Konoha – Hatake Mansion, Guest Room
Kakashi leaned back in the chair, staring at the winter light seeping through the gaps in the curtains. The pale sunlight cast thin lines across the floor, flickering slightly with the breeze outside. He was thinking—calculating. Preparing for what would surely be a difficult confrontation.
Menma was no ordinary child. Kakashi knew that. And if the boy chose to speak now, it wouldn't be with innocent questions, but with surgical precision—cutting into the truths buried under years of lies. He was already narrowing down which facts could be said, what had to be avoided, and whether... whether it was even worth lying anymore.
Yoruusagi sat quietly at Menma's bedside, studying his face. The boy was deep in meditation, but even with his eyes closed, the tension in his brows betrayed the turmoil brewing within. She held Snow gently in her arms, the kitten's soft body curled contentedly against her chest, purring faintly. Snow, too, was watching him.
She thought of the notebook. The words written inside still echoed in her mind—ambition, despair, change. His ideas were grand, dangerous even. Menma didn't just want to survive in the world—he wanted to reshape it. And not with war or power like Madara or Hashirama. No, he was trying something more enduring: to bend the world with thought. With ideas.
It was almost frightening how clearly he saw the truth. And if he had been born a few years earlier, she might've fallen in love with him—followed him, devotedly. But now, such a brilliant, burdened soul was trapped inside a village crawling with shadows, with politics, and fear.
Without realizing it, her hand drifted to his flame-colored hair. She pulled the hair tie loose and watched as the strands fell in waves over his shoulders like a cascade of fire. She began braiding it slowly—almost reverently. As her fingers moved, a flicker of red caught her eye.
Through the curtain of hair, a pair of glowing crimson eyes stared back at her—calm, focused, and awake.
Menma had been watching her.
She froze in surprise, but the moment passed as he leaned forward—and she pulled him into her arms without a word. There were a thousand things she wanted to say, to explain, to apologize for. But some wounds couldn't be dressed with words. She just held him. Firm. Steady. Like a rock resisting the flow of a storm-swollen river.
Eventually, she leaned back, loosening her grip to get a better look at him. His eyes were still red, still alert. But the fury from earlier had calmed—for now.
Snow had already made her move, jumping into his lap and rubbing her soft body insistently against his chest, purring like an engine.
Menma didn't speak. He simply stroked her gently, eyes falling on the notebook Kakashi still held in his hand.
He should have destroyed it.
He knew that.
But there hadn't been time.
And now, it was too late.
With everything out in the open, only one thing remained: the truth. He had already spoken to Kurama—who had tried to deceive him, yes—but had eventually come clean. At least partially.
But Menma wouldn't trust anything blindly anymore. Not Kurama. Not Kakashi. Not even himself. He would listen, weigh, and decide.
His eyes narrowed, steady and sharp. He turned to Kakashi.
"I want the truth. The whole truth. And don't try lying—I'll know. I want answers… I want the bloody truth."
His voice rose at the end, cracking with emotion. He clenched his fists. Rage and grief began to twist together inside him.
"Kakashi... Big brother Kakashi… Tell me I'm wrong! Tell me I'm not being raised as a weapon. Tell me my mother's death has nothing to do with them. TELL ME THE TRUTH!!"
His breathing grew ragged. The air around him rippled.
From his back and shoulders, thick, smoke-like tendrils of blood-red chakra began to leak into the air, swirling like steam from boiling water. Menma's right eye pulsed with red light—glowing like fresh blood. And deep within that eye… Raymond, the core of Menma's soul, stirred from slumber.
Yoruusagi's Sharingan activated on instinct. Her body tensed, as her senses screamed danger. She could feel it—this was no ordinary chakra. It wasn't just power. It was the presence of judgment, fury, and truth seeking vengeance.
Kakashi's lone eye narrowed. His fingers twitched subtly toward his kunai pouch. His instincts, honed from a lifetime on the battlefield, warned him: Menma wasn't just a child. He was a storm, barely restrained.
And yet… in the heart of the pressure…
Meow!
A soft call echoed through the tense silence.
Snow, resting in Menma's lap, tilted her head and demanded attention—confused why her big cat wasn't hugging her. The temperature in the room dropped instantly. The choking presence dissolved like mist in morning sun.
Both Kakashi and Yoruusagi watched, dumbfounded, as Menma—Raymond—looked down at his kitten and promptly scooped her into a warm hug.
Just like that, the danger was gone.
Kakashi's jaw clenched. Of course. The savior of the night before... was a kitten. In the arms of a monster.
Menma still glowed faintly with red light, but the storm had passed. The chakra tendrils faded slowly, retreating into his skin. The eye, though still red, no longer threatened violence.
Kakashi sighed and steadied himself.
"I swear—on my life, my teacher's name, and the honor of my blade—everything I say from this moment will be the truth. Nothing less."
Menma didn't respond. He simply waited.
"You were right about many things," Kakashi continued. "But not all. Some pieces were missing. And without those, your picture—though sharp—is incomplete."
He hesitated. Then asked softly:
"Have you spoken with the Nine-Tails?"
Menma paused. Then, calmly:
"What I discussed with him… doesn't concern you. I'll hear your version and weigh both. I'll decide what's real."
Yoruusagi nodded from the side. Cautious skepticism. A proper scientific method. Kakashi resisted the urge to sigh again.
"Alright then," he said, shifting. "Let's start at the beginning."
He began the tale of the Sage of Six Paths—the father of chakra—and the origin of the tailed beasts, splitting his power into nine entities to bring balance to the world. He told of fear, of seals, of power misunderstood. Of Jinchūriki, turned into human prisons. And of the pain and hatred that often followed.
He explained the Uzumaki clan—descendants of the Sage, with life force and sealing arts unlike any other. He spoke of the bond between the Uzumaki and Senju, and how Konoha had always relied on Uzumaki to bear the burden of the Nine Tails.
Menma listened in silence.
So… that's why his mother had the same chakra. That's why he healed so fast. That's why he had no family. No clan. Just a burden.
"And who was my father?"
Kakashi hesitated.
"I'm sorry. I can't tell you that. I've been ordered not to."
Menma's eyes flashed.
"Just like you were ordered not to tell me about nine tails?"
"Yes… but that only applied while you were still unaware. Not now."
The room fell silent again. The faint red in Menma's eye faded. For now… the fire was resting.
....
Inside the seal, Kurama slowly turned his gaze away from the outside world, disinterested in the humans' pitiful family drama. He'd learned his lesson the hard way—courtesy of Mito Uzumaki's love-filled "discipline" (read: brutal, chakra-enhanced beatings). No, he hadn't forgotten. Especially not the time he dared to laugh when Hashirama ditched his sickbed just to go wrestle with gamblers. That laugh had cost him three broken ribs and a week of silence.
"Old man," he mused bitterly, "why are your descendants even scarier than your enemies? Even Indra wasn't this terrifying."
But the Uzumaki... they were on a different level of crazy. Who else but this clan would think to seal the Shinigami itself, just to flip the middle finger to their enemies? And worst of all, every generation seemed to grow more dangerous than the last.
His mind wandered back to the conversation he'd just had with the boy.
Kurama had raised his massive head, looking down at the child—a creature so deeply infused with his own chakra that Kurama could practically smell himself flowing through the boy's veins. Not just infused… the kid absorbed it. Matched it. Twisted it. Even created a variant of it—familiar, yet disturbingly not his.
But that wasn't what made his fur stand on end.
There was something else sealed in this boy. Something older, colder... and far more detached than any human had a right to be. Something that sat at the bottom of his soul and watched the world as if it were beneath it.
Kurama had tried—of course he had. Tried to erode the seal, to rupture it, to break it by force. But no matter how much he clawed, all it did was feed the brat more chakra. Like offering sweets to a starving snake. Every move he made only made the child stronger. There was no way out. His only option was deception—fool the boy, manipulate him subtly enough to earn his trust, and then slip through the cracks.
It should have been easy.
But this kid... is absolutely insane.
Kurama had read the notebook. Watched the boy through his own eyes. Watched him question not just the world but its very framework. The idea of borders. The hierarchy of chakra. The validity of power itself. He asked questions no child should even dream of asking—and then, in pure lunatic fashion, outlined how to dismantle it all and start again from scratch.
At first, Kurama had been stunned. Then intrigued. And eventually—though he hated to admit it—impressed.
Now, he was the most well-read Bijuu in history when it came to social revolution.
And if there was one thing he knew? Feeding this boy half-truths or sugar-coated lies wouldn't just backfire.
It might get him digested.
Inside the seal, the vast chamber trembled faintly as Kurama exhaled a deep, steaming breath. The hot wind rolled over Menma, making his hair whip and his clothes rustle, and sending ripples through the shallow water beneath his feet. Menma flinched—only slightly—but didn't move away.
Kurama, amused by the reaction, lowered his head just a little, his deep, rumbling voice no longer a roar but still echoing with ancient weight.
"You're not running anymore, little creature. Found your spine again, have you?"
His tone was somewhere between mockery and curiosity, laced with the weight of centuries, and spoken with an archaic elegance—a beast that had once spoken with gods and now addressed a child.
Menma didn't reply. He had learned long ago that sometimes silence was the best response. Bullies wanted reactions. And this fox—this ancient, wounded god of chakra—was no different. If Menma simply waited, he would reveal more. They always did.
Kurama narrowed his eyes, but continued anyway.
"You're not the first to come seeking me. I've lost count of the fools. Power-hungry tyrants, so-called sages, scholars with ink-stained hands. All of them reaching for me. All of them thinking they could use me."
He chuckled darkly, though there was no humor in the sound.
"None of them ever got what they wanted."
Menma's brows twitched. In the silence that followed, he made a choice—to test something.
He remembered the dreams. Not nightmares. Memories. Visions full of Kurama's pain.
"Even the ones you saved from the floods?" Menma asked quietly. "The villagers you pulled from the rubble?"
Kurama's tongue paused mid-lick.
Menma's voice stayed even, calm, but each word struck like a drumbeat in the dark.
"The time you dove into the ocean to stop two beasts from destroying the peninsula?"
"When you guided travelers lost in the desert to water?"
"When you stopped an avalanche, alone, and buried yourself to protect the children caught in it?"
"Or when you stood between a woman and a tiger deep in the jungle... and then left before she even thanked you?"
With every story, Menma took a step forward. The shallow water lapped at his ankles, now forgotten.
"And when you were tricked, trapped beneath stone, and still didn't retaliate after breaking free. Just roared at the sky and left..."
Another step.
"Even when you saved another beast, chained and tortured by humans. You fought to protect the very ones that harmed you!"
Another step.
"And when you stopped the war... only to be cursed by those you protected. And still, you didn't raise a claw. You turned and left with your head held high."
Now he stood at the bars of the great cage, just inches from the massive creature. No fear in his stance. Just understanding.
Kurama was trembling. His eyes widened. His breath hitched.
How?
How does he know...?
Those... Those were my memories. Things no human ever saw. Things I've never told.
Not even the Sage had looked at him like this—not with reverence or hatred, but recognition.
(He isn't born of me... He wasn't crafted by some ancient bloodline... He isn't another vessel or tool.)
(He's just... a child. But inside him is something broken. Familiar. Alone. Like me.)
Menma looked into Kurama's eyes and saw a reflection of himself.
Not a monster. Not a beast. Just... someone tired of bleeding.
"You were never what they said you were."
He took another step, placing a hand gently on one of the cold iron bars.
"You were alone. For far too long. Just like me."
Kurama's reaction was immediate. He recoiled—and then roared. A full, feral bellow that shook the water and the bars and echoed across the seal chamber. He lunged, claws crashing forward, slicing air, but stopped—just short of the bars.
Not because he missed.
Because he had hesitated.
He didn't even know why.
Menma didn't flinch. He simply stood there, hand still on the bar, looking into Kurama's eyes.
He knew this feeling too well. He'd seen it in countless faces—patients' families who lashed out in grief, in denial. He'd been yelled at, spat on, even struck. But it wasn't anger. It was pain.
Kurama wasn't attacking.
He was afraid.
And then Menma spoke again, his voice low, honest.
"Mr. Fox... I feel your pain. I see your loneliness. The betrayal in your heart. I understand the cruel world that made you this way."
He smiled.
"And I'm glad you're with me."
A pause.
"Can I ask your name? So we can be friends."
Kurama froze.
His jaw slackened, and for a moment—just a moment—the fear returned. Not fear of Menma. But of what this could mean.
That warmth. That sincerity.
Could it be real?
He had felt these things before—empathy, kindness—but every time he opened his heart, it was used against him.
So Kurama laughed. Loud and cruel and thunderous.
"You? A mortal child who can barely walk without falling over, asking for my friendship? I could kill you with one claw."
His eyes burned.
"Take one step into this cage and I'll shred you to—"
Menma stepped through the bars.
Just like that.
No hesitation. No flinch. No fear.
Kurama roared and lunged again, his claw flashing down with unstoppable speed—but at the last instant, he stopped.
Menma hadn't even blinked.
Kurama's claw hovered, trembling inches above the boy's face.
And the boy... he just smiled.
"You're right, Mr. Fox. I'm weak. But I'm also the only one who sees how beautiful your heart still is."
He turned, walking slowly back toward the edge of the cage.
"Next time... tell me your name. So we can start properly. Goodbye for now."
And just like that, Menma vanished—pulled back into himself.
Kurama stood frozen. His claw still extended. His expression blank.
He followed the boy's consciousness outside the seal and saw it—
Saw him looking at her with aching eyes. That woman who was only in his life for two short months, and still left a wound deep enough to sting even Kurama's soul.
(He didn't put on a mask. He didn't pretend.)
(He's not wearing a skin. He's just... himself. Even when it hurts.)
And for the first time in many, many years...
Kurama lowered his claw. And didn't speak.
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