The Uzumaki Family (Naruto X Justice League)

Chapter 16: Of Mortality, Mail, and Missing Dads

(In which Naruto tries not to fall apart—literally—and someone finally explains why Dad keeps glowing.)

It was, by all accounts, the kind of day poets wrote about and children reenacted in playgrounds with ridiculous enthusiasm—sun-kissed skies over a jubilant village, streamers flailing like giddy serpents in the breeze, and cheers that could very well have reached the moon if not for a particularly moody cloud that insisted on hovering. Fifteen years had passed since Naruto Uzumaki—once the village's Number One Most Unpredictable Ninja—had ascended to the much-revered (and occasionally sleep-deprived) title of Lord Seventh.

His coronation had been nothing short of legendary. Even the grumpiest old war veterans had shed a tear or two. Not that they'd admit it, of course. But the world had seen something that day: not just a boy-turned-hero donning a robe with flames at the hem, but a symbol—a great golden hope wrapped in orange and mischief.

Naturally, with great symbolism came great expectations. The world watched with bated breath. And Naruto? Well, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work with that same irrepressible grin.

In the first four years alone, he'd done the unthinkable: united the five great nations, imprisoned every last warlord and cartel boss who had ever so much as looked at a kunai the wrong way, and somehow managed to stop three separate invasions before breakfast. It was all rather impressive, and had the slight side effect of stuffing the prisons to bursting.

That was when Naruto, being Naruto, came up with another one of his daft-sounding ideas that somehow ended up changing the world.

"Let's make them better," he'd said, chin propped on his fist during a particularly long meeting. "Reeducate them. Turn 'scum' into something useful. Maybe start a flower garden while we're at it?"

Everyone had laughed. Tsunade had spat sake.

And then he'd gone and done it.

But none—absolutely none—of the dignitaries, advisors, or opinionated old ladies at the dango stand could have predicted what came next.

It wasn't just the prisons. It wasn't just the peace. It was the speed—light speed, some called it—as if the world itself had decided to leap into the future with the same stubbornness that once made Naruto jump headfirst into S-class missions with a frog and a dream.

In just fifteen years, the world of shinobi had transformed into something new. Not everyone agreed on whether it was for better or worse, but even the most crotchety elders admitted that the sheer change was astonishing.

Jutsu had evolved—some even flew through the sky on metallic wings now, and one rather chatty genin had recently created a "Shadow Clone Social Network" that had gone viral (though half of them had started their own bands, and the others were demanding union rights).

Technology too had taken a curious leap forward. Radios could now speak back to you, and someone had even invented a device that kept ramen warm for three whole days.

But not all was cheerful, of course. The war had taken its toll, especially on the chakra-wielders. Their numbers had dwindled by nearly twenty percent, and worse still, the civilian population—always the quiet majority—had grown fearful.

"You're the reason we suffer," some cried. "You hoard the power, the resources, the safety!"

Some shinobi snapped. There were... incidents. Ugly ones. And Naruto, bless him, carried it all on his shoulders like the world's most determined ox.

Then came the moment that startled even his closest friends.

"Let's make everyone equal," he'd said one day, sipping from a steaming bowl of miso. And everyone froze. Tsunade dropped her chopsticks. Shikamaru choked on a rice cracker. Sakura thought she'd misheard.

But no, he meant it.

He worked with Orochimaru—yes, that Orochimaru—and Tsunade, pooling brains, science, and just the right touch of madness. The goal? Give everyone chakra. Not just teach it—engineer it into the very bones of the people.

And if that wasn't enough to make the shinobi world sit down and reassess their life choices, Naruto also introduced the "Bloodline Evolution Program." Suddenly, humans weren't just learning chakra; they were sprouting abilities linked to creatures ranging from fearsome rhinos to indestructible jellyfish.

(One boy in the northern district could now spit acid and regenerate limbs. He called himself Toxiboi, and his mother proudly stitched his name into every shirt.)

The village baker could now summon a swarm of bees to make honey on command. The librarian had rhino skin and could carry six crates of books in one go. The ice cream man? A turtle-bloodline user with perfect temperature control.

To some, it was madness. To Naruto, it was progress.

He didn't just want to level the field—he wanted to grow a new one.

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If someone had told the young Naruto Uzumaki—the troublemaking rascal with a penchant for ramen and loud proclamations—that one day he would not only rule the entire shinobi world but also expand the size of the planet, he would've laughed so hard he'd have choked on his noodles.

And yet, fifteen years into his reign, Naruto sat atop a world that had quite literally grown under his feet. The land was no longer just a tapestry of elemental nations—it was a masterpiece, embroidered with threads of progress, boundless imagination, and a lot of chakra-infused sweat.

It all began innocently enough (as grand things often do), with health, education, and technology. Naruto, never one for sitting on thrones and twiddling his thumbs, rolled up his sleeves and marched into the thick of it. He dragged his friends along too—though, to be fair, most came willingly, save for a grumbling Shikamaru who claimed he'd rather nap.

Hinata and Sakura, for instance, transformed the medical sector like two benevolent alchemists. Where once healing was a frantic scramble of green-glowing palms and chakra exhaustion, it had become a graceful dance of diagnostics, fine-tuned procedures, and even jutsu-enhanced spectacles. Now, a medic-nin could spot a hairline fracture in a rib from ten meters away or gently siphon out poisons without a single incision. They even dabbled in healing pods, which, although suspiciously similar to "soaking tubs," were surprisingly effective (and comfortable, Hinata insisted).

Choji and Lee, meanwhile, had taken it upon themselves to turn taijutsu into an art of near-divine finesse. Inspired by the legendary Third Raikage—whose body had famously bounced off bijuu bombs—they forged training regimes so intense that even metal weights wept. They drafted manuals with bold titles like "Thunder Thighs & Iron Abs" and hosted training festivals where contestants routinely exploded out of their shirts (whether out of power or pride remained undetermined).

Over in the more "esoteric" corner of development, Ino and Sai waved their brushes and minds to astonishing results. Once considered a support clan, the Yamanaka style now resembled something out of myth and ghost stories. Ino could whisper and erase a man's memory, or scream and leave hardened warriors clutching their heads in despair. Sai, ever the enigmatic artist, brought creatures from ink and imagination to terrifying life—once painting a mountain-sized tiger that ate a rebel camp in one gulp before fading back to paper.

"It's all about expression," Sai had said once, calmly doodling a beast with six tails and a top hat. No one dared ask what that one did.

And Shikamaru, ever the reluctant genius, had become the spine of Naruto's war council. What began as a few strategies penned over coffee turned into libraries of evolving warfare theory. He trained a new generation of tacticians who could calculate a battlefield like a game of shogi. With Naruto and Sasuke's help, the Nara clan's shadows, too, had grown wild and wonderful—capable now of slicing through defenses, shifting terrain, and even pulling down airships like snagging balloons at a child's party.

Through it all, Naruto remained at the center—smiling, encouraging, working tirelessly beside his comrades. He funneled energy from across the solar system into their world, dragging asteroids to merge with the planet like a cosmic juggler. The result? A world whose mass had grown a hundredfold, a place where gravity sang a deeper note and skies were a shade more vivid.

"I wanted the world to be big enough," Naruto once told Konohamaru, "for everyone's dreams to fit."

And fit they did. Cities floated, forests whispered secrets to the wind, and oceans glowed faintly with chakra-rich tides. It was a land unrecognizable from the war-torn fields of Naruto's youth, and yet the heart of it remained unchanged: bonds, belief, and a bit of mischief.

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—

In a world that had once been held together by scrolls, shuriken, and sheer stubborn will, the modern shinobi now strolled the streets in sleek mech suits, their kunai replaced with chakra-reactive blades that hummed like annoyed bees. The age of shadows had given way to something shinier—an age of light, tech, and, occasionally, laser-guided paper bombs.

No longer did chakra belong to the few. It was the new currency of life, a birthright awakened in every soul. Everyone—from excitable toddlers to disgruntled grannies—had chakra coils buzzing beneath their skin like live wires. And why not? Who wouldn't want the promise of power, freedom from fear, and the ability to toast their morning bread with a well-aimed Katon?

The old rank system? Thrown into the recycling bin of history like outdated mission scrolls. In these new days, even a fresh-faced Academy student could pull off feats that would make the former Sannin faint into their sake bowls. The new Academy—if one could even call that gauntlet of horrors an "academy"—trained kids harder than the Anbu of old. Children sparred in high-stakes illusions, crawled through virtual battlegrounds soaked in simulated blood, and wrote essays on countering interdimensional abductions before lunchtime. The dropout rate was high—but the survival rate after graduation? Higher still.

There were millions of students now. Millions. And Genins? You'd trip over them in the street. But elite Jounin? Rare, dangerous, and terrifyingly powerful—each one a walking disaster movie with better hair than Madara Uchiha. The Konoha 11, seasoned and scarred, stood as titanic figures in this evolved shinobi world. Their names were whispered with awe… and just a pinch of fear.

But where there is power, there is also selfishness. Hidden corners of the world teemed with rogue chakra users and cults who believed the planet owed them something explosive. The general public, thankfully, did not panic. Not when you had specialized cleanup teams, chakra suppression fields, mech-knights with railguns, and yes—even chakra-powered bulldozers that could flatten a battleground before dinnertime.

And the wildlife? Oh, the wildlife. Natural energy had turned squirrels into steel-furred nightmares and fish into lightning-charged missiles. Yet humanity adapted, as it always did. Beasts were studied, catalogued, and—when necessary—barbecued. Forces were trained to combat every possible scenario: feral dragons, cosmic fungi, teleporting goats… nothing was beyond expectation.

Technological advancements, once limited to prosthetics and radios, had surged into science fiction territory. Chakra guns that read your intent. Armor that healed you while trash-talking your enemies. Mech suits with flight capabilities and shoulder-mounted toad cannons. And everywhere: ranks. Every toaster, dog collar, and shoelace had its rank and optimal chakra compatibility rating.

The planet's energy needs had skyrocketed, of course, but that too had been tamed. Giant solar farms glinted from mountaintops and oceans, feeding power to orbital cannons stationed like heavenly swords above. Global teleporters created a truly united world—if you could pass the chakra purity test, of course. And thanks to Naruto (and Sasuke, and Toneri, but mostly Naruto), even other dimensions had opened up as potential vacation spots. Want a honeymoon in a realm where gravity does backflips? Just book early.

Life expectancy? Sky-high. A hundred years was the new sixty. Those with Otsutsuki DNA or robotic lungs? Easily reached 500. The line between man and machine had blurred into stylish cybernetics, and the once-feared "puppet jutsu" had given way to high-fashion exosuits with sentient AI.

And yet, despite it all—the tech, the ranks, the god-beasts, the moon colonies—it was Naruto's absence that slowed the world. The spark of progress dimmed, ever so slightly. The great fox had curled up for a nap. He had built his paradise, stitched it together with love and sacrifice… and now, for the first time in decades, he was allowed to rest.

There were those who still tried to fill his shoes, of course. Glorious, glittering machines were built to simulate his intellect, his instincts, even his humor. They came close. But Naruto Uzumaki was one-of-a-kind.

And so the world spun on, brighter and stranger than ever before, all built on the back of a knuckle-headed ninja who once stole ramen because he was too broke to afford it.

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Naruto Uzumaki had saved the world more times than he could count (and thankfully, he never really bothered to count), but even he couldn't escape the most formidable enemy of all: biology.

It wasn't that Naruto didn't try. Oh no, he had tried every miraculous scientific and mystical solution available across the stars and dimensions. Artificial genetic restructuring? Tried it. Chakra crystal infusion? Tried that too—twice. Rewriting his own DNA with the help of Sasuke, a mad genius, and a very enthusiastic talking scroll? Triple tried that one. But the answer always came back the same, usually accompanied by a rather rude buzzing sound from the diagnostic machine and a puff of burnt ozone.

"Your body," Sakura had explained, arms crossed and looking every inch the terrifying medic she had become, "is already made of the best stuff in the universe. It's like trying to enhance a diamond with glitter glue."

He had laughed at the time. But that was before the pins started.

Not actual pins, mind you—Naruto was quite sure he hadn't swallowed a box of sewing needles—but it felt like them. Millions of tiny, invisible pricks dancing along his bones, across his skin, and deep inside his chest. It was a full-body performance of agony, like his cells were staging a revolt and his chakra was the only loyal soldier left to hold the line.

It was exhausting. Even for someone whose stamina was practically legendary. No, not just legendary—mythical. His stamina had once powered through five planetary invasions, a diplomatic summit with aliens that spoke only in dance, and babysitting Himawari during her sugar highs. All in one weekend.

And yet, he was tired.

Really, truly tired.

His eyes, always a blazing storm of energy, were rimmed red—not from tears, no, but from the chronic refusal to sleep. He couldn't afford to. Rest, to him, meant vulnerability. Rest meant precious time lost. And when every molecule in your body might unravel the moment you relaxed… well, resting sounded a bit like dying.

He knew he should take a break. That was the whole point of this... "retirement," though no one actually used the word around him. It made people nervous, the idea of Naruto Uzumaki slowing down. Like the sun announcing it would shine only on alternate Tuesdays.

But that's where the problem came in: resting meant being present. At home. With his wife. With his kids.

The ones who barely remembered what his voice sounded like outside of a holo-message.

Naruto had tried. Every spare moment—every flicker of downtime—he sent something. A message. A toy. A birthday letter that showed up a week early (or late) depending on which dimension he was in at the time. His chakra clones had become the postmen of the family, and sometimes, hilariously, his children had more memories of them than the original.

It wasn't that he didn't love them. He adored them. Fiercely, painfully, achingly. But love didn't stop a black hole from forming on Mars, or a rogue demon-possessed AI from hijacking the Moon's orbit, or the dimensional tear in the West Quadrant that was definitely not supposed to glow that color.

And yet, now, when the world had finally quieted—when the fighting had settled and peace felt more like a guarantee than a dream—Naruto was left with something he hadn't faced in decades.

Mortality.

Not the dramatic, sword-through-the-heart kind. But the slow one. The one that stole moments. The one that whispered, "You're not infinite."

And for someone who had once held galaxies in his hands, that was a humbling, terrifying truth.

But as he sat there in the quiet of his home, with the world no longer screaming for him, and the children in another room laughing at something he hadn't been part of…

He realized something even more terrifying:

He didn't know how to be just Naruto.

Not the warrior. Not the Hokage. Not the legend.

Just… Dad.

And for the first time in a long while, his body didn't hurt because it was breaking—it hurt because he'd missed so much while trying to hold everything else together.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time to learn how to hold them instead.

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Himawari:

If there was one thing Himawari Uzumaki had always known with absolute certainty, it was that her father—Naruto Uzumaki—was an unstoppable force of nature. Like a golden sun walking among mortals. He laughed easily, smiled often, and bore the weight of nations with a warmth that made you forget the weight even existed. But today, as she lay flat on the training ground with half her face smashed into the earth and her jaw clicking back into place like badly fitted bricks, that image felt terribly far away.

Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her hands trembled like autumn leaves. Her entire body ached in places she didn't know existed.

And yet, she didn't hate him.

"Do you blame me?" came the calm voice—not cruel, but piercing. A voice so painfully still it seemed out of place on this blood-dusted training field.

Naruto stood a few paces away, hands behind his back like a patient professor waiting for an answer on a test everyone else had failed.

"Do you think it was unfair that I put everything before you? Do you hate me?" he asked again, without venom, as if discussing the weather or a slightly disappointing bowl of ramen.

Hima coughed—painful and dry—and sat up shakily, one hand cradling her swollen ribs. Her eyes were glassy with tears, but they held no resentment.

"I don't hate Father," she said, pushing her broken jaw into place with a click that made her flinch. "I believe everything was for all of us."

Oh, the pain was unimaginable. It scorched her nerves, knotted her muscles, and made her heart hammer like a caged bird. Her face was a map of agony, and yet her voice was steady—small, but steady.

This wasn't like any training she'd had before. It wasn't sparring. It wasn't preparation. It was breaking. Like a sword being reforged under unbearable heat. And her father? He was the forge.

"Then why do you think I chose now to stop?" he asked.

Hima swallowed and looked at him, the blur of him sharpening through her tears.

"Because everything is to your satisfaction now," she whispered.

Naruto smiled gently. It was that kind of smile that reached the corners of his eyes and made you forget that he'd just hurled you into the ground like a sack of potatoes.

"Do you think I am irreplaceable to our world?"

"Yes," she answered immediately, without a second thought.

"Do you think it's a good thing?"

This time, she paused. Her lips trembled.

"…No."

"That's my girl," he said, his voice melting into warmth.

In the next breath, he was at her side—arms wrapped around her with a gentleness that made her sob silently. He lifted her with ease and sat her on his lap like she was still five and clumsy, not a future warrior meant to protect entire continents. With hands glowing a soft golden hue, he poured healing chakra into her battered body.

"It's not a good thing," Naruto murmured, stroking her head, "because no one knows when I'll die. And when that happens, the world will go mad. I'm training you all so that you can bear what I no longer can."

He spoke the words with affection, with regret, and a hint of something far older than either—preparation.

"I already have three students who have been with me for a long time," he continued, "and one new one who's shaping up well. They're all brilliant. But you—you and your brother—you're my legacy. And I can't let you lose to them."

He touched her forehead with a glowing fingertip, and she felt knowledge bloom in her mind like spring flowers breaking through snow.

Super Perception – the brain, enhanced threefold, becomes a weapon and shield both.

Power Dispersion – layered barriers that bend force and break impact, flowing like water under command.

"Father…" she breathed, still trembling.

"I will not let you down."

"I know you won't," he said, smiling as he pulled her close, "because you're Uzumaki. Because you're mine. And because I love you more than life itself."

His voice cracked, just a little.

"This training hurts me too, you know. If I could, I'd never lay a hand on you. But glass cannons don't survive wars—and I can't protect you forever. The body remembers pain better than words. And when danger comes, instinct is faster than fear."

He brushed a tear from her cheek, his calloused thumb a soft whisper across her skin.

"You already believe I won't kill you," he chuckled, "so your instincts don't panic. That's why it's harder to make you stronger this way. But you're learning, and you're growing. And I'm proud of you, Himawari."

Hima, exhausted, simply nodded and leaned against his chest.

She didn't understand everything. Not yet. Why did someone as powerful and eternal as her father speak as if the end was near? Why did his voice, so warm, carry the chill of finality?

But she trusted him.

And as she closed her eyes and drifted into deep meditation, she carved his words into her heart like a seal—binding, enduring, and true.

For in her bones now burned a fire not born of fury, but of legacy.

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Nabu:

The wind tickled the treetops and tousled Naruto's hair, making him look every bit the weary demigod lounging atop his own house like a lazy cat after a long day of saving the multiverse. Below, the Uzumaki household hummed quietly—part sacred shrine, part war room, part utterly neglected playroom. A pair of squirrels squabbled over an acorn, unaware that above them sat a man who had once punched a moon.

"Nice to see you again, Nabu," Naruto muttered, the words floating out like half a joke and half a sigh. A golden shimmer lit the air beside him, and there—like a sunbeam given legs and an unreasonable sense of importance—stood Nabu.

"Naruto, my boy!" boomed the ancient sorcerer with all the theatricality of a wizard who knew he was shiny and liked it. "I am delighted you've decided to visit. Are you finally ready to take the mantle from my poor, overstressed partner?"

Naruto tilted his head, as if genuinely considering the offer for the first time. "I'm not interested in becoming even busier. I believe being just shy of a cosmic bureaucrat is enough."

Nabu sniffed, adjusting the edge of his glowing cloak as though he hadn't just been turned down for the 37th time this decade. "With power comes responsibility, young man. Are you finally retiring?"

"No." Naruto's gaze turned steely, and the air between them seemed to pulse with something older than time and sassier than fate. "I'm meant to fight. I'll never rest until it's done… but it doesn't always have to be me doing the fighting."

He stood, stretching like a man far too used to being tired, and looked down at the golden Lord beside him. "I've realized something. When people depend on a single person, they lose their strength. If I died tomorrow, half the planets I've helped would collapse into panic like children who lost their babysitter. That's not peace—it's dependency with prettier wallpaper."

Nabu tilted his head. "And your solution?"

"I'm going to teach." Naruto said it simply, like it was obvious. "There are children in this world—bright ones. Full of sparks, like fireflies before a storm. They just need guidance. I've been through it all. I know what's coming. Let me shape the next generation instead of carrying the world like an overworked pack mule."

Nabu chuckled, which sounded remarkably like thunder deciding to be polite. "I was hoping you'd say that. I've already chosen a candidate—someone linked to an old friend."

"You want me to help your kid?"

"Precisely."

Naruto snorted. "You're a pushy old man. But… if he's got promise, I'll consider it. I don't waste time on mediocrity."

"He won't disappoint," Nabu replied, his golden mask catching the sun just right to look rather smug.

They stood in silence for a moment, the kind that only two impossibly powerful beings can share—where words fade because history, ego, and grudging respect speak louder.

Then Naruto grinned.

"I've consolidated my powers. Let's have a battle."

Nabu's eyes (if he had any under that helmet) gleamed. "Oh? Confident today, are we?"

"I want to test myself," Naruto said, cracking his knuckles. "Against someone real. None of that 'spirit of fear made manifest' nonsense. No clones. No half-baked villains with dad issues. You and me."

Nabu gave a theatrical sigh, but his smile betrayed excitement. "You know, challenging the real form of a Lord of Order borders on cosmic mischief. I should slap you with a universe's worth of paperwork."

"Keep your arrogance to yourself, old man," Naruto said, already lying down and letting sleep take him. "Or I'll drag you down from your throne and make you teach at a public school."

"I think you need another lesson in humility," Nabu murmured, voice fond.

The golden light shimmered again—and Naruto's body fell still, eyes fluttering shut as his mind plunged into the mental world. There, in a space untethered by time or law, two immortals raised their arms, summoned their essence, and prepared to clash like ancient gods playing chess with thunderbolts.

Somewhere far away, the world continued spinning, blissfully unaware that its fate—again—might be decided over tea and a tussle between a cosmic relic and a red-eyed legend who still hadn't learned to take a proper nap.

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Hinata:

It was a rather peculiar afternoon for tattoos, the kind with sunbeams filtering lazily through the paper windows and the scent of sandalwood curling like invisible ribbons through the air. Somewhere outside, birds chirped cheerfully, completely unaware of the solemn hush inside Naruto's personal chamber—a room more accustomed to whispered secrets and the weight of world-shifting decisions than birdsong.

But today, the room hummed with a different kind of magic.

Naruto sat cross-legged with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hand firm yet gentle on Hinata's back, where bare skin shimmered faintly under golden light. In his other hand, he held a shining needle—not your average ink-and-poke contraption, mind you, but a delicate construct of chakra, precision, and centuries-old fuinjutsu knowledge.

"Does it hurt?" he asked softly, voice almost lost in the low music of chimes tinkling from the veranda.

Hinata's lips parted with a breath of pain, her lavender eyes fluttering like the wings of a moth caught in candlelight. "Don't stop. I can do this."

And so he didn't stop.

With the care of a calligrapher and the sorrow of a man branding the person he loved most, Naruto pressed the needle into her skin—so slowly, it was as though time itself were holding its breath. The seal pulsed to life beneath his touch: The Seal of Endurance—a pattern like coiled ivy, curling across the curve of her shoulder blade.

Each stroke was a trial. Each rune, a vow.

He paused every so often—not to rest, for rest was a luxury he'd long stopped affording himself—but to adjust the chakra infusion, to feel the flux of energy through her skin, bones, organs. One wrong pulse and her body might collapse from the overwhelming force.

"Just a bit more," he murmured, kissing the freshly inscribed seal, his breath warm against her back. "We'll go slow."

She had already reached what most called Perfection Stage One—a rare feat among even his elite companions—but Hinata was never one to rest on laurels. She didn't want to be protected anymore. She wanted to protect him. Like Sasuke. Like Toneri. She wanted to stand beside Naruto, not in his shadow.

And so the seals followed, one after another.

Seal of Regeneration. Seal of Mind. Seal of Anti-Evil. Seal of True Samadhi Flames. Seal of Cosmic Transformation.

There were dozens—hundreds, even—etched into every corner of her being. Her skin was a living canvas; her organs, sacred scrolls. He sealed power into her bloodstream like a composer weaving music into silence. Her breath hitched with every press, her fingers digging into the futon beneath her, yet she never once asked him to stop again.

And Naruto, ever the shinobi with the world on his shoulders, smiled a little through the ache in his chest. Not the kind that came from worry—though there was plenty of that—but the kind that came from knowing this woman, this wife, this gentle-hearted storm of courage… was hurting herself for him.

He felt it every second—his own body's rebellion. Millions of invisible needles clawing at his insides as his chakra fought tooth and nail to repair what couldn't be repaired. His molecules were unraveling like frayed rope, stitched together only by willpower and monstrous regenerative abilities. His eyes were always red now—not from rage, but exhaustion. Still, he pressed on.

"I'll make you stronger," he whispered into the soft curve of her shoulder, voice cracking with more than chakra fatigue. "But I wish… I wish you didn't have to be."

Hinata smiled despite the pain, her voice like silk stretched over thorns. "Then let's carry the weight together."

And what could he say to that? Nothing, really. Except kiss her scars and keep carving the future into her flesh.

He was preparing for something—the thing. The step beyond steps. The moment where everything would either work… or he would vanish entirely, leaving behind no soul, no echo, not even a whisper for Death to catch.

And so, in that little room lit by trembling light and courage, Naruto inked love into skin. Not just power—love. A desperate, fervent wish that she might be strong enough to survive without him.

Because time, like tattoos, left marks that never truly faded.