The forest lay heavy beneath the pull of midnight, its silence fractured only by the labored footsteps of two broken figures. Kaito and Soka staggered forward, leaving behind a faint but unmistakable trail of blood. The earth drank their pain greedily, each droplet glimmering dark under the pale silver light of the moon. They did not look like victors—rather, they looked like corpses refusing to fall.
Kaito's entire body screamed with every motion. His muscles quivered as though set aflame from the inside, his bones felt splintered beneath his skin. He had forced open the Eye of Reality far beyond what it was ever meant to endure. Forty minutes—twice his limit, a feat no Uzumaki had ever dared, much less survived. His brain felt scorched, as if lightning had struck him from within and never left. His thoughts came in ragged bursts, fragments of clarity piercing through waves of static. Worse yet, he had crossed into forbidden territory: the Door of Blood, the second threshold of that cursed eye. The memory of it lingered—visions painted in crimson, threads of reality pulling at him like hooks, every heartbeat threatening to tear him apart.
Yet, he did not stop. He could not.
In his arms, Soka's small frame hung limply, her face slack, her crimson hair matted with blood and soot. She looked almost peaceful in unconsciousness, but her body told another story: burns blistered across her shoulders and legs, deep cuts still weeping faintly through hastily tied bandages, her breath shallow and ragged. The sheer absence of chakra within her was like staring into a void. Anyone else would have already been claimed by death, but she remained tethered to life by the unnatural vitality of the Uzumaki bloodline.
Kaito's teeth clenched so hard they nearly cracked. You're not dying here. Not like this. Not after everything.
The forest broke into a clearing, the moonlight washing them in pale blue. Kaito's knees buckled, his body begging for release. He collapsed, the weight of Soka nearly sending them both crashing into the dirt. His chest heaved with fire, each breath tearing through his ribs. The smell of blood filled his nose, so thick it drowned out even the scent of the trees.
But surrender was not in him. With a guttural, animalistic cry that split the silence, he forced himself upright again. He scoured the forest with blurred vision, staggering into the underbrush. With trembling hands that could barely grip, he snapped branches, clawed at roots, and scraped bark until his palms split open anew. He found a shallow cave hidden behind tangled ivy. Dragging Soka inside, he set her down on a bed of leaves and collapsed beside her, panting.
Minutes passed before he forced his body to move again. Survival demanded it. He stumbled back into the trees, found a hare by sheer luck, and struck it down with a shuriken. His aim was sloppy—he barely grazed it—but instinct had carried him through. Skinning it was worse; his hands trembled so violently he dropped the knife three times. By the time he returned to the cave with meat and herbs, his knuckles were raw, his fingernails caked with blood and dirt.
The fire came slowly. Sparks resisted his flint, as though the world itself mocked him, but eventually a flame caught. It grew, small and weak, then strong, its glow filling the cave. The warmth wrapped around him, a fragile reminder that they were still alive. He cooked what little he had, tore the meat with his teeth despite the nausea crawling through him, and chewed as if each bite were glass. He ground herbs into a thick paste, the bitter aroma filling his nostrils, and pressed it into Soka's burns. She twitched and whimpered unconsciously, her brow furrowing, but he continued, whispering under his breath:
"Stay with me… I'll get you through this."
Every night in that cave was its own crucible. Kaito kept the fire alive, kept Soka alive, kept himself alive—all by sheer refusal to collapse. When his body gave way, he leaned on the flow of natural energy, pulling it in threads so thin it barely sustained him, careful not to drown in its overwhelming current. He patched his wounds with crude bandages, clenched his broken ribs, and forced himself upright each morning. At night, when the silence pressed too heavy, he sat beside Soka and stared at the way the flames painted her hair, glowing like molten gold and blood-red embers.
Outside, the world spun into chaos.
The Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi, was dead—his soul consumed by the Shiki Fūjin, the Reaper Death Seal. Konoha trembled in mourning, their foundations shaken. The funeral fires lit up the skies, and the villagers whispered the tale of his sacrifice.
Tsunade Senju, the great hope of the people, broke apart at the seams. The death of her brother, the death of her lover—grief hollowed her until nothing remained but fear. Blood itself became her enemy, her very breath turning shallow at the sight of it. When the council begged her to take the mantle of Hokage, she spat the offer back.
Thus, the white fang rose. Sakumo Hatake, blade of Konoha, was escorted in solemn procession to the Daimyō of Fire. He was crowned the Fourth Hokage, his name carved into stone, his image etched into the mountain. At his inauguration, the village cheered, their voices rising in desperate unity, but beneath it all lay dread. Too many had died—hundreds of shinobi gone, families broken, children orphaned.
And among the whispers that crawled through the village like fire through dry grass, one name surfaced again and again:The Demon Children.
Kaito. Soka. Two names spoken in fear and awe, two shadows painted in blood. The world had seen them, and the world remembered.
The great villages, their armies shattered, declared an end to the Second Great Ninja War. Their councils spoke with weary voices. They could not afford to bleed further. And yet, as if to mark the depths of their fear, they issued decrees: If you encounter the Demon Children, you are authorized to abandon the mission. Survival now outweighed honor.
But high above the turmoil of men, in a place untouched by their battles, the toads of Mount Myōboku stirred.
Jiraiya knelt before the Great Elder Toad, the air heavy with the musk of age and prophecy. His heart hammered against his ribs, for he had felt the shift already, the tremor of destiny realigning.
The Elder's ancient eyes, clouded with time yet sharp as blades, regarded him with quiet gravity.
"The prophecy… has changed," the voice rumbled, like mountains moving. "No longer is it a single child who shall shape the world's fate. It is two. Two strands of flame, twin red shadows dancing in the storm of destiny. Together, they will bring either salvation… or ruin. Perhaps both."
The words fell like stones into a still pond, rippling endlessly. Jiraiya's throat tightened. He remembered the rumors, the whispers carried from the battlefield: children with scarlet hair, wielding chains like monsters, laying waste to Konoha's elite. His skin prickled as if touched by lightning.
"Two red-haired children…" he muttered, fists trembling. "Uzumaki."
The Great Elder closed his eyes, the croak of his ancient voice fading: "They are not bound by prophecy… prophecy is bound by them."
Jiraiya bowed low, though his mind was chaos. When he finally rose, the weight of the world clung to him like chains. He descended the mountain, haunted by visions of two children with blood-soaked hair and eyes reflecting the end of eras.
And far away, hidden in their cave, Kaito kept his vigil. His eyes glowed faintly in the firelight, half-mad with pain, half-fueled by a will that refused to die. He tended Soka's wounds with hands that bled, fought sleep with eyes that burned, and whispered into the night words only the flames heard.
They did not know the shape of the world outside, nor the legends growing around them. They only knew survival.
But destiny had already spoken. They were no longer just survivors. They were prophecy incarnate, the axis upon which the future would turn.
The flames crackled, their light painting the cave walls.Kaito stared into them, his body trembling, his teeth clenched.The fire whispered back, and though he did not understand, he knew one thing with certainty:
The world would never forget the names of Kaito and Soka.
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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.