Raizo woke with his heart beating too loudly.
Not fast.
Loud.
It thudded against his chest as if it were knocking from the inside, each pulse carrying weight instead of speed. He lay still beneath his blankets, staring at the ceiling, counting the beats the way Akane had taught him when the world grew too noisy.
One.
Two.
Three.
The rhythm refused to settle.
Warmth crept through his limbs, slow and spreading, like heat moving through stone left too long in the sun. His fingers tingled. His chest felt tight—not painful, but full, as if something inside him was pressing outward and didn't know where to go.
Raizo swallowed.
The mist outside his window moved.
Not drifting.
Turning.
He pushed himself upright, pressing a hand against his sternum. The warmth flared briefly in response, spiraling outward before he caught it with a shaky breath.
"In with the wave," he whispered.
"Out with the tide."
The air around his bed stirred, then stilled.
But the feeling didn't leave.
Akane knew something was wrong the moment she saw him.
Raizo sat at the low table with his hands folded in his lap, posture too straight, eyes fixed on nothing. Steam rose untouched from the tea beside him. His breathing was careful—too careful—each inhale measured like he was afraid of taking too much air at once.
"Raizo?" she asked softly.
He blinked and looked up at her. For a split second, relief crossed his face—thin and fragile.
"My heart won't be quiet," he said.
Akane knelt immediately, placing a hand over his chest. His heartbeat was strong. Steady.
Too strong for a child.
Her own pulse quickened despite herself. "Is it hurting?"
He shook his head. "It's… echoing."
That word made her breath hitch.
Riku appeared in the doorway, already tense. "What's wrong?"
Raizo hesitated. Then, in a small voice, "The mist doesn't like me today."
As if summoned by the words, the fog outside thickened, pressing closer to the windows. It curled along the glass in slow, deliberate spirals, reacting not to wind, but to Raizo's presence.
Akane closed her eyes briefly.
"It's starting," she whispered.
Uzushio felt it too.
People moved more slowly that morning. Conversations faltered. Children paused mid-play, frowning without knowing why. The air felt heavy, charged, as if something invisible had leaned too close to the village and refused to step back.
Raizo felt every reaction like static against his skin.
Eyes lingered on him longer than usual as Akane led him through the stone paths. Whispers brushed the edges of his awareness—not words, but emotions. Curiosity. Worry. Fear wrapped in politeness.
Hina crashed into his side anyway.
"RAIZO!" she yelled. "EVERYONE'S BEING WEIRD TODAY!"
Raizo winced, hands flying up to cover his ears. The sound hit him harder than it should have, sharp and jagged.
Hina froze instantly. "I was too loud."
"It's okay," Raizo said quickly, though his voice wobbled. "Everything is loud today."
She leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially. "Mama says it's because the air is angry."
Raizo frowned. "The air isn't angry."
"What is it then?"
He searched for the right shape of the feeling. "It's… crowded."
Hina made a face. "That's worse."
They didn't train that morning.
Akane could see it in the way Raizo's shoulders stayed tight, the way his fingers twitched when strong emotions passed nearby. The world was pressing too close, and Raizo's usual grounding wasn't enough.
By midday, the warmth behind his eyes had grown into pressure.
It wasn't pain.
It was insistence.
They sat together on the porch, Raizo tracing spirals on his chalkboard with slow, uncertain movements. The lines wobbled, refusing to settle into their usual clean curves.
"I can't make them stay still," he whispered.
"That's alright," Akane said, keeping her voice calm even as worry gnawed at her chest. "You don't have to make anything today."
But Raizo shook his head. "They want to move."
The chalk slipped from his fingers.
The spiral glowed.
Not red.
Pink.
Faint, unstable, flickering like light seen through water.
Akane sucked in a sharp breath.
Raizo cried out as heat surged behind his eyes, sudden and overwhelming. The world fractured—sounds splitting, emotions crashing together. Fear. Surprise. Concern. All of it slammed into him at once.
"I can't—" he gasped. "I can't hold it!"
The chalkboard shattered.
A shockwave rippled outward, knocking over a chair and rattling the porch beams. Wind whipped around them in a tight spiral before collapsing inward just as quickly.
Raizo dropped to his knees, clutching his head.
"Too loud," he sobbed. "It's too loud."
Akane pulled him into her arms, holding him tightly despite the residual chakra buzzing against her skin. "Breathe," she whispered desperately. "Just breathe."
His eyes flickered again.
Pink.
Deeper this time.
The Ketsuryūgan was waking.
The air changed.
Not abruptly—gently, like a hand settling on his shoulder.
Mito Uzumaki stepped onto the porch without a sound.
The pressure vanished instantly.
Wind stilled. Mist loosened. The weight crushing Raizo's senses eased as if a dam had been opened somewhere deep inside him.
He sagged against Akane, gasping, exhausted.
Mito knelt beside them, her presence vast but controlled, the Nine-Tails' chakra coiled beneath her skin like a sleeping sun.
"This is not failure," she said calmly. "This is blood remembering itself."
Raizo looked up at her with tear-streaked cheeks. "Am I breaking?"
Mito's eyes softened. "No, child. You are changing."
Akane's hands trembled. "His eyes—"
"I know," Mito said gently. "The Chinoike blood has begun to resonate."
She placed two fingers lightly against Raizo's forehead. The warmth there steadied, pressure easing.
"You feel everything too deeply," Mito continued. "Your perception is sharpening faster than your control."
Raizo sniffed. "I don't want to hurt anyone."
"You won't," Mito said firmly. "But storms do not ask permission before they grow."
That frightened him more than anything else she could have said.
The elders arrived not long after.
Voices rose. Concerns were voiced. Words like dangerous and unstable drifted through the air like knives.
Raizo sat silently between Akane and Riku, staring at his hands.
"I don't want red eyes," he whispered.
Riku crouched in front of him, gripping his shoulders firmly. "They don't decide who you are."
"But people will look at me different."
"Yes," Riku admitted quietly. "And we will stand between you and anyone who forgets you're a child."
Mito rose to her full height, chakra flaring just enough to silence the room.
"He will be taught," she said. "With consent. With care. Or you will watch him tear himself apart trying not to be what he already is."
No one argued.
That evening, Raizo stood alone at the shoreline.
The sea rolled steadily, calmer now. The mist thinned, giving him space to breathe. He pressed his palm against his chest, feeling the echo there—quieter, but still present.
"I'm scared," he admitted softly.
The waves answered with a gentle crash.
Mito stood beside him, hands folded.
"So was I," she said. "Every time I changed."
Raizo looked up at her. "Did it ever stop?"
"No," she replied honestly. "But you learn to carry it."
He nodded slowly.
The blood was stirring.
And this time, he didn't run from it.
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