Decree of Silence

The wind did not move. The world was holding its breath.

Atop the broken remnants of an ancient Kusagakure watchtower—once a nest of ANBU brutality—stood Karin Uzumaki. Her body shimmered in divine equilibrium. She wore no armor. She required none.

Her flesh was her seal.

Her eyes, her doctrine.

Her wrath, the court.

Around her, thirteen candles burned atop obsidian spikes—each one a kindred soul.

Her voice cut through the dusk like a verdict carved in bone:

“The sentence is silence.”

A glyph of crimson light ignited beneath her bare feet—an inverted Uzumaki, layered with concentric rings etched in Uzumaki script. It pulsed once with sacred authority.

[System Notification: Divine Massacre Protocol Engaged]

[Target: Kusagakure Civilian and Military Population – 2,912 Souls]

[Status: Full-Scale Nullification Seal Deployment Pending]

[Confirmation Required: Proceed with Erasure? Y/N]

She raised one hand slowly.

Her fingers closed into a mudra unseen since the days of Uzushio's fall.

The Uzumaki beneath her roared into flame.

“Yes.”

Kusagakure blinked.

One moment: rain, noise, life.

The next: absence.

The 128 Trigram Null Zone Seal activated across a 128-mile radius. There was no light. No sound. Only the breath of chakra collapsing.

Civilians and shinobi alike fell to their knees.

Jounin clutched at their foreheads, screaming in silence as chakra pathways locked mid-flow. Genin collapsed as if drowned from the inside. Sensor-nin reached for techniques that simply did not exist anymore.

In the village square, a Jonin Captain growled: “Sound the—!”

But his voice never left his mouth.

Across rooftops, ANBU attempted to vanish into shadow—only to find their techniques had turned to vapor.

Chakra was gone.

Only taijutsu remained.

Karin stepped from the spire like a spirit descending from the heavens.

Her bare feet met stone without a sound. Her chains unfurled—six divine constructs, etched in crimson-gold, alive with ancestral script. They didn’t whip. They flowed—curved arcs of sentence and scripture.

Two coiled gently around her arms.

Two slithered across her hips like armored sashes.

One hovered over her shoulder like a serpent of flame.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The sixth dragged behind her like the train of an empress.

A squad of surviving Kusa shinobi—taijutsu specialists, stripped of chakra but trained from birth—rushed her in silence.

Five of them. Full gear. Reinforced gauntlets. Blade-toe boots. Eyes full of terror disguised as courage.

She smiled.

The first leapt, aiming a spinning axe-kick at her skull.

Karin’s knee came up—not as a counter, but as a verdict. His shin met the edge of her tibia. Bone shattered. He screamed as his leg bent backward mid-air. Her elbow followed instantly, driving into his throat, sending his limp body crashing through a food stall.

Taijutsu—Form: Uzumaki Storm Pulse.

The second and third tried to flank. One went low with a sweep. The other aimed a triple-palm strike to her chest.

Too slow.

Karin’s body spun sideways, her left foot catching the sweep before it landed. She let her weight fall onto it—pinning the leg mid-sweep—and then launched her entire body into a corkscrew roundhouse.

The heel of her foot caught the other shinobi on the temple. Skull fracture. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

The one pinned by her foot struggled—until a chain darted forward, coiling around his neck, then tightening with a sudden jerk.

Snap.

Silence.

Three down.

The last two hesitated. One shouted to distract her while the other dashed behind, aiming for a suplex grapple—classic academy technique.

Karin ducked.

Not backward—forward.

She flowed under the grapple and brought her fist up in a crushing rising uppercut to the second attacker’s diaphragm.

Ribs caved.

As he flew backward choking on his own lung fragments, Karin spun on the last and delivered a downward elbow directly into his clavicle.

Then a knee. Then a chain.

He didn’t scream. He couldn’t. His neck had snapped halfway through the Uzumaki binding.

All five were dead.

Their souls hovered—confused.

Then they were pulled into her chest.

Absorbed.

Karin reached the center of the village—a place once used to display Uzumaki captives.

A grotesque square tiled in green-gray stone, lined with the remnants of broken chakra-dampening pillars. She remembered this place in her blood. It had tasted Uzumaki screams.

She stood in the center.

The air shimmered. Her chains floated upward—then plunged downward.

They carved a new Uzumaki into the stone—a soul Uzumaki, radiating from her feet. At each ring, her voice echoed across dimensions:

“For every child dissected in silence.”

“For every woman reduced to a womb.”

“For every chain you tried to weaponize against us.”

A crowd of terrified civilians and shinobi alike had gathered—those who had survived the seal, the silence, the shock.

Some knelt in submission.

Some begged.

Some raised fists.

Some screamed apologies.

She raised her hand.

A single gesture.

And the Uzumaki erupted.

Chains tore from the seal—dozens, hundreds. They coiled through the crowd, seeking not flesh, but soul-signatures. The guilty were marked by memory itself.

Chains pierced hearts without breaking skin. Souls pulled free like smoke. Chakra turned inward. Screams became silence.

One by one, their bodies crumpled, eyes wide—not in agony, but in stunned remembrance.

Karin’s lips moved:

“I do not kill. I record.”

Atop the ruined steps of the Council Tower, Karin stood over the courtyard of corpses. Her divine futanari form shimmered beneath threads of chakra cloth, her manhood dormant, pulsing only with the rhythm of judgment—not lust, not domination.

She extended her arms.

From her spine rose a throne of chains—weaving themselves from stone, soul, and script.

She sat.

The 13th flame behind her flared violently.

One more to go. The Daimyo.

She whispered:

“Let the tower tremble. Let the king come to the gallows. His throne awaits.”