The days that followed the training session weighed heavily on Shikamaru's mind. Though he kept a calm and indifferent face, a quiet restlessness stirred within him. Each time he sat down to relax, each time his hands brushed against the shadows, he could feel them pulling at him—like an old, familiar call that he couldn't ignore.
It wasn't just the feeling of mastery that unsettled him. No, it was something darker, something that lurked at the edge of his thoughts, like an old ghost from a past life.
That night, as the village around him settled into a quiet slumber, Shikamaru lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His mind raced, replaying the training session over and over. His father's words echoed in his ears: "We control the shadows, not the other way around."
But he wasn't sure if he was controlling them, or if they were controlling him.
A chill ran down his spine as the shadows around his room seemed to deepen. They stretched across the floor, curling around the edges of the walls like hungry tendrils, responding to his every movement. He felt it again—an overwhelming urge to push further, to test the boundaries of his newfound power.
"Stop it," Shikamaru muttered under his breath. He turned over, trying to ignore the creeping sensation that his shadows were alive. But they were. They weren't the same as before. There was something different about them, something ancient.
The whispers returned.
A flash of memory. A life that didn't belong to him. A man clad in black, his face concealed by a mask, moving through the shadows with deadly purpose. The man's eyes, burning with the intensity of a lifetime of violence. A name—a single word—echoed through his mind: Zed.
Shikamaru gasped, sitting up in bed. He didn't understand. Why was this happening? Why were these memories surfacing? He wasn't Zed. He was Shikamaru Nara, a child of the Hidden Leaf Village, a strategist in training. But the memories, the feelings—they were real.
The shadows were calling to him again. They flickered across the room, stretching unnaturally as if they were alive. He could feel the pull, the desire to reach out and control them in ways he hadn't before. He could feel them obeying his will—just like they had earlier in the day. His fingers twitched involuntarily, the instinct to manipulate them surging to the forefront of his mind.
"No," he whispered to himself, shaking his head. "I won't do it."
But it was too late. The shadows responded, wrapping around his limbs like serpents, lifting him from his bed. Shikamaru struggled, but the more he fought, the tighter they grew, an unyielding force that threatened to consume him. Panic began to creep into his thoughts, but then something inside him clicked—a deep, unsettling sense of calm, as if he had done this before, as if he had always been in control.
With a single thought, he released his hold on the shadows, and they dropped him back to the floor. His breathing was heavy, his heart racing.
The room was silent, save for the faint rustle of the night wind outside.
Shikamaru stared at the floor, his body still trembling from the force of what had just happened. His mind was reeling, but one thing was certain: the power inside him was growing, becoming more difficult to suppress.
His father's warning played over and over in his head. We control the shadows, not the other way around.
But what if Shikamaru wasn't the one in control?
The next morning, as the sun rose over Konoha, Shikamaru went through the motions of his daily routine, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was changing inside him, something he couldn't fully understand or explain.
It wasn't long before his father called him for another training session. Shikaku was standing in the center of their yard, waiting with his usual calm demeanor, his arms crossed. Shikamaru approached him with his usual lazy gait, but today there was a quiet unease in his steps.
"Shikamaru," his father began, "let's focus on your shadow manipulation today. We need to refine your technique. You can do more than just stretch it out; let's practice controlling it in combat situations."
Shikamaru nodded, though his thoughts were far from the task at hand. As he prepared himself, he glanced at his father, trying to gauge what his father thought of him lately. There was an unspoken tension in the air, a silent understanding that Shikamaru's abilities were evolving faster than expected.
"Alright," Shikamaru said, finally breaking the silence. He extended his hand, his shadow stretching out in front of him. This time, he focused harder than before, pushing the technique further. The shadow wriggled and twitched under his control, as if responding to something deeper.
Then, it happened again. The shadow moved too quickly, too fluidly. It surged forward, wrapping around the practice dummies and slicing through them with deadly accuracy. This time, Shikamaru noticed something even more unsettling—the shadows didn't just act on his command; they felt as if they desired to act on their own.
Shikaku's expression darkened as he saw the shadows twist, coiling and striking with an unnatural ferocity. "Shikamaru! Enough!" he shouted, but it was too late. The shadows continued to move, growing more aggressive, more precise, until Shikamaru's own instincts snapped him out of the trance.
He immediately stopped the technique, his breath shaky.
"Shikamaru, what was that?" Shikaku asked, his voice cold with concern. "You're not just using the Nara technique anymore."
Shikamaru stood still, unsure of how to respond. His heart was racing, his mind clouded with confusion and fear. The power was undeniable, but the source was still a mystery.
"I don't know," Shikamaru admitted quietly, his gaze falling to the shattered remains of the training dummies. "I just… felt like I could do it. Like the shadows wanted to obey me, not the other way around."
Shikaku's eyes narrowed. "This is dangerous. Whatever that was, it's not normal."
Shikamaru clenched his fists at his sides, frustration building inside him. It's not me, he thought. It's not me doing this. But the shadows continued to haunt him, their call growing louder with each passing day.
And deep inside him, a part of Zed—his former self—watched with a quiet, knowing smile.