The Second Shinobi War was heaving its dying breaths, with Amegakure having retreated and Sunagakure having suffered the white fang, Konoha was well on its way to claiming complete victory. 

Or at least they would have been. A little birdie had told the elder council of an impending attack from Kumogakure, who had apparently been waiting for the rest of the hidden villages to exhaust their resources before showing their hand. 

Considering the tact of such an idea, it was smooth and simple; an effective tactic while everyone else scattered about like headless poultry. Naturally, with assets stretched thin and shinobi exhausted after 3 years of pointless skirmishes, Konoha’s war office had declared the matter worthy of looking into. The only question being a matter of who would be fast enough, smart enough, to assess the situation from a discrete angle and report back just as swiftly? 

Enter one Namikaze Minato, Konoha’s resident Yellow Flash and nearly the fastest shinobi in the field. He had been given stellar recommendations by Yuuhei Keisuka, the commander of their Kusa outpost for his numerous achievements. It was also rumored that he was quite talented at some odd variation of the shunshin no jutsu, which made him annoyingly deadly on the battlefield. 

For all his talent though, he was certain that he would freeze to death out here in the wilderness. Now-pale digits pulled the cloak tighter around his person at the thought, as blue orbs narrowed against the onslaught of what felt like frost-tipped pinpricks against his vision. Normally, under such circumstances, the blond would use his hiraishin (which was not an odd variation of the shunshin no jutsu, thank you very much) since it allowed him to cover more ground relatively easily; in fact, that was how he had reached the outskirts of Kumogakure in two days to begin with. 

However, most of his reserves had been spent on placing his markers, and since his reconnaissance was meant to be a secretive one, he could afford no chances. The week he had spent on that altitude sickness-inducing nightmare they called the barrack backyard had mostly witnessed him teleporting from one marker to the next; gathering intel with detailed notes - infiltrating their headquarters while they slept, like a kami-forsaken, blond haired ghoul. 

For all his efforts and backtracking, amidst draining his chakra reserves to the point of near exhaustion, Minato had come to one, solid conclusion.

The birdie that had so willfully whispered in the council’s wrinkly ear had clearly been suffering from a concussion. Kumogakure had no plans on entering the war, despite them having picked a bone with Konoha earlier via Uzumaki-napping gone wrong. They were squandering their resources, yes, but for another reason entirely that had nothing to do with their current skirmishes. Minato had the notes (swiped, of course, from under a commander’s upturned nose) to prove it.

Now if only he had the chakra for it too, he grumbled. The near dwindling state of his reserves at present could be attributed to his escape from Kumo’s borders - he couldn’t exactly leave a trace behind, after all. With enough intel to report back (and an outpost in sufficient disarray because they were convinced their corridors were haunted), Minato had simply wanted to put enough distance between him and a potentially explosive powder keg. 

Even if that meant covering some distance via nearly frost-bitten limbs. Cue a grimace as his leg sunk further in the deep snow, the cold nearly gnawing it off from the knee. He had to wait a little while, probably just a bit more before he recovered enough chakra to use the hiraishin with his marked kunai - two dimensional hops would hopefully put him in range of the marker he had placed on a tavern that bordered the forests; a patch of thick green wilderness that lay a little distance from where the ascent to the mountains truly began. 

Cue another crunch of snow which was nearly swallowed by the wind. Gloved digits abandoned his weapons pouch in favor of shielding his eyes from the additional frigid onslaught. At this rate he was going to turn into a blond-sicle and he would have no one to blame but his lack of better judgement. 

Oh, and the elder council - definitely the elder council, came a childish reminder, as blue hues caught a smear of dark green somewhere in his peripheral; it stood in stark contrast to the dull hues swathing the landscape.

Forests were usually green (lets blame a frost-bitten brain for stating the obvious)…mentally trailing off, the chunin felt the beginnings of hope kindle his frozen insides and he flailed through deep snow with increased vigor. It wasn’t until gloved fingers found the brittle ridges characteristic of a Tsuga* bark that he allowed himself to slow down a little; and not until he had made decent headway into the foliage that he allowed himself to pause for breath. 

Trees meant less snow (or more, if he was clumsy enough which, at the moment, seemed like a distinct possibility) and less wind, which inevitably meant better visibility. As thick as they were, they provided ample shelter, with the blizzard too busy running amuck between the heavy branches to pelt him with vision hampering flurries. 

The trees also proved to be an apt backrest because kami, he was tired. The teen exhaled a large puff of breath before pausing behind a particularly sturdy tree; letting his back rest against it with a soft whump that was barely heard over the wind that was basically laying waste to the forest canopy.

Apart from that, it was relatively quiet and surprisingly less hostile. Shadows clung to an overhanging branch here, to the undersides of gnarled roots there…lurking between the trees in a way only nature could manage. His senses told him nary a soul was nearby, and with the paranoia borne of his profession eased off his shoulders, Minato felt his eyes flutter shut for the briefest moment. 

He had been on high alert for so long…letting his head rest back against the trunk, the blond felt exhaustion lull his consciousness into the beginnings of a light slumber. Five minutes…maybe ten? Maybe he could just rest here until his chakra had been replenished enough for him to use the hiraishin without collapsing. Maybe–

“Could you please help me?” The words were soft, barely a whisper in the wind; but to him they were as loud as an explosive seal tag. Blue hues snapped open, and with speed borne of pure instinct, he pulled out a kunai, the deadly three pronged tip pointed at his assailant’s jugular. 

Had he not been as exhausted as he was, said tip would have promptly been buried in an unsuspecting neck without a moment’s notice – but thankfully that wasn’t the case. Startled black hues stared back at him from beneath her wide brimmed kasa*, wrinkled mouth still open from her earlier request. The old lady seemed frail, her weathered hands clinging to a make-shift, gnarled staff as the breeze played around with her long ponytail.

How had he not sensed her? Blue hues narrowed, the kunai point still lingering with deadly accuracy as his heart played a thundering staccato in his ears. Try as he might, he could not pick up on the old lady’s chakra signature - either she was an exceptionally well trained scout or—

“Please” It was more of a statement than a request this time, as her clothed knees shook and she fumbled with the large stick in her hands, “My son…I can’t find him.” There were tears brimming against her beady black hues, “You look like him and I thought…” Trailing off, the old lady choked back a sob as she turned her head to her shoulder to hide her barely repressed tears, frail shoulders quaking with the effort.

Blink. He slowly lowered his kunai, her visage tugging at a stray heart-string he didn’t even know he possessed anymore (thanks to murdering child-scouts on a weekly basis); maybe she was a lost civilian after all? His senses had yet to fail him. Minato spun the kunai to rest snugly against his palm, his index finger acting as an anchor in the metal loop; before taking a step closer to her, still wary - and for all the right reasons, mind you. 

“Summimasen, baa san.” He said, tone just a little warmer than the weather, “But you shouldn’t be out here, in this blizzard.”

The old woman nodded in response, rubbing her face against her sleeve before raising her head to meet his guarded expression, “My son…I just want to find him. You understand?” Of course he didn’t “But the storm and…I…I can’t find him” she flailed, “Since you’re going down…can you help an old lady a little way?” Dark hues stared at him in earnest; hopeful, yet somewhat hesitant.

Minato paused; as heartless as it seemed to simply abandon her right there and then, he was rather inclined to do so - regardless of Kumo’s stance, they were still in the midst of war and his face had recently graced the pages of every bounty scroll in the continent. 

But there was something about her predicament that nagged at his conscience - also, he had probably scared her halfway to the afterlife earlier. With a short nod, he found himself extending an arm to her as additional support before he was even aware of it; only realizing the gesture once thin, spidery fingers grasped his forearm in a frigid, vice like grip. The old lady had shifted most of her weight on him, and he supposed that was understandable since she could barely hold on to the rotting branch anyways. Said branch had undoubtedly been picked from the base of the many Tsuga trees that littered the forest. 

And so they walked - lumbered, in the old lady’s case - for an indefinite period of time. Minato lost track after the second time they passed a familiar tree; the sole indication of their direction based on the downward slope of the forest floor. His companion was surprisingly quiet through the trek, sans the heaving breaths that would emanate from her person. 

If she was still worried for her son, she wasn’t as keen on showing it. Blond brows furrowed at the thought before it was filed away for later; his chakra was nearly at a point where he could teleport with a fraction to spare, and with somewhat replenished reserves, he was more aware of the faint chakra of living matter buzzing about the forest. It was noisier than natural energy, which flowed more like a constant stream; though what bothered him was the fact that the old lady emanated neither.

Maybe it was because he wasn’t as adept at sensing natural energy yet? Regardless, if he was going to use the hiraishin soon, they would need to part ways – though maybe he could bring her along? The woman was clearly no threat to his person, and maybe the tavern owner could help her locate her son?

Cue a tightening of thin fingers, as if she had heard his thoughts. Minato paused mid-trudge, blue hues trying to locate dark counterparts from the shadow of her picker’s hat, “Obaa san, there’s a small tavern dow—”

“Iie” The wind had gotten eerily quiet; a mere treble against the sharp whisper. The icy grip on his wrist curled tighter, as if to break the appendage between spidery digits. Try as he might, he couldn’t tug it away, instead, her nails painfully burrowed holes in the underside of his wrist. 

With a barely withheld grimace, the Namikaze mumbled an apology, while summoning some of his chakra to the other palm before striking the woman squarely in the chest; a controlled gust of wind - usually strong enough to send a grown shinobi flying - erupting from his hand. 

It barely disturbed her kasa “You promised” her voice was hollow, almost an echo from a great unseeing void. Ravenous inky tendrils flowed like a gushing torrent from beneath her hat, wrapping tightly around his midsection and slowly snaking upwards; frost tipped points numbing flesh as they did. 

By the shodai’s eyebrows— Minato almost swore, before he dangerously flicked the kunai from his caught hand, the steel points doing little to hamper her grip on his wrist. The woman cocked her head to the side, before empty hues found his near panicking ones, causing him to freeze mid-struggle. 

Gone was the friendly face; the crow’s feet, wrinkled mouth and the sagging skin. Instead, there was rotten flesh, with maggots peeking from empty sockets that sat snug between layers of decaying, mottled crimson; no doubt decomposing muscle. A strip of flesh hung loosely from one cheek bone as her gaping maw opened wide, barely strung together by fleshy ribbons.

“You promised”

Move, Namikaze – this is a genjutsu. It has to be a genjutsu – but even amidst his panicked thoughts, he couldn’t move a single muscle. The hair had him constricted to the point of suffocation; he could barely concentrate on gathering his chakra together. 

Move, Namikaze! The inky tendrils caressed his cheek now, deceptively gentle as the marred face came closer. Minato felt the breath escape his lungs as bony fingers inched towards his eyes. Quivering digits barely managed to flick the kunai in his hand uselessly behind the apparition.

Move! He was a gray blur at the faintest prick to his cheek. His form disappeared from between writhing strands; only to appear behind her. Blue hues barely registered the inky tendrils in his peripheral before he summoned every last bit of chakra and flickered to his last marked signature—

—And promptly crashed into a table full of delicate china; complete with ink sticks, empty brass scroll holders and rolls of parchment. Spots danced across his vision, as his eyes strained to accustom to the suddenly new, darker environment. Breathing heavily, the blond chunin barely managed to pull himself out of the splintered wood and broken ceramic; quivering knees and fingers resting heavily against the aged tatami. 

The room tilted sideways, and Minato was sure he would have tilted with it had it not been for a squeak that prompted his gaze.

“W-Who?” An old man was huddled away from him, clutching a short tanto blade to his chest as if the presence of the weapon alone would ward off danger. Blue hues blinked dully at it before flickering to the dim lamp light reflecting off the man’s pale scalp.

Thank kami he was bald. Cue a faint, watery grin before chakra exhaustion took its toll and he dropped to the side like a sack of daikon - just as the man let out a particularly high pitched shriek. 

Needless to say, by the time he got back to Konoha, he was considerably poorer than when he had left.

Namikaze Minato didn’t - wouldn’t believe in ghosts. Kato Dan had once explained the idea behind the stereotypical ‘specter’, as the image, once popularized by veteran war narratives, would be enough to build a reputation. Dan had relied on that image, since not only did it compliment his famed Spirit Transformation technique, but there was no weapon more feared than a reputable shinobi. 

As Yondaime, Minato had all that and more - for a man on the pinnacle of his career, he couldn’t afford to give in to idle fancies.

Even though at times, during the frostiest winter nights, he felt the familiar touch of spidery digits curling tightly over his wrist; a forgotten name a mere whisper in the wind.