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The room was dark, but darkness had been Haruto's constant companion for six long months. He'd learned to breathe within it, to let it drape over him like an unwanted but familiar shroud. His world was now defined by void—an endless blackness that had replaced the light he'd once taken for granted. He moved through it by the dim, blue outlines of chakra signatures, each one a hazy glow that hinted at life in the shadows. Light switches, windows—they had no meaning anymore, and even the reflex of reaching toward them had faded. There was simply no point.

Tonight, though, the darkness felt different. It was heavy, pressing in like a tangible weight, suffocating him in its silence. He sat in that suffocating blackness, unmoving, his senses sharpened as the faint footsteps he'd grown familiar with drew closer. Shizune. Her arrival was always a soft shuffle accompanied by the muted rustle of a paper bag, the small offering of groceries she brought each week. She would enter with a calm warmth in her voice, gentle and steady. But tonight, her tone held something else—a tremor, a brittleness that seemed to hang in the air.

"Sakumo…" Her voice shook, and yet she forced the words out, each one falling like a stone into the silence. "…he committed suicide."

The silence that followed was vast and all-consuming, blanketing the room in a stillness so heavy it felt almost alive. Sakumo, dead. The shock ricocheted through Haruto, refusing to take shape, to settle into something he could understand. The man who had saved him, who had stood by him when no one else would, the one who had shown him kindness even at the cost of his own honor… was gone. Shizune's words pressed down on him, carving through the numbness that had filled him for so long. Sakumo was gone. Dead.

Haruto remained motionless as Shizune's footsteps faded and the door clicked shut, leaving him in the crushing quiet of his thoughts. He could feel the reality of it spreading through him like ice, cold and unyielding. The anger came slowly, but it grew with every breath, curling around his insides like smoke. He didn't have proof—nothing concrete, only suspicions sharpened by bitter experience and his anime knowledge. But deep down, he suspected he knew why Sakumo had reached that end. It wasn't the failure of a mission. It wasn't even the whispers of the village.

No, this had the hallmarks of someone he knew lurked in the shadows of Konoha, a man who had manipulated others in his quest for power. Danzo. In his gut, Haruto believed the man was connected, somehow pulling strings, letting rumors and shadows twist until they poisoned Sakumo's mind. Even if he didn't know Danzo's true role in Chiyo finding him, he knew how far Danzo would go, and in his heart, he was certain the manipulator hadn't been idle.

Danzo had always been in the periphery, a master at sowing doubt and betrayal. And while it was all conjecture, Haruto felt it like a certainty in his bones. The man had no regard for those in his way, and his schemes stretched deep, infecting Konoha with the rot of his ambition. Haruto's fists clenched as his anger solidified, turning into something colder, harder. This was not just for Sakumo but for the ones before him, for those who'd been hurt and used and cast aside. Danzo was behind it all, whether or not Haruto could prove it.

In the depths of his room, Haruto let that anger simmer, molding it into something he could wield. Danzo had poisoned the village from within, spreading his ambition like a disease, but one day Haruto would tear it apart. For now, he would wait, let them believe him broken, that's why he would be going to the funeral.

Haruto sighed in the estate he now called home was a sprawling mansion, its grandeur a jarring contrast to the image the village held of him. A "fallen prodigy," they said, yet here he lived, surrounded by polished wood floors and arched ceilings, the rooms vast and the corridors long, winding like an endless maze that both protected and isolated him. His training area took up an entire wing of the mansion, a space as vast as it was meticulously designed. High, vaulted ceilings stretched above, illuminated by carefully placed skylights that cast natural light across the polished wooden floor during the day and sank into dim shadows at night. Reinforced walls stood thick and strong, lined with rows of scrolls, racks for weapons, and various training tools.

The central area was empty, designed for sparring and movement exercises, giving him enough space to practice whatever form his training took. A corner was dedicated to physical conditioning, with weighted gear, chakra endurance drills, and tools he used to push his body to the absolute limit. Every inch of the room bore subtle traces of his intent to reclaim strength, to grow, to improve. Anyone looking in might have seen a sprawling dojo of shadows, a place where silence reigned and discipline was palpable in every corner.

He hadn't spared a single effort in sealing the estate with complex fuinjutsu, every doorway, every window lined with protective seals. He'd made sure that no curious Hyuga could wander by and accidentally witness his relentless pursuit of power. No prying eyes, no whispers of his training reaching the village. His secrecy was absolute, and if anyone asked, he would offer them a hollow smile, muttering about wanting solitude, about needing to be left alone. It was a facade he played well—the reclusive fallen prodigy, a once-bright star now fading in self-imposed exile.

In reality, the image he presented was carefully curated. His inventions had earned him an enviable fortune, the royalties from his directional explosive tags and his new jerky-based ration pills he sold to the Akimichi pouring in with each passing day. And then there were his ninja claymores, he auctioned 1 off each week to shinobi preparing for the imminent war, the bids climbing high enough to make even the wealthiest clans take notice. Haruto knew his products were indispensable, and he used the demand to fund his seclusion, his silence.

Weeks passed in the steady rhythm of training and isolation, each carefully monitored movement pushing him further toward his goals. Villagers' curiosity dwindled, replaced by rumors of his supposed dedication to "research" rather than the battlefield. The rumors were intentional—an image he shaped with every blank nod he gave to well-meaning visitors. Tsunade came often at first, her concern etched into every line of her face, but he only greeted her with an empty gaze and distant responses. Daichi tried as well, with fleeting mentions of training together, but Haruto's nods were hollow, his words scarce. Even Katsume and Shisui, familiar faces that had once lifted his spirits, were met with a quiet reserve that held them at bay. One by one, they stopped coming, leaving him to the silence he had crafted.

All but Shizune. She was the one constant, her presence quiet yet unwavering. Each week, she would come with a bag of groceries, ignoring his attempts at payment with a soft, polite refusal. She'd sit across from him in silence or talk of mundane things—village gossip, the changing seasons, updates from training grounds. In her voice, he sensed a patient hope, a gentle persistence to draw him back to life. His responses were faint, hollow murmurs, his words as distant as the blankness in his eyes, hidden behind the bandages he never removed. She would leave eventually, always with a look of quiet sadness, and he would return to the mansion's emptiness, the facade of a man who had lost his will.

It suited him well. They could think he was a shadow, a ghost of who he once was, while he honed himself, waiting for the day he'd emerge, stronger and more prepared than any of them could imagine.

Haruto thought back to the system, his mind flicking over his recent decision to prioritize stamina. He'd chosen his fourth stamina upgrade over another boost to his chakra sensitivity, reasoning that greater endurance would push his training further. And, in a way, he was testing a theory: if five upgrades in Tier 2 could lead him to Tier 3, just as it had from Tier 1 to Tier 2, he might unlock something greater. But as he mulled this over, a familiar surge swept through him, alerting him that the system was activating once again.

A message appeared in his mind:

Hidden Reward Unlocked:

Choose to go without one of your five senses for six months: eyesight.

A reward… for living without sight? The system was acknowledging his adaptation, the endless hours he'd spent refining his perception, mapping out his surroundings using only chakra signatures in the void? It was strange, this acknowledgment from the system—almost like it respected the struggle.

A menu unfolded before him, each sense now laid out as an enhancement option.

• Sight (grayed out)

• Taste

• Touch

• Smell

• Hearing

He scoffed at "Choose to go." Like hell he'd chosen to go without it. The irony of the system rewarding him for a loss forced upon him wasn't lost, but he pushed aside the resentment. What mattered now was this decision and the long-term implications. A single enhancement could make all the difference.

He studied each option, analyzing their potential.

Taste? He discarded it instantly. There was no practical benefit that taste could offer his training or combat.

Smell? He paused, briefly considering it. Enhanced smell might help in tracking or identifying people and places, but in combat, it was limited. Not a priority.

Touch was more tempting. Sharpening his tactile sense could allow him to detect vibrations and shifts around him, improving his spatial awareness even more. An option worth holding onto.

Hearing drew his attention. He was already relying heavily on his hearing, having found that the loss of sight heightened the sharpness of sounds around him. Enhancing it further would make every movement, whisper, and pulse clearer. He could train himself to recognize patterns, identify subtle sounds from weapons, and even read intent from the smallest shifts in breath or footsteps. A powerful asset, especially in a world where vision failed him.

But did he want to lean so heavily into hearing? After some thought, he recognized its synergy with his chakra sensitivity—especially his tiered upgrades. If he could develop an intuitive map of his surroundings through sound and chakra alone, he'd be able to move like he was seeing.

And so, his decision settled, he chose Hearing for his enhancement. The path ahead was becoming clearer, one sense at a time.

After choosing to enhance his hearing, three options appeared before Haruto. He examined each, his mind immediately turning over the possibilities they offered.

1. Echo Enhancement

2. Pitch Precision

3. Long-Range Hearing

Haruto stared at the options, trying to decipher their implications with limited information. Echo Enhancement seemed like it might allow him to "see" through sound somehow, like mapping his surroundings based on the way sound bounced back to him. He wasn't sure how precise it would be, but it seemed like it might be helpful for someone navigating in darkness. If it worked the way he imagined, he could essentially build a rough image of his surroundings without needing his eyes.

Then there was Pitch Precision. He could only guess, but it seemed like this would sharpen his ability to distinguish slight changes in sound. Maybe he'd be able to detect the tiniest fluctuations in tone or sound—catch the shift in someone's voice, the tremor in a whispered word. Perhaps it would give him a kind of insight into people, letting him sense things he couldn't see. But he wondered if that was too subtle for his needs right now; it was hard to tell.

Finally, Long-Range Hearing was straightforward enough to understand: likely an extension of his hearing range. He pictured himself listening in on distant conversations, detecting the hum of chakra from a distance. It seemed more useful for observation than direct combat, though, and while it could offer strategic insight, he doubted it would help him adapt to his immediate surroundings.

After mulling over each choice, Echo Enhancement felt like the best way forward. If it worked how he suspected, he could train to navigate spaces more naturally, sensing the world in a way that would have made him less dependent on his sight altogether, if he had sight.