The Konohagakure was already deep into the night.
The faint remaining moonlight was swallowed by thick clouds. Nearly every lamp in the village had gone out, leaving only a single light burning bright and steady in the darkness.
Paulownia leaves rustled in the night breeze as a Root operative codenamed "Sickle Weasel" concealed himself among the trees, eyes locked on the distant window glowing with light.
Through the narrow gaps in the study blinds, he could see the boy known as Hyūga Kumokawa hunched over his desk, writing. The diary's cover caught the warm reflection of the desk lamp.
According to the reports, the boy had kept up this diary habit for years.
"Meow."
A soft cat's cry blended with the steady chorus of insects. "Sickle Weasel" frowned and glanced toward the sound, spotting two black shadows moving rhythmically—one atop the other—as a pair of cats meowed with enthusiasm.
"…"
"Sickle Weasel" silently looked away, inwardly cursing himself for being paranoid. His target was only a child.
Still, his thoughts drifted uncontrollably to the miserable state of the operative who had lost an arm to this boy, and a chill crawled down his spine.
He could not afford to underestimate anyone. He had no intention of ending up like that.
Just then, he saw Hyūga Kumokawa suddenly stop writing. The boy glanced at the clock, rubbed his reddened eyes, clipped the pen into the diary's leather clasp, stood up, and left the study.
Click.
The soft sound of the bedroom door closing was followed by the light winking out, plunging the entire residence into darkness.
"Sickle Weasel" stayed perfectly still, hidden in the foliage.
Only when clear snoring drifted from the bedroom did he finally drop the hand seals he had prepared for sensory ninjutsu. Like a leaf carried by the wind, he silently appeared outside the window.
The open window let out a faint creak as he slipped into the study without a sound. He first sealed the diary into a scroll, then quietly searched the room.
Unlike the previous operative, he made no attempt to assassinate Hyūga Kumokawa. Finding nothing out of place, he decided to take only the diary.
After putting everything back exactly as he had found it, he was about to slip back out the window when—
"Who's there!"
A sharp shout rang out. "Sickle Weasel's" pupils shrank to pinpoints.
Before he could react, a piercing howl of wind tore through the air behind him like the shriek of a demon in a gale.
"Wind Release: Wind Cutting Technique!"
Swish!
"Sickle Weasel" barely managed to hurl himself aside. A crescent-shaped wind blade whipped past him. Blood sprayed across the wall in a jagged arc as a red line raced down his arm.
Splat!
Blood surged out like a broken fountain. His arm slid cleanly from the shoulder and thudded to the floor.
"Sickle Weasel" let out a muffled grunt, body trembling. Without sparing a glance for the severed limb, he leaped out the window without hesitation.
What he didn't see was that the moment he fled…
In the distance, the black cat that had been moving atop a calico suddenly froze. Its white pupil turned toward the direction "Sickle Weasel" had vanished. It raised a paw and swatted away its foolish companion trying to climb back on.
"If you want to take something, you'd better leave something behind."
Inside the bedroom, Hyūga Kumokawa lowered his hands from the hand seals, a faint smile on his lips as he calmly waited for the system notification.
At the same time, "Sickle Weasel," clutching his bleeding stump, reached a rocky cliffside. He triggered a hidden mechanism and stepped into the dense, heavy shadows.
The deeper he descended underground, the more moisture and moss covered the dim corners, wrapping him in warm damp air. Instead of feeling stifled, he felt the comforting safety of home.
"That kid's strength really isn't simple. No wonder the last guy fell to him," "Sickle Weasel" thought, staring at his steadily bleeding arm with a mix of shock and dread.
Inside the vast underground chamber, the lighting made everything as bright as daylight.
There was even a large observation window into a laboratory where figures in white coats and masks worked busily.
Rows of glass refrigeration units held all kinds of specimens. Unlabeled reagents lined the shelves alongside petri dishes filled with cell cultures. Nearby glass containers held transparent green solution preserving bizarre plant samples and animal body parts—eyeballs, kidneys, and other gruesome organs.
On the other side of the observation window, Shimura Danzō stood expressionless, his narrow left eye filled with deep darkness as he stared fixedly at the workers.
Or rather, at the object on the experimental table.
It was a thumb-sized piece of white flesh—cells from the First Hokage.
Soon, however, one researcher turned and gave the man a slight shake of the head.
Danzō's face darkened. He raised a hand to the arm bound at his side.
"A bunch of useless idiots. Without Orochimaru, you can't accomplish anything?" he growled, feeling the Hashirama cells' erosion growing stronger by the day.
This arm of his had been badly injured in a past battle. To everyone else—including Sarutobi Hiruzen—the way he kept it covered simply looked like a leftover scar from that fight. They had no idea the arm was no longer his own.
Even Danzō himself didn't know its true origin. That bastard Orochimaru had been unusually tight-lipped, only saying it was a byproduct of his Wood Release cultivation experiments.
Thirsty for power, Danzō had chosen to transplant it anyway, pouring every Sharingan he owned into the process. What he never anticipated was how aggressively the Hashirama cells would corrode the limb—far beyond anything he had expected.
In just a few short years the cells had already begun overtaking the arm, and they still had no idea how Orochimaru had managed to make it capable of housing them in the first place.
No one else could replicate it. The only counter they had found was Sharingan suppression.
But if things continued like this, even the Sharingan he currently possessed would no longer be enough to hold back the erosion.
"Damn it!" Danzō cursed inwardly. "If 'A' hadn't been taken by Sarutobi, I could have sent him after Kakashi's Sharingan."
As he pondered where to get more Sharingan, the masked "Sickle Weasel" appeared at his side. Holding the scroll, the operative knelt on one knee, voice trembling.
"Danzō-sama."
The thick stench of blood made Danzō's expression tighten. He frowned at the missing arm.
"Another arm?"
Danzō's own face twitched—he felt almost singled out—but he quickly dismissed the absurd thought, took the scroll, and waved a hand.
"Sickle Weasel" hurried off to treat his wound. Danzō opened the scroll and began skimming the pages.
He had ordered the diary retrieved to get a clear picture of this so-called "failure" from the Hyūga clan and decide whether the boy was worth recruiting.
Most of the entries were mundane daily notes. Danzō read quickly, building a mental image of the writer.
A child who had once been timid and worthless, but after his father was driven to death by his own clansmen, had begun to crave power with desperate intensity.
Craving power was excellent.
What Danzō feared most were people with no desires at all.
He soon reached the "reflections" Hyūga Kumokawa had written about Sarutobi Hiruzen. His reaction was pure scorn, laced with bitterness and jealousy.
That hypocritical old man didn't deserve such praise.
Only the brief mention of "Root" in those reflections made him pause.
Then, as he turned the page, his hand suddenly stopped. He stared hard at a single sentence, his expression shifting.
[…Perhaps my heart is like a tree. The more it yearns for the light above, the deeper its roots must reach—down into the soil, into the darkness below.]
At the same time, inside Hyūga Kumokawa's bedroom.
The system notification sounded in his mind right on cue.
[Ding! Your lie has been judged as [Smooth Talk][Flattery]. Shimura Danzō experienced emotional fluctuation, reaching the level of [Seeing You as a Kindred Spirit], granting 400 Realization Points.]
"Only an idiot actually keeps a diary," Hyūga Kumokawa chuckled. He mentally commanded, "Materialize Ninjutsu—Lightning Release Armor."
[Spending 1000 Realization Points. Proceed?]
"Yes."
[1000 Realization Points deducted. Remaining Realization Points: 10593]
Perfect. Still well above ten thousand. Thank you, Danzō-sama, for the generous contribution.
Hyūga Kumokawa lay back on the bed and slowly closed his eyes. The memories of "Lightning Release Armor" began pouring into his mind.
Yet even as his eyes shut, the question he had been turning over earlier resurfaced.
"Since I can materialize ninjutsu…"
"Does that mean I can also materialize abilities from other worlds?"
He had already tried directly materializing powers from outside the ninja world. It definitely didn't work.
The system's materialization followed the rules and logic of this world. It seemed incapable of creating entirely new systems from nothing—aside from chakra itself.
But Kumokawa had a theory.
"What if I imitate and create abilities from other worlds by building on the foundations already present here—soul, body, natural energy, and chakra?"
If he could truly bring something into existence from nothing, if he could shatter everyone's worldview and make them believe in this foreign power…
The Realization Points he would harvest would be immense.
In fact, his entire plan involving Orochimaru was designed to test exactly that theory.
Pure lies were never believable.
Thirty percent falsehood mixed with seventy percent truth—that was how you fooled people.
To perfect the idea, he would need the help of the respected Lord Orochimaru.
Guided by the contents of that scroll, Orochimaru—who already possessed deep expertise in the realm of souls—would surely craft a complete, self-consistent theory and logic.
Then Kumokawa could turn that theory into genuine "rules" that existed in reality.
He would become like the Sage of Six Paths himself: master of his own independent little world, reigning over countless powerful souls.
***
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