Naruto: Rise of the Fallen Princess

The instant I arrived with Kuro and Jiren at the battlefield, I knew things were dire. My most powerful card—the Silver Stage—was unusable. Traveling atop Kuro had made the meditative focus required impossible, at least for now. Thankfully, Kaito had volunteered beforehand: he would become my sword should the battle demand it.

As soon as we arrived, I cut through Hidan's cursed technique, and with my threads, signaled Jiren to contain Kakuzu just long enough for me to remove Hidan from the fight. Meanwhile, Mitsue immediately slithered toward Fū, her silvery body glowing as healing energy flowed to the fallen girl's wounded form.

Everything changed the moment the Shinigami arrived.

He was unlike any previous manifestation—this one was not just a spirit. All of us, except Hidan, could see him, and his very presence tore through the air in an explosion of natural energy. He radiated power equal to my own in Silver Stage… a form I could not currently access.

His power manipulated black threads—death incarnate. They crystallized the very air, slowing movement, numbing instincts. Even I moved at only a fraction of my full speed. If he was in the Silver Stage, this battle had already tilted into desperation.

Then Kuro rose.

Despite her exhaustion, she hurled herself at this Shinigami with fearless conviction. My heart split between agony and pride as I watched her crash into him and remain alive—barely. I couldn't let her sacrifice stand unanswered.

Channeling my threads into the physical world, I forged them into my sword. With a single sweep, I cut through the black bindings chaining my limbs. For a moment… I had a chance.

And then I felt it.

In the World of Intent, I sensed it an instant too late. His hand pierced through my stomach. I saw him speak, but shock muted the world. Mitsue lunged, her fangs snapping through nothing, her coiled tail wrapping around me to keep my body together.

Then the death threads surged through me, invading the fragile space between life and soul. The Shinigami had found Yumegakure—my sanctuary—and had twisted its call to assist me into an open door.

The rift formed.

And with it, he pulled us—Mitsue, myself, and the terrible specter of Death—out of reality.

<<<< o >>>>

Smoke and dust still clung to the edges of the torn clearing, the forest groaning in the wake of a battle not yet finished. I wasn't there to witness it—but I felt it the moment Mitsue was ripped away. And now, with Hinata gone, it was only us.

Kakuzu's four masks hovered behind him, in dark inhuman shapes, the power of multiple elements swirling and ready. I stood between him and the wounded Fū, her breath still ragged despite Mitsue's rapid healing. Her chakra was unstable, volatile—but she was conscious. That meant hope.

"You're persistent, boy," Kakuzu growled, his face impassive, but his stance coiled like a serpent. "But you're not enough."

He moved with speed that rivaled my own. My mask's yang chakra flared to life, clashing against his barrage of elemental strikes. Fire against wind, lightning against earth—each collision shook the trees. I tried releasing my poison gases, but his wind mask dispersed them with ease. Darts laced with paralyzing agents bounced off his Iron Skin like pebbles. Every method I had to deliver venom was too slow, too weak, or too obvious. My arsenal was shrinking. The battle—two against five—was turning into a desperate stand.

Even so, I couldn't abandon her. Never. With every strike, I fought harder, drawing on reserves I didn't know I had. For the first time I felt real support from my yang mask, as if the spirit of Akio Gin understood my prayer and helped of his own free will, not forced by Earth Grudge Fear, the two of us united by the same purpose. There were moments—fleeting ones—when we matched him, blow for blow, step for step. But it was an illusion. One that began to crack the moment his fire mask surged with another wave of heat, forcing us back. I knew this was the end.

And then she screamed. 

"STOP!"

Fū had pulled herself to her knees. Her hands were glowing with green light, the remnants of Mitsue's healing technique sparking across her skin.

Kakuzu turned his attention slightly, expression unreadable. "You should be unconscious."

She stumbled forward and, with trembling fingers, drew a kunai from her pouch. Her hand lifted slowly until the blade pressed against her own throat, her voice steady despite the tears welling in her eyes. "If you kill him… I'll kill myself. Right here. Right now."

His eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

Fū's chakra flared dangerously. "You want the Seven-Tails. Fine. But if Jiren dies, you lose everything. I'll make sure of it."

Kakuzu looked between the two of us—Jinchūriki and her Protector. His lips curled faintly. "A foolish threat… but I know young love when I see it... You'd do it."

Jiren coughed, pushing himself up despite the pain. "Fū, don't—"

"I will," she snapped. Her voice trembled, not from fear, but resolve. "If you promise me he lives… I'll go with you. Willingly. I will participate so that you and yours can take my Bijuu out of me... But if I survive… I will come back to him."

Silence fell. Even the masks seemed too quiet.

Kakuzu finally straightened. "Very well. If you survive… you're free to return. Not that it matters—you won't."

Fū stepped forward and helped Jiren stand, her arm locking with his. They both looked broken—but not beaten.

As Kakuzu turned away, he added, "You'll regret loving anything in this world. Love makes you soft. Weak."

Fū looked over her shoulder, meeting his gaze.

"Maybe," she said. "But it also makes me strong enough to do this."

<<<< o >>>>

The dark threads of the Shinigami found their way to one of the most sacred locations in all of Yumegakure—the peak of the Crystal Tower, where the Silver Tree rooted itself into eternity. Reality cracked open in a portal of shadow, and from its tear spilled Hinata, still impaled by the Shinigami's blackened hand.

The speed of their arrival slammed her body against the trunk of the Silver Tree, leaving streaks of blood soaking into its pale bark. Mitsue, though wounded and half-shattered from the passage between worlds, coiled desperately around Hinata, her healing chakra glowing weakly. The toll of their crossing had ripped away sections of her silvery hide, exposing wounds that shimmered with ghostly light—but she endured, focused solely on keeping Hinata alive for even one more heartbeat.

Yumegakure itself reacted. The skies darkened as a storm began to brew around the ever-present moon. The Silver Node blazed with raw energy, and the spiritual winds howled with fury. Hinata's blood seeped into the roots of the tree, the very heart of the dream-realm trembling with outrage.

The Shinigami remained motionless, gazing upward at the silver moon with disdain.

"So this is the origin of the anomaly," it spoke, voice hollow yet brimming with contempt. "Greater than I anticipated. So here the souls of the dead have begun to slip free... Here, the world's energy leaks into illusion. You are a parasite. And I will see you removed."

But then a flood of silver threads erupted from the heart of the tower. They wove themselves into a blinding net between the Shinigami and Hinata, and within that luminous weave, a figure emerged.

Michel.

His presence forced the Shinigami to retreat half a step, its hand retracting. Michel's body radiated power—the fury of Yumegakure made manifest. Golden lines pulsed faintly along the contours of his form as silver threads circled Hinata and Mitsue, enclosing them in a protective cocoon. But his aura roared with righteous fury, no longer just a protector but a storm given form.

Michel attacked.

The Shinigami responded, hurling spears of death-threaded energy toward the cocoon. Michel moved like lightning, intercepting each one. The Shinigami's eyes narrowed as he altered his trajectory, redirecting attacks toward Hinata to bait Michel into opening a weakness. But Michel didn't falter—instead, he drew inspiration from the very constructs of the Shinigami.

With a refined gesture, Michel's threads shifted in harmony with the spiritual current of Yumegakure. They braided, wove, and pulsed as if alive, forming not only guardians but something new—an elegant fusion of intent and protection. His creations radiated a purity of design that the Shinigami, for all his ancient might, could not decipher. These weren't mere constructs—they were reflections of Michel's mastery.

The silver spirits multiplied and adapted, forming shifting shields and striking countermeasures that read the black threads mid-flight. A tide of brilliance surged across the battlefield, and for a moment, the Shinigami stumbled—not from pain, but from recognition. Michel had transcended imitation. He had created something original, precise, and devastatingly effective.

For the first time, the Reaper understood that he did not fully comprehend the power he faced.

The Shinigami reeled. This world was hostile to him. The framework, twisted though it was, obeyed Michel. Even the black threads of death began to dissolve on contact with the silver.

"You are powerful, guardian," the Shinigami finally growled. "But you are tethered to this place. Let's see how strong you are… when I dismantle the world around you."

Behind him, a second portal opened.

"I am not bound by the real world's limitations here. And now that I've found your core—I, too, have allies I can summon."

With that, the Shinigami stepped through the portal. It sealed behind him, leaving behind only the scent of blood and the echo of fury.