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After the Fourth Great Shinobi World War ended, the world was experiencing a time of peace. The villages for once were able to live in relative harmony with one another as they rebuilt, and for once, all seemed to be well. The kage were able to live peaceful lives and soon began retiring, passing on the baton to the next generations. That is until an unknown virus infects the northern coast. The first to fall is the once powerful Raikage, Ay. While many thought this virus was a simple mutation of what may have well been the flu, no one would ever think of the destruction it would cause. Especially when it infected a certain Uzumaki Naruto.
With his death came the malice; with the malice came the destruction; with the destruction came the shinobi' revolt; and with the revolt came the sacrifices. The Bijuu became filled with malice that they sought to destroy the world. Shinobi sought a way to fight them and once again capture each of the Bijuu. Time passed, and a plan was devised. The Jinchuuriki would be sacrificed for the greater good of the world, and with the deaths of nine individuals, an uneasy peace began.
As time continued, the villages began to truly restructure. In a peace that would last 80 years after the downfall of the Bijuu, the world would see the creation of a great many things. Technology was beginning to take root and before long the blossoms that grew from the tree of the advanced mind would bear fruit. A many great things came to be. A railroad between the vast many nations. Mechanical limbs to replace lost ones. Radios that could reach between villages. Everything seemed to be becoming less reliant on the shinobi. Only the need for them never truly vanished. As with the growth of time, also continued the growth of malice.
Post by Kurosaki Seiya on Dec 15, 2014 2:22:24 GMT
how it began
There is much I've never really been able to tell you, you who I told things I shared with no one else. The chance to tell you may very well be gone, but that is perhaps why I feel I'm able to speak freely. If you can even call this “speaking.”
I don't remember very much from my early childhood. Never had parents, merely ghosts of memories concerning a warm building with smiling faces and friends that I would sing together with. The “orphanage,” where all of us had come from, on the same day. After my sixth year, men came. They were shinobi wearing the mark of Amegakure. It had been night, I remember, because it was dark, dark in a place that normally held such light and warmth.
There were threats and yelling and fear. Even the adults cried, and there was the smell of blood; a smell I learned I would become familiar with over time. I was not a shinobi, and neither were any of the other children in this civilian hospice. For the next year, meals became tight, smaller, less delicious. Some nights the adults went hungry, thinking we wouldn't know. Children are smarter than they're given credit for. Repairs on broken items weren't being made, it was fascinating how in only a year an establishment could fall into such a state of disrepair. Looking back, it made more sense that it was them that had been doing it.
During my seventh year the men came again, dissatisfied with whatever they were trying to leech from the caretakers of the orphanage. There was fear again, but this time, when the adults fell, they did not get up. They just bled. People were dying this time. I had run away to the playground and hidden under a dome, hoping not to be found under the heavy rainfall.
Once the staff had been slaughtered, the children had all been rounded up and taken out into the terrible rainstorm that blotted out the sounds of the disaster, led into the sewers underneath the village, the income of water making the dirty waters flow rapidly. We'd all been taken to a chamber with our hands bound behind our backs, then forced to sit on our knees in a large circle while a trio of men paced around, observing all of us. Some of us were touched, some hit, some merely spoken to and some, like me, ignored completely.
Afterward a man with a strange weapon that had a needle sticking out came around, sticking it into some of our faces. When it was my turn, it hurt like an itching burn, but I was held still so that he could finish, just like the others that had been marked. In total, twenty five out of thirty seven had been marked. Immediately afterward, I'd learned what that meant. Well, somewhat, at least.
The order given had been “Kill them.” A non-shinobi child had no concept of death, so most of us weren't as scared as we should have been. Not until the first child was slain. Then, panic. One of them did something, I still couldn't tell you what, that made all of us incapable of moving, only able to watch helplessly. A boy who sat beside me, whose name I can't even remember, had been my very best friend. I watched a blade slice through his belly and throat, and his insides pour onto the floor, so many things I didn't know existed within the belly of someone. The sight was the same around the room, and twelve unmarked children lay slaughtered in unrecognizable piles on the floor. If they were trying to scare the remainders, it had most certainly worked.
Once it was done, we were freed, but left in the room. Unless we wanted to end up like our friends, we needed to clean up the mess left behind, the stench of gore, urine, and vomit suffocating. If that had to be the worst we had to do, I'd still gladly wade up to my knees in the blood of my fallen than go through what had followed again.
