The village died before it knew it was under attack.
It began with the sky.
Clouds twisted unnaturally above the rooftops, folding into themselves like bruised flesh. Thunder rolled without rain, deep and slow, as if the heavens were clearing their throat.
Then lightning fell.
Not the kind that split the sky and vanished—but bolts that stayed, writhing like living things. They struck the watchtower first, shattering stone and flesh together. A figure stood at the center of the destruction, boots planted atop broken wood and bodies alike.
He laughed.
A wild, unhinged grin split his face as lightning wrapped around his arms, crawling over his gothic attire—long, black, battle-worn fabric stitched with faint silver lines that pulsed with every strike. His hair clung to his face, eyes wide and shining, pupils trembling with joy.
"Run," he whispered to the burning village below.
"I love it when they run."
He raised his hand.
Lightning answered.
It slammed into the streets, tearing through homes, ripping screams from throats before bodies even hit the ground. He moved through the chaos like a conductor, bolts bending at his will, dancing from target to target.
This was not war.
This was entertainment.
The river that fed the village turned against it next.
The Second Hand stepped forward silently, robes soaked and clinging like wet funeral cloth. He lifted two fingers, and the river rose—slow, deliberate, merciless. Water coiled through the streets, forcing doors open, flooding homes.
People tried to climb.
The water followed.
It hardened without freezing, crushing ribs, filling lungs, dragging entire families beneath the surface while their hands clawed uselessly at the air. Bodies were pinned against walls, eyes wide, bubbles escaping mouths that would never scream again.
The water receded only when the streets were filled with stillness.
The Hand tilted his head, listening.
Nothing.
Satisfied.
Fire arrived on the wind.
The Third Hand descended from above, cloak torn and fluttering like burning wings. Fire bloomed at his feet, then spread—guided by slicing currents of wind. Flames curved around stone, slipped through cracks, poured into basements where people hid.
The wind carried screams.
The fire followed them.
He laughed softly, almost politely, as he walked through infernos untouched. Ash spiraled around him like black snow. A flick of his wrist sent compressed air blades through fleeing villagers, cutting them down before the flames could.
"Messy," he muttered, adjusting his collar as another building collapsed.
"But effective."
Not everyone died screaming.
Some wished they had.
The Fourth Hand never touched the village.
He simply looked at it.
Those who met his eyes froze, minds unraveling instantly. Mothers saw their children burn alive again and again. Fathers relived their failures until their hearts gave out. Warriors fought enemies that weren't there, tearing apart friends, family, themselves.
His movements were precise, graceful—every step followed by broken minds. When resistance finally reached him, he met it bare-handed. Bones cracked. Spines bent the wrong way. Taijutsu strikes ended lives in blinks, bodies dropping before they understood they were dead.
Genjutsu faded only after death.
Mercy was not part of the illusion.
The ground screamed last.
The Fifth Hand stood at the village center, blade resting on his shoulder. His armor was heavy, dark, engraved with symbols worn smooth by blood. He slammed his foot into the earth.
The ground split.
Walls collapsed inward. Streets caved, swallowing survivors whole. Stone arms burst from the ground, gripping legs, crushing bodies, holding victims in place as the Hand walked among them.
His sword sang.
Each swing was clean. Precise. Decapitations. Limbs severed with surgical calm. He didn't rush. Didn't smile. This was work—and he did it perfectly.
When he finished, he planted his blade into the ground and rested both hands on the hilt.
The village was gone.
Smoke choked the sky.
The Five Great Hands gathered at the ruins' edge, silhouettes against fire and lightning. The lightning wielder wiped blood from his cheek, still grinning.
"Too easy," he said. "Villages aren't what they used to be."
The water wielder said nothing.
The fire-wind user cracked his neck. "Word will spread."
The genjutsu master smiled faintly. "Let it."
The swordsman turned away first. "We move."
Behind them, the village burned—its name already forgotten.
By morning, there would be no proof it ever existed.
Only fear.
And fear traveled faster than fire
***********
Kelvin Stone's father arrived when the world was already quiet.
Too quiet.
The village lay before him like a corpse left out in the open—roofs collapsed inward, streets cracked like broken ribs, the air thick with ash and the faint metallic scent of blood. Smoke still rose in thin columns, drifting lazily as if unsure whether it should remain or leave.
Thomas Stone stood at the edge of it all.
Veteran. Survivor. Ninja of a war that had taught him how silence could scream louder than battle.
He stepped forward.
Every footfall echoed.
Charred beams lay where homes once stood. Melted weapons jutted from the ground like grave markers. He knelt, brushing ash aside with two fingers. The earth beneath was scorched… and split.
Lightning.
He moved deeper.
Water damage followed—walls crushed inward, streets warped and slick, as if something massive had flowed through and then decided to leave. Farther ahead, burn patterns twisted unnaturally, flames having bent corners they shouldn't have been able to.
Fire… guided by wind.
His jaw tightened.
"This wasn't random," he muttered.
Hours passed.
Thomas searched everything—footprints erased by ash, chakra residue faint but wrong, signs of resistance crushed before it ever stood a chance. This wasn't a battle.
It was a demonstration.
A message.
And then—
Movement.
He froze, hand already hovering near his blade.
From beneath a collapsed stone foundation, a pair of eyes stared back at him.
Alive.
Thomas moved carefully, lifting rubble piece by piece until he revealed them.
A woman.
And a child—no older than eight—clutching her clothes like a lifeline.
They flinched violently when the light touched them.
"Easy," Thomas said softly, lowering himself to their level. "You're safe now."
They didn't believe him.
Not yet.
FLASHBACK —
The ground shook first.
The woman remembered grabbing her son, running, screaming his name even though he was already in her arms. The sky broke open. Lightning screamed and laughed.
People died before they could pray.
Water flooded the streets, crushing doors, dragging bodies away like leaves. Fire fell from the wind. The air itself cut.
They hid beneath the house.
The boy remembered the darkness. The sound of bones breaking above them. The heat. The screaming that stopped too suddenly.
Then the dream-man came.
The one who smiled without smiling.
The world twisted.
The boy saw his mother die over and over. She saw him burn, drown, vanish. They clawed at each other, sobbing, convinced none of it was real—or all of it was.
They didn't know how long it lasted.
They only knew they didn't die.
And that felt worse.
Back in the present___, their words spilled out in fragments.
"There was lightning—no, it laughed—"
"The water crushed the houses—"
"They were everywhere—hands, five, no—"
"The ground ate people—"
"He smiled—he smiled—"
Thomas listened.
Every broken sentence landed like a blade.
Five.
He closed his eyes.
So the rumors were true.
The Five Great Hands.
He exhaled slowly.
This mission had just changed.
The woman's knees buckled. The child collapsed against her, shaking violently.
They wouldn't survive another night here.
Thomas stood.
"I'm taking you with me," he said.
They looked up, terrified.
"B-But the village—"
"It's dead," he said gently. "You're not."
He lifted the boy easily, draping his cloak around both of them. As he turned away from the ruins, a sharp pang struck his chest.
The academy opening ceremony…
Kelvin.
He pushed the thought down.
There would be time to explain.
There had to be.
They didn't see the figure on the ridge.
Didn't hear the breath that wasn't breath.
A silhouette stood far behind them, unmoving, cloaked in shadow deeper than the night itself.
Watching.
Waiting.
A smile—thin and knowing—curved in the darkness.
The hunt had already begun.