I became naruto charachter

The night air was thick with an unbearable silence. The villagers stood frozen, unable to look away from the altar, unable to process the wrongness before them.

Jinwoo lay still. He had not moved. He had not breathed.

And yet—something was moving.

The first to notice was the blacksmith. He had stepped forward out of instinct, guilt pressing heavy on his chest. But the moment his eyes landed on Jinwoo's body, his breath caught in his throat.

The shadows—they were alive.

Black tendrils slithered across the boy's skin, writhing and pulsing like living veins, stretching and twisting as if trying to find their shape. They flickered between solid and smoke, clawing at the air, grasping, searching.

Then came the sound.

A screech—not of metal, not of man, but of something primal, something wrong. It did not come from Jinwoo's lips. It came from the shadows themselves. A twisted, wailing cacophony, layered with voices that did not belong, voices that should not be.

The villagers stumbled back in horror. Some clasped their hands over their ears, others turned away, refusing to look at the abomination that was unfolding before them.

But the shaman—

The man who had orchestrated this offering, who had led the village into betrayal—could not move.

His body trembled violently, his breath shallow and erratic. His mind screamed at him to flee, to get away, to put as much distance as possible between himself and that thing.

But he could not.

Something deeper than fear held him in place. Not magic. Not genjutsu. Instinct. The raw, primal terror that had kept humanity alive for centuries whispered to him now, louder than it ever had before.

Run.

Run.

RUN.

But his legs would not obey. His muscles locked, his throat dry, his entire being paralyzed beneath the weight of the presence before him.

Jinwoo had not moved.

But the thing inside him had.

And it had noticed him.

A hush fell over the village. No one moved. No one spoke.

Then—it breathed.

Jinwoo's small chest rose, but what escaped his lips was not the warm breath of life. Instead, the air around him chilled. A mist-like frost formed where his exhale met the night, curling unnaturally, lingering too long before vanishing.

The villagers shivered. Not from the cold—but from the unnaturalness of it.

And then—it moved.

Not like a boy. Not like a human.

At first, the movement was erratic. Jolting. Searching. His body twisted in unnatural angles, his limbs snapping forward and back as if they did not belong to him. He stumbled—no, lurched—across the village, turning his head sharply in different directions.

It was as if something inside him was looking for something.

His legs carried him forward in quick, sharp bursts, his arms reaching out blindly only to retract just as fast. He scuttled across the ground, then jerked upright, his neck twisting unnervingly to the side.

One villager stifled a scream as Jinwoo's body suddenly snapped toward them, his empty gaze boring into their soul.

Then, just as fast—he was gone.

A streak of darkness. A flicker of motion between moments.

Before anyone could react, he found it.

The blacksmith's forge.

The embers of dying flames cast flickering shadows against the walls, barely illuminating the small figure now standing inside. Jinwoo's hands—still too small, too human—wrapped around the hilt of a sword.

It was a simple, unfinished blade. Not polished. Not sharpened.

Yet, when his fingers curled around it—the air sang.

A hollow hum vibrated through the steel, as if the blade itself recognized something unnatural was touching it.

Then, before anyone could scream—

He vanished.

The shaman, still kneeling, still trembling, never saw it coming.

One moment, he was gasping for breath, frozen by terror.

The next—a sharp, piercing pain bloomed in his chest.

His body jerked. His hands instinctively clutched at his robes, but the warmth spilling from his chest was undeniable.

Then, he looked down.

A blade—the blade—was embedded in his heart.

The hilt trembled slightly in the cold air, stilling only when the boy before him tightened his grip.

Jinwoo.

No—not Jinwoo.

The thing that had taken hold of him.

The shaman's lips parted. A breath, shallow and weak, escaped, but no words came.

Jinwoo's gaze—hollow, empty, endless—bore into him, unblinking.

The shaman had spent his life calling upon spirits, communing with forces beyond the mortal world. But in that moment, in those final heartbeats, he understood—

This was no spirit.

This was something far, far worse.

His body gave one final shudder. His vision blurred.

And then—darkness.

The shaman's lifeless body slumped forward, the dull thud of his collapse swallowed by the suffocating silence.

But it did not stop.

Jinwoo—no, the thing wearing his skin—stood motionless for a moment, head tilted, as if listening to something only it could hear.

Then, it turned.

The villagers felt their stomachs drop as its empty gaze locked onto them. There was no rage, no cruelty—only absence. A hollow recognition, like an animal sniffing the air before the hunt.

The sword in its hand dragged against the dirt, carving a thin, meandering line in the ground. Then—it moved.

A single slash.

One smooth, effortless motion—an experiment. The villagers flinched, their hearts hammering, but the blade touched nothing.

Then, it moved again.

Two slashes. Faster this time. Sharper. The sword cut through the air like it was slicing through silk.

Another motion—four slashes. The movements doubled, seamless and unrelenting, a rhythm forming.

Then—sixteen.

The air screamed.

The sword blurred into streaks of steel and shadow, slashing in precise, overlapping arcs. It was no longer movement—it was an onslaught. Each slash fed into the next, doubling, compounding, multiplying into something unstoppable.

The villagers stumbled back, eyes wide in horror. It was no longer just swinging the sword—it was accelerating.

From sixteen slashes to thirty-two. From thirty-two to sixty-four. The very air around Jinwoo distorted, warping under the sheer speed of his movements.

The sound was unbearable. The whistling of the blade turned into a shrieking howl, as if reality itself protested against what was happening.

And then—it stopped.

As suddenly as it had begun, the storm of motion ceased.

Jinwoo stood still. Perfectly, unnaturally still.

The villagers did not move. Did not breathe.

Only the wind stirred, carrying the cold breath of something that had no need for air—learning how to breathe.

The storm of slashes had stopped.

Jinwoo stood still, unnaturally still, his sword lowered, his breath cold and empty.

For a fleeting moment, the villagers felt as if they had been spared.

Then—they gasped.

Not from relief, but from a sensation they couldn't understand.

Their bodies—felt wrong.

Someone tried to step back, but their legs refused to move. Another reached for their throat, as if struggling to speak, only to find their arms unresponsive.

A heavy silence stretched over the village.

Then—it happened.

In the span of a breath, they all fell apart.

Limbs. Torsos. Flesh and bone—sliced cleanly into pieces.

It was not a violent spray of blood. No, their bodies simply separated, as if they had never been whole to begin with. Each severed piece slid gently to the ground, soundless, effortless—like a vegetable carved by a master's blade.

The ground was littered with neatly severed bodies. The scent of fresh blood filled the air, but not a single scream followed.

Because none of them had time to scream.

The blacksmith stood frozen, watching in horror as the world around him collapsed into death. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart hammering so violently it felt as if his ribs would crack.

Why?

Why was he the only one left?

He should have died, just like the others. But he hadn't.

And then—he understood.

It wasn't that the blade had missed the villagers. It had never touched them at all.

The sword was swung with such refined precision that it no longer needed to cut flesh. It had sliced through the air itself, and the mere disturbance of that air had been enough to cut through human bodies as if they were nothing.

It wasn't just a swing.

It was perfection.

Jinwoo's head tilted ever so slightly, as if acknowledging this realization. The blacksmith felt his entire body seize with terror.

The thing wearing Jinwoo's skin had not attacked out of anger, nor out of bloodlust.

It had simply been practicing.

The sword clattered to the ground.

The ringing of steel echoed through the empty village, a stark contrast to the thick, suffocating silence that followed.

The blacksmith, the last remaining soul, stood trembling, his breath ragged, his body refusing to move. His legs felt weak—useless. His mind screamed at him to run, to flee, but his body knew better. There was no escape.

Jinwoo—or the thing that now wore his skin—looked at him.

And then, it smirked.

It was small. Barely there. But unmistakable.

A cruel, childlike amusement flickered in those hollow eyes, like a predator finding a new toy.

Then, before the blacksmith could even blink—

It moved.

A sudden gust of air, a blur of motion—then a searing pain ripped through his scalp.

The blacksmith screamed.

His vision blurred with tears as he felt his hair—all of it—torn from his head in an instant. His raw, exposed scalp throbbed in agony, blood seeping from torn flesh. He gasped, his knees buckling, but before he could collapse—

It happened again.

A sickening crack.

This time, it was his teeth.

A fist plunged into his mouth, fingers curling like hooks. A moment of pressure—then a savage yank.

The blacksmith shrieked as his teeth were ripped from his gums, his mouth instantly filling with blood. He coughed, choking, his mind barely able to process the pain.

And then—it paused.

Jinwoo's head tilted, observing. Savoring.

The blacksmith trembled, barely clinging to consciousness, his entire body wracked with unbearable pain. He tried to move, to crawl, to beg—but there was no mercy in those hollow eyes.

And then—the final horror.

A hand shot forward, and with an effortless tear, his most fragile flesh was ripped away.

The scream that followed was not human.

It was raw. Primal. Unbearable.

The blacksmith convulsed, his body no longer his own, his mind fracturing under the sheer agony. He barely registered the blood pooling beneath him, barely noticed the cold air against his ruined body.

Then—one last pause.

Jinwoo—or the thing that had taken him—stood still. Watching.

The amusement was gone.

The game was over.

With the final flicker of satisfaction, its hand plunged forward.

Flesh, ribs, bone—all gave way.

The blacksmith barely felt it. His world had already darkened, his consciousness already slipping. The pain had become too much.

The last thing he saw—before everything went black—was the small, satisfied smirk on Jinwoo's bloodstained face.

And then—nothing.

The Fading Shadow

The village lay in absolute silence.

Blood soaked the dirt, the bodies of the fallen scattered like discarded dolls. The air, once thick with fear and suffering, now hung empty—hollow.

Jinwoo stood in the center of it all.

Still. Breathless.

And then—the shadow stirred.

It rippled, a shifting, writhing mass that clung to his skin like a second layer, pulsating as if alive.

For a moment, it hesitated.

Then—it began to unravel.

The black tendrils that had once wrapped tightly around his body loosened, peeling away in wisps of darkness. They slithered off his skin, unfurling into the air like smoke caught in a dying breeze.

Piece by piece, the shadow left him.

The suffocating presence, the overwhelming hunger, the unnatural perfection—it all began to fade.

Jinwoo's fingers twitched. His body, moments ago a weapon of absolute precision, now felt light—empty. The darkness that had bound him, controlled him, used him, scattered into the air like dust being shaken from old cloth.

And then—it was gone.

Nothing remained of the entity that had just slaughtered an entire village. No remnants of the terror it had wrought, no lingering malice—only Jinwoo.

A boy.

A child.

Standing alone in the ruins of what had once been a home.

The last wisp of darkness vanished into the air, leaving behind only silence.

Jinwoo stood there, his bare feet soaked in the blood of the fallen, his small hands limp at his sides. The air around him felt lighter now, emptied of the unnatural force that had taken hold of him.

Then—his body wavered.

His knees buckled. His arms hung lifelessly.

And without so much as a gasp, he collapsed.

Not from exhaustion. Not from pain.

But as if he had never been aware.

His small frame crumpled onto the bloodstained ground, his face peaceful—untouched by the horrors that had just unfolded.

His breathing was soft. Steady.

As if he had simply fallen asleep.

The ruins of the village stretched around him, bathed in death, yet Jinwoo—**the very cause of the massacre—**lay there like an innocent child, unaware of the nightmare that had passed.

The wind howled, carrying away the last echoes of screams that no longer remained.