Naruto: The Beast Within

Raimu pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders as he walked away from the group, leaving Takuma behind to finish whatever conversation was left. The cool night air brushed against his face, and the village was alive.

Alive with running around, having fun, talking with friends, and, murmurs––murmurs about him.

He could hear them. The whispers of adults, hushed yet sharp, laced with uncertainty, fear, and judgment.

"That's him…"

"The last Mitsukawa."

"You know what happened to his clan…" one villager asks.

"No one knows..."

"You know what they say about him..."

"He lives alone in that place. No one else goes there." Another stated.

It was always the adults. The ones who remembered. The ones who knew, or at least thought they did. Some of them spoke his name in full, as if reminding the world of what he was. Raimu Mitsukawa. A name that carried weight, an echo of a clan that no longer existed.

The children didn't understand. Some of them just looked at him, eyes filled with quiet curiosity rather than fear. 

The adults were careful not to talk about him near any of the kids, as the Hokage was adamant about keeping whatever happened a secret. The only time he felt he wasn't any different was when he was in the Academy; since none of the children knew what was said about him.

No adults ever spoke to him directly. He had always been an island, separate from the rest of Konoha, no matter how much time had passed.

Raimu sighed, staring down at the blanket wrapped around him. His fingers traced the embroidered crest stitched onto the fabric—a six-pointed star, three flowing rivers, a vortex in the center. In gold, the Tri-Star Rivers, the Mitsukawa symbol.

He continued walking, his steps slow, unhurried.

Soon, the voices faded behind him as he reached the outskirts of the village, where a massive wooden wall stood inside the village itself, separating one section from the rest. The Mitsukawa territory.

It was unnatural how quiet this part of Konoha was. No villagers passed through. No merchants set up stands. The air here was heavy, weighed down by history that no one wanted to acknowledge.

The entrance was still there—the giant wooden doors, carved with the Mitsukawa crest in the center. A gate that no one used anymore.

"That place is cursed."

"No one should live there."

"He stays there alone?"

They thought he didn't hear. But Raimu always did.

Raimu could have pushed it open, but he didn't feel like it. Instead, he walked along the wall's edge, stopping at an unmarked panel of wood. To anyone else, it looked like part of the wall. But he knew better.

With a light push, a hidden door creaked open, revealing the abandoned streets beyond.

Stepping inside, he was met with the sight of empty houses stretching down the road.

The buildings weren't falling apart they were well-built, weren't overgrown with weeds—no, they were preserved. Frozen in time. elegant with curved rooftops and wooden beams engraved with kanji for wisdom and strength,

. The stone pathways were smooth, undisturbed.

And yet, it felt more lifeless than a ruin ever could.

The village had never repurposed this land. Never reassigned the homes.

They left it untouched.

Like a graveyard.

Raimu walked, his steps the only sound in the vast emptiness. No voices, no lantern light, no warmth. Only the cold glow of the moon casting long shadows against the quiet streets.

A forest loomed in the distance, the trees untouched and wild. The Mitsukawa had always valued balance—knowledge and nature, wisdom and strength. They had built their home with both in mind.

But now, all of it was a ghost town.

Beyond the houses, a forest stretched into the distance—untamed, untouched. The Mitsukawa had built their home with both in mind—wisdom and nature, knowledge and balance. But now, nature was all that remained.

His eyes drifted toward the main estate. The largest house, standing at the very back, overlooking the entire compound. The home of the clan leader.

And now, his.

The doors slid open smoothly beneath his touch. Inside, the silence deepened. Not the silence of an empty home, but something heavier. Something watching.

His golden eyes flickered toward the portraits lining the walls—Mitsukawa elders from generations past. Their faces were stern, their gazes sharp even in painted form.

They would have killed him, too.

Moving through the house, he passed the living room, where shelves lined the walls, still full of books and scrolls that no one had touched in years.

His fingers brushed against the wooden walls, tracing the ancient kanji carved into them.

"Knowledge is Power. Power is Control."

"What is Uncontrollable Must Be Erased."

A bitter smile tugged at his lips. The Mitsukawa had spent centuries preaching control. And when they couldn't control him, they tried to erase him, too.

In the end they failed.

In the living room, shelves were lined with scrolls and books, untouched for years. The wooden table held an unlit lantern, the furniture pristine yet lifeless.

The kitchen was almost empty. He should have gone out to buy food, but after hearing those whispers in the village, he didn't feel like dealing with people. Instead, he grabbed the leftover sushi from earlier, eating in silence before heading to his room.

The air in his room was lighter than the rest of the house. His room was different from the rest of the house. Unlike the pristine emptiness of the other spaces, this one had life.

Blankets in a heap. A futon that was never properly rolled up. A few books lying open where he'd left them.

Raimu collapsed onto the futon, exhaling slowly.

His fingers traced the golden embroidery of the Tri-Star Rivers on his blanket.

The whispers from earlier still clung to him.

"The last Mitsukawa."

It wasn't a title he chose. It was one given to him. One he couldn't erase.

He stared at the ceiling, eyes unfocused.

Why did they leave this place untouched?

Was it out of fear? Respect? No...they just wanted to forget.

He closed his eyes, listening to the silence.

This place was his.

And yet, sometimes, it felt like he was just another ghost haunting it.

Sitting on the edge of his futon, he stared down at the Mitsukawa crest stitched into his blanket.

"Legacy, wisdom, chaos."

That was the meaning of his clan's symbol. A legacy of knowledge. A duty to control power. And an inevitable descent into destruction.

No one in the village knew the full truth.