Menma Uzumaki

After the shower, Menma returned to his room, letting the door creak shut behind him. The faint torchlight from the hallway flickered for a moment before he bolted the door, craving the small comfort of solitude. The room was as sparse as ever, a cot, a desk, and an oppressive silence that never seemed to leave.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, his body still buzzing from the training earlier. The strength he'd displayed was exhilarating, but it also left him feeling uneasy. The power he wielded was undeniably his-yet not entirely. It came from Menma Uzumaki, and the line between them was growing harder to distinguish.

Sitting on the edge of his cot, Menma reached for his pouch, which was still tied to the waistband of his pants. It felt heavier than he expected, and his curiosity piqued.

"Did I bring anything useful with me?" he muttered to himself, pulling the pouch free

Opening the pouch, Menma sifted through its contents: a few kunai, shuriken, some wire, and a small bundle of folded fabric. his fingers brushed against two small scrolls tucked inside.

Curiosity sparked in his eyes as he pulled them out.

Two ordinary-looking scroll but the other one is bound by a red ribbon. the moment his fingers brushed against the ribbon one, something stirred inside him-a memory, or maybe an instinct.

Dark chakra pulsed faintly around him as he pressed his palm to the ground, his instincts taking over. A fūinjutsu pattern spread outward from his hand, intricate lines and symbols snaking across the stone floor and walls like living vines. The room felt heavier, as though it had been wrapped in an invisible cocoon.

Menma stepped back, his breath steady but his heart racing. The fūinjutsu had sealed the room, blocking any unwanted eyes or ears. He didn't know how he'd done it,,,,it was as if Menma Uzumaki's knowledge had taken control.

"Guess I don't need a manual," he muttered dryly, staring at the now-glowing symbols.

Once the room was secure, he unrolled the the rebon scroll and placed it flat on the desk. His eyes widened as the script on the scroll began to glow faintly, intricate patterns of seals and locks spreading across its surface.

His hand moved instinctively again, tracing the symbols and unlocking the scroll's hidden contents. The moment he finished, the scroll expanded, growing larger and larger until it covered the desk. Symbols rippled across the surface as a compartment revealed itself with a faint click.

Inside were several items, all neatly organized:

A Collection of Fuinjutsu Scrolls:

Dozens of smaller scrolls filled with complex sealing techniques. Each one had a label written in elegant script, detailing its purpose. The sheer amount of knowledge contained within them was overwhelming.

As he skimmed through them, a memory surfaced,,, Kushina and Minato, their faces warm and full of pride. "This is for you, Menma," they had said. "Learn these techniques while we're away. They'll help you become strong."

Menma's chest tightened. He wasn't the real Menma, but the memory left a bittersweet ache in his heart.

"

"

"

Opening the other scroll.

A Collection of Masks:

Human masks, animal masks, and ornate designs that radiated faint traces of chakra. He lifted one of the masks, a fox mask-and turned it over in his hands. The craftsmanship was intricate, and he could feel something lingering within it, like a dormant power waiting to be awakened.

"The Nine Masked Beasts," he muttered, the memory surfacing with sudden clarity. Menma had used these masks to summon and control powerful entities, each mask tied to a specific beast.

He placed the fox mask back carefully.

Clothes:

Several sets of Menma's signature outfit were folded neatly inside the scroll. The dark cloak, the high-collared shirt, the fingerless gloves, everything he'd need to maintain the look of the fearsome shinobi he was becoming.

Menma sat back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the scroll's contents. The weight of everything Menma's memories, his abilities, and now these items, pressed down on him.

The masks. Nine Masked Beasts, "Do I Need a regular fox to summon them?" he muttered, his fingers brushing against the fox mask again.

He shook his head, pushing the thought aside for now. Carefully, he closed the scroll, resealing it with the same instinctive movements that had opened it. The intricate locking patterns shimmered briefly before fading into the surface of the scroll.

He deactivated the room's seal and stood, pulling out one of the new outfits. He changed quickly, the fabric fitting him perfectly. When he was done, he glanced at the masks again, hesitating for a moment before grabbing the fox mask.

He slipped it on, adjusting the strap so it fit snugly against his face. He turned to the small, cracked mirror on the wall and stared at his reflection. The mask gave him an air of mystery, the dark cloak amplifying his already intimidating presence.

"Not bad," he said to himself, tilting his head.

"

Still wearing the mask, Menma sat back down and focused. The question that had been nagging at him refused to go away: 'how had Menma fly? And what was that strange forcefield he'd used in the movie?'

He closed his eyes, reaching deep into the memories that weren't his own. It was like wading through a fog, the fragments of Menma's experiences flashing before him. He could feel the rush of power, the sensation of weightlessness, the instinctive way the forcefield had formed around him.

It wasn't just one technique-it was a combination of things. The dark chakra was the key, but it needed to be controlled with precision. The flying, the ability to repel weapons, they all required a deep connection to that power.

"

Sitting on the cot still wearing the mask, Menma let his mind wander.

He opened his eyes, his resolve hardening... only to realize his stomach was rumbling. 'Great,' he muttered, 'just what I need. Existential angst on an empty stomach.'

As he stood and adjusted his cloak, he glanced back at the scroll. There was still so much he didn't understand, so much he had to learn.