1 Chapter no.1 Prologue

[ Author Note : Before we begin, I would like to share some information with you ( readers ):

• This is a continuation of another fanfiction that I grew to love by Naruto: Jinchuriki of the Six Paths by X009

• By continuation I mean, I want to take X's work - with his permission, and put my own spin on it so from the very first chapters changes are going to occur. Small changes that are going to be minute at first but are going to grow Catastrophic proportions just like my pokemon fanfic.

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"Love is an endless mystery, for it has nothing else to explain it. Hate, on the other hand, is the outcome of injured self-love - a product of the wounded 'I'." - Rabindranath Tagore.

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Within the dark, damp interior of a cavernous hideaway, Madara Uchiha, an aged warrior of legendary prowess and repute, stood in stoic silence. The jagged stones of the cave walls were veiled in a shroud of obscurity, only illuminated intermittently by the flicker of torches casting long, wavering shadows. An odd juxtaposition of primeval nature and calculated human intent, the cave served as a sanctuary for the seasoned shinobi.

Madara, his once vibrant auburn hair now laced with silver, exhibited the physical testament of a life strenuously lived. His skin was etched with the lines of time, adding to his overall stern visage. Yet, his onyx eyes, windows to an indomitable will and unyielding determination, shone with a distinct luster. He was clad in his traditional dark armour, worn from years of battles, and the symbolic fan of the Uchiha clan adorned his back.

In his hands, he held a scroll delicately, each unrolled inch revealing kanji characters inscribed meticulously on the worn parchment.

Continuing to peruse the fragile parchment, Madara's eyes narrowed on a section that caught his interest – the distinctive hand of Tobirama Senju, the Second Hokage and his one-time adversary. The script was an analysis, a detailed exploration of the Uchiha bloodline, their Kekkei Genkai – the Sharingan.

"Journal Entry: On Uchiha's Sharingan," Madara murmured, his voice carrying a resonant echo that seemingly danced around the rocky interior of the cave. He could recognize Tobirama's meticulous attention to detail, his scientific approach to uncovering the secrets of the Sharingan.

He began reading aloud, his deep voice vibrating through the cave, "The Uchiha, as I've observed, are a clan not merely unique for their inherent battle prowess or their striking bloodline traits. They are unique for their heart, for their propensity to feel more deeply - both love and hatred - than any other. This duality of emotions seems to act as a catalyst, awakening an essence that dwells in the labyrinth of their genetic makeup."

Madara's eyes flickered, a spark of interest evident as he continued, "The Sharingan, it appears, is not a product of their blood per se but rather an essence that arises from their DNA. An awakening triggered not by the purity of Uchiha blood, but rather by the intensity of emotions. It is this potent cocktail of hatred, of love and despair that seems to act as a key, unlocking an ancient power buried within them."

"The strength of an Uchiha's Sharingan, therefore, does not correlate to the purity of their bloodline, but rather to the intensity of their emotional spectrum. This observation is not a mere theory but a hypothesis confirmed through careful experimentation on the corpse of Hikaku Uchiha."

A mixture of science and mysticism, facts interlaced with theories, Tobirama's notes revealed a depth of understanding that surpassed clan boundaries and individual prejudices. The harsh torchlight threw the inked characters into stark relief, and Madara could almost sense Tobirama's curiosity and respect, wrapped within the confines of this scientific inquiry. The scroll revealed not just the essence of the Uchiha, but perhaps a glimpse of the man who penned these words.

Absorbed in the compelling narrative of Tobirama's analysis, Madara couldn't help but reflect upon the fundamental paradox that defined his life and his clan – the dance of love and hatred, the catalyst to their might, their power, and their ultimate doom.

As Madara delved deeper into the scroll, his eyes caught the familiar script, this time focused on Tobirama's own lineage – the Senju clan. Intrigued, Madara's stern countenance softened, revealing a spark of curiosity as he began to read aloud the analysis of his own former adversaries, their rivals in power and essence.

"Journal Entry: On Senju's Essence," Madara muttered, drawing his gaze over the carefully penned characters. His voice, echoing off the rugged cave walls, filled the space with Tobirama's decades-old thoughts.

"In our investigation of the hidden energies that define the great clans, it becomes imperative to also shed light on the mysteries of my own kin – the Senju clan. A question often lingers, how do we Senju stand toe-to-toe with the Uchiha, with their formidable Sharingan? The answer, it appears, lies in an essence just as profound, but fundamentally different."

Madara's voice took on a heavier tone as he continued, "Unlike the Uchiha, where the essence lies dormant only to be awakened by a surge of strong emotions, the essence of a Senju awakens at birth. It does not wait for the tides of love and hatred to stir it into existence; rather, it thrives from the very inception, nurturing our inherent resilience and versatility."

He read on, "This innate essence, it seems, is tied closely to our life-force, to our willpower. It permeates our being, shaping our destinies, driving us towards peace and prosperity. It is our essence that gifts us the strength to endure, to heal, to forge bonds, and to fight with unyielding determination."

The words rang with a strange resonance, painting a vivid contrast between the two great clans. Madara, a seasoned warrior and the embodiment of the Uchiha's passionate spirit, found himself ensnared in the enigma that was the Senju essence.

Pausing his reading, Madara's gaze fell onto the dancing shadows the torchlight cast. The interplay of light and dark reminded him of the age-old rivalry and reluctant camaraderie between the Uchiha and Senju – two clans, both gifted with unique essences, forever entwined in the grand narrative of their world. A reflection of love, hatred, power, and an unyielding will – a testament to their shared history.

Madara's fingers traced the scroll further until he paused, feeling a series of irregularities on the otherwise smooth parchment. The unmistakable impressions of tear stains, old and faint, yet preserving the rawness of an emotion long past.

"Journal Entry: Hashirama Senju," he read the title aloud, and the echo in the cave seemed to carry a somber note. As he began to read, his voice was softer, more reflective, underlining the significance of the words inscribed.

"Hashirama... my brother... has succumbed. His life force, a beacon that had illuminated our path, has flickered out. His remarkable ability to regenerate mid-battle was not without its cost. While his outward vitality deceived us all, within, it was shaving away at his life force. Unbeknownst to him, to us, he had been walking on the brink of death."

A silent pause fell upon the cave as Madara continued to read, his voice a mere whisper, "Tonight, my brother has passed. His departure was not as a warrior on the battlefield but as a man, in his bed. Yet, we have chosen to tell the world otherwise – Hashirama Senju, the God of Shinobi, fell in battle, not in sleep."

The scroll, laced with Tobirama's pain and respect for his fallen brother, was a testament to the magnitude of the loss. A silent commemoration, echoing the departure of one of the greatest shinobi the world had ever seen.

Madara paused, the scroll still clutched in his hand. The flickering torchlight cast a soft glow on his hardened features. Memories of his old friend and rival, Hashirama, flooded back - the battles they fought, the dreams they shared, the world they had envisioned together.

Finally, as a whisper in the echo-laden cavern, Madara spoke, his voice imbued with a potent mix of respect and determination, "Farewell, old friend... Hashirama. I vow to carry on our shared dream. I will create the world we envisioned, the world where love and understanding triumph over hatred and discord. Our dream will not perish with you but live on through me."

With these words, Madara Uchiha, the legendary shinobi, remembered his fallen friend. A moment of solemn promise amidst the silent whispers of the cave, a pact sealed in the depths of their shared history.

Reading further into Tobirama's account, Madara stumbled upon another entry – a chronicle of Tobirama's endeavors post-Hashirama's demise. His voice grew tense as he read, "In pursuit of fortifying Konoha, I have initiated experiments on Hashirama's remains... to extend the gift of his unique Wood Release to others."

A surge of anger, like a violent tidal wave, rushed through Madara's veins at the revelation. His eyes, a stormy sea of black, flashed with the fire of indignation. Tobirama, in his quest for power, had desecrated the remains of his very own brother, of Madara's once rival and friend.

The scroll crumpled slightly in his tightening grip, the tension in the cave amplifying. And then, in a fit of fury, Madara released a wave of chakra that resonated throughout the cavern. The energy surge was so potent that the torches flared brilliantly for a moment before being extinguished, plunging the cave into temporary darkness.

"Tobirama!" he bellowed, his voice a resonant echo of fury that filled the vastness of the cave. The sound was a raw testament to his outrage, a vehement objection to the dishonor inflicted upon Hashirama's memory.

In the ensuing silence, only the crackling embers of the extinguished torches and Madara's heavy breathing could be heard, a stark reminder of the explosive surge of anger that had consumed the Uchiha legend.

As the echoes of his rage receded into the depths of the cave, Madara found himself awash in thought. His mind whirred back to the words inscribed upon the Naka Shrine's stone tablet – a secret lore of the Uchiha clan. The tale of the Sage of Six Paths, the Ten Tails, and the Moon's Eye Plan – the Tsukuyomi – played out before his mind's eye.

"Is this the path I should take?" he pondered aloud. His anger towards Tobirama's disrespect was still fresh, yet he couldn't help but consider the possibilities. "Could I... should I manipulate the essence of the Uchiha and Senju? Could that awaken the eyes of the Sage, the Rinnegan?"

This contemplation led Madara into an ethical dilemma. He loathed Tobirama's disregard for Hashirama's dignity, yet he saw the potential implications of his actions. The integration of the Uchiha's passionate spirit and the Senju's unyielding will could be the key to achieving the power to change the world, to realize the dream he shared with Hashirama.

As the torchlight flickered back into life, casting eerie shadows on his conflicted visage, Madara found himself standing at the precipice of a critical decision. The legacy of two great clans, the history of an ancient sage, and the future of their world hung in the balance.

However, the specter of the Eye of the Moon Plan loomed ominously over his thoughts, a chilling reminder of the potential risks and sacrifices that came with the pursuit of such power. The echoes of his fury and the whispers of the cave served as a constant reminder of the path he now considered, a path lined with power, potential, and peril.

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Whirlpool is a beautiful, terrible place.

The rivers glisten. The air is fresh. The hills roll in green splendor and the beaches seem to go on forever. The sunsets are stunning, dyeing the ocean a brilliant deep red… its hue is just like that of the blood being spilled all over the country.

Once upon a time, the people here got along well. Well, enough that our government had been closer to a democratic republic than a military state. Even though—or maybe perhaps because—we lack a daimyo and our Hidden Village is supposedly in charge of everything, Whirlpool had once enjoyed impressively amicable domestic relations. While the shinobi of the village had drawn the line at matters of national defense and foreign policy, they'd left things like commerce and labor to the hands of the common folk. Things had been pretty prosperous; as a nation of merchants and artisans, supported by home-grown farmers and fishermen, we had really been able to thrive. In those days, my mother once told me, people had been both wealthier and wiser, not to mention a whole lot friendlier. Very much the opposite of the way they are now.

Now... well. I don't know who started it, really, since it was before my time. The civilians began to riot; the Hidden Village put down martial law. Half of the people want to throw the shinobi out of power, claiming that the country is governed by the people, and the other half say the Uzushio-nin have always been in charge—they were just kind enough to let the civs have some power over themselves. But either way, no matter who is really in charge, it's a coup.

Either way, it's civil war.

It's all because of the Uzumaki clan. Everyone knows it. Both the Hidden Mist and Hidden Cloud are getting ready to destroy them, and it goes without saying that when they fall, all of Whirlpool will fall with them. The people are already suffering; with both Kiri and Kumo enacting embargos, the only thing keeping us afloat is our connection with Fire Country. It's a substantial one, to be sure, but it's not nearly enough to sustain the whole island. This, the rebels assert, is also the fault of the Uzumaki. They're too brash and they're not diplomatic. This souring of relations has come about because of their lack of political savvy, their childish displays of power, and their unwillingness to make a compromise. They should have known better than to antagonize two of the Elemental Nations, especially when tensions are running so high with the threat of another world war. That's why, they say, Whirlpool should do everything to expel the Uzumaki. It's the only way to save the rest of the country. We'll be spared destruction so long as Kiri and Kumo get what they want: the end of the fuuinjutsu masters.

Obviously, the Hidden Village has a problem with that. Uzushiogakure was founded by the Uzumaki, after all. None of the ninjas have any intention of letting them get their way.

And so Whirlpool stands, divided in two. The shinobi and the civilians who support them against the ones who call for their deposition. The latter of the two groups has taken it upon itself to use every opportunity to drive the Uzumaki out: interfering with missions, refusing to trade food and clothes, making lynch mobs, and chasing whatever red-haired shinobi they come across. Or, well, they try. Ninjas are quite hard to kill, so the rioters usually settle for burning down houses and murdering their wives and children instead.

I know this first-hand. My father had been born and bred an Uzumaki.

My dad hadn't lived with us and he hadn't married my mother—they'd only been lovers—but he'd been kind to me. He'd supported us financially, and when he'd been able, he'd visited and played with me. He'd sent presents and souvenirs when he was on trips overseas and he'd never stayed away for too long. For a twenty-year-old, barely an adult, he'd been surprisingly responsible.

Uzumaki Haruo. That had been his name.

Every now and then, I like to stop and think about him. Then I quietly imagine what life would be like if we were all still alive and together. He'd keep up the routine we'd had, visiting and sending money, before he would finally decide to come and take us to Uzushio. We would pack up our belongings and move to the Village Hidden in Whirling Tides; I would go to school, make friends, and he would teach me to be a kunoichi. He would finally work up the courage to propose to my mother, too, and then they would get married. Maybe they would have another baby. A boy, perhaps. I would play with him in the afternoon and he would call me Oneesan. Or maybe I would be an only child and my parents would spend all their time doting on me, buying me things and playing with me, and giving me hugs.

But I try not to daydream about it too much. It's depressing to think about things I can't have and it's not good to zone out for extended periods. Someone might mug me. Or rape me. Or maybe even just murder me.

My hair gives it all away, after all.

I usually try to keep it covered, but kerchiefs aren't foolproof and mine is rapidly becoming threadbare. Even though I've chopped most of my hair off, the only reason I'm probably still alive now. Other children with more prominent features have a much harder time than I do, and I have seen many of them die for it.

Though, well, I suppose I have more going for me than just my bald head.

A lot of people don't believe it when I say I've been on my own since I was four. Ten-year-olds, twelve-year-olds, teenagers, and adults—everyone has a hard enough time already, surviving in the Whirlpool that is today. Sucked in by the crime, the poverty, the desperation... you could say we're already barely living at all. There is no way a four-year-old could have borne it long enough to see her eighth birthday. No child like that exists.

No, really. She doesn't.

When they shake their heads and say it's impossible, I agree with them. A four-year-old who could survive the murder of her mother, escape a burning house, and avoid the trickery of the countless scummy bastards looking to cheat everyone and anyone to get ahead, doing so for four whole years? With no support, mentor, guardian, or guide? No. No such girl exists. The only one who comes remotely close to it is me, and I had an advantage that none of the other Uzumaki children had. If I closed my eyes, I could track chakra over a vast difference alongside sensing the intent of others.

This special ability of mine helped me survive.

So yes, that is it. The four-year-old survivor doesn't exist, but I do. Blessedly, I do.

And I will do anything to keep it that way.

I grimace as a spray of blood splashes onto my shirt, splattering red drops across its already filthy threads. The man across from me gasps and rears back, dropping his knife so he can clutch his leg and curse. I quickly throw a kick between his knees and cuff him across the face before sprinting away, wiping my rusty kunai on my sleeve.

Violence is a staple of this country nowadays. It was like this even when my mother had still been alive. But despite that, I usually try not to stab people in vital places if I can help it. Killing people is really only a last resort; the country is already shitty enough without me throwing dead bodies around.

Not that my contributions would make much difference. There are piles of corpses already. It's not really uncommon to duck into an alleyway and find that you're stepping on a dead man's face anymore. The first time it had happened to me, I sat next to the poor bloke's body and cried for nearly a half hour, but nowadays there's nothing to do but jump over him and go on your way. You can't help those people anymore. You're better off saving your energy; then you can spend it on someone who's alive, be it yourself or others. One of my first friends has been the one to tell me that when she'd found me weeping over that stranger's corpse: "Get a move on unless you love him enough to be to be buried with him."

Her name had been Sayaka. Yamamoto Sayaka of the Uzumaki clan. Like me, she'd been the love child of a civilian woman and an Uzumaki ninja; he'd died in battle a few months before we'd met. We'd only been together for a single evening, Sayaka and I, but even today I find myself still thinking of her. She had run all over town with a Uzushio hitai-ate, obtained from a mass grave while scavenging, strapped over her flaming red hair. Ah, what a kid, so incredibly bold and foolhardy. I remember her very fondly. She'd been a filthy, lice-ridden, bastard Uzumaki child, and she'd been happy to let the world know it. I have no idea if she's still alive or not. Probably not.

Beyond her, I've mostly been on my own. I've had a couple of temporary partnerships, and there was even one point in time when I lived with five other kids in an abandoned shrine.

As I duck under a chain-link fence and grimace when my bloody shirt smears red onto the bottom of my chin, I think of all of the things I learned from them.

Three of the five of them had actually been full-blooded Uzumaki with proper ninja training; of those three, only one had grown up in Uzushio. Fourteen years old, he'd been the boy in charge of all of us, and I can honestly say we wouldn't have lasted without him. Not only had he been mature and level-headed, he had known a boatload of ridiculously useful seals, and he'd made sure to teach us each of them. One for storing large amounts water that would otherwise be too heavy to carry, one for producing flameless heat that you could use in the winter, storage seals for clothes and for food... things that can really make the difference between life and death when you live this kind of lifestyle. He had also taught us how to defend ourselves, how to hold knives and what spots to aim for when someone wanted to hurt us.

After two months, though, he'd moved on. He had been a proper Uzushio ninja, after all, and he'd needed to return to the village. After being injured and separated from his squad, he'd holed up with us only as long as he'd needed to get into traveling condition again. I think he might have wanted to take us with him, but transporting a bunch of small children across the country had not been in his ability at the time.

In the end, he had left us with as much of his extra weaponry as he could have spared and bid us to come and make our way to the Hidden Village if we could. These days, he'd told us, they're taking in any refugee children who can prove heritage to the Uzumaki clan. "If you can make it to Uzushio," he had said, "you'll be saved. And if luck is on your side, you halfies may even find a parent in the village."

That had been two years ago. I take a deep breath as I finally emerge on the far side of town, the eastern edge that stops dead at the beginning of the Yuzu Foothills. The sun is finally beginning to rise and the sky is slowly lightening with shades of pink and orange.

I exhale.

Two years to drag myself across the whole of Whirlpool. Two years of squinting at a faded map with torn edges and running ink. Two years since Kenma had drawn it for me, and two years of dodging death and disease at every corner. Two years to make it to the final stretch.

Somewhere in those hills there is the Village of Longevity, Uzushiogakure. Somewhere in there there are hundreds of ninjas, watching over the country and waiting for stray Uzumaki children to come running home. Somewhere in there is safety. Somewhere in there is freedom.

I step forward and begin the climb.