Naruto: The Chosen Undead

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Chapter 125 The Archer of Providence

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There were nights where the silence felt heavier than the hunger. The wind crawled across the muddy streets of the Wave like a dying man searching for warmth, and the sea whispered things no one wanted to hear. Houses stood like bones, hollowed, cracked, and forgotten. Fires flickered in the distance, burning not to provide light, but to keep the monsters away.

Not the ones in bedtime stories.

Real monsters. The kind that wore coin purses and drank women's tears like sake.

She leaned against the rotting wood of the brothel's porch, legs sore, lips dry, cigarette trembling between her fingers. Her name didn't matter anymore. Not here. Not in this place. Some called her Red, not because of her hair, but because of what happened the first time she said no. She still walked with a slight limp from that night. But hey, at least she could still walk.

She took a drag, the ember flaring like a heartbeat before death. Smoke curled from her lips as she gazed out at the street, empty and slick with rain that never quite washed anything clean.

This was her life now. A ghost in a living hell, traded and tolerated because she knew how to keep her head down and her mouth shut. She didn't cry anymore, not because she was strong, but because she was tired.

And then she saw him.

At first, she thought it was a child lost in the wrong part of town, but no child moved like that. Shoulders squared. Steps measured. Presence heavy as thunderclouds. He wasn't from Gato's crew. His outfit wasn't flashy like the thugs who walked around in open shirts and gold chains, pretending to be kings.

This one… he looked like he belonged in the woods, or maybe on a battlefield from another lifetime.

Layers of brown and beige clung to him like armor, every inch of him wrapped in cloth and leather. His boots, strapped high and tight, moved with the silence of someone used to killing. A short black cape rested over his shoulder, pinned carefully near his neck like a shadow stitched to his body. And that mask… porcelain white. Red and orange around the eyes. The beak at the nose. A bird. A robin. But not a cheerful one. This bird looked like it had forgotten how to sing.

The prostitute narrowed her eyes. She had seen drunks, killers, and desperate fools try to play hero before. None of them wore masks like that. None of them walked like death itself. But before she could decide if he was a threat, she heard the laughter.

Rough. Familiar. Reeking of piss and cheap rum.

"Oi, oi! What do we have here?" came the voice from behind. Her skin prickled before the man even touched her.

The drunkard stumbled into view—a thug with a bloated belly and a knife hanging loosely from his belt, face half-covered in spit and grime. She could smell him before he got close. It made her stomach twist.

"Didn't know we had girls on smoke break now," he slurred, grabbing her arm hard enough to leave a mark. "Or are you waiting for special customers, huh?"

She didn't resist. Resistance got you worse things than bruises.

"Come on, Red," he grinned, trying to force a kiss. "Give us a discount."

His hand slipped under her shirt.

Then he was gone.

Thrown. No, pushed. Hard. She stumbled back, breath caught in her throat. The masked figure stood between them now. Silent. Still.

"What the fuck?" the drunk barked, rolling back to his feet, face twisted with outrage. "You little bastard, you touch me again and I'll—"

He never finished the sentence.

The flash of silver was so fast she didn't even see it. Just the thunk of something heavy hitting the mud… and then the thud of something else collapsing.

She stared. For a long second, her mind refused to process what she was looking at.

The drunkard's body twitched on the ground. His head had rolled to a stop at her feet, eyes wide, mouth still trying to finish the threat. She gasped, stumbling back, her cigarette falling from trembling fingers. She nearly slipped but caught herself on the doorframe, lifting her hand instinctively. "P-please," she whispered, voice cracking. "Don't hurt me."

The mask tilted. A moment passed. "I won't," came the voice. A boy's voice. Calm. Unbothered. Barely older than twelve.

Her breath hitched. What… was this?

"I need directions," the masked boy said. "Where does Gato's gang stay? Where do they gather?"

She hesitated. Her heart pounded in her chest like it wanted to flee on its own. The blood from the corpse was creeping toward her boots.

"W-what are you going to do?" she asked, throat dry.

"I'm going to kill them."

Her legs trembled. Fear, yes. But something else, too. Hope? Her lips parted. "A lot of the girls work for the gang. As… escorts. For protection. For food. For… survival. We're not with them. We're just… trying to live."

The mask didn't move.

"I need to get them out," she said quickly. "Please. Give me a moment. I can get the girls somewhere safe. I swear it."

He was silent for a long moment. Then: "Ten minutes."

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Naruto waited.

Ten minutes was a long time if you used it properly. He wasn't one for meditation, not anymore, but preparation. That was a kind of prayer too. He sat crouched near the base of a crumbling wall, the sea wind cutting low and sharp across the streets.

Rain began to mist again, not enough to cleanse, just enough to cling to the worn fabric of the hunter's armor. Some new armour he wore so no one could trace the ghost back to the boy underneath.

He did a mental check of everything.

No ninjutsu. Not with the cursed right hand acting up again. It still twitched with phantom pain, chakra pooling wrong if he tried to mold it. But he had other stuff from Lordran that would be enough for this crusade of his.

He tugged at the strap across his chest, checking the fit of the short black cape concealing his right side. Underneath it, the smooth haft of the Zweihander waited, secured in the side holster. His left hand adjusted the bracers with muscle memory alone.

His mask, Shisui's Anbu mask, stared out at the house ahead.

It stood three stories tall, painted in gaudy red and gold trim, the only building in the area with fresh paint and stone walls unchipped by years of neglect. It stuck out like a wound trying to wear a crown. Curtains drawn tight on every floor. Music, laughter, the muffled thump of boots inside.

A den of rats, nested in velvet.

Naruto's eyes narrowed.

A man staggered out of the front gate. A Gato thug, pants undone, pissing against the wall with one hand while holding a bottle with the other. The man never even saw it coming.

Thunk.

The crossbow bolt struck him clean through the side of the neck, right below the jawline. The bolt didn't kill him instantly. He dropped the bottle, hands scrambling at the protruding shaft, blood burbling out of his mouth in froth as he collapsed to his knees, legs twitching before he toppled forward. His body hit the mud with a wet slap. He gargled twice before going still.

Naruto holstered the empty crossbow into his inventory with a flick and pulled out another preloaded.

Hoarding twenty crossbows from the Undead Burg had seemed stupid at the time. Now? Now it was beautiful.

Two guards stared in slack-jawed silence at the twitching corpse of the drunk man, blood still pouring from the bolt embedded in his throat. One of them took a half-step forward, eyes wide, confusion wrestling with fear.

Then a flick of silver cut the night.

Thunk.

A kunai buried itself deep into the first guard's skull, slipping through the eye socket with sickening precision. His body locked up for a heartbeat, then crumpled sideways, mouth still open in a silent gasp.

The second guard bolted.

He made it three steps before an arrow tore through the back of his neck, severing spine and windpipe in a single, ruthless shot. He collapsed mid-sprint, skidding across the mud, legs kicking once before going still.

The street fell silent again, save for the wind... and the soft click of Naruto's boots as he stepped up to the gate. The wooden door splintered inward in a crash of hinges and ruined pride, slamming open so violently it knocked one thug to the floor. Laughter cut off mid-sentence. Cups of sake clattered. Cards fell from a hand.

A dozen men stared at him.

Some blinked. Some reached for blades. Some grinned, thinking it was a prank.

Then they saw the mask.

The Zweihander was drawn in a smooth arc, gleaming, as wide as a man's chest, as tall as Naruto himself.

"What the hell is that kid doing with a sword like?!"

Too late.

Naruto moved.

He stepped into the wide entry hall like a butcher into a slaughterhouse. No wasted motion. His first cut came from the high guard. The blade came down like a guillotine, cleaving through a man's shoulder and chest in one clean sweep. The impact crushed bone, split lung, carved halfway through the spine. The second swing transitioned into a strike sideways into the next man's ribs. The blade hit with the weight of two decades of suffering behind it, folding him inward, breaking bone, teeth, and the will to run.

A third man screamed and ran forward with a club. Naruto pivoted into a low guard, then exploded upward in a rising cut, catching the man under the jaw. The blade split his head in half.

Screams erupted.

Three of them charged. Numbers made them bold.

The Zweihander spun, sweeping them like wheat. One was thrown across the room by the sheer impact. Another's arm tore free from his shoulder, trailing blood like a streamer. The third tried to backpedal.

Naruto lunged, one-handed, and drove the point of the sword into his gut, then lifted the body, impaled, still twitching as it slid down the blade.

They weren't shinobi. They weren't trained. They were brutes with swords and mouths and no tactics. But Naruto? He had danced with death. He had fought Black Knights and dodged the strikes of demons the size of buildings. Compared to Lordran, this was light work.

Even without chakra-enhanced strength, his stats were too high. His strikes were too precise. His footwork let him move between enemies like he was water and they were stone.

A thug drew a knife and charged.

Crack.

Naruto smashed the crossguard of the Zweihander into the man's mouth. Teeth shattered. The man dropped with a scream. Then—a sound. Sharp. Whistling.

Way of Focality activated.

The world slowed.

A flash. A line of fire in the air. Naruto's head turned on instinct, tilting just enough.

CRACK.

A musket ball whizzed past his cheek, barely missing him.

Smoke curled from the barrel of a flintlock pistol across the room. A man stood shaking, his hands trembling around the weapon. His eyes met Naruto's mask and then an arrow bloomed in his chest.

He dropped, twitching.

Naruto walked over, picked up the flintlock, examined it with cold curiosity, then threw it into his inventory.

He climbed the stairs.

The second floor smelled like perfume and gunpowder. The air was lighter, less crowded. Fewer men. But the mood had shifted.

Terror hung in the rafters.

They'd heard what happened below. The blood seeping through the ceiling told them the truth. One of the men tried to run.

Naruto shot him in the back of the leg with a bolt. He screamed, crawled.

Naruto ended it cleanly with a downward cut to the neck.

Another tried to plead. "W-we were just following orders! It's just business! I got a kid, please!"

Naruto kicked him through a paper screen. The man didn't get back up.

They fought harder up here. Desperation made them dangerous. One pulled a sword and came in with tight swings, almost like a trained mercenary.

Almost.

Naruto parried and countered with a diagonal blow across the chest that went through bone. The man died choking on blood.

The top floor loomed ahead, the heavy door standing like a final judgment. Naruto took a slow step forward, boots creaking against blood-slick wood. Without pausing, he raised his leg and kicked the door open with a thunderous crack.

Way of Focality screamed in his mind the moment the wood splintered. Multiple musket barrels, primed and waiting just behind the threshold. There was no time to think, only to act.

In one fluid motion, Naruto let the crossbow fall from his hand and reached into his coat. His fingers snapped around the talisman, divine energy flaring to life. A breath. A pivot of his stance.

The force miracle erupted outward in a concussive shockwave of pure, divine pressure. The musket balls fired but met the expanding wall of white midair. The trajectory reversed. Steel spheres meant to kill him twisted back through the air and punched into the chests of the men who had pulled the triggers.

Two were thrown across the room, gurgling.

A third fell to his knees, his musket ball embedded in his throat.

The rest stared.

Naruto stepped forward, dragging the Zweihander across the wood floor, sparks trailing from the tip like a comet tail. They broke. They tried to run. He moved like a phantom. One swipe, two, a thrust, a knee to the face, a blade through the ribs. Gore painted the walls until the third floor had gone quiet.

Naruto exhaled through the nose of the mask and moved forward. His shadow stretched across the desk. Then he gripped it with one hand and lifted like it weighed nothing. Wood shattered against the wall behind, scattering ink, papers, and expensive glass bottles across the floor.

Cowering beneath the overturned furniture was a man who looked like a toad stuffed into a silk suit. Pale, wide-eyed, jowls trembling. A ring of sweat circled his collar like a noose. His hands were raised in some pitiful half-shield gesture, and his lips were already babbling before Naruto even spoke.

"W-what d-do y-you want?! P-please! I'm not... I'm not important!"

It might've been funny, this fat, grown man begging at the feet of someone barely shoulder-height. But not when the boy in question was covered head to toe in the blood of a dozen of his comrades.

Naruto crouched slightly, tilting his head. "Are you Gato?"

The fat man blinked. Shook his head so violently his cheeks rippled. "No, no! I... I just answer to him! I'm logistics! Admin! I don't... I don't have pull!"

Naruto stared silently for a moment. "Where can I find him?"

"I don't know!" the man cried. "I swear! Gato doesn't go out in public... ever! Says someone's always out to kill him. He's paranoid, he's always in hiding! There's a secret bunker, somewhere inland. Nobody knows exactly where. He uses runners, proxies, no direct orders!"

"Hm." Naruto turned his eyes toward the ruined desk. "You got a map of the Wave?"

The man nodded frantically, sweat dripping down his brow in thick, trembling rivulets. He scrambled toward the drawers, sniffling as he reached the top one with unsteady hands. His fingers hovered for a moment, hesitant, calculating, before he opened it.

There was a flicker in his eyes then. A flash of something dangerous. A subtle shift in posture.

The drawer clicked open. Hidden beneath a stack of parchment was a pistol.

The man grabbed it and tried to fire.

Shlick.

His wrist flopped backward, completely severed. Blood spurted in bursts from the open stump, decorating the desk in a crude arc.

He looked at his wrist— or rather, where it used to be. Then he howled.

"Aaaah! AAAAAH MY HAND, MY HAAAAAND!"

Naruto stood calmly and pulled out the Estus Flask from his belt. He uncorked it and poured the golden, shimmering liquid over the stump. The flesh sizzled, not from heat but from regeneration. New muscle, sinew, and skin knitted itself together with unnatural speed. A whole new hand formed in seconds, and the man, still sobbing, stared at it with disbelief.

"What… the hell… are you…?"

Naruto slammed his face into the desk. "Wanna try again?"

"N-no, sir! My lord! G-great god, please, I wasn't thinking!"

"Map."

The man nodded rapidly and reached under the drawer—more carefully this time—retrieving a folded parchment soaked in blood. He smoothed it out with trembling fingers on the desk as Naruto loomed behind him, crossbow aimed lazily at the back of his skull.

"Mark every gang location you know of."

"A... and you'll spare me?"

Naruto didn't reply. He tapped the table.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The man nodded like a bobblehead and began marking the map, circles appearing in ink across the small island nation of the Wave.

"Every gang reports back to Gato through independent channels," he said in a desperate whisper. "It's a network. Decentralized. I only handle the Wave border, but this… this should be most of it."

Naruto leaned in close, silent. The man kept going. When it was done, he stepped back.

"That's everything," he said, still not daring to meet Naruto's gaze. "I-I swear. I'm just a middleman. I didn't kill anyone. I didn't."

"One last question before I leave," Naruto said, still standing behind him. The fat man nodded slowly.

"What's your favorite organ?"

"…What?"

He looked back, confusion twisting his lips.

Naruto's right fist plunged into the man's stomach—through flesh, through viscera, through resistance. There was a sound, wet and awful, like a sponge being crushed under a boot. Fingers clutched something wet inside the cavity.

The man's eyes bulged.

His lips moved but no sound came.

Naruto ripped his hand out.

A trail of intestines came with it, unraveling from the man's body like thick ropes of meat. The air filled with the smell of bile, copper, and feces. The man stumbled back, hands holding his stomach as if trying to hold in what had already spilled out. His knees hit the floor.

He twitched once. Twice.

And then he fell face first onto the map he had marked, blood spreading like borders drawn in red.

Naruto crouched beside the corpse, wiping his gloved hand on the ruined jacket.

"Why?"

The boy tilted his head. "Really? What made you think I'd spare you after all you've done?"

He reached forward and gently closed the dead man's eyes.

"But if it makes you feel any better… I'll be sending the rest of you to hell too." Naruto stood. "I wonder…" He paused, sliding it into his inventory. "…do you guys even go to hell once I absorb your souls?"

A glimmer of light coiled around the dead man's body. Naruto didn't even look at the soul as it entered him. He just turned, walked through the blood-soaked hallway, and down the stairs.

The ground floor reeked of death, yet there stood a cluster of women at the base of the stairs.

All the prostitutes stood frozen amid the carnage, their painted faces pale in the moonlight slipping through shattered windows. The woman from before—Red, the one with the cigarette and steel in her eyes—stood at the front, her mouth slightly open.

They had come back. Or maybe they had never left.

"You're still here?"

Red's lips pursed. "There's a lot of food and coin in this place," she said, gesturing vaguely to the corpses littered across. "We figured if no one's left to guard it, might as well feed those who haven't eaten in days."

Some of the women around her nodded. Others still stared at him like he was a ghost that hadn't decided if it would haunt or protect.

"Looting corpses, huh? Be my guest. Just make sure most of the food ends up in the hands of the people outside."

A heavy silence lingered in the air.

"So... you're one of those types, huh? The kind who steals from the rich and feeds the poor?"

"If that's the story you need to tell yourself, sure."

"Are you going after more of them?" Red asked, her voice quieter now.

"Yeah." Naruto's eyes swept over the group. "If I can't find the head… I'll kill the rest of the body."

He turned, crouched low, and with a sudden whoosh, vaulted up, chakra flaring at his heels as he vanished over the rooftops like a shadow breaking from the earth. The women stared at the empty space he'd left behind, hearts pounding.

"…Was it just me, or was he kinda… hot?"

"He was covered in blood," another whispered back.

"Yeah, but did you see his attitude?" a third added. "And that presence? Gave me chills."

"Think he'd take one of us with him?" someone joked, earning a ripple of laughter.

"He didn't even look at us like that," an older woman said with a sigh. "He looked at us like… people."

The laughter faded into something quieter. Thoughtful.

"Do we call him something?" one girl asked. "I mean, we can't just keep saying 'the guy in the mask.'"

"Robinhood," someone suggested.

Red snorted through the smoke of her cigarette. "He doesn't steal."

"Well, he did steal the show."

They chuckled, but Red just smiled faintly, watching the rooftops.

"No. Not Robinhood." She exhaled a long trail of smoke, the ember at the end of her cigarette glowing like a fading star. "We'll call him the Archer of Providence," she said softly.

What no one on that night knew was that the Archer of Providence would leave more than blood in his wake. His arrows would pierce deeper than flesh, splintering fear, shaking power, and planting something dangerous in the hearts of the forgotten: hope.

And from that hope, in time, the first stone would be cast by the people of the Wave, for the people of the Wave.

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[ Personal Note: First off, thanks a ton to all of you for sticking with this story. Seriously, you guys are awesome. Now, if you're interested in supporting me on P@treon, let me just say that over there, I post these massive 5k-word chapters. But heads up, if you're jumping to P@treon, you'll need to start from Chapter 60, since that's where this chapter lines up with the content there.

To everyone here just reading along, please don't forget to leave a comment! Honestly, your comments make my day, and they let me know you're as invested in this story as I am. So yeah, thanks again, and I hope you have an amazing rest of your day!