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Chapter Text

Crimson Lotus 
Prologue

The Land of Frost was quiet in winter—not in the way that Konoha forests were quiet, hushed yet green, and vibrant with the stillness of life. Frost Country's silence was colder, weightier. It fell over the world like a second skin, wrapping the mountains, the rivers, and even the air itself in a blanket of snow and stillness. 

Akane had been born into that silence. 

Her village had been called Korimura, tucked into the eastern slopes near Shimogakure's outer reach. It wasn't a name that appeared on most maps. To Konoha, it was just another snow-bitten dot in a region known more for its neutrality than any real military power. 

But that changed when rumors began to circulate—rumors of alliances being forged in secret between the Land of Frost and Lightning. There were rumors of bloodline clans being offered sanctuary and weapons from Kumogakure in exchange for loyalty in the event of war. 

The Hoseki clan was not large in number, but dangerous nonetheless. Residing in the Land of Frost—a precarious wedge of territory bordering both the Land of Lightning and the Land of Hot Water, which itself edged into Fire Country—their bloodline limit, Crystal Release, allowed them not only to manipulate crystal but to convert their very life source into chakra, turning desperation into power in its purest form.

Sakumo Hatake was twenty-eight the winter he was sent to kill them. The official mission briefing was simple: 

• Infiltrate the Frost border; 
• Disrupt diplomatic talks between Shimogakure, Kumogakure, Iwagakure, and rogue elements from Kirigakure; 
• Ensure that the Hoseki do not side with Konoha's enemies;
• And if conflict arises, neutralize the threat without leving a trail that could spark a wider conflict. 

"Prevent bloodshed by demonstrating resolve," Danzo had instructed. 

It was never about mass slaughter—not at first, at least. The goal was deterrence—a calculated show of presence. Konoha would disrupt the talks before they solidified into treaties, hoping that doubt and distance would settle back into the soil of the Land of Frost. 

Sakumo's teammate had discovered Kumogakure's true interest in the Hoseki clan: the Three-Tails. Sakumo proposed an intricate plan—a bloodless deception. A political maneuver meant only to fracture loyalties before they hardened, but the gamble backfired. 

It was precise, orchestrated, and final. And when the blood dried, Kumo blamed Konoha. 

The story spun out like silk—a failed assassination mission, they said, a rogue Konoha squad sent under cover of diplomacy, launching an unprovoked attack against a peaceful summit. Konoha, blindsided by the narrative and still reeling from the loss, couldn’t move fast enough to stop the diplomatic fallout.

In the chaos of the massacre, Guren and Akane were found by one of Sakumo’s teammates—a kunoichi named Hanae, embedded in Korimura weeks before to monitor the Hoseki movements. She’d grown attached to the children, she'd later admit. When the fighting reached the outskirts, she broke protocol. Instead of finishing her mission, she shielded the girls with her body, dragging them through side streets as crystal pillars fell and fire caught on snow.

When Sakumo finally reached them, he found Hanae critically injured, clutching a four-year-old girl wrapped in her coat. Sakumo searched for hours to find Guren. Even as the mission continued to unravel and the cost grew heavier, Sakumo lingered longer than he was allowed to. He scoured the edges of destruction, scanning every ruin, heart heavy with guilt each time there was no sign of the elder sister. 

And so, with war looming and blood on his hands, he made the call. He brought Akane home—to Konoha—as the sole survivor of the Hoseki clan. The mission was a failure and the cost was devastating for Konoha. Akane didn't remember most of that night except for the bloody crimson lotus flowers.

Konoha was nothing like the Frost. 

It was loud, green, crowded, and warm in ways that made her uneasy. Eventually, she learned Konoha customs, their history, and their laws. She learned to mimic their vowels and their hand signs. She mastered taijutsu drills, though her movements always retained a strange lilt—like the arc of a snowflake drifting through the air. She excelled in the Academy by prediction, not speed—instinct, not memorization. 

Akane watched the years go by in silence. She counts them not in birthdays or ranks, but in the quiet hum beneath her skin—each heartbeat she knows is not her own. It's almost like there are two people living inside her: Akane and Guren. 

Sometimes, she forgets where one ends and the other begins. 

There are two heartbeats she hears in the stillness of the night—hers, steady and quiet, and Guren's, distant and stubborn, echoing like a memory refusing to fade with time. Each morning, she wakes with her hand pressed to her chest, listening and wondering. 

Guren... are you out there?

It's only a moment later that familiar fear creeps in: what if Guren is a ghost wearing her sister's face? 

As the years go by, Akane realizes there is less of her that belongs to Konoha and more that still belongs to the Frost—to Guren. To a village that no longer exists. She wonders—sometimes with a wry smile she only shows the wind—if she could go back. But with so much time and distance between the sisters now, maybe this was the truest version of her. 

And so she waits, quietly, not out of passivity, but purpose. 

She has learned how to live in silence—how to sharpen it into focus, how to breathe through it until it doesn’t choke her. She waits in the hush between her heartbeat and the one that still lingers, rattling breaths in her ribcage. 

She came to like the gentle hum of cicadas in the summer. The scent of dango from street stalls. The way her classmates grumbled about assignments. She grew fond of tea, started tying her boots the Leaf way, and carried herself with the ease of someone who belonged—even when she didn’t feel like she did.

Chapter Text

Crimson Lotus
Chapter One: New Beginnings 

The village was too warm. 

Not in temperature—though even the early spring sun of the Land of Fire felt thick and heavy to a child raised in the snow—but in color, in sound, in movement. The reds were too red, the greens too green. People spoke too loudly and laughed too easily. Even the buildings stood wrong—wooden walls and curved tiles stacked like puzzle pieces, too open, too strange. 

Akane walked three paces behind the red-haired woman in silence. 

Her fingers were knotted together inside the long sleeves of the too-big coat the medic-nin who discharged her this morning had given her. She could still smell the hospital on it—clean linens, bitter herbs, and the faintest trace of blood. Her shoes tapped softly on the road, not making any more noise than a whisper, and yet to Akane they sounded too loud—like she didn't belong there. 

I don't. 

She didn't know this village, didn't know where the roads led, or why there were faces on the mountain, or why everyone looked at her and then the red-haired woman before quickly looking away. 

At least the red-haired woman—Kushina Uzumaki—had kind eyes. Akane had decided that much when they'd first met. 

She had a loud voice and a peculiar way of speaking—like her words always seemed to be racing to get out—but her chakra was warm and soft, like sunlight filtering through a red cloth. When she'd offered her hand outside the hospital gates, Akane hadn't taken it, but she hadn't run either. 

So now they walked—to where Akane had no idea. 

Kushina kept glancing back at her, nervous but trying not to show it. She'd slow her steps to match Akane's short stride, and every time Akane hesitated at a crossroads or at a sudden noise, she'd pause and tilt her head as if silently saying it's okay—just keep going. 

They passed beneath an awning where wind chimes rang low and rhythmic. The sound reminded Akane of crystals—of the resonance of her clan's techniques, of the way the cliffs back home would hum when her father trained in the snow. 

Akane's stomach churned violently. 

She didn't recognize the sky anymore. Or the wind. 

"Dango?" Kushina asked, suddenly, her voice bright. 

Akane blinked. 

She didn't answer, but when Kushina nodded toward the small tea shop at the corner of the street and started toward it, Akane followed. 

Inside, the air smelled sweet. There was sugar and red bean paste and grilled mochi and something strange but pleasant—roasted tea, maybe. The woman behind the counter greeted Kushina with a familiar laugh and Akane flinched at the sound. Kushina ordered two plates and picked the booth by the window, one slightly tucked into the corner. Akane climbed up onto the cushion across from her slowly, carefully, as if it might vanish beneath her. 

Akane sat with her back straight, hands folded on her lap, her sleeves hiding her fingers again. 

The dango arrived on small lacquered plates. Skewered dumplings in neat rows, pink, green, and white. 

"So...uh...I used to hate dango, you know," Kushina admitted, grinning a little too wide. "Not hate-hate, but I thought they were too squishy. I liked rice balls better—spicy ones! They made all my classmates gag." 

Akane lowered her gaze to the table. She hadn't eaten anything sweet in what felt like an eternity. Her stomach wasn't sure what to do with the smell. 

"Back home—in Uzushio—we had these ones wrapped in seaweed, you know. Kind of weird-looking, but so good. My mom—she used to say if I ate too fast, I'd choke on my own chakra. Ha, can you imagine?" Kushina's gaze softened. "The war made a mess of everything. My village... Uzushio... it doesn't exist anymore." 

Kushina reached for her tea and took a sip, then rested both hands around the cup as if it might steady her. 

"I was just a little older than you were when I came to Konoha," Kushina sighed. "The Leaf was so different. Too warm, too loud, too much green." 

Akane’s eyes lifted just slightly, watching her through thick lashes.

"I missed the sea," Kushina said. "I still do, sometimes." 

Akane shifted; her movements were small and practiced, like she was used to being watched and hated it. She finally reached for the dango and picked up the skewer with her right hand. Her fingers barely curled around the stick. 

"Do you know if my sister, Guren, is alive?" She asked, eyes fixed on the plate. 

The question was quiet like it had been lodged in her throat for days and only now managed to slip free. 

Kushina's eyes widened slightly before she exhaled slowly. "I don't," she admitted honestly. "There was a lot of confusion that day. The reports aren't clear, you know. But... your sister was older, right? She might've made it out." 

Akane seemed to consider this possibility. "She is stronger than me," Akane nodded once. 

Kushina watched as the child took a tiny bite of dango, chewing slowly. 

After a pause, Akane asked, "Can I see the white-haired man?" 

"Sakumo?" 

Akane paused before nodding. Her gaze dropped again, lashes shadowing dark gray eyes that seemed far too calm for a child. It occurred to Kushina then—she didn't even know his name. 

The reports Kushina had been privy to when the Hokage requested she speak to Akane had been clear: Akane had been in and out of consciousness for most of the journey to Konoha, suffering a concussion during the initial attack. She hadn't known who carried her or where they were going. Just that her world had ended and she had survived. 

And yet, she hadn't asked in desperation. There was no crying, no trembling lip. Just a steady, quiet certainty—the kind born not of peace, but of resignation. She was searching for answers and asking for the only person she assumed might know them. 

Kushina tried not to wince as she answered. "He's a shinobi," she said gently, choosing each word with care. "And very busy right now. But... I can ask the Hokage for you." 

Akane gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. She sat stiffly in the booth, feet dangling above the floor, fingers still curled around the wooden skewer of dango. Her posture was too perfect, too still—like she was afraid movement might make something fall apart. 

"The woman with long black hair?" Akane asked softly. 

Kushina hesitated. "Her name was Hanae," she said at last. "She... she didn't make it." 

Akane blinked once and inhaled sharply before nodding. "So... she died protecting Guren and me." 

Kushina swallowed. "Yes." 

Outside, the breeze stirred the paper lanterns hanging from the shop’s awning. The golden light of late afternoon pooled across the table, casting warm halos over red bean paste and half-sipped tea. Akane didn’t move. The sun caught the faint shimmer of her hair—icy blue, tied in a spiky ponytail at the back, with long strands falling around he.r pale face.

“You’re very mature,” Kushina said gently. “For your age.”

Akane's lips tightened, but she didn’t look up. “I am the second heir to the Hoseki clan,” she said. Then, after a pause, her voice faltered just slightly. “I mean… I was.”

The correction hung between them, quiet and final.

Kushina’s chest ached.

The words were too old for such a small girl. There was no pride in them. Only obligation. Like she was reciting something once taught to her—not out of ambition, but out of duty.

Kushina looked at her again—really looked. Not just at her pale, fine-boned face or her perfect posture or the way she refused to cry—but at the stillness in her. The silence went too deep. She remembered what it felt like to grow up too fast. To learn how to carry grief like armor. To walk into a foreign village and pretend not to notice the way it flinched around you.

"You don't have to be perfect here, you know," Kushina said quietly. "You don't have to be anything but alive." 

The scent of boiling rice and old wood filled the hallways of the Konoha Orphanage. The windows were thin and drafty; they whistled in the wind when it passed just right. It was always too warm or too cold in the shared room Akane had been assigned, but she never complained. It felt wrong to complain when everything around her still felt borrowed. 

The room they used for visitors had tatami flooring that creaked, and the paper screen doors had yellowed edges from sunlight and age. Akane sat cross-legged on the woven mat, back straight, her long-sleeved yukata too neat for a child. Her pale blue hair was pulled into a spiky ponytail, with loose strands framing a delicate face far too still for a four-year-old. 

Kushina sat cross-legged beside her, speaking animately about something Akane wasn't listening to—something about the new tempura stall near the training fields or how once she bit into a pepper that nearly exploded in her mouth. 

Akane let the words wash over her. Kushina was kind—strange, too. Loud and fierce in a way Akane didn't understand yet. But she visited, often bearing gifts like lavender scented soap or the yukata she wore, and never asked for anything in return. Akane was grateful for that. 

"You didn't have to come again today," Akane said suddenly, voice quiet. 

Kushina blinked, mid-rant. "What, and let you spend another afternoon watching shadows on the floor?" 

Akane tilted her head. "They move differently here." 

"The shadows?" 

Akane nodded as if it was obvious. "They stretch longer." 

Kushina paused, then smiled. "You really are a strange one, you know." 

Before Akane could decide if that was an insult, Kushina rose to her feet and gestured for Akane to follow. 

The courtyard behind the Konoha Orphanage was modest—an enclosed rectangle of compacted earth bordered by old cypress trees and a few stubborn rose bushes that survived despite the season. The sun was warm today, unseasonably so. It painted the courtyard in soft gold, and the air smelled faintly of dust, woodsmoke, and steamed rice drifting from the kitchen vents.

Children’s laughter echoed in bursts from one corner, where a group played with a handmade ball of twine and cloth. But as Akane stepped out beside Kushina, the sounds faltered. Several of the children glanced toward her and then looked quickly away. 

"You don't play with them?" Kushina asked casually, noticing the apprehensive looks. 

Akane shrugged. "They don't want me to." 

"Why do you think that is?" 

Akane's gray eyes didn't leave the patch of dirt where one child had drawn a hopscotch grid that no one was using. "They think I'm strange." 

Kushina frowned. "And that's a bad thing?" 

"I didn't say it was." 

A laugh nearly escaped Kushina's throat, but she held it back, softening. "You're tougher than you look. One day, they'll regret not being your friend, you know." 

"I don't care to be their friend," Akane admitted with a sigh. 

Just ahead, under the eaves of the orphanage’s covered walkway, three men stood observing the yard.

The Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi, was watching Akane with careful eyes, his pipe unlit and cradled in his hand. 

Beside him stood Sakumo Hatake, still and sharp in his flak vest. His white hair caught the sun like threads of ice. His eyes, usually unreadable, flicked toward Akane and then down, haunted by guilt that hadn’t loosened since his return from Frost Country.

Behind them, wrapped in his ever-shifting shadows, Danzo Shimura observed Akane like a problem yet unsolved.

“She keeps to herself and doesn't play with the other children,” Danzo said without preamble. “Withdrawn behavior. That could mean isolation. A personality predisposed to withdraw or self-preservation.”

“Or intelligent,” Hiruzen countered. “She observes before she acts. That's not proof of instability.”

“She hasn’t exhibited any sign of the kekkei genkai,” Danzo continued. “No indication of Crystal Release affinity. According to Hanae’s final reports, only the elder sister—Guren—was confirmed to manifest it. We cannot confirm whether Akane carries the bloodline at all.”

“She carries more than a bloodline,” Sakumo murmured, his eyes still on the girl. “She carries the silence of an entire clan.”

“She also carries Kumo’s reason to escalate,” Hiruzen added, his voice heavier. “Since the mission’s failure, they’ve increased presence at the border. Iwa’s silence worries me more than Kumo's threats.”

“The girl is a risk,” Danzo said. “But perhaps a useful one.”

“She’s a child,” Sakumo snapped, more forcefully than he meant to. 

"A child who is the last remaining evidence of your failure," Danzo retorted. 

Hiruen frowned. "Enough." 

Akane stood beneath the shade of an old cypress tree, her back straight and arms hanging limply at her side. Her eyes—dark gray, solemn—remained fixed on the three men across the courtyard. 

They stood apart from the laughter and dust, positioned like sentinels in shadow.

One she recognized instantly: the white-haired man who had pulled her from a ruin of blood and glass, whose face she’d only seen for seconds at a time before sleep had taken her on the journey to Konoha. She had not heard his voice since.

“Sakumo Hatake,” Kushina said beside her, arms crossed but voice warm. “He’s the one who brought you here.”

Akane gave a tiny nod, but her eyes didn’t leave the man.

“And the one in the robes,” Kushina continued, lowering her voice slightly, “that’s Lord Third, the Hokage. He runs the village. His face is carved into the mountain. Big deal around here, you know.”

Akane turned just enough to glance at the dark-eyed man with the pipe. There was kindness in the lines of his face, but also something heavier. A man who held too many decisions on his shoulders. His face, carved into the cliffside that loomed above the village, was cast in the same golden light as the rest of Konoha. Akane had decided that if his face was carved into a mountain, he had to be powerful. 

“And the one with the bandaged arm?” Akane asked, voice barely audible.

Kushina’s smile faltered. “That’s Danzo. He works… closely with the Hokage.”

“Why hasn’t Sakumo spoken to me?”

The question hit Kushina off guard. She looked at Akane, then glanced toward the men again. Akane didn’t sound upset. Just curious, like someone turning a puzzle over in her mind. She tilted her head slightly.

“Does he not want to talk to me?" 

Kushina opened her mouth—then closed it. The truth was complicated.

Before she could think of something to say, a flicker of motion caught her eye. She turned toward the veranda that ran along the orphanage’s rear wall.

Kakashi Hatake stood there, arms crossed, watching them with a sharp, disinterested expression that was somehow too old for his small frame.

Kushina brightened. “Well, would you look at that? Someone’s out of hiding.”

"Who is that?" Akane tilted her head, eyeing the boy. His hair reminded her of Sakumo's, so she assumed they were related. 

Kushina leaned over and whispered to Akane, "That's Kakashi, Sakumo's son. He's about your age. Don't mind the mask—he's had it since he started showing attitude, you know." 

Akane blinked. "Why?" 

"In an attempt to hide his brattiness." Kushina sighed. "C'mon." 

They walked together to the veranda, the soft clack of sandals against the earth. Kakashi stepped down from the veranda, folding his arms across his chest. 

“Kakashi,” Kushina said, “this is Akane.”

He glanced at her, unimpressed. “I know.”

Akane looked up at him, glaring. "You're rude. Does your stupid village not teach you any manners?" 

"No, not really. Just to be cautious of weird girls." 

"At least my hair doesn't make me look like a grumpy old man," Akane replied coolly. 

Kushina gasped and covered her mouth, laughing into her palm. Kakashi stared at Akane, clearly not used to being challenged by anyone his age—certainly not a girl who looked like she'd been carved out of silence and frost, with spiky blue hair and sharp, stone-gray eyes that didn't flinch under pressure. 

He scoffed. "At least I have a village." 

Kushina's laugh died instantly. She turned sharply, her expression somewhere between murder and disbelief. "Kakashi!" 

Akane stepped forward—and with a swift, unpolished motion—punched him square in the gut. It wasn't elegant or well-aimed. It wasn't even particularly strong, but it was fueled by a month of grief, confusion, and the quiet, biting isolation that had followed her every step through unfamiliar streets. That had clung to her every time another child whispered behind her back or shifted away during meals. 

Kakashi stumbled back, more surprised than hurt. 

Akane's fists trembled at her sides. "Shut up! I don't even care about your stupid village! I don't even want to be here!" 

For a moment, no one said anything. 

From the other side of the courtyard, Sakumo had turned fully toward the scene, his eyes fixed on his son and the small girl with her fists clenched as if her entire world depended on them. 

Hiruzen raised a brow but didn't interfere. He was watching more closely now, his expression unreadable. Danzo shifted beside him, his gaze cool and analytical.

"I warned you," Kushina muttered under her breath, reaching out and gently tugging Akane back by the shoulder before she threw another punch. She crouched beside her, voice low and calm. "He doesn't mean it. He just says things like a brat, you know." 

Kakashi straightened his shirt, face reddened—not from pain, but from humiliation. "You're weird," he muttered. 

"She has a better punch than most Genin," Sakumo remarked dryly as he approached, sandals soft against the earth. 

Kushina looked up. "So you are watching, sensei." 

"I'm not blind," Sakumo said. 

Akane's eyes snapped toward him. He looked different standing upright. More like a man, less like a moment. 

Akane had only seen him in fragments—bent over her on the battlefield, backlit by firelight and smoke, the silver of his hair soaked red. In her dreams, he moved like a ghost. But now, here, beneath the sun and the sky of this foreign village, he looked real. Worn around the edges. Solid in the way statues were solid—still, yet burdened.

"You're the man who saved me," Akane said, her voice quieter now. 

Sakumo gave a slight nod. "I am."

Silence stretched between them for a moment. 

"Do you know if my sister Guren is alive?" 

Sakumo's face changed, just slightly. The question wasn't accusatory—it wasn't even desperate. It was something else—an echo of something he asked himself every day since the mission ended. 

"I..." He began, voice rougher. "I'm not sure." 

Akane's gaze didn't drop. She stood still, waiting. 

Sakumo exhaled slowly. "We scouted for hours until we found... signs of struggle—chakra residue and blood, but we never found a body." 

Akane blinked slowly. "So she might still be alive."

"She might be," he paused, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "But not likely. The odds were not in her favor." 

"I don't care about odds," Akane replied, too quickly. There was steel in her voice—quiet, still-forming steel, but steel all the same. The kind that could harden into something dangerous, something unbending, if left unchecked. 

"You don't know Guren," Akane continued. "She's strong! Stronger than any of you!" 

Sakumo lowered his gaze briefly. "I'm sure she was—is." 

The courtyard was quiet again. Even the distant sound of children playing seemed muffled. Akane's throat tightened, but she refused to cry. She just nodded—one, sharp motion—and looked toward the cypress trees, where sunlight filtered through like falling glass. 

The courtyard air shifted.

Akane turned slightly at the approaching footsteps—measured, deliberate, like people who were used to being watched.

The man in the robes walked like someone who didn’t need to announce himself. The tall one beside him, wrapped in bandages and shadows, gave off a very different feeling. The kind of feeling Akane had learned to sense from behind her sister’s leg—stay away.

“The Hokage,” Sakumo said beside her, quietly, with a respectful tilt of his head. “And Danzo Shimura, an advisor.”

Akane looked up at the man with the pipe—the same man whose face had been carved into the mountain behind the village.

So this was the man in charge. 

She turned fully to face him, shoulders back. "You're the mountain." 

"More or less," Hiruzen smiled. "And you must be Akane. I wish we were welcoming you to Konoha under better pretenses." 

"I don't care to be welcomed," Akane retorted, frowning. "I want answers. If you're the Hokage, then you're the one who sent the shinobi to my village."

Danzo arched a brow. "She's direct." 

Hiruzen smiled, but there was gravity behind his eyes. “I did approve the mission, yes.”

“Then tell me what happened,” Akane said. “Tell me why everyone’s gone.”

Hiruzen took a long draw from his pipe before answering. “Your clan was caught in the crossfire of a larger conflict. Kumo forces betrayed our attempts at peace. There was... a great misunderstanding. I’m sorry, Akane.”

It wasn’t a lie—but it wasn’t the truth either. She felt the space between the words like fog hanging over a battlefield, opaque and intentional. 

Akane tilted her head slightly. "So Kumogakure killed everyone?" 

Danzo stepped forward before the Hokage could answer. “That’s not your concern anymore. What matters now is your future. You’ll be joining the Academy in a few months.”

“The Academy?” she repeated.

“It’s where shinobi are trained in this village,” Hiruzen explained. “You’ll have teachers, classmates, and missions in time. You’ll be able to grow strong.”

Akane’s mouth twisted slightly. “Like Guren was?”

Before Hiruzen could speak again, a dry voice from behind cut through the air like a blade.

“She’ll need a lot of work if she thinks she’s going to be strong,” Kakashi muttered, standing behind his father, his arms crossed like he’d been there the whole time.

Akane didn’t even blink. She launched herself at him, hand curled into a fist mid-swing.

Kakashi stepped to the side smoothly. 

She stumbled past him—too fast, too committed—and hit the ground hard on her hands and knees, dirt scuffing her palms.

A hush fell over the courtyard.

Her hands stayed planted in the dirt, her blue hair casting a jagged shadow across the ground. She didn’t cry, didn’t yell. She just stayed there, breathing quietly, her shoulders rising and falling with a tightly held tremor.

Kakashi peered down at her, annoyed but mostly uncertain. Then her leg shot out and kicked him in the shin hard. Kakashi yelped and stumbled back, clutching his leg. 

"Ow! What the hell is wrong with you?" Kakashi shouted. 

Kushina rushed forward and grabbed Akane around the waist before she could follow through with a second kick.

Akane didn’t fight her. She just stayed rigid in Kushina’s arms, her mouth set in a tight line, eyes fixed on Kakashi like she was willing him to explode.

Danzo sighed sharply. “This one will be a problem.”

“Thank you, Danzo. You are no longer needed,” Hiruzen said without looking at him.

Danzo’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t argue. His footsteps faded behind them as he turned on his heel and walked off toward the main building, cloak trailing like a shadow too stubborn to let go.

Kushina lowered Akane gently to the ground, then placed a firm hand on her arm. “Hey,” she said quietly, just for her. “You don’t have to fight all the time, you know.”

Akane didn’t respond, but the tightness in her posture eased.

Kakashi scowled and brushed the dirt off his pants. “She’s awful. I hope I never see her again.”

Akane stuck out her tongue without hesitation. “That makes two of us.”

Kushina snorted despite herself, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. Sakumo shook his head in exhausted disbelief. Kakashi turned on his heel and stomped toward the front of the orphanage, muttering under his breath as he went. He didn’t wait for his father.

The courtyard felt quieter now. The wind had picked up slightly, rustling the stubborn rose bushes at the edges of the wall. From the veranda, one of the wardens called for the children to eat. 

Akane looked at the Hokage. “I’ll go,” she said.

Hiruzen raised a brow. “Go where?”

“To the Academy,” she answered. “You said it’s where you train to become stronger.”

“I did.”

“I want to be strong enough to find Guren.” Her voice didn’t waver. “She’s still out there. I know it.”

Kushina’s hand squeezed her arm gently, but Akane didn’t flinch from the contact.

Hiruzen watched her for a long moment, pipe held loosely between two fingers. “You may not find the answers you want,” he said. “But if strength is what you seek, the Academy will teach you to begin.”

Akane nodded once. “I’m not scared.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

Sakumo turned to the Hokage. “I can speak with her instructors—make sure she’s placed with the right squad when the time comes.”

Hiruzen nodded, taking one last look at Akane, the tiny girl standing stiff in the sunlight with her chin lifted like she was already grown.

She wasn’t—but she would be—and the world was already bracing for it.

Chapter Text

Crimson Lotus 
Chapter Two: To Be Legendary

The morning sun broke over the rooftops of Konoha like a promise. Golden light filtered through the rice paper windows of the orphanage, casting soft, warm patterns on the floor. It was still quiet—too early for the usual chatter of children or the soft noise of Nono's humming while she worked—but in one small room near the front, a single girl was already awake, perched cross-legged on a cushion, struggling with a tangle of stubborn blue hair. 

"You'll rip it all out like that," Nono murmured gently, entering the room with a comb in hand. 

Akane looked up, her brow furrowed in determination. "I have to do it myself. I'm a shinobi now." 

"You're a student," Nono corrected as she knelt beside her. "And even shinobi need help sometimes." 

Akane huffed but didn’t argue. She sat still as Nono began to comb through the tangled strands. Her hands were practiced, gentle, calloused from years of fieldwork but steady with the care of someone who had chosen to nurture rather than destroy.

“Are you nervous?” Nono asked.

“No,” Akane lied.

Nono gave a small hum, not pressing. “The Academy isn’t like training alone in the courtyard. There’ll be many students. All kinds of talent. Some with famous names, some with bloodlines, some with none. But all of them are learning, just like you.”

“I’m going to be the best,” Akane said firmly. “So I can find Guren.”

Nono’s hands stilled for a beat. “I know,” she said softly. “But being the best isn’t just about strength.”

Akane frowned. “You said that yesterday.”

“I’ll keep saying it until you listen.”

Nona untangled the blue strands with gentle precision, her voice low. "Strength without wisdom leads to ruin. Power without patience turns to cruelty. Intelligence will save you when you're fists can't. So study hard and learn everything. Master it all—not because the world asks it of you, but because one day, you may need it to reach Guren." 

Akane said nothing for a long time, but her hands had stopped fidgeting.

Nono secured Akane's hair into a ponytail and pressed her palm briefly to Akane's back. "Go on. You'll be late."

Outside, the village was just waking up. The air smelled of fresh rain and warm bread. The streets were still mostly empty, except for the occasional shinobi leaping across rooftops or merchants preparing their stalls. Akane walked with her small pack slung over her shoulder, her spiky hair bouncing with each purposeful step. 

When she reached the front of the Academy, she paused, staring up at the tall wooden gates. Her fingers clenched the strap of her satchel.

A silver-haired man stood beneath the tall tree near the entrance, arms folded loosely over his chest. His armor was worn but polished, and a sword hung easily from his back. Next to him stood a boy dressed in training gear, face unreadable behind a slouch and a pair of dark eyes that were already sharper than most adults.

Akane exhaled loudly, instinctively more wary than nervous. 

Sakumo’s gaze found her, and though his expression remained reserved, his nod was warm. “Akane.”

She stopped and bowed slightly, the movement crisp and instinctual after five months of Nono's pestering. "Hatake-san." 

He studied her a moment longer—it's been several months since he's last visited the orphanage. Akane's spiky blue hair was tied into its usual sharp ponytail. The long strands that framed her small, angular face had grown past her chin. Her slate-gray eyes were still too quiet for a child. She looked like her sister—he remembered that now. 

"I'm sure you'll do fine," he finally said. 

"Thank you." She turned to leave, sandals kicking up dust as she walked. 

Kakashi shifted beside him, arms crossed tightly. As Akane passed them, she glanced his way and caught the flicker of his dismissive glance.

Typical. Akane's eyes narrowed, and she muttered under her breath, "Jerk." 

Sakumo didn't stop her, but he watched her until she passed through the courtyard gates. "Don't underestimate her," he warned his son softly. 

Kakashi gave a half-scoff, half-sigh. "Why? Because she kicked me once?" 

"Twice," Sakumo corrected. "Students like Miato Gai and Akane are easily overlooked until it is too late." 

Kakashi looked at him sideways, but Sakumo's gaze had already drifted past the courtyard, toward the cypress trees where Danzo had stood not long ago. The man had lingered too long, said too little, and watched too long. 

Sakumo's jaw tensed. He didn't trust Danzo—never had. The man trafficked in shadows—called it necessity. Akane was vulnerable, alone, and easily exploited. It doesn't take a highly praised war strategist to understand why Danzo would target her. Sakumo just so happens to be one. 

Kakashi shrugged his father's hand away from his shoulder and walked off, shoulders straight but heavy. Once Sakumo was alone, he finally let his eyes drop. 

Six months. 

Six months since the mission in Frost Country had gone to hell. 

It has been six months since Hanae Uchiha was killed. The Uchiha seemed to be more concerned with the fact that Sakumo was unable to recover the Sharingan. The graphic images of Hanae's disfigured face as she choked on her last words replayed every time Sakumo had to explain that the Sharingan was unrecoverable. 

Six months since Akane's entire clan was massacred. 

That mission wasn't supposed to end in blood. It was meant to deter war. A false-flag operation designed to pit Kumo and Iwa against one another by planting just enough suspicion between them. His team had made contact. The Hoseki had agreed to neutrality. Peace had almost—almost—been possible. 

Six months since he'd been assigned a field mission. He'd been buried in desk work, tied to logistic briefings and junior squad assessments. Hiruzen had claimed it was temporary—time to rest, time to heal, time to let rumors die down. 

Sakumo could feel the resentment building. Danzo was plotting—that much was evident. And Orochimaru... Orochimaru was far too quiet. 

The two of them—one old war dog and one skiddish snake dressed in patience and smoke—had been whispering, maneuvering behind closed doors. He knew they were stripping him of influence, one whisper at a time. It was subtle, like all things political. But he felt it in the paper cuts and silence. The way people didn’t look him in the eye anymore. The way certain ANBU stilled when he walked into a room.

They were slowly writing him out of his own legacy. 

Kushina had asked him, just last week, why he had stopped visiting Akane. She'd been hovering around a lot lately—like an anxious daughter caring for a sick father. 

He didn't know how to explain that every time he saw Akane's face, he saw a mountain of bodies behind her. That when she asked, "Do you know if my sister, Guren, is alive?" all he could hear was the sound of crystal shattering under lightning. The screams of the Hoseki. Hanae's bloody last breath. 

And the silence after. 

He'd save Akane—yes, that part was true. But not for noble reasons, not entirely. He'd saved her because he had to save something. Because if he hadn't—if he'd come back empty-handed, if even one more life had slipped through his fingers—he didn't know if he could've come back at all. 

Akane's life was a reminder of his failure. But her existence was the very foundation upon which his shinobi career rested. 

By the fifth month of Academy training, Akane could hit a moving target with a kunai—sometimes. Her clones still flickered, unstable as morning fog, and she couldn't hold the Transformation Jutsu for more than thirty seconds without it collapsing in a puff of smoke, but she was improving slowly and stubbornly. 

She learned the shinobi basics with ruthless focus: proper kunai grip, the arc of a shuriken thrown, the different chakra control methods—one for walking up trees, another for sticking to water. It was all still foreign to her. Her clan hadn't used chakra this way—that much she remembered. Hoseki techniques had been refined for crystal shaping and spiritual alignment, not for combat. 

Look where that got them, the dark voice in her head chided. 

So, Akane trained. The Will of Fire meant nothing to her—not yet—but the possibility that her sister could be alive did. 

Her days followed a steady rhythm: morning drills in the Academy's east courtyard, lectures on ninjutsu, courses designed for kunoichis, sparring practice, and more drills. The instructors rotated, and none of them ever looked her directly in the eyes for too long. 

Miato Gai had introduced himself with a bow so deep he nearly face-planted, then challenged her to a footrace before the dust from his landing settled. She lost, obviously, but he declared her a 'most worthy rival!' and followed her around the Academy grounds ever since. 

At first, Akane hated it. 

He was loud, tireless, and absolutely obsessed with Kakashi Hatake, who never so much acknowledged him unless it was to scowl or sigh. Gai chased him after class every day with a new challenge: kunai throws, tree climbing, or sparring. Kakashi never accepted. He'd just walk off with his hands in his pockets, silver hair catching the light like a blade. 

"He's stuck up," Akane muttered once, watching Kakashi disappear through the Academy's main doors. 

Gai blinked at her. "Kakashi is the most talented shinobi of our generation!" 

Akane rolled her eyes. "He doesn't have to be a jerk about it." 

But Gai didn't argue—instead, he just smiled at her. And the next day, he'd brought her a training dummy and offered to spot her during chakra control drills. She didn't ask for a friend, but somehow, she'd gotten one. 

Most evenings, Akane trained alone. As a student, she was restricted to the Academy grounds, but they always left her feeling too exposed and were usually closed during the summer break. The trees behind the orphanage, dense with pine and brush, offered more privacy and less judgment. 

She practiced there in silence: tree-walking until her toes bled, throwing practice against worn trunks, even katas she remembered Guren rehearsing. Her control was still unpredictable, but her endurance was improving. 

Akane barely remembered falling. 

One moment, she'd been sprinting through the trees, pushing herself too hard to keep up with the image in her head—of her sister, of strength, of what a shinobi should look like. The next moment, the ground had vanished beneath her. Her foot had slipped on damp moss, and she tumbled down the cliffside, brambles tearing at her limbs until everything blurred into ache and earth and sky. 

She came to a rest in a hollow near the cliff's perimeter, her ankle twisted sharply beneath her, and her ribs sore with every breath. Dirt clung to her face, and her palms were raw. She tried to push herself upright, but her body refused. For a few seconds, she lay there in the leaves and dust, stunned. 

Then the pain started to catch up. 

Gritting her teeth, Akane tried to push herself upright. Her elbows trembled under the effort, and her breath came shallow, ragged. Her ankle throbbed, sharp and hot. She hissed and shifted her weight to her uninjured leg, pulling herself into a seated position. 

She looked down. Her ankle was already swelling, the skin around it angry and red.

Her eyes scanned the woods. No one was around. The orphanage was far— too far to trek back on a possibly fractured ankle—and she hadn't told anyone she was coming out this far to train. 

Akane reached down and tugged the sleeve of her tunic, grunting as she ripped the seam with her teeth and raw fingers. She remembered seeing a diagram in one of the Academy books—something about how to make a sling or a brace—but the image wouldn't come into focus in her mind now, not through the haze of pain. 

She tried, anyway. Looped the fabric around her foot. Pulled it tight. Tried to remember where the knot was supposed to go. After a few clumsy attempts, she gave up with a frustrated growl and just tied the strip of fabric tightly around her ankle like a makeshift compression bandage.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t enough.

But it was something.

Akane sat there, teeth clenched, hugging her knees close while her ankle pulsed beneath the too-tight knot of cloth. Her vision swam. The trees rustled overhead, but she couldn’t hear the wind. Just her heartbeat in her ears and the mounting sense of failure in her gut.

Then, branches shifted nearby. A shadow detached itself from the woods. Slow. Serpentine.

The pale man hadn't moved since she'd first noticed him. 

He lingered just beyond the edge of the clearing, half-shrouded in shadow, his golden eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Not malice, not exactly—but curiosity sharpened into something colder. 

He was tall, dressed in what Akane could now identify as standard Konoha military gear. Pale skin like porcelain, golden eyes gleaming from beneath dark lashes. He watched her with a curious tilt of his head, like a serpent tasting the air. 

"You've taken quite a fall," the pale man said, stepping into the clearing. His voice was smooth, almost too smooth—like something practiced and polished. "You shouldn't train alone, especially at night." 

Akane's mouth parted, but only a breathy wheeze escaped her. 

"Don't worry," he added, crouching beside her. "I'm not here to hurt you." 

Still, her muscles coiled, ready to strike. She was a shinobi-in-training now. She wasn't supposed to be afraid of anything or anyone. 

But this man—he felt wrong. 

He offered her his hand. 

She hesitated. Every warning from the Academy echoed in her mind, but her ankle throbbed with pain, and what little chakra she had was drained from hours of solo training. 

With a scowl, she grabbed his hand. He pulled her up with a steady grace, his grip firm and surprisingly warm. Akane swayed slightly, her pride wounded worse than her body. 

"You've got determination," the pale man said, examining her as if she were a scroll to be deciphered. "Too much, maybe." 

Akane bristled, hobbling on one foot. "I'm training hard to find someone." 

His brow lifted. "A noble goal, but conviction without caution is just recklessness." 

Akane stared at him, uneasy. "Who are you?" 

He smiled—thin and elegant. "Orochimaru," he said at last, the name slipping from his tongue like oil over stone. "One of the Sannin. Surely they've mentioned me in your little Academy lectures?" 

She didn't answer, but the name was familiar—like a shadow at the edge of a lesson, something always spoken of in terms of great power and greater mystery. Her fingers twitched at her sides, but before she could say more, her ankle gave beneath her weight. She winced, nearly toppling again, but Orochimaru's arm caught her mid-fall. 

"Tsk," he said, almost amused. "Stubborn." 

"Don't touch me," she hissed, struggling, but her balance was already gone. 

"You'll only make it worse if you keep pretending you can walk," he countered smoothly. Then, without asking, he crouched and swept her off the ground in one fluid motion—arms firm beneath her knees and shoulders. 

"Put me down!" Akane barked. 

"Perhaps when you've grown a few more inches and learned a few more jutsu," he mused aloud, ignoring her fists pounding his chest. "Until then, I think it's best we avoid another fall."

Akane scowled, fuming in his grasp, but with every step he took through the forest, she realized he was fast. His feet made no sound. His breathing was silent. He glided through branches and narrow trails like he belonged in the woods. Like the trees parted for him. 

She hated how safe she felt in his arms.

“Why are you even out here?” She demanded after a while. 

"Just passing through," he said, though his smile never faded. "This forest is full of useful herbs and other... things." 

"That's weird." 

"So I've been told." 

They emerged from the tree line minutes later, the orphanage in sight, its aging structure bathed in the amber hue of nighttime. Akane stiffened when she saw Nono already waiting at the door, arms crossed, her eyes locked on them both.

“Nono-san,” Orochimaru greeted with a subtle nod, lowering Akane gently to her feet.

“I see she’s injured,” Nono said, her tone clipped. Her gaze flicked from Akane to Orochimaru with practiced neutrality.

“She’ll live,” he said, almost fondly. “But perhaps you should remind her that the forest does not forgive carelessness.”

“I’ll see to it,” Nono replied. “Thank you for returning her.”

And with that, he vanished into the trees, his pale form swallowed by the shadows as if he’d never been there at all. Akane stared after him, chest tight. She didn’t know what it was—something in the way he spoke, or how the air felt colder after he left—but something about that man chilled her.

Akane scowled, arms folded tightly across her chest as she hobbled into the orphanage's modest infirmary. Her ankle still throbbed, swollen and tender from the tumble, and her pride had taken just as much of a beating. 

She couldn't stop thinking about Orochimaru—the strange man with eyes like molten gold, who moved like smoke and spoke like someone who saw through her completely. 

Nono closed the door behind them with a quiet click, gesturing for Akane to sit on the cot. “You’re lucky,” she said as she knelt, unwrapping the makeshift bandage Akane had tried to secure herself. “Could’ve fractured it worse if you landed wrong.”

“I’m not lucky,” Akane muttered, wincing as Nono’s fingers prodded her ankle with practiced care.

“No?” Nono raised an eyebrow. “Most kids who fall off cliffs don’t get rescued by one of the Legendary Sannin.”

Akane blinked. "Legendary... Sannin?" 

Nono frowned. "Are they not teaching you anything at the Academy? Or are you just not paying attention?" 

Akane was quiet. Her mind returned to the way he’d lifted her like she weighed nothing, the way he’d looked at her—not with pity, but… curiosity, like she might be something worth watching.

Nono's fingers lit with a soft green glow as her chakra flowed into Akane’s ankle. The warmth spread slowly, dulling the pain. Akane watched in fascination.

“If your luck were any better,” Nono added with a humorless chuckle, “maybe Tsunade would’ve found you instead and healed you in one punch.”

Akane huffed. “That sounds worse.”

“You’d be healed faster.”

“I’d have a crater in my chest.”

Nono snorted and didn’t deny it. The chakra glow dimmed, and she gently rolled Akane’s ankle in her palm. “There. Tendons are mended. Stay off it until morning, just in case.”

Akane nodded, flexing her foot cautiously. It still ached, but the sharp pain was gone. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

Nono stood, brushing off her hands. “Try to stop jumping off cliffs.”

“I wasn’t—!” Akane began, but Nono was already halfway out the door.

Left alone, Akane glanced down at her newly mended foot, flexing her toes. Orochimaru. One of the Sannin. She hadn't known. But now that she did…

If he carried that title—if people whispered it like a legend—then maybe…

Maybe she could become one too.

She clenched her fists. If anyone knows how to become legendary, it’s someone who already is. If I want to find Guren… I need to be stronger. I need power.

And power didn’t come from playing it safe.

Danzo isn't quite sure where Orochimaru stands when it comes to the intricacies of governing a community constantly on the brink of another war. What he does know is that Orochimaru is a genius—the kind that comes once in each generation. 

The kind of genius that understands not only how the body works, but how it can be rebuilt, reshaped, and repurposed. 

That kind of mind is rare. 

And very useful. 

Danzo sat back in the worn leather chair of his office, the dim glow of the desk lamp flickering across a stack of sealed scrolls and surveillance reports. The air in ROOT headquarters was always a little too cold, sterile, and still. It suited him. Clarity required detachment. Emotion clouded action. And war, true war, was not won with idealism or sentiment.

He reached into the drawer and retrieved a small lacquered box. Inside: a single Sharingan, suspended in a special preservation medium. Still viable. Still potent.

A gift from a mission that had gone… convoluted. The Uchiha who'd once wielded it would be buried in an unmarked grave beyond the Land of Frost. No one would ever know. No one needed to.

Danzo studied the eye, watching the crimson pattern shift in its solution.

He could not implant it himself. The procedure was delicate—too delicate for any of the field medics or black market contacts he occasionally used for ROOT operatives. No—this required precision. Knowledge. Control over cellular rejection and chakra synchronization. It required a surgeon who could blur the lines between medical ninjutsu and something far more advanced.

It required Orochimaru.

Danzo closed the box and locked it again, fingers curling lightly over the seal. Orochimaru was a risk. Unpredictable and secretive. The council watched him with wary eyes, but none of them truly understood him. Hiruzen still believed he could guide him with wisdom and gentle correction.

Danzo knew better.

Geniuses did not crave guidance—they craved space. Resources. Freedom.

And Danzo was prepared to offer those things, so long as Orochimaru continued to be of use. So long as he remained aligned, even loosely, with Danzo's ideas to ensure Konoha's survival. If not… then even the most brilliant candle could be snuffed out in the dark.

For now, though, they would continue their quiet cooperation. Danzo had already requested Orochimaru's presence later that week. 

His fingers drummed once against the desk.

Power must be protected. But sometimes, it must also be stolen.

And Danzo had never been afraid to steal what others were too weak to claim.

Chapter Text

Crimson Lotus
Chapter Three: Sides Unseen

The Academy had grown quiet in recent months. 

Not in the way of noise—children still shouted over each other during sparring matches, wooden kunai still clattered against walls, and instructors still barked out orders with stern, tired voices—but in spirit. The laughter that once drifted through the training grounds had grown thinner, more restrained. Even the sun, once generous and golden in the courtyard, seemed colder now. 

Kakashi sat beneath a crooked pine tree on the south edge of the Academy's yard, shadow pooling at his feet, one arm looped loosely over his bent knee. His eyes tracked movement without interest—fellow students lined up for taijutsu drills, fumbling through katas they should've memorized months ago. A few glanced his way, not to challenge him (they knew better than that), but simply because they couldn't help it. 

He was already so far ahead of the rest of them. 

And already so alone. 

A prodigy—the kind that comes once a generation. As if the word was a badge, not a burden. 

He was scheduled to meet with Minato Namikaze later that day. The Yellow-Flash himself—the designated genius of his generation—had been assigned to oversee Kakashi's transition into fieldwork earlier than expected. Wars didn't wait for children to grow into shinobi. Konoha needed soldiers to fill the gaping holes within the ranks. 

He leaned his head back against the bark of the tree and stared at the cloudless sky. 

His thoughts, unbidden, flicked to Akane. 

The strange girl with the sharp tongue and spikier hair. He hadn't understood her then—he still didn't and long since stopped caring. Regardless of what he did, she always glared at him like he was the problem. 

She wasn't even particularly talented—not in the way others were. But there was something about her, something that reminded him of a kunai forged too early: rough—edged, not yet sharp enough to be useful, and yet, dangerous in how hard she tried to be. 

Akane kept showing up in his orbit, bruised, limping, practicing until her fingers bled. The Academy instructors started calling her determined. And Gai liked her, though Gai seemed to be friendly with everyone. Kakashi wasn't sure if that said more about Akane's taste or Gai's persistence. 

Kakashi knew a lot of things for someone his age. He knew that thunder always arrived after lightning, that the best fishing spots were under tree cover near river beds, and that clean clothes didn't magically appear in drawers—you had to wash, dry, and fold them. 

A year ago, he hadn't cared about laundry. 

A year ago, his father still smiled. 

Now, Sakumo smiled like a man who'd forgotten what the motion felt like on his face. Something inside him had followed out after that mission. He still walked upright, still cooked dinner, still called Kakashi in for evening lessons. But something had changed. Something vital. 

Kakashi had noticed it in the way Kushina hovered, reminding him to eat. In how he would linger past the crowd of parents, only approaching Kakashi until he was the only student in the courtyard. 

That mission had returned Sakumo with a girl and ghosts. And neither of them seemed inclined to leave. 

Kakashi hadn't liked her from the start, but he seldom did like anyone. She was too blunt, too nosy, and worst of all—she didn't treat him like everyone else did. Most people bent their words around him. Too polite, too wary. He was Sakumo Hatake's son, the White Fang's heir. A prodigy. He was supposed to be impressive. 

Akane Hoseki did not give a fuck. 

She treated him like a pebble in her shoe that she never bothered to shake out. He wondered how long she could walk with it digging in. 

And now here they were, a year later, both enrolled in the Academy—well, she was still stuck in the beginner classes while he'd already been advanced to Genin-level coursework, and there were even talks of an early graduation. The war had thinned the shinobi ranks, and they needed soldiers just as much as they needed money. 

He adjusted his scarf, the only proof of his mother's love, and stared at the clock tower in the courtyard. Minato should be arriving soon and guiding him through the next stage in Kakashi's "development." He expected the following months would be filled with dumb, D-Rank missions meant to keep a steady flow of income to sustain the already straining economy. 

Kakashi knew a lot of things for someone his age. 

He exhaled, settling against the tree once more, and let his mind drift. 

Akane again. 

That girl was an enigma. Loud when she wasn't supposed to be. Quiet when she should speak up. She'd scream at one of the class bullies for making fun of her accent, and then she cried silently behind the training hall when no one else was looking. Kakashi had only seen it because he'd skipped taijutsu practice (he'd already perfected the katas) and climbed the roof to be alone. 

She'd already hit him twice! One was a punch to the gut when he said she didn't have a village. The other was a kick to the shin when he belittled her. He didn't think she was worth the risk. 

The punch wasn't impressive, and the kick was a lucky shot. What was impressive was that she didn't back down. Most people avoided a confrontation with Kakashi because they knew they'd lose. Akane didn't care if she lost at all. She cared about something else entirely—Guren. 

Kakashi had overheard his father once, when Kushina returned from a mission in the Land of Waterfalls. Stories of the Hoseki massacre had spread to the other villages, and some whispers were circulating about Hoseki survivors. 

He wondered if anyone had told Akane. 

"Kakashi," a voice called.

He looked up. Minato Namikaze, golden-haired and bright-eyed, stood with one hand raised in greeting and the other tucked casually into his pockets. 

"Are you ready?" 

Kakashi stood, nodding. "Yes, sensei." 

Minato's smile brightened, if possible. "Wonderful. Come on, we've got a scouting route near the southwest perimeter." 

As they walked, Minato asked about jutsu proficiency, formation reading, and survival techniques. Kakashi answered them all like they were test questions, because to him, they were. Eventually, Minato explained who and where Kakashi was expected to report to and what was expected of him. 

Later that evening, Kakashi returned home alone. The house was quiet—too quiet, which meant his father must not be home. 

His father's tea mug still sat on the counter, half-full. Cold. Stained faintly along the rim from hours of neglect.

Kakashi stared at it for a moment.

Then, without a word, he poured the tea down the sink, rinsed the mug clean, dried it with the towel draped over the cabinet door, and returned it to the shelf. Like a ritual.

He made rice and grilled fish for dinner. Not because he was hungry, but because the smell made the house feel less empty. He ate half, distracted. Wrapped the rest in cloth. He’d bring it to the neighbor’s dog if it didn’t go bad overnight.

Afterward, he refilled the water pot, folded his laundry, and polished his kunai. Tasks for the hands. Movements memorized. Chores that once felt like discipline but now felt like habit. Like obligation. Like stillness disguised as usefulness.

He paused at the threshold of the kitchen.

On the floor by the back door, tucked into a thin line of shadow, were Sakumo’s sandals. One turned outward, like he’d left in a rush.

His father wouldn’t be home tonight. Maybe he’d been summoned to another urgent briefing—some last-minute crisis at the border, a meeting behind closed doors with men who never spoke plainly about war and politics. It had been some time since that was their normal, since "urgent" meant "dangerous." But lately, the silences between his father’s returns had begun to stretch like shadows at dusk—longer, darker, and harder to ignore.

Kakashi sat down at his desk. Opened a textbook. Closed it again.

He couldn’t remember when he’d stopped waiting up for his father. When the long pauses between missions stopped feeling like absences and started feeling like… reality. A new normal, too quiet and too wide.

He got into bed. Stared at the ceiling. The shadows above him stretched and shifted with the breeze through the window.

Somewhere in the village, kids were still laughing. Training grounds lit by the dim glow of lanterns. He wondered if Akane was out there. Pummeling a tree. Trying to unlock something in herself, the way others cracked safes.

He envied her certainty. Her belief that the work meant something.

He turned onto his side.

The sandals remained in the hall. Silent.

Waiting.

Akane didn't notice the bruises until she sat down for dinner. Both arms, forearms mostly—light purple shadows just under the skin. Her fingers ached from kunai drills, and the abrasions on her knees were nearly healed. She flexed her hands slowly under the table, hoping Nono wouldn't notice. 

"You need to rest," Nono had said that morning, frowning as she looked over Akane's chakra report from the nurse at the Academy. "Overexertion leads to injury, obviously." 

And maybe that was true. But resting wasn’t going to get her answers. Resting wasn’t going to help her find Guren.

So Akane trained. She trained before class, after class, and sometimes, if she could sneak out early enough, she practiced on her own in the thicketed grove past the orphanage wall, just beyond where the cliff gave way to the forest below. Her fists were never clean. Her hair was always falling loose from its ties. And she had stopped wearing shoes on the weekends because blisters slowed her down.

Still, for all her effort, she was not the strongest in her class. Not even close.

There was a boy named Riku who could run up a tree. A girl named Sayo who could already form a decent water whip. Akane could throw a kunai into a moving target, maybe three out of five times. But when her chakra flared, it crackled unpredictably.

Worse—so much worse—was Gai.

Gai was like an explosion on two legs, all passion and energy and volume. He shouted his attacks mid-motion, tripped over his own enthusiasm, and insisted Akane join him for “pre-sunrise obstacle course routines.” She had thrown her pillow at him the first time he showed up at her window. He ducked. Then handed her two handmade “training weights” wristbands, like it were the start of a sacred pact.

She liked him, even if she wanted to strangle him sometimes.

But Gai had one fatal flaw: he worshipped Kakashi.

Every other sentence started with, “Did you hear what Kakashi did?” or “I challenged Kakashi to another sprint and he beat me—again!”

It made Akane’s molars ache.

Kakashi, with his smug eyes and perfect scores. Kakashi, who had already passed the chakra molding exam and was now skipping out of classes to train under a real Jonin. Kakashi, who couldn’t even be bothered to remember her name half the time. Just "hey you" or "the loud one" or her personal favorite, "Mop-head."

She didn’t hate him. That would give him too much credit. But she disliked him with impressive focus.

Still, there were more important things than Kakashi Hatake.

Like Aio Yamanaka, for instance.

Aio talked constantly about everyone, about everything. Most of it was nonsense, filtered gossip picked up from her cousins or what she overheard when peeking into her dad’s clan meetings. But sometimes, sometimes, Aio knew things. Real things.

Like, which Chunin instructors were being recruited to scout talent, or which students were secretly clan heirs pretending not to be. Or, the one that made Akane nearly drop her bento: that Anko Mitarashi had been seen training with Orochimaru.

“Not that it’s weird,” Aio said, popping a pickle into her mouth. “I mean, she’s weird, so it makes sense. But like, in a 'burn-your-house-down-and-steal-your-socks' kinda way, you know?”

Akane didn’t know (the people who had burned down her house hadn't stolen her socks. They had stolen something much more sacred). But she latched onto the important part.

Orochimaru.

She hadn’t seen him since that day in the woods. When he found her injured and alone, hoisted her up like she weighed nothing and carried her back to the orphanage. When he spoke to Nono like they were equals and not like she was some glorified babysitter. When his voice—slow, smooth, calculating—acknowledged her determination. 

He had looked at her like she was useful.

And maybe that should’ve scared her. Maybe it did. But it also lit something in her chest she couldn’t shake. If Orochimaru saw potential in her, then maybe he could help her grow. Maybe he could teach her things no textbook ever would.

She needed to get to him. And Anko was the key.

Which presented a problem because Anko hated her.

Akane hadn’t even done anything—she’d barely spoken to the girl. But whenever she passed by Anko in the hallway or saw her on the training field, the older girl glared at her like she was something stuck to the bottom of her sandal.

Once, Akane tried to sit near her during lunch. Anko had stared at her for a full ten seconds, muttered “creep,” and moved two benches over.

Akane had bitten her tongue until it bled.

So now it was about strategy.

First: get better. Improve. Train harder. She didn’t have a bloodline, a clan, or a famous name—but she had resolve. And a stubborn streak the size of the Hokage monument.

Second: make Anko see her as worth knowing. Worth respecting.

She started shadowing some of Anko’s training routines when she could. Always from a distance. She noted how long Anko could hold a transformation jutsu. How fast she could move when she got serious. Akane practiced the same forms at night until her muscles screamed.

She didn’t tell Aio what she was doing. Aio would talk. Aio couldn’t not talk.

But sometimes, after everyone else had gone home, Akane stayed back on the training field. Practiced taijutsu against the dummies. Worked through chakra control exercises. The instructors didn’t stop her—they barely noticed her. She was just another war orphan with too much to prove.

And that was fine.

She didn't need their approval. She needed power.

She needed to find Guren.

The old training ground was cracked from overuse—kunai punctures, scorch marks, and the pale blackened ghosts of old explosive tags. Dozens of broken dummies dotted the perimeter, their bodies riddled with kunai marks. This wasn't meant for civilians—this was a restricted area, a backlot for Chunin training.  

Akane crouched near the edge, a bead of sweat running down her neck. Her breathing was sharp and uneven. She had been focusing her chakra through her fingertips for over an hour now, pressing it outward, urging it to shape, to take form, to become something—anything.

But there was no shimmer of crystal. No glittering edges. No sign of the kekkei genkai her sister once commanded like a second heartbeat. 

Just the smell of damp dirt and her own frustration. Akane slammed her hand into the ground, clawing at the dirt. Her ribs stung, and her palm throbbed from the chakra residue. 

The crystals should have bloomed by now, shimmering in turquoise shards around her hand, forging the energy into solid form. She'd seen it before—once, her father creating a lotus flower. The memory had grown hazy and stale and now felt like a dream. 

Akane stood slowly, brushing off her knees. Her palms were raw, scraped red. Her eyes burned, but she blinked the sting away, refusing the appeal to cry. Her body tensed instantly as two figures emerged from the edge of the tree line, approaching the training grounds.

Akane reached for the kunai at her belt, fingertips brushing the steel, but she didn't draw it yet. 

The first boy had an irritating, perpetual smug look, like he already had something witty to say before you were even done speaking. He wore a bandana tied with a crooked knot in the front. He cocked his head at her, a senbon glinting between his lips. 

The second was broader, more lanky. He seemed more cautious than the shorter boy, like he didn't want to be here in the first place. His serious eyes narrowed slightly before he scratched the back of his neck, unsure. 

Akane blinked, watching the two boys freeze a few yards off, hands empty, eyes curious. 

She didn't trust them. "Not supposed to be here," she said evenly. 

Genma smirked. "Neither are you." 

Akane's jaw tensed. 

Genma must've sensed her unease. "We won't snitch." 

"Why should I trust you?" Akane raised a brow. 

Genma glanced at Asuma, then back at her. "Because he—" he jerked his thumb toward Asuma, "—is the Hokage's kid. And no Chunin is going to report his kid for trespassing into some sub-par training zone." 

Akane tilted her head, gray eyes narrowing. "That makes you less trustworthy. You work for the Administration," Akane's voice lowered, as if the word was forbidden. 

Asuma frowned. "The what?" 

Akane crossed her arms, still breathing a little hard from training. "The Administration," she repeated, slower this time. "That's what they call it at the orphanage. The Hokage, the Konoha Council—all the people that make decisions about us without ever meeting us." 

Genma understood this as the kind of thing an adult would often say. Genma assumed she was reciting what she'd overheard in the orphanage. 

Asuma blinked, visibly uncomfortable by her words. "Oh," he muttered, glancing away. "Don't think of it like that." 

Akane shrugged, pretending she didn't notice their reaction. She drummed her fingers against her exposed bicep before sighing. "I sneak here and practice. As you can imagine, not much space in an orphanage." 

Silence settled for a beat. Genma scratched the back of his head, looking uncomfortable for once. "Look, we're not here to snitch. We just saw someone training and got curious." 

Akane's gaze lingered on them both, weighing, measuring.

Don't trust them, the dark voice chided. But something else—something smaller and more vulnerable—hoped that maybe they meant it. 

Asuma stepped forward a little. "Seriously. We won't snitch. You're... good, by the way. I've seen you training with Gai. He gets on everyone's nerves, but you keep up with him. That's not easy." 

Akane raised a skeptical brow, but her voice lost most of its sharpness. "Barely." 

Asuma shrugged. "Still more than most." Then, after a pause: "You wanna spar?" 

The clashes of fists and feet echoed through the training ground, steady and rhythmic. Akane moved like a blade—sharp and precise, though a little raw in places, her footwork still rough on uneven terrain. Asuma met her pace with more natural power, his punches weighty and grounded, but his instincts weren't quite as refined. 

From a higher ridge of the training ground, nestled between the blackened limbs of a leaning pine, Anko Mitarashi crouched in silence, arms resting on her knees.

She hadn’t come here for Akane. Not originally.

She’d been tailing Genma again. Not because she liked him or anything, but because he always seemed to know where things were happening. He had this uncanny knack for appearing where he wasn’t supposed to be, and Anko, being both nosy and bored, had made a habit of trailing him during her free time.

She told herself she was only up here because she was bored, but the truth was murkier. When she'd followed Genma and Asuma past the training perimeter, she thought she'd get a good laugh watching them flub some secret sparring session. Akane's presence was completely unexpected but not unwelcome. 

Now, Anko couldn’t look away.

Akane was fast. Sloppy in some places—too eager to commit to a hit—but there was something raw and vicious in her style. Asuma moved like someone with good fundamentals, but Akane moved like someone who needed to win. There was a difference.

"Not bad," Anko muttered under her breath. "But she’s still not that good."

She shifted on the branch and popped the empty dango stick between her teeth, chewing it irritably.

Her eyes drifted to Genma, sitting cross-legged on a nearby boulder and tossing Asuma a water canteen. He was grinning, lazy as ever, chatting with both of them like they were teammates. Like they were all equals. He was always like that—easy with his attention. She used to like that about him.

Now she wasn’t so sure.

A flicker of memory intruded. Orochimaru’s voice, cold and quiet, from their last meeting:

"What do you think of the girl—Akane, is it?"

She hadn’t answered. Not directly. Just scowled and said, “She’s sloppy. Undisciplined.”

Orochimaru had smiled that slow, curling smile of his. The kind that always made her feel like a knife on a dissection table. “Undisciplined, huh? That's correctable.”

He said it just to spite her. She knew it. Just to get under her skin.

And it had worked.

Anko leaned back against the trunk, arms crossed, stewing. Orochimaru had barely praised her lately. Their training sessions had grown more intense, more brutal. No more compliments. Just expectations. Demands. Silent judgment.

And now he was curious about Akane?

Anko's mouth twisted. “Tch. Let him watch her. Let him see how she flails around.”

But even as she thought it, her gaze flicked back to the clearing.

Akane had just landed a sharp leg sweep that knocked Asuma on his back. She followed it with a punch to his ribs—controlled, precise, pulled just short of actually hurting him. Asuma wheezed and tapped out, flopping to the side with a huff of laughter.

Genma whooped. "Damn, Asuma, you just got your ass kicked by the rookie." 

Akane grinned, teeth bared, cheeks flushed. For a moment, she looked proud.

And Anko hated how impressed she was.

Was Orochimaru right to take an interest?

Was she being replaced?

The thought coiled in her stomach like a cold snake.

She tried to shake it off. Orochimaru was her sensei. He’d chosen her for a reason. He’d told her she had potential—raw power, a willingness to do what others wouldn’t. She knew she was strong. She didn’t need his constant reassurance.

Anko leaned back, the tip of her dango stick resting against her lips. The air smelled like pine and sweat and bruised ego.

Still… she couldn’t stop watching Akane.

Couldn’t stop hearing that smug curiosity in his voice when he’d asked about her.

Couldn’t stop wondering—If she’s so interesting, what does that make me?

Down in the clearing, Akane froze.

Her back stiffened, chin lifting slightly, eyes scanning the treeline with a slow wariness. Anko went still in the branches above, not making a sound. Not even the birds dared stir. The kid had good instincts, she’d give her that.

Akane’s eyes passed over the trees, searching. Her gaze hovered just beneath the canopy where Anko crouched, hidden in the shadows of the pine. She squinted, uncertain, then looked away.

Anko smirked. If Akane had sharper vision—if her chakra control was just a little better, her senses just a little more refined—they’d be staring right at each other. But they weren’t. Not yet, at least.