I became naruto charachter

A Child of Ruin

The wind carried the scent of death and decay, but the boy did not flinch. He only stared at the Hokage before him, dark eyes unreadable, his lips still stained red.

The shinobi behind Minato had already drawn their weapons—not out of malice, but fear.

Something was wrong with this child.

He wasn't crying. He wasn't begging. He wasn't even scared.

He was just… there.

Jinwoo tilted his head slightly. "Are you here to kill me too?"

The words, spoken in such a quiet, indifferent tone, sent a shiver down the spine of every shinobi present.

Minato, however, remained calm. "No. We're here to help."

Jinwoo blinked, his fingers tightening around the god's flesh in his hand. "…Help?"

The leader nodded. "Come with us, Jinwoo. You don't have to stay here anymore."

For the first time, Jinwoo hesitated.

The god was dead. The swordsmen were dead. Akari was dead.

And yet… he was still here. Alone. Forgotten. Weak.

His fingers curled into a fist.

Something inside him whispered.

A voice that wasn't his own.

"Eat more."

Jinwoo exhaled slowly.

Then, he let go of the god's corpse and stood up.

"Okay."

Minato's eyes never wavered as he turned to his fellow shinobi. His voice, though low, carried an urgency that cut through the oppressive silence of the ruined village.

"We must secure the child. Take him to the nearest village—get him to safety. I will return here with a team to cleanse this site and recover what remains."

Without hesitation, a small squad of seasoned shinobi sprang into action. They gently lifted Jinwoo, cradling him as though he were made of glass, and began the trek through the desolate landscape. Minato's gaze lingered on the fallen corpses of gods and swordsmen, a silent vow forming in his heart to honor the sacrifice of those lost.

As they made their way along the cracked earth and through ash-laden paths, the child sat silently. His dark, empty eyes gave nothing away—only a haunting calm, as if the devastation around him had become an accepted part of his existence.

The squad moved swiftly yet cautiously, every step echoing with memories of battles past. Meanwhile, Minato signaled for reinforcements. His plan was clear: the child's safety was paramount, and the site of the battle—tainted with divine malice—needed to be sealed off, purged of any lingering corruption.

Back at the ruins, Minato's second team began the somber work of cleanup. They gathered what little remained, carefully marking the boundaries with protective seals. Each gesture was deliberate, meant to ensure that nothing from that cursed day would rise again to threaten innocent lives.

As the convoy of shinobi disappeared into the distance with Jinwoo, Minato stood alone among the shattered remnants of the Sword Village. His heart was heavy with loss, yet he knew this was only the beginning. For now, the child had a chance—one that might one day lead him to forge a new destiny, even if he remained as powerless as ever until he learned to harness the mysterious force that dwelled within.

The mission was set in motion, and Minato vowed silently to return with hope, to reclaim not just a ruined village, but a shattered future for a child destined to walk in the shadow of gods.

A New Dawn in the Village

After the traumatic events at the ruined Sword Village, Jinwoo was taken to the nearest village by the compassionate shinobi. There, the ordinary villagers—unaware of the dark legacy he carried—opened their arms to the traumatized child.

In this humble settlement, life moved at a gentler pace. Within days, the local children, curious and accepting, began treating Jinwoo as one of their own. They invited him to join their games in the narrow alleys and under the sprawling shade of ancient trees. Laughter, once foreign to him, slowly seeped back into his days.

At first, Jinwoo was silent and withdrawn, his eyes distant, haunted by memories of gods and fallen heroes. But the simple kindness of everyday life began to work its quiet magic. His demeanor, once overshadowed by shock and despair, gradually softened. The warm smiles of his new friends, the genuine concern of the villagers, and the peaceful rhythm of village life helped to mend his broken spirit.

Over the span of a few months, the boy who had once eaten divine flesh—an act born of hunger and pain—started to rediscover what it meant to be simply a child. He learned to laugh, to play, and to dream again, even if those dreams were shadowed by the weight of his past. His mysterious nature remained, a silent promise of the power that slumbered within him, waiting for the day when training and time might awaken it.

In this quiet corner of the world, Jinwoo was no longer the cursed outcast of a shattered village; he was a beloved part of a new community—a living testament to the resilience of the human spirit, even in the aftermath of divine destruction.

 The Dark Rite of Purification

In the quiet hours of twilight, as the village of battered survivors settled into an uneasy sleep, a lone figure emerged from the mist—a shaman with an unsettling presence. Clad in tattered, ritualistic robes and bearing a scar etched deep into his weathered face, he strode into the village square. His eyes, cold and calculating, swept over the humble homes and, finally, rested on Jinwoo—the child who bore the cursed mark of divine consumption.

The shaman's voice, rough as gravel and laced with ancient malice, cut through the silence."This wretched child reeks of corruption—a blight upon our land and a taint on our very souls. His cursed chakra pollutes our earth, and only a sacred sacrifice can cleanse us of this unholy stain."

With practiced ease, he unfurled his gengutsu—a forbidden form of illusionary ninjutsu that wove dark images of decay and ruin into the minds of the villagers. One by one, the hearts of the simple folk, already haunted by recent tragedy, began to tremble with dread and resignation.

A murmur spread through the gathered crowd, fear mingling with a desperate hope for redemption. Reluctantly, the villagers yielded to the shaman's sinister decree, their eyes glazed over by the hypnotic pull of his forbidden technique.

Without warning, the village blacksmith—a stoic man whose calloused hands had long forged tools and weapons for survival—stepped forward. His voice was low and unyielding as he grasped Jinwoo's arm."It is time," he intoned gravely.

Before Jinwoo could comprehend what was happening, the blacksmith led him away from the comforting embrace of the village. They walked in silence through narrow, lantern-lit streets until they reached an ancient stone altar adorned with faded, mystical seals—remnants of a time when such rites were commonplace in the hidden villages of the shinobi world.

At the altar, the shaman's voice rose once more, echoing against cold stone and ancient memory."Let the sacrifice commence, that our land may be purified of this unholy curse!"

Jinwoo's eyes, wide with confusion and terror, flickered in the dim light as he looked from the blacksmith's stern expression to the looming altar before him. In that heart-wrenching moment, the innocence of a child collided with the harsh cruelty of old traditions and forbidden power—a tradition deeply woven into the tapestry of a world where chakra and ninjutsu could both create miracles and summon unspeakable horrors.

As the villagers gathered in a somber, fearful circle around the altar, the shaman began the ritual. Incantations in an archaic tongue filled the air, mingling with the low hum of chakra swirling around the mystical seals. The blacksmith's grip tightened on Jinwoo's arm, his face carved in stoic resolve, as he prepared to offer the child up to the ancient rites.

In that crucible of despair and dark tradition, Jinwoo's fate hung precariously—caught between the remnants of a shattered past and the uncertain promise of a future that might one day forge his true strength.

The moment the blacksmith's calloused fist struck the back of Jinwoo's neck, the boy crumpled like a lifeless doll, his small frame hitting the cold stone with a dull thud. The torches flickered, casting wavering shadows over the ancient altar. Silence followed. The villagers, subdued by the shaman's gengutsu, stood motionless, their breath caught in their throats.

And then—the shadows moved.

Not like mist curling in the wind or ink spilling onto parchment. No, this was something far more unnatural. The darkness did not gather—it descended.

Like a second skin, it clung to Jinwoo's still body, molding itself to his form with an unsettling, liquid-like precision. It wrapped him as though he had always been a part of it, as though the abyss itself had been waiting to reclaim him. His features vanished beneath the suffocating black, his presence swallowed whole by the encroaching void.

The shaman took a breath—and felt it.

Something GRIM , an overwhelmig presence. No, a predator.

His body locked up instantly, as if something had just coiled its fangs around his neck, daring him to move. His senses, honed through decades of mastering the forbidden arts, screamed in unrelenting terror. This was not a jutsu. This was not chakra.

This was something older. Something that should not exist.

His throat constricted; his hands trembled. He tried to move—to step back, to avert his gaze—but his legs refused. His body, his instincts, his very soul—all refused.

The air thickened, pressing down on him like the weight of an ocean trench. The darkness wasn't just consuming Jinwoo—it was watching. It was aware. And it was hungry.

The shaman could not see its eyes, but he felt them—felt their gaze pierce through his very being, stripping him of every secret, every sin, every scrap of courage he had ever possessed. He had stood before men who could kill with a glance, before cursed relics and forgotten gods—but never had he felt hunted.

His breath hitched. His fingers clawed at his chest as his heart pounded, erratic and panicked. The shadows did not lash out, did not move beyond their claim over Jinwoo's body—they didn't need to.

Their mere existence was enough to shatter him.

The villagers, still enthralled by his gengutsu, did not see what he saw. They did not feel the primal terror crawling up his spine, did not hear the silent roar of something waking beneath the veil of the abyss.

And then—his body moved before his mind.

His legs, still weak, finally broke free of their paralysis. He turned, stumbled, then ran—ran with the desperation of prey fleeing from a beast it could never outrun.

The villagers watched as their revered shaman, the master of sacred rites, fled without a single word. His once-commanding voice had been stolen, his hands, once steady, now shook as though wracked by fever. He did not dare look back. 

Because he knew—if he did, he would not survive.

But to no avail the presence was so overwhelmig that even his body gave up and his senses went crazy his instincts telling him to run but his body could not even move . It was as if a prey who was in face with its ultimate nightmare .

And there, beneath the flickering torches, Jinwoo lay—his body motionless, the shadows wound tight around him like burial wrappings. A boy no longer, but something far more ominous.

Something that the abyss had claimed as its own.