Chapter 18: Who Is Wrong
Immersing himself in the warm pool, Hatake Kakashi exhaled softly as the heat seeped into his body, washing away the fatigue of the day.
Yes, there was indeed a large bath inside Aizen's mansion.
At first glance, it looked like a grand bathhouse—spacious enough to hold dozens of people without feeling crowded. It seemed originally designed for hotels or dormitories, yet no one used it that way.
After all, this was the residence of Konoha's beloved advisor, Aizen. Everyone had helped repair and decorate the place with devotion, only to leave afterward, satisfied just to have contributed.
Now, Kakashi was the only one who actually used the large bath.
Aizen himself rarely did. As Konoha's advisor, his schedule was relentless. Instead of using the grand bath, he preferred to drag a small wooden tub into his room, heating the water himself with Fire Style or Water Style techniques before soaking quietly while reviewing documents.
Kakashi would sometimes see him like that—half-submerged in water, a towel resting on his head, calmly correcting reports even as steam filled the air.
Contrary to what his father once said, Aizen didn't seem like the kind of man who abused power.
On the contrary, he often burned the midnight oil, fixing policy details, conducting inspections, or personally gathering information about the villagers' concerns.
Though Kakashi had lived under his roof for over a month, they'd only spoken a handful of times—perhaps four conversations at most, including tonight's brief exchange.
If Aizen had been his real father, Kakashi might have felt neglected. But he knew very well he was not.
His father was Hatake Sakumo—the White Fang of Konoha.
A man whose legacy was both revered and condemned… and whose fate had left deep scars across the village.
"My name is Hatake Kakashi," he reminded himself quietly.
And yet… the longer he stayed in this mansion, the stranger he felt.
It wasn't sadness. Nor was it pain. It was something else—a quiet, gnawing uncertainty that made him want to ask questions he could never bring himself to voice.
"Are you planning to betray Konoha?"
That question had crossed his mind many times… but each time, it faded away.
Because, if he were being honest, Konoha had never seen such a devoted, capable administrator in generations.
The smiles of the villagers were genuine. The shinobi's morale was real. Efficiency had soared. Even amid preparations for war, Konoha had regained a sense of order—and, remarkably, hope.
And all of it stemmed from Aizen.
His father's warning echoed in his mind like a splinter driven deep into his heart, but after just one month of observation… Kakashi found himself doubting.
Was his father's judgment really right?
After leaving the bath and changing into a fresh ninja uniform, Kakashi stepped out into the drizzle that cloaked the night. The village streets were quiet, the lamps casting dim halos through the mist.
Most of the shops had already closed. Only a few stayed open late, catering to tired shinobi and laborers.
This was the hour of adults—when laughter and complaints mixed freely with the scent of sake. Kakashi heard snippets as he passed:
Grumbling about missions, gossip about politics, even curses toward Aizen himself.
Yet the tone of those complaints told him more than the words.
When drunken shinobi muttered that Aizen was "too strict," that he forbade unnecessary interference with civilians or excessive displays of rank—the shopkeepers and sober customers merely exchanged knowing looks.
Because deep down, everyone knew Aizen was right.
He was fixing what had long been broken.
Eventually, Kakashi left the noise behind and reached a quiet corner of the village—a place he knew too well.
The cemetery.
The drizzle softened to a thin veil of mist as he stopped before a small, lonely grave.
"…"
Hatake Sakumo.
The once-feared White Fang of Konoha—now resting in silence, his grave unkempt and forgotten.
The surrounding memorial stones were well cared for, tended by comrades and families. But Sakumo's… was left to wither under time and rain.
A hero who gave his life for Konoha, buried without honor. His resting place concealed, his name sullied.
The official story called him a disgrace. They said his actions cost Konoha dearly. Some even whispered that he had betrayed his comrades for sentiment.
Yet after a month under Aizen's leadership, Kakashi had begun to question that, too.
Would a true traitor's son be protected, educated, and given a future by the village's advisor himself?
If his father had truly been at fault, would Aizen have shown him kindness?
Unless… there was more to the truth than anyone dared say.
Kneeling down, Kakashi set aside his umbrella and began clearing the weeds that had crept over the grave.
The rain fell softly around him, its rhythm steady, soothing—until suddenly, the sound stopped.
He frowned.
The rain wasn't falling on him anymore.
Looking up, he froze.
A figure stood above him, holding an umbrella—a man in a white haori, its edges wet with mist.
"…Aizen?" he whispered.
But no. Something felt off.
The newcomer's presence was silent, almost weightless. He wore a white haori nearly identical to Aizen's, yet on his back, a single word was written: Eleven.
A raccoon-shaped mask covered his face, hiding his features. Without a word, the man stepped closer and lowered the umbrella, shielding Kakashi more completely from the rain.
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he crouched beside him and began helping clear the weeds around the grave.
The quiet sound of rustling grass mingled with the rain.
Kakashi stared, unable to speak.
This man—whoever he was—felt neither threatening nor kind. Only… distant.
His movements were precise, almost ceremonial, as if paying respects to someone he, too, once knew.
"…Eleven," Kakashi murmured under his breath, eyes narrowing as he read the mark on the man's haori.
He etched the detail into his memory.
There was something deeply unsettling about this stranger in white—this silent shadow who stood in the rain beside him.
There was clearly no resemblance between them, and Kakashi couldn't even make out the man's body shape or face beneath the mask. Yet, for some reason, he felt a faint warmth radiating from him.
"Who are you?"
Looking at the man in the white haori squatting beside him, Kakashi hesitated for a moment before speaking in a quiet, guarded tone.
"This place has nothing to do with you. The environment isn't pleasant either. You should go do your own thing. This is my place."
"Is this the grave of Hatake Sakumo?"
The masked man's voice was low and steady. He stared at the grave for a moment before continuing softly,
"I… was a good friend of your father's. I wasn't in Konoha when things went wrong for him. By the time I returned, I'd already heard the bad news."
"Is that so?"
Kakashi shifted slightly, making space for the tall man to kneel beside him and help clear the weeds.
There was something different about this stranger.
Most Konoha shinobi who mentioned his father would do so with either pity, anger, or quiet contempt. Some cursed Sakumo for abandoning his mission, others mourned his death. But none ever came close. None dared.
Yet this man—this masked figure with gray hair tied neatly behind his head, a hairstyle eerily similar to Sakumo's—did not hesitate. He crouched beside Kakashi in silence, pulling up weeds one by one with deliberate care.
"I wasn't here when he died," the man murmured after a long pause. "Now that I think about it… I wish I had realized what was happening sooner. I'm sorry I couldn't be there. And I'm sorry you have to live under Aizen."
Kakashi glanced at him, his tone calm but firm.
"There's no need to apologize. Aizen treats me well. Better than anyone else in Konoha, at least."
"…I see."
The man fell silent again, his gloved hands continuing their quiet work.
"Even though this may be painful to ask," he said after a moment, "how is Sakumo's reputation in the village now?"
Kakashi's eyes dimmed slightly.
"A traitor. A sinner. The man who nearly led to Konoha's downfall. The war preparations we're doing now—they say it's all because of his mistake. That's how the village remembers him. That's how my father died."
"…I understand. Thank you for telling me."
"As the son of a criminal, I'm actually lucky," Kakashi replied quietly. "Aizen took me in. No one dares to say anything to me—or to him. So I haven't suffered at all."
"…"
The man's eyes flickered with pain behind the mask.
Even now, the cruelty between Konoha's gaze and the innocence of a child still existed.
Watching Kakashi work so diligently, leveling the earth around the grave, the masked visitor reached out as if to comfort him—but Kakashi interrupted before he could speak.
"Thank you for helping," Kakashi said, standing straight. "But I'll handle my father's grave myself. Aizen may not seem like a good person, but… I'm satisfied with my life."
He looked down at the simple gravestone, brushing the dirt from his hands.
"I don't know what my father truly did. But if he really harmed the village, then that was his choice. I'm his son. I can only take responsibility for my own actions."
His voice grew steadier, stronger.
"You can scold me, insult me, or hate me—it doesn't matter. I'm Hatake Sakumo's son. No matter how foolish my father's decision might have been, it's my duty as his child to bear the consequences."
He bowed slightly.
"I may be young, but I'll do everything I can to make up for what my father lacked. That's all I can do."
"…Wait!"
Kakashi turned to leave, but the man in the raccoon mask suddenly reached out, unable to hold back his emotions. His hand landed firmly on Kakashi's shoulder.
"You don't have to live this way, Kakashi! You're only six years old. Soon, you'll be entering the Ninja Academy. You don't need to carry this burden alone!"
Kakashi froze for a heartbeat, then spoke with quiet defiance.
"Please don't say things like Aizen would, Senior. My father is gone. But I'll work hard to wash away his shame."
"You think your father's actions were shameful?"
"What else could they be? Everyone in Konoha says so."
"…"
Kakashi gently slipped from the man's grasp and walked away, his small frame disappearing into the misty night as he ran toward Aizen's mansion.
The masked man—wearing the white haori marked with the number Eleven, the dagger insignia engraved on its sleeve—remained kneeling before the grave, his hand still frozen in the air.
He didn't move.
The rain fell again, softly, quietly.
He stayed there for a long time—motionless, as if the truth itself had struck him silent.
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