The jungle stretched endlessly, an ancient, primeval wilderness untouched by time. Towering trees with bark as dark as charcoal loomed high above, their canopies tangled into a dense ceiling of foliage that smothered the sunlight. What little light filtered through came in pale, flickering shafts that danced over the mossy ground. Vines hung like ropes from the branches, swaying slightly in the thick, humid air. The silence was heavy—broken only by the occasional rustle of unseen creatures and the distant cry of carrion birds.
Roots the size of a man's torso coiled and cracked through the forest floor like sleeping serpents, making movement perilous. In places, the earth was slick with moisture, and pools of stagnant water shimmered with a green sheen. The air was choked with the scent of damp vegetation, mud, and the sharp copper tang of spilled blood.
The clearing where the conflict was taking place was surrounded by thick underbrush, wild and thorned, like nature itself had conspired to trap whoever was within. Branches snapped and leaves stirred as shadows moved with predatory intent, circling the heart of the clearing like wolves testing their prey. Despite the open space, the feeling of being caged in was suffocating.
In the center of this natural arena stood the white-haired boy, chest heaving, feet braced. His clothes were ragged, torn at the edges from the chase and the skirmish, and streaked with blood—some his, some not. His pale hair was matted against his forehead, and his right hand trembled slightly as it clutched a kunai. Behind him, a girl of similar age, her face smeared with dirt and tears, clutched the hem of his tattered cloak, eyes wide with fear.
All around them were eleven figures, cloaked in various garbs, each brandishing weapons—blades, staffs, even their bare fists. Their faces were obscured by shadow or masks, but their intent was clear. The white-haired boy's breath came in sharp gasps, but he never took a step back. His body, weakened and bloodied, remained as a final wall between the girl and the Shinobis.
The boy's breaths were ragged, blood trickling down the side of his face from a wound just above his brow. His knees buckled slightly, but he forced himself upright. He couldn't afford to fall—not here, not now. Behind him, the girl whimpered but did not cry aloud. Her trust in him was absolute. He was her shield, and if he fell, there was nothing left between her and death.
One of the assailants took a slow step forward, the undergrowth crunching under his foot.
The boy's grip on the kunai tightened, and though his arms trembled, his stance remained steady. A flicker of energy pulsed faintly around his body, more instinct than technique—fuelled by sheer will. The figures surrounding him began to move, each step synchronized, a noose tightening around his resolve.
He whispered without turning,
"When I move, run. Don't look back."
The girl opened her mouth to protest, but no words came. She simply nodded through her tears, her small fingers releasing the torn edge of his cloak.
Then it happened.
The boy moved.
He lunged at the nearest enemy, catching them off guard, and landed a wild, desperate slash across the attacker's arm. Blood spurted, and the masked figure recoiled with a cry. But the others were quick. Two rushed him from either side. He ducked under one strike, twisted away from another, but a blunt weapon caught his ribs with a sickening crack.
He spat blood, staggering.
Still, he turned—eyes blazing like silver fire—and lashed out again, forcing them back. He was no longer fighting to win. He was buying seconds. Just seconds.
"RUN!" he roared.
The girl did.
She ran.
The girl's feet stumbled over a root, but she pushed forward. The path twisted between thick, ancient trees whose roots coiled like serpents through the underbrush. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
She could still hear the distant sounds of steel clashing, grunts of pain, and—most haunting of all—his voice.
But she didn't get far.
From the shadows, four masked shinobi dropped down, surrounding her in a perfect square. One of them grinned beneath his cloth mask.
Another cracked his knuckles. "Orders were to bring her back alive."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she stood firm. Her hands trembled, but she raised them in a defensive stance she had barely begun to learn.
"Don't touch me…" she whispered, her voice defiant, even if small.
Meanwhile, back in the heart of the jungle clearing—
The white-haired boy ducked beneath a horizontal slash, rolled forward, and sprang up with uncanny speed. He flicked a trio of shuriken from his pouch with deadly precision. The weapons spun through the air like metal whispers.
Thunk. Thunk. THUNK.
One found its mark in the neck of a shinobi who gasped and dropped to his knees, blood spurting. Another buried itself in a leg, halting an attacker mid-charge.
The third missed—no, it didn't. It had been thrown high, angled just so. As an enemy leapt over him, it sliced clean across the man's eye, sending him crashing to the dirt, screaming.
The boy didn't stop. He was moving purely on instinct now—fast, fluid, and deadly.
A shinobi charged him with a tanto blade, but the boy sidestepped the attack with a sharp pivot. He hooked the man's arm mid-swing, twisted his wrist, and drove his own kunai upward into the attacker's chest with a cry. Blood splattered across his face. Another one down.
Only five remained.
But they were getting more cautious now. They encircled him again, communicating silently. He was breathing harder now, arms scraped, one leg limping slightly from a bruise forming under his shin.
Still, he stood tall— eyes burning with defiance.
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Deep within the dense canopy of an ancient jungle, the forest stirred with unease. Birds scattered into the sky as something fast—unnaturally fast—tore through the trees. Branches bent and snapped, vines were flung aside, and the sound of heavy breathing echoed with urgency.
A figure darted through the greenery—a boy no older than fifteen. His black spiky hair whipped behind him like a streak of moonlight in the shadows of the jungle. Sweat trickled down his brow, his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps. Leaves slashed his face and arms, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.
Each step was powered not just by chakra, but by raw panic.
His breath was ragged, his heart thundering like a war drum, but he didn't slow down. His silver hair streaked behind him, and his eyes—sharp, wild, and frantic—scanned the horizon between the trees for any sign of them.
"Damn it—where the hell is Minato-sensei?!"
The thought screamed through his mind over and over.
"He must be out on a mission—why now? Why today of all days?!"
The forest felt endless. Tall trees loomed like silent giants. Their thick roots twisted across the ground like traps, but he glided over them with the precision of a shinobi in true panic. Every few steps, he'd glance toward the distant sky—searching, praying, hoping he wouldn't be too late.
He pushed forward, a blur of speed and desperation. Every vine that tangled his feet, every root that tried to trip him—he tore through them all.
'Kakashi… please… don't forget your promise.'
His chest tightened, his lungs burning.
"Don't let Rin get hurt—please, not until I get there!"
The canopy split for just a moment, and in the distance, he finally saw it.
A faint golden rift in the sky—ominous and trembling. And the scent of blood.
So much blood.
He grit his teeth.
"I'm almost there…"
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Meanwhile—deep within the battlefield—the cries of clashing steel echoed through the trees. Shuriken were embedded in bark, the earth was torn and scorched, and blood painted the leaves a sinister red.
Kakashi Hatake, barely thirteen, was crouched low, panting heavily. His left arm hung limp—broken from a brutal clash minutes earlier—and a gash across his cheek trickled blood down to his mask. His silver hair was matted with sweat, dirt, and blood, and his single visible eye darted around with tactical precision, despite the pain.
Opposite him stood several figures cloaked in the dark grey attire of Kirigakure's ANBU. Their masks bore the emblem of mist—featureless, eerie, and predatory. Surrounding them was an unnatural fog, thick and suffocating, blanketing the battlefield like a shroud of death.
One of them stepped forward—taller than the rest, his mask cracked slightly to reveal a cruel grin.
"Heh... Hatake Kakashi of Konoha," the Mist ANBU chuckled darkly."Famous for your cold eyes and flawless record. But now look at you—bleeding, trembling."He raised a long, curved kunai glinting with blood."We've got the girl. The Three Tails Jinchūriki is in our grasp... and we're about to take out a prized shinobi of the Leaf in the same breath."
Kakashi didn't respond. He tightened his grip on his remaining kunai and steadied his stance. Even with one arm down and exhaustion dragging him toward the ground, he stood his ground.
"I made a promise-" he muttered beneath his breath, eye narrowing.
The Mist ANBU chuckled again and signalled the others.
"Kill him."
They moved swiftly—five shadows lunging from the fog with silent steps, blades raised.
Kakashi dashed sideways, narrowly avoiding a kunai to the chest, then twisted his body mid-air and jammed his blade into one attacker's side. A cry rang out, but Kakashi was already turning to meet the next. A shuriken grazed his thigh, blood spraying as he skidded along the mud, pain shooting through his body—but he endured.
Then, a heavy blow struck his back, sending him tumbling. He landed harshly, gasping, body screaming in protest. One of the Mist ANBU stepped on his back, pinning him down.
"This is the end, brat. You'll be remembered… maybe."
He was about to deliver the decisive blow—
A sudden scream echoed through the mist. Then another. And another.
The Mist ANBU paused, blade still raised, as a shriek of agony rang out behind him.
The sudden chaos disrupted their formation.
In that heartbeat of confusion, Kakashi's eye widened. He gritted his teeth, twisted violently, and drove his kunai upward into the throat of the ANBU pinning him.
Blood sprayed, hot and thick, as the attacker gargled and fell limp.
Kakashi shoved the body off, coughing and gasping as he rolled to his feet.
His battered form stood again, soaked in sweat, dirt, and crimson—but his resolve only grew sharper.
'What's happening over there? Rin , I hope you're okay-'
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[A couple of seconds before]
Meanwhile, on the other side of the battlefield, Rin found herself utterly surrounded. Four shadowy figures, clad in dark shinobi gear, slowly closed in from all sides. Their eyes gleamed with cold calculation—not a hint of mercy. It was clear they intended to capture her alive, a prize for whoever sent them here.
Rin's breath came in shallow gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly as adrenaline coursed through her veins. Every muscle in her body screamed at her to run, but she was trapped. She stumbled backward, her hands trembling, the weight of desperation settling heavily on her shoulders.
Her mind flickered desperately to her comrades—Kakashi, Obito—
Could they hear her silent pleas? But the forest around her was eerily quiet except for the rustle of leaves and the occasional distant birdcall, cruelly indifferent to her plight.
She was worried about Kakashi who was alone fighting-
"Don't bother-" one of the ninjas sneered, stepping closer.
"You're finished. Just lay down and make this easy."
His hand tightened around his kunai, the metal gleaming ominously.
Rin's eyes darted frantically, seeking any sign of hope, when suddenly one of the ninjas shifted uneasily. His gaze fixed rigidly on something behind Rin, his face paling.
"W-What's that?!" he whispered hoarsely, voice trembling with disbelief.
The others turned to him, eyes narrowed.
"What the hell are you talking about? We've got her right here."
But the first ninja's eyes didn't waver. His voice dropped even lower, barely audible,
"Behind her… look."