Chapter 47: The Shadow in the Mirror
It's a strange thing, really—how the heart can carry more weight than the body, even when you're in the middle of a battle with a chrome-plated monkey from the digital void.
Naruto didn't stop moving. He darted left, spun through the air, and sliced through a cluster of cables with Blade Kuwagamon's shining edge. But in his chest—beneath the sage cloak, the Digimon armor, and the roaring courage—his heart was heavy.
And not because he was tired. No, he'd fought through exhaustion plenty of times. This was different.
This was existential.
Because lately, Naruto had come to a startling conclusion. A theory that curled into his thoughts like a cold mist at night and whispered:
"You're not human. You're not even Naruto. Not really."
He wasn't the boy from Konoha who loved ramen and shadow clones and wore orange like it was going out of fashion. Not entirely. He was a Digimon. A memory, a shadow of the true Naruto, rebuilt from data and shaped into a being that looked, sounded, and even felt like the original.
And that... that hurt in ways no Rasenshuriken ever could.
But even more than the pain of possibly being a fragment, a ghost wearing the clothes of a hero, was the fear—what if his world, his home, was in danger? What if there were no real people left to protect it?
"Focus," he muttered under his breath, parrying another strike. "Whining won't fix anything."
What surprised Naruto most was that, despite this big, soul-shaking revelation... he still cared. He cared a lot.
These kids—Takeru, Kari, Takato—and their Digimon? They weren't just data. They were his friends.
Real or not, digital or flesh, friend was friend. And Naruto Uzumaki—fragment or otherwise—did not let his friends die.
...Except he had. Too many times already.
He saw their faces—Digimon partners who had stood bravely, only to fall in battle. Sparks of data scattered like fireflies. Gone.
And each time it happened, he clenched his fists tighter.
Each time, he wanted to scream.
Each time, he saw Arachne, smiling that calm, venomous smile behind her shades and web-patterned hat, as if it was all just some chess match.
She didn't even flinch when one of her own fell. She simply stepped over the fallen like a queen in heels stepping over puddles.
Naruto gritted his teeth. "I swear... if I can't beat you, I'll at least make you regret showing up."
Meanwhile, in the air above him, MagnaAngemon fought like a storm in holy robes. There was something knightly about him—like a Digimon version of Sir Lancelot crossed with a literal beam of light. He swung his radiant sword with divine grace, wings flaring against the polluted sky, his every motion careful and precise.
But his eyes—oh, those eyes—never stopped flicking back to Takeru.
You didn't need to be a genius (or a ninja) to know why.
Because Arachne wanted to eat him.
"Yes, eat," she'd said sweetly, as though asking for extra sugar in her tea. "Such a rare delicacy—a child of light and hope."
MagnaAngemon had nearly gone feral at that.
Now, he flew with a quiet, cold fury. And Naruto, watching him, felt something warm stir in his chest. Not envy. Not admiration. Something in between.
"He really loves that kid," Naruto thought. "Just like I…"
He paused.
Just like he had once loved those closest to him. His friends, his family, his own world.
Real or not.
Suddenly, a cable snapped toward him like a whip. Naruto dodged instinctively, landing in a crouch just beside MagnaAngemon as the angel parried another dark bolt with a swirl of his sword.
"You alright?" MagnaAngemon asked, not looking.
"Define 'alright,'" Naruto muttered, wiping a smudge from his cheek.
"Still breathing?"
Naruto gave a lopsided grin. "Then yeah. Peachy."
They stood back-to-back for a moment, warrior and ninja, angel and ghost, allies in the strangest war this side of the firewall.
"I don't know if we can win," Naruto said quietly.
MagnaAngemon didn't answer right away. He just raised his sword again and faced the queen of shadows and her monstrous court.
"We're not here to win," the angel finally said. "We're here so the others have a chance. If we fall, we fall doing what's right."
Naruto blinked. And for some reason… he laughed.
A small, broken laugh.
"Sounds like something I'd say," he replied.
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To say the situation was grim would be like calling a stormy ocean "a bit splashy."
From atop the stone walls of the city, Matt Ishida and Joe Kido stood frozen—not by fear exactly, but by the sheer absurd weight of responsibility pressing down on their shoulders like a Digimon the size of a small truck. Which, given the current battlefield, was a real and present possibility.
Below them, chaos raged. Sparks flew, data shimmered, and half the city square had already been turned into a rubble-strewn battlefield fit for a final boss fight. Digimon—friends, coworkers, and the occasional sentient teapot—were fighting tooth and nail to protect the city they'd come to call home.
And Matt was watching.
He hated that he was watching.
For over a week, he'd worked at the city's small corner restaurant—peeling vegetables, serving customers, occasionally chasing a fire-breathing Numemon out of the pantry. He knew these Digimon now. Not as distant digital constructs or passing allies, but as real people with names, dreams, and recipes for noodle soup.
And now they were fighting for their lives.
Because of him.
He gritted his teeth. "This is our fault," he muttered, the wind tugging at his blonde hair.
Joe didn't answer right away. He had been staring too. Watching Digitamamon—grumpy, egg-shaped, and secretly kind—trying to hold his own in a fight that was several leagues above his usual stress level.
Joe's first instinct was to suggest, very logically, "Maybe we should run."
Which was a perfectly sensible idea, really. Strategic retreat. Pull back. Regroup.
Except… he was supposed to be reliable, wasn't he?
The guy with the plan. The one people could count on. And right now, the only thing he was counting was how many friends were risking their lives down below.
He clenched his fists.
"I'm not that guy anymore," Joe said aloud.
Matt turned to him, a little surprised.
"I'm not the one who just watches," Joe said again, straighter now. "I'm the one who's supposed to step in when everyone else panics. That's what… that's what reliability is. Right?"
Matt gave him a look.
And then, like some cosmic switch had been flipped by the truth in their hearts, light began to shine.
Warm and brilliant, gold and silver, the light from their Crests poured outward like fireflies escaping a lantern.
Matt's Crest of Friendship pulsed with the strength of every bond he had—Yamato and Gabumon, Yamato and Takeru, Yamato and the Digimon who had laughed with him over burnt fish and lunchtime gossip.
And Joe's Crest of Reliability shone with every moment he had chosen responsibility over safety. Every time he stood still when his knees wanted to buckle. Every time he said, "Let me handle this," even if he didn't know how.
The ground trembled as their Digimon partners responded.
Below, Gabumon howled into the battle, his form stretching, morphing, glowing.
"Gabumon, digivolve to… WereGarurumon!"
With a thunderclap of light and fur, the calm warrior of the wild burst onto the scene, fangs bared, silver hair shining, muscles rippling like a glam rock concert come to life.
Beside him, the stalwart Ikkakumon roared into the sky, curling his body with power.
"Ikkakumon, digivolve to… Zudomon!"
And suddenly, there was a hammer the size of a wagon wheel crashing down onto the battlefield, thunder and sea spray exploding in every direction.
Matt grinned. "Took you long enough."
Joe let out a small, awkward chuckle. "Well, I had to be sure."
They leapt from the wall (with slightly less grace than they intended—Joe landed with a wobble), and dashed toward the fight.
Because while logic and fear and retreat made perfect sense…
…friendship and reliability?
They made better warriors.
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Now, there are some villains who enter a battlefield with quiet menace. A low growl. A cold stare. A creeping dread that crawls down your spine like a forgotten tax bill.
Arachne was not one of those villains.
No, Arachne made an entrance.
With a swirl of midnight silk, a tilt of her darkly jeweled head, and a laugh that would put even the most dramatic theater aunties to shame, the spider queen danced through the battlefield as though it were her private stage.
"Oh look," she purred, webbing slicing effortlessly through rubble and charred stone. "They've brought in the muscle-bound furball and the hammer-wielding clam. How adorable."
From her perch of chaos, she twirled her wicked Dark Blade, its edge so cursed it could slice through power itself. It shimmered with the kind of arrogant glee one typically finds in particularly smug cats or evil monarchs mid-monologue.
Digitamamon, for his part, remained perfectly unimpressed.
"Bit much, don't you think?" he said flatly, dodging a razor-thin line of webbing that would have cheerfully sliced a skyscraper in half. His voice echoed from within his eggshell body like someone on speakerphone in a very expensive toaster.
Arachne blinked, surprised he'd dared to talk back. She lunged.
Digitamamon responded with a laser beam from his eye socket. As one does.
Dark energy sparked and cracked across the battlefield. Webs hissed as they met swirling shadows, each attack exchanged like quips in a particularly savage debate club.
But Digitamamon was holding his own—barely. His control over trauma and darkness meant that her usual psychological traps bounced off him like rubber balls against a cement wall. Unfortunately, so did most compliments, casual jokes, and polite requests.
Still, she circled him with clear hunger. "You're not even an entrée," she said, flicking her web around him like an artistic drizzle of balsamic glaze. "You're more like… a novelty hors d'oeuvre. But I suppose I'm feeling indulgent."
Digitamamon narrowed his eyes. "I'm a fine-dining egg, thank you very much."
Digitamamon wasn't smiling anymore.
Not because of her insults—he'd heard worse from restaurant customers demanding vegan tempura with extra ghost peppers.
No, it was her eyes.
She wasn't enjoying the fight.
She was assessing him.
Sizing him up like a spider deciding just how crunchy the shell would be.
Inside his mind, Digitamamon did what he always did when faced with a life-threatening challenge: he stalled, played cool, and silently panicked.
"Come on, Yggdrasil," he thought desperately. "You picked them for something. Right? Now would be a great time for that whole miracle thing. Just… any second now. Please?"
He dodged another blade slash by a hair and fired another laser with all the enthusiasm of a tired office worker flinging out emails on a Friday afternoon.
Miracle pending.
Hope dwindling.
Dramatic spider villain cackling.
Yes, things were perfectly normal in the digital world.