Chương 312: 308
Haruto took a deep, final breath as he settled into the cold, metallic shell of the incubator. The chill of the machine seeped through him, a stark reminder that this was no ordinary confinement. This was the beginning of something he hadn't fully prepared himself for but was determined to face. He closed the hatch, and the faint glow from outside shrank, dwindling into the smallest sliver before disappearing completely. The darkness took over, a darkness more profound than anything he'd ever known. With a final, resolute tap, he activated the seals, and his connection to the outside world vanished.
The nothingness pressed in, immediate and unrelenting, far heavier and more intense than he'd anticipated. No sight. No sound. No sensation of the cold metal beneath him. He was suspended, trapped in a void as thick and impenetrable as a black hole, a place where everything he'd ever used to orient himself—his senses, his awareness of his own body—was stripped away. It was like he'd been cast into a world where even the concept of self had faded, where he was nothing but a mind adrift.
The silence was crushing. He strained to hear even the faintest sound—the hum of the seals, the faint whir of the machinery he'd designed so meticulously—but there was nothing. Not a whisper, not a hint of movement or vibration. It was a silence so complete that he could no longer tell where his body ended and the machine began. He couldn't feel the surface beneath him, couldn't detect the weight of his own limbs. It was as if his entire being had slipped away, leaving him as a consciousness suspended in blackness, untethered and alone.
He knew he was breathing, but even that felt distant, a memory more than an action. His heartbeat, something he had always taken for granted as his one constant, was muted, lost somewhere deep within him. His pulse no longer thrummed through him as it always had; he couldn't even feel the pressure of his chest expanding or contracting. It was as though he'd been erased, leaving nothing but thought, hanging in a void that seemed to press in from every direction.
A chill began to creep over him, a sensation not of cold but of absence, a realization that the world he knew had been peeled away layer by layer. He was nowhere, his body reduced to nothing more than a vague awareness, a shadow lingering at the edges of his mind. Every fiber of his being strained to reconnect, to ground itself in something familiar, but there was nothing to cling to. He was floating, not in water or air, but in a silence so deep it threatened to devour him whole.
For the first time, Haruto felt a flicker of unease, a hint of fear that gnawed at the edges of his resolve. He had known isolation before, had trained alone, had pushed his limits in the quiet of night. But this—this was something else. This was beyond solitude, beyond anything he'd ever encountered. It was as if the very concept of time had dissolved, leaving him trapped in an endless, unchanging now. No movement, no sensation, just the relentless, suffocating press of nothingness.
He had entered this void willingly, had chosen this path with the hope that it would make him stronger, that it would burn away his weaknesses. But as he lay there, lost in the darkness, he couldn't help but wonder if he had underestimated the weight of it, the crushing intensity of a world devoid of all sense. It was one thing to fight an opponent, to face physical pain, but this—this was a battle with his own mind, a challenge that demanded more than just strength.
And so he floated, suspended in the dark, no longer Haruto the shinobi, no longer Haruto the friend or the comrade. Just a consciousness adrift, a soul stripped down to its raw essence, forced to confront the silence and the void with nothing but sheer will.
He'd known this would be intense—had braced himself to endure it, but the reality bore down on him like a crushing weight. Haruto had anticipated silence, darkness, even discomfort, but he hadn't expected this. This total erasure of sensation, this hollow, empty vastness that seemed to absorb even his own sense of self. He strained to hear anything, even the faintest whisper of his own breath, but there was nothing. He reached inward, seeking the familiar, comforting rhythm of his heartbeat, but it, too, was swallowed by the void. It was as though his body had vanished, leaving only the fragile awareness in his mind—a dim reminder that he was still alive, still here, still… something.
Without sight, without sound, without the grounding comfort of any physical sensation, his thoughts took on a brutal clarity, amplified by the vast emptiness that surrounded him. Memories surged forth, unbidden and stark against the dark expanse, rawer than he'd ever felt them. The image of Sakumo came first, a painfully vivid specter against the blackness, his face lined with the kindness and strength Haruto had relied on, even if he had never said so aloud. The ache in his chest sharpened, a twisting pain that felt too real, too immediate, as though Sakumo were right in front of him. His mentor, his friend—the man who'd stood beside him, who had chosen honor and loyalty over duty, sacrificing everything to save his comrades. And Haruto had done nothing, repaid nothing. He'd stood by, too weak to reach out, to help, to do what mattered most.
The regret clawed at him, each thought sharper and more unforgiving in the empty dark. He had thought he could shut it out, that he could bury himself in isolation, use solitude to forge his strength. But here, in the blackness, every defense he'd put up, every wall he'd tried to hide behind was laid bare. The void stripped him down, leaving no room to run, no way to bury the pain.
More memories rose from the depths, clawing their way to the surface. His past life. The desperate, frantic scramble to protect that woman, the vicious blows that rained down, ending his life. He remembered the sound of his own bones breaking, the taste of blood as it filled his mouth, the cold finality that wrapped around him as he lay broken and bleeding. And then… nothing. The helplessness that had consumed him in his last moments, the darkness that had taken him. That same void, that same suffocating emptiness now pressed against him, a familiar phantom that mirrored the helplessness he'd fought so hard to bury.
He had thought he was stronger now. He had told himself he could endure anything, that he would emerge from this stronger, hardened, capable of avenging Sakumo, of protecting those he cared about. But here, in the silence, his resolve felt paper-thin. He was laid bare, every memory and regret open to him, no longer muted or softened by the distractions of daily life. The void demanded his complete focus, forcing him to confront each memory, each failure, with unrelenting clarity.
The faces of those he cared about drifted into view. Abaa-Chan's smile, soft and encouraging, the way she had always believed in him, pushed him to be more. Daichi, his loyal brother in arms, his friend through hell and back, who had stood by him without question. Shisui, wise beyond his years, whose quiet support had always been a source of strength. Katsume, fierce and unyielding, a spark of life that defied any darkness. And Shizune… her presence lingered longer than the others, a beacon in the emptiness, her gentle persistence a reminder that someone still cared, that someone still saw him. She had been the one who showed up, week after week, even as he turned away.
He could almost feel her warmth beside him, hear her soft voice, her quiet stories, her unyielding faith in him. She had kept him anchored, even as he shut her out. The thought that he didn't deserve her stung more than he could bear. He didn't deserve any of them. He had thought he could protect them by becoming strong, by detaching, by letting them drift away so he could return, someday, as someone capable of bearing their burdens. But Sakumo's death had shattered that illusion, had shown him that shutting out the people he cared about wasn't strength—it was fear.
The Will of Fire, that hollow, idealistic mantra of Konoha, meant nothing to him, a fairy tale meant to keep people obedient. But in this darkness, he understood something deeper, something he hadn't acknowledged before. Vengeance alone was hollow; it could never fill the void Sakumo had left behind, never mend the wounds he'd suffered. And yet, it was his comrades who mattered, their faces who filled the darkness, their presence that grounded him, even now. As much as he wanted to cast them aside, to retreat, he couldn't shake them from his mind. They were a part of him, woven into the very fabric of his being.
With no sense of time, each second stretched, twisting his thoughts further, his mind caught in an endless loop of memories, regrets, fears, and desires. He wanted vengeance, yes, but he wanted more than that now. He wanted to be someone they could rely on, someone who wouldn't falter, wouldn't hesitate. The thought of failing them gnawed at him, a relentless ache that went beyond revenge. It was something else, something more.
Alone in the darkness, Haruto felt his mind teetering, the boundaries between past and present blurring. He was a fractured soul, clinging to the fragments of himself, trying to make sense of the tangled mess of emotions that overwhelmed him. And though the void was vast, swallowing him whole, he clung to one promise: when he emerged, he would be ready, no matter what it took.
The faces of those he cared about haunted him, drifting like specters through the pitch black, slipping in and out of reach, their outlines ghostly but vivid. Abaa-Chan's soft smile, a light he'd rarely seen in his life, a kindness that had never expected anything back. Daichi's face, unyielding and loyal, always at his side, solid as a mountain. Shisui, wise beyond his years, his calm like a balm to the chaos around them. Katsume, fierce and relentless, her drive pushing him to be better, to reach higher. Minato, Tsunade, Kushina—each a reminder of the strength he'd hoped to emulate, the ideals he'd once convinced himself he could live without. But Shizune… her presence lingered longest, her kindness and patience a thread that tethered him, whether he admitted it or not.
It was Shizune who had kept showing up, even as he shut himself off from the world. Week after week, her footsteps would echo softly down the hall, her gentle presence a quiet defiance against the silence he had surrounded himself with. She would bring stories, small snippets of life he no longer participated in, filling the void with her persistence, with a hope he'd never asked for. Her voice would carry to him in fragments, stories of the village, of small victories and trials, her words gentle yet steadfast. He hadn't realized how much he'd leaned on that quiet kindness until now when every connection felt painfully distant. He didn't deserve her loyalty, he knew that, yet the regret lingered sharper here in the void.
He'd tried to convince himself he could detach, that he could cut off everyone and everything, turtle away, and build his strength in solitude. But Sakumo's death had shattered that illusion. Sakumo, who had risked everything to save him, who had believed in loyalty over duty, had given everything only to be betrayed. And where had Haruto been? Hiding. Preparing. For what? This blackness wasn't strength—it was a prison, and he had crafted it with his own hands.
He thought he would emerge from this a different person, stronger, free from the vulnerabilities attachments had once inflicted upon him. But here, in the silent dark, all he'd found was the weight of his regrets, the things he'd pushed away now coiling tighter around his chest, bearing down with a force he couldn't ignore. He had come here seeking power, yet he felt only the hollow ache of failure, like stones gathering in his heart, sinking him deeper.
How long had he been here? Minutes? Hours? Days? In the stillness, time had dissolved. There was no way to tell if the world outside even existed anymore, or if he had become lost, adrift in a void of his own making. The silence was thick, pressing in on him, amplifying the weight of his unspoken fears, the guilt he had tried to bury, the gnawing hunger for vengeance that now seemed thin and hollow.
Strength alone… would it ever be enough? He had told himself it would be, that he could live for vengeance, that it could be a fire to light his way. But now, in the emptiness where his senses used to ground him, that fire felt cold, a flicker against the vast dark. He could feel the futility of it here, the emptiness of a life driven only by vengeance.
In a desperate moment, he tried to ground himself, to reach out for something, anything, that might anchor him in the void. He yearned for the sound of his own breath, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat, the warmth of anything familiar. But there was nothing. No warmth, no sound, no pulse to hold onto. Just the endless darkness, swallowing him whole, a silence that stretched beyond his senses, an echo of everything he'd shut out.
In this void, his past and present collided, twisted, and blurred until he no longer knew where one ended and the other began. Here, in the heart of his own abyss, he realized he hadn't detached—he had simply cut himself adrift, left with nothing but the shadows of those he'd tried to forget. And now, with nothing left to ground him, he was forced to confront them all, every fear, every loss, every failure, a relentless tide in the silent dark.
Suspended in the void, Haruto felt like he was dissolving—an empty soul in a black ocean. But now, the emptiness wasn't pulling him under; his mind was filling, fragments of memories and regrets stitching themselves together like patchwork armor. He saw flashes of his past life, the choices that had left him broken and forgotten. Sacrificing himself for strangers, reaching out to help someone he'd never known, and then dying alone. He had vowed then, in those last breaths, that he'd never make that mistake again. No more pointless heroics, no more dying for strangers who wouldn't even remember his name.
But this time… it was different. For his comrades, the ones who had been there when he needed it most, who had seen through his walls and pulled him back when he'd tried to disappear… yes, for them, he would. Daichi, Shisui, Katsume, and Shizune—their faces drifted through his mind, like faint stars in the vastness of his self-made void. They weren't just allies; they were part of him, anchors in a brutal world that had stripped him bare and rebuilt him.
Yet Sakumo's face lingered the longest. The man who had risked everything to save him, who had treated him with warmth and belief, like he mattered. That image—a reminder of the trust he'd failed—sank deep, unrelenting. Guilt churned within him, raw and relentless. "I'm sorry, Sakumo," he whispered, his voice lost in the silence, though his scarred, unseeing eyes betrayed what he tried to contain. The hot sting of tears traced his face, the rare, vulnerable grief he'd tried to push away surfacing despite himself. The apologies wouldn't reach Sakumo now, but he'd carry them, honor them, because if he couldn't change the past, he could keep one promise: he would never let anyone down like that again.
In the blackness, a new resolve began to take root, solidifying into something cold and unbreakable. This isolation, this darkness—he had told himself he could endure it for months, that it would make him stronger. But he saw it for what it was now: it was a cage he'd built around himself, a prison he'd locked himself in, confusing suffering for strength. Now, he knew he didn't need the emptiness; he needed something real to fight for, something that extended beyond vengeance. This wasn't strength. It was survival, but it wasn't living.
Yet, even in this desolate void, one thought held firm. When I get out of here, I'll be ready. Not just strong—worthy. He would be there for those who counted on him, his comrades, the ones who had tried to reach him even when he'd lost himself. He would protect them, guard them, and if it came down to it, he would become the nightmare that their enemies feared. And if anyone dared lay a hand on his comrades, he would make them regret it, each step of the way.
And then, there were the shadows he couldn't forget—Danzo, Chiyo. The names felt like a brand against his mind. They'd taken pieces of his life, twisted his path into one of vengeance and survival. He would hunt them. They had forged his pain, and they would know it themselves. They'd feel what it meant to lose everything, to have nothing left. He would become the fear that chased them, the punishment for every life they had wrecked, every trust they had betrayed.
For anyone who harmed his comrades, he would be the demon that destroyed them. A demon born from darkness, relentless and unyielding, a shadow that devoured everything in its path.
And in that dark, suspended state, something began to shift within him. He wasn't merely enduring anymore; he was transforming, and the weight of every promise made in the void shaped him. The boy was gone.
The man who would one day be feared as the Demon of Konoha was awakening.
He would emerge from the darkness with a name that carried terror on the wind.
The Demon of Konoha.
Whispers would haunt the battlefields, stories of a figure who fought like an avenging storm, with a rage that was boundless and unyielding. His name would carry the weight of his promises, of every step taken in the abyss, of every tear shed in the darkness.
And for those who dared cross him, a single, silent question would chill their blood:
"Does the Demon count this one among his own?"
The question would circulate through darkened camps, whispered in anxious breaths. If the answer was yes, if this life fell under the Demon's protection, then no weapon or jutsu could shield you from the retribution that would follow.
Run, they'd warn, voices trembling with fear.
Run—and pray it's enough.
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