The forest breathed.
Seraph felt it the moment he crossed back into the tree line—a living presence that pressed against his awareness like a hand against glass. Not threatening. Recognition. The way a dog might lift its head when its owner walks into a room.
This is new, Peter's voice murmured. I've never felt anything like this.
Because Peter Parker was human, Hashirama's presence explained. We are something else. The forest knows the difference.
He placed his palm against an oak's rough bark, feeling the slow pulse beneath. His chakra reached out instinctively, and the tree... responded. Not with words, but with deep, patient acknowledgment.
The oak had stood here for a hundred years. It would stand for a hundred more. Seraph's presence was a momentary ripple—noticed, assessed, accepted.
"Okay," he breathed. "That's definitely new."
***
8:47 AM
The ravine appeared without warning—a forty-foot gap where ancient geology had split bedrock. Water trickled at the bottom over smooth stones.
Peter's acrobatics calculated angles. Too far to jump. Need to find a crossing point upstream.
Hashirama assessed tactically. Defensible position. But also an obstacle that slows pursuit.
And Seraph's own emerging consciousness simply asked: Why go around when you can go through?
He knelt at the edge, pressing both palms flat against earth. Chakra pulsed outward like a heartbeat, feeling soil, roots, the dense organic network.
Wood Release. Not just a weapon. A tool.
Seraph closed his eyes and pushed.
The sensation was indescribable—like flexing a muscle he'd never known he had. His chakra flooded the earth, and the earth responded.
Roots erupted from the soil—thick as his forearm, pale with fresh growth, moving with serpentine purpose. They snaked forward across the ravine floor, growing impossibly fast, driven by his will and Hashirama's vast reserves.
Twenty feet. Thirty. The roots reached the far side and dove into earth, anchoring with centuries-old grip compressed into seconds.
A bridge. A living bridge grown from his own body, still connected through threads of chakra.
He could feel every inch—every point of stress, how the structure distributed weight. It was part of him, but also separate. A creation that would outlast his presence.
"Holy shit," he whispered.
Adequate, Hashirama said with approval. Crude, but sound.
That's incredible! Peter's enthusiasm bubbled. The applications—construction, rescue work—
"Later. Right now: testing."
He stepped onto the bridge cautiously. It held. Solid enough for ten of him.
When he reached the far side, Seraph released the technique. The chakra connection severed, and the roots became ordinary wood—indistinguishable from a fallen branch.
No evidence. No trace except wood, which exists everywhere.
***
10:23 AM
The drone's mechanical whine reached him before he saw it.
Search pattern, Peter supplied. Looking for facility survivors.
High ground. Now. Hashirama's tactical instinct kicked in.
Seraph looked up at the oak's lowest branches—twenty feet overhead. Too high to jump.
But not too far for this.
He raised his hand and extended. A tendril of wood grew from his palm—flexible, rope-like. It shot upward, wrapping around a branch and anchoring with root-grip.
The connection snapped taut.
He jumped.
For one glorious, weightless moment, he swung through empty air exactly like Spider-Man—except powered by chakra, the "rope" literally part of his body. Wind whipped his red hair back.
He landed in a crouch and immediately understood: This is how I'm supposed to move.
Below, the drone swept past—sleek black machine bristling with sensors. It never looked up. People didn't travel through treetops.
But I'm not people anymore.
He spent the next hour learning, treating the canopy like an urban jungle gym.
The technique evolved rapidly:
He could create multiple tendrils simultaneously—three, four, six. A web of connections guiding trajectory, course-correcting, catching if one failed.
The tendrils didn't need to be thick. Hair-thin filaments worked for guidance, reserving chakra for weight-bearing.
He didn't need to retract them after each use. Left with minimal chakra, they'd stay attached for minutes—a spider's web of awareness spreading through the canopy.
And strangest of all: the trees helped.When his tendrils wrapped around branches, the wood seemed to accept them. Merge with them. The connection became stronger than it should be.
Wood Release isn't just manipulation, Hashirama clarified. It's communion. The forest recognizes us as kin.
By noon, Seraph moved through the canopy like he'd been born to it—branch to branch, tree to tree, covering ground faster than any vehicle. Silent. Efficient. Leaving no trace except slightly bent branches that would straighten in hours.
This is amazing! Peter's joy sang.
Freedom, all three voices agreed.
***
The Ridge - 4:47 PM
Twenty-three miles from Cold Spring, Seraph reached a ridge and stopped.
Below, the Hudson River cut through landscape like silver ribbon. On the near side: wilderness. On the far: civilization's geometric glory. Highways. Housing developments. Industrial parks.
Beyond it all, barely visible through haze: New York City.
The skyline was just a suggestion—jagged vertical ambition scratching the southern horizon. But his enhanced vision picked out details: Empire State Building, glittering glass towers, dense urban sprawl housing eight million people.
Home, Peter whispered with intense longing.
Peter Parker's home, Seraph corrected gently. Not mine. I've never been there.
The distinction mattered. He had Peter's memories—but like movies watched, not experiences lived. Close enough to hurt, too distant to claim.
Still, Hashirama observed, that is where you must go. Cities concentrate power—danger and opportunity. For anything beyond survival, you need resources. Infrastructure. Knowledge.
"And enemies," Seraph added.
Enemies are inevitable. Better to face them in an environment you can understand and manipulate.
He studied the river, calculating. Too wide to bridge here, too exposed for conventional crossing.
But five miles downstream, where the river narrowed and tree cover extended to both banks—that would work.
Tonight. Cross after dark, reach the city by dawn.
***
River Crossing - 11:34 PM
The Hudson was colder than anticipated.
Seraph stood waist-deep, current tugging with deceptive strength. Swimming was possible, but nearly three hundred yards of complete exposure.
There's another way.
He pressed palms against the riverbed beneath water, feeling through current to soil and rock below. Chakra pulsed downward, seeking the organic matter suspended in sediment.
Grow.
Roots responded—not breaking surface, but spreading beneath water like submerged lattice. They wove together, creating structure just below the waterline. Invisible from above but solid enough to support weight.
Seraph stepped forward onto his hidden bridge and began to walk.
Walking on water. Or just beneath it. His feet found purchase on living wood existing between riverbed and surface. Current flowed around and through the lattice, but the structure held.
Halfway across, he heard the boat.
Engine sound carried—patrol boat, searchlights sweeping the river in broad arcs.
Looking for something. Maybe us.
Seraph dropped below surface completely, letting current carry him while maintaining contact with his bridge. His enhanced metabolism meant several minutes of held breath—long enough.
The searchlight swept over where he'd been, found nothing, moved on.
He surfaced slowly, gasping cold air, and continued.
***
The Deserted Mall - 2:17 AM
Oakwood Plaza Shopping Center had closed six months ago. Parking lot lights flickered or died. Weeds grew through asphalt cracks. Graffiti tags that security no longer cleaned.
But buildings were intact. Still stocked.
Perfect.
Minimal security: one guard watching his phone, three cameras (two cracked), old alarm system with corroded wiring.
Seraph approached the loading dock, studied the lock. He pressed his palm against the door frame, grew a hair-thin root through the gap, and carefully manipulated it into the mechanism.
Three minutes. Click.
Inside: stale air and dust. Emergency lighting providing just enough illumination.
He worked quickly and methodically:
- Two complete outfits: dark jeans, plain shirts, weatherproof jacket
- New sneakers, actually his size
- Sturdy backpack
- Prepaid smartphone (still packaged)
- Basic toiletries
- Cheap watch
- Sunglasses
The manager's office safe yielded to the same root-manipulation: $4,200 in mixed bills.
This is theft, Peter said quietly. Real theft.
Resources left unused are resources wasted, Hashirama countered.
"It's theft," Seraph agreed, counting bills. "But I need it more than they do."
He took $3,000. Left the rest.
Peter's voice was getting quieter. Easier to overrule.
Is that growth? Or am I just losing my humanity?
***
3:45 AM
The battered Honda sat outside a Peekskill dive bar. Owner stumbling inside two hours ago, already drunk. Keys in ignition.
I could ask for a ride. Offer money.
And risk questions. Risk being remembered. Risk witnesses.
We've stolen enough—
"Yes," Seraph said firmly, and swung his leg over the bike.
Engine started on the second try. GPS unit took fifteen seconds to fry—thin root through circuit board, precise as surgery.
He rode south, back roads, headlight off when possible. Wind cold against his face.
This is insane, Peter said, but with exhilaration now.
This is tactics, Hashirama maintained.
"This is freedom," Seraph said into the wind.
***
Queens - 5:23 AM
He ditched the bike three miles from the city proper, wiping it down, leaving keys in ignition.
Final approach on foot through neighborhoods stirring with early morning. Delivery trucks. Joggers. He kept his head down—just another teenager heading home.
Queens revealed itself gradually: density increasing, buildings pressing closer, ambient noise rising. Eight million people compressed into a few square miles.
Overwhelming, Peter whispered.
Ok
Tactical nightmare, Hashirama assessed.
Home, Seraph thought, surprising himself.
He found the motel on a side street: the kind that rented by the hour or week, didn't ask questions, existed in gray spaces.
QUEENS STAR MOTEL - VACANCY
The night clerk barely looked up. Seraph paid for three nights ($180), received a key, was waved toward stairs.
Room 23: small, dingy, smelling of cigarettes and cleaner. Sagging bed. Bathroom with ancient shower. Window viewing brick wall.
Seraph locked the door, engaged chain, propped chair under handle, and finally collapsed onto the bed.
Exhaustion hit like physical force. Less than thirty hours conscious, but he'd escaped a facility, murdered multiple people, traveled thirty miles through forest, crossed a river, stolen everything needed for a new life.
But as he lay there, staring at water-stained ceiling, something strange happened.
The voices—Peter's guilt and Hashirama's pragmatism—started to fade.
Not disappearing. Receding. Like radio signals moving out of range.
What's happening? Peter asked, touched with panic.
A transition, Hashirama answered with acceptance. We were never meant to be permanent.
Seraph sat up, alert. "What do you mean?"
Words appeared in his vision—not on paper, but floating in awareness like a heads-up display:
***
INTEGRATION COMPLETE
Tutorial phase ending. Direct guidance will now cease.
You have successfully absorbed the fundamental knowledge and instincts of both Peter Parker and Hashirama Senju. Their memories remain accessible, but their voices will no longer actively guide you.
This is intentional. You are not meant to be a vessel for their personalities, but your own person—informed by their experiences, but not controlled by them.
Training wheels coming off.
You know how to access their memories when needed. You understand their abilities. But the choices, the personality, the path forward—these must be yours.
Good luck, Seraph Senju.
You're going to need it.
— G.
***
The text faded. With it, the last whispers of voices arguing since he'd woken.
Seraph sat in sudden, profound silence of his own mind. Empty. Free. Terrified.
I'm alone. Truly alone. No more Peter telling me what's right. No more Hashirama showing me how to survive.
Just me.
He lay back slowly. The memories were still there—he could access Peter's knowledge or Hashirama's techniques. But they felt different now. Stored rather than active. His to use, not voices demanding to be heard.
This is what God meant by compensation. Not just power and memories, but a tutorial. A chance to learn from them directly before standing on my own.
The tutorial was over.
Seraph Senju—not Subject-#SP07, not a failed clone, not a vessel for two dead men—pulled the thin blanket over himself and closed his eyes.
For the first time since waking in that pod, his mind was quiet.
For the first time in his very short life, he was truly himself.
Sleep came quickly, deep and dreamless.
Outside, New York City continued its endless, indifferent churn.
A new player had entered the game.
And the game had no idea what was coming.
End Chapter 5