Time Limited Heroine (1)

*Stupid Flashbacks sound Effect*

Once upon a time, there was a movie—just a movie—based on a popular ninja series.

It promised something fresh: exotic lands, sacred priestesses, and a mysterious villain who definitely wasn't just another guy in fancy robes trying to end the world.

At the center of it all was her.

Shion.

Lavender eyes. Pale blond hair. The heiress to the Land of Demons. Fans joked she looked like someone slapped a filter on Hinata Hyuga—made her louder, bossier, and gave her a sailor's mouth.

She was supposed to be a one-off. A filler princess. In, out, forgotten.

Easy.

Except—

"...Fuck."

That was her first word after waking up.

Not in a bed with fluffy blankets and the sweet buzz of Wi-Fi. Not surrounded by phone chargers and the smell of instant ramen.

Nope.

Tatami mats. Heavy silk drapes covered in ominous sigils. Ancient murals glaring down from the ceiling like judgmental grandparents.

Exactly the kind of place where you'd expect a priestess to live... and possibly be sacrificed.

Her voice came out higher, squeakier than she remembered. She sat up, turned her head, and caught her reflection in a polished bronze mirror across the room.

Tiny. Wide-eyed. Wearing some ceremonial nightgown that screamed virginal sacrifice, coming soon!

Shion stared.

"...Fuck," she said again, this time like she was sending a resignation letter to God.

Unfortunately, someone heard her.

"SHION!"

She flinched like she'd been hit by a thrown sandal.

The door slammed open with the force of a woman who paid rent with pure anger. In stormed a tall figure in spotless robes, her expression somewhere between "I'm disappointed" and "I'm about to perform an exorcism."

Lavender eyes locked onto her like a missile system.

Miruko. The High Priestess. Her mother.

"I know I didn't just hear that disgusting word come out of my sweet daughter's mouth!" she snapped, voice sharp enough to cut paper. "Where did you learn such filth?!"

In the hallway, someone gasped. Someone else dropped a ceramic dish with a tragic crash. Another whispered, "She's possessed. She has to be."

Shion, dead inside, slowly turned her head toward the nearest unlucky soul standing nearby.

Without missing a beat, she pointed.

"Taruho did it."

The man in question—Taruho, her loyal retainer—froze mid-bow, eyes wide with horror.

"E-Eh?! Shion-sama?! I-I would never—!"

Miruko spun on him like a predator spotting a wounded deer.

"TARUHO."

He looked like he was watching his life flash before his eyes.

"I SWEAR I'VE NEVER EVEN SAID—!"

Shion just stared blankly at the ceiling.

I'm a side character in a filler arc. This is my life now.

And so, Taruho was sentenced to three days of grueling temple duty, Shion got a lecture on "how a proper lady should behave," and somewhere deep inside, the reincarnated soul trapped in the body of a pale-haired priestess began plotting her grand escape.

Or, failing that, a nap.

Shion flopped back onto the cool tatami mat, arms flaring out dramatically, staring up at the ceiling like it might cough up some answers if she looked hard enough. Somewhere down the hall, Taruho was still getting his ears chewed off. She could almost hear the despair radiating through the walls.

Sorry, buddy. Collateral damage.

Her mind wandered.

A few days ago—back when things had gone off-script—Miruko, her "mother," had faced Mōryō, the big bad villain of this whole filler mess. In the original story, Shion hadn't carried the sacred bell charm she was supposed to. One little mistake that cost everything.

But this time?

Shion smirked faintly.

This time she had the bell.

This time, Mōryō hadn't even grazed the hem of her robes. With the bell's protection, Miruko sealed the demon away without needing to hurl herself in front of a deathblow like some tragic heroine.

A small difference. A completely different ending.

And for the first time, the future didn't feel like a giant boot hovering over her skull.

The storm had passed.

Mostly.

Because even now, lying there while the morning breeze ruffled the curtains and the smell of incense drifted through the air, one thought clung to her brain like a tick:

This can't be it.

She folded her hands neatly over her stomach, breathing slow, watching the ceiling beams blur as she lost focus.

What now?

She wasn't the original Shion. Not really. That girl had been loud, bratty, spoiled rotten. She cussed out everyone and threw tantrums when she didn't get her way.

...Okay, technically this Shion still cursed like a sailor. Reflex. Hard to kill.

But whining? Crying about fate? Sitting around waiting for someone else to solve everything?

No thanks.

She knew too much now. About herself. About this world. About what happened to background characters when the main story moved on without them.

A frown tugged at her lips.

Am I supposed to wait for the hero to show up?

Wait—hero or future husband? Wasn't that how the movie ended?

Her face soured immediately.

"No," she muttered, stabbing a finger into the air like she was arguing with God. "That's filler nonsense. He didn't even remember my name after the credits rolled."

The ceiling, traitorous and unsympathetic, said nothing.

And honestly, there were no guarantees. Maybe the plot would break entirely. Maybe there wouldn't be a grand final battle. Maybe no hero would come charging in to save the day.

Maybe she'd just... die here.

The thought twisted cold and sharp in her gut.

Worse still—

Maybe they would die.

Her mind flickered to Taruho—dutiful, anxious Taruho who tripped over himself trying to be helpful. To the attendants and guards who buzzed nervously around her every day, treating her like some precious, breakable thing.

Background characters in a background story.

Expendable.

Forgettable.

Her chest tightened.

Not if she could help it.

They hadn't made it in the movie.

Not because of illness. Not because of old age.

They chose to die—for her.

They'll die, she thought, guilt stabbing deep and sudden, and I'll survive. That's how the story goes.

Only one problem.

I'm not her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, jaw clenching tight enough to ache.

I'm me.

She didn't know what that meant yet—didn't have a master plan, or a grand speech tucked in her robes—but this? Lying here, waiting around like some side quest item for a "hero" to stumble across?

Not happening.

She knew how this story ended. She remembered every painful frame.

And maybe...

Maybe it was time to tear up the script and write a new one.

.

.

.

The palace halls whispered beneath Shion's footsteps—soft, deliberate, yet heavy with intent. Each tap of her sandals echoed off polished stone like distant war drums, sleeves brushing air with the grace of a dancer, yet none of its joy. She moved like someone chasing clarity. Or escaping doubt.

Servants paused in their duties as she passed, eyes drawn to her tightened jaw and distant stare. No one dared approach. This wasn't the Shion who wandered aimlessly, bored or curious. This Shion carried silence like a blade.

Not anger.

But resolve.

Without knocking, she pushed the great door aside. It slid open with a muted groan, wood against wood—jarring in the still morning air.

Inside, framed by the soft glow of dawn, sat the High Priestess—Miruko, her mother. Draped in white and lilac, she was the very image of serenity, a porcelain goddess sipping her morning tea on the edge of the open veranda. Golden light spilled over the tatami, kissing her robes, dancing through her silver hair. She turned, her pale violet eyes as gentle as ever.

"Good morning, Shion. Come here."

Shion stepped forward without hesitation. She bowed—just enough to be respectful—and then straightened, spine stiff as steel.

"I want to learn ninjutsu."

The porcelain cup halted mid-air. A breath of wind stirred the curtains, the silence suddenly louder than before.

Miruko blinked once.

"...What?"

"You heard me," Shion said. "I want to train."

The stillness stretched, taut and heavy.

Miruko slowly set the cup down with a faint clink. Her tone remained composed, but beneath the calm flowed an unmistakable edge.

"Absolutely not."

"I knew you'd say that." Shion crossed her arms, her voice steady, defiant. "But I'm not asking for permission."

"You are the Priestess," Miruko answered, her tone sharp, like the edge of a blade. "Your duty is sacred. Divine. You are not meant to wield chakra as a weapon. You are to be protected, not to fight."

"To be protected?" Shion's voice cracked like a whip. "To be treated like some fragile ornament, passed from one temple to the next? To gasp for air after running a single hallway? I couldn't even scream when Mōryō was sealed. Had I not had the bell, I would've been powerless—completely useless."

Miruko's gaze hardened, her expression smoothing into something unrecognizable, as if the warmth had been wiped away, leaving nothing but cold resolve.

"Your role is sacred. You hold the power of foresight. That is your true strength."

"Then what use is a strength I can't even control?!" Shion's voice cracked—frustration surging like floodwaters. "I haven't used it once. Not properly. But this time..."

She stopped, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"I saw something. A vision. A boy—with blond hair. He dies. I saw it happen."

For the first time, Miruko's poise cracked. Her fingers tightened around her robes. Her gaze turned sharp, searching.

"You... saw the future?"

Shion met her mother's eyes—no fear, no hesitation.

"Yes."

"That power doesn't answer to will," Miruko said at last, her voice hushed, as if the very walls might listen in. "Even I... even I could never summon it on command. It comes like a storm—uninvited, uncontrollable."

"I know." Shion's reply was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "But I saw it anyway. And if I can see it... maybe I can change it."

Her eyes didn't waver. Her voice didn't crack.

"But not here. Not in this gilded cage."

Miruko's breath caught, a flicker of something—fear, perhaps—passing through her gaze.

Shion stepped forward, closing the space between them.

"I want to go to Konoha."

The words hit like thunder—shattering the quiet, shaking the sunlight from the floor.

"To the Hidden Leaf?" Miruko repeated slowly, almost disbelieving. "You want to abandon the sacred halls... to chase shadows with shinobi? To play at being a warrior?"

"No." Shion's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "I want to become one. I want to train, to grow, to become someone who can change what I saw. I won't sit in this palace while strangers die protecting me. Not when I already know how the story ends."

"...Shion."

"I want to fight back."

The silence that followed was deep and aching. Only the breeze spoke, rustling the curtains and tugging at Miruko's long sleeves. She didn't speak. Not yet. Her eyes wandered to the horizon beyond the veranda, as though trying to see the future her daughter had glimpsed.

"You're still my little girl," she whispered finally, hands folding tightly in her lap. "Even if your eyes have begun to see beyond what they should."

Shion turned away, unable to meet that gaze. "I'm not running from what I am. But the version of me that dies powerless, with others bleeding in my place? That's not the life I want to protect."

The wind stirred again.

And then, without a word, Miruko rose. Her movements were slow, deliberate—regal even now. She stepped close and placed a hand on Shion's head, brushing her hair gently aside.

"You've changed," she murmured. "I don't know how, or when, but I can see it. I don't understand it—but I believe you." A soft exhale. "If this is what you truly want... I will make the arrangements."

Shion's eyes widened. "You'll let me go?"

Miruko gave a wry smile. "I spoiled you far too much. And now I've raised a girl too stubborn to be caged."

A flicker of amusement passed between them—but only for a heartbeat.

"I'll send word to the Leaf," Miruko said. "But you won't be alone. Taruho will go with you. And you must promise to write."

Shion was already turning, eagerness barely contained. "Fine. Twice a week. You'll be sick of me."

At the doorway, she hesitated—then turned back, her voice quiet but clear.

"Thank you, Mom."

Miruko didn't look up from her tea. But her words came gently, full of warmth.

"Don't thank me yet. I'll worry every day until you return."

Shion didn't answer.

But as she stepped out into the corridor once more, her footsteps echoed with a new rhythm. For the first time, it wasn't just duty that drove her forward.

It was choice. Her own.

And the future, at last, felt like something she might reach out and change.

.

.

.

And that was how Shion found herself here—of all places—in Konohagakure no Sato, the Village Hidden in the Leaves.

The journey had been smooth, if one considered "smooth" to include her mother's theatrical sighs of farewell, three last-minute blessings, and Taruho shooting death glares at anything resembling unfiltered air. Bringing a shrine princess into a shinobi stronghold was no small task. Still, the paperwork moved, the accommodations were arranged, and nobody died from the stress. Technically.

Their living situations were... a point of contention.

Taruho, ever the loyal shadow, was stationed near the village center in a pristine apartment that practically glistened with sterilized dignity. It was safe. Predictable. Boring.

Shion, on the other hand?

"I want that one," she said, pointing with absolute conviction at a building that looked like it sighed in defeat every time the wind blew.

It was a sad little structure with water stains like dried tears, laundry draped from every railing, and a crack running down one side like a jagged scar the village forgot to bandage.

Taruho stared. "...Absolutely not."

"It has personality."

"It has fungus."

"It speaks to me."

"It might kill you."

"I want to observe someone closely."

"You can observe from a clean distance!"

"I'm a citizen of Konoha now. You said I should be treated like one."

"I regret ever opening my mouth."

The argument raged for an hour. Shion made impassioned speeches about autonomy, experience, and breaking free from ivory tower living. Taruho rebutted with building codes, black mold statistics, and something about not letting his ancestors witness this tragedy.

In the end, they compromised.

Shion didn't get her crumbling dream hovel, but she did secure a modest, slightly worn-down unit on a quiet street near the outer ring of the residential district—far enough from Taruho to breathe, close enough that he could haunt her with messenger birds and sharp-tongued scrolls slipped under her door.

She was content with the win.

She had plans. Big ones.

She had moved in here for a month, talked or at least introduce herself to Naruto, the main character, and within a week, she would enroll in the Ninja Academy—not as a priestess, not as a noble, but as a student. A beginner. She would earn every step of her new life with effort, not privilege.

Everything was set.

Until the third morning.

The sun hadn't even scraped the rooftops when it happened.

From the hallway, a voice shattered the dawn with the subtlety of an explosion:

"—I'll tell you more about school later!! After nap time!!"

Shion's eyes snapped open like shutters in a storm. Her hair was a wild crown of tangled silk, her temples throbbing from the abrupt assault on sleep. She stumbled out of bed, half-blind with irritation, muttering curses old enough to make monks flinch.

She stormed to the front door, threw it open, ready to unleash divine wrath—

And froze.

There, standing just beyond her threshold, was a boy with the sun in his hair and the storm in his eyes. Loud. Messy. Alive in a way that defied explanation.

Naruto Uzumaki.

Fate, it seemed, had arrived early. And loudly.

There he stood.

Not Naruto.

A boy.

Eyes like blood and bone.

Not just red. Not just white.

Both.

Shion's breath caught in her throat. Her voice came out hoarse, barely more than a broken whisper.

"Y-you..."

He didn't move. Just stood there—expression flat, almost bored. A lazy glow pulsed from the tomoe-less Sharingan in his left eye, crimson light pooling beneath his lashes like smudged ink. His right eye, pale and ancient, shimmered with the pale fury of the Byakugan.

His shirt was torn open, soaked in blood from a deep wound across his abdomen. But he didn't seem to notice. Or care.

And when he exhaled, a pair of sharp, unmistakable fangs flashed in the light.

Shion's hand gripped the doorframe. Her legs went stiff.

"R-red..."

Her voice trembled.

"W-white..."

She swallowed, heart pounding like a drum in her throat.

"...Fangs..."

Silence.

Then—

"FUCK!!"

The door slammed shut with the force of divine judgment, shaking the entire frame as if the gods themselves had flinched. On the other side, the boy blinked once.

"...??????????"

Shion collapsed against the wood, sliding down like her bones had melted. She curled into a shivering ball on the floor, hugging her knees so tightly it hurt. Sweat dotted her brow.

"No way," she muttered. "No. No. No. This isn't—this isn't Naruto. This is something worse."

Her breathing quickened. Her eyes darted around the room like a cornered animal waiting for the ceiling to fall in. Every instinct screamed danger, but this wasn't about chakra or combat.

This was narrative horror.

Because Shion... wasn't just a priestess.

She was a transmigrator.

A soul reborn into this world with memories of another—a world where Naruto was just an anime. A wild, heartfelt story about friendship, heartbreak, and ninjas screaming each other's names over the sound of exploding forests.

But this?

This wasn't canon.

She knew that face. That aura. That eye combination.

"Oh god," she whispered. "I've read that fic..."

Her stomach twisted. She wanted to vomit.

"Naruto: Terminally-ill Cursed Lord."

It wasn't a fanfiction.

It was a warning.

That fic wasn't made for shipping wars or power-scaling debates. It was a descent. A slow unraveling of a soul held together by threads of grief and rot. No wish fulfillment. No cheat skills. No system menus.

Just pain.

And now he was here.

In her hallway.

Shion didn't cry.

She didn't scream.

She just stared at her trembling hands and whispered one final prayer to whatever cosmic force had cursed her with this crossover:

"Please don't let this be the draft version, Please don't let this be the draft version."

That boy—

That blood-soaked, dead-eyed anomaly with a tomoe-less Sharingan in one eye and a pale, ghost-lit Byakugan in the other—

That was Akai Hyūga.

The protagonist of that fanfic.

Not a hero. Not even an anti-hero.

He was a void in human shape.

A prodigy born without warmth, without attachment. A child so numb to the world that Orochimaru, in comparison, came off like a quirky biology teacher who loved too hard.

Akai didn't fall into darkness.

He was built from it.

No love interests. No power fantasy. No last-minute redemption arcs. Just a slow, surgical descent into something unrecognizable—a clinical unraveling wrapped in a ninja headband.

Midway through the story, he broke.

No dramatic buildup. No tragic backstory monologue. Just silence.

And then the world started to end.

All of it—every chapter, every death—served one purpose:

To make it clear.

Akai Hyūga didn't conquer the world with fanfare or monologues. There were no tearful goodbyes, no noble sacrifices, no last-minute saves. When he snapped, he dismantled the Shinobi World like it was clutter on a desk—erased it with the calm precision of someone wiping chalk off a whiteboard.

Cold.

Efficient.

Unfeeling.

Beloved characters didn't fall in tragic battles.

They were removed.

Systematically. Indifferently. Favorites, icons, entire clans—slaughtered without ceremony, their deaths punctuating the story like brutal commas in a sentence that never stopped spiraling.

Not to glorify him.

But to remind the reader:

This wasn't a story about redemption.

This was a profile of a monster who was never written to be understood.

Only feared.

And now?

He was standing outside her apartment.

Bleeding.

Bored.

Real.

Shion curled tighter against the door, her fingernails digging into her sleeves, breath held like a prayer.

The cursed fanfic had come to life.

And it had a face.

"...I'm so fucked."

.

.

.

To be continued.