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Chapter 1: Red Snow
The snow was quiet.
Too quiet for Castle Black.
Jon Snow felt the cold before he felt his body. It was deeper than skin, like ice threaded through his veins. He tried to breathe, but his lungs seized up, as if he had drowned in a sea of frost. His fingers twitched. Pain danced across his chest in jagged lines—stab wounds. He remembered the knives. The betrayal.
"For the Watch."
Then, darkness.
But this wasn't death. Not anymore.
Jon's eyes snapped open.
The ceiling above him was familiar: the wooden rafters of Castle Black's hall. But the air felt different—sharper, thicker, almost alive. He sat up with a gasp, hand flying to his chest. The wounds were gone. Only dried blood remained.
He wasn't alone.
Ghost stood beside the table, unmoving, watching him with glowing red eyes. There was something… anxious in the direwolf's stance. As if it knew Jon wasn't quite Jon anymore.
Because he wasn't.
Memories poured in like a flood. Not of the Wall, or Winterfell, or Ned Stark. But of another world.
Of a village hidden in leaves.
Of a clan with eyes like his—red, spinning, burning.
Of death.
He remembered being just a boy—an Uchiha. He remembered the cold clarity of his Sharingan awakening the night the massacre began. Screams echoed in his head. His cousin, Itachi, walking through the blood like a ghost with a sword.
"Forgive me," shinji, Itachi had whispered, before plunging a blade through his chest.
That was the end of him.
Until now.
Jon staggered to his feet, clutching the edge of the table. He moved stiffly, every motion echoing in his muscles like a distant echo of someone else's movements—someone faster, sharper, trained in a way no one in Westeros could ever imagine.
He stumbled outside.
The courtyard of Castle Black was empty in the early dawn. The snow reflected the crimson light of sunrise, and for a moment, Jon saw the color of Uchiha blood in the snow. The crows were silent. Even the Wall seemed to breathe, creaking like an old beast waking.
He closed his eyes—and felt it.
A pulse, low and distant, coiled deep in his core. Not magic. Not quite. Something older. Chakra.
He raised his hand. Nothing happened.
Not yet.
But the potential was there. Like an ember buried in ash, waiting for breath.
He looked north, toward the Wall, toward the land of the dead.
Whatever brought him back—whatever force ripped his soul across worlds—hadn't done it for nothing.
He was no longer just Jon Snow. He was something else now.
And this time, he would not die so easily.
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