Chapter 105: Where the Fire Dies
The footsteps of the four men faded, leaving behind a silence more profound than any noise. Inside the room, Hatake Sakumo sat on the cold floor, the last vestiges of light in his eyes guttering out. The sadness that clung to him was no longer a feeling; it was a physical shroud, a glacier of despair that had frozen solid around his heart.
His mind drifted back, through the years of war and duty, to a simpler time. He stood beside his own father on the Hokage Rock, the village of Konoha spread out before them like a promise. The wind tugged at their clothes as his father spoke, his voice filled with a pride that shaped Sakumo's entire world.
"Sakumo," his father had said, a hand on his young shoulder, "Konoha is our home. We must dedicate our lives to its protection, to carrying forward the Will of Fire."
The boy he had been looked up, curious and earnest. "Father, what is the Will of Fire?"
His father smiled, a gentle, knowing expression. "It means that the young are the future's hope. The older generation must trust them, nurture them, and be willing to sacrifice for them. Our deaths are not an end, but a spark that ignites the next generation, inspiring them to become the pillars that support this village. Just like you and me now. I will protect you as you grow, and you will flourish into a new, strong leaf. Wherever the leaves dance, the fire will continue to burn. Those flames will illuminate the village, and allow new leaves to sprout."
That ideal had become his compass, his Nindo. As a shinobi, he had been ruthless when the mission demanded it, but his heart had always belonged to his comrades. In every impossible choice between cold regulation and a living, breathing teammate, he had never hesitated. He always chose the person.
But now…
Now, everyone—the villagers he protected, the shinobi he led, even the Hokage and the council—declared that choice a failure. A sin.
Had the Will of Fire he had clung to, the very legacy of his father, been a lie from the start?
To believe that was to invalidate his entire life, every scar, every sacrifice.
His movements were slow, deliberate, as he pushed himself up and walked to his bed. His fingers closed around the familiar hilt of the White Fang chakra blade, lifting it from where it lay. The polished metal reflected a face he no longer recognized—a face stripped of purpose.
Konoha had given him a reason to live. Now, it had systematically destroyed every reason he had to fight.
The resolve in his eyes shattered, replaced by a bleak and utter desolation. He slowly drew the short blade, the soft shing of steel the only sound in the tomb-like room.
His voice was a dry, broken rasp, meant for the shadows he knew were listening. "I leave Kakashi in your hands. Apologize to him… for me. I am sorry."
From beyond the door, Kagenori's voice replied, quiet and solemn. "I will. I will ensure he becomes a man who can stand on his own two feet. I am sorry… I cannot help you."
"You have nothing to apologize for," Sakumo whispered, a strange peace settling over him. "My reason for living is gone. I am glad… you are the one who is here."
With a final, decisive motion, he drove the White Fang blade deep into his abdomen. The sound of lifeblood rushing forth was a grim, final testament.
Outside, Kagenori closed his eyes for a brief moment, listening to the end of an era. "Farewell, Hatake Sakumo," he murmured into the stillness. "You are no longer Konoha's White Fang. You have broken free from the prison called Konoha."
[Witnessed the death of an important figure, Hatake Sakumo. Reward: 5,000 Witness Points.]
In a silent shunshin, he was gone.
In the woods, Kakashi, mid-swing against a tree, suddenly stumbled. He crashed to the ground, a phantom hand closing around his throat. He couldn't breathe. A vast, yawning emptiness opened inside him, a sense of loss so profound it felt like a physical blow.
Something vital, something fundamental, had been severed.
Gasping, drenched in a cold sweat he didn't understand, Kakashi scrambled to his feet. A primal dread seized him, and he ran. He ran through the trees, through the streets, a desperate, frantic sprint toward home.
The closer he got, the heavier the dread became, a suffocating pressure on his chest. He reached his house, his hand outstretched to shove his father's door open, and froze. An irrational, bone-deep fear held him captive. A voice in his soul screamed that opening this door would shatter his world forever.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the feeling, and took a sharp, steadying breath. That's when he smelled it—the coppery, unmistakable scent of blood.
His entire body began to tremble.
With a hand that shook uncontrollably, he pushed the door open.
The scene imprinted itself on his mind with the searing clarity of a lightning strike. His father, lying in a dark, spreading pool of blood, the White Fang short sword gripped in his lifeless hand. The world dissolved into a high-pitched buzz.
"Father…?"
The word was a choked whisper. Kakashi staggered forward, his legs moving without his command, and collapsed to his knees beside the body. The air left his lungs in a silent, agonized rush. Tears welled, blurring the horrific image, but no sound would come. One hand clutched at the fabric over his own heart, as if trying to hold it together, while the other reached out, grasping his father's already cold, stiff hand.
The grief was a tidal wave, too immense for his young mind to process. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he pitched forward, unconscious, into the silence.
The next day, Kakashi opened his eyes to the sterile white ceiling of the Konoha Hospital. He bolted upright. "Father!"
But there was no Hatake Sakumo. Only Kagenori and Uzumaki Kushina stood by his bed, their faces etched with a sorrow that confirmed his deepest nightmare.
It wasn't a dream. It was real.
His father was gone.
Kakashi brought his hands to his face, his small shoulders shaking as the dam finally broke. "Sensei Kagenori… my father… he's dead… Aaaaahhh!"
He wept then, great, heaving sobs that wracked his entire frame. He was a Chunin, a veteran of battles, but in that moment, he was just a seven-year-old boy whose world had ended. Seeing his anguish, Kushina turned away, her own shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Kagenori said nothing. He simply placed a firm, steadying hand on Kakashi's shoulder, a silent anchor in the storm.
A few days later, Hatake Sakumo's funeral was a quiet, somber affair. Only Kakashi, Kagenori, and Kushina oversaw the proceedings. It was a stark, lonely ceremony. A handful of Sakumo's former comrades came to pay their respects, their faces a mixture of grief and shame, but the crowd that should have gathered for a hero was conspicuously absent.
Kakashi stared at the fresh tombstone, his eyes dull and empty.
"Why, Sensei?" he whispered, his voice hollow. "Why did he…?"
"Because he was betrayed, Kakashi," Kagenori answered, his voice low and grim. "He was betrayed by the very ideal he dedicated his life to serving."
Kakashi's lips barely moved. "The… Will of Fire…?"
After a time, Kagenori and Kushina led the numb boy away from the gravesite. Not long after they departed, a single figure appeared before the tombstone.
It was Sarutobi Hiruzen, the Third Hokage. He held his pipe, but it was unlit. His face was etched with a deep, weary regret. The news of the White Fang's suicide had struck him like a physical blow. The plan had never been for this. It was a temporary disgrace, a political maneuver to appease the war hawks, after which Sakumo would have been quietly reinstated.
He had never imagined the man's spirit was so brittle, or that the village's scorn would cut so deep.
The death of Konoha's White Fang was a catastrophic wound, a self-inflicted tragedy that would weaken the village immeasurably. And for the other ninja villages, it was the best news they could have possibly received.
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