Naruto : Infinite Buff

The night presses in, thick as blood. The air is suffocating, heavy with the promise of impending violence. The fire crackles weakly, its pale glow battling against the engulfing darkness, but the shadows grow ever more insistent. They stretch and swell, swallowing everything. The trees, ancient and gnarled, stand as silent witnesses, their branches creaking in the wind's low murmur, as though they too are holding their breath.

Amatsu stands still in the dark, his back pressed to the rough bark of a tree. His body is a statue, a shadow among shadows. Only his eyes move—sharp, cold, calculating. His breath is slow, deliberate. His pulse, steady. The firelight flickers in front of him, casting strange, ghostly shapes on the ground. But he doesn't need light. He is darkness incarnate. The camp is unaware. He is always one step ahead, and they don't even know the game is in motion.

Patience. The thought rises in his mind, unbidden but clear. Patience is power.

Every breath he takes is an exercise in control. His chest rises, then falls. Each inhalation, a slow, calculated movement. His mind hums with a quiet intensity, not a thought wasted. The world is a game. And the game is already underway.

The others do not see it. The others are blinded by their own pride. The firelight is warm. They feel secure. But the fire is not warmth—it is a mere illusion of safety. In this forest, in this night, safety is nothing more than a luxury. It is temporary. Amatsu does not make the same mistake.

He watches the camp with the eyes of a predator, distant and unfeeling. His gaze slides over the others like a cold, invisible hand. Joji, the self-proclaimed leader, sits by the fire with his loyalists. Their low murmurs reach his ears, but they are nothing more than the whispers of fools. There is no threat in their voices, no sense of danger. They are comfortable. Comfort breeds weakness.

Amatsu almost feels pity for them, but the emotion is quickly extinguished.

Joji's words drift in the air. He speaks of survival, of leading these ragtag souls through the wilderness. But Amatsu knows better. To Joji, this is about power. The seat of authority is what he craves most. He believes that the firelight is his to command, that the warmth is his dominion. But that fire—just like Joji's leadership—is fragile, bound to be consumed by the night. It is not his power. It never was.

Ryojin is a different beast entirely. Amatsu's eyes shift to the man pacing at the edge of the camp, his movements restless, animalistic. Ryojin's temper crackles beneath the surface, a constant storm just waiting to tear through the calm. His every action, every twitch, is a potential spark to ignite the volatile flame inside him. He is dangerous—but only to himself. His fury, unchecked, will burn him first. The storm will destroy itself before it ever touches me.

Control is an illusion. Everyone believes they hold it. Joji believes he is in command. Ryojin believes his rage is strength. But Amatsu knows the truth: control is something you take. You don't hold it. You seize it. And right now, the world spins on the strings he has already pulled.

The real game is about to begin. Survival isn't the end. It is the first step. This—this is my way to power.

The camp is quiet again, save for the crackling fire and the occasional shift of bodies as the survivors settle into their positions. But in the silence, the tension builds. It is like the hum of an unseen force, a current of inevitability that pulses in the air, winding tighter and tighter around them.

Amatsu slips from the shadows, a ghost among the living. His steps are silent, his body fluid, blending into the night like it was always meant to be there. His every motion is precise, an echo of the patience he's mastered. He moves with a purpose that only he understands. 

His brain is the kunai-

And He has the kunai.

His fingers brush the cold steel of the blade, and he feels its weight. It's nothing to him—just an object, a tool. It has no significance. But what it will do, what it will represent in the hands of others, that is power. He places it on the ground near the group of orphans who have cast their lot with Joji. Not too close. Just far enough. When they find it, they will see it as a threat. An intrusion. They will wonder who placed it there. And suspicion will seep into their hearts.

Amatsu's lips curl into a thin, almost imperceptible smile. Suspicion is the seed from which trust crumbles.

He doesn't watch them find it. He doesn't need to. The moment is inevitable. He steps away, his presence barely a whisper, and heads for the pile of stones. Beneath one of them, a note. Simple. Direct. A message that would tear apart any semblance of unity. Revolt is inevitable. Take action now, or be left behind.

His hand hovers over the stone for just a moment. A brief hesitation, though he knows it is unnecessary. He slips the note beneath it. And then, just like that, he's gone again, melting into the night, leaving nothing but the echoes of his thoughts behind.

Amatsu does not wait to see the consequences unfold. He has already moved beyond them. In his mind, the pieces are already in place, and the next steps are clear. What happens after the kunai is found, after the note is read, is irrelevant to him. It is out of his hands. He has set the stage, planted the seeds, and now it is time for the players to reveal their true nature.

Ryojin, ever volatile, will rise to the occasion. His paranoia will drive him to madness, to accusations, to violence. The others will falter. Joji will be too slow to react. His arrogance will blind him to the danger that he himself invited.

And when the storm finally breaks, Amatsu will be standing in the shadows, watching it all crumble. Watching them break. The world will burn—but it is in the ashes that he will rise.

This is the way of the world. Weakness is inevitable. The strong are those who know how to control it.

He is the calm before the storm. He is the whisper in the night. And when it is all over, when the dust settles and the flames are nothing but memories, he will stand tall, alone at the top.

It was never about survival. It was always about power-control. And when they realize it, it will be far too late.

---

The forest closes in around Amatsu as he steps deeper into the darkness, the trees whispering above him, their branches swaying with the wind's secret breath. The night is deep, suffocating, but he moves with practiced ease, his mind sharp and clear. The world around him is full of noise—creaking wood, the soft rustle of leaves, the distant calls of creatures—but there is only one presence that matters in this moment.

He reaches the large tree, its trunk thick and ancient, its gnarled branches stretching into the heavens. A hollow waits inside, a sanctuary. Higanbana is there.

Inside the hollow, the soft glow of moonlight reflects off her figure, a delicate silhouette against the rough bark. She is seated, her hands working carefully with the tools she has made herself—small knives, needles, threads, and other implements all fashioned from the bounty of the forest. Her kimono, the fabric worn and frayed at the edges, is being meticulously repaired, the movements of her fingers soft but precise. There's a quiet grace in the way she works, a femininity in her every gesture that contrasts sharply with the brutal world outside.

Amatsu leans against the tree's edge, watching her in silence. She doesn't need to speak for him to know what she's doing, doesn't need to look up to know she feels his presence. She is so focused on her task, so absorbed in the rhythm of repair, that the outside world seems to fade into nothingness around her.

She is good, Amatsu thinks. Her skills with her hands are as sharp as her mind. She could survive here alone… but that's not her path. Not yet.

Higanbana pauses, sensing his gaze, and looks up at him with soft eyes. Her smile is warm, gentle, and filled with a quiet understanding that no words could convey. Without a word, she sets aside her tools and moves to the small corner of the hollow where she's prepared a resting place for him. A handmade pillow, roughly stitched, and a blanket woven from the forest's fibers—a crude but earnest attempt at comfort.

"Please rest," she says softly, her voice a tender whisper that dances like wind through leaves. "You must be weary. I gathered fruits while you were away. Please, eat."

Amatsu doesn't respond immediately. He's lost in thought, his mind turning the gears of the game ahead, strategizing, calculating. The next move... I need to plan. Who else is there to play?

Yet, even as he remains silent, Higanbana continues to move about the hollow, gathering the small fruits she has picked from the trees—wild berries, sweet yet tart, and other treats the forest has offered her. Her hands are so gentle, as though she is careful not to disturb the fragile balance of the forest around them. Every gesture, every action, is a testament to her kindness, her soft heart.

"Brother," she says again, her voice still soft but tinged with worry. "Is everything alright? You've been so quiet since you came back... Did something happen out there?"

Amatsu's eyes flicker to her for a moment, his gaze hard, but he softens when he meets her worried eyes. His silence lingers for a moment, before he gives a slight nod, though his mind is still far away, turning the wheels of his next move.

"Everything is fine," he says, his voice low, almost distant. "There's nothing to worry about."

But Higanbana's concern doesn't fade. She sits beside him, her knees tucked close to her chest, her gaze unwavering. There is a certain stillness in her—quiet, but solid, a quiet strength rooted in the softness of her heart. "What about the traps in the forest?" she asks, her tone hesitant, as if unsure whether to speak her fears. "Are we being hunted? The test... isn't it over?"

Amatsu's expression remains cold, his face betraying little more than a subtle tightening at the edges as the memory of the killings flickers through his mind. The weight of his choices hangs in the air, a silent presence beneath his calm exterior. He exhales evenly, his eyes briefly closing as he sorts through his thoughts with practiced detachment.

"For some reason," he speaks in a low, almost absent tone, "killing those three men... seems to have stirred up more trouble than I anticipated." His voice holds no hint of emotion, just a flat clarity. "But it's irrelevant. They were weak. I did what needed to be done."

He stands, his gaze fixed on the dark, unblinking eyes of the forest outside. The tension in the air thickens, but Amatsu remains unshaken. No regrets. Every action has consequences, but that is the price of control. The price of survival and Power.

He doesn't look at Higanbana as he speaks again, his voice lowering to a quiet, almost imperceptible whisper. It's a truth that doesn't need to be voiced aloud, yet it lingers in the air between them. "I will take care of it. This is my fight."

Higanbana watches him, her eyes full of quiet understanding. She doesn't argue. She doesn't press him for more words. She knows better than to ask for explanations Amatsu isn't willing to give. Her trust in him is absolute, unwavering.

"It's alright," she says, her voice like a soft breeze, steady and calming. "I trust you. You don't have to explain."

Amatsu doesn't turn to her, but his eyes narrow slightly in thought. There's a brief moment of silence before Higanbana speaks again, her words careful, yet filled with something deeper.

"I'm thankful," she says, looking down at her hands, which rest in her lap. "I'm thankful that you allowed me to follow you. I... don't have anyone else. You've taken me in. I can't imagine what I would do without you."

Her words hang in the air for a moment. They are simple, yet profound in their quiet sincerity. There is no expectation, no desire for anything in return. Higanbana's heart is open, her kindness as natural as breathing.

Amatsu's mind is weighed down by the firm grip of his resolve, but when he finally meets her gaze, there's a fleeting softness in his eyes—so subtle, it almost seems like an illusion—hidden beneath the layers of his cold, calculating exterior.

"You are strong," he says, his voice still cool, but there's a trace of something softer in the way he speaks to her. "You have more strength than you realize. Keep that."

She smiles, her eyes full of a quiet peace, as though she has been given more than just words. In that moment, there is no need for anything more. No need for further explanations.

The night deepens, but the forest remains a silent, watching witness to their quiet exchange. And for a moment, Amatsu allows himself to feel the calm she brings—a fleeting, delicate thing.

In a world full of darkness, Higanbana feels like a light.