The desert had changed since Akari last stepped foot in it. Not in form—its dunes still stretched endlessly, golden waves beneath the sun—but in presence. The wind no longer whispered aimlessly; it carried intent. The silence wasn't empty—it was listening.
Akari stood on the ridge, flanked by his selected team. Behind him: two elite sensory types from the Nara and Uzumaki clans, one field medic, and a sealing specialist hand-picked by Tobirama himself. Every member moved with the calm precision of veterans, yet all of them occasionally glanced toward Akari for reassurance. He felt it—unease buried beneath duty.
The remnants of the old Suna encampment lay ahead, now half-buried in sand. What had once been a place of ritual was now a forgotten grave.
"Spread out," Akari ordered. "Two-by-two formations. Mark every sigil you find. Don't touch anything until Haru verifies the seal integrity."
The sealing expert, a pale-eyed Hyūga with chakra-sensitive ink etched along his forearms, nodded. "Already sensing distortions beneath the surface. Whatever's here… it isn't sleeping soundly anymore."
Akari descended into the ruins.
Beneath a collapsed stone archway, he found what he was looking for: a ring of obsidian markers, each etched with symbols foreign to any known shinobi dialect. Yet something about them felt familiar. Not in form—but in resonance.
He reached toward one of the stones. The air shimmered around his hand, chakra resisting the intrusion like water resisting a blade. He pulled back.
"They're active," he muttered.
"Not just active," said Haru, crouching beside him. "They're absorbing chakra from the environment. Very slowly. The rate suggests... centuries of gathering."
Akari's brow furrowed. "To what end?"
Before anyone could answer, the air changed.
The temperature dropped. The sand vibrated.
From the far end of the ruins, a low hum began—a pulse of energy, faint and rhythmic, like a heartbeat from deep underground.
Weapons were drawn. Seals unfurled.
But Akari raised a hand. "Hold."
The sound wasn't hostile. It was… calling.
He stepped toward it, the pulse growing louder with every footfall. His mind flashed back to Madara's words: Even gods can die. But they never forget.
Something down there remembered.
And it had noticed him.
Suddenly, the seal beneath his feet ignited—a ring of black light circling him in an instant. The world around him slowed, blurred. He heard voices, layered like echoes in water, speaking no language he knew—yet their meaning reached his soul.
"He bears the mark. The heir of stolen fire. The will of broken balance."
Akari gritted his teeth, drawing on his chakra instinctively. "Who are you?!"
"We are not what you name. We are what your kind buried, and what your blood fears."
Then, the vision shattered.
He stumbled back, Haru catching him.
"Captain?!"
Akari blinked rapidly. The seals had vanished. So had the pulse.
He took a breath. "It's not a creature. Not entirely. It's a memory... alive."
"A sentient seal?" Haru asked.
"Something older. Not just chakra, but intent woven into space. Like a ghost with purpose."
He looked toward the horizon, where the desert met sky. The mission had changed. They weren't just uncovering an ancient threat. They were waking something that had once shaped the world—and might do so again.
Akari clenched his fists. "We need to report back. But not just to the Hokage."
He thought of Madara and Hashirama—their strength, their philosophies, their growing divide beneath the surface of friendship. If this force could influence the balance of power… it had to be understood, or Konohagakure might be consumed by what it could not control.
And he wouldn't let that happen.