DC: Yellow Flash

Minato's breaths came quick and shallow as he descended the stairs, his mind racing. He needed a weapon, something to defend himself with. His instincts screamed that whatever lay ahead was far from ordinary, and he couldn't face it empty-handed. His eyes darted to the kitchen counter, settling on a sturdy knife resting in the block. He grabbed it without hesitation, gripping the handle tightly in his trembling hand.

The blade felt foreign yet familiar in his palm, a poor substitute for the kunai he once wielded with deadly precision. He turned and crept back up the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky spots he had memorized over years of living in this house.

As he neared the landing, a wave of unease rolled over him, sending a shiver down his spine. His muscles tensed, every nerve in his body screaming danger. Then, it came—a flash of steel cutting through the dim light of the hallway.

Block!

Minato's body moved on its own, years of battle instincts overriding the limits of his teenage physique. The kitchen knife collided with a massive sword, the impact sending a jolt through his arm. Sparks flew as the blades clashed, and for a brief moment, Minato saw his attacker—a towering man clad in sleek, tactical armor, his face hidden behind a two-toned mask, half orange and half black.

The sheer force of the strike sent Minato flying back down the stairs. His body slammed into the hardwood floor with a sickening thud, pain radiating through his ribs and back.

Gritting his teeth, Minato pushed himself to his feet, clutching the knife tighter. The armored man descended the stairs slowly, his movements deliberate and calculated.

"Who are you?" Minato demanded, his voice low but steady.

The man tilted his head slightly, a mocking chuckle escaping through his mask. "You can call me Deathstroke," he said. His voice was deep, distorted by a voice modulator, and laced with cold amusement. "But that doesn't really matter. You'll be dead soon."

Before Minato could respond, Deathstroke lunged, his sword cutting through the air with deadly precision. Minato barely had time to react, raising his knife to intercept the strike. The blades met in a deafening clash, the force driving Minato back a step.

The two were locked in a stalemate, their weapons grinding against each other. Minato's arms trembled under the strain, his mind racing. This body isn't keeping up with my brain, he thought bitterly. His movements were sluggish compared to the lightning-fast reflexes he once possessed as the Fourth Hokage.

Deathstroke noticed the hesitation and sneered. He broke the stalemate with a sudden shift, pivoting his body and delivering a brutal kick to Minato's midsection. The impact sent Minato crashing into the wall, knocking the air from his lungs.

Minato slumped against the wall, gasping for breath. His vision blurred as he struggled to refocus. He looked up just in time to see Deathstroke charging again, his sword aimed straight for Minato's chest.

Adrenaline surged through Minato as he rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the blade. It embedded itself into the wall with a loud crack.

Seizing the opportunity, Minato lashed out with a desperate kick, his foot connecting with Deathstroke's masked face. The impact staggered the man, causing him to stumble back a few steps.

Minato didn't waste a second. He sprang to his feet, adrenaline dulling the pain in his body. He leaped toward Deathstroke, aiming the knife at his chest.

But Deathstroke was faster.

A sharp, searing pain erupted in Minato's side as Deathstroke's hidden knife found its mark, plunging deep into his abdomen. Minato's eyes widened in shock as blood gushed from the wound. His grip on the kitchen knife faltered, and it clattered to the ground as his knees buckled.

Deathstroke withdrew the blade, letting Minato collapse in a heap on the floor. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the wood.

"You put up a better fight than your father," Deathstroke said, his voice dripping with disdain. "But he failed too."

Minato's heart stopped at those words. His father? The implication hit him like a blow, but he had no time to process it. Deathstroke reached down and grabbed him by the collar, effortlessly hauling him to his feet.

Minato's body was limp as Deathstroke dragged him up the stairs. His vision swam, the world around him reduced to a haze of pain and despair.

When they reached the room, Deathstroke unceremoniously dropped him to the floor. Minato's head lolled to the side, his eyes landing on the lifeless bodies of his parents sprawled across the room.

"No…" The word escaped his lips as a broken whisper, tears streaming down his face. "No, no, no…"

Deathstroke stood over him, unmoved by the sight. "You should've stayed out of the way," he said coldly. "But now, you'll join them."

Minato's sobs turned into a low, guttural growl, rage boiling beneath his grief. But before he could act, Deathstroke's boot connected with his head, and darkness consumed him.

The house was silent as Deathstroke turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the night. His mission was complete—or so he thought.

Unbeknownst to him, a faint red aura began to surround Minato's motionless body. The wound in his abdomen, once deep and fatal, began to close, the blood evaporating as the strange energy coursed through him.

Though unconscious, Minato's body stirred faintly as the power within him, ancient and dormant, began to awaken.