Chapter 115
Eye of the Storm: The Malignant Monsoon Strikes!
The mountain mine was separated into three levels. At the top was the entrance, consisting of little more than a short and secluded cave opening, deep and wide enough to facilitate a guard team without them standing, sitting or sleeping on each other, but little else.
It was at the far end of the cave where the mines true entrance rested—a deep and dark mining shaft a manual elevator lowered and lifted rotating guards or new prisoners into and out of the hellish stone prison. On that second level, where the majority of mining took place, on any given day, slaves could be seen working themselves to the bone bearing the humiliation and punishments from their slave masters. The conditions were reprehensible, of course. But those who occupied this level were grateful, for the level deeper was known to them for two distinct traits.
First and foremost, the name of the third and final level instilled fear and coerced them to stay strong as long as their withering bodies could manage. It was called The Gallows, and for good reason.
Those escorted to the third level never returned. They were escorted to their inevitable death, which was where the second known trait of The Gallows became useful: the corpse pit.
All bodies were discarded in the corpse pit. Whether it was truly a pit or something else entirely, the prisoners could not say. They had never seen it. And they hoped beyond hope to never see it.
The guards, however, did know. And down in The Gallows was where two guards in particular found themselves stationed, monitoring a prison cell in twenty minute intervals where two women—a Mist kunoichi and a slave from The Flower Shop—were chained and left to wither and die.
One such guard was incredibly irritable.
"Ugh!" he grunted, rubbing a hand down his face.
"Geez. What's the matter with you? You've been making faces and complaining all damn day."
"I can't stand this damnable mine. At least at the entrance I could breathe and see more than these dull stone walls. Now we're stuck here in The Gallows. And the air is wretched to breathe. It's always noisy. It's hard to breathe. The spaces are tight and cramped. And someone somewhere is always screaming or sobbing!"
As if to accent the agitated guard's point, a whip further down the halls cracked five times in a row.
Five cries of pain reverberated over the walls. The whip wielder then yelled at his victim for slacking off, threatening them with further punishment.
He scowled and rubbed at his temples. He could feel an intense migraine coming on.
"I'm sick of this goddamn place," he grunted.
His partner twirled a kunai around his finger, spreading his opposite hand's fingers out on the old, cheap and damaged wooden table they were seated across from one another. He stopped the twirling motion. Clutched the blade in reverse grip. Then pierced it into the wooden table between the gaps of his fingers, engaging recklessly in a game of five finger fillet.
His movements were quick, precise. But the ugly scars on his fingers showed his past failures in exquisite detail.
"What's it matter?" his partner asked over the clamor of blade and wood meeting. "You're dry. You're warm. And we're getting paid good money to babysit. Beats the hell out of risking our lives for scraps in the name of Village, country and 'honor' while the Feudal Lord sits in his lavish residence, being fed grapes while the rest of us starve and fight to survive."
"I'd rather be stationed at the port," the agitated guard complained. "At least then I can play some cards and enjoy myself."
"If you want to enjoy yourself— Gah!"
His partner retracted and shook his freshly wounded hand. The puncture wasn't deep. Yet crimson blood flooded from the wound like water leaking out of a slightly opened faucet. Beads of blood leapt from his finger with every shake. Crimson trails slithered over his flesh, dripping onto the table, staining it.
A huff of laughter escaped the agitated guard. The unmitigated stupidity of others never ceased to amuse him. His partner pressed his wound into his pant leg.
"Anyway," he continued as if he hadn't stabbed himself, "if you want to enjoy yourself, just blow off some steam with one of the prisoners. The one from the Flower Shop had extensive punishment on the whipping post, I heard. And good old 'Gold-toothed' Sōma crushed the Mist shinobi. Plus they're all chained up, so they can't fight back."
His partner shrugged, as if the next step was utterly obvious.
"Might as well use them before they die, while they're still fresh. It'd be a waste not to."
"Ugh," the agitated guard grunted in disgust, looking away. "You're one of those."
Not only a reckless fool, but a fiend, too.
"Ah," his partner grinned vilely. "So you're one of the goody two shoes, huh? Can't appreciate the perks of the business because of morals. Ha! How pathetic. You have a chance to live a life without rules or consequences. Why limit yourself? Morals are useless constraints. And pointless to hide behind in this business."
"Whatever," the agitated guard grunted, standing up.
"Where are you off too?"
"To check on the prisoners. It's been twenty minutes."
"Blow off some steam. Maybe you'll have less of a stick up your ass."
The agitated guard sniffed in disapproval.
"There are some lines a real man never crosses," he said beneath his breath. "And some only wretches rush past."
A life without consequences was a fallacy. One day his partner would learn that, as would he. One day, the agitated guard knew, his choices would claw their way from the past and drag him kicking and screaming towards his final judgement. That was the nature of this business.
He had no intention of stopping now. Those who forfeited themselves to judgement were either gullible fools or dead men walking. He was neither. He'd carry on outrunning his past, doing whatever was necessary to survive and thrive, while never submitting what scraps of honor and pride he had left.
He was in no rush to die.
The agitated guard slid the metal panel open on the door, peering in. The light illuminated the Mist shinobi, who was hanging lifelessly by her left arm in the center of the cell. Her head hung down limply, lolled at an awkward angle. Fresh stains of crimson marred her right arm, dripping out of synch of the drip-drip-drip noise coming from somewhere inside.
"Goddamn it," he spat.
"What's wrong?" his partner asked, leaning around the corner he was seated behind.
"The Mist shinobi bled out trying to escape."
"Damn. Better clean that up and toss her in the corpse pit."
The agitated guard rolled his eyes. "Fine. I hope you cut a finger off," he added beneath his breath.
The old steel door creaked and groaned heavily as he strained to tug it opened.
Someone needs to lubricate these goddamn hinges.
Creaking, groaning, squealing, the chorus of ill-maintenance intensified his frustration induced migraine. This was utterly ridiculous. As if The Gallows weren't bad enough already, now the door was refusing to open without extreme effort. And he had to clean up a corpse. Great. Just absolutely brilliant.
He grit his teeth and growled, tugging at the massive door until it squeaked its last.
Finally. Now he could deal with the body, since apparently he was the only person at this godforsaken posting that understood responsibility. How glorious. Throwing away the corpse of a young girl who hadn't even hit twenty, by his estimation.
Artificial yellow-white light, hung from the ceiling by haphazard wiring, broke through the shadows of the solitary cell to form an obtuse cone of light from the doorway to the Mist kunoichi. He could see the grotesque prison cell floor in vivid detail, unfortunately. Stains of blood and feces from past prisoners coated the dull grey floor in colors of black, reddish-brown and fresh wet droplets of crimson.
Despite the new light, shadows dominated the corners of the room. Veiled the other prisoner entirely from her waist up. He observed her silhouette, that of a beaten, defeated and nearly entirely undressed woman. It wasn't his decision to undress them. He was given the order to do it, and so he did, begrudgingly. Hating every moment of it.
These young ladies were set to die anyway. Demeaning them, enticing wretches like his partner to "have their fun", it was disgusting.
This was the nature of their business, though. And it paid well enough to help him sleep soundly at night.
The other prisoner's head was lowered. She was still awake. Every now and then she shifted in her chains, seeking comfort she would never find.
He approached the lifeless kunoichi warily. Although young, unclothed and chained at three other limbs, she was still a shinobi. That warranted caution.
The cuff she escaped from was shut and locked tightly. Blood dripped from the iron cufflink, he noticed. Examining her bloody arm, the guard spotted trails of crimson streaming from a series of bite marks on her hand. Her hand was slightly misshapen form to it, broken from the look of it.
She used her own blood like grease to slip her hand out of the cuff. Amazing resolve and pain tolerance; she didn't make a sound despite the broken hand.
He gave her a light, cautious push at arms distance. The body swayed lifelessly.
She wasn't breathing.
"I can't blame you for trying, Mist shinobi. I wouldn't have waited for death to claim me. But no one escapes the mines," he said.
He stepped closer, inserting the key into the lock of the cuff restraining her left wrist. It slid in without issue, unlike the ill-maintained hinges of the door. When he twisted the key to unlock the cuff, anticipating the corpse to crash to the floor with the same grace and force as a flipped over refrigerator, the agitated guard came to a startling realization:
The prisoner's left hand, which he had initially believed to be caught at an awkward angle from her failed escape attempt, was holding the chain.
The cuff was already unlocked. And a bobby pin, he realized belatedly, was hung from the hip of her underwear, just out of immediate sight.
The corpse awoke abruptly. Her legs, also free of the restraints, surged out of their cuffs and wrapped around his torso and arms, pinning them to his sides. Before he could gasp or yell the kunoichi had the chain previously restraining her wrist wrapped tightly around his neck, cutting off his airways and constricting his voice box.
He couldn't breathe. He choked. Struggled to inhale as his oxygen supply quickly depleted. He realized belatedly the kunoichi was enhancing her leg strength with chakra.
An orange glare stared mercilessly into his pleading eyes.
"I will not die here," she whispered with a voice like death itself. "But you will."
The sense of panic vanished in a void of black.
Haruhi allowed the body of the guard collapse to the ground with a dead thud, neck broken.
"Ha- Haruhi?" Chinami whispered. "I thought…"
"Shh," she gestured for silence with her bloodied, broken and throbbing hand.
They were not liberated yet. There was another guard, who would be waiting, anticipating the man she killed to drag her limp and blood-stained corpse from this grotesque cell.
Dropping down silently, landing with most of her weight on her unbroken foot, she picked up one of the bulbous weighted balls, holding the cold metal in her left palm and pressing the chain against it to prevent noise.
No, they were not liberated. Not yet.
The kunoichi crouched low, prowling from the shadows into the light with the silent grace of a snow leopard stalking its next meal at twilight. The air was warmer than the surface but curled a dastardly chill around her undressed and damaged body. Gooseflesh prickled over her flesh. Aches pulsed in her left foot every other step she took; the minor fracture was slowing her down, but survival instinct and adrenaline dulled the worst of the pain.
She could hear the guard around the corner. His blade thunked lightly against a wooden table repetitively.
He was distracted.
Haruhi hugged the wall. She checked the location of her shadow and the lights hung from the ceiling.
He won't see me, she analyzed coldly.
Satisfied, she directed her attention to the guard, utilizing the light beyond the corner casting her enemy's shadow over the ground to measure his height and position. What distance did she need to cross? How was his seat and body oriented? What was the size of her enemy?
Two strides, she measured. Two strides to be within striking distance. And then the deed would be done. It wouldn't be noiseless. No, this blunt weapon and the chair would create quite the clatter. As long as she was quick and timed her strike with noises of the labor and shouts deeper down the hall, no one would notice.
He was halfway turned to the corner, halfway turned away. Careless. He was a full grown adult; it wouldn't save him.
Haruhi approached the corner soundlessly. Her enemy gasped. She stilled, tightly gripping the weighted ball in her hand. The metal had grown warm.
She waited. The calm choice spared her from a careless mistake, which doubtlessly would've raised the alarm of the entire mine. The guard shook his hand and cursed loudly, obscenely. He'd struck himself. Again, according to his own curses. Then he placed his hand on the table and picked up where he left off.
Two strides.
Clutching the weighted ball in her hand, the kunoichi listened to the thunk of his blade, watched his shadow stabbing at the table. Timed his movements.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
His hand shifted. He began the downward motion of his strike. With silence and grace, Haruhi whirled around the corner.
One stride.
His blade pierced into the table.
Two.
Her enemy lifted his blade. Began another plunge.
At the sight of movement, he turned his head slightly towards her, meeting the orange, searing glare of a demoness determined to claim his soul and punish it for all eternity.
The weighted ball was already poised to strike.
Haruhi witnessed his reaction in vivid detail, or lack thereof. His eyes and brain hadn't the time to process her as an enemy; she was too quick. He merely looked up at her with a cocked eyebrow, expecting his partner to be hovering over him.
Then the ball crashed brutally into his skull. He collapsed out of his chair, the piece of furniture tipping over with him. Haruhi followed, crashing the weighted ball once, twice and a third time into his skull. The hemorrhaging pulp that remained was grotesque. But the deed was done; he was no longer of concern.
She left the weighted ball beside his spasming corpse.
Before returning to the cell, Haruhi acquired the kunai from the table, impaled into a severed finger. She flicked the digit off emotionlessly and examined the blade. Sharp at the edges, dulling at the tip. He'd used it for his foolish game several times, clearly.
A blade will be better than the blunt and heavy ball, Haruhi slashed two practice strikes through the air. I only need its edges to slit a throat.
Yes, this blade would do well. Far more suitable and refined as a weapon by comparison to the blunt improvised instrument she was compelled to use, though she hoped to avoid further confrontation. Recklessness meant death this deep in enemy territory. Without knowledge of the number of guards overseeing this operation, in her weakened condition and joined by a non-combatant, battling through the mines would end in disaster.
However, she was no longer chained in the rotten cell, hung by numb arms like a wounded sheep tied to a post to attract the predator stalking and killing a farmer's livestock, bleating weakly as she waited for death to release her.
This freedom, even if fragile and incomplete, was an improvement.
She entered the cell on her own volition this time, placing the hilt of the kunai between her teeth as she crouched down beside the corpse of the guard she'd broken the neck of. The back of his skull was bleeding, cracked open on the remorseless and stained stone floor like an egg.
With her uninjured hand she dragged and flipped him onto his back and began patting down his body, searching for anything of value to the mission or use to their escape. His empty gaze stared blankly at the ceiling.
"You came back," Chinami murmured, not believing her own eyes.
"Mmhm."
"I…I thought…"
The dead guard had a ninja tool box strapped to his leg containing two kunai. More blades to defend with. These weren't dull, either. They were better maintained.
A better shinobi than the other guard, but no less foolish. No less cruel.
Haruhi unbuckled the tool box and set if off to the side; there was more on him to search.
She found a circular gambling chip in his coat pocket, printed with a crimson flower. After a moment of thought, she stuffed it into the cup of her bra. It could be a lead to follow up on later.
Empty wrappers for throat lozenges mixed together with toothpicks occupied his right pant pocket. His left pant pocket was empty. Overall, he wielded nothing useful to their escape beyond the key lying on the floor beside his corpse and the ninja tool box.
Acquiring the key, Haruhi limped quickly to her cellmate. She started with the cuffs clasped around her ankles, then those restraining her hands.
Chinami collapsed into the kunoichi's arms as the final cuff was unlocked. It hurt, admittedly. Her broken ankle throbbed, aggravated by the sudden weight of another human crashing into her arms. The contusions discoloring her flesh thrummed unpleasantly.
The kunoichi ignored the discomfort. She could feel layers of dried, crusty blood all across Chinami's back, see it on the back of her arms, which hung uselessly at her sides. Chinami grunted. Then groaned pitifully.
She held onto the non-combatant, tilting her head at an askew angle to keep the blade of the kunai away from her throat and face as she partially dragged, partially waddled closer to the corpse.
It was on his bulbous chest she settled Chinami down. A wise decision, for a few open wounds were opened across the back of the girl's thighs.
No, not a girl, Haruhi corrected herself upon seeing her cellmate—also stripped to her small clothes—in the light for the first time. A woman.
Chinami was at least twenty years of age, perhaps a year or two older. Unlike Mika, though, she wasn't painfully undernourished. She was healthy. Close in height to the Mizukage—who was a tall woman—with attractive curves and elegant legs. Her platinum hair, shimmering beneath the artificial light, was chaotically and unevenly chopped at her shoulders.
They clearly found perverse delight in shaming Chinami in every manner they could.
Besides the fresh wounds, Haruhi observed several older scars on the woman's flesh beneath the coating of dried blood. A whip was responsible, the kunoichi theorized based on the appearance of the scars. Doubtlessly at the whipping post Chinami had described, used to punish and "correct" the behavior of the Flower Girls.
More noticeable than those scars was the fist-sized brand of a flower just beneath her collarbones. The same flower from the gambling chip.
The woman ducked her head down, wiggling her toes and opening and closing her hands.
"Thay here," Haruhi said with the kunai in her mouth. "I'll return thortly."
She limped out of the cell and to the corner again, peering around it cautiously in search of any other guards. Seeing none, she grabbed the dead guard—now utterly still—by the collar of his Mist Village flak jacket and tugged him around the corner. Out of immediate sight.
Nothing could be done about the blood stains. She sat the chair up over them, hoping to block them from immediate sight as well, before beginning a second looting of a corpse.
The flak jacket was useful. His pockets were empty of any scrolls or tools, bearing only discount tickets for The Flower Shop—some used, some unused, all of which she crumpled.
He bore a ninja tool box as well, but not a pouch. Haruhi lamented its absence. A pouch would have been useful, assuming he would have stocked it properly. She doubted he would. This rogue shinobi had let all of his training go to waste, willfully allowing laziness and arrogance to overcome his vigilance.
He paid the price. And she would, too, if she did not move swiftly.
She unfastened the side straps of the armor and struggled to tug it free of the corpse; her broken hand was rendering her inefficient, mildly annoying the kunoichi. Once free, she slung it over her shoulder and grabbed the tool box, limping swiftly down the cramped hall to the cell. Chinami was still sitting on the corpse.
"Can you walk?" Haruhi asked, kunai still between her teeth.
Chinami nodded tiredly.
"Thrip him."
"Huh? The woman looked at her as if she'd been asked to jump into a frozen lake. Her mint green eyes blinked. "Strip…him?"
Haruhi nodded. Then gestured with her bloody elbow towards the entrance.
"Though the temperature ith mild here. On the thurface you will freeze, be plagued by hypothermia before reaching thafety. You want to thee Mika again, yeth?" Chinami nodded in a slight daze. "Thrip him. All of it. Footwear, too. Quickly. We aren't free yet."
The act of stripping a corpse while wounded was tedious. Inefficient. It ate away time they didn't necessarily have.
Finally, they completed the task and dressed Chinami in a coat three times her size, pants they had to create a makeshift belt out of ripped cloth to keep from sagging off her body and shinobi sandals which threatened to fall off if she tried to run. Truthfully, Chinami looked like a child who had raided her father's closet and dressed in his clothes to appear as an adult.
Haruhi handed the flak jacket to Chinami.
"Put thith on."
If she'd looked at her before as if asked to jump into a frozen lake, this time Chinami stared at her as if she was asked to cut open the belly of a cow and sleep inside it to survive the cold.
"Shouldn't you—"
"It'll thlow me down. Put it on. Quickly."
Hesitantly, Chinami took the offered flak jacket and slipped into it. Haruhi turned her attention to the ninja tool boxes she acquired, setting the first on her left thigh and holding it there with her right elbow. Buckling it into place proved challenging with one hand, but doable. Once it was secure she grabbed the second and repeated the process on her right thigh.
Haruhi rose when finished and aided Chinami in buckling the final strap of her armor. It was true the armor was heavy and would slow her down, but she could have adjusted. And she would've preferred an extra layer of armor, truth be told. Unfortunately she lacked Intel on the number of guards in this location and its layout.
Should we enter combat, or our enemies ambush us from behind, I can rely on my training to evade and counter, the kunoichi thought. Chinami has no such training, and will likely react to combat in one of two ways: Freeze in fear or lash out with a decade worth of pent up aggression and emotion.
The armor could save her life.
Haruhi removed the kunai from her mouth finally, gripping it tightly in her left hand.
"Ready?" she asked.
"As I'll ever be."
Haruhi nodded and turned away. Before she could lead them out, Chinami's hand grabbed her by the elbow.
"Haruhi… Thank you. For coming back. I… Thank you. Even if we die here, even if all of this effort is in vain, just knowing you came back… It means a lot. More than I know how to say."
"We will not die here," she said with conviction. Haruhi turned her head to look back at the woman, orange eyes calm. "Stay close and move quietly. Stealth and surprise are our greatest advantages now."
"Shouldn't we strip the other guard? You'll freeze out there."
"No time. Come. Let's go."
Haruhi took the lead with Chinami gently holding onto her elbow.
No one escaped the mines. She'd heard those words from Chinami and the guard, resolute that escape was utterly impossible.
She aimed to prove them wrong.
Scouts were positioned over a widespread perimeter surrounding the mines entrance, hidden amongst bare trees that had shed their leaves to survive the winter and pine trees layered with snow in the forested areas, patrolling vigilantly over the compacted and pristine white hills of the mountainous terrain. From the shadows they monitored the well-traveled paths normally occupied by merchants and travelers when the snow hadn't fallen so hard.
Vigilant as these scouts were—and they were quite vigilant—none saw the senbon flashing through the air. Nor did they hear them whistling in the wind before the needles embedded into their necks.
And as the final scout collapsed into the snow in a state of pseudo-death, Haku lowered his hand and emerged from behind the concealment of a pine tree. Natsumi and Chōjūrō mirrored him, materializing from their positions behind similar trees.
The kunoichi of the pair was quick to stride through the snow towards the limp body, unraveling a scroll with Chōjūrō following close behind. She didn't waste time creating another Seal to capture the final scout for interrogation later.
They couldn't know how their operations would proceed once they infiltrated the mines. The interior layout was unknown to them, as were their numbers. And there was no guarantee the other operations to rescue the innocents The Crimson Flowers had kidnapped would go smoothly.
Anything could go wrong. One of their enemies may escape or send a report to their leader, causing the organization to burn bridges and disappear before they could be brought to justice. One of the organization's spies could very well hide among civilians and report in without their knowledge at any point.
They were fighting against the rapids current, trying to swim upstream to stable ground and shallow waters. Meanwhile their enemies lurked on the banks, watching, waiting to see what needed to be done to impede their path, or vanish into the shadows.
The Crimson Flowers had gathered control and power in the Land of Water through years of meticulous planning, work and coercion. The map Mika provided and Koshiro's treachery were proof their enemy's reach extended beyond rogue shinobi and members of the civilian populace. They were inside Mist Village, too, and among its shinobi ranks.
Though likely these scouts weren't knowledgeable to the greater workings of their organization, should anything go wrong it paid to have wells of possible Intel at hand then to destroy the wells entirely.
It's beginning to snow again, Haku noted calmly, gliding through the renewed showering of snow towards Natsumi and Chōjūrō. I remember snowfalls like this. I used to watch them from the living room window, enamored by the beauty of the snow, pleading with my mother to let me go out and play in it.
When it was a light snowfall, she would bundle me up in winter clothes and take me outside to play for a little while. I can still see her smile. Hear her laughter. She always seemed the most joyful when we were together.
When it snowed like this, though, she would tell me to watch the weather. Watch for its deceptive nature, for though it seemed like any other light shower, it wasn't. So I watched. And soon the light snowfall would quickly shift into a storm. The wind would howl. Inches upon inches of snow would shower over the ground and whip through the air.
Yes, I remember snowfalls like this. It may be light now, but it won't be for long. Soon it'll be heavier. Soon it'll reveal its deceptive nature.
The coming storm could be their ally. Visibility would decrease significantly, concealing their presence from guards stationed at the entrance of the mining operation behind a thick white curtain of whirling snow. Even weather could be a tool or weapon to a shinobi; Zabuza taught him that.
Haku halted beside his comrades. Natsumi, kneeling in the snow, was rolling up her scroll beside the imprint of a body, the only remaining sign the scout had lay there moments ago. It wouldn't last long.
Later he would need to retrieve his senbon. There wasn't time to remove them now, not when it required a steady hand and precision to remove the needles.
Time was against them, presently. They couldn't waste a single moment.
"That's the last of the scouts," Natsumi said. "Now we can enter the mines without worrying about reinforcements creeping up behind us. Mostly. Never know if others will show up."
She lifted her head to look up at the slate grey sky. A snowflake glided past the crescent shaped scar beneath her left eye.
"The snow is getting heavier. By the time we reach the entrance we'll be more or less concealed from prying eyes."
"I- I think the toughest part will be once we're inside the mine," said Chōjūrō, rubbing his fingernail plates together. "Or…maybe it will be. I've never been in a mine before."
Haku narrowed his eyes suddenly. He equipped three senbon between the gaps of his fingers, pivoted a half-turned and threw the needles with a single swift motion. All within a few seconds.
The needles whistled through the air, piercing into the snow at the foot of the pine tree he'd concealed himself behind moments ago.
Chōjūrō furrowed his brow, reaching his hand warily towards the hilt of Hiramekarei. Natsumi rose to her feet, flicking her eyes in all directions. They could feel it, too.
"Come out," Haku demanded coldly. "The air is ripe with your lust for violence. It's unmistakable."
"Stay on your toes and form up. I can't sense their chakra anywhere," Natsumi said beneath her breath. "They must be concealing it. They're out there, though."
Chōjūrō swallowed, turning to be back to back with his comrades, wielding Hiramekarei in front of him.
"Could they have raised the alarm at the mines?" he whispered.
"Maybe."
"Oh, no, no, no." The stranger's voice, almost sing-song in its delivery, was definitively male. "Mist shinobi, you wound me!" He gasped dramatically. "Sound the alarm? Me? I've done nothing so egregious! As of now your little mission is perfectly on course. You're going full steam ahead, chugging down the rails towards your destination without a single fuss or complaint. This is a luxury ride. Five-star rated service, I'd say! Normally I prefer the red wine, but I recommend the whiskey. It leaves a wonderful warm feeling in my belly to stave off this dastardly chill."
"Maybe try the special," Natsumi drawled dryly.
"Oh? And what is the special, my dear?"
"It comes with the appetizer of my fist pounding your face until its black and blue, followed by the main serving of regret as I make you wish you were never born. And it finishes with the dessert of me castrating you for calling me dear."
"Ah, sounds absolutely exquisite! Unfortunately, I must pass on that. Wouldn't want to ruin my dainty figure."
Haku scanned the surroundings. He'd been certain of his target, certain this man was seated at the base of that tree.
Where is he?
The snow was falling heavier. The limited visibility was working against them.
"How long will you skulk in the shadows?" Haku asked. "If you have no intention of stopping us, then leave."
"Stop you? No. I have no intention of that. I was… Hmm, shall we say coerced into serving those you seek to destroy. I won't shed any tears if you succeed. In fact, I'm rooting you on! It's 'bout time the Mist stepped up and burned it all down. But if you don't succeed, tsk, tsk, tsk. That would just mean it's back to business as usual. Back to being their pawn. A dull and morally questionable existence, wouldn't you say?"
Natsumi scoffed. "Maybe you should grow some guts and fight back if you resent them so much."
"I did. I tried. And I failed." His sing-song voice shifted in tone, dropping to a low pitch. He was finally getting serious. "Sōma is a freak of nature. He laughed at my attempts to fight back. He shattered my bones, pulverized my body and brought me to the fragile thread between life and death, and when he was crushing my head beneath his boot he said he 'liked my spirit' and gave me a 'choice': Death or a lifetime of servitude.
"I was a young kid, afraid of death. So, I chose to live. Because I did not know he would steal more than my freedom from me. I hadn't known those precious things could be stolen, or what I would be forced to do as his new lapdog. And if I had known this cruelty awaited me, I would've chosen to die that day instead. Because that was the only way to be truly free."
"You have my sympathies," Haku replied sincerely. "We have no quarrel. Leave. You're free now. Should you continue to harm or enslave the innocent people of this Land, however, I will track you down and end your life myself."
"Leaveeeee?" he repeated—whined—in his sing-song voice. "Now why would I do that when you tried to attack me? You just threatened me! I'm the wounded party here. No! I don't think I will leave," he seemed to pout. "In fact, I think I'll stay. This five-star service just earned a bonus star for its live entertainment! You!"
Haku's eyes flicked right.
"Incoming!" Natsumi warned, grabbing Chōjūrō by his arm—whose back was turned to the attack—and leaping away.
A blast of wind was barreling through the snow directly for his position. Haku channeled his chakra, forming one-handed handseals in quick succession beneath his cloak. Responding to his jutsu, gales of wind whirled around him then gusted directly at the opposing gale. The two Wind Jutsus collided at equal force, whipping invisible blades of air over the snowy hills, forming a storm of snow before Mother Nature's could begin.
Haku's cloak billowed viciously. He did not lower his guard.
Snow exploded behind him.
"Haku, look out!" Chōjūrō called out.
The Mist shinobi whirled a half-turn, narrowed brown eyes locking onto the enemy finally revealing himself. The male wielded a wooden Kanabō—a two-handed war club—above his head, prepared to crush his skull in or cause any amount of blunt force trauma he desired with a wild grin plastered on his face.
Among the snow floating around his enemy, Haku's keen eyes noticed droplets of water yet to crystalize. He pushed off his back foot, spinning a full turn to face his enemy before he landed in the snow again. The Kanabō slammed into his previous position.
Upon impact a shockwave of power hurled a vast wave of snow through the air. The heavier heaps formed new mounds as they collapsed to the earth, while the lighter edges were carried off by the wind elsewhere on the battlefield.
The stranger lifted up his weapon and slammed its flat end into the circle of earth his strike revealed, his grin unfaltering and somewhat crazed. Haku was troubled by the plethora of metal studs layering the Kanabō from the middle of its shaft to its end. One hit from the weapon would break bones and fracture flesh, doubtlessly.
"Haku, huh? Haku. Haku. Haku," the stranger repeated his name, testing its sound. "Nice to know the name of my dance partner! Ah, but how rude of me not to introduce myself. I am Fuugetsu. Fuugetsu Hōzuki. The Malignant Monsoon of the Mist, whose malicious manifesto was manufactured to maximize mercilessness after a magnificent merry mental meltdown merely multiplied mutual misery.
"Now branded," he lifted his left hand to reveal a flower branded on the back of his hand, "this bachelor's backward behavior is bent and bitter, broken and bound by beasts—bastards. But by fortunes whim Fuugetsu finds favorable fellows, fresh faces to facilitate faith. However, though this fanciful fantasia of fanfare is fascinating, its fatigue is ferocious. So forgive my loquacious laceration of language. Oh, I absolutely adore alliteration!"
Fuugetsu doubled over in hysterical laughter. Alone.
Haku remained alert.
He's positioned himself between me and the others, the shinobi analyzed calmly. He seeks to battle me and me alone.
This was the first wrinkle in their plans. Fuugetsu Hōzuki. A young man with blue eyes who appeared to be somewhere between his age and slightly older than Chōjūrō; the stress and trauma he endured aged his eyes, jaded them. The wild glint in them made him hard to read.
He attired himself in a black cloak, beneath which an orange shirt and black shinobi pants could be seen. Over his shoulder-length blond hair he wore a blue bandana.
With an exception of the brand on his hand, the only other visible scar on his body was one long cut from the bridge of his nose, down its right side, across his cheek and over his orbital bone, and all the way over through the middle of his ear. It looked painful.
"Ahhhh," Fuugetsu sighed contentedly, grin forming again. "Let's dance, Haku. It's not every day you get a handsome dance partner like me. You should relish this moment."
At the sight of Chōjūrō and Natsumi preparing to surround Fuugetsu, Haku spoke:
"Natsumi, Chōjūrō, leave him to me."
The pair paused. Chōjūrō appeared confused by the request. Natsumi was frowning in disapproval.
"Do not forget why we are here. Haruhi, Chinami and all those The Crimson Flowers have imprisoned in the mines and their Flower Shops need our aid. They're being forced to suffer. Treated as tools of labor or as a means for the most evil and depraved to satisfy themselves. Every minute we delay their rescue is another minute they must suffer. We cannot allow this to continue."
"I…I don't want to leave another comrade behind," Chōjūrō tried to argue.
"Don't worry." Haku managed a soft smile for his comrades. "I'll join you as soon as I finish this battle."
"Ohhh, aren't you quite confident." Fuugetsu's hand tightened around his Kanabō, grin somehow growing wilder. "This'll be fun!"
Haku dispensed his smile and narrowed his eyes at his enemy. His lust for violence was permeating off of him, thick in volume and intense.
"Go," he said to his comrades. "Leave Fuugetsu to me."
Reluctantly, Natsumi turned away. "Chōjūrō, let's go."
"Ri- right."
They dashed off through the snow towards the mines, disappearing behind the thickening veil of snow.
The snowfall was growing heavier.
Fuugetsu lifted his club, laying it over his shoulder. How he maintained a grin without losing any of its sincerity baffled the Mist shinobi. He drummed his fingers over the wood.
"I can't say I'm surprised you devoted one on one attention to me. I am a handsome devil, aren't I? Perhaps I should start modeling for painters. It'd be an honor. For them, I mean."
"We don't have to fight," Haku replied steadily, hoping to prevent conflict. "We can work together to sto—"
"Let's figggghhhtttt!" Fuugetsu cheered in his sing-song voice, dashing directly for him.
Haku frowned. "So be it."
His opponent was on him in seconds. The length of the Kanabō granted Fuugetsu an extraordinary area of attack while he remained out of reach. He utilized the advantage to tremendous effect.
Haku stepped backwards lightly and quickly through the snow, leaning his head and upper body out of range of long-reaching swings in narrow evasions; he felt the cold air lash at his face several times, but never felt the punishing trauma of the weapon's blunt force.
Dodge, dodge, side-step. His opponent had finished stringing together his swings with a powerful thrust. Though his movements and agility were nothing to sniff at, Fuugetsu had underestimated the speed and agility of the Mist shinobi.
Haku lunged in, his evasion and advance graceful. Equipping a senbon, he twirled the throwing needle between his fingers as he neared, gripping it tightly for the purposes of stabbing instead of throwing. The joyful wild gleam in Fuugetsu's eyes intensified. He drew his weapon in, but was too slow to counter. A senbon pierced the side of his throat with medical precision.
Fuugetsu's face stilled. His eyes went wide.
Then his entire body collapsed into a puddle of water. Haku watched in awe as the puddle raced around him in the snow within a moment's breath, melting a visible path through the fresh snowfall. The puddle lurched up, reshaping into Fuugetsu. The war-club was already on its blunt war-path for his spine.
"Surrrrprisssee!" Fuugetsu cheered.
Haku collapsed swiftly into a crouch, bending forward onto all-fours; he felt the club narrowly swipe over his entire body. Pressing his hands and feet into the ground, he jumped forward, out of the range of close-quarters combat, twisting to face his opponent before landing softly on his feet like a cat.
So, that's how he evaded my first attack, Haku analyzed. The Hydrification Technique is the secret ninjutsu of the Hōzuki Clan. It isn't a kekkei genkai like my Ice Style. It falls under the same branch of secret techniques as Amari's Shadow Possession Jutsu.
This will be tough. The Hydrification Technique will allow Fuugetsu to liquefy any part of his body at will, rendering any physical attack useless. The Wind Jutsu he attacked with first was a diversion to distract me as he approached in the form of a puddle. That explains the droplets I saw earlier.
Humming, the Mist shinobi returned his senbon to its pouch. It wouldn't be of any use to waste his throwing needles against this opponent.
Fuugetsu collapsed into a puddle abruptly. Snow parted beneath an almost invisible force that zigged and zagged towards Haku.
His brown eyes watched the movements carefully. Left, right, left, right, the rapid bounded through the snow at nearly untraceable speeds. Then suddenly split off into two separate bullets. They made to race around Haku again, but the Mist shinobi wasn't fooled. He waited to react until the two bullets changed course and zipped towards one another to meet at his toes.
Fuugetsu rose out of the puddle with an upward swing. Haku leapt back once. His opponent landed on solid feet then charged after him, running three long strides—the final he turned into a gleeful leap.
"Ya-ha-hooooo!"
He slammed the war-club into the thickening snow, causing an explosion of wind and purest white. Fuugetsu grinned, certain he'd dealt damage.
Wood thunked lightly against wood.
"Huh?"
Fuugetsu lifted his gaze and his eyebrows, witnessing the sight of Haku—undamaged—balancing on his war-club with his platoon sandals humming with chakra. His opened cloak, rustling in the gaining wind of the snowstorm, revealed his left hand swiftly moving through specific one-handed handseals. The snow Fuugetsu had displaced was the perfect weapon.
"I sympathize with your circumstances. Please don't resent me. But I cannot delay any longer.
"Secret Jutsu: A Thousand Needles of Death!"
A thousand crystallized ice needles formed from within the explosion of snow. Their harsh sharpened ends pointed directly at Fuugetsu. Haku rushed up the Kanabō, stepping onto Fuugetsu's shoulder with one foot and kicking the other for his bewildered face. His foot passed through water.
Leaping off his shoulder, he commanded his needles to pelt and impale his target. The impact of his jutsu caused another thunderous eruption of snow, which concealed Fuugetsu's entire position in a blanket of impenetrable white.
Haku landed and turned to observe the falling snow. The two ponytails of dark hair held in front of his face by metal cuffs swayed restlessly in the wind. The precipitation of snow came down from the sky at a diagonal angle; a plentiful amount of snowflakes dotted his black hair and began building on his cloak as he stood stock-still. The deception was revealing itself.
I had hoped to avoid the use of ninjutsu completely in this battle. I wanted to save my strength for the mines and the Flower Shop. But it seems I have no other choice.
Haku glanced to his left, narrowing his eyes. "You can stop pretending. I can sense your lust for violence."
Another puddle lurched up a within five strides of Haku. Fuugetsu formed out of it. Strangely, he took on a wide stance and began gyrating and thrusting his hips at the air, laughing—almost giggling—as he did. His gyration ended as he spun three hundred and sixty degrees on one foot, clutched his Kanabō horizontally in front of his chest and danced a jig to his own beat. Grinning now with the odd giggle bubbling out of him.
He changed his dance again, leaping side to side as if jumping over a log for a few seconds before underhand tossing his Kanabō into the air. He hopped and clicked his heels together in the air, landed and caught his weapon. He threw his arms out in a dramatic gesture.
"Yoooouuu caught me! Ha ha ha!"
He is the strangest person I have ever met, Haku decided.
Fuugetsu suddenly lifted and thrusted his Kanabō to point it at Haku. Again the giggling, happy-go-lucky grin and gleam shifted into something far more malevolent.
"Now," he spoke in a tone that matched his new grin and drastic shift of personality, "let the real dance begin!"
He wound up his Kanabō, as if preparing to swing and throw his weapon at Haku to strike him. The wind suddenly changed direction. The Mist shinobi glanced around, watching and feeling it rush past him towards Fuugetsu. Snow whipped around the war-club, twisting and turning on itself in the form of a white tornado.
"Wind Style: Tempest Shockwave!"
Fuugetsu swung his war-club. A concentrated wall of wind roared into existence. The whirling intangible force barreled straight for Haku, visible to the naked eye through the tsunami wave of snow it uprooted and carried directly for the astonished Mist shinobi, who had thrusted his hands out. Within a second the wind consumed his position.
Nothing could be seen of Haku from the outside. Wind and snow tumbled, ripped and tore apart the area he occupied. But if one were to listen closely, which Fuugetsu had, the unmistakable collision of wind crashing against a solid object could be heard.
From the inside of the storm, Haku watched the waves of snow tumbling overhead, listened to the roar of wind—awed at the powerful invisible force. He was unharmed. Narrowly. An icy, transparent dome of ice encased the dark-haired shinobi, who kept his arms extended out to maintain the jutsu.
The Glacial Dome vibrated, walls shaking as the tempest roared louder than the mightiest of beasts. Spider web-like cracks intricately fractured the front of the dome.
As if throwing open a door, the blinding wave of wind and snow rushed away abruptly. Haku's eyes went wide. Floating above his cracked dome was Fuugetsu, whose physical build had changed drastically.
Previously a slim young man, the Hōzuki's entire upper body had bulked into that of a body builder. Bowling balls for shoulders, vascular arms the sizes of which dwarfed even Zabuza's muscular build, a chest like a brick wall; this was another ability of the Hydrification Technique. Where liquefying their body acted as a defensive technique, this was used for the purposes of attacking. By pumping water into his muscles, Fuugetsu had increased his strength to a tremendous degree.
A feat which he was quite proud of. He was grinning wildly, wielding his Kanabō above his head with a crazed malevolence in his blue eyes.
"Yaaaaahhhh ha ha ha!"
Fuugetsu broke through the cracked ice dome with a single strike. The ice shattered marvelously, shooting through the air and past Haku. He felt a shard rip past his right cheek, the unzipping of flesh and warmth of pain. Then the entire dome seethed with explosive wind.
The dome shattered. A physical object never touched Haku, yet the powerful shockwave crashed into his body all the same. He was flung out of his dome. Tumbling over layers of thick but loose snow. Skipping through the snow storm for several meters like a thrown stone. Eventually he rolled out of the tumble and onto his feet.
He gasped. Dove to the side into another roll to evade, but it wasn't enough. The bullet of water tore through his cloak, his haori sleeve and long-sleeve, tearing open the flesh on his left bicep. There wasn't time to process the pain or the injury. Fuugetsu, returned to his natural slim state, aimed a finger gun at him and launched rapid fire bullets at the Mist shinobi.
Haku leapt to his feet, dashing swiftly through the snow, jumping without a distinctive pattern to advance on his enemy. The bullets whistled by his ears. Impacted against the snow. The snow storm whipped harshly at their bodies, deafened their ears. Even then Haku could tell Fuugetsu was giggling through the rapid expansion and compressions of his chest and gleeful expression on his face.
He was utterly strange. Insane, perhaps. But Haku couldn't read him very well.
In the end, it didn't matter. Fuugetsu refused to be reasonable. He only wanted to fight, to be entertained, neither of which Haku desired or had the time for.
For someone of his strength to be defeated by Sōma… Haku furrowed his brow. I have to hurry. If he is at the mines, Chōjūrō or Natsumi might try to fight him alone while the other evacuates Haruhi, Chinami and the others. One on one we may not stand a chance against him.
Haku slid sideways through the snow, evading another water bullet but pushed farther away from his enemy. Fuugetsu lowered his hand, reached behind his back and procured a bottle with a metal exterior.
Haku's eyes narrowed. Fuugetsu lifted the bottle towards his lips.
Channeling his chakra throughout his entire body, Haku vanished from his position, reappearing in the air in front of Fuugetsu with gales of wind rustling his blood speckled coat. The bottom of his platoon sandal flashed for his opponent's face. The dull thunk of wood on wood echoed in their ears.
Fuugetsu grinned wildly. He braced his war-club in the earth and used it to protect his face.
"Oh ho ho! Nice tr—"
Haku clasping his left hand on top of Fuugetsu's silenced the Hōzuki. Fuugetsu gasped and tried to tug his hand free; ice was forming on the surface, spreading slowly. But that was also a distraction. The water bottle remained his true target.
Gritting his teeth through the thrumming aches, Haku flipped his body up fully vertical, balancing on the top of the war-club on his wounded arm. With a swing of his legs he kicked the metal encased bottle out of Fuugetsu's hand.
Fuugetsu's wide eyes watched the bottle flip end over end, out of his reach and into the snow. Haku tucked his legs in. He planted them roughly onto his opponent's shoulders, then threw himself into a backflip, landing firmly in the snow before flickering through the lashing and heavy snowfall to the bottle.
The Hōzuki Clan techniques require him to remain hydrated in order to use them. He planted his foot on the bottle. That's the limitation to his power. If he only needed to rely on chakra alone, Fuugetsu would be able to prolong this battle for quite some time. Fortunately that is not the case.
"Not nice, Hakuuu!" Fuugetsu pouted childishly, slamming the flat end of his war-club into the ground. "Can't a man sate his thirst? What happened to the five-star service?! I'm filing a complaint!"
"Enough games, Fuugetsu," Haku replied coldly. "This fighting is pointless. Our aim is to stop the organization responsible for branding and traumatizing you, which you also desire. Why not join us?"
"Because fighting you is just too much fun!" he said, laughing.
"Will you not listen to reason?" Haku asked patiently.
"Reason?" Fuugetsu tiled his head at an exaggerated angle. "You haven't given me a single reason to stop fighting."
"Then you aren't listening."
"No, I am. I've heard your requests loud and clear. Join you and we'll stop the bastards in their tracks, am I right? But how can you expect me to fall in line when you haven't shown me your true power? How can I trust any of you to defeat that freak of nature if you can't even put me down?"
There it was again. The sudden change of personality where he actually sounded reasonable. And like all the times before it, it vanished within seconds for a giggling madman.
"Hakuuuuu! How can you hold out on your new best friend like this? Hiding your true power is just rude, you know that!" He rested his Kanabō on his shoulder, rolling his neck to tilt his head to the opposite side. He widened his eyes, which danced with malevolence. "Come on. Show me a good time already!"
Haku considered his choices carefully and came to a swift conclusion.
"Fine."
Fuugetsu grinned and charged ahead.
Haku exhaled a resigned sigh. Running away wasn't an option. Were he to turn his back and dash for the mines, Fuugetsu would chase him the whole way and endanger his comrades and the civilians. Or there was the chance he might inform the Flower Shop of their operation out of spite. Convincing him to stand down had failed, twice.
He's left me with no other choice. I must finish this.
When Fuugetsu neared, Haku pivoted quickly on the bottle, flourishing his cloak to conceal his movements.
"You're mine!" cheered the Hōzuki.
The Kanabō caught the cloak at its center. A violent wave of snow exploded outwards again.
When the snow settled and the only wind to remain belonged to the heavy snowstorm, Fuugetsu looked upon his victim. He chuckled. The cloak was flat against the earth, its owner utterly absent. He was quick to snatch his bottle off the ground, bringing it to his lips to rehydrate.
No water graced his mouth. Despite that, Fuugetsu grinned.
"Sneaky devil. You were channeling your chakra into my bottle while you were standing there, hiding your handseals beneath your cloak so I couldn't see you freezing my water. Clever boy! Now where did you go?"
The wind picked up. Snow whipped and whirled in small tornados over the hills. Visibility dropped. The freezing temperatures rapidly decreased.
The Hōzuki shivered.
"Oh boy. Is it just me or is this snowstorm getting worse? Haku? Hakuuuuu?" he called in a teeth-chattering sing-song whine. "Does this five-star service come with a complimentary foot rub? Is your red-haired friend available for that?" He suddenly gasped. "Wait! Are you the foot rub specialist? Do I get to choose? Can I have you both? Oh! And maybe while you two are rubbing my feet the one with the sword can feed me grapes! Hakuuuuu!"
Fuugetsu didn't see the senbon. Six needles impaled across his upper back.
"There you are!" The Hōzuki whirled around and wound up for another powerful Wind Style: Tempest Shockwave.
He hissed when three needles suddenly impaled into the back of his left arm. Before he could turn another three repeated the previous attack, except this time his right arm was the victim.
Needles rained from all directions without warning. Fuugetsu had no choice but to blindly launch Wind Style attacks at every conceivable angle. Yet no matter how powerful and widespread his attack was, no matter how quick he launched it, the needles kept raining over him.
The blizzard was too thick to see. The air was too cold to risk Hydrification. He was too dehydrated to use his Clan's secret jutsus.
Fuugetsu was trapped.
After close to a minute of pure punishment made excruciatingly longer by the cold and the pain, the blizzard faded for the heavy precipitation of the normal snowstorm. In the center of the snow was the huddled and shivering frame of Fuugetsu. He sat on his knees, arms hugging his torso with senbon protruding from the majority of his body. The Kanabō lay flat on the ground, partially buried in snow.
When Fuugetsu looked around, he snorted. Then began to giggle madly through shivers.
Five crystal ice mirrors surrounded him. One behind, one in front, one on each side and one above. Haku's reflection stared at him with a slight frown.
"Well, I did ask for a good time," Fuugetsu said, laughing. "I got what I wanted. Now, finish it already."
Haku dropped down from the mirror above Fuugetsu, landing beside him, allowing his mirrors to shatter and disappear. He looked down at the defeated form of his opponent.
"No," he said simply. "Killing you serves no purpose. It wouldn't right any of the wrongs you committed."
Fuugetsu lowered his head. "It'd make those who have suffered feel better, don't you think? People I helped kidnap into this godless life."
"No, it wouldn't," Haku said. "Your actions have caused many to suffer for days, weeks, months and years. They are still suffering even now. To kill you would only grant you a swift death while they must face the days ahead with their scars and trauma haunting their every step. They will continue to suffer. That is the unfortunate truth."
"Hehehe. So, am I to be imprisoned and tortured until I have suffered equal to those you save? Sounds just. It'll be a good time."
Haku squinted his face, annoyed. "No. There will be no torture or death sentence. Stop requesting it. Yes, you've aided the people we seek to destroy. Yes, your actions have caused a great deal of suffering to innocent lives. But what you said earlier and that brand on your hand shows you are just another victim of these people. A pawn they forced into service.
"You may be the strangest person I have ever met. You may enjoy fighting and violence. Yet that does not change the truth. You are as much their victim as those you were forced to kidnap. They forced you, a frightened and beaten boy, to choose between death and servitude. There are few who would choose death.
"I, too, have caused others to suffer and hurt. I have taken lives for the person I held most precious. However, I was gifted a second chance by someone meant to be my enemy. Their compassion is the reason I still live. I owe her my life. Now I am giving you the same second chance. Think of it as your punishment, if you must."
Haku turned away, gliding through the snow to pick up his cloak. He hooked it into place.
"I have unfrozen your water. I hope we will meet again under better circumstances, Fuugetsu." He glanced over his shoulder at the Hōzuki, bearing a cold expression. "However, do not make me regret my mercy. Target innocent lives or aid our enemies and I will kill you."
"…You're a strange guy, Haku."
Haku hummed a short laugh then dashed off towards the mines.
Mei was furious. Bubbling with unstable molten magma on the verge of erupting and exploding an entire mountain side with geysers of lava, toxic gases and pyroclastic rage. She could barely contain herself.
It wasn't noticeable to any random outsider. Her muscles did not tremble. Her nails did not tap impatiently or grate furiously against the cheery wood desk any longer. Killing intent did not flood off of her. She displayed a pleasant smile to the shinobi reporting in after their missions, and spoke in warm tones.
Yet even then they sensed the rumbling earth in her presence. A primal instinct of threat detection raised the hairs on the back of their neck, alerting them to danger they couldn't see or place, unaware of its source or the cause. The air seemed thinner, though they did not know why. Unpleasantly warm, like standing beside a fire on a summer day.
They did not see the clouds of burning ash floating around their Mizukage, or the hungry Oni hovering within it. They did not see her features darken when the door shut behind them. None of the young and eager noticed the change in their Mizukage. Even many of the more seasoned shinobi failed to recognize the shift of mood.
Ao noticed. He was the one to hand deliver Natsumi's report to her, which hadn't come bearing roses and a romantic letter from a handsome bachelor detailing his unrelenting love and meticulous plans to sweep Mei off her feet. No, it wasn't a pleasant report. Far from it.
Ao had witnessed the sudden shift of mood, where even the air seemed to become paralyzed in fear of the Mizukage's fury, and waited for elaboration.
He was out fulfilling her commands now, discreetly. Natsumi's report had given them direction—a vast rescue operation across the Land of Water. Mei yearned to handle it personally. However, she wasn't beyond sensibility. Were she to order the necessary squads to her office they would risk drawing too much attention.
After all, the organization had one of their 'Flower Shops' right here in Mist Village. Right under her nose.
Mei examined the map Natsumi sealed into her scroll. The Crimson Flowers, as her assistant called them, nearly had a stranglehold over the entire Land of Water. Major towns, ports, Kiri itself; they were everywhere, or would soon be.
They even had a Mist shinobi aiding them. She glanced to the scroll, a violent expression crossing her fair features. I will deal with you later, Koshiro.
The traitor could wait. He wasn't going anywhere.
Bracing her elbows on her desk, Mei laced her fingers together to form a sort of bridge and rested her forehead against it. Soon, she promised herself, soon those responsible for these inexcusable crimes would be punished. Soon she would punish them.
Her dark expression lightened somewhat when her office door opened. The heavy footsteps of the entrant were unmistakable.
"Zabuza," she greeted, lifting her head so her hands settled just beneath her eyes. "I am pleased you are here."
Zabuza squinted at the greeting, scrutinizing it and her appearance but otherwise didn't halt his approach. Only when he was standing in front of her desk did he return her greeting.
"Who needs to be eliminated?" he asked bluntly.
The Mizukage wasn't surprised he saw straight through her façade. Survivors from the time of Blood Mist could sense the slightest hint of killing intent. Those who couldn't had perished long ago.
"Forgive me, Zabuza. I know you only returned this morning from your S-rank mission, and I hoped to give you adequate time to rest, but this is a mission I can only trust you to accomplish," she began.
"You don't need to apologize. I was done resting."
"Mm. Has Haku kept you up-to-date on his and Natsumi's investigation into the mysterious disappearances?" she asked.
"Yeah. He mentioned they hadn't found any leads. Though judging on that map and your mood the situation has changed."
"Yes, it has. Dramatically, in fact. A child by the name of Mika—an orphan previously, we assume—escaped the clutches of these…individuals. Chōjūrō and Haruhi encountered him while finishing up a mission of their own. However, they were ambushed, Haruhi was injured and the child escaped into the mountains. Chōjūrō sent us a message before chasing after these…criminals."
"Just say how you feel, Mei."
"What shall I call them then?" she asked, the façade fracturing slightly. The dark pyroclastic flow was seeking an escape. "Fiends? Monsters? Detestable abominations? Horrible people who deserve to have all the pain and misery they've caused foisted upon them for all eternity?"
"Call them whatever you want. Just don't call them human." Zabuza eyed her seriously. "I'm no fool, Mei. You don't need to regurgitate the explicit details of your assistant's report for me to understand what these abominations have done to infuriate you so. And you don't need to pretend you're the patient peacekeeper for my sake."
Mei inhaled a soft breath, and exhaled.
"You're right," she said at length, voice even but eyes smoldering. "My patience has dissolved entirely." She lowered her hands into her lap, clutching them into fists. "And those responsible for these crimes cannot be considered human after what they've done. They…"
Mei ground her teeth together, unable to bring herself to say the words at the risk of a complete eruption of fury. Her hands beginning to tremble.
"I am frustrated. I am furious. And I can barely contain it. I cannot sit here and do nothing when I know what they've done!"
She shut her eyes, inhaled a calming breath. Then began again.
"Yet I must. I must stay my hand from wringing their necks, from dissolving their flesh and melting what little remains for the sake of those beyond our Village walls. Only when they are rescued and safe will I be able to act. Because it is not only the innocent lives of the Land of Water's populace held captive, but Haruhi as well."
"She was captured?"
Zabuza was surprised. Mei, too, had felt it. At least until she learned who had captured her.
"Yes," Mei nodded solemnly. "After Chōjūrō managed to escape with Mika, Natsumi and Haku found him and brought the child to one of my old bases. While they were absent she was ambushed again and captured by the man leading the hunt—Sōma Akebino."
"The Hound of the Mist, huh?" Just like her, Zabuza's surprise was replaced by understanding. "I'm not surprised he has ties to this. Or that he's survived this long."
"Agreed," the Mizukage nodded. "He was cruel, even by Blood Mist standards. And he thrived on the violence and bloodshed. I've never met him personally, but I've heard plenty of stories about him. Unfortunately, I fear few were ever exaggerated. His…exploits were well-documented."
"Hmm," Zabuza hummed lowly. "Want me to finish him off for good?"
"No. Natsumi is confident he will be at one of the two locations their team is attacking. She has asked me to trust them to handle The Hound. So I will."
Mei paused, crossing her right leg over her left. She trusted the three young shinobi to eliminate The Hound; they were three of the best and brightest of the Mist's next generation of shinobi.
"What I need you to do is quite simple," she began a moment later. She placed her finger on one of the marked Flower Shops. "First, you will go to this operation of theirs and liberate the poor souls imprisoned in it. Be discreet. Do not let anyone see you enter or leave."
"Right."
"I want the customers captured alive for trial. Eliminate everyone else. Oh, and if the individual who runs this particular business is there, pry any information you can out of him." She looked Zabuza in the eyes. "I want any Intel you can get on other customers, on the organizations operations and their leadership. Anything is useful at this point." She shook her head. "The Hound isn't shrewd enough to organize all of this.
"By the time you finish, a squad with one of our medic-nins should arrive. They can handle the captured customers and the prisoners."
"And the other operations?"
"I have Ao mobilizing squads as we speak to handle them. Discreetly, of course. These squads are comprised of shinobi I can trust, and they'll be departing on the pretense of average D- and C-ranked missions."
"A coordinated raid, eh? They won't see it coming," he chuckled darkly. "And the glory of raiding their operation here in the Village will be yours, I presume?"
"There will be no glory," Mei replied coldly. "Only punishment."
Zabuza's shoulders shook with malevolent laughter. He seemed pleased to see her killer edge intact.
Mei rested her elbows on her desk, steepling her fingers.
"Two final things before you leave. First, when you have finished your task, please stop by Shinjuku to check on Natsumi, Haku, Chōjūrō and Haruhi."
She trusted them, but she still worried. They were the future of the Mist, and she would do everything she could to not only protect them, but set their Village and Nation on a path worthy for them to inherit.
"Haku and the other runts will be fine, Mei," Zabuza replied.
"I know. But still."
"Fine. And the other thing?"
Mei narrowed her eyes. "Let The Demon be the last thing these abominations see."
Even with his mouth concealed by bandages, Mei could see Zabuza grinning.
"Only if you show those fools yours."
No one except Zabuza saw Mei's reaction. And even though he instigated it, he still felt the shiver of fear, for he saw a glimpse of the pyroclastic flow roaring inside of the Mizukage and the silhouette of the hungry Oni grinning within the dark cloud of ash and lava.
Mei's lips twitched upwards in a sadistic smile.
"Believe me, Zabuza," she said in warm tones that betrayed the dangerous look in her eyes.
"They will witness a demon unlike any other."