Naruto Paper Novels & Stories

Suddenly, he took out some documents from his jacket's inner pocket. “I couldn't prepare everything I wanted in that short time…” he stated nervously unfolding the papers and put them on the table in front of me. I took a closer look at them… They were in Japanese, it looked like some kind of application. “You told me to put it on paper…” he smirked, “Now you can sign it as well,” he pointed at the empty box next to Hiro's signature and the bottom of the document. “W-what is it…?” I asked, confused.

"We've made several copies already. Enough, in fact, to fill countless bookshelves." I took the paper, its texture rough and earthy, a stark contrast to the pristine, polished sheets I was accustomed to seeing in the capital or at Brightwing Academy. It was the color of rich, dark soil, as if steeped in mud or coffee, a testament to its humble origins. Yet, despite its unassuming appearance, the paper was surprisingly durable. Anything written upon it remained clear and legible, a testament to its practicality.

Like letting it go would make it real. Final. He burned his copy. But this one? This one wasn’t his to burn. He didn’t get to decide when I stopped being paper. He didn’t get to walk away from it all and still hold the narrative. Not this time. I struck a match. Watched the flames climb the edges. Line by line. Clause by clause. The ink blistered. The paper darkened. I stayed until every word we once signed was gone. Until the ash floated out of my palm and into the wind like a release.

The gate of paper opened out loudly. No explosion. No thunder. No dazzling light. Only the rustling of sides. Thousands. Million pages. The sound was full of Nerevin. It sounded like wind. Like rain. Like voices. Like countless people would read a story at the same time. Mara couldn't look away. Above the archival tower, the huge vertebrae turned out of paper. Pages flew through the air. Chapters broke apart. sentences disintegrated.

Nancy was turning the photograph over in her hands, looking at the front and then the back, the image and then the words, like she was trying to reconcile them into a single coherent thing. Then Iris moved. It was a small movement, deliberate, her hand going to the side of her hospital gown where the fabric was torn along the inner lining. She reached into the gap and her fingers worked carefully for a moment and she pulled out a small piece of paper, folded many times over into a tight square, the kind of folding that someone does when they need something to survive being hidden for a long time. She unfolded it slowly. The creases were deep and the paper was soft from being handled but the

Sadly, I am not one of them, I have to work hard for the opportunity and that's why I am not going to mess with it. He nodded his head again, after realizing I am not going to lure him for anything, "fine then. Read this paper for me," Then he handed me a piece of paper, which was lined and written in clean handwriting, truth to be told it was written with some engraving calligraphy and my heart skipped a beat to see that alphabet as they were craving on the paper in the name of depth again. I read that paper in a flow, sentence by sentence when his deep hypnotising eyes were looking back at me from the corner.

"I don't have the whole notebook but only five pages of it, I'll sell it to you in 5 Nars." My eyes widened in shock. That's way too cheap! I immediately nodded and answered. “Deal!” I stepped forward while Mr. Eye of Notary opened his brief case and pulled five yellowish papers. I immediately paid 5 nurses and Mr. Eye of Notary accepted it. He then handed the five pages with familiar symbols written on it. I didn't bother asking where it came from because that is already an unwritten rule in the black market to avoid snitching or identifying the participants.

God, I was a sucker for those forearms. “Miss Lane,” he finally said, lifting his eyes to meet mine. Steel-gray, sharp, assessing. “To what do I owe this… visit?” I swallowed. My voice felt tight in my throat. “It’s about my paper.” He arched a brow. “Your paper. The one analyzing dominance and submission in Wuthering Heights, correct?” I nodded. “You gave me a B.” “I did.” He pushed the paper toward me. I didn’t move to take it.

Already waiting for a third signature to make it active. I fold the document. I hold it. I do not give it back.

Respect mattered more than curiosity. Taking a slow breath, she simply adjusted the edge of the lace runner instead, hoping to remove the reflection without disturbing anything beneath it. As the delicate fabric shifted, something unexpected slipped free. A single folded sheet of paper drifted gently onto the polished tabletop. Nora instinctively caught it before it could slide to the floor. At first glance, it appeared completely blank. The paper was old, its surface yellowed with time, the creases softened by countless years of being folded and unfolded. Only when she tilted it toward the sunlight did faint ink emerge from the page, as though the words themselves had faded with age.