Chapter 47: White Fang's Harvest
The dream-state transformation was complete. The bonds of loyalty, the weight of guilt, the complex soul of Kakashi Hatake—they had been dissolved in the demonic blood and reforged into a simpler, sharper purpose: Obey. Consume. Grow. Avenge.
The entity that stood amidst the carnage of the safe house was no longer Kakashi. It was White Fang, a name inherited from a ghost and a weapon. Its eyes, once one dark and one Sharingan-red, were now both a dull, bloodshot grey, like stones washed in a gory tide. The scars on its body, souvenirs of its previous life's failures and the Nightmare's torments, stood out livid against pale skin.
It looked at the severed halves of its former comrades, Haru and Naoki. The rich, coppery scent of their blood and the steaming, visceral spill of their organs filled the air. A profound, cellular hunger awoke within White Fang. Not the complex hunger of a shinobi for victory or purpose, but the pure, primal hunger of a demon for the life-energy of powerful beings.
It knelt, indifferent to the gore, and began to feed. It was not a clean or graceful process. It was consumption, raw and efficient. The potent chakra and physical vitality of two ANBU operatives flooded into it, knitting the last of the psychic scars, filling the hollows left by trauma with a dark, surging power. Its grey eyes seemed to gain a faint, internal luminescence.
The third, Lin, had escaped into the night, a frantic messenger carrying a tale of impossible betrayal. White Fang finished its grim meal and stood. The command was clear: Get stronger. Then, launch a vengeful counterattack against your enemy, Konoha.
Strength came from consumption. Konoha was the enemy. Therefore, Konoha's shinobi were the most efficient source of strength.
It had no need for stealth or strategy beyond the most basic predator's cunning. It stepped out of the shattered safe house and into the sleeping, terrified town. Its senses, enhanced by its new nature, could taste the fear in the air, could smell the distinct, spiced-metallic scent of active chakra.
It found its next meal patrolling a rooftop two streets over—a Chunin from the local garrison, unnerved by the recent killings but dutiful. White Fang moved. It didn't run; it seemed to cut the distance between them, its body a blur that left a faint, slicing sound in the air. The Chunin turned, his eyes widening. He saw a familiar Konoha headband, a shock of silver hair, and then a world tilting sideways as an invisible edge passed through his neck. White Fang caught the falling body, silencing it, and fed quickly before the blood could attract attention.
Two more patrols fell in the next hour. A genin team, alerted by a missed check-in, found only damp stains on cobblestones.
White Fang was not just killing; it was harvesting. Each Konoha shinobi consumed made it faster, sharper, its Blood Demon Art: Severing Wave growing more potent and far-reaching. The invisible slashes could now cleave through multiple buildings in a single stroke.
As the first hints of dawn tinged the eastern sky, a true response arrived. Not panicked garrison troops, but a tactical squad—four Jonin, dispatched from a regional outpost after receiving Lin's fragmented, dying message via messenger bird. They found White Fang standing in the town's central square, surrounded by architectural wreckage, its clothes stained dark, waiting.
"Hatake…" the squad leader breathed, seeing the face, the hair, the headband. The report had seemed like madness. Now, the evidence was before them.
"It's not him anymore," another said, noting the dead eyes, the palpable aura of wrongness. "Engage with lethal force. Aim for decapitation or complete destruction of the torso."
They attacked with the coordinated precision of Konoha Jonin: Earth walls to box it in, Fire jets to obscure vision, Lightning to follow up. It was a textbook takedown formation.
White Fang simply raised an arm and swept it horizontally.
Blood Demon Art: Severing Wave – Crescent.
A crescent moon of compressed, invisible force, thirty feet wide, erupted from its gesture. It passed through the Earth walls as if they were paper, severed the streams of fire, and met the Lightning jutsu head-on, shearing through the chakra construct. Two of the Jonin, their defensive positions suddenly meaningless, were bisected before they could blink. The squad leader, moving on pure instinct, substituted with a nearby post, which exploded into splinters. The fourth wasn't fast enough; the wave took his legs at the knees.
The battle, from their perspective, lasted two seconds.
White Fang walked over to the screaming, legless Jonin. It looked down at him, then at the squad leader who was scrambling back, hands already forming seals for a desperate, large-scale technique.
Consume. Grow.
It fed on the dying Jonin, the energy a potent rush. Then it turned its grey eyes on the squad leader. The Jonin finished his seals. "Fire Release: Great Fire Annihilation!" A tsunami of flame roared forth, incinerating the square.
When the flames died, White Fang was still there. It stood in a circle of molten stone, its clothes smoldering, faint burns on its skin already healing. The Severing Wave it had unleashed mid-flame had cut a canyon through the inferno, protecting it. It had learned. It adapted.
The squad leader's chakra was spent, his will broken. He had nothing left.
White Fang ended him. And fed.
The sun's first ray broke over the horizon, slicing across the devastated square. A searing pain, deeper than any flame, lanced through White Fang's demonic flesh. It hissed, a sound like grinding stones, and recoiled into the deep shadow of a collapsed bell tower. The sunlight was poison. A weakness. A command from its very biology: Hide.
The hunt was over for now. But it had feasted well. The strength of seven Konoha shinobi—two ANBU, three Chunin, two Jonin—thrummed within it. Its understanding of its own power had grown. It knew its limits: the sun.
As it crouched in the cool darkness, the psychic whisper of the Ghost King brushed its mind, a silent commendation. The message was clear: You have begun well. Your vengeance has its first taste. Konoha will hunt you now with everything they have. Become strong enough to survive their hunt. Then, we will hunt them.
In the smoldering ruins of the square, under a sun that had become its enemy, White Fang—the reborn, simplified weapon forged from Kakashi Hatake's ruins—began to plot its survival. Its path to greater strength was written in the blood of the village it once called home. The first and most devastating defector of the Twelve Kizuki had announced itself not with subtlety, but with a slaughterhouse efficiency that would soon send tremors through the very foundation of the Leaf.
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