Chapter 11: Fire Temple Flames - Part 2
POV: Kole
Dawn light streamed through Konoha's gates like salvation made visible, painting the world in shades of gold and hope that felt entirely undeserved. Kole staggered through the checkpoint carrying the last wounded monk, both of them covered in blood and ash that told stories neither wanted to remember.
The monk—Seito, barely nineteen years old—had taken shrapnel to the chest during Hidan's rampage. His breathing came in wet, rattling gasps that suggested internal bleeding, and his skin had taken on the gray pallor that preceded death. But he was alive. Against all odds and probability, he was still breathing.
"Three survivors. Out of twenty-seven monks, I saved three."
The mathematics of failure burned in Kole's chest like acid. Every step toward the hospital was weighted with the memory of screams cut short, of blood pooling around bodies he'd been too slow to reach. Hidan's laughter echoed in his ears, the sound of someone who killed for the pure joy of ending life.
"Medical emergency!" he called out as the hospital came into view. "Internal injuries, multiple trauma cases!"
Staff materialized around them with practiced efficiency, gurneys appearing as if by magic. Gentle hands relieved him of his burden, whisking Seito toward treatment rooms where proper medical ninja could work miracles that alchemy couldn't match.
"Sir, you're injured too," a young medic said, gesturing toward Kole's torn clothing and the blood seeping through fabric. "Let us—"
"I'm fine. Help them first."
"I'm not fine. I'm about as far from fine as it's possible to be while still technically breathing."
But the wounded monks needed attention more than he needed sympathy. They'd survived horrors that would haunt their dreams for decades, if they were lucky enough to live that long. The least he could do was ensure they received the best care possible.
The hospital transformed around him into something that felt more like a battlefield than a place of healing. Medical alchemy pushed beyond every limit he'd thought he understood, transmutation circles glowing with desperate intensity as he fought death itself for possession of three fragile lives.
Damaged organs became functional tissue through molecular restructuring. Internal bleeding stopped as he transmuted torn blood vessels into seamless conduits. He even attempted cellular regeneration, pushing his understanding of biological systems to breaking points that left his hands smoking with alchemical rebound.
Shizune and Sakura watched in stunned silence as wounds closed under his touch, their medical training providing no framework for what they were witnessing. This wasn't chakra-based healing—it was matter manipulation at the fundamental level, biology rewritten through sheer force of will and scientific understanding.
"Cellular regeneration accelerated by forty percent," Sakura whispered, reading monitor displays that shouldn't have been possible. "Tissue integrity restored to pre-trauma levels. How is this—?"
The question dissolved as Kole collapsed, hands burned raw from repeated transmutation and his nervous system finally rebelling against the impossible demands he'd placed on it. Sakura caught him before he could hit the floor, her arms surprisingly strong for someone who'd spent years being dismissed as "just the smart one."
"What are you?" she murmured, green eyes wide with something between fear and fascination.
"I'm someone who knows too much and can do too little. I'm a man trying to save a world that doesn't know it needs saving."
But those words would only trigger the gibberish curse, so instead he said: "Tired. I'm very, very tired."
POV: Tsunade
The emergency council convened within an hour of Kole's return, the war room filling with grim-faced officials who understood that bad news traveled fast in the shinobi world. Tsunade studied the reports filtering in from across Fire Country—burned temples, slaughtered monks, and eyewitness accounts of two S-rank criminals operating with coordinated precision.
The civilian who'd somehow survived an encounter with these monsters sat across from her, looking like he'd been through a blender set to "massacre." His clothes were torn and bloodstained, his hands wrapped in medical bandages, and his eyes held the hollow look of someone who'd seen too much death in too short a time.
But his intelligence report was disturbingly precise.
"Hidan's immortality operates on cellular regeneration," Kole said, voice steady despite obvious exhaustion. "Decapitation is temporary—the head reattaches within minutes if placed in proximity to the neck. However, dismemberment appears to cause significant pain and temporary incapacitation."
"How do you know this?" Tsunade interrupted.
"I observed during combat. His left arm was severed by falling debris—it reattached when he retrieved it."
Too detailed. Too precise. You don't learn immortality mechanics from casual observation during a life-or-death fight.
"Kakuzu possesses multiple hearts housed in separate chakra entities," Kole continued without missing a beat. "I counted four distinct masks, each with different elemental affinities. His primary body appeared to coordinate their attacks, suggesting shared consciousness or at least communication."
"Again," Tsunade said, leaning forward. "How do you know their capabilities from a single encounter?"
Kole's pause was microscopic, but telling. "I don't know. I observed and guessed. Pattern recognition, maybe."
Bullshit. The lie tasted like ash even secondhand. Tsunade had interrogated enough suspects to recognize manufactured responses, and this man was clearly hiding something massive.
Beside her, Kakashi's visible eye narrowed with suspicion. The Copy Ninja had built his reputation on reading people, and his expression suggested he didn't believe a word of Kole's explanation either.
"Your 'guesses' are remarkably accurate," Kakashi said mildly. "Almost like you've encountered these specific enemies before."
"I haven't."
"But you prepared specialized equipment. Diamond wire designed for dismemberment. Sealing compounds that prevent regeneration. Those aren't tools you develop on intuition—they're purpose-built for fighting immortals."
Exactly. Tsunade studied Kole's face, watching for micro-expressions that might reveal the truth behind his carefully constructed lies. He was definitely hiding something, but the underlying emotional signature suggested desperation rather than malicious intent.
"Perhaps," she said carefully, "your preparation methods are less important than their effectiveness. Three monks survived because of your intervention. That's three more than would have lived otherwise."
Relief flickered across his features before professional neutrality reasserted itself. Good. Guilt and gratitude are useful emotional levers.
"What are your recommendations for future encounters?" she asked.
"Coordinate attacks to separate them. Hidan is vulnerable during his ritual preparation—if you can prevent him from completing the ceremony, his immortality becomes a liability rather than an asset. Kakuzu is more dangerous but less unpredictable. Standard anti-ninja tactics should work, as long as you account for multiple simultaneous attacks."
The recommendations were tactically sound, strategically valuable, and far too sophisticated for someone who'd supposedly learned everything during a single chaotic encounter.
This man knows things he shouldn't know. The question is whether those things make him an asset or a threat.
"Continue your civilian work," Tsunade decided. "But I want daily reports on any unusual activity. These criminals will return—they don't leave unfinished business."
As the council dispersed, Tsunade watched Kole through the observation window. He moved like someone carrying invisible weights, each step carefully measured and his hands unconsciously checking equipment that wasn't there.
He's preparing for another fight. Not hoping to avoid one—actively preparing for inevitable confrontation.
That level of certainty was either impressive tactical thinking or dangerous foreknowledge. Either way, she intended to keep watching until she figured out which.
POV: Kole
The hospital morgue was quiet as a tomb, which seemed appropriate given its primary function. Kole stood beside the examination table where his blood-stained clothes lay in neat piles, each piece tagged and catalogued by medical staff who didn't understand why a civilian would want to examine evidence from a massacre.
But they hadn't questioned his request. After saving three lives with impossible medicine, he'd earned enough credibility to study crime scene residue without official interference.
The blood on his jacket sleeve belonged to Hidan—he was certain of that. Bright arterial red, spilled when the immortal had laughed while pulling diamond wire from his severed wrist. It had soaked into fabric and dried to rusty brown, carrying with it the cellular echoes of something that shouldn't exist.
Kole pressed his glove against the bloodstain and felt weapon synthesis activate.
Light erupted from the point of contact, not visible illumination but something deeper, more fundamental. The blood dissolved into his glove like water absorbed by sand, carrying with it knowledge that made his soul shiver with revulsion.
Hidan's cellular structure blazed in his mind—immortal tissue that regenerated through connection to something vast and hungry. The god Jashin, whose appetite for violence sustained its chosen servant through principles that violated every natural law Kole understood.
But more than cellular knowledge, the absorption granted him something else: connection. His glove rippled, matter restructuring itself into something that had never existed before—a compass needle that pointed not toward magnetic north, but toward Hidan himself.
"Blood compass. I can track him."
The needle quivered, settling into southwest orientation with the certainty of physics. Somewhere in that direction, maybe fifty miles away, Hidan was probably torturing captured travelers or converting new followers to his death cult. When Asuma's team encountered him again—and they would, because the timeline demanded it—Kole would know exactly where to be.
"When they come, I'll be ready."
The promise tasted like blood and determination in equal measure. He couldn't stop what was coming, couldn't change the fundamental trajectory of events without risking cosmic consequences he didn't understand. But maybe—just maybe—he could tip the scales enough to matter.
One life saved was still one life. In a world measured by tragedies, small victories were the only victories available.
The compass needle pulsed once, as if sensing his resolve, then settled into steady southwest orientation. Counting down to catastrophe with the precision of a metronome marking time until someone's death.
The hospital corridors felt different on the way out, less like a place of healing and more like a monument to temporary victories. Kole moved through them with careful steps, each footfall echoing against walls that had witnessed countless desperate struggles between life and death.
Asuma was waiting near the main entrance, cigarette smoke curling around his scarred face like incense offered to gods of war. He looked older than he had that morning, aged by reports of burning temples and slaughtered innocents.
"Heard you saved some of them," he said without preamble.
"Not enough."
"Never is. But three breathing monks beats twenty-seven dead ones by any math I know."
They stood in comfortable silence, two men who'd seen too much violence processing tragedy in their own ways. Around them, Konoha continued its evening routine, civilians heading home to families who would sleep safely because people like Asuma stood watch in the darkness.
"Thank you," Asuma said finally. "For trying to save Chiriku. For bringing the survivors home. For giving a damn about people you never met."
"I care because I know what's coming. Because I've seen the world these monsters want to create, and it's built from the bones of good people who deserved better."
"Anyone would have done the same," Kole said instead.
"No. They wouldn't. Most people run when they see real monsters. You ran toward them." Asuma's hand settled on Kole's shoulder, weight carrying the warmth of genuine respect. "When they come back—and they will—we'll be ready."
Kole nodded, throat too tight for words. The compass hidden in his pocket pulsed southwest, marking time until tragedy with mechanical precision.
"We'll be ready. But ready and victorious are different things entirely."
Outside the hospital, night fell over Konoha like a curtain dropping on the first act of a play that would end in blood. Somewhere in the distance, immortal monsters planned their next atrocity while a man with impossible knowledge prepared to stand in their way.
The mathematics of the situation were brutal in their simplicity: Kole knew what was coming, but knowledge without power was just another form of helplessness. He could prepare, plan, and position himself for maximum impact, but the fundamental equation remained unchanged.
Heroes would die. Monsters would laugh. And somewhere between those certainties, he would do whatever it took to ensure that some small piece of good survived the coming storm.
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