He did not return home that night.
Instead, he waited at the edge of the forest, just beyond the clearing where Root operatives now lay silent beneath the trees. Reinforcements arrived quickly, as expected, but they did not find him. He had already repositioned, watching from a distance as masked figures assessed the damage with controlled urgency.
There was no chaos.
No alarm bells.
Only quiet containment.
That told him everything.
By morning, a message reached him.
Not through official channels.
Not through mission summons.
A single masked ANBU appeared on the rooftop opposite the Academy grounds while students moved through their routine drills below.
"You are requested," the operative said.
Requested.
Interesting word choice.
He followed without resistance.
The path led not to the Hokage's tower, but downward—beneath layers of stone and silence. The corridors narrowed as they descended, torchlight dimming into steady shadows.
Root headquarters.
He memorized the route.
When the doors opened, the room beyond was simple. Sparse. Deliberate. No decoration. No unnecessary objects.
And at the center—
Danzō Shimura stood waiting.
The older man leaned lightly against his cane, visible eye calm, unreadable. Bandages wrapped his right side, concealing what the rumors suggested lay hidden beneath.
The door closed behind him without sound.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
Danzō studied him not like a person, but like a variable in an equation.
"You adapted quickly," Danzō said at last.
It was not praise.
It was assessment.
"They moved first," he replied evenly.
Danzō's gaze did not shift.
"You were not authorized to interfere with classified transport."
So they were skipping denial.
Direct approach.
He held the older man's stare without flinching. "Then it should not have been placed where I could reach it."
A faint pause.
That, more than defiance, earned interest.
"The artifact was under evaluation," Danzō continued. "It was not meant for immediate activation."
"And yet," he said quietly, "you positioned it within reach."
Danzō tapped his cane once against the floor.
"You were exhibiting unusual internal fluctuations," he said, voice lowering slightly. "The object reacted. We intended observation."
Observation.
Measurement.
Elimination.
The pattern was complete.
"And if I had died?" he asked.
Danzō did not hesitate.
"Then the result would have been recorded."
Honest.
Cold.
Logical.
He respected that more than false sympathy.
The air in the room remained still, but beneath his skin, the weight of his new power rested quietly, contained without strain. It did not surge in anger. It did not tremble.
It waited.
Danzō stepped closer, stopping just beyond arm's reach.
"You have consumed something that does not belong to this world," he said. "You have survived its integration. That makes you… valuable."
There it was.
Not threat.
Not punishment.
Utility.
"You sent Root operatives to remove me," he replied calmly.
"They were instructed to evaluate stability."
The lie was subtle.
But unnecessary.
"They intended termination."
Danzō's eye did not blink.
"If instability had been confirmed."
A measured risk.
He considered the words carefully.
Danzō was not here to arrest him.
Nor to praise him.
He was here to determine whether the weapon could still be controlled.
"You will remain within the village," Danzō said. "You will accept missions as assigned. You will not activate the power without authorization."
Authorization.
The word held no weight now.
"And if I refuse?" he asked.
Danzō's voice remained steady.
"Then you will force the village to respond publicly."
Not a threat.
A prediction.
Public response meant Konoha involvement. Hokage oversight. Political escalation.
Danzō preferred shadows.
So did he.
Silence stretched between them.
He could feel it—the subtle pressure in the air, the way space itself seemed slightly denser when his thoughts sharpened. He did not let it leak.
Control mattered more than display.
"You are mistaken about one thing," he said finally.
Danzō waited.
"I am not your weapon."
The older man's visible eye narrowed slightly—not in anger, but in recalibration.
"No," Danzō replied softly. "You are an opportunity."
The difference was thin.
But real.
Footsteps echoed faintly beyond the chamber doors. Surveillance. Containment.
Danzō turned slightly, signaling the conversation's end.
"You will report as usual tomorrow," he said. "And you will consider carefully which side benefits from your existence."
He did not bow.
He did not show disrespect either.
He simply turned and walked toward the exit, aware that every step was still being measured.
As the heavy doors closed behind him, he allowed himself a single, quiet realization.
Root believed they had contained a variable.
Danzō believed he could negotiate control.
They were wrong about one thing.
Gravity does not negotiate.