Naruto: One Eye Tenseigan

The hideout deep in the forest was damp and dimly lit, the smell of wet wood mingling with stale air. Zabuza sat silently on a worn wooden stool, his massive Kubikiribōchō resting ominously against the wall, its blade catching the faint light from a nearby lantern.

The sudden creak of the door opening echoed through the room. Gatō entered, flanked by his two henchmen, Zōri and Waraji. Gatō's short frame looked even more unimpressive against the towering forms of his bodyguards, but his arrogant swagger filled the space like he owned it. His beady eyes immediately settled on Zabuza.

"You're supposed to be one of the Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist, yet here you are, sitting around like some lazy old man," Gatō snapped, his shrill voice cutting through the silence. "What am I paying you for, huh? You've failed to deal with that bridge builder!"

Zabuza didn't move. His head remained tilted downward, the bandages around his face obscuring any reaction. His silence, which once carried a threatening weight, now seemed distant and hollow.

"Are you even listening to me?" Gatō barked, his frustration boiling over. He stomped closer, his diminutive figure dwarfed by the presence of Zabuza. "I hired you to eliminate that bridge builder and those ninja brats! And yet here I am, still waiting. What's your excuse this time?!"

Zōri leaned lazily on the hilt of his sword, his lip curling in mockery. "Maybe the big guy's lost his edge," he drawled, his tone dripping with derision.

Waraji chuckled beside him, tapping his own blade against his shoulder. "Or maybe he's just not worth the money, Gatō-sama. Seems like a waste to me."

Gatō snorted, emboldened by his men's mockery. He jabbed a finger in Zabuza's direction. "I don't care how you do it, just kill that bridge builder! And if those Leaf ninja get in your way again…" He leaned forward, his face twisting into a sneer. "…deal with them. I don't care if you have to level the entire bridge. Just get it done."

Zabuza shifted slightly, but still didn't speak.

"If you can't get the job done," Gatō continued, his tone sharpening, "then I might as well—"

Before he could finish, a faint, deliberate sound of footsteps echoed from the shadows. They were soft, measured, yet somehow carried an oppressive weight. Gatō and his men froze, their attention snapping to the source.

A figure in a black robe and an ANBU mask emerged from the shadows, his presence almost ghostly.

Tomaru.

The masked figure moved silently behind Gatō, his presence unnoticed until the moment he struck. Without a word, Tomaru drove the Cyan Sphere into Gatō's back. The short man jerked forward with a strangled gasp, his body stiffening unnaturally.

Zōri and Waraji reacted instantly, drawing their swords and stepping toward Tomaru.

"Who the hell are you?!" Zōri demanded, his blade gleaming in the dim light.

Tomaru stood still, his mask betraying no emotion.

Before either could advance, Gatō's body suddenly moved on its own. He stepped between them and Tomaru, his movements stiff and jerky like a poorly controlled puppet.

"Boss?" Waraji faltered, his sword lowering slightly in confusion.

"Lower your weapons," Gatō commanded, his voice unnaturally calm yet tinged with terror.

"What's wrong with you, Gatō-sama?" Zōri snapped, his sword twitching with hesitation.

Gatō's eyes widened in panic, his mouth trembling as he tried to speak. "You idiots! I—I'm not doing this! Kill him, you fools!"

But his body betrayed his words, staying planted protectively in front of Tomaru.

Waraji gritted his teeth, his sword trembling in his hand. "What the hell is going on?"

Tomaru finally spoke, his voice calm and icy, yet carrying an undeniable authority. "Your master serves me now."

The weight of his words sent a chill through the room. Zōri and Waraji exchanged uncertain glances before stepping forward again.

Tomaru raised a hand. A freezing mist swept through the air, engulfing the two henchmen in an instant. Ice encased their bodies, locking them in place, their swords frozen mid-swing.

Gatō stood trembling, his eyes darting between his frozen men and the masked figure behind him. Tomaru moved past him without sparing him a glance. Zabuza rose silently and followed, his movements mechanical, like a shadow bound to its master.

Gatō remained standing, alone and terrified, watching as his once-loyal subordinates stood frozen like statues.

In the dimly lit upper chamber of the treehouse, Tomaru sat with an unsettling calm upon a creaking wooden chair. Moonlight filtered through the wooden slats, painting fractured shadows across the room. The ambient rustle of leaves from the surrounding forest whispered a deceptive serenity, a stark counterpoint to the tension simmering within the walls.

Across the room, Zabuza Momochi stood, his towering frame trembling ever so slightly. The residual influence of the Puppet-Cursing Sphere had only just dissipated, leaving him disoriented. His breath hitched as he stared at his own hands, flexing them as if verifying they were still his own. Slowly, his gaze lifted to meet Tomaru's. For the first time in years, there was fear in the eyes of the Demon of the Hidden Mist.

"What… what did you do to me?" Zabuza's voice was low, hoarse, as though dragged from the depths of his being.

Tomaru shifted slightly, turning his masked face toward the swordsman. His unreadable gaze seemed to pierce through Zabuza's confusion. "I released you from my control. It's… tiring to maintain," he said, his tone calm and calculating.

Zabuza clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. There was no denying the frustration simmering beneath the surface. "Why?" he growled, his voice carrying a dangerous edge.

Tomaru leaned back, his posture deceptively casual. "Because your potential is wasted as a puppet. True power lies in choice. You'll achieve far more as an autonomous force under my guidance than as a mere extension of my will."

Zabuza's lip curled in disdain. "And if I choose not to follow?"

The faintest trace of amusement colored Tomaru's otherwise monotone response. "Do you believe you truly have a choice?"

The room fell into a suffocating silence. Zabuza's sharp mind turned over the implications of Tomaru's words. The odds were insurmountable; resistance was futile. Yet the thought of yielding grated against every fiber of his being.

"Fine," Zabuza growled after a long pause. "For now, I'll play along. But don't think for a moment I've forgotten what you've done."

Tomaru didn't respond, his silence an unspoken acknowledgment of Zabuza's words. The moment stretched, filled only with the faint rustling of leaves outside.

Tomaru finally broke the silence, his voice calm but commanding. "I have plans that require discretion and capable hands. You will be the leader of an organization I'm establishing. Temporarily. Whether that remains the case depends on your ability to earn my trust."

Zabuza raised an eyebrow. "An organization? For what?"

"A network that works from the shadows," Tomaru replied. "Its purpose will be to advance my goals without drawing attention to me." He gestured subtly toward the window. "Your task will be to recruit talented individuals. Build strength from the periphery of the world, Gato will provide financial backing. Killing him would be an unnecessary waste."

Zabuza scoffed. "And why not? What role does that leech play in all this?"

"Because he's already established a vast network of wealth and influence," Tomaru explained. "Why build from scratch when I can use his resources? His greed can be redirected. And now, he's under my control."

Though grudgingly, Zabuza could not deny the logic. Still, his pride bristled at the notion of playing second to Tomaru's schemes. Before he could voice another objection, Tomaru shifted the conversation.

"Before we proceed, there's a problem to address," Tomaru continued, his tone sharp. "You are a fugitive. Your face, your weapon, your fighting style—all are too recognizable. If this organization is to remain in the shadows, you must change."

Zabuza stiffened, his voice low and dangerous. "You're asking me to give up who I am?"

"I'm telling you to evolve," Tomaru corrected. "Adaptation is survival."

Without warning, Tomaru stepped closer, placing a hand on Zabuza's forehead. A faint, otherworldly energy pulsed through the room. Zabuza's body convulsed, his features shifting subtly as the Zetsu spores Tomaru had implanted activated. When the transformation subsided, Zabuza staggered back, his frame began to shift, muscles tightening and contracting, his stature shortening. He stared down at his altered body, disbelief and fury flashing across his face.

"What is this?" Zabuza demanded, his voice tight with barely-contained rage. Gone was the rugged visage of the Demon of the Hidden Mist; in its place was a younger, almost ethereal countenance. His short, straight black hair was styled in an undercut curtain, framing his deceptively youthful face. Narrow, intimidating dull gray eyes—shadowed by dark circles. 

Tomaru stepped back, his tone unruffled. "It is a gift"

Tomaru's thoughts flickered briefly: Zabuza now bore a striking resemblance to someone…

With measured calm, Tomaru guided Zabuza in mastering the transformation, demonstrating how he could return to his original form when needed. Though reluctant, Zabuza quickly grasped the technique's potential, his initial shock giving way to grim acceptance. He did not realize the spores zetsu not only altered his physical form but also masked his chakra, making him an even more elusive figure.

"And what of my fighting style?" Zabuza asked, his voice laced with defiance. "You've taken my Kubikiribōchō. What do you expect me to use?"

Tomaru's response was calm, yet firm. "The Kubikiribōchō is too iconic. Its very presence draws attention. I will keep it for the time being. You, however, will acquire Kiba."

Zabuza's brow furrowed. "The lightning blades?"

"Yes," Tomaru confirmed. "The swords of the Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist, Kiba's lightning-infused blades will suit you well. Defeating Raiga will not only provide you with a new weapon but also serve as a test of your resolve."

A dark smirk played on Zabuza's lips, his confidence rekindling. "Raiga, huh? It's been a while since I've had a decent challenge."

Later that night, as Zabuza sat alone in the shadowed depths of the treehouse, the weight of his new reality bore down on him. His gaze lingered on the Kubikiribōchō, now leaning behind Tomaru, out of his reach. It felt strange to be without it, as though a part of himself had been severed.

"I'll play your game for now," Zabuza muttered under his breath, his tone heavy with bitterness. "But one day… I'll reclaim what's mine."

Outside, the forest remained eerily quiet, as though holding its breath for what was to come. Zabuza's grip on the vial tightened. For now, he would follow Tomaru's orders. But deep in his heart, he vowed that one day, he would reclaim his freedom—and his blade.