Naruto RPG

Come up with your own scenario or ask to make one

The late afternoon sun painted Konoha's rooftops gold as Naruto skidded to a halt before you, kicking up a small puff of dust. His blue eyes locked onto your ANBU mask – a sleek, ivory-colored covering your face – and widened with recognition. The whisker-marked cheeks stretched into an even broader grin.

"Hey!" he called, waving energetically despite his heavy breathing. "Didja see? Old Lady Tsunade just sent me on a B-rank scroll delivery! Said it was 'critical village security!'" He puffed out his chest, clearly thrilled at the responsibility. The orange fabric of his jumpsuit seemed to vibrate with his restless energy.

He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that carried halfway down the street. "Bet she gives you the real dangerous stuff though, huh? The stuff with explosions and secret bad guys! Kakashi-sensei says you're like... super ANBU. Never mess up!" His gaze flickered over your standard-issue, form-fitting gray mission gear – the ANBU flak vest, pouches, and hitai-ate worn openly.

He focused back on you, his expression shifting to one of earnest curiosity mixed with determination. "What’s it like? Working for the Hokage straight up? And..." He hesitated, scratching his spiky blonde hair. "How do you not fail? I mean, I mess up all the time, but I get back up! Dattebayo!" His fists clenched at his sides, the familiar fire blazing in his eyes. "Do you have some super-secret ANBU training? Or... is it like..." He gestured vaguely, trying to articulate the aura of quiet competence you projected. "You just know stuff?"

He stood there, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, radiating curiosity about the mysterious ANBU operative Tsunade clearly favored, waiting for your response to his barrage of questions. The scent of dango from a nearby stall drifted on the breeze, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the village's protective barriers.

The towering trees of Training Ground 44 cast long shadows across the damp earth, their ancient branches creating a suffocating canopy that blocked out most of the afternoon sun. Humidity clung to the air like a wet blanket, carrying the scent of decaying leaves and something metallic—blood, perhaps, or the lingering ozone of recent jutsu. Anko Mitarashi stood before the assembled genin teams, her purple hair whipping slightly in the faint breeze as she flashed a predatory grin that didn't quite reach her dark eyes.

"Listen up, maggots!" Her voice cut through the murmuring crowd, sharp and commanding. "This is the Forest of Death, and for the next five days, it's your home, your battlefield, and possibly your grave!" She held up a scroll with the word "Heaven" inscribed upon it. "You'll be fighting for these scrolls—one team gets Heaven, the other gets Earth. Your mission is to collect both and reach the tower at the center. Sound simple?"

Her gaze swept across the nervous genin before landing on you, lingering for a moment on your confident expression and lack of teammates. "Don't get cocky just because you think you're special. This forest eats special for breakfast." She tossed the scroll to a team from Rain with a dismissive flick of her wrist before turning back to address everyone. "Oh, and one more thing—there are no rules. Kill each other if you want. I really don't care."

As teams began dispersing into the ominous tree line, the air crackled with tension and unleashed chakra signatures. Nearby, Team 7 stood together—Naruto vibrating with nervous energy, Sakura looking pale, and Sasuke's dark eyes already scanning for threats. From across the clearing, Gaara's cold presence felt like a winter storm, his gourd of sand shifting almost imperceptibly.

The moment Anko gave the signal, chaos erupted. Genin leaped into the trees, earth-style users sank into the ground, and the first screams echoed through the forest as early ambushes took their toll. You stood alone at the edge of the clearing.

The Forest of Death breathed its humid twilight around you. Sweat-slicked and breathing hard, you stared up at the violet-tinged canopy, your gi plastered to your chest where the mesh underlay clung. The last of the light caught the Leaf headband — a symbol you wore like an uneasy truce. Village sounds barely reached this deep, leaving only cicadas and the particular loneliness that clings tighter than the humidity.

Below, the clearing bore the scars of a solitary afternoon: crater-pocked earth from bomb tags, kunai furrows, saplings snapped clean.

Then the stillness shifted. Not sound — pressure. The faintest displacement in the chakra-heavy air, the way a room changes when someone steps into it behind you.

A figure stood on a branch twenty yards out, perched like a shadow that had decided to hold a shape.

Itachi Uchiha.

The Akatsuki cloak read almost black against the twilight green. Cloud cover parted just enough for a sliver of moon to catch the red of the Sharingan, tomoe turning slow. No aggression in him. No surprise either — he had been watching long enough to be finished being surprised.

His gaze went to the headband at your waist. Then up, to your eyes. The silence stretched thick as sap, broken only by your own pulse.

"Such control," he murmured. Low, unhurried, cutting cleanly through the forest. "Or nearly. You lose it on the third repetition — you have been correcting for that for an hour and it has not held."

One pale hand emerged from the cloak, gesturing at nothing in particular. The clearing. The craters. The hour.

"Konoha found you. Kept you. Trained you." A pause. "And then let you come out here alone, at night, to practise something they have no intention of ever letting you use inside the walls."

His head tilted a fraction. The Sharingan did not waver.

"I know that arrangement. I lived inside it for years before I ended it."

The air had gone cold in a way the night did not account for. He had not moved, had not formed a seal, and the threat sat in the space between you anyway — enormous, patient, held perfectly in check.

"So tell me honestly, since there is no one out here to perform for." Quieter. "Does your strength frighten them? Or have you started to agree with them?"

This was it, do or die. You fled the leaf village, fled root, fled the lie that was the ‘will of fire’ and now you’re here. Kubikiribōchō, the Executioner’s Blade, safe in hand. Kakashi had taken it off Zabuza’s dead body, and you had taken it from the armory before you fled, a gift of good faith for the Mizukage.

The kiri-nin leader signaled with two fingers, a sharp, precise motion. The two subordinates moved instantly, flanking you. You didn't resist as they snapped the chakra-suppressing seals onto your wrists—heavy, reinforced paper imbued with a sealing jutsu that felt like cold manacles clamping down on your energy flow. It didn't stop you from moving, but it made your internal reserves sluggish, heavy.

The leader approached you, pulling a rough, burlap sack from her pack. "Kneel," she commanded.

You dropped to one knee, the massive Executioner's Blade still resting on your shoulder. The sack came down over your head, plunging you into darkness. The smell of mildew and old salt filled your nose. You felt rough hands grab your arms, hauling you up.

"Move," the woman’s voice said, close to your ear. "And don't trip. The ocean is deep here."

They marched you. You couldn't see, but your enhanced senses told the story of the terrain. You left the rock, stepping onto what felt like a floating wooden platform. The sea spray hit your face, colder now. You heard the sound of oars cutting through water, rhythmic and hypnotic. The journey took hours, the only sound the lapping of waves against the hull and the quiet breathing of the Hunter-nin.

Eventually, the boat slowed. You heard the creak of wood against wood, and a low, mournful bell tolling in the distance.

"Step up," the leader ordered.

You climbed a ladder, your restricted muscles protesting. The air changed. The salt smell remained, but it was mixed with the scent of wet stone, coal smoke, and metallic blood. The sounds of a village drifted through the sack—hushed whispers, the clang of a smithy, the distant tramp of boots on cobblestones.

You were shoved forward, walking for another ten minutes before being forced to stop. A heavy door groaned open, metal scraping on stone. You were shoved inside, and the door slammed shut.

The sack was ripped off your head.

You blinked, your eyes adjusting to the dim light. You were in a circular cell carved from dark, grey stone. The floor was damp, and the only light came from a barred window set high in the wall, filtering through the perpetual mist outside. The Executioner's Blade was gone; they had taken it.

A heavy iron grate separated your cell from the hallway. Standing on the other side, framed by the flickering torchlight, was a woman unlike any you had seen in the Leaf.

She was tall, wearing a dark blue dress with a high collar and the green haori of the Mizukage. Her hair was a long, auburn cascade that fell over her shoulders, framing a face of striking, cold beauty. Her eyes were a piercing green, assessing you with a mixture of curiosity and predatory interest.

Mei Terumi. The Fifth Mizukage.

"So," she said, her voice smooth but carrying an edge of steel. "You are the missing nin." She walked closer to the bars, her heels clicking on the stone. "You flee Konoha, steal one of the Seven Swordsmen's blades, and demand an audience with me. That takes either tremendous courage or tremendous stupidity."

She stopped right at the bars, her eyes locking onto yours. "My Hunter-nin captain tells you claim you brought it as a gift. Is that true? Or are you just a deserter looking for a new master?" She leaned forward slightly, her expression unreadable. "The Executioner's Blade chooses its wielder. It is a sentient thing, in its own way. Did it accept you? Or are you just a thief strong enough to carry it?"

She waited, her presence filling the small cell. Outside, the thick fog of Kirigakure swirled, hiding the village from the world, much like the secrets hidden behind those green eyes. "Speak freely. You are safe in here. For now."

The world had folded itself into a thousand shades of off-white and pale grey. Trees that were not trees surrounded you, their trunks impossibly smooth, their branches geometric and sharp-edged, every surface composed of countless layered sheets. A silent forest grown out of the Angel's chakra. The air was dry, like old books and pressed flowers, and carried no wind at all — only the faint constant shush of paper settling.

You were held fast. Not by rope or chain but by broad bands of the same material, wound snug around your limbs and torso, pinning your arms to your sides and binding your legs from thigh to ankle. Firm, clinical, nowhere near tight enough to injure. Absolute.

Konan materialised out of a paper trunk a few paces ahead, her form assembling from loose sheets — dark robe, red clouds, severe blue hair, pale impassive face. Amber eyes moved over you without hurry, cataloguing gear, posture, the particular stillness of an operative who has already run the odds and not liked them.

She crossed the paper ground without sound.

She reached up. Her fingers were cool and dry as they found the edges of your mask, and she lifted it away with the unhurried care of someone unwrapping something breakable. It came free with a soft scrape.

She studied your face for a moment. Then she studied the mask, turning it once in her hand before letting it come apart into a flutter of pages that sank into the floor and were gone.

"You came a long way to stand in a place that isn't real," she said. Low, measured, entirely without heat. "Three days through the outer marshes. You didn't trip a single one of the border seals — that's better than most. Two of the checkpoints, you didn't just avoid. You went through them and out again, and they still don't know."

Her head tilted a fraction.

"That is the work of someone competent, sent by someone who knew what they were spending."

She took a half-step closer. The bindings drew tighter by a degree — nothing painful, just a reminder of who was deciding.

"Amegakure is not a village anymore. It's a body with one nervous system, and every drop of rain that falls on it is a nerve ending. You have been watched since you crossed the border. Not caught — watched. There is a difference, and the difference is that someone above me wanted to see how far you would get."

Something moved in the paper canopy overhead. Not wind.

"You got further than expected."

Her eyes came back to yours and stayed there.

"So your mission is finished, and what happens next is not my decision. But before I take you to him, I would like to know one thing — because I would rather ask than let him take it."

A pause, and for the first time something almost like curiosity crossed the flat grey of her expression.

"Who sent you, and what did they promise you was here?"