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Report of yet, another execution of Konahagakuran Shinobi that attempted to escape the concentration camp, known as the Hidden Leaf, had left the revolutionary forces dumbfounded. After countless efforts of destroying their dictatorship’s defenses, for such a tragic event to occur had left a majority of the small group with destroyed willpower. Only a select few had decided to remain though that number soon whittled down after an additional, grief-stricken event. The only boy that remained as a member of the Hidden Leaf Radical Squadron was Rudolph.


Although such an aim was fruitless in the world many Shinobi lived today, a ray of hope shown through a select number of Shinobi and Kunoichi; those who suffered the Samurai reign, and had been significantly young, had decided to band together beneath one, exclusive fulfillment. To rid of the dictatorship that besieged their village without suffering a significant number of causalities. However, that ignorant goal stated prior was a mere sugar-coating. Reality hit hard and deaths piled high. The only outcome that was produced from a gathering of oblivious children had been an irreplaceable oath to never sell out a comrade. Perchance, that is evidence enough as to why Rudolph is alive to this very day.


Nearly ten years ago, the world had been thrown into disorder and a majority of its population was either enslaved or slaughtered by assailants known as Samurai. At the time, Rudolph had been six years of age when his father, an honored Jounin, and his mother, a renowned medical ninja, had departed for a vacation. Their son was uninformed of their whereabouts throughout the month-long retreat, which stretched out for a decade. For the day after they packed their belongings and waved their farewells, the Hidden Leaf was spontaneously conquered by a group once frightened of Shinobi.


The useless people were exploited for whatever the Samurai deemed fit until death was the only option. Rudolph came to notice that worrying about his parents’ welfare would only harm him mentally, so he simply stopped. It was not easy to do so, though a group of inexperienced Shinobi he had come across while performing back-breaking tasks for their dictators, had been his glimmer of faith. The tedious, physically exhausting manual labor the Samurai had bequeathed upon them had actually trained their body’s endurance and helped to reinforce their muscles.


For the next couple of years they had together, the children worked on gathering intelligence regarding the Samurai’s strengths and weaknesses and any sliver of information they could from adults that knew far more than they did. However, the simple congregation of facts was not enough for this group of rebels to excel their purpose regarding freedom. Secretly, training sessions would be held where the Shinobi outrivaled their old techniques and worked in unification to discover new ones. For the first time in his newfangled, depressed life, Rudolph had formed a bond with those he had met by fate’s hand only.


This journey of improvement had been enough to upsurge the confidence of his organization, in which he was granted leadership by popular vote. Sneaking off at late hours was enough to put the children in a casket, but actually going on and battling these Samurai had been ridiculous; once Rudolph sat down and thought of it, conviction aside. This was absolutely foolish, and even though he disagreed, the false sense of self-assurance had already planted itself within the majority of the group’s minds. Young, but ignorant, the fellow Shinobi and Kunoichi hurried into combat.


Rudolph held his own, personal belief; which seemed to stray from the group’s. In fact, he withdrew his participation from the battle and escaped to ensure his safety. The next morning, a pile of carcasses plagued the boulevard where a miscarried endeavor of independence had gone underway. One in which the silver-haired Shinobi knew nothing about.


However, the Samurai were not unwise. Rudolph’s arrest was made hours later, where he was taken to an undisclosed location within Konohagakure no Sato. He awoke with his mouth dry akin to Kaze no Kuni’s brutal desert. Restricted of movement, his limbs were strapped to the very chair he sat on. The saving grace that ceased his forthcoming demise was the fact that he held a unique blood type, O Negative. Apparently, the force that battled against his slain allies needed transplants; for they lost a fair amount of ichor during the clash. Angered beyond possibility, yet unable to act, the Shinobi carried on with his head held low. Imagine the blood your comrade’s fought so hard to draw, for many years, was easily replaced by their own leader; who could have perhaps dramatically assisted in their victory.


From there on, a desire to eliminate the Samurai who stripped him of his pride was evident. It manifested within him and refused to be extinguished. Whether it be through Machiavellian endeavors or visceral might, a particular pledge had been made from then to spill the blood of Samurai; so much crimson that his “Golden Plasma”, as they referred to it, would be impossible to fuel their survival.

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