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Disclaimer
This is a work of fan fiction based on the Naruto franchise created by Masashi Kishimoto.
I do not own the characters, settings, or the original lore of the Naruto universe.
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The world had narrowed to heat and sound.
Not fire—fire implied chaos. This was pressure. A sun forced into the shape of a man's veins, hammering outward with every beat of his heart. Might Duy felt each pulse distinctly, not as pain, but as information. His body was screaming in a language he had spent a lifetime learning to understand.
So this is it, he thought.
Ah… I guess I really did open it.
The Eighth Gate of Death was open.
Steam rolled off his skin in violent waves, red mist tearing itself from his pores as chakra burned faster than thought. His heart was no longer beating so much as exploding rhythmically, forcing blood through vessels that had already begun to tear. Bones creaked. Muscles shredded and reknit themselves in fractions of a second, only to tear again under forces no human body was meant to withstand.
Somewhere behind him, far enough that he could afford not to look, he knew there were children.
No—ninjas. His son among them.
"Oi… Guy," Duy muttered, lips cracking into a familiar, sheepish grin even as blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. "Looks like I am going to be a little late coming home today."
He stepped forward.
The enemy force—seven elite shinobi, veterans of the war—barely had time to register movement before the ground collapsed beneath them. Duy didn't strike with hatred. He didn't strike with rage. His blows were clean, almost gentle in intent, even as they shattered bodies with impossible precision.
A kick. A palm. A step that cracked the earth like brittle clay.
They fell not because he was angry, but because they were in the way.
His awareness was strange now. Detached. He could feel the exact moment his left femur fractured under its own output. The instant his right lung failed to fully inflate. The microscopic tears in his heart valves, widening with every beat.
He laughed.
"Ahaha… guess I pushed it a bit too hard."
4 enemies collapsed in a heap of broken armor and dust, while 3 were running away in terror. Silence rushed in to fill the space violence had occupied.
Duy stood alone, steam pouring off him like a burning brazier.
The gate did not allow rest.
He turned, slowly, carefully, as if afraid that moving too fast might scare the moment away.
They were alive.
Bruised. Exhausted. Terrified. But breathing.
Guy was staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, fists clenched so tightly they shook. His teammates were no better—frozen between awe and horror.
Duy raised a hand and waved.
"Sorry about that," he said cheerfully. "Your dad's a bit embarrassing, huh?"
Guy took a step forward. "Dad—"
The sound of his son's voice hit harder than any enemy strike.
Ah.
That's dangerous.
Duy felt it then—the real pain. Not in his body, but somewhere deeper. A pull. A desire to stay. To explain. To apologize properly. To give advice. To say something profound.
He didn't.
If I stop now, he thought calmly, I won't be able to move again.
So he did what he had always done best.
He trusted effort.
"Listen," Duy said, voice steady despite the blood now running freely down his chin. "Being strong isn't about talent, okay? It's about doing your best, even when nobody's watching."
Guy's eyes burned. "I know that!"
"Ahaha… yeah. Of course you do."
Duy turned away before his son could say anything else.
The Eighth Gate was eating him from the inside out now. His heart had begun to rupture in earnest. Each beat was weaker than the last, yet paradoxically more violent, forcing chakra through pathways that were collapsing as fast as they were being used.
His vision dimmed at the edges.
This is fine, he thought.
This is enough.
He had lived as a joke. A failure. A man who never made it past genin.
And yet—
He remembered cold mornings, running alone while the village slept. Remembered hands raw from striking wood and stone. Remembered choosing to train instead of complain, again and again, for decades.
He remembered Guy as a child, tripping over his own feet and laughing anyway.
Worth it.
The chakra inside him surged one final time, not outward, but inward. Compressing. Folding. The Gate of Death demanded everything—and Duy gave it gladly.
His heart stopped.
For an infinitesimal instant, there was no pain. No sound. No body.
Only will.
Not anger. Not regret.
A single, impossibly dense moment of resolve, forged from a lifetime of repetition, sacrifice, and quiet acceptance.
It did not disperse.
It did not fade.
It burned inward, collapsing in on itself like a star refusing to die.
And then—
Breath.
Sharp. Shallow. Panicked.
Duy's eyes snapped open.
The world was suddenly too small.
Wooden ceiling. Thin blanket. The smell of dust and old paper. His limbs felt light. Weak. Wrong in a way that made his skin crawl.
He sat up too fast and immediately fell back with a wheeze.
"Oof—"
His chest hurt.
Not the catastrophic, all-consuming pain of the Eighth Gate—but a dull, ordinary ache. The kind that came from growing bones and poorly healed bruises.
Duy stared at his hands.
Small. Calloused, but not deeply so. Fingers too short. Wrists too thin.
A child's hands.
He lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to his own breathing.
Slow.
Alive.
"…Eh?"
His heart began to race—not from exertion, but from realization.
This isn't the Pure Land, he thought.
And it's definitely not hell.
A memory surfaced, unbidden. Not an image—a feeling. The certainty of death. The acceptance of it.
Followed by this.
Duy laughed softly, the sound cracking in his throat.
"Ahaha…" He raised an arm experimentally. It shook. "Guess I really overdid it."
Outside, somewhere distant, the village bell rang. Morning.
Duy closed his eyes.
Alright then.
If this was a second chance… he wouldn't waste it worrying about why.
After all—
Youth was still on his side.