Abduction?

After Minato's polite bow and careful farewell, Radahn lingered at the inner threshold of the Senju mansion, his gaze following the Hokage's retreat as it vanished underneath the archway, sandals echoing on stone.

The golden spill of afternoon sunlight indicted the lateness of the hour—what had begun as a triumphant entry was already shading into the hush preceding dusk.

The last fragments of the external world—Minato's footsteps, the murmurs of distant villagers—faded, replaced by the subtle breathing of a tired house, and a silence so thick it seemed sacred.

Radahn found himself utterly alone.

He turned and began to move deeper through the Senju estate, every step heavy with centuries of stories, every sense alive and sharpening.

The polished wood of the floor was cool underfoot, scattered with woven tatami mats rich with the musk of old straw and sandalwood.

Supporting pillars rose on both sides, each engraved with the spiral crease of the Senju family crest; sunlight and shadow danced over them in mottled sheets, flickering gently on sagging scrolls and faded banners above the lintels.

Every sound in the mansion seemed both amplified and softened—the gentle creak of ancient boards, the hush of wind through pine and birch outside, the near-silent scurrying of a mouse somewhere in the kitchen, hinting at years of disuse.

The main corridor stretched wide, framed by tall shoji doors, some open, revealing alcoves with family shrines and vases of brittle ikebana.

The air inside was cool and dry, layered with the faint memory of old incense, liniment oil, and the chilling ghost of blood shed defending these halls.

Aged portraits of stern-faced Senju founders lined the left wall—Hashirama's broad, gentle smile, Tobirama's austere glare, and other faces generations removed.

Radahn walked in measured silence, his height forcing him to duck beneath a sagging beam more than once, bare feet nearly spanning the width of the wooden slats.

Each glassless window opened onto overgrown courtyards where koi ponds reflected cloudy sky, and stone lanterns crouched among wild ferns and moss.

In every direction, he read the tale of a grand legacy nearly lost—a mansion too large for its ghosts, now inhabited only by memories and the peace he brought with him.

He paused at one intersection, turning his head with the reflexes of a seasoned warrior, alert to every motion and current.

In a distant parlour, a half-collapsed screen revealed a pile of children's toys—painted spinning tops, wooden kunai with splinters, a ball of string once braided by careful or hopeful hands.

Nearby, an armory was left neglected, save for the ceremonial naginata polished so frequently it still shimmered. Above, the ceiling's dark beams held old cracks filled with spiderwebs, hung over by lanterns hand-carved with leaf and spiral motifs.

Shadows hid in every corner, caught and softened by late amber light, while the air grew heavier, thick with the sadness of abandonment.

Yet there was warmth, too: here a cushion left on a porch for evening tea, there the faint scratchings of children marking heights as they grew—Senju prosperity etched in childish handwriting.

At last, Radahn reached a broad intersection, where a grand doorway led to one of the main chambers. The ornate panelling—heavy sliding doors inlaid with gold thread—opened to reveal a receiving room, and beyond it, a lush garden that fanned with riotous green and wild colour.

The floor here was raised and smooth, showing little sign of recent passage, but every corner seemed to hold a breath of expectation.

He entered, pausing in the light pooling on polished floorboards.

Here, silence sang.

The high ceiling arched above, carved with falling maple leaves and the stylized wave motif of the village, its apex just shy of Radahn's full height—he had only to stand a little taller, and his head might kiss the carved clouds.

With a slow, commanding wave of his hand, Radahn released his war gear.

The golden armor, colossal in both girth and storied past, shimmered, dissolved into streams of golden particles, each fragment glowing as though lit within by the embers of dying stars.

Pauldrons, chestplate, and battered gauntlets unravelled in silence, falling away like petals in a celestial breeze. The twin Greatswords on his back vanished in a final burst of golden motes, swirling briefly before disappearing as though drawn into the marrow of memory itself.

Where the warrior's armor had been, there stood only the man—towering, barefoot, still as a mountain.

For the first time in this world, Radahn's body was revealed in full: hair the colour of wildfire and sunrise, thick and unbound, tumbled free down his back in great, wavy falls.

Freed from helm and binding straps, it spilled almost to his waist, wild and shining with copper and mahogany strands.

In the spectral glow, his hair seemed almost to burn, hinting at the battlefield's eternal fire just beneath the skin.

His skin, darkened by sun and wind, bore the hue of weathered bronze—a testament to years spent in the open, exposed to the cruelty of countless days and nights.

There was not a trace of softness anywhere; his figure was drawn in slabs of pure strength, muscle winding over muscle. Shoulders like sculpted cliffs, arms corded and roped, hands heavy and broad, the fingers thick and calloused by weapons and labour both.

But it was the scars—

From collarbone to waist, from shoulder down to wrist and thigh, countless lines—some faint and silvered like threads, others jagged, dark, and newly healed—crossed and recrossed, never repeating, never breaking pattern except where bone had once shattered and mended poorly.

His ribs, sides, and thighs sported the smaller scars of glancing blows, shallow but many.

Yet none touched his face—a strong, striking visage framed by his wild mane.

His jaw was square and severe, eyes deep-set and gold, irises flecked with sun and iron, but the skin there was unblemished. 

When Radahn turned slightly, the play of shadow and lamplight traced every line, the scars whispering history.

He stood for a long time by the open shoji, arms folded as he surveyed the untamed garden just beyond the veranda.

The scent of moss and old wisteria drifted in, carried by a gentle dusk breeze. His massive frame nearly filled the threshold, head nudging the upper frame whenever he tilted back to look at the sky.

As the sun dropped below the eaves, the world outside was painted in deep orange and twilight blue. Radahn breathed in, feeling the ache of old wounds—the shoulder that still twinged after rain, the ribs that sang faint protest at each breath.

There was comfort here, inside these aging bones.

Every mark was a testament to persistence.

He stepped onto the private veranda, the shoji sliding aside with a sigh barely audible.

The garden sprawled wild and semi-abandoned; bamboo towered amidst weeds, crimson tulips and battered irises jostling beside leathery ferns.

A rectangular pond lay at its center, the water clouded and thick but shimmering with startled koi when Radahn approached.

An ancient stone bridge, half-collapsed, traversed its smallest crossing.

For a time, Radahn stood unmoving, studying the garden with the patient, almost mournful gaze of a man who has crossed deserts and galaxies for a moment such as this—a small, magical hush carved between chaos and loss.

Scarcely had he begun to unclench his hands—allowing himself a single breath of something approaching peace—than a new presence brushed the edge of his mind.

For an instant, it was all but indistinguishable from the ambient thrum of village life.

But Radahn, whose instincts had been forged amid a thousand ambushes, felt it keenly.

Somewhere in the halls beyond, a gathering of chakra—faint but unmistakably malevolent. Malicious intent, swirling, testing the defenses of the mansion with crawling patience.

Without turning, without a single glance sideways, his deep voice echoed calmly-

"Come out."

From the darkness beyond the threshold, five figures emerged cautiously. Cloaked in the shadows of ninjutsu and strict discipline, their steps were hesitant before the looming presence of Radahn. Faces masked but eyes betraying subtle tremors—some could not hide their growing unease.

The tallest stepped forward, voice low but firm.

"Why are you here?" Radahn's gaze remained fixed ahead, unyielding in its power.

The ninja leader bowed slightly, swallowing the weight of the moment, and replied.

"Come with us. Someone wishes to meet you."

Radahn's golden eyes flicked -

"If someone wanted to meet me, they would come here themselves. Now leave."

The leader's jaw tightened.

"He will not come! Either come with us willingly, or we will use force."

Radahn said nothing but the space was now suffocating the Ninjas.

The youngest ninja swallowed, hesitating with one foot half-turned, as if to flee.

The leader tensed, then signalled.

At once, they sprang into motion.

From sleeves and pouches came scrolls, thrown open with practiced flicks, and small ceramic spheres—each painted with intricate seals.

With a quick chant and a series of hand signs, the spheres burst, releasing a thick, choking smoke that spread rapidly, flooding the hallway with an acrid metallic scent.

"Release him!" barked one ninja, launching an explosive tag at Radahn's feet.

For a moment, noise and colour filled the area.

Two ninjas rushed forward through the haze, weapons raised—

Radahn, still unmoving, let the smoke curl around his frame.

He closed his eyes once, arms perfectly relaxed at his sides.

In the cloud, the two attacking ninjas tried to slip behind and in front simultaneously, kunai aimed at pressure points.

But the smoke thinned abruptly, drawn aside by a sudden current of air—Radahn's own controlled gravitational field stirring the pall.

The lead ninja's hand, reaching for his pouch, froze in place; the weapon never left its sheath.

The flash of a shadow—a blur almost too swift for the eye—moved through the smoke.

In the half-second when both attackers lunged, a deep vibration rumbled through the mansion's bones.

They struck—their blades bounced off skin that felt, impossibly, like stone. Radahn caught one by the wrist and, with a gentle twist, disarmed him, the kunai clattering against the floor.

The second ninja—breathing hard, adrenaline fighting terror—fired a cluster of senbon at Radahn's neck from point-blank range.

The needles pinged harmlessly off the giant's bare skin.

Radahn shifted only his gaze, which caught the ninja full-force.

"Enough."

Both would-be assailants staggered back, feeling their legs tremble, unsure if the cold running over their bodies was chakra or pure dread.

From the fading smoke, four burning golden eyes—Radahn's—seemed to flicker in preternatural focus.

The leader, desperate, lunged in himself, blade reversed for a disabling blow as he called out to his squad:

"Force him down! Together!"

They all piled in, a flurry of leaf-green vests and glinting steel, aiming for wrists and ankles, attempting pressure points known to paralyze lesser men. Radahn barely moved, simply brushing one aside with a sweep of his arm.

The unlucky ninja was thrown across the hallway, crashing into a wooden column that cracked from the force.

The youngest tried a genjutsu—fingers flashing through familiar seals, voice shaking, eyes locking with Radahn's.

For a heartbeat, the world twisted—a field of red spider lilies blooming through the old boards—a momentary illusion.

Radahn's will swept through it like a wind through smoke.

"Mind games? With Me? Haha-" he mused quietly, and the genjutsu broke like brittle porcelain.

Now, panic set in among the group.

"He's not human—" one whimpered, trying to back away.

The hallway seemed to shrink, the walls closing in.

Another—fighting through terror—hurled a flash bomb at Radahn's face.

Light seared the corridor, blinding most.

Radahn's hand moved so fast it was an afterimage; he caught the bomb before it even finished exploding, crushing it in his palm so that only a weak spark fizzled.

The leader, shouting now to cover the quake of fear in his chest:

"If you don't stand down, we're authorized to use lethal—"

Radahn cut him off with a look that froze sound itself.

The leader tried to form a final hand seal, but found his arms wouldn't move; his chakra, somehow, was locked and useless.

Radahn's gaze sharpened.

The smoke finally cleared.

The scene was carnage without blood: two ninjas sprawled on the ground, chests heaving; another pinned to the wall by an invisible force; the youngest, frozen mid-escape, legs refusing to obey.

"Nani?!" one mouthed, lips numb.

Radahn looked at each of them, then fixed his gaze on the leader. The air around them felt thick—pressure pressing down, every breath an effort.

"Tell me," he intoned, eyes flashing briefly, 

"Who would be so foolish as to send you?"

The leader's jaw locked, the stubbornness of duty battling ice-cold terror.

"You'll get nothing from us, Monster!"

Radahn's lips barely moved:

"I already know."

The leader's mouth dropped open in a silent scream, his eyes rolling back as life left him, snuffed by a force as gentle as it was inexorable.

The remaining ninjas trembled.

Radahn's voice came cold and final.

"Oh, Danzo."

"As for you two-"

The remaining two, wild with fear, tried to bolt.

Radahn flicked two fingers—wind whipped down the hallway, scooping them up and tossing them bodily toward the entrance.

They crashed into the feet of the ninja squad stationed outside, who recoiled in horror and confusion.

"What the hell?"