The Hidden Leaf had changed.
When I first arrived in this world, Konoha was still rebuilding from the Nine-Tails' attack. The wounds of that night — fire, screams, crumbling stone — were carved into my earliest memories. Back then, I was too small to grasp the weight of it all. But now, at seventeen, standing above the streets from the rooftop of a rebuilt inn, I could see just how far the village had come.
The markets buzzed again with merchants shouting their wares. The clang of blacksmiths echoed from the far alleys, steel forged for shinobi and farmers alike. New generations of children ran freely in the Academy courtyards, never realizing they were walking on the bones of sacrifices made before them.
And yet, beneath the surface of this lively village, the shadows never left. They had only grown darker — and I had grown with them.
⸻
The Weight of Years
The mask in my hand reflected the faint lantern light. The sharp falcon beak, the sweeping lines, the hollow eyes — my identity for years. When I first accepted it from my ANBU captain, my reflection was still that of a boy. Now the man beneath it had blood on his hands, scars on his chest, and knowledge that could never be spoken aloud.
Seventeen. Maybe eighteen. I stopped marking the years sometime after Itachi vanished. Missions blurred together; nights bled into days. I lived by reports, silence, and orders — not birthdays.
But the growth was undeniable. My body had stretched taller, leaner, built from years of conditioning. Wind chakra, once erratic and difficult to control, now sharpened to a lethal edge. With enough focus, I could split boulders or lace my blade with invisible currents that sliced through steel. My taijutsu was efficient, precise, honed by repetition and necessity.
Among the ANBU, I was no longer just the youngest. I was trusted. Relied upon. In some missions, I even led. And yet, not once did the villagers look twice at me in the daylight. To them, I was nothing. An orphan who existed in passing.
That suited me fine.
⸻
Graduation Day
The Academy courtyard brimmed with energy. I had perched on the shadowed rooftop of the administrative building, mask tucked under my arm, watching the sea of children flood the grounds.
Today was the graduation. The new generation of genin would receive their headbands and step onto their own paths.
I scanned the crowd without attachment, cataloging faces. Most of them were forgettable, average in their chakra reserves and movements. But three stood out immediately.
Uzumaki Naruto. Blond hair, loud voice, grin stretching wider than the village itself. He carried himself like someone desperate to be seen, to be acknowledged — and I knew why. Even now, the whispers slithered through the crowd: That boy. The demon fox. Stay away from him. Their ignorance burned like acid, though it was not my place to intervene.
Uchiha Sasuke. Quiet, sharp-eyed, posture rigid. His gaze carried the faintest resemblance to his brother's — a mixture of pride and loneliness, though twisted in a different way. I felt the weight of that bloodline from here, the inevitability of its path.
And finally, Sakura Haruno. The pink-haired girl was ordinary in chakra, but her eyes tracked Sasuke's every move. Young hearts, fragile bonds. A reminder of how innocent things began before the storm consumed them.
I leaned back on the tiles, silent. So, this was where the canon began.
⸻
Summoned by the Hokage
That evening, I was summoned to the Hokage's tower. Sarutobi Hiruzen sat behind his desk, his pipe resting in the ashtray, smoke drifting lazily in the lamplight. His robes hung heavy on his shoulders, but his eyes — sharp, wise, tired — still pierced as they always had.
"Arato," he greeted me softly, "it has been some years since I first gave you that mask."
I bowed slightly, hands clasped behind me. "Hokage-sama."
He studied me for a long moment. "You've done well for the village. Missions that others could not, you've completed. Your name may not be spoken aloud, but I know what you've accomplished."
Praise meant little. I remained silent.
Sarutobi drew a long breath of his pipe. "But now, we stand at the edge of a new era. You were at the Academy once — you know what it means when a new generation steps forward. Today, Naruto Uzumaki graduated."
I met his eyes carefully. He rarely wasted words. "And what would you ask of me?"
The Hokage's gaze hardened. "Watch him. From the shadows. Protect him without his knowledge. The council would not approve, but I trust your judgment more than theirs. The boy carries a heavy burden, and there are those who would exploit it."
A test, then. Both of my loyalty and of my silence.
"You're asking me to guard the Jinchūriki," I said flatly.
Sarutobi did not flinch. "I'm asking you to guard Naruto."
I held his gaze longer than most would dare. My instincts screamed caution. The Hokage projected warmth and wisdom, but I knew better. Behind those gentle words was a man who had let the Uchiha burn for the sake of stability. A man who would sacrifice a pawn if it meant preserving the board.
Still, refusing wasn't an option.
I inclined my head slowly. "Very well. I'll remain unseen. He'll never know I was there."
"Good," Sarutobi said, though a faint shadow passed through his expression. Perhaps guilt. Or perhaps calculation. "Then I'll leave it to you, Hayashi Arato."
⸻
Alone with the Mask
Back in my quarters, I placed my mask on the desk. The falcon's hollow eyes stared back at me, expressionless. My reflection in its smooth white curve looked older than my years — sharper, darker.
I thought of my old teammates, Rina and Daichi, who had gone their own ways. Of Minazuki-sensei, who once said I had the eyes of someone burdened with too much. Of Itachi, who bore an entire clan's fate and walked into infamy.
Now, Naruto was stepping into the path of destiny. A child carrying a demon, unknowingly carrying the future.
I clenched my fist. "If the shadows are where I must remain, then I'll make sure they never reach him."
I tied the mask tight, its familiar weight pressing against my face. With it, I was not Hayashi Arato the orphan. I was the unseen hand, the silent blade, the watcher of the night.
The streets outside bustled with laughter and chatter. The new genin would celebrate their headbands tonight. But I moved silently through the darkness, a falcon among shadows, eyes fixed not on celebration — but on the storm to come.