Satoshi snapped his fingers. In a plume of smoke, there emerged a scythe in his hand. The handle perfectly straight and so black that it made Naruto's eyes hurt just to look at it. The blade was of crimson steel, curving slightly and gleaming wickedly in the sunlight. "My favored weapon is a scythe."
"Okay," Naruto looked at it, feeling perhaps for the first time in his life an eerie chill rush down his spine like a spider made of ice. What's worse, there was a sick feeling in the pit of his gullet, like something was telling him to run and never stop.
"And I am very, very, very old," Satoshi said, snapping his fingers and making the scythe disappear, leaving only the memory of his feelings. "That, combined with everything else you know about me, should be enough to piece together my identity."