Death doesn't just come, it stabs warnings.

The demon didn't just *sit* upon his throne—he *loomed*, a grotesque monument of sinew and malice, his jagged crown of blackened bone jutting into the weeping sky. His flesh was a patchwork of scars and open, pulsating veins, oozing a thick, tar-like ichor that sizzled as it dripped onto the skulls of the damned beneath him. The air stank of burning hair and rotting meat, a miasma so thick it clung to the tongue like spoiled wine.

Below him, the damned writhed. Not just in fire, but in *living* flames—tongues of blue and crimson that *licked* rather than burned, coiling around limbs like serpents, burrowing into mouths, filling lungs with molten agony. Their screams weren't mere noise—they were *music*, a chorus of shattered voices, each one a soul unraveling in perfect, tortured harmony.

A river of magma cut through the cracked earth, its surface not just bubbling but *writhing* with half-melted figures, their fingers clawing at the air as they dissolved. Some still had faces, their mouths stretched in silent howls, eyes bursting like overripe fruit in the heat. The bones that floated past weren't just scorched—they were *titanium*, remnants of warriors who had once been unbreakable, now reduced to driftwood in this hellish current.

The torturers weren't just tall—they were *wrong*, their limbs too long, their joints bending in ways that made the eyes water. Their tools weren't mere blades—they were *alive*, barbed wires that *squirmed* like worms as they peeled flesh, hooks that *whispered* as they plunged into soft tissue. One of them, a hulting brute with a face like a melted candle, dragged a serrated saw through a screaming woman's ribs, his laughter a wet, gurgling sound.

And then there was the thing in the demon's hand.

It wasn't just a rotting mass—it was *alive*, a squirming, pustulent horror, its many mouths gnashing with needle teeth, biting at the demon's fingers even as they crushed it. Black bile sprayed with each puncture, sizzling against the demon's skin, but he only grinned wider, his jagged teeth glistening with saliva.

**"Still fighting?"** he mused, his voice not one, but *thousands*—a cacophony of whispers, each syllable a different voice, a different scream. **"Good. I do love a stubborn little worm."**

The black sun above pulsed like a diseased heart, its dark rays casting shadows that *moved on their own*, slithering across the ground like starving things. The concubines at the demon's feet weren't just broken—they were *hollow*, their eyes scooped out, their lips sewn shut with strands of their own hair. One of them twitched, her fingers scraping mindlessly at the ground, her nails long since torn off.

And the laughter—

It wasn't just sound. It was *infection*. It slithered into the ears of the damned, worming into their minds, unspooling their last shreds of sanity. A man nearby, once a warrior, now a drooling husk, suddenly clutched his head and *screeched*, his fingers digging into his own skull as if trying to claw the voices out. Blood welled between his fingers, but he didn't stop.

The demon leaned back, savoring it all.

**"Perfect."**

---

Raghoul didn't wake gently.

He *jolted* upright, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gulps. The dream—no, the *vision*—clung to him like a second skin, the stench of burning flesh still thick in his nostrils. He half-expected to see the demon's grin looming over him, but instead—

Water.

Cool, impossibly *blue* water, lapping at his fingertips.

He recoiled, blinking hard. This wasn't right. He'd fallen asleep in the dry wastes near the border, where the earth cracked like old pottery and the rivers had been dust for centuries. Yet here he was, sprawled beside a river so vibrant it looked *painted*, its surface shimmering with an almost unnatural glow.

**"Nice river, isn't it?, it was made by Ninjas"**

The voice came from his left, smooth and amused. Raghoul twisted, his hand instinctively flying to the kunai at his belt—but the man standing there didn't look like a threat. He was lean, dressed in simple traveler's clothes, his dark hair tied back, his expression unreadable.

**"You're bluffing,"** Raghoul growled, though his voice cracked. He wasn't even sure *what* he was accusing the man of.

The stranger chuckled, crouching down to dip his fingers into the water. **"Am I? Feel it."**

Raghoul hesitated, then reached out, his fingers brushing the surface—

—and *something* sparked against his skin.

Not heat. Not cold. Something *alive*.

**"Chakra,"** the man murmured, watching him with sharp eyes. **"It's infused with it. Humans can do this."**

Raghoul yanked his hand back as if burned. Chakra-made water? That was—

**"Impossible,"** he muttered.

The man smirked. **"And yet."**

The dream rushed back—the demon, the screams, the *wrongness* of it all. His stomach lurched.

**"You alright?"** the stranger asked, tilting his head.

Raghoul swallowed bile. **"I just... need to rest."**

He stepped back, his boots sinking into the damp earth.

Something was very, very wrong.

---

### **Kumogakure: The Storm Before the Storm**

The Hidden Cloud Village wasn't just cloaked in storm clouds—it was *consumed* by them.

Lightning split the sky like the wrath of some forgotten god, each bolt illuminating the spiral towers of Kumo in stark, flickering relief. The wind howled through the streets, carrying with it the scent of ozone and the distant, metallic tang of blood. Somewhere, a loose shutter banged against a window, the sound like a hammer striking bone.

Inside the Raikage's fortress, the air was thick with tension.

The Third Raikage didn't *sit* on his chair—he *dominated* it, his massive frame a silhouette of pure menace. His skin, dark as volcanic rock, gleamed under the flickering torchlight, every muscle coiled like a serpent ready to strike. His eyes, sharp as honed steel, locked onto the man standing before him.

Kichonis.

The name alone made lesser men shudder.

He wasn't tall. Wasn't broad. But there was something about him—the way he moved, like a shadow given form, the way his lips curled in a smile that never reached his cold, calculating eyes. His robes were black, swallowing the light, making him seem more void than man.

**"Raikage-sama,"** Kichonis purred, his voice like oiled silk. **"The Land of Earth is bleeding. Their walls are cracked. Their will is broken. If we strike now—"**

**"And when the other villages retaliate?"** the Raikage rumbled, his voice the low growl of a landslide.

Kichonis's grin widened, revealing teeth that were just a little too sharp. **"Let them. By the time they muster their strength, we'll already have our claws buried in their throats."**

The Raikage's fingers tightened on the arms of his throne, the wood groaning under his grip. **"War isn't a game, Kichonis."**

**"No,"** Kichonis agreed, tilting his head. **"It's a butcher's block. And I *do* love to carve."**

Silence.

Thunder rolled outside, shaking the very foundations of the fortress.

Finally, the Raikage exhaled through his nose. **"Prepare the troops. We move at dawn."**

Kichonis bowed, deep and mocking. **"As you command."**

As he turned to leave, the Raikage's voice cut through the dark like a blade.

**"Betray me, and I'll rip out your spine myself."**

Kichonis paused. Glanced back. Smiled.

**"Wouldn't dream of it."**

---

### **The March: Blood and Broken Promises**

The Land of Earth didn't fall.

It *screamed*.

Kichonis led the vanguard, his blade a silver flash in the chaos, cutting down men before they could even raise their weapons. He fought like a man possessed—no, like a *demon* unleashed, his laughter ringing over the battlefield as blood painted the dirt black.

The Raikage was a force of nature, lightning crackling around him as he shattered formations, his fists turning bone to powder.

But something was wrong.

Kichonis wasn't just killing—he was *savoring*. Lingering. Drawing it out.

And when the Raikage caught his eye across the field, for the first time in his life—

He felt *doubt*.

That night, as the campfires burned low, the Raikage sat alone in his tent, staring at the map before him.

This wasn't just war.

It was the beginning of something far worse.

And Kichonis?

He was at the heart of it.