Call Of Blood

THE PULSE BENEATH THE UZUMAKI

The hut had fallen still again. Outside, the rain resumed, but it never touched the clearing. The chakra barrier shaped by Karin’s will kept nature at bay—not in defiance, but in reverence.

She sat in the lotus position at the center of the spiral seal.

The Uzumaki Seal over her navel pulsed once.

Then again.

Faster.

A tremor passed through her being—soft, like a heartbeat awakening in a newborn.

“The seal calls.”

She lowered her palms to the floor, fingertips glowing crimson. Twelve red threads shot outward from her body—chakra filaments seeking blood, reaching across countries, across oceans, across generations.

One by one, they found something. Someone.

Uzumaki.

But not as she hoped. Not whole-blooded. Not clanborn. The twelve responses were faint—drifting remnants of a great people who had once held nations at bay with seals alone.

Her mind brushed against each one. Their locations. Their fates.

One was a Courtesan in a Noble Court, barely able to shape chakra.

One was a Lab Rat woman with no idea her red hair marked her as sacred.

Another was dying in prison.

But then—

A spike.

A surge of power so vast, so dense it warped her perception of space.

“Who…?”

She focused. One of the filaments was barely tethered—on the edge of collapse—but what it touched was immense. Endless sorrow wrapped in godhood. A chakra field not unlike her own—but burdened, twisted, divine through agony.

“This isn’t a child. This is… a titan.”

Karin’s seal flared. Her mind was pulled into the thread like a current into the sea.

Her consciousness slipped between space and blood. Memories, not hers, surged up:

* Rain falling on tin rooftops.

* A boy hiding beneath a wooden crate as screams echoed outside.

* A dog’s final whimper. A mother’s final smile.

* Eyes—lavender, swirling. Eyes that had seen too much.

* A friend named Yahiko. A dream shattered by war.

* A body. Then another. Then hundreds.

Each memory sharpened as if drawn in ink over her soul.

She felt not just power—but absence. A child who had grown without knowing who he was. What he was.

The truth hit her like wind through broken glass:

“He doesn’t know. He never knew he was Uzumaki.”

She whispered it aloud in the real world.

The seal burned.

“I must show him.”

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In Amegakure, high within the tower that loomed over a nation soaked in despair, Nagato lay half-sleeping. Machines kept his broken body alive, but for a moment, a sliver of peace passed over him. His breath softened.

And in that stillness—he dreamed.

A spiral. Not the Rinnegan. Not war.

But warmth.

A soft, glowing pattern turning slowly in endless black.

Then a hum.

A lullaby with no language, only feeling.

It called to him like a name never spoken.

A voice echoed inside his marrow—not threatening, not commanding.

But familiar.

“You’ve wandered far, cousin.”

A figure stepped forward from the spiral.

Karin.

This was something divine.

She radiated power—but not of conquest.

Of creation.

Her hair shimmered with dark red light. Her eyes shone like dying stars. Her hands bore the symbols of sealing and salvation.

“Am I… Uzumaki?” Nagato’s voice cracked—not the voice of a god, but of a boy.

“By blood. By pain. By memory.”

“You carry our anguish. But you were never taught our name.”

He sank to his knees, overwhelmed. In the dream, rain still fell—but it didn’t touch him.

“I thought I was alone.”

She stepped forward, her palm pressing over his heart. The warmth was unbearable—not heat, but recognition.

“So did I.”

Around them, dream-space spiraled.

Yahiko. Konan. The pain of the world.

Her memories too—Karin in the cell, Karin in fire, Karin swallowing twelve lives for a bloodline forgotten. They stood in the wreckage of a shared destiny.

“We were scattered,” she whispered, “but not erased.”

The spiral pulsed once more.

Nagato wept—not as a god, but as a child held too long in silence.

“Can I… come to you?” he asked.

She nodded.

“But not as a god. Come as blood.”

The spiral closed.

Nagato gasped awake. His eyes wide. His body was trembling.

Konan looked up from her post beside his chair.

“Another nightmare?”

He stared at the wall.

“No. Not a nightmare. Memory. But not mine.”

He turned to her—uncertain for the first time in years.

“There’s another Uzumaki. And she remembers me.”

In the forest, Karin stirred. She had barely opened her eyes when the barrier at the edge of the glade shimmered.

A ripple of chakra. A Human.

A masked figure appeared—a nondescript man in Akatsuki robes.

He bowed—not disrespectful, but not reverent either.

“Pain has seen your light. He remembers your name. And your blood.”

He offered a scroll wrapped in crimson silk. A single spiral seal locked it.

Karin didn’t move.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you're family. And we do not wish to erase family. We wish to restore it.”

A pause.

“The Uzumaki should not die alone.”

He left without a word. The scroll glowed faintly in her hands.

That night, she lit twelve candles.

Only one flickered brighter than before.

Nagato.

“So much power. So much sorrow. And no one told you who you were.”

She wept—silently.

The scroll remained unopened beside her.

The rain stopped again.

And again, it did not fall where she stood.

She looked at the Uzumaki over her navel.

The core of the Uzumaki, glowing now.

Hers.

The Progenitor.

She whispered to it:

“If we are to survive… maybe it must be together.”

She looked east, toward the border. Toward Amegakure.

“Nagato. I am coming.”