The Hatake household had always been quiet.
Not from lack of warmth, but from the nature of the man who lived at its center. Sakumo didn't raise his voice. He didn't give long lectures. He didn't scold with anger or praise with excess.
He simply existed—like the sun filtering through half-closed shoji screens.
Arashi had learned to read that silence better than most.
Which is why, when Sakumo didn't greet him at the door that evening, Arashi knew something was wrong.
The house smelled faintly of tea and smoke.
Not fire.
Incense.
For memory.
For mourning.
He found his father in the back room, kneeling in front of the family shrine. His sword rested on the stand beside him, polished and straight.
Sakumo didn't turn when Arashi entered.
"I heard," he said quietly.
Arashi said nothing.
"You left a Root agent outside the Hyuga compound."
Still silence.
"You carved a mark into another's chest. Left survivors. Unmasked one. Stole from their vault."
"I left them alive," Arashi replied, voice steady.
Sakumo finally turned.
His eyes weren't angry. Just tired.
"You know what they'll do now."
"They already tried to erase you."
"That's not the same as open conflict."
"It is. You're just pretending it's not."
A long pause.
Then: "You want war."
"I want truth."
"And if that truth burns the village down?"
Arashi looked away. "Then maybe the village deserved to burn."
The words sat heavy in the air.
Sakumo rose slowly, joints creaking with age—not from years, but from battles fought in silence.
He faced his son, gray eyes locked to gray.
"I won't stop you," Sakumo said. "But I won't follow you either."
Arashi stiffened.
"I am not a weapon anymore," Sakumo continued. "I spent too many years with blood on my hands. I made choices that damned me in the eyes of this village. I did it to save people. But I lost just as many."
"I'm not asking you to fight."
"Yes, you are. You just don't know it yet."
They stood in silence for a long time.
Finally, Arashi turned to leave.
At the door, Sakumo said one last thing.
"When I die… don't let Kakashi carry this weight."
Arashi paused. His throat clenched.
"You're not dying," he said.
But even he didn't sound convinced.
—
That night, Arashi didn't sleep.
He sat on the roof, staring at the stars that peeked between drifting clouds.
He thought of his old life. Of the stories he used to read—Kakashi the Copy Ninja, the cold prodigy who buried his emotions beneath missions and loss. The boy who blamed his father. The man who carried too many ghosts.
Was this how it began?
Was he witnessing the moment history started to bend the wrong way?
Would anything he did change it?
He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a scroll—one he hadn't opened in weeks.
His own Root file.
Taken from the vault two weeks ago.
Labeled: "Observation: Arashi Hatake – Unstable Asset."
There were five pages.
But only two sentences that mattered:
Subject shows enhanced physical growth, abnormally high pattern recognition in combat, and irregular chakra signature fluctuations.
**Monitor, but do not engage unless authorized by Directive: Crow."
Crow.
That wasn't Danzo's codename.
It was Sarutobi's.
The Third Hokage.
And with that, something inside Arashi shifted.
Danzo was the blade.
But Sarutobi?
Sarutobi was the sheath that allowed it to stay hidden.
—
The next day, Arashi stood outside the Hokage Tower at dawn.
He didn't go inside.
Didn't shout.
He simply lit a signal flare—one reserved for emergencies—and waited until the tower guards scrambled out in alarm.
Sarutobi came down himself, flanked by two ANBU.
He dismissed them with a glance the moment he saw who had lit the flare.
"Explain yourself," the Hokage said, voice calm.
Arashi tossed the scroll at his feet.
"You authorized my observation."
Sarutobi's gaze didn't shift.
"I did."
"And Kenji?"
"I never gave the order."
"But you allowed the system to remain."
"That system has protected the village since before you were born."
"It also killed him."
Sarutobi's expression remained unchanged.
Arashi took a step closer. "Do you think the Will of Fire is built on blood and silence?"
"No," Sarutobi said. "It's built on sacrifice."
"Then you're the same as Danzo."
"No," the Hokage replied quietly. "I'm the one who pays the price."
They stared at each other in the early light.
Arashi turned without a word and left.
Because there was nothing left to say.
Not here.
—
That evening, Sakumo disappeared.
No note.
No sign of struggle.
Just… gone.
The Hatake estate was untouched. His sword remained. So did his flak jacket and mission pouch.
Only one thing was missing:
Sakumo himself.
Arashi searched the rooftops.
The archives.
The old shrines.
The memorial stone.
Nothing.
And when he finally returned to the training ground, breathless and furious, Kakashi stood there, alone, holding a scrap of parchment in one hand.
Arashi rushed over.
"What does it say?"
Kakashi handed it to him.
In neat, clean handwriting were just four words:
"Protect him. Not me."
Arashi's grip tightened until the paper crumpled.
Kakashi looked up at him.
"Is he coming back?"
Arashi couldn't lie.
So he didn't answer.
—
That night, Arashi entered his mental realm.
But this time, he didn't summon an opponent.
He summoned a memory.
A younger Sakumo.
Alive. Laughing.
Teaching a seven-year-old Arashi how to tie a blade grip properly.
The simulation said nothing.
Just smiled.
And Arashi let it play—because sometimes grief was the only thing more real than rage.
Then he rose.
And summoned one last figure.
Danzo.
This one he would fight.
Over and over again.
Until he learned everything.
Because his father may have left the field—
—but the war was still Arashi's to fight.
To be continued.