The world had shattered.
From where Hinata sat, everything unfolded not in sight or sound, but in deeper, resonant waves through her soul.
The chaos of battle raged beyond her reach. She sat quietly on the terrace among the unconscious dignitaries, her hands folded gently in her lap, her head tilted slightly toward the battlefield she could not see.
And yet she saw everything.
Around the stadium, where bodies fell, their souls lingered.
Some hovered in confusion, blinking at the world they had left behind. Others screamed silently, their mouths wide with disbelief. Most appeared whole, their souls manifesting in perfect condition, unmarked by the violence that had ended their lives. Only those who had fallen to Takama's blade bore their fatal wounds even in death—throats still slashed, limbs still severed, the scars of their last moments etched indelibly into their very essence.
Hinata watched as the air grew thick with the drifting dead.
And then came the shinigami.
They walked slowly across the battlefield—shadowy figures wrapped in long, flowing garments that shifted like smoke. They paid no heed to the living or the dying. One by one, they reached out with pale, elongated fingers, plucking the lingering souls from the earth and tucking them into their endless cloaks.
There was no malice. No cruelty. Only inevitability.
Hinata instinctively reached toward where her quarterstaff should have been, sensing its lingering echo like a phantom limb. Her fingers found only empty space. Instead, she let her hand drift down, resting it gently against Kuro's warm, steady form, feeling the protective growl vibrating through her faithful companion's body.
Takama Gin fought not far from the edge of her perception.
Through her soul-sight, Hinata perceived him as a bright, steady flame—grey with silver with threads. His blade, a living extension of his will, sliced through enemy after enemy. But more than bodies fell before him: Hinata could see it clearly now.
When Takama struck, he severed not just flesh but the very anchors of the soul.
The enemies he defeated collapsed lifelessly, their spirits torn free, blinking once in shock before the shinigami gathered them like fallen leaves.
Even in death, Takama's cuts were clean—merciful. No soul he felled lingered long in pain or confusion.
The samurai and elite shinobi around the dignitary terrace formed a protective circle. They fought fiercely, blades flashing and jutsus flaring. Yet every so often, one or two would cast glances toward Hinata.
And their faces betrayed their astonishment.
While nobles, merchants, and lesser shinobi lay unconscious around her, Hinata Gin sat upright, composed, her sightless eyes serene, untouched by the genjutsu or terror.
Some samurai whispered among themselves in awe.
One older warrior, his armor dented and blood-splattered, murmured, "The little lady... is awake."
"A priestess?" asked another.
"No," said a third, voice low and respectful. "A spirit-walker."
Hinata ignored their murmurs. Her focus stretched beyond the mortal struggle.
Above the city, the sky trembled.
Though she could not see the towering walls of chakra rising high above the Hokage's stand, she felt their oppressive weight pressing against the very fabric of the world.
And within that dome, she sensed a battle unlike any she had ever imagined.
Two titanic souls clashed—one ancient and heavy like a mountain, the other slick and serpentine, writhing with malicious glee.
The ground trembled from their confrontation.
But worse than the clash of titans was what Hinata sensed emerging nearby: souls... twisted.
Moving.
They stumbled forward in the spiritual plane, shackled by chains of dark chakra that dragged them into battle against their will. Warriors from bygone eras, stolen from death and hurled back into suffering.
Hinata's heart clenched painfully.
These were not evil spirits. They were prisoners.
She reached for them instinctively with her soul—reaching with nothing but compassion—but the black bindings snapped at her presence, recoiling like venomous serpents.
Kuro barked sharply, sensing Hinata's distress, her body tense and ready to pounce at unseen threats.
Hinata stroked her head gently, grounding herself. "It's all right," she whispered. "We can't fight this... not yet."
She closed her focus inward, centering herself amid the swirling storm of death and chaos.
To her left, Takama still fought, his movements a dance of ruthless precision.
Every time an enemy fell, Hinata watched their souls drift upward—or be collected by the shinigami if they lingered too long.
Some resisted, struggling futilely against the inevitable. Others accepted their fate and folded peacefully into the dark folds of the collectors' cloaks.
Hinata wondered if, when her time came, she would see them too.
Perhaps she would not fear it.
She sat quietly amid the chaos, her soul wide open.
Every heartbeat, every scream, every clash of steel rang within her chest. She felt the courage and despair, the rage and hope of the shinobi fighting below. Threads of life stretched and snapped all around her, woven and unwoven by unseen hands.
And through it all, Kuro stayed by her side—a steadfast, living anchor.
The samurai guarding the terrace tightened their formation, understanding without words that the young girl in their midst was not helpless, but sacred in some ineffable way.
She could not stand yet.
She could not fight yet.
But she could bear witness.
She could remember.
And perhaps, when the time came, she could act not from fear—but from understanding.
Far away, where the battle raged highest, she felt Naruto's soul—still burning bright, stubborn, unyielding.
She smiled faintly.
The world was on fire.
But she was not afraid.
And in that silent reverie, Hinata Gin prepared herself for what would come next.