Heikō Mu.

Heikō sat alone in his domain, his hands resting on his knees as he meditated, trying to regain control. The punishment from Concetios had left a scar—not a physical one, for Heikō's body was untouched—but a mark on his soul, a wound that bled frustration, doubt, and the bitter taste of humiliation. Heikō Mu, the God of Shinobi, had always prided himself on his duty to protect his people. He had fought countless battles, shielded his realm from chaos, and established a fragile peace among the clans.

Yet his efforts, his sacrifices, had been met with punishment.

The room around him seemed to dim as he delved deeper into his meditation, the swirling energies that usually danced in his chamber now simmering with a dark, pulsing heat. It was subtle at first, a whisper at the edge of his thoughts—a flicker of black flame just out of sight. But it was there, growing stronger with each breath, each heartbeat, each moment he remembered the indignity of being brought to his knees by Concetios.

"It's not fair," he muttered, the words foreign to his tongue, an echo of the resentment bubbling inside. He had always stood for order, justice, and protection, but now, for the first time, he allowed himself to feel the anger that he had always pushed away. He allowed the bitterness to seep into his being, and that was when he felt it Fukushū Yū.

Heikō's breathing quickened, his normally calm exterior breaking as he tightened his fists. He didn't try to contain it this time. He let the fury simmer, let it spread from the pit of his stomach to his chest, where it thudded against his ribcage like a caged beast. There was a familiar presence there, one he had always suppressed, one he had never allowed to surface outside of battle—a presence he feared because he knew it was a part of him he couldn't fully control.

Heikō could feel the shift within himself. It was like a crack in his soul, a crack that let a sliver of dark light shine through. He had always kept that part of himself chained and caged, but now... now it was different. Now, he wanted to feel it. He wanted to understand the anger, the rage, the raw hatred that Fukushū Yū embodied, and for the first time, he let it in.

The chamber grew darker, the shadows lengthening and deepening. His followers, those loyal shinobi who had always looked up to him, had never seen their god like this. They were used to his serenity, his calm strength, his unwavering discipline. But now, they felt an undercurrent of something far more dangerous. They could feel the change, even if they couldn't see it.

In a flash, Heikō's eyes snapped open, the usual serene calm replaced with a blazing intensity. A flicker of dark flame burned at the edges of his gaze, and his aura—once pure and focused—now shimmered with a faint, ominous crimson. He could feel it, the anger swirling inside, threatening to consume him, and he didn't pull back.

"This is what I get for protecting them," he muttered, his voice colder and sharper than he intended. "This is the price of justice, of balance? Punished for doing what was necessary?"

He rose to his feet, and the very air around him seemed to tremble. His followers, sensing the change, moved closer, concern etched on their faces. They knew something was wrong, but they didn't dare speak. They had seen their master in battle, had witnessed his ferocity when provoked, but this... this was different. It wasn't the calm fury of a god defending his people—it was something darker, something they couldn't quite name.

Heikō raised his hand, and with a slow, deliberate motion, summoned his chakra. The energy, which usually flowed like a serene river, now pulsed like molten lava, crackling and flickering with an intensity that made the ground beneath him quake. For a moment, he considered releasing it, letting the raw power of Fukushū Yū tear through the walls of his domain and remind the world of the strength he held.

But he stopped, the control that defined him reasserting itself just enough to pull back. He couldn't let himself lose control—not yet.

For the first time in centuries, Heikō allowed himself to listen to that voice—the voice he had silenced for so long. It wasn't a roar, not the frenzied rage he had always feared, but a whisper. A low, insidious whisper that promised power, strength, and justice in the face of betrayal.

"They don't understand," it said, the voice curling around his thoughts like smoke. "They never will. You protect them, and they punish you. You give everything, and they take more. They don't deserve your loyalty."

Heikō felt his pulse quicken, his body tensing as he allowed the words to sink in. There was truth in them, truth he had never allowed himself to acknowledge. He had always believed in balance, in discipline, in doing what was right, but now... now he wasn't so sure. Maybe he had been a fool to think he could keep everyone safe, to believe that his power was enough to hold back the chaos of the world.

Heikō's followers looked at him, their faces a mixture of awe and fear as they felt the shift in their god's presence. They had pledged themselves to him, had followed him through countless battles, but now they felt something they had never felt before: uncertainty. They didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say as they watched the struggle play out in their leader's eyes.

Then Heikō spoke, his voice low and filled with a strange, cold resolve.

"I did everything for them," he said, the bitterness in his tone unmistakable. "And this is how they repay me? Maybe... maybe I've been too kind. Too lenient."

Heikō's aura flared, and his followers took a step back as a wave of dark energy washed over them. It wasn't an attack, but a manifestation of the power he now allowed himself to feel—the power he had always kept locked away. He didn't release Fukushū Yū completely, but he allowed a fraction of that hatred, that raw, unbridled power, to flow into his being. It felt intoxicating, the rush of strength that came with it, the clarity of purpose, the burning desire for retribution.

For a moment, he could see himself differently—no longer the calm, unshakable protector, but a god who demanded respect, who wouldn't hesitate to punish those who crossed him. Heikō's followers could sense the change, could see it in his eyes, in the way he carried himself. It wasn't a loss of control, but a shift—a realization that sometimes, power meant making others fear what you were capable of.

"If this is the price of protection," he said, his voice steady but filled with a new edge, "then so be it."

His followers, loyal as they were, bowed their heads. They didn't understand what had changed, but they knew one thing for certain: the god they had followed was no longer the same. Heikō had seen the world through new eyes, and he wouldn't be so quick to turn the other cheek again.

The dark flicker in his aura subsided, but the change remained. Heikō had felt it, had tasted the power that came with embracing his darker side, and he knew that from this moment on, things would never be the same. The world had tested him, had punished him for his strength, and now he would show them what it truly meant to challenge the God of Shinobi.

Heikō sat back down, his meditation resuming, but now, his mind was sharper, clearer. The anger was still there, but now it was his to control, a weapon to be wielded, not feared. He had allowed a sliver of Fukushū Yū's essence to remain, to remind him of what he could become if he ever allowed himself to fall completely.

The struggle was not over. It had only just begun.