Naruto : Infinite Buff!

Darkness. It was the first thing Amatsu felt as he drifted back into consciousness—a thick, suffocating darkness that pressed against him, heavy and unrelenting. There was no warmth, no comfort, just an unyielding cold that gnawed at his skin and seeped deep into his bones.

His body stirred faintly, his fingers brushing against the uneven surface beneath him. The stone floor was damp and jagged, its chill biting into his weakened frame. His breathing was shallow, each inhale dragging stale, metallic air into his lungs. The taste of rust and decay lingered at the back of his throat, sharp and bitter.

Amatsu's eyelids fluttered open, but the void didn't leave him. The oppressive darkness pressed harder, wrapping itself around him like chains. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to move, to think.

Moments passed as his senses returned. Slowly, a dim, sickly green glow began to bleed into the edges of his vision. It flickered faintly, its eerie light struggling to illuminate the space around him. It wasn't enough to offer clarity—only enough to cast jagged shadows that danced across the damp stone walls.

The silence around him was deafening. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic drip of water echoing from somewhere unseen, each drop like the tick of an inevitable clock counting down.

Amatsu gritted his teeth, his mind clawing its way out of the haze. Memories came rushing back, sharp and unforgiving. The fight. His first real fight. The enemy's chains had been laced with poison, and he had barely noticed until it was too late. His body had been slow, his reactions weaker than he believed they would be. He had underestimated the opponent.

The shame burned deeper than the poison ever did.

"I was careless," he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse and rough.

He had trained few months, honing his skills in solitude. But training was not the same as survival. He had lacked the instincts, the experience to anticipate the enemy's tricks. His first real battle had exposed his flaws, and the price had been steep.

And now, here he was.

---

Amatsu's body stirred, and he rose slowly, each movement deliberate as if the weight of his own existence still lingered in the air. The coldness that had once gripped his limbs—an insidious numbness that gnawed at his bones—had vanished, replaced by an unfamiliar warmth, as though his very essence had been rekindled.

His muscles, once strained and rigid, now felt fluid, the stiffness that had once shackled him dissolving like mist before the morning sun. Every motion, though cautious, came effortlessly—too effortlessly. The nagging pain that had plagued him, the wounds that had once marred his flesh, had all faded into nothingness. His body, unburdened by injury, was as pristine as the moment it had been forged.

He took a breath, deep and steady, and within that breath, he could feel it—the poison that had coursed through his veins, intent on taking him, was gone. Erased. Not a trace remained, as if it had never existed at all. There was no burning ache. The Poison Immunity Buff had already woven its silent work, removing the danger with the efficiency of an unseen hand.

His fingers flexed, and he marveled at the energy that surged through him. The aches of exhaustion, the weight of his past wounds, were no more. His body felt as if it had been forged anew, each cell restored, each fiber of muscle primed for action. The Physical Recovery Buff had been working silently, weaving the threads of his recovery with the precision of a master weaver.

There was no pain. No lingering weakness. His body was perfect—perfect in the way only someone who had bled, fought, and suffered to the brink could understand. The strength that coursed through his limbs was not just physical; it was the strength of survival itself, locked within him, made permanent by the relentless pursuit of power.

Amatsu didn't rely on the system blindly. He'd figured out how it worked, what it could do, and most importantly, how he could use it. It wasn't here to save him—it was a tool, one he had to wield properly. Buffs didn't appear out of nowhere. They were earned, forged through effort and pain. As long as it worked, as long as he could use it to survive, that was enough.

---

The green glow around him pulsed faintly, drawing his attention to the walls. Twisting seals were carved into the stone, their sickly light illuminating the damp chamber. The symbols seemed alive, writhing faintly as if they were breathing. The air was thick, heavy with an unseen pressure that pressed down on his chest.

Amatsu rose to his feet. The floor beneath him was slick and uneven, but he moved with precision, his balance steady despite the treacherous surface. His dark eyes scanned the space around him, taking in every detail.

The chamber was vast, a cavernous expanse of stone and shadow. Rows of cells lined the walls, their iron bars corroded with rust. Beyond the bars, faint shapes huddled together in the dim light.

Children.

---

In his own cell, dozens of figures were scattered across the floor and walls. Most of them were too weak to move, their frail bodies trembling in the cold. Some sat with their knees drawn to their chests, their eyes hollow and fixed on nothing. Others lay sprawled on the ground, their breaths shallow and uneven.

A faint sobbing broke the silence.

Amatsu's gaze swept over the rows of cells, indifferent to the suffering around him. His sharp eyes barely lingered on the children huddled in the corners—skin pale, eyes empty. They were weak, nothing more. Their survival meant little in a world where only strength mattered.

A faint, shuddering sob broke the silence. It was nothing but a fleeting disturbance.

Amatsu turned toward the source, his gaze falling on a small boy clutching a girl's arm. The child trembled, his face buried in the tattered cloth of her sleeve. His small form, fragile and pitiful, convulsed with sobs.

The girl, no older than ten, whispered broken words, her voice strained. "We'll survive… together…"

The sound of her voice, weak as it was, did not reach Amatsu. He stared at them, his expression void of sympathy. Foolish, he thought, his mind a quiet storm. They cling to hope as if it has any value. Hope is the privilege of the strong, not the weak.

The girl's attempts to comfort the boy fell on deaf ears, just as her fragile body would fall to the cold, uncaring world. In this place, where only power mattered, their bonds were nothing. They will die. They have no place here.

The boy's face, pale and contorted in misery, was nothing but a reminder of how fragile life could be. Another weak soul consumed by the world. It is inevitable.

Amatsu's lips curled ever so slightly, a bitter realization passing through him. He turned away, his gaze drifting toward the stone walls, the fetid air stifling his breath. The scene behind him became irrelevant, nothing more than an echo.

"Survival," Amatsu murmured to himself, his voice low, almost lost in the space around him. "Survival is not found in the company of the weak."

The girl, still holding the boy's trembling form, did not respond. Perhaps she could not hear him. Perhaps she understood. But there was no time for pity here. There was no time for compassion in this forsaken place

Across the corridor, another group of children sat motionless. They didn't cry. They didn't speak. Their faces were pale, their gazes empty. One girl leaned against the bars of her cell, her hollow eyes fixed on Amatsu. She didn't blink. She didn't move. It was as though her soul had already left her body.

Amatsu's gaze lingered on her for a moment before turning away.

"Weak. They were nothing but ghosts in the flesh, the frailty of their existence hanging from their bones like the final strands of a dying thread. But what did it matter? In the end, all that mattered was power—their weaknesses only reminded him of his own inevitable fate, should he falter, should he fall."

The thought crept into his mind, cold and bitter. He didn't feel pity. He didn't feel sorrow. Only a detached calculation.

"If I die here, what will it change? Another soul devoured by the hunger of the world. Another body discarded, as though it had never existed. The world will never notice. Only the strong leave a mark, and I... I must become one of them."

---

He placed a hand against the wall, feeling the faint vibration humming beneath his fingertips. The seals were intricate, layered with a power far beyond his comprehension. He didn't understand their purpose, but he could tell they weren't meant to protect.

Amatsu's hand brushed against the wall, feeling the faint hum of chakra seals running through it. The patterns were complex, but their intent was clear: not protection, but suppression. Whoever put these here wasn't defending something—they were caging it. Amatsu pulled back, his mind already turning over the possibilities. These seals weren't something he could deal with yet, but that didn't matter. Every problem had a solution—he'd find it when the time came.

"They're restraints," he thought grimly.

They were designed to keep something inside. To suppress. To bind.

---

A faint sound broke through the stillness—the echo of footsteps.

Step-Step. Click.

Amatsu's gaze flicked toward the source, his body already responding before his mind had fully processed the intrusion. His reflexes, recognized the rhythm of the sound instantly—sharp, deliberate. The sound of boots against stone, each strike a calculated step in the silence.

Step-Step. Click.

His body reacted without thought, instinct blending with the precision gifted by the system. The reaction speed buffs that had become ingrained within him flared to life, sharpening his awareness to a razor's edge. He did not need to see to understand; the very air had changed, bending to the pressure of the approaching presence.

Amatsu remained perfectly still, a predator in wait, his muscles coiled and ready. His senses had sharpened to the point that the world itself seemed to slow, every detail within his reach now clear. The system, always working in the background, had woven this awareness into his very being. He knew what was coming. The steps weren't just sounds to him—they were a warning, a shift in the balance of his environment.

The heavy door at the far end of the corridor groaned open, its hinges screaming in protest. Two figures stepped through, their presence suffocating the room.

The first was a man with dark robe's, his right arm concealed beneath layers of pristine white bandages. His lone visible eye gleamed with cold calculation, sweeping over the rows of cells with a predator's indifference.

The second figure was larger, clad in heavy armor that gleamed faintly under the green light. A breathing apparatus hissed softly with each step he took, the sound rhythmic and mechanical. His movements were slower but no less imposing, each step sending faint tremors through the ground.

The children in the cells shrank back instinctively, their frail bodies pressing themselves against the walls. Even the faint sobbing ceased, replaced by a suffocating silence.

Amatsu remained still, his dark eyes fixed on the two men.

---

The robed man, Danzo Shimura, spoke first. His voice was sharp, clinical, devoid of emotion.

"The chaos of war serves us well. No one will notice the disappearance of a few hundred orphans. Their lives were forfeit the moment they were abandoned."

The larger man, Hanzo the Salamander, let out a low chuckle, his tone mocking.

"Hmmm... yes. But their deaths must serve a purpose, Danzo. If this experiment fails, your ambition will be buried here."

Danzo's visible eye narrowed slightly, his voice unwavering.

"It won't fail. Orochimaru is a necessary piece of this puzzle, and these children are the foundation of Konoha's strength."

Amatsu didn't understand everything they said, but the key points were clear: experiments. Sacrifice. Survival. The words sank into his mind like cold steel.

He felt his chest tighten faintly, but he forced his breathing to remain steady. Panic would do nothing but hasten his death. Instead, he focused. He observed. Every word. Every movement. Every detail.

---

The figures retreated into the darkness, their presence fading like the last whisper of a dying breath. Amatsu's gaze followed them, his eyes sharp, calculating. Each movement etched into his memory. Every sound, every whisper, had a purpose. Even in this forsaken place, he could not afford to forget. His survival-his very future, depended on the smallest of details.

The sound of a key turning reached his ears, sharp and metallic.