Naruto trudged through the forest, the morning sun filtering through the canopy in thin, golden slivers. His body still ached from the transformation, a dull throb that pulsed in his bones, but it was different now. It wasn't the pain of bruises or hunger—it was something deeper, like his very soul had been stretched and reshaped. The cave was far behind him, but the memory of the dragon's flesh, the fire in his veins, lingered like a brand. He didn't understand it, not fully, but he felt… stronger. Alive in a way he'd never been.
For the first time in his life, Naruto felt something new stirring in his chest. Pride. Not the loud, brash confidence he wore like a mask to fend off the village's scorn. Not the ego he puffed up to convince himself he could survive another day. This was different—sharp, raw, and real. It was pride in himself, not for anyone else's sake, but for his own.
He'd never had anything to be proud of. The villagers of Konoha saw to that. To them, he was a pariah, a demon, a stain on their perfect little world. They spat at him, threw stones, whispered curses when they thought he couldn't hear. Even the few who didn't hate him—the old man at Ichiraku Ramen, maybe the Hokage on a good day—never gave him anything to hold onto. No family, no history, no reason for their hatred. He'd pieced together enough to know the Hokage, "Grandpa Jiji," wasn't as kind as he seemed. The old man's smiles were too calculated, his words too careful. Naruto wasn't an idiot, no matter how much he played the fool to keep the ANBU watchers at bay. He knew they followed him, shadows in the dark, for reasons he couldn't grasp. But they weren't here now, probably off dealing with the mob that had chased him into the forest five hours ago—the hours he'd spent writhing in that cave, becoming… something else.
Naruto's steps slowed as he reached a clearing. His reflection stared back at him from a small, murky pond. His whisker marks were darker now, almost black, and his eyes… they flickered with something wild, something not entirely human. He clenched his fists, feeling the faint prick of nails that were too sharp, too hard. The memory of the fight flashed in his mind—not the villagers' attack, but the moment he'd fought back.
It had been just before he fled. A group of older kids, maybe ten or eleven, had cornered him in an alley. They'd taunted him, thrown rocks, called him the same names he'd heard a thousand times. *Demon. Monster.* But this time, something snapped. He'd lunged at them, small and scrawny but fueled by a rage he didn't know he had. His fist had connected with one boy's jaw, sending him sprawling. The others froze, shocked, before they swarmed him. He hadn't won—not even close—but for that one moment, when his fist met flesh, he'd felt it. Pride. He'd fought back. He'd proven something to himself, not to them. Never to them.
"They're insects," he muttered, the word slipping out naturally, like it had always been there. It felt right. The villagers, the kids, even the shinobi who looked the other way—they were insects, scuttling around in their small, hateful lives. They'd mocked his dream of becoming a shinobi, of becoming Hokage. They'd laughed when he shouted it from the rooftops, as if a "demon" could ever rise so high. But Naruto knew better now. He'd always known, deep down, that he could be more. And now, with this new power thrumming in his veins, he was sure of it.
His thoughts drifted to a story he'd overheard once, about Jiraiya, the legendary Sannin. A civilian orphan, no shinobi blood, no fancy clan, yet he'd clawed his way to the top, becoming one of Konoha's strongest. If Jiraiya could do it, why not Naruto? The villagers, though—they didn't even try. They could train, could learn the basics of chakra control, could become something more than helpless civilians. But they didn't. They chose weakness, then demanded protection from the shinobi they despised. They made demands of people like Naruto, people they called monsters, while doing nothing to better themselves.
His lip curled, a low growl rumbling in his throat—a sound that wasn't entirely human. He hated them. Not the ones born weak, the ones who couldn't help it—those he could pity, maybe even understand. But the ones who *chose* to be weak, who could train, could fight, could stand up, but didn't? He despised them. They were worse than insects. They were parasites, leeching off the strength of others while offering nothing but scorn.
The realization settled into his mind like a seed taking root. These people, this village—they weren't worth his dream. He'd wanted to be Hokage to protect them, to prove he was more than their hatred. But why? Why protect people who chose to be nothing? The dragon's magic pulsed within him, amplifying his thoughts, his anger, his pride. It whispered of power, of dominance, of a world where the weak didn't dictate the strong.
Naruto straightened, his small frame radiating a quiet menace. The forest around him seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with the weight of his transformation. He didn't know what he was becoming—not yet—but he knew one thing for certain. He wasn't their demon anymore. He wasn't their victim.
He was something else entirely.
As he turned back toward the village, a faint smirk tugged at his lips. Let them hate him. Let them try to break him. He'd show them what a true monster could do. Not for them, but for himself. For the pride burning in his chest, brighter than any fire he'd ever known.