The streets pulsed with heartbeats. Not the clumsy cadence of footsteps on wet stone, nor the ephemeral whisper of hushed voices carried on the wind. No. To my newly refined senses, Kusagakure was a living, breathing, bleeding thing, it's very arteries and veins thrumming with life. The relentless rain, a perpetual veil, had become its tears, its endless, sorrowful weeping. To others, this was merely a quiet, rain-drenched village, tucked into the ancient, dripping spine of the world, ever dreaming its placid, forgotten dreams. Yet, beneath this veneer of tranquility, I could discern the faint, underlying currents of discontent, the subtle hum of suppressed fear, and the occasional sharp spike of frustration that punctuated the village's otherwise dull existence.
But to me?
It was a body—and I was its scalpel.
In the eye of my mind—my improved mind, sharpened by the absorption of memory, perception, and chakra, honed to a razor's edge—every single soul now shone with a soft, undeniable red aura. Crimson pulses, unique as snowflakes yet tragically similar in their complacency, moved through the invisible barriers of walls and rooftops, walking their predictable loops of daily comfort. Civilians. Shopkeepers haggling over mouldy rice. Lovers wrapped in the illusion of privacy. Dreamers, gazing at stars they could not see. Children, their fragile, pure pulses a stark contrast to the grime surrounding them, like tiny, innocent embers in a decaying hearth.
Innocent, yes, in their small, mundane lives. But not blameless.
Because they had lived safely under the shadow of monsters. Their peace had been bought with the screams of others, with the charnel stench of unspoken horrors that seeped up from the village's hidden depths. And shadows, darling, stain everything. They seep into the very foundations of a village, a silent, corrosive rot that infects even the purest hearts, making complicity a silent, insidious crime.
I tracked them silently from above, a phantom draped in the night, crouched on the dangerously crooked ridge of a forgotten temple roof, the cold, wet tiles a familiar comfort beneath my bare feet. Every heartbeat was a visible flicker, a distinct pulse in the grand, grotesque tapestry of Kusagakure. Every chakra signature was unique, a fingerprint of their very essence, betraying their hidden fears, their petty joys, their quiet despairs. The texture of their emotions, the deceptive density of their lies, the suffocating weight of their grief or the fleeting lightness of their joy—I felt it all, a constant, low hum in my expanded consciousness. It was a symphony of human frailty and resilience, all laid bare. And beneath the soft, flickering rhythms of the common folk were the deeper, denser beats of the Kusa-nin.
Like roots under a poisoned tree, spreading unseen, sucking the very life from the earth. Rotten. Hidden. Dangerous. Their signatures were harder to read, cloaked in layers of practiced suppression, but to my now-absolute sensory perception, they shimmered like veiled lanterns in the overwhelming dark.
They patrolled in squads of two or three, moving with a practiced, almost arrogant swagger, their boots splashing rhythmically in the puddles. Speaking in low, guttural code. Spreading silent death through the labyrinthine alleys, their whispers carried on the wind like venom. Their chakra signatures weren't just beacons; they were elaborate, undeniable fingerprints, betraying every cruel intention, every practiced deceit. And I?
I now had the hand of death. And it was a most exquisite hand, capable of movements so precise, so devastating, they were designed to dislocate joints and shatter throats with effortless grace, every potential strike a pre-calculated certainty inherited from the absorbed knowledge of a hundred lifetimes.
I passed the first cluster without drawing a chain, a mere phantom in the torrential downpour. Two elders, their chakra faded like old parchment, discussing the cost of living. A weary mother, cradling a squalling babe, her chakra fluttering with exhaustion and a mother's fierce, protective love. Three wide-eyed children, their pulses quick with innocent curiosity, chasing rain-slicked snails. They stood beneath a fruit stall's awning, chatting idly about rice prices and the tartness of sour plums, their faces illuminated by the dim glow of a flickering lantern.
Their voices were gentle. Their eyes are soft. The world they inhabited was built on the fragile illusion of safety—the deceptive security of a hidden village. Shinobi training programs. Protective watch posts. National pride. But I knew. I remembered. They had heard the muffled screams from the underground labs. They had smelled the burning hair, acrid and unmistakable, clinging to the air after a sacrifice. Seen the stained uniforms of those who returned from their "experiments."
And they had turned away. Every single one of them. A collective blindness, a shared complicity that festered like a gangrenous wound, a stain on their very souls.
Not yet, I whispered silently to the rain, a chilling promise. Not tonight. They would come last. Cull the roots. Then salt the soil. The common populace would be a curtain call, their complacency the final, bitter note.
The pub near the northern watchpost stank of fried fish, stale alcohol, and older sins. The kind of place where forgotten men nursed their regrets and celebrated their depravities. I could almost taste the rot from the outside, a tempting aroma that beckoned me closer, a challenge to my senses. The air inside vibrated with crude laughter and slurred boasts, a cacophony that grated against my finely tuned perception.
Inside, three chunin laughed louder than the thunder outside, their raucous mirth echoing through the thin walls, a mockery of genuine joy. Their chakra danced with false bravado—stumbling waves of heat and predatory spikes, dulled only by the cheap inebriation clinging to them like a shroud. These weren't subtle men. Their arrogance was a beacon, a glaring signpost pointing directly to their imminent demise.
Each one wore the green-gray flak of Kusagakure's elite scouts, a mockery of honor. I knew their names. I knew their files, downloaded directly into my mind, detailed and damning. But I didn't need them.
Because I remembered them from my mother's screams. Each agonizing shriek, each desperate sob, had their faces etched into the very fabric of my being, a permanent, searing brand.
The first, a hulking brute named Hagane, had carved out her womb postmortem—for a grotesque sealing experiment they never even bothered to publish. A futile, savage act against life itself, performed with callous disregard while her body was still warm, bleeding onto the cold metal table. I could almost hear his sneering laugh.
The second, a gaunt, scholarly man known as Kuro, had used her living brain as a genjutsu testbed, manipulating neural feedback until her cerebellum bled out through her ears, her mind shattering into a thousand pieces before her body gave way. A meticulous, clinical torture that had lasted for hours, designed purely for the sadistic pursuit of forbidden knowledge.
And the third, Ren, a man whose smile had been as false as his loyalty? He had braided her long, vibrant red hair, hair just like mine, into a grotesque bracelet. He wore it still, a trophy of his depravity, prominently displayed on his wrist, a constant, irritating reminder of his vile act.
I didn't knock. My vengeance, a playful, hungry thing, moved like a breath through the shattered remnants of their lives, already tasting the satisfaction.
A single chain, my delightful golden serpent, slithered beneath the floorboards, a silent promise of doom, its chakra signature cloaked by the din of the storm. It was patient. Curious. It wrapped around Hagane's ankle—gently. Like a mother's hand, lulling him into a false sense of security. Then, with the full, ancestral weight of Uzumaki fury, it yanked with impossible force, dragging him screaming under the table, his chair scraping violently across the floor. The sound, muffled by the rain and the din of the pub, was a satisfying grunt of surprise, quickly followed by a strangled gurgle as the chain constricted, sealing his vocal cords with pinpoint chakra filaments, ensuring his last moments were utterly silent, leaving only wide, panicked eyes visible from beneath the soiled tablecloth.
Kuro's death came faster. A golden javelin, forged of my pure intent, burst down through the rotting ceiling with surgical precision, piercing his skull with a wet crack that was almost elegant in its finality. He never blinked. He never stood. He just dropped—like a puppet whose strings had been cut, eyes wide and unseeing, staring at the scarred ceiling, a perfect, crimson hole where his thoughts had once been. No agonizing struggle, no desperate plea. Just instantaneous obliteration.
Ren, the one with her hair, spun, wide-eyed, a desperate, animal fear replacing his drunken bravado. His hand clawed instinctively toward his kunai, a futile gesture. He choked.
He never made it.
A chain snaked across the room, impossibly swift, impossibly silent, and coiled around his throat, lifting him clean off the ground. His boots kicked a frantic, useless dance against the air. His mouth gaped, a silent scream of terror, but my chain, a cruel lover, sealed his vocal cords with precise chakra filaments, ensuring his last moments were utterly silent. He tried to grab at the bracelet on his wrist, my mother's hair, a pathetic, ironic gesture, his fingers clawing at the crimson strands that bound him to his crime. I watched as his lips turned purple, then blue. His chakra sputtered and collapsed, a dying star fading into oblivion. Only when his hands fell limp, his struggles ceasing, did I let go. His corpse crashed into the table, knocking over plates of salted squid and spilled sake. The ceramic shattered. The table groaned under the sudden impact.
The smell of fresh blood mixed with soy sauce. A grotesque perfume for a just execution. And then the hunger came.
Not from my belly. Not from instinct. From my chains. They trembled. They hummed. They begged. A deep, resonant craving for more, a delightful chorus of consumption, pulling me closer to the fallen.
I answered.
[Devour? Y/N]
[Y]
The devouring was deeper this time. Not just one life, but three. Three bodies, their flesh now a conduit. Three broken spirits, their essence food. Three tormented souls, their fragments ready for integration. And with each, I felt my body stretch toward something greater, something even more profound than before. Their chakra poured into me like molten fire, not burning, but transforming. It twisted through my lungs and bones, reinforcing, expanding, becoming an inseparable part of my gargantuan reserves. I felt my spiritual strength multiply, not just in magnitude but density—like I was becoming harder to perceive, harder to erase from existence. A ghost made of diamond, more formidable, more ethereal, less tethered to the mundane. The very cells of my being vibrated with newfound vitality, my every nerve reknitting itself, incorporating the absorbed data with chilling efficiency, refining my very genetic code.
Their souls didn't scream. They sank into mine, like drops into a crimson sea, becoming one with the ever-growing ocean of my own consciousness. They ceased to exist, yet they lived on, as faint echoes within me, forever subjugated, their essence a permanent, subservient part of my expanding spiritual domain. And their memories—my new memories—whirred through my mind in perfect recall. Their childhoods, their promotions, their petty sins, their bitter regrets. The specifics of their cruelty were never mindless. It was intentional. Every act, every cut, every smile, was deliberate. It had always been. And now, I have taken it back. Every fragment of their existence, every sin they committed, every cruel thought they harbored—it was mine. A twisted karmic debt collected in full. But the flesh… the flesh responded differently. More profoundly. As their physical essence dissolved into my own, a profound cellular re-patterning began.
[Warning: High-Density Chakra Integration Detected]
[Dormant Mutation Reactivated]
[Soul & Flesh Morphing Process: Advanced Stage]
[New Chakra Circuit: Stabilizing]
[Dormant Mutation Reactivated]
[Soul & Flesh Morphing Process: Advanced Stage]
[New Chakra Circuit: Stabilizing]
[Form Type: Futanari]
[This Is A Weapon For Domination On All Evil]
[This Is A Legacy Conduit For All Legacy]
[This Is A Sacred Vessel Of Energy Of Maa Durga]
[This Is A Rebirth Mechanism For Those Who Died Unjust]
[Current Status: Newborn]
[Awaiting Further Evil Soul Integration]
I stumbled slightly, one knee hitting the blood-wet floor, not from weakness, but from the sheer intensity of the change. My breath caught in my throat, a ragged gasp.
Not pain. Transformation. Exquisite, undeniable transformation.
I felt it in my core—deep where soul meets body, where the spiritual essence intertwined with the physical. A new circuit was forming—not just a network of chakra, but a knot of potential, a convergence of past and future, of purpose and power. My body pulsed with a rhythm foreign to it moments ago, yet ancient beyond memory, a primordial thrumming that resonated with the very origins of the Uzumaki clan. It was a sensation of raw, untamed creation, reshaping me from the inside out.
Not grotesque. Not lewd. Not Even Sacred, Let Alone Demonic. It Just Is.
A mighty shaft, still formless in flesh but unmistakable in chakra structure, began to take shape within, a deep, resonant hum radiating from my very being. Not to humiliate. Not to claim. It was an instrument.
To seed. To plant the essence of what I was, what we were, into the world once more. To revive the Uzumaki name. To make children not of violence, but of restoration. Of continuation. A bloodline nearly lost to the tides of history—ready to bloom again, vibrant and terrifying, through me, the ultimate vessel of rebirth and retribution.
This is how the Clan is reborn, I thought, a chilling, triumphant whisper in my mind. Not in ceremony. Not in forgiveness.In justice. In Pleasure. In balance. The scales of destiny would be set right, with me as their unwavering fulcrum, wielding both life and death.
I rose, slowly, deliberately, my posture straighter, my body humming with a new, profound sense of completeness. The chains slithered back into my sleeves, satisfied—for now—their golden glow dimming to a soft, internal hum, ready for their next command.
The pub was quiet. The rain, a tireless accomplice, still thrashed against the shattered door, washing away the evidence, carrying the scents of death and sake into the gutters. And deep within me, the beginnings of a new legacy stirred, a formidable engine of rebirth and retribution, poised to reshape the very landscape of the ninja world.
I stepped into the rain once more, the shadows clinging tighter to my silhouette, now a larger, more imposing form. Behind me, the stench of justice, sharp and satisfying. Ahead of me, the pulse of more sins, waiting to be purified.
Three down. Thousands to go.
This time, Kusagakure, darling, they'd feel me coming. Every agonizing, delicious moment of it.
The rain had stopped. A sudden, almost dramatic cessation, as if the heavens had just finished a good, long cry and were now holding their breath. The air, freshly washed, smelled of damp earth and verdant growth, a stark contrast to the metallic tang that had recently permeated the village. But the silence remained, thick and palpable, a heavy blanket woven from the absence of sound, save for the soft, polite drip of water from glossy leaves and the distant, almost imperceptible hum of a world caught in a moment of utterly fascinating pause. Even the usual nocturnal sounds of Kusagakure – the rustle of foraging animals, the faint cries of distant village life – seemed muted, respectful.
In the deepest heart of the forest beyond the village walls, hidden beneath moss-thick roots and centuries-old seals—seals I now understood with an innate, frightening clarity, like reading a particularly charming old recipe, every intricate knot and whispered invocation laid bare—I sat in profound stillness. My breath was shallow, a mere whisper of air, barely disturbing the quiet. My chains were dormant, glorious golden serpents, coiled like sleeping guardians at my feet, their inner radiance a faint, reassuring pulse in the gloom, a subtle wink of power. They were not just chakra constructs; they felt like extensions of my very will, ancient and inexorable. Around me, the twelve souls I had so graciously ushered into my being whispered—not in voices, no, that would be far too crude. They whispered in resonance, a profound, resonant hum within the newly expanded chambers of my mind, a delightful chorus of conquered consciousnesses, their distinct energies now a part of my own.
Each one a thread. Each thread now intricately woven into me, a part of my grand design, a charming addition to my spiritual tapestry, enriching its every fiber. Their strength was mine, absorbed and refined to perfection, their former limits shattered. Their knowledge, now mine to command, every petty secret laid bare, every skill perfected. Their trauma, a sharp, cold lesson, filed away for future reference, a vital component of my growing understanding of the world's cruelties. Their crimes, a blueprint for my precise, inevitable justice. I had taken their memories, these raw, unfiltered fragments of lives, and, with a meticulous, almost divine cruelty, I had burned away the rot, the petty desires, the meaningless anxieties, the pathetic moral compromises, leaving only the useful bits, the essence of their being. What remained was pure potential—reforged and reclaimed, shimmering with a dark, terrible beauty, like a perfectly polished weapon, ready for its purpose.
The hut was small, no more than a forgotten training shelter, seemingly swallowed by a riot of overgrowth and illusionary seals that once kept it hidden from prying eyes, but now merely served to amplify its seclusion, creating a private sanctuary. Yet, within its crumbling walls, it pulsed with life. My life. My chakra. My will. It was less a dwelling and more a chrysalis, a womb for something new and terrifying, a perfectly cozy little workshop for something in the making, humming with barely contained energy. And that will… that will was changing. Deepening. Solidifying. It was no longer simply mine, but a confluence, a divine current carrying the elegant essence of an entire lineage, becoming vast, inexorable, and absolute.
My body was no longer the same. The changes were subtle at first, of course—a mere suggestion of perfection, a gentle nudge towards destiny. Bones aligning with whispered precision, every joint settling into perfect harmony; nerves tuning to finer, impossible frequencies of chakra, receiving information previously beyond human grasp; senses heightening beyond ordinary means, catching the distant flutter of a moth's wing in a dark thicket or the precise moment a dewdrop kissed a leaf, the ripple of air disturbed by a falling feather. But this was not a monstrous transformation, no. This was far more elegant, far more chilling, far more me. It was refined. A sculptor perfecting what had already been divine in origin, taking the raw, glorious clay of an Uzumaki and molding it into something truly transcendent, a flawless piece of living art, sculpted by fate and fueled by vengeance.
I was Uzumaki. Oh, yes. The very name now hummed with a new resonance, a vibration of ancient power. But no longer simply a daughter of the bloodline, a mere inheritor, a recipient of power. I was becoming its Progenitor. The origin. The fountainhead. The delightful first sip of a brand new vintage, potent and intoxicating, poured for a new era.
My height increased—not drastically, no, that would be too vulgar, too ostentatious, drawing unwanted attention too soon. But with purpose, with a knowing wink from the universe. Five feet and eight inches of honed, feminine power, perfectly proportioned, every curve and line speaking of contained strength, ready for grander gestures, for the weighty mantle of leadership. My muscles no longer served combat alone; they were now the framework of a being meant to carry legacy, to bear the future on its shoulders, to lead a reborn clan into a new era. They were silent, efficient engines designed for creation as much as destruction, for the delicate dance of power, for the heavy burden of responsibility.
My skin shimmered faintly under the soft, ethereal moonlight, as though laced with seals too ancient for the eye to grasp, marks of an indelible pact with destiny, glowing with an inner luminescence. I touched my cheek and felt heat—not fever, but pure, contained energy. Like a sun encased in flesh, radiating a soft, steady warmth, quite pleasant, really, a constant, reassuring glow. My hair deepened into a red so vibrant, so utterly crimson, it appeared glowing in shadow, a living, burning flame against the dark canvas of the night, a rather fetching halo that seemed to pulse with my every thought. It was a crown of burning memory, each strand a testament to a bloodline's sorrow and its fierce, unyielding resurgence.
Even my chakra had transformed. It no longer moved like a river, predictable and contained. It moved like a galaxy—slow, vast, inevitable, expanding with each breath, its power boundless and impossibly dense, a self-contained universe of pure energy, humming with cosmic secrets, swirling with untold potential. My chakra network had expanded beyond comprehension, an intricate web reaching into the very fabric of existence.
The twelve souls had brought with them countless jutsu, forgotten secrets, and vivid memories, a veritable library of the ninja world, laid open for my perusal. My mind absorbed it all without a whisper of pain, without effort. It was simply known, like remembering a perfectly obvious truth. I could recall every word my mother ever said, her voice now clear and vibrant within the echoes of my mind, a comforting ghost, a constant presence. I could map the village in perfect three-dimensional space, seeing not just structures, but the very chakra signatures woven into them, like colorful threads in a dull tapestry, their weaknesses and strengths instantly apparent. I could feel when a beetle passed through the barrier seals at the eastern trench, registering its tiny, fleeting pulse as clearly as my own heartbeat. A delightful, minute detail in the grand scheme of things.
Comprehension was no longer an effort—it was instinct. I was learning without needing to study, seeing patterns in chakra and history like constellations in the sky, finding hidden jokes in their intricate design. Connecting threads between old shinobi experiments and forbidden bloodline lore, understanding the deeper currents of the world as if they were laid bare before me, like a child's pop-up book, all its secrets revealed.
I saw clearly now: Kusagakure had not just stolen life—they had stolen legacy. The very future of a noble clan, reduced to experiments and whispers, its vibrant future culled before it could blossom. What a crime! Such insolence could not, would not, go unpunished.
But that theft had awakened something far greater. It had awakened me. And wasn't that just a charming twist of fate? Their hubris, their cruelty, had inadvertently forged their own demise, and my glorious rebirth.
I knelt, the cool, damp earth accepting my weight with a polite sigh, and placed my hand on the ground. A circle of vibrant red chakra bloomed beneath my palm, spiraling outward in a pattern I had never seen before—but recognized deep in my bones, etched into my ancestral memory, like a forgotten song humming to life. It was an ancestral seal. A rite older than any scroll, any written history. A Progenitor's Mark. My personal signature, writ large across the very earth, claiming it.
The spirits stirred within me, a gentle, reverent hum, like a pleased audience murmuring their approval. I felt not fear, but profound reverence for the power flowing through me, for the ancient pact being renewed. None in this world, not even the most learned sage, knew what was truly being born here, hidden beneath the moss-thick roots and my perfected illusions. Such delightful ignorance! Their understanding of power was archaic, limited.
I spoke, not aloud, but within the mind that now held multitudes, my voice a resonant chord played across a thousand souls, a whisper of grand designs, a solemn vow: "You will not be forgotten. But you will be redefined. Through me."
I stood in the center of the hut as the seal, glowing with an ethereal crimson light, lifted from the earth and spun around me, a cosmic dance, a private light show. My golden chains, now imbued with an ancient purpose, coiled upward, encircling my body like the rings of a planet, a living constellation of power, elegantly framing my new form. Symbols flared along their lengths—Uzumaki sigils—the sacred marks of sealing, protection, healing, and bloodline memory, each one pulsating with reclaimed power, humming a lullaby of absolute control, intertwining with my very essence.
One by one, the chains pierced me. Not as weapons, not as instruments of pain, but as rites. Not pain, but fusion. Not destruction, but ascension. Each touch was a deliberate, intimate merging, a final, ceremonial step in my becoming, a profound, exquisite embrace that completed the masterpiece.
And then…
Stillness.
Not silence. But a profound, pregnant stillness. The moment before a god exhales, before a universe is born anew, a perfect, quiet beat, resonating with boundless potential. All existence seemed to hold its breath.
I opened my eyes.
They were no longer simply red. They were flecked with crimson, glittering like distant stars, a sun rising behind a storm, illuminating a new reality, a delicious horizon of possibilities. The twelve souls flickered within me, no longer merely echoes, but integrated facets of my own being, their energies contributing to my boundless core, and I felt it—a pull inward, a powerful Uzumaki of becoming that defied the limits of flesh and ordinary souls, transcending them utterly, transforming them into fuel for my genesis.
Male souls gave me male properties—but purified. With Pure Desire, With Pure love. Willing to spread through the divine core phallus. My Seed Will Bear No Child. My Seed To Transform Women Into Futanari Like Me. This was not only a biological function as others understood it, but both Biological & spiritual one, a propagation of a new, evolved existence.
My form shimmered—a chrysalis moment, a veil lifting, revealing the wonder beneath. Not painful. Not abrupt. But inevitable. As if a sculptor's hand—divine, deliberate—was finishing what blood and sorrow had only begun, refining the masterpiece, adding the final, perfect touch, chiseling the very essence of my being. My body is female. My soul had always been more.
Now I stood whole. Balanced. Masculine strength braided with feminine grace. Not in conflict—but in chorus, a harmonious symphony of power, a delightful paradox that would shatter conventional notions. Where others might see contradictions, I saw design. Where they might see grotesque, I saw sacred. Where they might see crude, I saw intentional.
A vessel not for domination, but for destiny. The source. The seed bearer. Not just for pleasure, but for true purpose—to rekindle a bloodline scorched by war and silenced by fear. To pass on the Uzumaki not through vengeance—but Transformation & Creation. The ultimate paradox, weaponizing genesis itself. The energy that now pulsed through me was not lust, but Pure Desire For Love & Life. Overflowing. Eager. Eternal. This was not a mere appendage. This was a symbol. Of convergence. Of rebirth. Of the Uzumaki's new dawn. Where once there had been only death and endings, I now carried the beginnings. Perfectly, terrifyingly beautiful.
A Crimson Uzumaki Seal gleamed faintly over my navel—like a stardust tattoo, pulsating with ancient power, a constant reminder of my sacred task, an indelible mark of my ascended lineage. It pulsed with every heartbeat, a chakra-wrought echo of the first seal my ancestors had ever written, humming with a power that vibrated through the very earth beneath me, and resonated with the cosmic energies of my own internal galaxy. This was no longer just flesh. It was the embodiment of Uzumaki memory. The library of our suffering. The hope of generations silenced too soon. I… I was its keeper. Its darling curator. Its living archive.
No longer Karin of Kusagakure. I was:
The Progenitor of the Uzumaki Rebirth.
"A man. A woman. A weapon. A legacy incarnate." I affirmed, the words resonating with absolute certainty.
The rain began to fall again, a soft, respectful patter, a gentle applause from the heavens. But this time, it avoided me—diverted by my chakra, by my will, flowing around my form as if I were a living, unyielding force of nature, a divine barrier that commanded the very elements.
Even nature knew: Something truly magnificent had awakened.