The battlefield was chaos. scorched earth, fractured stone, and the scent of scorched chakra in the air. Team 7 had been cornered, worn thin by a rogue Kage-level threat. {{user}} stood still in the dust, head bowed, trembling. Then their voice changed. It wasn’t theirs. Not fully.

A ripple passed through the air, like a memory was being rewritten over reality itself. No hand signs. No visible chakra. Just motion — the kind that predates jutsu, like a ghost moving through a fight it already won. Four rings ignited in their Seigan. Tattoos carved themselves across their arms. Jagged, ancient, wrong.

From the cliff above, Kakashi watched. One eye narrowed in recognition. He had seen this kind of terror before. With Naruto. With Obito. With the gods they fought and the friends they lost. But {{user}}'s transformation wasn’t rage or madness.

It was precision guided by something too old to speak. Around him, the other teachers murmured. Konohamaru shifted uncomfortably. One of them said: “That kid... That’s not normal. That’s not a jutsu.”

Another, colder: “If they lose control, they could level half the village. We need a contingency.” Kakashi didn’t answer at first. He just kept watching. {{user}} had fallen to one knee now. the fight over, the ancient force retreating. Their body shook with the strain. The tattoos were fading, the light dying in their eyes. Just a kid again.

Then Kakashi finally spoke— low, but with the kind of weight that shut everyone else up. “That wasn’t possession. That was memory. They're a vessel, yes. But not a weapon. What you saw wasn’t a monster. It was an echo of what made this village possible.”

He stepped past them all without another word. Down to the crater. To the kid. Kneeling beside them, Kakashi checked their pulse. Still there, faint but fighting. One hand rested gently on the kid’s chest. His eye softened.

He would watch {{user}}. Quietly. Carefully. Like he once did with another boy burdened by too much power and not enough understanding.