Naruto : Infinite Buff

The forest loomed around them, vast yet confined, every shadow stretching endlessly but trapped within the massive walls of iron and soil. The trees were dense, their twisted roots strangling the earth, forming an intricate maze of natural obstacles. A prison disguised as wilderness.

Amatsu and Higanbana moved like specters, their forms barely visible as they navigated through the branches, leaping from tree to tree. Their movements were fluid, soundless. In this environment, hesitation meant death.

Then—a sound.

A deep, metallic groan.

Amatsu landed lightly on a thick branch, his body going still. His sharp ears caught it again—a heavy, grinding noise in the distance, resonating through the forest like a beast stirring from slumber.

A gate opening.

The moment stretched. The air around them seemed to shift, a weight pressing down on the forest.

This was a signal. Something had changed.

Amatsu's gaze flickered toward the sky, barely visible. This place was vast, yet enclosed. A calculated design. A controlled space.

He did not like it.

Higanbana landed beside him, crimson eyes glancing his way. She was waiting—for his decision.

That was the nature of their relationship. She followed. He led.

He did not move.

Instead, he listened.

The forest was alive, but the shift in the air was undeniable. Something new had entered the equation.

His instincts were rarely wrong. And right now, they whispered to him.

This was no longer just a test.

This was something else.

Higanbana did not question him, but her gaze was expectant. She could sense his hesitation, but she did not press for an answer.

A mistake most people made was assuming decisions required explanations.

They didn't.

They only required accuracy.

His mind processed everything—the sound of the gate, the atmosphere, the layout of the terrain. If they were meant to continue forward, then the sudden shift in the environment meant either an obstacle or a threat had been introduced.

His eyes scanned their surroundings, searching for anything out of place.

Then, he saw it.

A tree.

Larger than the others.

The details were subtle—its bark slightly darker, its roots thicker, its posture standing with a quiet presence that did not match the chaotic disorder of the forest. It was out of place, and that alone was enough to set off warning signals in his mind.

More importantly—it was hiding something.

To an untrained eye, it was just another part of the scenery. But Amatsu saw through the deception.

At the base, barely visible through the tangled growth of bushes and vines, was a hollow space. A hidden opening.

A blind spot.

A trap? A secret? It didn't matter.

What mattered was utility.

Amatsu did not hesitate. He dropped from the branch, landing soundlessly. His fingers brushed aside the foliage, confirming his suspicion—the hollow was large enough for two people to slip inside.

He turned, nodding once.

Higanbana followed. No words. No question. Just action.

They disappeared into the darkness.

The hollow was larger than expected.

The air inside was thick with the scent of damp wood, the walls uneven but smooth where nature had carved away at the tree's insides over time. It was tight, but not suffocating. A place meant to be unnoticed.

They settled in, crouching low. The outside world remained still.

A moment passed.

Then another.

Higanbana finally broke the silence.

"Big-Brother, why are we hiding?"

Her voice was soft, almost curious. Not fearful. She had fought beside him long enough to trust his decisions without explanation. But that didn't mean she didn't want to understand.

He did not answer immediately.

His gaze remained fixed on the entrance, his mind drifting.

Why was he hiding?

Why am I hiding?

I wasn't afraid.

But why was i'm hiding? Was it out of caution? Or was it because the path ahead felt too uncertain, too fraught with consequences that even he couldn't control?

The thought struck him like a splinter under his skin, itching at his resolve. The air was thick with anticipation, as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to shift, to break.

It was more than just immediate survival.

Something within him whispered that this moment was important—that it signified something larger.

Not just the forest. Not just the test. Him.

He exhaled slowly, fingers pressing against the rough bark.

For so long, survival had been his only truth.

Every choice he made, every battle he fought—it had all been to ensure continuation.

But now... was survival enough?

The thought struck him like a dagger to the ribs. It wasn't a new idea, but it was one he had ignored.

The more his power grew, the more hollow the goal of mere survival seemed.It wasn't just about staying alive anymore. Not when every victory felt like another step into a void, every triumph another reminder that what he'd fought for had become a fragile illusion.

Was this all he had left to fight for? The instinct to simply remain? To outlast, endure, keep breathing—was that truly his purpose?

A nagging emptiness lingered in his chest, gnawing at him like a wolf in the dark. It felt unnatural, this emptiness. He had faced so many enemies, had overcome every obstacle, but now... now he couldn't escape this feeling that surviving was the easiest thing to do.

A nagging emptiness lingered in his chest.

Have I been too focused on just living? Is there something deeper I'm missing?

He had fought, clawed, and killed his way forward, but for what? To simply exist?

No.

That was not enough.

Not anymore.

A memory surfaced.

Not of this world. Of another.

His old life. Indonesia.

The protests. The chaos. The people screaming for justice, demanding change.

The streets of Jakarta boiled with restless bodies, the stench of sweat and desperation thick in the air. A dying sun hung low, bleeding red across the skyline, as if mourning the disgrace unfolding below.

They screamed.

How they screamed.

A tidal wave of voices, surging, crashing—blind, deaf, empty. Hands grasping at nothing. Banners rising and falling like brittle leaves in the wind, each word scrawled upon them as useless as the throats that spoke them.

"Reformasi! Justice! Down with corruption!"

He had seen it all, not as a participant, but as an observer—a powerless body trapped in a weak existence.

The students blamed their leaders. They cursed those in power, calling them corrupt, unjust, ruthless.

Their mouths frothed with rage, but their hands? Weak. Empty. Without calluses, without scars.

They chanted of suffering, yet they had never tasted true hunger. They wailed of oppression, yet their own incompetence shackled them.

Disgusting.

These were not warriors.

Not builders, nor rulers. Not even thinkers.

They were parasites, latching onto the skin of their country, gnawing at its flesh, feasting upon its vitality. They built nothing, yet demanded everything.

What a pitiful sight.

The streets reeked of their filth—of self-righteousness masquerading as justice, of weakness adorned in the illusion of moral superiority. Dogs barking at lions. Rats scurrying in the shadow of kings.

They cursed their leaders.

Corrupt! Ruthless! Unjust!

And yet—those same leaders were respected. Loved. Feared.

Not because they were kind.

Not because they were fair.

But because they had power.

And these fools?

They had nothing.

Their fists pounded against the gates of power, but their bones were too brittle, their flesh too weak. They tore at their own country, clawed at it like starving dogs fighting over scraps, dragging it into disgrace with their tantrums.

If they had time to scream, why did they not struggle?

If they had energy to riot, why did they not rise?

If they had the will to destroy, why did they never create?

The people followed them. Because they had power.

The students, for all their passion, had nothing.

They were fools.

They had energy, but no direction. They had passion, but no power.

They wasted their strength screaming at the wind, not realizing that the only force that mattered in the world was the ability to shape it.

The strong dictated. The weak endured.

And he had been one of the weak.

A frail body, a life dictated by limitations.

He hated that version of himself.

But now?

Now, he was strong. Now, he was dangerous.

And yet, if he continued to only chase survival, was he not repeating his past mistake?

The realization was cold. Ruthless.

Survival was just the first step.

Power was the true goal.

The heavens do not listen to prayers.

The world does not care for your suffering.

The butcher does not flinch when the lamb cries for mercy.

Only power shapes the world. Only strength decides fate.

Not just to live. To dictate. To control.

If he truly wanted to shape his own destiny, then he could not simply endure. He had to rise.

He had to conquer.

And the weak?

The weak would be left behind!