Bang! Bang! BANG!
"Take that, you retarded motherfucker!"
"Eat it, you fuckin pig!"
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
"Drop it, you dumb cocksucker!"
"Haaah…!"
The boy's ragged breath tore through the alley, white-dyed hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood.
His shoulder was bleeding, a bullet lodged deep, yet his hands didn't tremble.
The pistol sat steady in his grip. Every squeeze of the trigger came with unnatural precision, like he'd been born for this.
Hidan's body jerked back as the final bullet tore through him. His legs buckled, but even as he collapsed into the spreading pool of red, his lips curled into a grin.
His eyes...wide, bloodshot locked on the broken corpse of the man lying just meters away.
The corpse of a judge.
Not just any judge, Taylor Dino, the infamous iron-masked bastard. His twisted, hate-filled face still wore the marks of the agony he'd inflicted on countless others.
A man who had once stood tall above the city as a so-called guardian of justice… now reduced to a silent, blood-smeared heap.
Hidan's laughter came wet, choked with blood. His smile was hateful, triumphant, yet disturbingly hollow.
His vision blurred. The night sky above him seemed distant, almost indifferent, as if mocking his short, brutal life.
Then silence.
His body went slack.
A news anchor's voice cut through the quiet, flat and emotionless:
"This is a live update. Earlier today, the notorious murderer responsible for the deaths of real estate magnate William Smith, industrial boss Jones Dickson, and multiple innocent employees was neutralized in a violent shootout.
Also confirmed dead is Judge Taylor Dino, infamously known as the 'Iron Mask.' He was brutally executed at the scene."
"While the victims may now rest in peace, the killer's soul shall find no such rest."
It was over.
The city talked for days. Shock, outrage, whispers in cafes and smoke-filled bars. For a brief time, Hidan's name was everywhere.
But time is cruel.
The headlines faded. The gossip stopped. His story, his crimes, his bloody end… all of it was eventually reduced to nothing more than a half-forgotten tale, buried beneath the endless noise of the City.
No one remembered.
No one cared.
--
In a quiet Japanese-style log cabin, a boy with short silver hair lay on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His lips moved over and over, whispering the same words:
"I'm not dead… I'm not dead…"
Suddenly, the boy sat up with a jolt, like a carp springing out of water. He gasped, clutching his chest as he felt his body.
It was completely different...young, vigorous, brimming with vitality far stronger than before.
"…This… this isn't my body." His voice shook slightly, half in disbelief, half in awe.
He slowly stood, the wooden floor creaking under his feet, and slipped into a pair of clogs.
His steps carried him outside, into the small courtyard. There, by the edge of a pond, he crouched down and looked into the still water.
Reflected back at him was a youthful face. For the first time in years, his heart rippled, breaking the calm surface of his once stone-still mind.
"The memories… they're… mixed."
But the more he stared into his reflection, the more the fragments fell into place. Piece by piece, the haze lifted. Until finally everything became clear.
His breath grew heavier. His body trembled.
And then—
"Hahahahaha!"
Hidan's laughter tore through the quiet courtyard, manic and unrestrained. Tears streamed down his face, dripping into the dirt as his body convulsed.
He laughed until his voice cracked, until his lungs screamed, until he collapsed weakly against the pond's edge, shoulders still trembling.
"Immortal… Hidan? he muttered hoarsely. Is this a coincidence? Or… providence?"
There was no answer. Some truths were not meant to be answered.
His last memory before this rebirth flashed vividly: cornered by police after his final kill. The gunfire, the stench of blood, his body riddled with bullets.
At that time, he had already lost his desire to live. With his quiet, withdrawn nature, he had no one left...no friends, no companions. Life felt unbearable.
He thought that was his end.
Yet here he was...reborn.
Since childhood, Hidan had been reclusive, spending most of his days at home. His only source of joy had been anime.
Among them, Naruto stood above all. To him, it wasn't just a story, it was his escape, his obsession.
And now?
He had awakened as Hidan. The Immortal Hidan of the Akatsuki. No longer just a face on the screen, but a living, breathing youth in the world of shinobi.
A descendant of Yugakure's ninja. A boy already disgusted by the peace of his village.
A boy fated to follow the path of blood and sacrifice guided by murder toward the cult of Jashin.
However, before the boy of Yugakure could embrace his destined role, he was suddenly replaced.
His soul consumed by the intruder who had crossed from another world. And thus, a new being was born: a brand-new Hidan.
The silver-haired youth rose slowly, then sank back to his knees. His forehead pressed against the ground as he bowed three times with a gravity that shook the silence.
"Dad… Mom… I have avenged you. Your enemies now rot in the soil, their sins buried with them."
"From this day forward, I am no longer merely Hidan. From this day, I am the god of carnage Hidan of Jashin."
The memory of his parents burned within him like a scar. They had been the only light in a life shrouded by loneliness, the only ones who gave him warmth when the world spat on him.
Yet that same world...the so-called "system of justice" had declared them guilty and cast them to their deaths.
That was the moment something inside him shattered.
He remembered clearly the first life he took. The act itself was simple. What came after was not guilt, nor fear, nor regret—only a strange, hollow relief.
Right or wrong ceased to matter.
If others could wield life and death with laws and guns, if they could strip away meaning and call it justice, then why couldn't he?
From then on, he resolved to become his own law. His own judge. His own executioner.
It was not about morality. It was about freedom.
The freedom to decide whose existence was worth continuing, and whose life was forfeit.
In that quiet vow by the pond, Hidan was reborn not just into a new world, but into a conviction that no god, no law, no village could strip away.
Hidan's grin widened, a quiet thing that carried the weight of a promise. In a world where rules could be remade, he had supplanted the original Hidan, not to kneel before some nameless creed, but to become a new kind of deity: a god forged by his own hands.
His parents' deaths were the spark that lit him.
They had been crushed by greed, the faceless hands of land developers and sentenced by judges who wore corruption like a robe.
He had spent one life collecting names, one life learning how to end things cleanly.
Each enemy dispatched was both penance and absolution... with every life taken he felt a little freer from the old world's obligations.
In the vanished life behind him there was nothing left to reclaim. Now he would live for himself.
Joining the Jashinist cult was only a means to an end. The rumors were true: immortality here was no simple birthright.
The "immortal" that the cult boasted of was an artifact of their experiments...painful and earned by those who served as test subjects.
If he wanted that body, he would have to play the game on their terms. Oaths, blood, and proof of devotion, shown in the only language that sects like this respected.
"So the next step is clear." Hidan murmured, fingers worrying his chin.
"Infiltrate the cult. Become their specimen. Take their immortality for myself."
The logic was surgical: join the cult, learn their methods, steal their prize.
But the cult demanded a demonstration of faith—lives spilled in ritual before they would accept a recruit.
Killing as initiation. Killing as confession. Killing as worship.
Who to kill, then? A practical question with a practical cruelty. Hidan smiled without warmth.
The problem wasn't the act itself, it was choosing the target.
Which life would be the most useful offering?
Which death would grant him the most leverage, the most advantage?
He spoke to himself in that flat voice he had.
The contrast between the cute, untroubled face in the courtyard and the words that spilled from it made the scene feel otherworldly.
"So…do I have to kill people to win the approval of this band of Jashinists?" Hidan's self-talk was neurotic in content but matter-of-fact in tone—diabolical.
--
In the quiet streets of Hot Springs Village, a boy appeared. About ten years old, silver-haired and soft-spoken, he wandered the village as though it belonged to him.
His eyes followed people intently, yet his smile was warm enough that most dismissed the strangeness.
One afternoon, he stopped near an old man struggling with a bundle of firewood.
"Uncle, let me help," Hidan said gently, stepping forward and steadying the load with his small hands.
The man chuckled. "You're a strange boy. Not many your age bother helping old bones like me."
Hidan smiled faintly. "It's not trouble. After all, what's the point of strength if you don't use it to ease someone's burden?"
The words sounded simple, but there was a weight in them that made the old man pause. He squinted at the silver-haired child, then nodded slowly.
"You speak beyond your years."
Later that week, Hidan wandered into the training yard where children sparred noisily.
Wooden swords clattered, laughter and complaints mixing together. Their instructor dozed in the corner, clearly uninterested.
One boy, red-faced and panting, dropped his wooden sword in frustration. "This is pointless! No matter what I do, I keep losing."
Hidan crouched down beside him, resting his elbows on his knees. "Do you know why you fight?"
The boy blinked. "…To win?"
Hidan chuckled softly. "Winning is nice, but it's not the heart of it. You fight to see yourself clearly. Every time you fall, you learn where you're weak. Every time you stand again, you learn how strong you've become."
The boy stared at him, wide-eyed. "That… makes sense."
"Of course it does," Hidan said with a smile that almost felt like an older brother's. "Strength isn't built in a day. It's built every time you get up."
Even the lazy instructor stirred at those words, casting a curious glance toward the silver-haired child.
Another day, Hidan passed a group of village women gossiping by a well. They noticed him loitering and called out playfully.
"You wander around a lot, little one. Don't you have a home to run back to?"
Hidan's reply was smooth, almost poetic. "The whole village is my home, and every street teaches me something. A person who only stays inside never learns how wide the world really is."
The women laughed, surprised by his maturity, but also oddly charmed. "What a peculiar child… but you're right."
To everyone he met, Hidan appeared as a thoughtful, well-mannered boy, one who spoke with surprising clarity, as though he understood life far better than his age suggested.
But when he walked away, his eyes lingered on certain people with quiet observation.
The drunkards, the liars, the corrupt...those who wasted the peace of Hot Springs Village. In their ignorance, they had already been chosen.
Hidan's lips curved into the faintest smile as he passed another corner.
"Kind words open doors, he thought. And once they're open, no one notices the knife slipping through."
He had been watching the village for days, learning its rhythm, cataloguing its weak points.
Children laughed in the square at noon, merchants closed their shutters early, the training yard had more gossip than discipline.
"If I want this to begin, I must have them all at once," he thought, not as a plan but like a quiet certainty settling into place.
His tone was flat, almost bored. But when paired with the cherubic face of a ten-year-old, the words were monstrous.
Peace had dulled this village. There were no strong shinobi left. And that, Hidan realized, was the perfect condition for him to succeed.
--------------------------------------
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