The scent of scorched earth and the sharp tang of blood clung to the battlefield like a second skin, a fitting backdrop for the desperate war between Konohagakure and Sunagakure. The air trembled with the force of countless jutsus clashing, blades clanging, and bodies falling. And yet, amid this chaos, in a small clearing guarded by an eerie silence, an old monk knelt on the dry, cracked ground.
He was a gaunt figure, his age evident not only in the deep lines etched into his face but in the profound weariness in his eyes. He was not here by choice.
The monk, Bunpuku, had been imprisoned for life, his fate sealed by the very village he now watched from the edge of the battlefield. Sunagakure, once content to let him rot in darkness, had dragged him back into the light only because their need outweighed their fear.
Now, surrounded by an elite sealing squad, Bunpuku felt the heavy weight of a dreadful command he had been given in hushed tones: If Sunagakure falters, you must release the power within. The power he had suppressed all his life. The power of the One-Tailed Shukaku.
He had hoped it would never come to that. He had hoped that his village, even in desperation, would find a way to win without turning to the monster caged inside him. But as he watched from afar, his heart sank.
The Fourth Kazekage was struggling against the Third Hokage, and while the battle raged on, it was clear to Bunpuku's experienced eyes that his side was at a disadvantage. Jiraiya had the upper hand against Ebizō. Even Chiyo, the legendary puppeteer, was locked in a stalemate with Orochimaru, unable to tip the scales decisively.
Bunpuku exhaled slowly, his breath shaky. For just a moment, he lost his grip. The seal trembled. The chakra of Shukaku, ancient and malevolent, surged forward like a tidal wave seeking freedom. It was only for a second, but it was enough. The chakra, foreign and monstrous, screamed into the battlefield.
And it was felt.
Akira, perched on a hill at the battlefield's periphery, felt his blood chill. His eyes, already glowing crimson with the power of the Sharingan, flared in alarm. He turned toward the source instinctively, his senses sharpened to a razor's edge.
That chakra… it wasn't human. It wasn't anything like what he had felt before. Not from Tsunade, not from Orochimaru, not even from the monstrous summons that dotted the field. It was older, deeper, and overwhelming.
He staggered for a moment, the shock enough to create a small opening in his battle with Yekura, the famed Sunagakure kunoichi. Her blade slashed toward him, but he recovered just in time, pivoting away and throwing a handful of smoke bombs to obscure her view.
Then, using the smoke as cover, Akira released a flurry of shadow clones. While they moved to encircle and distract Yekura, the real Akira slipped underground using Earth Release, emerging moments later on the far side of the battlefield.
He climbed a lone ridge, scanning the area with his Sharingan. His vision cut through the battlefield's haze until it locked onto a strange scene: a cluster of Sunagakure shinobi were not fighting. They were gathered tightly around a kneeling figure.
Akira narrowed his eyes. An old monk.
Then recognition struck.
"Bunpuku," he muttered.
Akira remembered the name. The first Jinchūriki of Shukaku. A man so revered by the tailed beast that even Shukaku, a creature of chaos and hatred, had compared him to the Sage of Six Paths. A pacifist in chains. A vessel of unimaginable destruction.
Why is he here?
In the original timeline, Bunpuku had been imprisoned for life, a tool never used. But this war wasn't unfolding like the original. Akira's very presence had already twisted the strands of fate. And now, it seemed, Sunagakure had grown desperate enough to play their final, most dangerous card.
Akira's mind raced. The seal had flared, if only briefly, but that flare confirmed it—Shukaku was close to breaking free.
He swallowed the rising dread. He knew how this played out in stories. The hidden power of the tailed beast would be unleashed, and the hero—usually the time-traveling protagonist—would be forced to step into the light, reveal their trump card, and save the day. The world would see his Mangekyō Sharingan. His name would spread like wildfire. And the eyes of Madara, of Zetsu, of those lurking in the shadows, would turn toward him.
But Akira had no interest in fame. Only survival.
He returned his gaze to the battlefield. His shadow clones were still distracting Yekura with feints and evasive maneuvers. She hadn't caught on that none of them were real. He had time. Not much, but enough.
And an idea.
If Bunpuku releases Shukaku, and no one can stop it… then someone else must. But not Akira—not directly. He couldn't afford that spotlight. Not yet.
Unless…
Unless someone else took credit.
His mind turned toward one man. Might Guy.
The embodiment of explosive physical power. A man feared by many and understood by few. In the timeline Akira remembered, Guy had the potential to challenge gods. If there was anyone on this battlefield who could stand against a rampaging Shukaku and survive, it was Might Guy.
And Guy wasn't fighting at full throttle yet. He had been holding back, watching the tide of battle with intense focus.
Akira smirked to himself.
Perhaps the time had come for the "Blue Beast" of Konoha to bare his fangs.
But first, he had to ensure Bunpuku didn't unleash Shukaku prematurely. If the seal broke too soon, the battlefield would be torn apart before anyone could react.
Akira reached into his pouch and pulled out a specialized kunai—tagged with a chakra suppression seal of his own design. A project he had quietly worked on after studying suppression techniques used by the Uchiha police force.
He formed the hand seals quickly.
"Summoning Technique: Clone Messenger!"
A shadowy copy of himself burst forth, its form more ephemeral than a standard clone. Its only purpose: reach Bunpuku and deliver a message.
The clone darted through the battlefield, weaving past enemy lines with inhuman agility. Akira watched through its vision, feeling every step.
As the clone neared Bunpuku's location, the guards reacted—too slow.
The clone didn't attack. It merely knelt and spoke directly into the monk's ear.
"They will make you release it. But you don't have to give them control. You don't have to lose yourself. Remember who you are, Bunpuku. You're not their weapon."
Bunpuku's eyes widened slightly.
Then the clone vanished.
Akira exhaled slowly, watching for a reaction. He didn't know if it would work. But maybe—just maybe—it would buy enough time.
Down below, Bunpuku sat still. But his trembling had stopped. The seal around him flickered again—but not from fear. From resistance.
The guards didn't notice. Not yet. But Bunpuku had heard the words. A seed of doubt had been planted.
And Akira would use that sliver of time to prepare his next move.
Because if the worst came to pass, and Shukaku was set loose upon the battlefield, then Might Guy would need to be ready.
Akira vanished into the shadows, already crafting the illusion that would make Guy the savior of the day.
And if all went well—Akira would remain unseen, unknown, and undisturbed.
Just the way he liked it.
Scorch Release: Great Steaming Murder!
Pakura of Sunagakure thrust her hands forward, her fingers weaving the necessary seals with fluid precision. A moment later, shimmering orbs of searing heat appeared in the air around her—her signature kekkei genkai in full force. The orbs condensed rapidly, merging into a massive sphere of blazing energy that pulsed with heat so intense, the very air rippled and twisted around it.
The jutsu unleashed a torrent of heat across the battlefield, scalding the earth and reducing once-sturdy rocks to steaming slag. Soil cracked and crumbled beneath the overwhelming pressure. Trees nearby wilted, their leaves curling and blackening without ever catching fire, robbed of moisture by the ambient heat.
But Akira, eyes gleaming with the crimson hue of his Sharingan, was already on the move. With the effortless grace of a seasoned dancer, he evaded the deadly inferno. His body flickered like a phantom, vanishing and reappearing several meters away, completely unscathed. The scorched battlefield behind him bore the marks of devastation, but the young Uchiha remained untouched.
Pakura scowled, sweat beading on her brow—from heat and frustration alike. "Damn it," she muttered under her breath. "He's too fast."
Her eyes darted to the crowd of shadow clones still circling Akira. They mirrored his exact movements, each one equally agile, equally unpredictable. She had initially mocked his tactics in her mind, thinking him cowardly for refusing to engage her directly. But now, her earlier confidence was beginning to falter.
At first, she had assumed his Shadow Clone Technique was a simple stalling tactic, meant to buy time until reinforcements arrived or she ran low on chakra. Her plan was to destroy the clones one by one, until the real Akira ran dry. Then she'd strike him down with her final jutsu.
But the clones weren't engaging in full-blown combat. Instead, they used what she now realized was a tactical, calculated maneuver—the strange, flickering technique she had seen before. Each time she moved to strike, the clone would blur away using what Akira referred to as the Speed Force, only to reappear just out of range.
It wasn't simply dodging. It was taunting. Strategic, surgical evasion designed to whittle her down.
Despite having unleashed her deadly kekkei genkai several times, Pakura had only managed to destroy five clones. The rest still darted around like fireflies, out of reach. Her chakra, however, was being siphoned away at an alarming rate.
Sweat poured down her neck as she calculated the odds. One-third of her chakra reserves were gone, and Akira still had fifteen clones. That wasn't just bad odds—it was a warning bell. And worse yet, the remaining clones seemed stronger than before, no longer mere decoys but legitimate threats. The reduction in their number meant that Akira's chakra was now more concentrated within them.
Pakura gritted her teeth. She had to change tactics.
She turned her focus inward, drawing upon every ounce of her battlefield experience. If she couldn't outlast him, she would outthink him.
She narrowed her eyes, searching for subtle cues that might reveal the true Akira among his shadows. A less practiced user of the Shadow Clone Technique would have imperfect clones. Their gaze might be vacant. Their reactions a split second delayed. But Akira's clones moved with synchronized confidence. No flicker of hesitation. No misplaced step. They were indistinguishable from the real thing.
Pakura's mind raced. Could she risk eye contact? No. She couldn't afford to be caught in a genjutsu. She'd already felt the subtle pull of his ocular jutsu once. A second lapse in judgment could mean the end of her.
Unbeknownst to her, the real Akira was no longer even on the battlefield.
While Pakura obsessed over finding his real body, Akira had already used Earth Release to burrow beneath the field, reemerging in a hidden position atop a low hill. Most of his body was still buried underground, only his eyes visible through a slit in the earth.
From his hidden vantage, Akira scanned the field with his Sharingan, not just observing Pakura, but monitoring the entire battlefield. He was searching for Bunpuku, the One-Tailed Jinchuriki, whose presence he had briefly sensed earlier. That monstrous chakra had flared up for only a second, but it was enough to chill Akira to the bone.
Shukaku. A force not meant to be wielded casually. Akira wanted no part in drawing attention to himself. Not yet. Not now.
Still, his eyes flicked toward the ongoing fight with Pakura. He saw how expertly his clones were handling the situation, how efficiently they adapted to the new strategy he had passed to them. They had realized that Pakura relied almost entirely on the Great Steaming Murder and had adjusted accordingly.
Her technique was fearsome, yes, but one-dimensional. It wasn't her fault. Scorch Release was rare, almost mythical. There were no schools for it. No scrolls. No history. Pakura had likely invented her technique through years of trial and error.
The very fact that she had developed any jutsu at all with her kekkei genkai was a testament to her skill. But she wasn't the Second Hokage. She didn't have a library of forbidden techniques at her disposal.
The tide was turning. Akira could see it.
Then his clone reached out across their mental connection, silently requesting orders.
Should they finish her?
Akira paused.
He didn't want to kill Pakura. Not yet. She could be useful. An asset.
So instead of an execution order, he sent back a plan. Something theatrical. Something misleading.
The clone paused mid-fight, as if struggling to maintain its footing. The others around it did the same. Then, one by one, the remaining shadow clones dispelled themselves in puffs of smoke.
Pakura blinked in confusion. What was happening?
Only five clones remained.
And they looked tired.
Visibly worn.
She felt a surge of hope rise in her chest. Had she finally broken his chakra reserves?
Akira's real body smiled beneath the earth. His plan was working.
The remaining clones began to falter, their movements sluggish, their breathing labored. They retreated defensively, giving Pakura the illusion of dominance. The illusion that victory was within reach.
She seized the opportunity.
Racing forward, she unleashed another Great Steaming Murder. It roared across the ground like a wildfire, vaporizing anything in its path.
Two more clones fell.
Only three remained.
Pakura's breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded in her chest. She could feel it—the moment was near.
She darted left, right, weaving through the battlefield. Her Scorch Release created a wave of blistering heat that forced the remaining clones to scatter. She launched herself at the nearest one, a kunai in hand, slashing forward.
It dodged, but just barely. Its movements were sloppy. Hesitant.
Pakura smirked. "You're out of tricks, Uchiha."
The clone stumbled back, shaking its head in exhaustion.
Behind her, the other two clones moved slowly, clearly struggling to maintain cohesion.
Pakura tightened her grip on the kunai, preparing to end it.
She didn't see the subtle signal that passed between the three remaining clones.
Didn't notice the faint, imperceptible flicker of chakra beneath her feet.
She was fully invested in the drama.
And so, the curtain prepared to fall.
From his vantage point, Akira watched with satisfaction. His clone's performance was impeccable. Just the right amount of weakness. Just the right amount of desperation.
He would not waste Pakura. She could serve as a valuable card to play in the wars to come.
But first, she had to believe she had almost won.
Life is like a play, Akira thought.
And no one understands acting better than me.