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Haruto lay motionless in his hospital bed, sedated yet somehow conscious of the world around him through the strange blackness that now filled his vision. And in that pitch-dark void, faint but unmistakable, he could see glimmers of vibrant blue—the chakra signatures, pulsing like distant stars suspended in endless night. Each signature radiated an ethereal glow, shifting and flowing in fluid patterns that, while recognizable, remained beyond his full comprehension. The blue light against the black void was beautiful yet haunting, casting everything around him into a surreal and ghostly landscape.

Though it gave him a semblance of sight, it was a hollow one. These blue wisps and glows were not a true replacement; he could see people moving, sense the flow of their chakra, but the precision and clarity of true vision were lost. The sharp edges, the textures, the colors that once painted his world were gone, replaced by dim blue outlines that pulsed and faded, shifting constantly, always in flux. Weapons, expressions, even the tiniest details that once filled his awareness were now invisible unless touched by chakra, leaving gaps in his understanding of the world around him.

He sighed deeply, reality sinking in with each painful breath. And from the blackness of his mind, memories surged forward, vivid and brutal, as if they'd been waiting all this time to confront him. He was taken back to his past life, to a pivotal moment he thought he had left behind. He had been on the brink of success—one victory away from breaking into a promising career. But his triumph had been stolen in an instant, a sneak attack from the very opponent he'd defeated. The punch to the back of his head had left him with a traumatic brain injury, a sudden, crushing end to his dreams.

Back then, he had teetered on the edge of despair, nearly letting go. But his family had refused to let him fall. His mother, fierce and relentless, had fought for him, pulling him back from that dark abyss with a love and strength that could only come from someone who refused to see him fail. And his father, a wounded veteran himself, had shown him resilience, standing as a silent example of courage against all odds. Together, they had given him the will to survive, to keep moving even when his future seemed hopeless.

Haruto had found his way back. He'd taken the money from his settlement and poured it into a gym, a place where he could channel his fight into others, nurturing potential champions. Even though his own career had been taken from him, he lived through their victories, tasting success again, even if it wasn't firsthand.

And now, lying in the dark, watching the faint blue glows pulse around him, that same determination stirred within. He would not let blindness define him. These chakra signatures, these ghostly blue lights, were his guide for now, but he knew he would find a way forward. He refused to surrender to defeat, refused to let this be the end.

He closed his eyes, feeling the strength of his mother's voice, his father's resilience echo in his mind. He had done the unthinkable before, and he would do it again.

And he wasn't about to give up now, either. Blind or not, he would adapt. He hadn't clawed his way out of the depths of defeat just to let it all end here. Not when he still had his system—a mysterious boon that had reshaped his life once before—and maybe, just maybe, it held more answers than he'd yet uncovered.

Still, the world felt disorienting, fractured. The clarity he'd once taken for granted was now reduced to these strange, faint pulses and the swirling, unsteady outlines of chakra. His sight was ghostly, almost surreal, like looking through murky water or glimpsing faint apparitions on the edge of his consciousness. The chakra signatures moved, living flames drifting in his mind's eye—blue tendrils of life energy flowing through each person who came near him. It was hauntingly beautiful but infuriatingly hollow. He could sense the energy, feel their presence in a way he never had before, but there was no depth, no detail, nothing to anchor his sense of the world around him.

It felt as though the universe had dealt him a cruel card—a fraction of vision, a fractured gift, leaving him vulnerable. These glowing shapes were better than nothing, yes, but they didn't protect him from unseen dangers. In a world where he could only see the energy that fueled others, any hidden blade, any silent threat devoid of chakra would remain beyond his reach.

The voices were the next thing he noticed, trickling through the thin walls of his hospital room, carried on soft whispers that he now heard with an unsettling clarity. The loss of sight seemed to heighten his other senses, each sound amplified as though the silence had become his accomplice. And with that heightened hearing came a truth he could not ignore. They were calling him the fallen prodigy. There was pity in their voices, resignation, and worst of all—judgment. They spoke as if he were already a lost cause, the young talent extinguished before it ever truly bloomed.

Let them think that, he thought, his chest tightening with a mix of anger and resolve. If they wanted to write him off, so be it. He would use that doubt, that disappointment. It would be fuel. Their whispers of pity would become the fire that drove him forward. Let them assume he was broken, that he'd been defeated and cast aside, his potential no more than a memory. They'd think him a legend snuffed out before he reached his prime, but he would show them just how wrong they were.

Yes, this could work. This would work. He could fade into the background, blend into the shadows. This unexpected blindness, this handicap—he would turn it into an advantage. He'd use it to disappear from their expectations and sidestep the constant scrutiny of the village. While they mourned his supposed fall, he would train in isolation, hidden from their sight. Away from the expectations and pity, he'd forge his own path forward, waiting in the silence to build himself back up in secret.

With war on the horizon, he saw a silver lining—a village on high alert meant they would likely be too focused on their own survival to look twice at him. And if they truly thought him broken, they might leave him to his own devices, out of pity or dismissal. That was fine by him. If anything, it would grant him time to grow in peace. Time to train, to hone his other senses, to experiment with his chakra, to cultivate a new approach to fighting. All while the world looked the other way.

His mind spun with possibilities, crafting the outlines of a plan in the darkness. They thought him defeated, but they had only handed him a perfect cover—a cloak he could use to bide his time, to rebuild. In their ignorance, they had created the perfect conditions for him to return stronger, sharper, more dangerous than ever.

And when he regained his strength—when his power returned, he would hunt them down. Chiyo, the architect of his suffering, the one who had stolen his sight and left him in darkness, would be first. There would be no bounds to the vengeance he'd unleash.

He'd start by making her watch. Watch as he tore her world apart, beginning with Sasori, the grandson she had twisted into her likeness. She would be forced to witness his final moments, helpless as Haruto dismantled Sasori piece by piece. And once her kin lay broken before her, he'd turn his fury on her.

Then, with calculated precision, he'd make her pay in the most personal way. He would take her eyes, pulling her down into the darkness she had cast him into, and leave her to choke on the emptiness she had inflicted. She would suffer his vengeance until her last breath. This wasn't simply retribution—it was the justice he owed her, unleashed in its rawest form.

And after Chiyo, there would be Danzo. The man who had played his games in the shadows, the man who had taken Abaa-Chan. Danzo's time would come, his manipulations torn apart, his ambitions obliterated. Haruto would leave nothing of him but ashes.

For now, he would wait, training in silence, honing every skill. Let them think he was broken, that he had faded into the shadows. They had handed him the perfect cover. When he finally emerged from the darkness, they would all face the storm he had become.