Uchiha’s grimoire guide to winning: chapter 11: scarlet

This chapter was originally 8000 words but i don’t think you would have like 8000 thousands of mostly thought and mental nerd rants. If y’all want me to post later the original chapter, tel me. Also, sorry for the absence. Posting at least 5 chapters in a hour should be enough of an apology, right?

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Blood

Even from afar, they could not be mistaken, not with the color of their hair, not with that impossible shade that looked like blood made solid, scarlet spilled and somehow caught mid-fall, then draped over skulls like a banner.

The Uzumaki.

I had seen some of them in my past life through reading the manga, watching the show, following characters like Naruto, Nagato, Karin. The Ren part of me knew them from the occasional picture in some dusty book that tried to summarize the allied clans of Konoha in neat little chapters. In my past life, I had seen anime and manga panels, stylized reds that popped against flat backgrounds, a red that was more aesthetic than real.

But this? This was different.

This was the kind of red that made my eyes lock on even when I didn't want to stare, the kind that made my brain itch in a way I couldn't scratch.

Calling people redheads was, when you thought about it, kind of an error. Most red hair, actual red hair, was orange. Copper. Carrot. Auburn that lived somewhere between brown and rust. Even the most striking redheads I had known in my past life, my mother, my maternal grandmother, cousins from both sides, they all had hair that caught sunlight like flame, not like fresh blood.

Because blood was not orange.

Blood was iron and life and violence, blood was scarlet when it was new, darker when it dried, almost black when it crusted.

And yet the Uzumaki stood there with hair that looked like blood.

I remembered, in my past life, being curious enough to actually look up what caused red hair. It came down to melanin, the pigment that colors hair, skin, and eyes. Two main types: eumelanin, which tends to be brown or black, and pheomelanin, which tends to be yellow or red. Red hair happens when you produce more pheomelanin relative to eumelanin, usually due to variants in a gene called MC1R. It's a normal biological variation, rare, but explainable.

It was human.

It was plausible.

And it was not what I was looking at now.

Because what the Uzumaki had was not copper, not orange, not auburn.

It was scarlet.

It was crimson.

It was the color of fresh arterial spray, the color you saw when a knife opened skin cleanly and the blood came out bright before it began to darken.

My mind tried, reflexively, desperately, to force the Uzumaki into that scientific frame anyway. Pigment granules, melanin types, light scattering, maybe some extreme mutation.

But even if I squinted, even if I bent my brain into knots trying to rationalize it, there was no way.

In human biology, hair color is polygenic, influenced by many genes. You can have two redheaded parents and still get variations. One child more strawberry blonde, one more auburn, one more copper. Even in families where everyone "has red hair," the red is not identical. The world doesn't print people in perfect batches.

But the Uzumaki, even from far away, looked like they had been printed.

The first sign anyone should have that there was something really funky about the Naruto universe, other than chakra itself, other than chakra beasts and dōjutsu and all their bullshit, was a clan like the Uzumaki with their hair color. It could be nothing but alien bullshit genes they inherited.

I thought about Kaguya, about the Ōtsutsuki, about the fact that in this world "alien ancestry" was not metaphor, it was literal history. About the way bloodlines here could manifest impossible traits. Eyes that saw through time. Bodies that regenerated like myths. Seals that bent reality.

The Uzumaki were not human, not entirely, not in the way that mattered.

It was fascinating.

It was also deeply, profoundly annoying, because I had to work with this, had to pretend this was normal, had to walk up to people who looked like they'd bathed in crimson paint and act professional.

We were approaching them from the side of the main road, not directly, because Fumiko insisted on that. We were supposed to be discreet, professional, supposed to look like a standard escort team meeting a client.

But even with the distance, even with the crowd between us, I could already tell something was off.

One of them, a young man, turned in our direction.

Not in the vague way people sometimes looked around casually. Not in the way a guard scanned a crowd with obvious focus.

He turned like he had always known where we were.

Then a smile bloomed on his face, and it changed him entirely, like someone had lit a candle behind a painting, like warmth suddenly had permission to exist. It softened the angles of his features, pulled brightness into his eyes, made him look less like a mission client and more like a friend who had been waiting.

He was tall, taller than most shinobi I had seen up close, and his posture had that relaxed control that suggested training and confidence. His hair was that impossible crimson, pulled back, the strands catching light like a blade catches sun. His clothes were travel-practical but carried details that spoke of wealth, embroidered seams, clean stitching, a cloak that draped in a way that made him look almost theatrical.

His face was striking without being pretty in the delicate way. Strong cheekbones, straight nose, eyes a touch too sharp for someone supposedly just a noble needing an escort. There was a small scar near the corner of his mouth, thin and pale, the kind you got from something sharp and fast.

I had the irrational thought that if he wasn't an Uzumaki, if he had black hair and a Konoha forehead protector, he would have been able to perfectly pass as an Uchiha.

And then my brain caught up to the other detail.

There was easily a hundred meters between us, maybe more. That was without mentioning all the people between us, civilians, shinobi, random bodies moving through morning traffic, all the visual noise that should have made it hard to track anyone precisely.

Yet he did.

On top of that, it was the first time we'd met.

Which meant this was not recognition based on faces.

This was chakra.

And then, between one step and the next, something inside me shifted.

It wasn't dramatic, wasn't loud, wasn't the kind of thing anyone else would notice. But inside me, deep in whatever metaphysical space held the thing that gave me superpowers was, I felt the stars expand, reach outward, touch something new.

Another constellation clicked into place.

I kept walking, kept my face neutral, kept my pace steady beside Fumiko, but internally I was racing through the new information flooding my mind, understanding settling into my consciousness like it had always been there.

Shapeshifting.

That was the core of it, the foundation, but not shapeshifting the way shinobi did it with the henge, not the temporary illusion-over-reality trick that every academy student learned.

This was about making an object my true form.

The knowledge came with instinctive clarity, the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink. I could choose an object, any object, and bind myself to it, make it what I actually was instead of this flesh-and-blood body I was currently wearing. A sword, a ring, a bottle, something simple, something singular. And once I did, once I made that choice, the object would become empowered, would gain properties beyond what it should have, would become exceptional at whatever its nature suggested.

A sword would be unnaturally good at cutting, at parting flesh and steel and reality itself if I pushed hard enough.

A hammer would crush, would shatter, would break things that shouldn't break.

A ring would bind, would hold, would connect.

The object would define the power, and the power would define me.

I would still have this body, this human form, would still be able to walk and talk and pretend to be normal. But it would be secondary, a manifestation, a puppet I wore to interact with the world. The object would be what I actually was, the core, the truth beneath the lie.

And there were benefits that came with that, thematic resonances that would bleed into everything I did.

I could feel the potential humming in my chest, waiting, patient, ready for me to make a choice.

One choice.

One object.

One decision that would define me forever.

Because the ability would work only once.

I knew that with the same instinctive certainty I knew everything else about this power. Once I picked something, once I bound myself to it, that was it. No take-backs. No do-overs. No "actually, I changed my mind."

Permanent.

If I didn't know what I knew about the Naruto universe, if I didn't have memories of a past life spent reading manga and watching anime and absorbing lore like a sponge, I would have been disappointed. I would have looked at this gift and thought, "that's it? One object? What if I pick wrong?"

But I did know.

I knew about the Sage of the Six Paths.

I knew about the weapons he'd supposedly left behind, tools so overpowered they'd shaped history, artifacts that could level armies, that could make their wielders into S ranks.

The Sword of Nunoboko, the blade that had supposedly helped create the world, that could manipulate truth itself.

The Treasured Tools of the Sage, weapons that could seal anything, that could cut through anything, that made their users untouchable.

The Bashōsen, the fan that could generate any element, any natural disaster, any force of nature with a swing.

Also, could the gedo mazo as long as it was without any tailed beast chakra, could it not count as an object? Wasn’t it in some way the corpse, the carcass, a remnant of a juubified Kaguya and couldn’t corpses be considered objects too?

And with this power, with this ability, I could make one of them my true form.

I could bind myself to a weapon so powerful that its mere existence was a threat, could take its nature into myself, could become not just a wielder but the weapon itself.

The potential was staggering.

This power was broken as hell.

But that wasn't what made this ability truly valuable, wasn't what made my heart race, wasn't what made me want to laugh and cry and scream all at once.

No.

What made this ability precious, what made it worth more than any combat skill or bloodline or jutsu, was simpler, more important than any of that.

As long as the object I chose, as long as my true form wasn't destroyed, I could not die.

The body could be killed, could be torn apart, could be burned and crushed and obliterated. But as long as the object remained intact, I would persist, would regenerate, would come back.

In other words, this power was immortality with extra steps.

And I just needed to not be Voldemort, to be smart about it.

I just needed to pick something durable, something that could survive, something that wouldn't shatter the first time someone swung a sword at it. I needed to pick something powerful enough to matter, useful enough to justify the choice, but stable enough to last.

A legendary weapon hidden in a vault somewhere, sealed away and forgotten, would be perfect.

Something no one knew existed, something no one would think to destroy, something that would sit safe and protected while I walked around in this fragile meat-suit doing whatever needed doing.

And if this body died? If I got unlucky, got outmatched, got killed in some stupid way I didn't see coming?

I'd come back.

I'd regenerate.

I'd persist.

Because the object would remain, and as long as it remained, I remained.

Immortality with extra steps.

All I had to do was be smart about it, be patient, wait until I found the right object, the right weapon, the right artifact that would serve as my anchor to existence.

No rush.

No hurry.

I had time.

One day.

Not today, not tomorrow, but one day.

I blinked, returning my full attention to the present, to the Uzumaki group ahead of us, to the red-haired sensor who had already clocked our approach

He could differentiate between dozens of chakra signatures in a crowd, could do so on hundreds of meters without seemingly focusing. He could do it like breathing, like a second sense that never turned off.

And while he wasn't familiar with me or Fumiko personally, the Uzumaki must have been familiar enough with the taste of Uchiha chakra to know that the two signatures coming at him, one genin-level and another seemingly jonin-level, were us.

I felt the skin on my arms prickle.

It was a good thing my aunt hid her true chakra level through seals.

Because if the boy before me could read chakra like that, then if Fumiko had walked around with her actual reserves unmasked, she would have been a lighthouse in a storm. If I remembered right, Uzumakis were by nature good sensors. The boy and the other Uzumakis would have felt her from streets away. Tobirama would have smelled it like blood in water, and we didn't need that.

That was terrifying.

It was also impressive.

I could see why multiple major villages who hated each other decided to team up to deal with Uzushio. I could see why they threw armies at an island and why most of them died trying.

As we reached them, as we crossed the last stretch of distance, the red-haired man stepped forward, still smiling, and his voice was bright and polite.

"Hi, the two of you must be Fumiko and Ren Uchiha, it's a pleasure to meet you, my name is Shusei Uzumaki and I'm the one you're supposed to protect."

Fumiko returned the smile with practiced ease, but I could see the micro-shift in her shoulders, the subtle tightening that meant she had clocked the same thing I had.

Shusei leaned slightly toward me, conspiratorial, and his smile turned a little mischievous.

"But between you and me, nothing should happen, and if anything did, Toga, Akira, Shirogane, Yoru and the others should be able to deal with it."

My eyes flicked over the group behind him.

Yeah, I could see that.

They didn't look like the kind of "bodyguards" Konoha civilians hired when they were worried about bandits. They looked like the kind of people you brought when you expected someone to try to assassinate you with an army and you wanted only bones to remain.

Toga stood with a posture that wasn't stiff, but deliberate, like a blade resting in a sheath.

The first thing that hit me was his skin.

It was black, black like ink, black like the void, so dark it didn't reflect, didn't catch the sun. It was black that ate light, that made my eyes slide off him like he was a hole in reality.

If anything, it reminded me of the ink used in seals, that dense black that seemed to have weight. And if I was right, if his skin was seal ink, then the one before me was really dangerous.

His outfit was layered, ceremonial but cut for movement. Metal pieces caught light, rings that looked like more than decoration, bracelets that might have been seal arrays disguised as jewelry. He had an earring that glinted near his jaw, the kind a noble would wear to make a statement.

He didn't smile. Not at Shusei's friendliness. Not at Fumiko's polite greeting. Not at anything.

He looked like a problem.

Akira stood a little to the side, and where Toga was shadow and threat, Akira was something quieter.

His presence was like standing near deep water, calm on the surface, but you could feel the weight underneath. His hair was darker red, more wine than scarlet, and it framed his face in a way that made him look almost elegant. His clothes leaned traditional shinobi but had details that made them unmistakably foreign, patterns in the fabric, reinforced seams, subtle seal marks stitched into places I wouldn't have noticed had I not been looking.

He had a sword, but it wasn't worn like a Konoha shinobi would wear it. It sat on his back at an angle that suggested he drew it differently, perhaps faster, perhaps with a technique that depended on that exact position.

His eyes were pale, lighter than most, the kind that made you think of storms. And when his gaze landed on me, I felt like he was measuring the distance between my throat and his blade out of habit.

Shirogane looked like a story, the kind you found in the corner of a library, bound in leather, full of warnings, a Grimm brother story.

His red was deeper, heavier, the kind that leaned toward wine and dried gore rather than fresh spill. It fell long and didn't fall neatly, loose strands slipping free as if even his hair didn't fully obey him.

He wore robes that felt ceremonial, layered fabric, a high collar, sleeves that could hide hands and weapons alike. There was a belt around his waist, and on it hung scrolls, several, each one sealed shut with tags that looked complex even at a glance.

When he moved, it was slow, deliberate, like he didn't waste energy on unnecessary motion. His eyes were half-lidded, giving him an expression of perpetual boredom or perpetual contemplation. And when he looked at Fumiko, I saw something like recognition flicker through him, not personal, but like he had encountered Uchihas before and had filed them away mentally as "dangerous, emotional, useful."

Yoru was the one who made my breath catch.

She had red hair cut shorter at the front and sides, ending in two long braids at the back. The front fell forward in angled strands, partly obscuring her eyes in a way that looked accidental until you realized it was probably deliberate. The red was vivid, clean, more flame than blood, and it framed her face like an artist had decided symmetry was optional.

Her outfit was black, the kind that swallowed light, and on it were patterns, floral shapes in red and gold that curled across the fabric like living things. It was beautiful in the way poison frogs were beautiful, the kind of beauty that existed specifically to warn you.

Her face was sharp, not harsh, but defined. High cheekbones, eyes narrow and focused.

She didn't smile like Shusei, didn't scowl like Toga, didn't stare like Akira, didn't drift like Shirogane.

She watched.

And the way she watched felt like being under a scope.

More than that, the way they all stood near each other told me something.

This wasn't just a group of bodyguards chosen haphazardly. This was a team. Their spacing, the angles, the lines of sight, it was tactical. They were positioned so that Shusei was in front, approachable, while the others created a loose perimeter.

Civilians walked past and didn't notice.

Shinobi would have.

And because I was a genin, because I was an Uchiha trained to see patterns, I noticed.

Shusei's voice pulled me back.

"I was told that Uchihas were as crazy as us Uzumakis when it comes to family, even if probably differently, so you can imagine how much I was being nagged by my aunty to enlist, on top of my usual protection detail, a team."

He grinned, like the word "nagged" held genuine affection.

"What I read said that your jonin sensei here is also your direct aunt, so you must understand the pain that a nagging aunt can be."

I nodded immediately, solemn as if we were discussing a burial ceremony.

"Yes." I paused, then added seriously, "I understand your pain, the pain of nagging, that-should-find-better-things-to-do, aunts."

Fumiko made a small sound, offended, like a cat that had been stepped on.

Yoru's lips twitched, not quite a smile.

Shusei's grin widened, delighted, and in that moment I felt it, chemistry, that strange compatibility some people had when they met, like their humor aligned, like their suffering rhymed.

He leaned closer, conspiratorial.

"How bad is she?"

I didn't hesitate.

"She makes me run until I throw up, then tells me vomiting is good for building character."

Shusei's eyes widened.

"No way, that's inhuman."

"I wish I was lying," I said, tone dead. "Last week she told me that if I can still see, I can still spar."

He made an affronted noise.

"That's inhumane."

"It is," I agreed, then sighed. "But she smiles when she says it, like she's proud of herself."

Shusei's shoulders shook with laughter.

"My aunt makes me practice seals until my fingers cramp, then she says, 'if your fingers cramp, it means your chakra control is improving.'"

I blinked.

"I don't think that's how it's supposed to work."

"It's not," he agreed cheerfully. "But she says it with so much conviction that you start to wonder if you're the stupid one."

"That's exactly it," I said, pointing at him like we'd discovered a shared truth of the universe. "They gaslight you with affection."

Shusei pressed a hand to his chest.

"Gaslight you with affection, yes, that's it, they act like they're doing you a favor by tormenting you."

"They do," I said, voice rising slightly. "And if you complain, they look at you like you've just kicked a puppy."

Shusei nodded vigorously.

"And then they say something like, 'I'm only hard on you because I care.'"

I mimicked an older woman's tone, dramatic.

"'You'll thank me when you're older.'"

Shusei snorted.

"And you know what's worse?"

"What?"

"They're right."

I stared at him for a beat, then groaned.

"They are."

"They are," he repeated, mournful now. "Because when you're in danger, when you're bleeding, when you think you might die, their nagging will probably be what keeps you alive."

"And then you feel guilty," I added, because that was the ugly part. "Because you wanted to strangle them yesterday, but today you're grateful."

Shusei's grin returned, bright and conspiratorial.

"So you're saying we're trapped in an eternal cycle of suffering and gratitude."

"Yes," I said flatly. "Aunts are like moms and sisters but worse, because moms at least own their authority, and sisters at least admit they're annoying you for fun. Aunts act like they're your friend while they ruin your life."

Shusei laughed again, loud enough that a few civilians glanced over, then looked away because shinobi laughter was something you didn't question.

"Exactly, they're the worst combination, they have the authority of a mother and the teasing cruelty of a sibling."

"And the audacity," I said.

"And the audacity," Shusei agreed, solemn again. "My aunt once told me my posture was embarrassing the clan."

I blinked.

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't know," he said, voice pained. "But I made said posture worse for a week out of spite, even though it really hurt my back."

"My aunt told me my breathing was lazy," I said.

Shusei's mouth fell open.

"Breathing?"

"Breathing," I repeated. "Apparently I didn't breathe well enough for a shinobi."

He pressed his lips together like he was trying not to laugh.

"I think your aunt and my aunt would be friends."

"Or they would try to kill each other," I corrected.

"That's also possible," he conceded, then leaned in again. "But tell me, does she also do that thing where she compliments you right before insulting you?"

I groaned.

"Yes."

Shusei nodded like he'd expected it.

"Mine says, 'You're so talented,' then immediately follows with, 'which is why it's so disappointing you can't do this basic seal correctly.'"

"That's evil," I said.

"It is," he agreed. "But she smiles like she's giving you a gift."

"And if you do improve," I added, "they act like it was inevitable."

Shusei pointed at me.

"Yes, like your suffering was a natural step in your development."

"Like you being miserable is proof they're doing a good job," I said.

He sighed dramatically.

"We're victims."

"We are," I said, and I meant it with the seriousness of a shinobi oath.

We were still nodding at each other, still united in this shared tragedy, when it happened.

Two simultaneous chops on the head.

My aunt's hand came down on my skull with the force of a gentle threat, not hard enough to actually hurt but enough to make my brain rattle just enough to remind me who was in charge.

At the exact same moment, Yoru's hand came down on Shusei's head, crisp and precise.

Ow.

I hissed, rubbing the top of my head. Shusei made a wounded noise, rubbing his own.

Fumiko's voice was sweet, too sweet.

"Ren."

Yoru's voice was quieter, but it had the same deadly calm.

"Shusei."

We looked at each other, eyes watering slightly, and in that brief moment, we understood each other on a deeper level.

We nodded in camaraderie.

Truly, family could so fucking be the worst.

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• tem Spirit [300 - Hyrule Warriors] Wizzro, the evil sorcerer of Cia’s dark armies. Fi, the spirit of the Master Sword from ages past. Ghirahim, an ancient demon general. These are people, yes, but the form you see them speaking in, fighting in, acting in, that is not their true form.

On purchase, you may select a type of item of your choice, a sword, a ring, a harp, a bottle, nothing too complex. This object is in reality, your true form. You are the spirit of a magical object.

Depending on the origin you picked, this object is either heavily empowered by light, pure magic, or darkness, with this nature spreading to the form you use to interact with the world.

That other form resembles the race you selected, with an aesthetic influenced by the energy that empowers your true form. It is empowered as well, but less so. You are freely able to swap between these two forms, though not if your racial choice was taken as a drawback.

Your true form is more than just a magically empowered object though. It has an ability relating to its form, like a sword being extra great at cutting, or a bottle being exceptional at sucking up and containing things. You are also able to manipulate in this form, though it’s not as comfortable as your normal form.

100 cp remaining