Naruto Immersive Replay, The Curse of the Sharingan

As you approach, the man with the shark-like face grinned, his sharp teeth gleaming coldly in the twilight.

"My lord, is it finally my turn?" His voice was still rough, but his eyes were much gentler than usual.

Before you could even respond, Kisame pulled out Samehada, the blade humming with dissatisfaction. Unexpectedly, instead of showing off this legendary weapon, he turned it around, the hilt facing you.

“Take it,” Kisame said, his tone leaving no room for refusal. “This is far superior to other weapons.”

You take Samehada, and its heavy weight makes your arm feel heavy.

"We're all counting on you to come back." Kisame patted your shoulder, the force so strong that you stumbled. "Don't let this sword go hungry for too long."

Samehada trembled slightly in your hand, as if responding to Kisame's words.

You look up as if to say something, but find that Kisame has already strode away, his back looking unusually lonely at the end of the corridor, the hilt of Samehada burning in your palm.

You stand there holding Samehada until a figure wearing an orange swirling mask silently appears in front of you.

Obito didn't say anything, he just reached out and touched your shoulder.

A familiar sense of spacetime distortion washes over you, and the next second, you find yourself standing in the Divine Might Space, where time stands still, and countless fragments of memories float in the void, like frozen movie frames.

You see yourself taking a nap one afternoon, your long hair cascading down the Akatsuki's sofa; you see yourself sparring with Deidara in the training ground, the sparks from the exploding clay illuminating your profile; you see yourself bandaging the injured Kakuzu on a rainy night, your fingers stained with blood yet remaining steadfast...

"These are what I collected," Obito finally spoke, his voice muffled and distant through the mask, "Every single one of you."

You reach out and touch those fragments of memory, a slight stinging sensation spreading through your fingertips.

Each piece represents a moment recorded by Obito using his Sharingan; some of these you yourself have even forgotten.

What breaks your heart most are those moments captured without you even realizing it: your weariness when no one is around, your profile as you gaze at the stars alone late at night, the tears you secretly shed when you think no one is watching...

"Why?" you ask.

Obito removed his mask, and his scarred face appeared particularly vulnerable in the dim light of the Kamui dimension.

He didn't answer, he just leaned down and kissed you.

The kiss was as light as a snowflake landing on the lips, yet as heavy as the weight of the entire world.

As their lips parted, a tear slid from Obito's eye, crossing the boundary between illusion and reality, and landed in your palm.

That tear was unusually hot, leaving a faint mark on your palm, like a tiny moon.

Tears carry a heavy weight as you stand on the edge of the tower's terrace, with a bottomless abyss below and a long farewell behind you.

You've seen too many people: Rin's tears, Yahiko's embrace, Obito's obsession, Hidan's fanaticism... and now, you stand before the last person you need to say goodbye to.

He stood quietly in the shadows, his outer shell of Hiruko long gone, revealing his true appearance as a young boy.

His red hair, like flames, remained vibrant even in the dim light, but his eyes were more subdued than ever before, like ashes that had long since been extinguished.

Behind him stood two puppets, his most perfect creations and the obsession he could never let go of.

A puppet of the father, a puppet of the mother.

Their faces were so lifelike, as if they were merely asleep, not dead.

Your gaze shifted from the puppet back to Scorpion's face, a slight smile playing on your lips. "I heard the puppet's voice."

The scorpion didn't answer, but just stared at you intently, as if trying to etch your image into an eternal memory.

He stepped forward and hugged you without any hesitation.

You slightly open your eyes, then gently close them, wrapping your arms around Scorpion's back. His body is cold, without a heartbeat or warmth, yet his embrace is stronger than anyone else's.

"The puppet is silent." Scorpion's voice was low and hoarse, like gears that hadn't spoken in a long time starting to turn again. "But love exists."

His profile lightly touched your cheek, then quickly pulled away, as if afraid that if he lingered for even a second longer, he would lose control.

You smiled, but your eyes felt slightly hot.

—It turns out that the most indifferent people are the ones who understand love the most.

You parted ways quickly, as if you were already used to separation. For vessels and puppets, emotions are a luxury.

Sadness is even more meaningless.

You turned around, waved to him with your back to him, and said, "I'm leaving." Your voice remained calm, as if you were just going to carry out an ordinary task.

But just as you take your first step, a tear falls silently, hitting the ground and shattering into tiny watermarks.

Behind you, Scorpion's fists were clenched tightly, his nails digging deep into his palms, blood dripping from between his fingers, silently seeping into the darkness along with his tears.

—The puppet is silent, but the pain is real.

There are no tears at parting, but there is love.

When I pushed open the door, the candles had already gone out, and only moonlight shone through the thin gauze curtains.

Ban stood by the window with his back to you, his black hair falling over his shoulders, gleaming coldly in the moonlight. Hearing footsteps, he didn't turn around, but simply said, "You're back?"

You didn't answer, but quietly walked to the bedside and sat down, your fingers unconsciously tracing the fine folds of the sheets, where the warmth of the stains still lingered.

A kind of oppressive silence filled the room, as if even breathing became a cautious act.

Madara finally turned around, his Rinnegan glowing faintly in the darkness. He approached step by step, each step feeling like a heavy, slow stomp on your heart.

"Do you want to do it?" His voice was low and carried an air of unyielding authority. "Perhaps this is the last time."

You look up into his eyes, where you see a mixture of obsession, possessiveness, resentment, and a tenderness bordering on despair. You sigh softly, reach out and grab his collar, pulling him toward you.

“You’re always like this…” Your voice was soft, like a sigh, “Even saying goodbye has to be done this way.”

Ban chuckled and pushed you down onto the bed. His hand pressed against your waist, the warmth of his fingertips seeping through the fabric, almost scalding you.

"Because only in this way..." His lips touched your earlobe, his breath hot, "will you remember me."

Clothes slipped to the ground one by one, like a disguise being shed. The freckles' kisses traveled down from your brow, leaving marks on every inch of your skin, as if trying to etch them into your very bones.

You tilt your head back, run your fingers through his hair, and feel his burning body temperature and heavy breathing.

Your bodies are so perfectly matched, as if you were born to be together. Every touch carries a familiar warmth, and every intertwining feels like a final celebration.

"Ugh...!"

A sharp pain shot through your collarbone, and you snapped your eyes open. The freckled lips were still pressed against your skin, where a dark red curse mark was appearing, its lines intricate and bizarre.

"You..." Your voice was a little hoarse, "...put another curse mark on me?"

Ban raised his head, his thumb tracing the newly formed mark, a near-obsessive smile playing on his lips.

“That way, no matter where you go…” his voice was low and dangerous, “you won’t be able to escape me.”

You look at him helplessly, and in the end you just raise your hand to touch his cheek. Your fingertips are cold, but Ban unconsciously moves closer.

“Crazy…” you murmured softly, but with a hint of indulgence.

Ban kissed your lips again, this time more intensely than before, as if he wanted to pour all his emotions into this kiss.

His movements were sometimes gentle and sometimes rough, as if he was venting or trying to hold on. You grabbed his loose black hair and let yourself be swept up in this tide of emotion with no tomorrow.

Madara bit your finger, his Rinnegan surging with an almost violent desire. "You're not allowed to use chakra to relieve the pain tonight."

Chapter 200: The Wild Child

When everything calmed down, Ban unusually did not get up immediately.

He lay on his side, his fingers idly twirling your black hair, his gaze fixed on the newly reinforced seal on your collarbone.

You turned over and kissed Ban's lips. The kiss was light, but it made Ban's body stiffen for a moment.

But you know, compared to intense intercourse, such gentle touches are more likely to break through his defenses.

Sure enough, Ban tightened his arms, holding you firmly in his embrace, as if afraid that you would disappear if he let go.

"Go to sleep." You stroked his furrowed brow with your fingers. "It's almost dawn."

Ban didn't answer, but buried his face in your neck. This man, who was cold and ruthless in the eyes of the world, was like a child unwilling to face parting.

You feel his steady breathing, listen to the fading sound of rain outside the window, and your eyelids grow heavier and heavier.

In a half-dreaming, half-awake state, you seem to hear Ban say something, but the content is already blurry. The only thing that is clear is his last kiss on your eyelids.

When the first rays of morning light pierced through the curtains, the other side of the bed was already empty.

You dressed, tucked the dagger into your waistband, and walked out of the room without looking back at the room filled with memories, because some farewells don't need words.

At the end of the corridor, Ban's figure stands in the morning light, waiting for you to walk towards your predetermined destiny.

The moment their eyes met, all unspoken words were transformed into a silent understanding. There were no barriers between them last night, only the purest longing and reluctance between lovers.

And now, you have transformed back into those ninjas striving towards your respective goals.

For a century, Showa traveled to every corner of hell, yet he could never find that gentle purple hair.

Until last night—Zhili finally fell asleep.

“Zhili...?”

Showa suddenly opened her eyes, and the surrounding scenery receded like the tide. She was kneeling under the window of the clan school, her palms still covered with moss from when she climbed over the wall.

The morning light filtered through the gaps in the camphor trees, casting dappled shadows on the back of her hand. This was the scene she knew best from a hundred years ago, the place where she used to eavesdrop on the clan school every day when she was young.

"The wild child is here again."

The moment that voice rang out, Showa's heart almost stopped. She looked up, trembling, and saw half a face peeking out of the window. Long violet hair was loosely tied with a white rope, and the ends of the hair swayed gently in the morning breeze.

Chiri's eyes curved into crescents, and a smile she had longed for for a hundred years graced her lips.

“Chiri…” Showa’s voice choked in his throat.

She suddenly stood up, grabbed the windowsill with both hands, and tried to climb in, but she passed right through it the moment she touched it.

Chiri inside the window was still smiling, as if she couldn't see Chiri's current disheveled state.

"No...this is impossible..."

Showa looked down at his translucent palm and suddenly realized that this was a dream.

For the first time in a century, Chiri finally entered her dream, but set such a cruel boundary—visible yet intangible, like a veil that could never be pierced.

“Today’s lesson is on sealing techniques.” Chiri, who was inside the window, turned her head and talked to herself, as if she were talking to the Showa era in her memory. “If this wild child studies hard, she might become a pretty good ninja.”

Showa knelt outside the window, her nails digging deep into her palms. She could see the shadows cast by Jiri's eyelashes as she spoke, smell the faint scent of camellia oil in her hair, and even count the small light brown mole behind her ear.

But when she reached out to touch it again, her fingertips once more slipped through that warm purple hair.

"Why..." Showa's voice was broken, "Why won't you let me touch you..."

The scene inside the window suddenly accelerated, and Zhili's figure twisted and dissipated like smoke.

Showa felt a sudden dizziness, and when he opened his eyes again, he found himself in a forbidden area.

The pale moonlight shone on the ground, where a figure soaked in blood lay.

"no, do not want..."

Showa staggered forward, but was stopped by an invisible barrier three steps away.

She frantically pounded on the unseen wall, her screams startling the birds roosting in the forest. Chiri, lying in a pool of blood, seemed to hear something, her unfocused gaze laboriously turning towards the direction of Showa.

"You always said my ideas were naive..." Chiri's voice was as soft as a snowflake about to melt, blood constantly spilling from the corner of her mouth, "But in my last moments... I wanted to see you so much..."

Showa's fists were already a bloody mess, yet he still couldn't break through that barrier.

She saw Jiri trembling as she pulled a straw butterfly from her bosom. It was a toy that Showa had casually made for her when they were children; the edges were yellowed and frayed, but it was perfectly preserved.

“On the day of your coming-of-age ceremony, I already knew that the wild child from back then had returned…” Zhili pressed the grass butterfly to her lips, and blood immediately stained the fragile grass stem red.

Her gaze pierced through the Showa era, looking towards the empty night sky. In her pupils was reflected a figure that only she could see—the unruly black-haired girl from her memory, standing on the wall of the clan school, reaching out her hand to her.

“Showa…I love you…” Chiri’s fingers clenched weakly, the grass butterfly twisting in her palm, deformed. “But I have a reason to die…”

Showa's knees slammed heavily to the ground. She saw a kunai stuck in Jiri's chest, blood gushing out with each of Jiri's difficult breaths, staining her white kimono a glaring red.

"With the Right Chancellor in tow, with our initial aspirations..." Chiri's voice grew weaker, his eyelids slowly drooping, "Let's go find the true answer..."

Showa slammed wildly against the barrier, blood streaming down his face from his forehead, mingling with his tears.

She watched as Zhili's hand slowly loosened, and the blood-stained grass butterfly rolled into the pool of blood.

Watching Chiri's pupils gradually dilate, the last glimmer of light extinguished like a candle in the wind, watching the moonlight move silently, covering that pale face with a layer of frost.

I won't beg you...don't leave me...

Showa's voice was hoarse beyond recognition. She slumped in front of the barrier, watching Chiri's body grow colder and colder.