Salt the Soil

The streets pulsed with heartbeats.

Not footsteps. Not voices.

Heartbeats.

To others, Kusagakure was a quiet rain-drenched village tucked into the spine of the world, ever dripping, ever dreaming.

But to me?

It was a body—and I was its scalpel.

In the eye of my mind—my improved mind, refined by the absorption of memory, perception, and chakra—every soul now shone with a soft red aura. Crimson pulses moved through walls and rooftops, walking their loops of daily comfort. Civilians. Shopkeepers. Lovers. Dreamers.

Children.

Innocent, yes. But not blameless.

Because they had lived safely under the shadow of monsters.

And shadows stain everything.

I tracked them silently from above, crouched on the ridge of a crooked temple roof. Every heartbeat was visible. Every chakra signature was unique. The texture of their emotions, the density of their lies, the weight of their grief or joy—I felt it all. And beneath the soft, flickering rhythms of the common folk were the deeper, denser beats of the Kusa-nin.

Like roots under a poisoned tree.

Rotten. Hidden. Dangerous.

They patrolled in squads of two or three. Speaking in code. Spreading silent death through the alleys. Their chakra signatures weren’t just beacons. They were fingerprints. And I?

I now had the hand of death.

I passed the first cluster without drawing a chain.

Two elders. A mother. Three children. Standing beneath a fruit stall’s awning, chatting about rice prices and sour plums.

Their voices were gentle. Their eyes soft. The world they inhabited was built on the illusion of safety—the security of a hidden village. Shinobi training programs. Protective watchposts. National pride.

But I knew.

I remembered.

They had heard the screams from the underground labs. They had smelled the burning hair. Seen the stained uniforms.

And they had turned away.

Not yet. I whispered silently.

Not tonight.

They would come last.

Cull the roots. Then salt the soil.

The pub near the northern watchpost stank of fried fish, old alcohol, and older sins.

Inside, three chunin laughed louder than the thunder outside. Their chakra danced with false bravado—stumbling waves of heat and predatory spikes, dulled only by inebriation.

Each one wore the green-gray flak of Kusagakure’s elite scouts. I knew their names. I knew their files. But I didn’t need them.

Because I remembered them from my mother’s screams.

The first had carved out her womb postmortem—for a sealing experiment they never published.

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The second had used her brain as a genjutsu testbed, manipulating neural feedback until her cerebellum bled out through her ears.

And the third?

He braided her red hair into a bracelet.

He wore it still.

I didn’t knock.

My vengeance moved like breath.

A single chain slithered beneath the floorboards. It was patient. Curious. It wrapped around the first man’s ankle—gently. Like a mother’s hand. Then yanked with the full weight of ancestral fury, dragging him screaming under the table.

The second’s death came faster.

A golden javelin burst down through the ceiling, piercing his skull with a wet crack. He never blinked. He never stood.

He just dropped—like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The third spun, wide-eyed, hand reaching toward his kunai. He choked.

He never made it.

A chain snaked across the room and coiled around his throat, lifting him clean off the ground. His boots kicked. His mouth gaped.

Still no sound.

He tried to grab at the bracelet on his wrist.

My mother’s hair.

I watched as his lips turned purple. His chakra sputtered and collapsed. Only when his hands fell limp did I let go. His corpse crashed into the table, knocking over plates of salted squid and spilled sake.

The smell of blood mixed with soy sauce.

A grotesque perfume for a just execution.

And then the hunger came.

Not from my belly. Not from instinct.

From my chains.

They trembled. They hummed. They begged.

I answered.

[Devour? Y/N]

[Y.]

The devouring was deeper this time.

Three lives. The Flesh. Three Spirits. Three Souls.

And with each, I felt my body stretch toward something greater.

Their chakra poured into me like molten fire. It twisted through my lungs and bones, reinforcing, expanding. I felt my spiritual strength multiply, not just in magnitude but density—like I was becoming harder to perceive, harder to erase.

Their souls didn’t scream. They sank into mine. Like drops into a crimson sea.

And their memories—my new memories—whirred through my mind in perfect recall. Childhoods, promotions, sins, regrets. Their cruelty was never mindless. It was intentional.

It had always been.

And now, I had taken it back.

But the flesh… the flesh responded differently.

[Warning: High-density chakra integration detected. Dormant Mutation Reactivated.]

[Flesh Morphing Process: Advanced Stage]

[New Chakra Circuit: Stabilizing. Form Type: Futanari.]

[This Is Not a Weapon. This Is Not for Domination.]

[This Is a Legacy Conduit. A Sacred Vessel. A Rebirth Mechanism.]

[Current Status: Incomplete. Awaiting Further Soul Integration.]

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I stumbled slightly, one knee hitting the blood-wet floor. My breath caught.

Not pain. Transformation.

I felt it in my core—deep where soul met body. A new circuit was forming—not just a network of chakra, but a knot of potential. A convergence of past and future. My body pulsed with a rhythm foreign to it moments ago, yet ancient beyond memory.

Not grotesque. Not lewd.

Sacred.

A mighty shaft, still formless in flesh but unmistakable in chakra structure, began to take shape within. Not to humiliate. Not to claim.

To seed.

To revive the Uzumaki name. To make children not of violence, but of restoration. Of continuation.

A bloodline nearly lost—ready to bloom again.

This is how the Clan is reborn, I thought.

Not in ceremony. Not in forgiveness.

In justice. In balance.

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I rose.

The chains slithered back into my sleeves, satisfied—for now.

The pub was quiet. The storm raged beyond the shattered door. And deep within me, the beginnings of a new legacy stirred.

I stepped into the rain once more, the shadows clinging tighter to my silhouette.

Behind me, the stench of justice.

Ahead of me, the pulse of more sins.

Three down. Thousands to go.

And this time, they’d feel me coming.