The house was too quiet.
Not the comfortable quiet that marked the Hatake household most evenings—but the brittle silence of something unfinished. Of something wrong.
Sakumo's disappearance wasn't an accident.
Not a mission gone wrong.
Not a walk into the woods that became a stroll into death.
Arashi felt it in his bones.
His father had chosen to vanish.
But why?
That question became the only thing in his head for the next two days. He combed every drawer. Every room. Every seal-hidden compartment in the house.
Nothing.
Even Kakashi had stopped asking questions.
He simply trained—alone, in the yard, in silence.
And Arashi let him. Because he was too busy searching for a truth no one wanted him to find.
It finally came in the unlikeliest of places.
Not in a scroll. Not in a storage room.
But hidden inside a book.
Arashi found it by chance. Or maybe his father meant it that way.
He had knocked over one of Sakumo's old sword manuals while searching the tatami closet. The pages fanned open, revealing a section titled:
"Form is memory made visible."
And just beneath the chapter heading—a small slip of paper, almost invisible against the yellowed parchment.
He pulled it free.
It wasn't a scroll.
It was a letter.
Unsealed.
Written in Sakumo's hand.
Not for Kakashi.
Not for the Hokage.
For him.
Arashi sat down slowly, unfolded it, and began to read.
"To my son—
By the time you read this, I will be gone. Not dead. Not yet. But absent from the life we've built.
You and I have both known for some time that this village is sick. Not in its streets or structures—but in the way it teaches us to breathe silence. To wear masks long before we ever become shinobi.
I tried to play their game. I served with honor. I killed who I was told. I protected the village even when it bled my conscience dry.
But I failed. Not because I disobeyed orders. But because I allowed myself to become a tool. A blade that forgot it once had a hand holding it.
And I won't let that happen to you.
You're stronger than me, Arashi. Smarter. Colder, sometimes—but that's what scares me. I see myself in you. And I know what that kind of fire can do when it's fed only rage.
That's why I've gone.
Because as long as I'm here, you'll keep trying to protect me. And that protection will turn into destruction.
So I'm giving you what this village never gave me: the chance to make your own choice.
Find the truth. Or burn the lies. But do it as a man—not as a shadow.
And when the day comes that you have to choose between vengeance and family—I trust you'll choose right.
With love,
Sakumo."
The words blurred.
Not from time.
From tears Arashi hadn't realized he'd let fall.
He gripped the paper tightly, knuckles white, heart hammering.
His father wasn't running.
He was giving space.
Because Arashi had finally become more than just a son.
He had become a threat.
And Sakumo—true to form—had stepped out of the light so his son's fire could burn brighter.
—
The next morning, Arashi stood at the village gates.
Not to leave.
But to send something out.
He handed a sealed scroll to a messenger hawk unit. No return address. No village markings. Just a coded phrase scrawled on the outside: "To the One Who Still Remembers."
The hawk flew northeast.
Toward the Land of Iron.
If Sakumo was anywhere safe, it would be there.
Neutral territory. Samurai-controlled.
A place where war was unwelcome—and silence was sacred.
Arashi didn't expect a reply.
He just needed his father to know he understood.
—
Later that day, Arashi returned to the Uchiha training fields.
Not for a mission.
Not for an ally.
But for a potential mistake.
Because if Root was targeting young prodigies, the Uchiha were next in line.
And Shisui had just started his basic academy track.
Still small.
Still awkward.
But gifted beyond belief.
It hadn't escaped Arashi's notice that several new instructors at the academy had subtle chakra irregularities—too smooth. Too measured.
Like Root.
He stood by the perimeter fence and watched Shisui run drills.
Too fast.
Too quiet.
Too… unnatural.
After an hour, Arashi approached the boy.
"You're faster than your classmates," he said.
Shisui blinked up at him. "Is that bad?"
"Only if you're being trained in secret."
The boy froze.
Arashi knelt.
"Who taught you to suppress your footsteps like that?"
Shisui hesitated.
"Sensei Jun said it was part of the advanced track."
"There is no advanced track," Arashi said.
Not officially.
And just like that—confirmation.
Root was already grooming the next Uchiha pawn.
He left a small seal tag in Shisui's pocket before the boy returned to class.
A tracker.
But also a shield.
The tag would flare if certain suppression jutsu touched the boy's chakra—alerting Arashi instantly.
He wouldn't let Root corrupt another child.
Not this one.
Not again.
—
That evening, Kakashi approached him.
It was rare.
The boy rarely sought Arashi out unless it was urgent.
"What is it?" Arashi asked.
Kakashi held out something small.
A folded piece of paper.
"I found it in father's armor," he said. "He must've left it for you."
Arashi took it.
Unfolded it.
And read the final message his father had truly left behind.
Not instructions.
Not strategy.
Just three words:
"Don't become me."
And Arashi, standing there with the paper in his hand, realized something painful.
He already had.
But maybe—
Just maybe—
He could become something more.
To be continued.