eyes of nations, in the silence of a cavern deep in forgotten mountains, a boy sat cross-legged. His hair, long and crimson, fell in strands over his closed eyes. His breathing was steady, too steady for a child. His body was lean but honed, carved by survival and war. The stone walls around him were painted faintly with the reflection of a crimson aura.
The boy opened his eyes.
And the cavern trembled.
They were no longer the simple eyes of a child. The pupils burned a golden yellow, feline in sharpness, but deeper—within them, a spiral rotated endlessly, the emblem of an extinct clan brought back into flesh. The Uzumaki spiral did not sit still. It spun, alive, a vortex of will and bloodline.
Kaito.
But not the Kaito of three years ago. Not the half-broken boy who collapsed after five seconds of awakening his Eye of Reality. This Kaito radiated a presence that pressed on the walls, on the air itself. When he exhaled, the cave seemed to bend with him.
Symbols carved themselves into his skin—spirals that glowed faintly in yellow and red, rotating on his hands, his forearms, his chest beneath his robe. They weren't seals drawn by another. They were his own body awakening.
The earth pulsed beneath him. The air thickened, heavy with natural energy. He had done it. He had torn apart the boundaries of his bloodline and rebuilt them.
He whispered into the cave, his voice steady, resolute:"At last… I've reached it. The Sage Mode of the Whirlpool."
Unlike the other Sage Modes, this one was no mere imitation of beasts or borrowed traditions. The Sages of Mount Myōboku had their frogs. The White Snake Sages had their serpents. The Slug Queen granted her disciples resilience. But this—this was born of Uzumaki blood itself, sculpted by trial, by chains, by years of tearing himself against the limits of his flesh.
The Whirlpool Sage Mode bent the body into something both more and less than human.
His regeneration accelerated beyond comprehension. Wounds closed before blood could drip to the ground. Torn muscles reknit like rivers mending themselves. Bones fractured under blows and knitted before the next strike could land.
His physical strength magnified—each motion carried the weight of ten men, but with precision carved through years of chain control.
His chakra capacity did not merely expand; it became unchained. The Uzumaki reserves that had once overflowed wildly were now rivers directed into oceans. His body was a vessel, not leaking, not breaking, but containing what would burst another shinobi apart.
But the true terror was subtler.
The Sage Mode of the Whirlpool purified.
Impurities in bloodlines dissolved. Diluted heritage was reforged. If the veins carried Senju blood weakened by generations, the mode restored it to its peak. If the veins carried Senju strength at full, it could be elevated, shaped toward the primordial—the blood of the Ōtsutsuki.
Poisons lost meaning. Venoms, tranquilizers, drugs designed to cripple shinobi—his body rejected them, expelled them, transmuted them into nothingness.
Even more, the unstable mutations of bloodline limits, the dangerous volatility of awakened kekkei genkai—this Sage Mode stabilized them. The Crimson Chains, wild and untamable, had found in this Sage Mode a cage and a key. They no longer lashed blindly; they resonated with his will.
And where other Sage Modes demanded hours, stillness, or contracts with beasts, the Whirlpool was different. Its absorption of natural energy was faster, sharper, hungrier. The world itself seemed to flow into him, chakra from air, from stone, from the pulse of life. He became a spiral sucking in the fabric of existence.
Kaito opened his hand. The spiral marks glowed. The air warped as natural energy flooded into his palm, shaping into a blade of vibrating force. He closed his fist and the energy collapsed, leaving silence.
A smile, faint but genuine, carved itself on his lips.Not the smile of arrogance. The smile of one who had bled, burned, crawled, and finally broken through.
In that cave, far from war and nations, a boy had become something else.
The Demon Child of the past was gone.
What stood there now was the Sage of the Whirlpool, a force neither villages nor sannin nor shadows yet understood.
But soon, the world would.
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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.