When one became two

Kutari's eyes flicker open, only to be met with the dim light of dawn that fills the alleyway of Tsukigakure, seeping from the narrow confines. The complex, cold ground does nothing to offer comfort as he stirs, and every move he makes sends an echo of pain through his head, a constant throbbing reminder of the night before. The taste of alcohol that lingers on his tongue is a harsh and bitter reminder of the excess he barely remembers from the previous night. Now, as he lies here with a brutal hangover, he can only curse his poor decisions. He groans and tries to push himself to sit up but finds the world around him swaying in an unnatural, disgusting dance. His head pounds with every beat of his heart, Sir relentless and unforgiving that it could only be counting the seconds until it could stop torturing him. The feeling of being under the influence that once comforted him is long gone, replaced by a harsh reality check that leaves him vulnerable.

The alleyway, a cramped passageway between two buildings, is filled with the refuse of the village's daily life. Papers and broken bits and the occasional splash of unidentifiable liquid fill the floor, far from the symbol of beauty and serenity that Tsukigakure is. And yet, here he is, feeling more squalid and miserable than he ever has before. He struggles to his feet and leans against the wall for support, the sharp stones digging into his skin. He is still wearing his clothes from the night before and probably the night before, which have become messy and ruffled after a night on hard, filthy ground. Kutari struggles to remember how he got here, memories of laughter, whiskey burning in his throat, and nothing. The village seems a world apart from the alley where he finds himself, but it is somewhere to escape. He takes a deep, shuddering breath of the fresher morning air, and it does nothing to chase away the pounding in his head, but it is more than that.

He finds himself with the energy to move forward, mostly physically but in a more figurative sense. Taking ginger steps toward the street, he sees the familiar street beginning to stir, but it all seems a blur. The sun's first light touches his face as he emerges from the alley, and he can't help but smile. The village looks proper in the blue, cold light of the sun. It is a beautiful place, but Kutari hardly appreciates it now. The lovely moments of his journey across lands feel so distant. His low moment is complete. The fear of hangover reminds him of what he did to get to this point. However, his spirit is only reinvigorated. He is not yet prepared to make amends in his life. He still feels that wanderlust and desire to keep living the life he leads, no matter the pain that may be shooting in his head. He can't quite bring himself to do anything different with it.

The scant shelter of the alleyway falls away from him, and Kutari is suddenly ravaged by an empty, hollow sensation in his gut. It might have been below his notice until now merely because of the more notable distress that engaged his body, demanding his immediate attention. Unsteadily, his pained limbs force him to move out of the alley and through the whispered serenity of Tsukigakure. Each step towards the village better will restore that superficial veneer of normality that pillows all the terrible events he has suffered. As he navigates the unwavering construction of Tsukigakure, Kutari is inundated with the tastes, sounds, and visions of tiny village life. The morning air from the outlying merchant's shop catches his nostrils, and he holds his tongue with the opposite songs of early risers still listening and dying the air. The little villager is simple and serene, almost sedate in his harmony with nature. Effectively, he notices the aroma of a good meal from the next alleyway and his guide as much as the actual direction. He strides to contact at the front door of a modest eatery, watching the fogged window, the distinct scintillating silence, and the steam rising from the sill. Feelings of satisfaction and fatigue heat his insides as he pushes on the doorway and enters. It is a tiny restaurant with warm and cozy decor. It is filled with different styles of moon-related decorations and knick-knacks.

Kutari approaches the counter and is greeted there by the owner, whose face has been marked by many smiles. They gently inquire about Kutari's chosen meal before suggesting a traditional breakfast that is both nourishing and hearty, the ideal breakfast for one who has partied until later in the morning. In response, he nods and accepts their advice, sitting at a small table by the window. Kutari realized that he must have looked just about as bad as he felt when the waitress seemed to know what to offer him. The meal is service. He had a moment to sit and drink the village in the simple and orderly routines of the villagers as they go about their daily tasks, the early morning play of light and shadow across the landscape as the sun rises higher. It is a small moment of peace, a chance to orient himself in the present and find joy in the journey to Tsukigakure, a destination he hadn't believed he would have stayed for this long. When the meal arrives, he finds himself presented with more food than he might be able to eat in one sitting, but the presentation – the scent, the colors, the textures – is so inviting that he can hardly wait to begin eating. The first bite is almost a religious experience: the taste, the aroma, the love infused into the food preparation. With each bite, he feels a little of his strength return, and the food is nourishing and comforting. Eating this meal in this restaurant amidst the bustle of Tsukigakure's morning, he feels more like he can stay within the village's safety, at least for now.

Kutari feels something shift inside him when he finishes his meal. The remnants of his hangover, the lingering unease at waking up in a strange place, all begin to subside ever so slightly. There was something about the restaurant. The way the owner talked to him and the food was made, it was as though the last threads connecting him to drunkenness had finally snapped. He thanked the owner for his meal and began to leave the establishment with a new sense of understanding thanks to the nourishment he had received. There was an unspoken agreement that music, adventure, and food were forms of healing, drawing people together. When he left the restaurant, the streets seemed a little less dim. Tsukigakure was less vacant, and it didn't seem like such a chore to face the day anymore. The boy had eaten, and like all other travelers, he'd be stronger for it.

He finds himself in the heart of the vibrant market district of Tsukigakure, where the air is alive with the hum of commerce and conversation. Kutari's curiosity carries him through a labyrinth of shops and stalls. At the market, every stall's colors and smells are a whirlwind of mundane and exotic, a testament to the cultural melting pot of the market and the broader village beyond it. Here, in the heart of the marketplace, Kutari is drawn to a curious shop that lies off the beaten path. With its shadows casting a gloomy interior filled to the brim with bottles, jars, and oddities, the shopkeeper sends riddles, and whispers of mysteries and wonders fill the air alongside a knowing smile. Smitten, Kutari approaches the enigmatic merchant. The man produces an ornate box as if putting on a show; rows of peculiar pills are inside. "These are no ordinary pills!" he booms. "Only the wise may use them; only they may glean the secrets I have spilled upon this world." Though such boasts are no stranger to a marketplace, Kutari has heard his share of tall tales meant to lure the unsuspecting, the promise of wisdom and the thrill of the strange captivate him.

Despite the apparent exaggeration, Kutari's adventurous spirit and aversion to mundane things have him biting into the merchant's tale. To him, the wares are merely a curiosity, an exercise in exploring the world and his mind's boundaries. Without much hesitation, more out of surprise at his sudden decision to try something new than any real expectation of enlightenment, Kutari hands over some Ryo in exchange for the box. As the transaction completes and the merchant's smile broadens, a look of satisfaction and amusement, Kutari already imagines what the experience may bring – a mystery waiting to unravel. Leaving the shop with his treasure safely tucked away, Kutari feels joy and doubt. The market again feels alive, every stall and passerby a mystery waiting to be uncovered. The pills, whether they genuinely hide a secret to wisdom or just a distraction, are a warm-up for the future – a reminder of his firm commitment to unearthing the world in its many colors. The likelihood that the pills, whatever they are, will reveal to him the mysteries of the world is slim – for Kutari knows that the wisdom of this world, even when unlocked with the aid of substances similar to the pills he was just sold, requires navigation, experience, and reflection. But at this moment, the opportunity to behold the unknown is adventure enough for him – another strand in the quilt of his time thus far.

After he leaves the shop with the seemingly enlightening pills, a proposition he interprets as an invitation to try a new, potentially exciting drug, Kutari continues his journey through the winding alleys and pathways of Tsukigakure's market district. The energy of the bustling space and its decadent array of offerings call to him, and the young man wanders more profoundly into the beating heart of the village's commerce and culture. Weaving a path between the flowing dresses, vibrant colors, swirling scents, and sporadic shouts of merchants and shoppers, Kutari is struck by the sight of a somewhat familiar figure. Recognition comes gradually, memories of a night of intention and eager escape forming under his skull. The person before him is the drug trader he had bartered with on the evening he attempted to take out Jun. That night, he had expected excitement, a detour from the everyday poverty and simple subsistence life. Today, the trader is standing quietly on the far edge of the market, giving Kutari a subtle nod of acknowledgment. Their previous exchange had been simple, a piece of the tumultuous night of fantasy that remains untold and unrecorded. Today, in the restful sun of the market day, the exchange feels different. Unspoken allegiances have formed, and mutual confessions have been made. Without a word, Kutari approaches the dealer. The transaction is easy. The familiarity of the occasion is striking; it is the portrait of the life he has lived, one of encounters and travels and occasional excursions to this vibrant life's dark edges.

The bag of mushrooms hastily and stealthily passes from the dealer to Kutari. In the young Uchiha's eyes, the mushrooms are not just another thrill or novelty to pursue – they are a collection of moments that intertwine into his journey, a set of keys to unopened doors and untaken paths and neural firings that only barely exist beyond the border of the known. The bag quickly disappears into Kutari's pocket when the transaction is done, and the dealer and his buyer exchange a wordless goodbye. The man's name is not offered, and Kutari's own is not necessary; they have met within a single-thread tapestry that tells the story of the youth's travels, and just as quickly as it began, the thread is severed. Although the market remains slightly less busy once Kutari has parted ways from the dealer, for him, it holds another facet of the experience of Tsukigakure, another piece of the realm's story to tell. With its exhilarating hustle and perceptive gaps, the market district gives Kutari a vision of how items and knowledge are bought and sold into his complex wants, the subtleties of intelligence and foolishness, and the pursuit of ideas that broaden boundaries. Before he is done exploring the last areas of the market, Kutari is already storing ideas for the lessons these experiences might bring, the sophistication of their causes, and the ideas they might provoke. In its unique way of blending the familiar and the unknowable, Tsukigakure has become the vessel of Kutari's ongoing evolution, where the mold of the past fuses with the molten of the future in the blazing hearth of the present.

Once the bag of mushrooms is safely tucked in his pocket again, and the entirety of its purchase is irrevocably rooted in the background of his journey through the village, Kutari resumes his wander through the mysterious domain of Tsukigakure. The separation between the ancient and the unknown defines each passing moment and offers the promise of unfolding events, a narrative the young wanderer longs to unravel. The hustle and bustle of the village's residents irresistibly draw Kutari closer, and another marketplace encounter unfolds before him. Various local foods and crafts surround him until, among all other wares, a few translucent bottles of shimmering dark liquid catch his eye. A short while later, Kutari exits the marketplace with a newly acquired bottle of strong alcohol. It will become his constant companion in the tales of today, another character in an evolving story. The day's narrative brings Kutari towards the village's training grounds, where the tradition of practices passed down through generations of martial discipline manifests in the swift and energetic movements of those who train there. It is a sharp juxtaposition between those with purpose and hopes in their actions and the young man whose present is defined by the arbitrary influence of intoxication.

As Kutari approaches the training grounds, he pauses, using the sounds of training as the soundtrack to his reflection. The surrounding mushrooms, the ambiguity of the pills intended to open his mind, and the alcohol in his hands evoke the same image of a day spent at the mercy of introspection, discovery, and perhaps a kind of revelation. He feels he has reached a turning point – one part of him leans toward self-discipline and enlightenment, mirroring the appearance of those who dedicate their lives to it. The other side, however, screams for oblivion, for the seemingly randomness of his chosen substances and the various forms of revelations, which are profoundly nonsensical, that it forces into his mind. Kutari has a plan for the day ahead of him, but he is unsure of how to balance the call for inner realization against the call of any external experience. Mushrooms and pills promise a strange journey into the depths of his mind and do not follow the path he has already explored. Alcohol is a more familiar choice – it offers to make things go away, to blur the edges of his reality for a while, and to let him exist without a care in the world. Kutari stands at the border of the training field, facing the alien abyss of alcohol and his sacrament. Today will be a voyage, no matter where his legs carry him.

Taking a deep breath, he feels his mind weighing the options. He turns his body away from the training grounds, staring out into the depths of the unknown with little but a flashlight of understanding and an entire world of regret surrounding his psyche. He doesn't know which would be the right choice; he has never dabbled in such a thing as right and wrong. He knows what choice would bring the most pleasure to him at the moment, the thing that he had always been the type to focus on. But what truly brings one to the level of introspection required to make a choice in life that causes the mind to change its nature? What would genuinely need to happen to this young man to change the ways that he has had for as long as he can honestly remember? There was so little in the world that he cared about; the only thing that he had was taken from him so long ago, leaving him with nothing more than a harmonica and a mind full of memories to keep him company truly. So why wouldn't he instead choose to surround himself with alcohol and drugs when they seemed to provide such better comfort than the thoughts of a life that could have been lived if it wasn't for the horrid world that they found themselves in?

He stands at a crossroads with so much in the balance within his mind. The two options that stand before him beckon him so equally that he doesn't quite know what to do with the power he has within his own body to choose. Between Indulgence and the pursuit of something more significant, the weight of the past and the possibilities of his future press heavily and continuously upon him. The idea of becoming something greater has always lurked within the deepest recesses of his mind and soul. The knowledge of his parents desiring something far more significant for their child, something that he never seemed to get a grip on himself. He always felt like a simple creature with simple desires to live within the world that had taken so much from him and his family, set all that he needed, and be the simplicity that he wished to see within the world. But still, their desires for him did affect his desires in life. The constant calling of his father's lessons when he was younger, the sweet words of his mother during the worst of the drug-induced trips that brought him such ruin.

Kutari's mind stood at the precipice: he looked over it and saw the horizon, where the lines between action and consequence melt into an infinite mess of possibility. Behind him, the path laid on the training grounds waits for his attention: discipline makes way for the pursuit of instant satisfaction. On the other side of the precipice lay not just fleeting pleasure but true transformation; for now, the burden of choice weighed on him heavily, and tension survived between the dream of instant gratification and the yearning for something meaningful. This bank of memories flooded his mind, a weighted dance of everything lost: the loss of his parents and the void it left; the only thread joining him to his past, the harmonica, and the weight of the memories it bore, both sweet and revolting—the loneliness of travel. Kutari saw in his mind's eye what had been, the shadow cast by what could have been and was no more. His living heart froze, looking into the past and into the nothing that remained. He looked down at his hands and saw the gases of his pain and longing. He saw the solution before him: the honest smile that promised to rid his life of pain and turn endings into new beginnings. Kutari found himself lost in a world of nothingness. He saw himself listening to the intoxicating lullaby of spiraling memories and what might appetite. Pain called out to emptiness, promising to fill the void if only for a brief moment. He took a single, deep breath, heedless of the world. He let himself sink into the hole his mind had become. Drunken memories amassed and swirled into view as he allowed the darkness to consume him.

He begins with the mushrooms, their psychedelic properties opening a path into the realms beyond. With every bite, Kutari raises himself further away from the concrete reality, passively succumbing to the winds of an indecisive consciousness as it begins to melt, revealing itself anew in the arms of the drug. Then comes the alcohol, the liquid courage that has been a familiar companion for more nights than Kutari can remember. The burn in his throat and chest is all too common, the sensation of warmth spreading through his body, softening the edges of his awareness and effortlessly blending with the already burning mushrooms. Finally, he pops the pills, the mythical bringers of wisdom, driven by an irrational need to know. What wisdom it is that Kutari is supposed to gain, he no longer knows, swallowed by the high tide of intoxication threatening to erode the last remnants of his awareness. Kutari gets lost in a vortex of colors and thoughts as the substances take over. The world outside becomes a mirage, twisting and reshaping; the sounds and colors go up and down, becoming almost unrecognizable. His mind, once a fortress of memories and thought, becomes the realm of the drug, where each image painted erases itself to make way for the next stroke. In that high state, Kutari encounters himself – the pain, the loss, the eternal quest for something to fill the emptiness. Rather than diminish these feelings, the drugs bring them to life, pulling Kutari through the whirlwind of a painful reflection. He sees himself, his actions, and the possible ways to change not through the prism of right and wrong but through the prism of experiences that have shaped him to this moment.

What happens next on Kutari's journey, as the mushrooms, alcohol, and pills all work in combination, is an escalation into the unknown. It is a place not simply in the psychedelic dreamscape of his mind but further into understanding one's self. Kutari is swept up, fighting and searching for more precise meaning among the tumult of his orientated introspection. He looks for the moment of insight that will lead away from his predestined fall or perhaps to redemption – or, more likely, to a new sense of the world and his place in it. As the mushrooms, alcohol, and even the pills all envelop him, he drifts further. He leaves behind the actual world in favor of the dream one created in the ether of his mind. He may find the answer to his questions — or more questions. This voyage is his own. He is alone as he explores.

Trapped within the grip of the substances that warp the fabric of reality and weave it into a tapestry of dreams and nightmares, Kutari slid down into a world that bore no resemblance to the physical. The mushrooms, the warmth of the alcohol in his veins, the unknown pills that promised vast knowledge – every intoxicant hurled him inwards, deeper and deeper into his psyche. And reality warped around him. He could smell burning wood in the air, mixed with something solid that he could not grasp. The smell was a childhood interwoven with despair and loss. Its presence heralded the beginning of the vision that was a memory, a dream that reappeared at the time of his demise—below the screams of his family. The smell was his childhood home burning to the ground and the screams of his family. The transport was complete. The fire incense pricked at his nose, and the image unfolded before him – justified by its clarity, though it came from his mind. The sight of flames consuming his caravan, the smell of smoke and burnt flesh, and the figures of his family… forever frozen in time. The vision rendered him immobile, and he could not afford to look away. Throughout his vision, the night repeated itself in excruciating detail. Each second was etched and scored into his memory as an instrument of vengeance. The helplessness, despair, and futility of his efforts to find any escape were as potent now as it was then. He was trapped in the dream by the mushroom's phantasmal allure, doomed to relive the night that came for his family.

In this dreamscape, where the past and the present have been mixed, Kutari confronts his pain once more. It is a drug-induced hallucination that enhances his bitterness and reluctance to remember. However, this is the exact replication of the moment when his past was created. At the same time, it is a moment of self-understanding. All the sinful things he had already denied were still there – and their influence on him was immense. The burning wood, the screams, feelings of frustration, and helplessness are not just memories; they are life's fragility that shaped and ruined him. For him, the journey through his twisted memory is a crucible. Now, he reflects profoundly on his chosen path and who he became after the greatest pain one can imagine. As the vision vanishes, Kutari finds himself again alone – with what he had just observed. The drugs and the alcohol that had promised him an escape and clarity, instead, had led to the confrontation himself – he has no other choice but to face the reality of his decisions as well as the pain he carries with him. He is in a new dream world, where reality and delusion are indistinguishable, and he confronts his inner struggle once more – the search for comfort or at least meaning in an unforgiving world. Though harrowing, these events demonstrate room for healing and understanding, enabling one to consider the extent to which the past defines the future.

He can't get out of it — caught in the relentless grip of his drug-induced bender, Kutari is trapped in a cycle of memory and pain. The night the bandits took his family, replaying before his eyes repeatedly, sharper and more vivid with each iteration. It's never enough, never over; only the looping nightmare of fire, screams, and loss that has colored so much of his existence. The substances he drank, seeking a fleeting reprieve or a glimpse of enlightenment, have become his tormentors, forcing him again and again to confront his darkest hour. The mushrooms, the alcohol, the mysterious pills — each one a piece of a puzzle that has pulled him back into a waking hell of reminders. The smell of burning wood, suffocating, was his constant companion, filling his nose and coating his throat. It had seeped into his clothes, skin, and hair until he was walking in the scent of a life consumed by flames. The screams, those ceaseless, desperate howls of the ones he loved, shook him to his core. As he stumbled through the dark, he heard them, the keys jingling on the ring in his hands. Every time the memory repeats, his agony redoubles. His heart pounds, his breath comes in sharp, panicked gulps, and his hands shake as he mimics the physical anguish. The helplessness of that night returns full force, wrapping him in its cold embrace and imprisoning him in despair and sorrow.

There is no relief in this experience, no secret truths or flashes of awakening. More than mere gateways to the new and unreal, the drugs have busted open a cell and forced him to reckon with his pain. The visions he sees offer no forgiveness, no atonement; they are an unending siege on his mind, a trial that appears to have no end and no end in sight. Trapped in his body, in his life, Kutari is abandoned with his suffering. The bright and red Tsukigakure, the rushing den of merchants and martial performers where an entire world uncloses itself to him is too cruelly ignored, out of focus, and overwhelmed. This was no trial by fire, no polishing of his injuries; it was just a trip down a dim corridor into the very audacity of his soul. Here, in the bottomless pit of his anguish, there is no opportunity for beauty, no possibility of development or renaissance; he has done nothing more than drag down his spiritual veins, and there is no salvage or release. As the past loops on and then on, Kutari's ongoing torment is a grim dismissal of the dangers of searching for shelter in the void, of attempting to free himself from the past without ensuring that he has experienced it. The pain and anguish he precipitates is a loud testament to the infection of unsteady wear and tell, a rule of the fetters that bind him to a single flash of time that he could not rectify but must re-inhabit indefinitely.

Within the very depth of Kutari's agony, trapped in the endless reenactment of a traumatic experience, a jarring anomaly emerges to slash through the eternal repetition of misery. An unrecognizable yet soothing voice saturates the expanse of his mind, perhaps possessing it. Riddled with reason and purpose, this voice is nothing like the choking echoes of memory. Instead, it is a beacon of reason, a voice of guidance amidst the chaos. In the unfathomable emptiness of the terrible pain of remembrance, a man steps onto the torn battlefield of destruction and death. The man is nothing like the shattered, disarrayed Kutari but his older self, a visage of dignity and determination etched by the ravages of time and memory. In silence, the older self extends his hand, draws Kutari to his feet, and traps his frozen hand in his grip. The clutch is firm, and the lifeline is sure. As imagined as the intoxicated memories of medication see the sensation, the clutch feels honest, possessed, and owned. The touch brands him with the unforgettable grip of hope, a future possibility, and potential. The Older Kutari stands by, unaging, unattempted, and unchanging, as the cycle shatters. He takes Kutari by the hand, and they walk away, silences exchanged in whispers, grown quiet to the echo of fleeing horses. His voice carries through his mind as he speaks, "You miserable child. You have merely thrown your life away with so little to show. You are a member of the greatest clan on this planet, and yet you shrivel up and die like a miserable rodent? Come. You shall no longer live this life of ruin. Instead, you will become the pinnacle of the clan you hail from. Follow the child."

This exchange takes place in the depths of Kutari's mind, a dreamlike and fantastical exchange that represents nothing more than his longing for comfort, absolution, and the fortitude to overcome a tumultuous past. The older Kutari seen here, a living projection of Kutari's mind, symbolizes growth and rebirth, the man who can emerge on the other side of a lifetime of trials and come out tempered and resilient. No more words pass between the two, and the weighty depth of communication between them implies more than any words could hope to. It is an affirmation, more than anything, a reminder to Kutari that he might one day have the strength to empower himself, to extricate himself from the tarry residue of his trauma. When the older Kutari guides Kutari away from his darkest nightmare, it is his first time away from otherworldly attrition. It is a fleeting moment that brings power to what will prove to be an otherwise futile exercise. It is a stark reminder that the paths that their lives will take are not predetermined. Every struggle that can make him is pitted against each day, and with each of those struggles comes the opportunity to become the man the older Kutari represents. The vision fades, easily forgotten, but lingers in the back of Kutari's mind as he struggles to come to terms with what he has just seen. It is a reminder, a ghostly reflection of the man he might one day become, provided he can reconcile himself with his suffering and emerge through the other side as one touched by age and strength. The moment before his suicide would be the only reminder of hope he possesses, the ethereal mirror of aspiration that would call him back to it once he faced the hell of his struggle.

Coming up from the abyss of his drug-induced hallucination, Kutari awakens with a sense of disorientation far more profound than any that remained after consuming the sickly sweet mushrooms. The horrifying loop of his family's downfall, enfolding him in unending torment and dashed hope, shatters as an alien figure steps into the center of his perception. It is a voice – the semblance of an older version of himself – that shatters the chewed remains of his soul and takes him away from the site of his torment. As the vision vanishes, Kutari is left reeling in a reality that is both foreign and not new at the same time. He is changed; an observer could look at him and see clearly that he has gained height and that his hair falls down his chest in waves, but it is still his hair. The sensation is alien and somehow ingrained, a reminder of the even more significant change that has occurred on the level of the psyche. The memories that once were central to Kutari's understanding of his identity seem shrouded. The man has been separated from the sense of his existence, a shell of a person left with only a semblance of self-awareness residing within. The feeling of being a viewer inside his body, experiencing life rather than simply living it, is new.

The effects of the mushrooms, the alcohol, the mysterious pills – all of them seem to have evaporated from his body, and the physical discomfort and mental fog start to recede. His mind feels strangely clear and sharp – alien, yet completely natural. This newfound clarity is accompanied by a small trickle of blood near his eyes – a small yet palpable reminder that a profound change had occurred inside Kutari. While insignificant in the grand scheme of what had just happened to him, this detail fastens him to the reality of what had been. Kutari is left alone, overwhelmed by the scope of his transformation. The world that he hails from – the village of Tsukigakure, the daily routines, and familiar landscapes – feels incredibly distant from the self-discovery journey he just completed. He delved deep into his darkest memories while guided by his older self's voice and presence. The very core of his being has been irrevocably altered. Kutari is reborn and does not know what to expect from his new life. His memories took the shape of an anchor, pulling him back into the pain and suffering that allowed him to be reborn. Now, they are floating outside his reach, and their influence is waning. Kutari is facing an impossible challenge – to walk the same unchanging world while changing in ways he can only begin to understand.

Cut down at regular intervals as he ventures into this new section of his reality, Kutari is aware of the double nature of his circumstances. The physical and psychological changes that occur after some time signal a conclusion, just as they do at another start. He cannot tell what his tomorrow resembles for him. And he has yet to learn who he is and what he plans to do. This is the strange new truth that he must encounter. He should find another unrest of connections in this warped and changed state. This "new and improved" person can interface and investigate this reality: the unplumbed territories of another inner self.

But it is then that he realizes that he isn't the one controlling the very body that he once resided within. This new body is accompanied by its mind, its own controller. He begins to hear his voice speak out in the real world, but it is nothing like what he sounds like; it is almost like a new voice was granted to this body. "Ahhh. It seems I have finally been brought to the front, to the light. Well, now things have just gotten quite interesting." The younger Kutari heard a man's voice coming from his own body, but he wasn't the one to speak. He doesn't know what this means, but now he realizes that he is merely a passenger in his own body.

WC: 6021
TWC: 6021
EXIT

Claims:
Face Claim change from aging pills to Madara Uchiha

WC Claims:
+6000 words towards Mangekyo Sharingan (Complete)
MAx stat discount applied