Uzushiogakure was dying long before the flames ever touched it.
Kazuto knew that.
He wasn't old enough to be taken seriously, but he was old enough to listen.
Adults spoke differently when they thought children weren't paying attention. Their voices dropped. Doors closed. Names were whispered instead of spoken.
Alliances. Kumo movements. Konoha silence.
He had learned to sit quietly in the corner of rooms, red hair tied back, eyes lowered, absorbing everything.
He was cousin to Kushina Uzumaki. They had played together once — before she was chosen, before she was taken to Konoha to become a vessel for something far greater than either of them understood. He remembered the day she left. The forced smiles. The promise that it was an honor.
He remembered thinking it felt like exile.
After she was gone, the whispers grew louder.
Uzushio's sealing arts were feared. Respected. Coveted. And that made them a target.
Kazuto stopped playing with the other children. While they ran in the courtyards, he stayed indoors copying scrolls, memorizing formulas, carving miniature seals into scraps of parchment until his fingers cramped.
He wasn't a prodigy in combat.
He didn't know elemental jutsu.
He barely knew basic academy techniques.
But sealing… sealing was different.
Sealing was preservation.
And preservation meant survival.
He finished the letter just before dawn.
The ink was still wet when he folded it carefully.
"To Sunagakure," it read, "I request asylum and protection. In exchange, I offer the full extent of Uzumaki sealing knowledge at my disposal. Scrolls. Techniques. Strategic information. Whatever is required."
He didn't beg.
He offered value.
That was how politics worked.
The hawk perched on his balcony railing, massive wings folded neatly at its sides. It had been with him since childhood — trained, loyal, responsive to only his commands.
He secured the letter to its talon.
"If they agree," he whispered, "you'll return."
The hawk took flight, disappearing into the pale morning sky.
Kazuto leaned against the balcony railing and looked out at the village.
Children laughed below.
Vendors arranged goods.
Smoke rose gently from chimneys.
One month.
He calculated it again in his head.
One month before Kumogakure would strike.
He had seen the patterns. The supply disruptions. The probing scouts. The lack of reinforcements from Konoha.
Why won't they help us?
Konohagakure was allied with Uzushio. They had manpower. They had power.
But deep down, Kazuto knew.
Men like Danzo Shimura moved pieces quietly.
Hiruzen Sarutobi allowed silence when it benefited Konoha.
And though Tobirama Senju was long dead, his policies still shaped the world.
Uzushio was powerful.
Uzushio was independent.
Uzushio was inconvenient.
A sour, bitter thought took root in Kazuto's chest.
If we fall… they will pretend they couldn't reach us in time.
His fingers curled against the railing.
He would not die with them.
He would carry everything.
XOXOXOXOXOXO
Weeks later, the sky burned.
It was too soon.
Far too soon.
Kazuto stood on his balcony as the first barrier seals shattered in the distance. A shockwave rippled across the island. Smoke rose in violent spirals.
He felt fear.
Real fear.
His calculations had been wrong.
Kumo banners cut through the haze.
Explosions tore through buildings.
Screams followed.
He didn't freeze.
He ran inside.
The spiral seal on his chest activated the moment he pressed his palm against it. A black spiral flared to life over his heart, four wavy lines radiating outward like writhing ink.
Scrolls lifted from shelves, pulled toward him by invisible force.
The dimension behind the seal opened.
Paper after paper vanished into darkness.
Knowledge compressed.
Stored.
Preserved.
The strain made him cough. Blood dotted his lips.
He ignored it.
History would not burn today.
When the last unsaved scroll disappeared, he staggered.
Flames were spreading now.
The front of the village was lost.
So he ran the other way.
Toward the sea.
He didn't make it far.
Three Kumogakure shinobi intercepted him near the cliffs.
They saw red hair.
They felt his chakra.
Valuable, their expressions said.
He threw kunai wildly. Not skilled — desperate.
A shuriken pierced his back.
Another followed.
A kunai sliced his thigh.
Pain exploded through him.
He stumbled toward the cliff's edge.
There was no plan.
Only direction.
He jumped.
The ocean swallowed him whole.
Cold.
Violent.
Salt filled his lungs as waves dragged him beneath the surface. Blood thinned into the water, spiraling like ink dispersing.
Above him, the sky glowed red.
Uzushiogakure burned.
He didn't scream.
He just thought:
I was too late.
Darkness claimed him.
XOXOXOXOXOXO
Days later, waves carried his unconscious body to a distant shore.
Not in the Land of Wind proper.
But near a temporary Sunagakure coastal war outpost, established to monitor Kumogakure naval movements.
Chiyo walked the shoreline that morning.
Poison logistics had kept her awake all night.
War had aged her more than time ever could.
She almost missed him.
A flash of red against the sand.
She approached cautiously.
Turned the body over.
Her breath caught.
For a moment — just a moment — she saw her first child.
The one she had buried years ago.
Not identical.
But close enough.
Young.
Fragile.
Broken.
The faint outline of a spiral marked his clothing.
Uzumaki.
Alive.
Barely.
Chiyo made her decision without hesitation.
"Bring him to camp," she ordered. "Now."
A medic-nin rushed forward.
"Ma'am, he could be—"
"I know what he could be," she said sharply.
He would not die on the shore.
Not today.
Not while she still had breath.
And so the last surviving spiral of Uzushiogakure was carried into the desert.