Kurama Yakumo slowly closed her eyes. The scenery around her began to warp. The once-empty, chilly room transformed in an instant into a familiar, cozy little house.
At the center of the room, an unfinished painting stood quietly on an easel. Five indistinct figures were faintly visible on the canvas. The paint was still wet, as if the artist had suddenly stopped mid-stroke and never returned to add the final touches. They were her late parents and three clansmen who had died young.
"Open your heart completely... and let me in."
A low, cool voice came quietly from behind her, utterly devoid of emotion, like a whisper from the depths of a dream.
Yakumo didn't turn around. She simply nodded.
She closed her eyes, and the memories that should have remained sealed away rose in her mind like a tide.
Ripples spread across the corner of the wall, and an old wooden door emerged from it.
She walked over and peered through the little window beside the door. There was no one outside, and the corridor was utterly silent.
She gripped the doorknob and slowly pushed the door open.
Creeeak—the sharp sound was like chains that had been locked away for ten years snapping apart.
Beyond the door, a dim candlelight illuminated the corridor. Rows of portraits hung on the walls, all depicting the ancestors of the Kurama Clan. They stared straight at Yakumo.
"You're... all still watching me?" she murmured, a trace of unease in her voice.
Another cold draft swept through the doorway. The candle flame flickered, then went out, and darkness surged in like a tide, swallowing the far end of the corridor.
Yakumo didn't retreat. She slowly walked into the darkness, each step carrying her between dream and reality. She felt a familiar warmth beneath her feet—the warmth of the floorboards she had run barefoot across as a child.
Suddenly, everything around her lit up. At some point, she had found herself in a familiar place.
It was the Kurama Residence as it had looked years ago. The windows gleamed, cherry blossoms filled the courtyard, and children's laughter echoed in the air.
"Yakumo, why are you still standing there? Come help me set the tableware!"
A gentle woman's voice came from behind her, brushing softly past her ear. She whipped around and saw a graceful woman standing by the courtyard gate, smiling, her eyes full of affection.
"...Mom?" Her voice trembled, her throat tight.
The woman walked over and gently stroked her forehead, her fingertips warm in a way Yakumo longed to feel. "Did you stay up late painting again? You look so pale."
The touch felt so real that Yakumo nearly burst into tears. She squeezed her eyes shut, and tears slid down her lashes. She knew this was genjutsu, yet it was so real, so cruel.
"This isn't just genjutsu... It's a reconstruction of memories, a reenactment deep within the soul."
She remembered that voice. That man could create such a detailed Illusionary Realm—even the faint smile at her mother's lips and the warmth of her fingertips were flawless. Even her teacher, Kurenai Yuhi, might not have been able to make it so perfect.
Why... is he showing me this?
At dinner, the entire Kurama household was wrapped in a warm atmosphere. Her cousins were playfully squabbling in the kitchen, while her father sat upright, discussing Yakumo's future with several clan elders.
"Yakumo's genjutsu has improved lately. She truly is the hope of our clan."
"I saw that painting in her room... She was trying to paint all of us, wasn't she?"
Everyone's laughter mingled around the table, the atmosphere peaceful. But Yakumo sat on edge, looking down at her hands, unsure whether to clench them or open them.
She longed for this moment to last forever, yet feared it would all collapse the next second.
If... this is that night...
If the Dreamscape and her memories overlap, then... tonight is the night the Kurama Clan was wiped out.
Yakumo sat at the table, her fingers quietly tightening. She knew all too well that after this dinner, everything would come to an end.
Her mother ladled soup into her bowl, strands of hair falling beside her cheek as she looked down. A faint sandalwood scent lingered around her. "Yakumo, why are you so quiet today? Are you feeling unwell? Or are you thinking about some boy?"
Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were full of concern.
"N-no..." Yakumo instinctively looked away and forced a smile, though it came out stiff. "I... I'm just a little tired."
"Oh, you're such a little mute. When you were young, you used to be so clingy. Now you don't cling to Mom anymore."
Her mother's lips curved into a smile as she pushed the bowl toward Yakumo. It was like a spring breeze, yet it stirred a pang of pain in Yakumo's heart.
She lowered her eyes, her lips trembling faintly. She remembered this conversation. It had really happened once, and the memory came flooding back like a tide. But all of this would be swallowed by flames.
She murmured, "I'm sorry..."
"Hm? What did you say?"
"N-nothing." Yakumo looked up, about to say something more, when—
BOOM!!!
A thunderous explosion rocked the entire residence. Bowls and plates shattered, and the lights wavered. Urgent shouts and running footsteps came from outside the windows; chaos broke over them like a sudden downpour.
"We're under attack!" Her father leaped to his feet, his expression graver than she had ever seen. "Everyone, get to the basement immediately! Yakumo, go with your mother!"
Her mother gripped her hand tightly and pulled her into a run down the corridor. Their footsteps rang urgently along the wooden hallway, but at one moment, Yakumo suddenly stopped.
"What's wrong, Yakumo?" Her mother turned back in alarm. "Hurry!"
Yakumo stared blankly toward the staircase.
Someone was standing there.
It was herself—her younger self.
The little figure stood silently at the far end of the stairs, her hair disheveled and blood smeared across her face. Her eyes were as empty as stagnant water. Yakumo's breath caught, her throat as if blocked by something.
"How... could this be...?"
A sudden agony tore through her consciousness. She clutched her head and fell to her knees. When she opened her eyes again, the little girl had changed.
Two horns sprouted from her forehead, and flames surged from her body. Her tiny frame twisted like a demon's, her pupils deep red, filled with Overwhelming Evil Intent.
"AAAAAAAH—!!!"
Screams and cries seemed to pour into her ears from every direction. Yakumo looked around in terror as her clansmen fell one after another. They weren't being killed by swords; it was as if some Invisible Mental Control were tearing apart their minds.
"What... what have you done?" Yakumo covered her mouth and staggered backward, trembling.
The monster didn't answer. It only watched her quietly, a terrifying smile appearing at the corner of its lips. Amid the flames, its form shifted once more, changing back into itself.
Her younger self had blood-red eyes, devoid of any human emotion. She tilted her head and slowly spoke:
"You finally came to see me."
"You're not me! You're not me!" Yakumo backed away, her voice trembling. "I didn't do any of this! Someone attacked us! It was the Third Hokage's people!"
"Is that so?" The girl slowly approached, her bare feet stepping onto the red-hot floorboards as flames licked at her ankles. "But you know very well... you were there that day, too."
"I wasn't..." She shook her head desperately, tears running down her cheeks. "I didn't kill them... I didn't... It couldn't have been me..."
"Too bad. They remember." Her younger self smiled, her expression gentle as if soothing a child. "They were calling your name as they died."
Yakumo collapsed to her knees and wept aloud.
She remembered the look in her father's eyes as he lay dying—not anger, not hatred, but love.
She remembered her mother holding her in the flames and saying her final words: "It's all right. Mom doesn't blame you..."
Before you continue