Chapter 4 : How to Solve the Problems
The soft *snick* of the door closing echoed like a tomb sealing. Ren stood frozen, the phantom warmth of Shikaku's hand on his head already fading, replaced by the cold dread coiling tighter in his gut. He stared at the blank wood, the image of Shikaku's weary, concerned face imprinted on his mind. A lump rose in his throat, thick and painful.
*He doesn't know,* Ren thought, a wave of crushing loneliness washing over him. *He thinks I'm just a grieving kid. Not… not this.*
The dam holding back his terror finally cracked. Hot tears welled up, blurring the ordinary brown eyes reflected in the tarnished mirror. He stumbled back, collapsing onto the thin futon, burying his face in his hands. Sobs wracked his small frame, silent and desperate.
*Why?* The question screamed inside his head. *Why here? Why this world?*
He knew the answer. He'd *watched* it. Naruto. A world painted in vibrant colors and epic battles, but beneath the surface, a brutal, unforgiving machine. Kill or be killed. Betrayal and bloodshed were woven into its very fabric. And he, Ren, a soul ripped from a world of relative safety and dropped into the body of an Uchiha orphan? It wasn't just dangerous; it was a death sentence waiting to be executed.
His meta-knowledge wasn't a comfort; it was a curse. Visions flashed, stark and horrifying:
Itachi killing every Unciha clan members leaving only his younger brother Sasuka .
Not just one, but multiple cataclysms. Pein leveling Konoha. The shambling horror of the Edo Tensei army. The moon cracking open. Madara's chilling laughter. Kaguya's alien gaze.
* Akatsuki hunting Jinchuriki like prey. Otsutsuki descending like vengeful gods, treating the planet as a harvest field.
Panic threatened to choke him. He was a speck. A child with borrowed grief and eyes that promised godhood at the cost of his sight. He needed strength. *Desperately.* The **Genjitsu no Ishi** pulsed within him, a terrifying wellspring of potential. With it, he could maybe carve out survival. Turn walls to mist, redirect Kage-level jutsu, conjure shields from nothingness…
But the cost! The dull ache behind his eyes flared at the mere thought, a constant, grim reminder. Every use was a step towards eternal darkness. He'd become a blind god, then a dead one. Power was useless if it burned out the instrument wielding it.
*Solve the eyes,* his mind screamed. *Solve the chakra.*
He had Kage-level reserves now, inherited along with the grief and the eyes. A staggering amount for his age, yes. But manipulating *reality*? Softening a patch of wall had spiked his headache. What would stopping a Bijuudama cost? Or reshaping a battlefield? His reserves felt vast, but against the demands of the **Stone of Actuality**, they were a thimble trying to hold an ocean. He needed *more*. An order of magnitude more. And he needed a way to stop the Mangekyo's degeneration.
A name surfaced in his frantic thoughts, cold and clinical: **Hashirama Senju**.
The God of Shinobi. His cells – legendary for their boundless vitality, insane chakra generation, and potent regenerative properties. Stories whispered they could heal near-fatal wounds, grant immense power… and suppress the negative effects of the Sharingan. *Eternal Mangekyo.* Madara had proven it. Obito had used them. Danzo… *Danzo* was practically stitched together with them.
That was it. The answer to *both* problems. Hashirama cells would massively amplify his chakra reserves, providing the fuel his reality-warping eyes demanded. And, crucially, they could potentially halt the creeping blindness, maybe even evolve his eyes further. It was the perfect, terrifying solution.
But how? Where? The thought slammed into him like a physical blow.
The village guarded Senju DNA like a state secret. The only sources he knew of…
* **Orochimaru:** The Snake Sannin, obsessed with immortality and forbidden jutsu. He *definitely* had samples. But approaching Orochimaru was like offering yourself to a vivisectionist. The price would be his body, his soul, or both.
* **Danzo:** The Old Warhawk, Root's shadow leader. His right arm, his eye socket… packed with stolen Senju cells. Danzo collected Uchiha eyes like trophies. Walking into *his* web? Ren would become another experiment, another tool in Danzo's grim arsenal. A pawn to be used and discarded.
Ren's tears stopped, frozen by a cold, calculating fear that was somehow worse than despair. He wiped his face roughly with the back of his hand, the rough fabric scraping his skin. He looked down at his small, trembling hands. Hands that could warp reality, yet felt utterly powerless.
Shikaku's offer echoed: *"If you need anything... come to me."* But how could he possibly go to Shikaku and say, *'I need Hashirama Senju's cells to stop my Mangekyo from blinding me and fuel my reality-warping powers so I can survive the massacre and the wars'*? It was unthinkable. A confession that would brand him a monster or a madman.
There was no safe path. No clean solution. Konoha's shadows hid serpents and spiders, both offering the poison he needed to survive.
Ren pushed himself off the futon, walking back to the mirror on unsteady legs. He stared into his own ordinary brown eyes. The eyes that hid a universe-shattering storm and a ticking clock towards darkness.
*Hashirama cells.*
*Orochimaru.*
*Danzo.*
The names were vipers coiling in his mind. Survival demanded playing with monsters. The comforting presence of Shikaku felt galaxies away. He was alone. Truly alone. With impossible power, a terrifying future, and only monstrous paths leading forward.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, the cold dread solidifying into a grim resolve. The tears were gone. Only the ache in his eyes and the chilling calculus of survival remained. He needed the cells. Now, he just had to
figure out *which* devil to dance with.