Naruto: A Red Eye Hidden by Shadow

by Tatanka4Life

On the fateful night of the Uchiha Massacre, a girl of Uchiha and Nara blood is spared and left with no memories of her past. Now she must walk on the path left by her family to help her build a new future for herself. Her path will be hard, full of struggles and pain, but as long as she has her friends and family at her side she will keep forging ahead, even if it was a drag.

118. Chapter 117: Pillars of the Mist

Chapter 117

Pillars of the Mist: The Future vs The Dark Times

When the group returned to the upper level of the mines, with Chōjūrō bracing Haruhi and Natsumi piggybacking Chinami, the scene to greet them was somewhat of a reprieve from the nightmarish hell of The Gallows. Only somewhat, though.

A significant majority of the liberated prisoners were working. This time, though, they worked at their own leisure, without the threats of abuse or screeching of a weasel, for the sake of one another rather than in response to the knout that had shredded their flesh and haunted their dreams.

Chōjūrō adjusted his glasses, examining their work. It seemed they were building the very basic beginnings of a refugee camp—specifically an aid station—from the materials left behind by the Crimson Flowers, who were too dead to retaliate. Some carried medical supplies. Others created makeshift beds. Military rations of food and water were being carefully distributed among the withered and brutalized souls.

In the midst of it all, organizing the liberated prisoners and tending to the injured simultaneously, was Haku. Seated on a small, square wooden table beside him, bundled inside of Haku's cloak—which was alarmingly stained by blood—was a small girl with a single tuft of hair; she had bandages wrapped securely around her knees, elbows and emaciated torso.

Aiding his work was a freckle-faced girl, also already bandaged in a similar fashion.

Within the short time Chōjūrō observed them, his fellow shinobi and the freckle-faced girl meticulously washed and applied rudimentary ointment and bandages to an injured woman. The woman was trembling with tears of anguish and liberation.

She'd been lashed recently; the dried, dark red stains of blood crusting over her flesh hid her other scars. And heavy bruising, Chōjūrō noticed with a sickening twist of his gut, marred her thin and frail wrists. And her neck.

The pair spoke in gentle tones to the injured woman at times to comfort, or merely to explain what they were doing. It was all they could do.

Once finished, another patient approached—a sinewy man with disfiguring scars on his face. Haku aided the man in sitting on the wooden stool. Noticed a group of four liberated men, whose ages ranged from young men to middle-aged or elderly, half lifting, half dragging a rectangular crate containing unknown supplies, and politely asked the freckle-faced girl to begin without him, promising the small child he would return shortly.

Then he swiftly left his station to aid them. First he gently ushered the weak, elderly man to one of the empty beds with a compassionate smile. Afterwards he took the elder's place, moving the crate closer to the aid station and out of the walkways. Then he swiftly detoured into offering guidance and organization to another group who were distributing the rations.

"I know you are all famished," Haku reasoned calmly with the group, "but we must carefully reintroduce food into your bodies. Keep the portions small, for now. Even smaller for the children. These rations are high in calories. Were anyone to eat too much at once, they could very well die. The children are especially susceptible to this."

He rested a hand on one of the man's shoulders in a gesture of compassion and sympathy.

"I know this isn't easy. Now that you are free, what many of you want most is the normalcy you had stolen from you. I understand. But I beg you to be patient. If not for your own sake, than for the sake of the others here."

The man appeared to nod in understanding.

Haku was on the move again. He returned to the aid station and to the disfigured man on the stool.

As he glided across the room, silent and graceful as a leopard, Chōjūrō noticed bandages wrapped around his left bicep—and blood on his haori sleeve.

That was Haku's blood on his cloak, he realized.

The limb didn't appear broken, nor did the shinobi seem to acknowledge the wounds existence. His focus was on those he could help.

When they finally approached their comrade, Chōjūrō was surprised to see a cut along his right cheek, short and abrupt, but red and angry on his fair flesh. He didn't seem bothered.

I wonder what happened to Fuugetsu.

Haku, wringing a wet cloth into a small pot, which he had used to clean the man's wounded upper body, greeted their approach with a kind smile. Then, after draping the rag over his shoulder, he equipped a senbon and said:

"Before I apply an antibiotic ointment to your wounds, I need to drain the pus out of them. This will hurt, I'm afraid." Haku glanced up to the teenager. "Meer."

The freckle-faced girl—Meer—stepped closer, holding out a small towel to the man.

"Here. Please bite on this."

The disfigured man bit down on the towel.

"Grip the stool," Meer said, placing her hands on his shoulders.

He nodded obediently.

"Okay. Ready?"

Again, he nodded.

Meer glanced up to Haku, signaling her readiness with a short dip of her gaunt chin.

The drainage of the pus caused Chōjūrō to grimace almost nearly as much as the disfigured man, who arched his back, clenched his jaw and made a long, muffled groan of pain. Eyes wide and watery, he squirmed and writhed despite Haku's gentleness. The first infected wound was bad. But it was only the first.

There were still more to drain. And through them more writhing and tears.

Haku drained the wounds with his senbon and hands, cleaning them thoroughly after wetting the rag draped over his shoulder again. He was very efficient.

"Okay. That was the last one," Haku said after plenty of groans and clenching of jaws.

He cleaned his senbon off and placed it beside a growing pile. Meer released the man's shoulders, procured a jar of ointment from the nearby station and handed it over to Haku.

"I am about to apply an antibiotic ointment," he informed the disfigured man. "Forgive me. It may sting."

He hadn't lied. His patient hissed and flinched away from his gentle touch, the ointment cold and the pain matching the ferocity of a bee sting as he applied it to his wounds. But beyond the groans there were no complaints when he finished. Compared to a whip, Haku's bedside manner and rudimentary care was appreciated, even if it hurt.

After wrapping the disfigured man's torso up in bandages, Haku aided him in standing again and then directed his attention to his comrades.

"I'm sorry I did not regroup with you immediately," he apologized before they could speak. "But when I learned Sōma had departed, I was concerned he or others like him would return, cornering us and hurting these people. They also needed aid."

"Although I wouldn't have minded the backup, you made the right call," Natsumi said. Then exhaled a sigh. "Way to take the wind out my sails. Here I planned to tear you a new one just for the hell of it. But then you go and disarm me with a legitimate reason and all this hard work. Guess I'll have to wait until you mention your girlfriend again to have my fun."

Haku ignored the comment. He turned his head to examine Haruhi first, clearly noticing her state of almost full undress beneath Natsumi's cloak, and how she kept her left foot slightly lifted and her right arm pressed against her side to evade agitating the fracture. Then to Chinami, still piggybacked by Natsumi.

"Allow me to check over their injuries," he said after his examination. "Although there is little I can do for the fractures you sustained, Haruhi, we should still take caution to prevent infections to your other wounds."

"You have my gratitude," Haruhi nodded once. "But examine Chinami first. She was held prisoner longer by these fiends than I was. And, as you said, there is little that can be done presently for my broken hand and foot. Few of my injuries can be cured by ointment, truthfully. And none can be categorized as life threatening."

"As you wish."

"We'll find ways to help organize these people while you work," Natsumi said, crouching down slightly so Chinami could climb off her back. "But we can't linger here long. We have to finish off The Flower Shop in Shinjuku."

"Understood," Haku nodded.

---

Chōjūrō had done all he could to help. After the final prisoners were liberated from their cages, and the slain guards were adequately searched for Intel and resources, he dragged, carried and disposed of the enemy's corpses in the cramped rooms the prisoners once occupied, sealing them in the hell they created behind heavy steel doors.

A fitting grave, he felt.

As for Intel and resources, a significant portion of the guards, unfortunately, had grown lazy or lacked discipline altogether, leaving their weapons in states of ill-maintenance. Few of the ninja tools he found were usable, especially for a fight against the Hound of all people. And Intel was outright non-existent on their persons.

On one individual he found a deck of visibly old and weathered cards, which had seen several games over the years; a pack of cigarettes missing three-quarters of the pack was in the pocket of another; a silver locket with an explicit picture of an androgynous individual, who Chōjūrō accurately presumed was a Flower Girl no older than Nen, ended up shattered beneath his shoe.

He found nothing useful like the gambling chip Haruhi found, or the syringe containing the narcotic that afflicted the prisoners in The Gallows.

Natsumi had better luck searching for Intel, he learned. Inside one of the many rooms they left strewn with corpses, the Swordsman found her standing at a table—upon which a dead guard was lying partially on top of with two kunai impaled in his chest, one arm hanging limply off the side of the table and unblinking eyes hollow of all life—meticulously reading through a record book of this mining operation's hauls and shipments.

Without bothering her, he began rummaging through their pockets, procuring usable ninja tools and removing the corpses, until finally all of the guards were locked away and the rooms were clear for the liberated prisoners.

This will be their home for a while longer, Chōjūrō thought as he sat in the main chamber, cleaning and maintaining Hiramekarei in preparation for the next battle. But they won't have to live in cages any longer. I wish we could bring them back out into the world, out of this terrible mine where they've been held prisoner for so long. But we can't. Not yet.

The weather alone prevented their full liberation. Beyond that, though, holding them all in one place made it easier on their medics and doctors to tend to them. So, for now, this mine would remain their home. The least they could do was make it livable, and safe.

After clearing away the corpses, Chōjūrō had moved around to help wherever he could to achieve that end. But the time was drawing near for the assault of the Flower Shop. And, honestly, he needed time to mentally prepare after everything he had witnessed in the mines.

Because where they were going next would be a different kind of hell. A different monstrous display of darkness.

Glancing up from Hiramekarei, pausing briefly in rewrapping the mystical blade, he observed the chamber and its liberated inhabitants with a solemn countenance. The woman he'd first seen inside a cage, he noticed, was lying on one of the makeshift beds. She was curled up and bandaged, crying and trembling as she held onto a small, sinewy boy. Presumably her son.

He had encountered her while working. The woman had all but collapsed into his arms, sobbing out her gratitude incoherently as she grabbed onto his arms tightly, as if this all might be a cruel dream if she let go.

Chōjūrō hadn't known how to respond. He froze, at first. Awkwardly gasping and stupidly asking if she was okay, of all things.

After a while he just held her, quietly reassuring her she was free. When it became clear she wouldn't let go he gently guided her into the main chamber, an act made easier by her frail body and thin legs, where Meer helped free him of the weak hold he hadn't been willing to break on his own.

There'd been others, too. Others who collapsed into his arms, weeping. Grasping onto him like he was some sort of holy savior or glorious knight in shining armor. Natsumi and Haku encountered it as much as him, and responded just as awkwardly.

Of all the experiences, though, the worst were the liberated prisoners who asked if they had seen friends or loved ones in The Gallows. Chōjūrō didn't know how Natsumi handled it, but he struggled to find the right answer, stammering over his words while unable to meet their eyes.

What could he say? What was the right answer? The truth was just…painful. How did he even begin to explain what they'd experienced in The Gallows? The crazed prisoners. The fanatical servitude. All because the guards had warped, twisted or destroyed the people they once were. How was he to explain the narcotic that afflicted its occupants?

How could he answer if they could be rescued when he didn't know?

Chōjūrō had settled on non-committal mutterings, claiming he hadn't gotten a good look of the prisoners but that there were many still alive, so it could be possible their loved one was alive. And when they pressed to know why they weren't freeing them, well, he panicked and said the elevator was broken.

"It's better we wait until our medics arrive," he reasoned with them in his panic. "They'll be okay down there until then, I promise. There aren't any other guards to torment them."

Of course the people still wanted to be reunited. Of course he could understand their feelings and their desperate need to see their loved ones and friends. But they couldn't know the reality of the situation. Not yet. Not now.

In their emotional states, to learn their loved one was poisoned by a highly addictive narcotic and could very well hurt or kill everyone because of their programming was just too much to handle.

Or, rather, Chōjūrō couldn't bear to tell them the truth. A weakness on his part, he knew. But the image of the poor soul jumping in front of The Gallows whipper to then be cleaved by Hiramekarei wouldn't stop making his stomach churn.

Adjusting his glasses, he returned his attention to Hiramekarei, which was no longer weeping crimson tears. But he could still see them in his mind's eye; the streams of innocent and monsters blood drawing uneven and directionless patterns over the surface of the blade; the violent crimson chakra thrumming, pulsing; the whipper's paling complexion as viscous strings of blood dripped out of his mouth, streamed out of his torso while impaled on Hiramekarei.

And the wretched smell.

"I'm sorry, Hiramekarei," he apologized in a quiet murmur. "I hoped I could be different than my predecessors. I hoped together we could be a sword of justice for Lady Mizukage. But, in the end, you were forced to spill innocent blood again because of me."

"You are different from your predecessors, Chōjūrō."

"Eh?!"

Chōjūrō snapped his head around with a start. Looming over him, attired in Natsumi's cloak, was Haruhi, who stared at him with a neutral expression.

"Oh, Haruhi." He sighed in relief. "Sorry. I didn't hear you approach. Oh, um, are you okay? Shouldn't you stay off your foot?"

"It is only a minor fracture. I can move when necessary," she replied. "And I am well. My imprisonment was unremarkable when compared to the atrocities and humiliation these people have suffered."

The kunoichi lowered herself to the stone floor, extending her bare legs out in front of her and adjusting the cloak so she wouldn't sit on it, while also covering her upper body for a hint of modesty.

"Also, you should not lower your guard," she said. "This time I was an ally. Next time it could be an enemy. Such was proven by both my escape and your infiltration."

"Ye- yeah. You're right," he agreed quietly, slumping slightly.

One of the errors their enemies had made was assuming this secluded mine, hidden from prying eyes, could not and would never be infiltrated. They had thought they were safe. But a lack of vigilance was a fatal error, one that had led to their deaths.

Until their mission was finished, he would have to remain vigilant. It was his relaxation and placement of Hiramekarei out of immediate reach that led to the very first ambush. That mistake led to Haruhi's state of injury, and inevitably concluded in her capture and imprisonment.

He swore then and there never to make the same mistake again.

"Your predecessors were a reflection of their era," Haruhi said abruptly, neutral in her cadence of speech and tone. "The ceaseless bloodshed, the violence and wars that destroyed settlements and propagated fear of kekkei genkais, the brazen cruelty and the joyful slaying of innocent bystanders and comrades is the dark era Lady Mizukage seeks to reform, as you know. But although we were not born into that era, as she was, we are not untouched by it either.

"We—you, Haku, Natsumi and myself, specifically—were all effected by the past era. It did not end when Blood Mist Exam was abandoned. It did not end with the last war, or when the kekkei genkai purges seemed to end. The taint of the last era afflicted our childhoods. It afflicts us even now, for we are the students of Blood Mist survivors.

"However, we reject their philosophy," she said with a short shake of her head. "We reject the ceaseless bloodshed, the violence and wars that destroyed settlements and propagated fear of kekkei genkais. Indeed, we even reject the brazen cruelty and joyful slaying of innocent bystanders and comrades. Because we are students of Blood Mist survivors, and we learned all too well the price of their mistakes. Because we, too, are survivors—survivors of what their philosophy of bloodshed has wrought in this Land."

Haruhi looked over to Chōjūrō, her expression meaningful.

"You are nothing like your predecessors, Chōjūrō. You are far more emotional than them. They never shed tears for strangers."

The Swordsman's cheeks flushed as he winced. "Oh…"

Haruhi frowned. "I've offended you, haven't I? I apologize. I only meant by shedding tears for that prisoner you proved you are not a reflection of the past Swordsman. You are not a Demon or Scourge. You shouldn't compare yourself to them; they were legends for a reason."

Chōjūrō winced again, shoulders slumping further.

Haruhi pursed her lips tentatively. "I am trying to compliment you, but I fear it isn't working."

Chōjūrō exhaled a short puff of awkward laughter. "No, no, it's okay."

He should have known she wasn't trying to insult him. She was constructive and kind, in her own awkward way.

After chuckling softly, releasing the tension in his body, Chōjūrō met her gaze again with a smile.

"You mean their legends are forged in the dark times, and to be called a Demon or Scourge isn't a compliment, but a curse, which is why I shouldn't aim to reflect their legends. And shedding tears is proof I'm not a heartless demon, right?"

"Yes," she nodded.

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry I did not aid you and Natsumi sooner." Haruhi turned her hands over and stared down at her palms with a frown. "Had I been more efficient with my words and in my actions, perhaps you and Chinami would not be burdened by this guilt. Perhaps if I understood how to offer comfort I could relieve you both of the burden.

"But all I know how to do is fight and kill. I've never known compassion or friendship. I do not even know how to build a future. I am a soldier. All I can offer to Lady Mizukage is my blades. All I can do is cut out the cancerous tumors infecting our Nation."

"…That's not true," Chōjūrō murmured after a moment.

"Hm?"

"You can offer so much more than that, Haruhi. You already do," he said, staring down at Hiramekarei. "We—shinobi, I mean—don't have to know how to build homes or businesses to build the future. I don't really know how to build anything, honestly. I am one of the Seven Swordsman, the wielder of Hiramekarei; I am a soldier like you, knowing only the way of the shinobi.

"And that's okay. Our job is to protect the people who can rebuild our Nation, to aid Lady Mizukage in rooting out threats and enemies like those bandits preying on innocent people we eliminated, and organizations like the Crimson Flowers."

He looked out at the liberated prisoners. He watched those lying or sitting on their makeshift beds. Their tears. Their blank faces, unsure of what this freedom meant. What freedom even was.

He watched the children and teenagers amble around, observing their sinewy bodies and scars. He watched Haku work to apply rudimentary care to everyone with Meer. And in-between how he devoted attention to the girl bundled up in his cloak and Meer. Treating them compassionately. Treating them like humans. Telling stories not only of his troubled past, his meeting with Master Zabuza and eventually Team Seven, but also of the outside world he'd seen along the way, describing the misty mountain peaks, the green valleys, the bubbling streams and open sky. The snow, too. Stories of flowers, birds and even a white rabbit.

And in doing so, he gave them a hint of normalcy. A vision of the world they could see themselves in the near future.

Hope.

He watched Natsumi sitting with Chinami, gathering Intel on their enemies. At the same time, she wore her hair down out of its usual loose bun, allowing a teenage girl to teach some children how to braid hair.

"What we're doing here," Chōjūrō said after a moment, "this is all part of building the future Lady Mizukage has envisioned.

"With an exception to Natsumi, I don't think I know anyone who wields the same passion and determination to bring about Lady Mizukage's vision as you, Haruhi." He blushed. "I admire you and your determination. And the confidence you have that we can actually change this Land. I believe in Lady Mizukage, of course. But you've made my faith in the future stronger than ever. I think that's why it hurt so much to learn you were captured. I was afraid I failed you. I was afraid you wouldn't get to see your dream come true."

"You were afraid for me?" Haruhi asked, tilting her head slightly.

"Yes," he nodded once. "I was sick with worry and guilt. Haku and Natsumi were worried, too. Because you're more than a soldier to me—to us. You are our comrade. Our friend."

Struck by a sudden thought, Chōjūrō reached into his pocket, retrieving Haruhi's black headband, striped with a single orange line through the center. He handed it to her, smiling and blushing bashfully.

"Let's help build the future together, Haruhi."

Haruhi pursed her lips in a show of awkwardness, taking her headband. She then reached forward and patted Chōjūrō on his head again.

"I will do my best."

---

When the time to depart finally came, the trio of Mist shinobi asked Haruhi to stay behind to watch after the liberated prisoners and wait for a medic-nin to heal her injuries. The kunoichi agreed without complaint.

On the promise of returning soon, they departed and ascended up the elevator shaft, leaving behind one hell on the path towards another.

It was in the streets of Shinjuku, just outside of the Flower Shop, where their final battle against the Hound of the Mist would take place.

It was there, on the snowy street, they witnessed firsthand the wretched legend come to life.

---

Ribbons of smoke rose amidst the light snowfall over Shinjuku. The piercing wails, agonizing pleas for help, and brazen laughter carried on the air beyond the center of the carnage, drowned out at times by the explosions of the battle.

Racing through the streets was Nen. Burdened by an injured, lanky middle-aged man he saved from the carnage deeper in town, he was pursued by two cronies of the giant beast of a man he'd narrowly survived encountering. He carried the civilian on his shoulders in a fireman's carry.

When Nen first heard the screams of the townsfolk what felt like an entire day ago, he couldn't fight his eager nature. Without thinking, he rushed out into the town to learn the cause, discarding his medical sling despite knowing his arm wasn't fully healed, but confident it was a bandit attack of some manner he could defend against.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

Despite his adrenaline fueled heart roaring into his ears, Nen caught the sound of shuriken whirling through the air at his back. With a sudden leap, he launched from the street to the side of a small gambling house. Then the shinobi pushed off the roof to charge ahead onto the street again.

He grimaced as he landed, nearly stumbling in the snow as the extra weight sent a jolt through his shoulders and into his left arm. The lanky man groaned. Glancing back as he ran, Nen saw only one of the men pursuing him.

Hey, wait a minute, where did the othe—

A shadow fell over the Genin, interrupting his thoughts. His eyes shot up, wide in horror not at the sight of the rogue shinobi descending straight for him, but the set of kunai flying ahead of him within arm's reach.

On survival instinct alone, Nen dove forward with a cry, throwing the lanky man to push him out of range of the attack. The cold snow did little to cushion their fall. The crash and aches that followed drowned out the majority of his senses; all except the roaring pulse of his heart, which had only picked up tempo.

But Nen was quick to scramble onto all-fours, and then to his feet, ignoring the chill of the snow, his training swiftly claiming control over his body. He wasn't sure if the adrenaline was dulling the pain of a kunai wound, or if he'd miraculously managed to evade the blades.

Frankly, he didn't care to know the reason. He just had to keep moving.

Panting and grimacing, Nen whirled around, equipping a kunai and hopping back to stand at the body of the injured man, who had begun groaning and curling up in the snow. His enemy was a full-grown adult male with a bowl cut…

And he was impaled through his chin and into his mouth by a kunai, forced to stand by his killer amidst kunai and senbon buried in the snow. A killer whose crimson hair, tied loosely in a bun with visible braids within it, was as violently bright as the streams of blood pouring down her victim's neck.

"Lady Natsumi!" he exclaimed, eyes wide.

Movement in his peripherals dragged his attention to the adjacent building, upon which Chōjūrō dashed swiftly to meet Nen's final pursuer bearing a kunai in hand and Hiramekarei wrapped in bandages on his back.

The Swordsman leapt from the wall, landed in the snow and glided effortlessly along it, pivoting out of the way of the second pursuers strike expertly, confidently, at the final moment.

He finished the shinobi off with a single slash to the jugular.

"Nen, would you help me with him please?"

The calm and polite voice of Haku startled the Genin, who whirled around again to see his fellow shinobi kneeling beside the injured man wielding a meager roll of bandages.

"Oh, uh, right!"

Sheathing his kunai, he helped hold the injured man in a seated position so his comrade could tie the bandages around his abdomen, where his wound was located.

"The wound won't be fatal if you can stop the bleeding. Once I'm done you will need to get him somewhere indoors, keep him warm and keep pressure on the wound," Haku ordered. The boy glanced up at the town, briefly. "I wish I could do more to help, but we must stop this carnage before more innocent lives are taken."

"I've set up a camp at the messenger bird station. I was evacuating the townsfolk I could; the goons destroying the town didn't notice me sneaking around, not until I was caught by those two rogues, anyway," Nen replied. "The documents are all secured there; I made sure of that, just in case the people Mister Koshiro was working with showed up."

"Very good," Haku nodded in approval.

"Nen." The Genin turned to face the approaching Mizukage's assistant, bearing the stains of fresh blood on her face. She was still enchanting even with the severe expression she wore. "Can you tell me what happened? Briefly, please."

"The attack started at least ten minutes ago," he began. "When I heard the screams, I rushed out to help defend against what I thought would be a bandit attack or something. Maybe friends of those guys Chōjūrō and Haruhi took care of, you know?"

He shook his head.

"But they aren't. And I barely escaped."

---

Standing within the center of the town of Shinjuku, disguised to appear as nothing more than a flower shop where flowers from all around the shinobi world were imported, was The Crimson Flowers first and oldest Flower Shop. Its quaint design concealed the darkness that dwelled below, beyond the sight of any who entered to purchase flowers for a lover or a family member.

And strewn in the snow outside the shop were the corpses of townsfolk, slain by a giant and his cronies, with some bystanders yet alive and at their mercy.

Nen hid in an alley behind the massacre, stomach churning at the screams of men and women alike as they tried to flee in terror, or were captured and dragged through the snow.

Their leader, the giant, was seated on the Flower Shop's front porch on a small stool that defied all expectations by not breaking beneath his hulking weight, goading his men on with a wretched grin. There was a man at his feet, broken by a beating but alive. Barely. The giant kept his massive foot pressed against his spine.

"Have yer fun, boys!" he ordered with a laugh. "Be violent, be merry! Do whatever ya need to tickle yer loins. And kill whoever stands in yer way! Be lively, I say! Embrace your inner child; the town is your playground for the evenin', but ya better be home for dinner, ya hear!"

"Yes, Boss!" they chorused cheerfully.

Nen watched one of the giant's goons kill an elderly man with a grin. Another set off explosions on the roof of one of the buildings, collapsing the structure onto the poor occupants still hiding inside. Someone hadn't died, though. He could hear them screaming in agony.

Two more men were pinning a woman to a wall and severing the threads of her clothing. She was weeping and wailing, struggling to wrench her wrists free. Their grip was too tight.

You sick bastards. Nen growled, hand slowly reaching for his ninja tool box. I know I'll be outnumbered. I know that death is almost a guarantee. But I… His hand wrapped around the hilt. I cannot stand here and watch this go on. I am a Mist shinobi. It is my duty to protect these people, even if it costs me my life!

"Wh- why are you doing this?" the man beneath his boot begged.

"Why? Ha ha ha!" the giant rumbled with malevolent laughter at the scene of chaos and monstrous depravity in front of him. "Why not! A little fightin', a little destruction and a little screwin' satisfies me and my boys. Ain't nothin' more to it than that."

When Nen saw one of the two men pin the woman's exposed body chest first against the wall while his partner began fumbling with the belt of his pants, and when he heard her terrible sobs and pleas to stop, he dashed out of his hiding place with his kunai in hand, consumed by rage.

"Let her go, you bastards!" he roared.

The man fumbling with his belt whirled towards him, eyes wide as he struggled in indecision to either drop his pants entirely or try to hold them up and fight. His partner kept the woman pinned, but also wore an expression of shock. Death was certain. He could see it on the stupid monster's face.

Nen took three long strides, drawing his blade back. The third step he turned into a small hop, shooting ahead with a violent expression on his face. Confident in his kill.

His first victim failed to make a decision. Nen slashed.

A massive hand gripped him by the back of his neck, causing his blade to miss by mere inches. The giant rumbled with cruel laughter.

"Ya was so close, too!" he taunted. "But little boys shouldn't play with knives. Ya might hurt yerself. So hand it over, little runt." The giant twisted his wrist, nearly snapping it effortlessly. Nen hissed, the pain causing him to release the blade.

"Thanks, Boss," his first victim bowed his head.

"Of course! Yer my boys. Wouldn't want this little runt to ruin your playtime."

Undeterred by his capture and enraged by their inhumanity, Nen swung in the massive man's grasp, kicking his legs at the man holding up his pants; the double kick was a solid blow, knocking him into his partner.

The collision knocked the bastards over.

"Run!" Nen yelled at the woman. "Go, now!"

"Oh ho ho, we've got a spirited one, boys!" the giant laughed.

She did. Crying and wailing with bruises on her wrists and not the slightest hint of clothing, she ran, but did not get far. The man who had held her previously scrambled to his feet and tackled her to the ground.

"Aw, and after all that effort!" Warm, old garlic pelted Nen's senses. He scrunched his nose and continued to swing his arms and legs around, trying to break free. "But ya got plenty of fightin' spirit. And ya didn't hesitate to kill my boys despite being on yer own. I like that. I do. So, little runt, how about we make ourselves a deal?"

The giant turned Nen around, holding him up like he was a defenseless newborn pup. The wide-chinned giant had a twisted grin perpetually on his face, revealing a golden tooth.

"Leave behind that precious headband of yers and come work for us. It ain't doin' ya any good anyway. Ya will be paid handsomely, and ya can indulge in all of your pleasures! Or I can kill ya. Yer choice."

"I'll never work for the likes of you!" Nen declared passionately, swinging his legs in a futile attempt to kick the man. "I'm not like Mister Koshiro. I'll never work with criminals like you. You can't buy my loyalty! I believe in Lady Mizukage! We're going to change this Land. We're going to uplift these people so they never have to live in this fear and poverty you've chained them in. And to achieve that dream, we'll eradicate all monsters like you!"

The gold-toothed giant threw his head back and laughed at his passion, loudly and merrily.

"Oh, boy, yer a funny little runt. I can't help but like ya more! Ha!" he barked another laugh. The stench of old garlic made Nen's eyes squint and water. "Even when ya know I can snap yer neck like a twig, ya preach about loyalty to yer gorgeous Mizukage and killin' me. Loyalty is a good quality, boy. Ain't seen yer kind of passionate loyalty except with my boys. What's the 'Lady Mizukage' offer ya for it? She keep yer bed warm at night? Does lookin' at her tickle yer loins enough to risk death?

"Ah well. I can see there ain't no convincing ya. Never say I didn't offer ya the easy way." The giant's grin became lecherous. It was only then that Nen felt a shiver of fear shoot down to his core. "I think I'll keep ya around. Ya can keep my bed warm for a while. But first, since ya failed to save the precious lady, I think I'll let ya watch my boys in action. They can teach ya why yer 'Lady Mizukage' ain't chagin' nothin' in this Land."

Nen was forced to face the two monsters, who were dragging the struggling woman to the wall again. Likewise, Nen renewed his struggles to free himself with greater vigor. He scratched and clawed at the hand gripping him by his throat, swinging his legs and body harder.

"Ah, ah, ah, little runt. Don't struggle too much or I'll have to punish ya now."

"Shut up! Let her go! Let her go!"

Nen blinked and missed it. But he heard the projectile splinter the wood, saw the after effect of blood spraying over the wall as the man who was preparing to pin the woman again suddenly crumpled into the snow with a new hole in his skull. The woman, splattered by flecks of blood, wailed in horror.

The man who had been fumbling with his belt had gotten his pants around his ankles, to his fatal detriment.

"Weren't you listening? The boy said let her go," came a menacing sing-song voice.

Another projectile ripped through the half-naked man's left lung. The force of the projectile caused him to stumble into the wall. He was choking on blood. Coughing. Spitting. Eyes wide in fear at his own mortality suddenly revealing itself.

"What kind of example would we set for the children if we ignore their pleas against sinful debauchery? Tsk, tsk, tsk, someone ought to teach you some manners. Ohhh! I think I know how to teach you!"

Nen failed to see the stream rapidly cutting through the snow on a warpath for the dying man bracing himself on the wall. But he witnessed it rise and form into a human shape. Whoever they were, they let out a crazed laugh, swung their wooden club back and sent it home right between the man's legs.

Nen grimaced. It was only after the man collapsed to his knees, puking up a mixture of blood and bile as blood dripped from his groin area into the snow that he noticed the Kanabō had metal studs on the striking end. He felt no sympathy, but the knowledge made him wriggle uncomfortably.

The stranger turned to the nude woman. She looked at him in horror. Then he bowed like a gentleman.

"My apologies for what you've suffered, my dear. Here, cloth yourself in this and find somewhere to hide, if you would."

He unhooked his black cloak and covered her in it. The trembling woman ran off crying.

"Now, where was I?" He tilted his head at an exaggerated angle, looking at the dying man still clinging to life. He was trembling, kneeling in the snow. "Ahhhh. Ahhhh! That's what I was doing! Thank you for reminding me, sir! Now…" His tone shifted from sing-song into something darker. "I'll punish you!"

He lifted his club up and slammed it into the man's back over and over and over again, following him as he collapsed to the ground with wild, powerful swings. Over and over and over.

"Where…are…your…manners!" he shouted at the man he was battering to death. "What…kind…of…man…are…you! Huh?!"

The stranger Nen was genuinely feeling more afraid of than the giant took a step back, exhaling a deep breath.

"Mistreating a poor woman, stripping her in the cold, traumatizing her like that; you're not a man. You're not even human."

The man—corpse?—groaned and twitched.

The stranger tilted his head. Shrugged. Turned to face Nen and the giant. He gripped his Kanabō tighter. Then, abruptly, he whirled around with a crazed cry, slamming his wooden club into the dying man's skull. Over and over and over again.

By the time he finished, all that was left was a grotesque pulp. Nen was avoiding eye contact with it.

As the stranger rose, he inhaled deep breath.

"Ahhhhh!" he exhaled a long, relieved sigh. "I've waited too long to do that! Ya ha!"

"Betrayin' me, Fuugetsu? I thought I'd beaten that foolishness out of ya."

"Betrayin'," the stranger—Fuugetsu—repeated, turning around and tilting his head in an exaggerated way again. His blue eyes were wide and wild. "I'm not betrayin' ya, Sōma. You said to have fun. You said to do whatever I needed to tickle my loins. And I was to kill whoever stands in my way. So I did!" he said quite cheerfully.

Too cheerfully.

Fuugetsu gestured extravagantly with his hand to the corpses. "See! I'm here to have a good time just like everyone else. But these two little devils were spoiling my fun. They were ruining the warm tickle in my loins by being so cruel and so heartless to that woman, so I eliminated them. Boom! Gone! Problem eliminated. The tickle is back again!"

Sōma laughed heartily at the declaration. "Yer a madman, Fuugetsu. And ya talk too much. Stop playin' around with me. If ya want to die, then all ya need to do is ask nicely."

The crazy man's blue eyes sharpened with malevolence, and his voice dropped to match it.

"Oh, is that right? You don't want to play around anymore?" He grinned, crazed eyes widening. "Perfect! Let's fight!"

Nen quickly found himself no longer the center of attention. Tossed aside, he crashed flat onto his back. He gasped for air, and mentally cursed his injury. And the fatheaded giant. He lifted himself up onto his elbows, finding the two men in a standoff.

Fuugetsu glanced around Sōma at him.

"Scram, pipsqueak. Plenty of things for a Mist shinobi to do in a crisis, don't you think?"

Nen didn't reply. He scrambled to his feet and rushed off.

---

"I've been trying to evacuate the townsfolk ever since," Nen explained.

"He's ready to be moved now," Haku said, finishing the final knot on the bandages.

With his help, Nen picked up the wounded middle-aged man in a fireman's carry once more.

"What will you three do?" he asked.

"We'll eliminate his goons first; that'll make the evacuation easier and prevent us from being surrounded. After we're done we'll go after the Hound," Natsumi replied, half-turning to examine the town before her.

Even though her eyes couldn't see the whole town, he knew she could sense all of the enemies within.

"Once you're done, wait with the townsfolk until we finish this fight, Nen. You're not ready to face the Hound."

"I know, and I will."

"All right. Get going, Nen. We'll clear the streets for you."

"You can count on me, Lady Natsumi," he said with a sharp nod, turning away and dashing for the messenger bird station.

"I know," he heard her say. "Haku, Chōjūrō, let's go."

Good luck, you three, Nen thought. And be careful.

---

Guided by Natsumi's sensory abilities, the trio set off on mission to eliminate all threats to the civilian populace of Shinjuku. Natsumi created sectors from memory of the town's layout and described them to her fellow shinobi, explaining the necessity of splitting up to quickly sweep through the town to prevent irreversible damage and save as many lives as possible.

Once they had their orders, the trio split off to do just that. But not without hearing Natsumi mutter,

"I've always hated this town."

All they found was death, carnage and monsters running rampant. Screams echoed through the streets, joined by the laughter and goading of the monsters responsible for the suffering. Explosions detonated across the horizon, the pulse of shockwaves vibrating in their eardrums and blasting hot air through the cold environment as the foundations of businesses and homes were destroyed; corpses could be seen strewn in the streets, hanging lifelessly out of windows as crimson streams formed in purest white; men, women and children could be heard sobbing from all directions.

The snow wasn't letting up.

The monsters were satisfying themselves by any and all means. For their crimes, the Mist shinobi showed them no quarter. They severed jugulars, impaled their black hearts and snapped their necks. Then ushered the frightened, beaten and—at times—nude, civilians of all genders and ages to run for the outskirts of the town, to the messenger bird station where they could find solace from the carnage.

Some offered their immense gratitude. Others didn't acknowledge them, running off with their tears or their children. None of the shinobi ever blamed them.

Chōjūrō's worst experience occurred upon slaying another monster inside the kitchen of someone's home, who had almost preyed on a young girl—a girl he was certain had seen only eight or nine winters. Her clothes were torn, her face bruised. Worst of all, her father was lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Alive, but dying.

He couldn't be saved.

The girl clutched onto his hand, pleading through tears for him to stay alive. Chōjūrō crouched down beside her. The man shared a knowing look with him, unable to speak through the blood pouring out of his mouth; he'd bitten his tongue off, from the look of it.

"I'm sorry," Chōjūrō apologized sincerely.

The man shook his head, weakly. Barely. An attempt to absolve him of guilt. His dark eyes flicked over to the girl, and then back to him. A silent plea—request.

Chōjūrō nodded. "We'll keep her safe. I promise."

He offered a weak nod.

Without a word, Chōjūrō picked the girl up against her protests and weak retaliatory strikes. He glanced at the dying man one last time. He placed a kunai in his hand—it was the only thing he could do now.

The father nodded again and made a gurgling sound; Chōjūrō assumed it was an expression of gratitude, or perhaps an expression of love to his child.

Chōjūrō dashed out of the building with the girl crying and reaching out to her dying father over his shoulder.

I'm sorry. He blinked away his tears, jaw tightening. We'll keep her safe, though. And we will finish what the Hound has started.

Along the way he encountered Nen evacuating a group of civilians. The Swordsman quickly passed the child off to a woman who knew her. But when she asked about her tears and father, Chōjūrō could only shake his head.

"Take care of them, Nen," he requested quietly as he turned to leave.

"I will, Master Chōjūrō."

Chōjūrō continued on his mission, the fire in his heart ignited.

Those he encountered after that moment regretted their actions more than all the others.

---

Outside of the Flower Shop, the crazed and wild battle between Fuugetsu Hōzuki and Sōma Akebino warred on in the gold-toothed man's favor, who relished in the chaos and destruction they unleashed on the surrounding scenery.

Wind Jutsus carved through snow, displacing it inconveniently to the populace in large mounds; it slashed gouges into the foundations of their walls and rooftops. Explosive blows of the wooden club and of the giant's fists fractured rooftops, flesh and bones, at least on the Hōzuki.

He was outmatched. He knew it. Sōma knew it. But he fought on, for the sake of the freedom he'd lost, for the freedom of those he'd imprisoned; he fought on obstinately, against his accumulating injuries, towards a future he'd never believed in until that strange Mist shinobi showed up.

"Gah…ha…ha…ha," Fuugetsu panted, bracing himself on his Kanabō while kneeling in the snow. His right eye was swelled shut and bleeding. The vision in his left eye was filtered through a crimson veil. He swallowed and shifted his jaw, wincing as it enticed a stitch of pain to erupt in his face.

"Yer more spirited than ever, Fuugetsu! I actually felt that one."

Sōma gripped his left shoulder. With a sickening and audible pop he forced the dislocated limb back into the socket. The giant rolled his shoulders. Looked at him. Then barked out a laugh.

"Oof! Yer lookin' a little rough there, my boy. Tire yourself out yet? Ya can always submit. There'll be a harsh punishment for killing two of my boys. But ain't it better to live than die?"

"Heh! Hehehehehe! Ohhhh." The Malignant Monsoon grimaced and groaned, his giggling grin too much for his swelled face. "Don't make me laugh, you freak of nature. Not while my handsome face is falling apart. Submit? No thank you. This malicious madman has measured the merciless mercy, metaphorically. And his misguided misdeeds are a miserable memento mocking his mistake. A life leashed, you lamentable, laughable, leering, lying, loathsome leviathan is no life at all. I am liberated."

Sōma stuck the meaty sausage of a finger that was his pinky into his right ear.

"Ya talk too much, my boy." He lowered his hand and shrugged. "But if ya want to die, that's your business. But let me ask ya somethin', ya talkative fool. Do ya think this will change anythin'? Even if ya had the strength to kill me, I'm just another cog in the machine, my boy. So ya free our Flower Girls. Our organization will survive a few losses of merchandise and make more money off of new ones. Nothin' will change. This world ain't gonna change. And you ain't gonna stop the trafficking. It's impossible.

"So ya kill me. Do ya think yer gonna be a hero? Redeemed of your past sins? That this world or these people will care to remember ya or yer name? Yer just a dirty little orphan—a raving madman. They ain't gonna want nothin' to do with ya. Ya won't be remembered. Ya won't be a hero."

Fuugetsu grinned an ugly, painful, bloody grin. "Yeah? And what's your point? I didn't come here for an adoring audience to feed me grapes and rub my feet, prostrating themselves at my feet as some kind of hero or savior. I didn't come for redemption. And change the world? Hehe! I'm not here for that, you blathering oaf. No, no, no, I'm not here to change the world."

The Hōzuki climbed up his wooden war-club. Once on wobbly legs, he pointed his weapon at the giant man, grinning with malevolence.

"I just came to kill you!" he declared in a dangerous tone.

Sōma grinned with equal malevolence.

"Ya got yerself a death wish, huh? All right. Ya won't be the first child I sent to an early grave. And ya won't be the last!"

For a man of his titanic stature, Sōma was as quick and as relentless as a hungry hound in hunt for his next meal. By the time Fuugetsu finished his backswing to attack with a Wind Style jutsu, the beast masquerading as a man was on him, appearing on his vulnerable side.

He was left gasping when a knee slammed into his sternum. He did not drop his weapon, though, despite the attack. He did not even drop it when he was hoisted into the air and slammed back first onto the street. He clutched it tightly, channeling his chakra into his trusted weapon.

"Wind Style:—"

"Not so fast, rat!"

Sōma snatched his ankle, hoisted him through the air with ease and slammed him into the street again—chest first. Then he repeated, slamming Fuugetsu onto his back. Chest. Back. Chest.

Fuugetsu was certain his ribs had cracked, but he did not relinquish his grip on his weapon. He kept his mouth open, wolfing down clumps of snow every time he was face first in it; it was growing difficult. Pain from his now broken nose, jaw, cracked ribs and busted open forehead overwhelmed him.

Upon being lifted through the air again, he clutched his Kanabō with both hands and watched as the blurry street rapidly approached.

Fuugetsu splattered on the street into a puddle. Rehydrated by the disgusting street snow he'd eaten, the Hōzuki in a rapid torrent ripped around the brute and launched into the air behind him, Kanabō swung back with wind and snow whirling around its end.

He could not laugh, taunt or yell madly. Nor could he grin or utter a sound. The pain was too much for the Malignant Monsoon, the pain of his injuries and the pain of his past. He wore a grim expression, a grimace accented by blood streaking down his face and neck out of his mouth, head and swollen shut eye. The left eye, the sclera of which had turned crimson, filtered the world through a blur of red. Anything not directly in front of him was misshapen and indistinguishable.

But he could see Sōma, a look of surprise on his ugly, wide-chinned face. He could feel the wood of his trusted weapon he'd carried through the years of forced servitude in his white-knuckled hands. And though it pained him to move his body, he swung that weapon mightily with all of his malignant, malicious, malevolent memories and mistakes, unleashing a grueling guttural growl and groan of grief and grievances.

Wind Style: Magnificent Monsoon of Malevolent Memories!

The Kanabō struck at the center of his wide back. A maddening tempest exploded outwards from the point of impact, concealing the two behind an impenetrable tsunami wave of uprooted compacted snow that streamed violently down the entire length of the street and its alleyways, clearing it so the earth beneath could be seen unobstructed.

The gales shredded wooden and stone walls, flung roof tiles through the air like shurikens and shattered windows, allowing the wave of snow to infiltrate the homes and shops in search of its new resting place. The corpses around the Flower Shop, too, were uplifted and flung lifelessly several feet to several meters from their initial resting place.

The earth and air tremored beneath the power; Nen Murasame and the civilians far at the edges of Shinjuku saw the wave of snow over the rooftops and felt the power of the jutsu as rough, freezing gales blasted past their bodies.

When the air stilled and the shroud of white resettled, Fuugetsu stood over Sōma with his war-club pressed over the prone man's back, now entirely exposed to the frozen environment; the threads of his shirt had been shredded by the jutsu.

The Hōzuki panted heavily through his nostrils, greedily sucking in air, arms and legs trembling in exhaustion and numbing at the recoil of all the power that had recoiled up through his weak arms.

His vision was unreliable. He couldn't quite see his handiwork, not at first. When he leaned forward—almost collapsing—the madman recoiled in shock.

There was nothing more than a few scratches on the freak of nature.

"Okay," grunted the monster, pushing against the weapon to rise onto all fours. "That one stung, Fuugetsu. Color me impressed."

With weak arms and legs, Fuugetsu struck wildly at his back, attempting to beat the man into submission as he had done repeatedly to him and others. The blows landed. But the monster kept rising until, finally, he was looming over the Hōzuki, the war-club caught and held tightly in his hand.

Fuugetsu assumed even with a battered face his bewilderment was distinguishable, for the gold-toothed man grinned as he tried desperately in futility to tug his weapon free.

"An impressive last stand, ya rat. But it's time for your liberation. I'll free ya by sending ya to yer grave!"

His damaged vision made it impossible to track his enemy's movements. His damaged body made it impossible to react. There was nothing he could do except take the beating.

The opening blow began with Sōma dragging him closer, directly into his massive fist, which crashed home against his jaw. The power of the strike sent him flailing through the air.

Only then did he lose grip on his trusted weapon.

Fuugetsu cracked into a wooden wall, splintering it beneath his body. Before he could even fall, the Hound dashed through the snow, leapt through the air then crashed feet first into his chest. They burst through the wall, the giant surfing on his body through a second floor bedroom until they stopped. Then he leapt up, stamping on the Hōzuki's torso and shooting them through the floor to the ground floor, laughing as the debris crashed around them and on them with only the giant remaining unharmed.

Sōma brushed the dust and debris off himself. Fuugetsu's vision darkened. Before he could pass out, he felt himself hoisted into the air, tossed up like a ball and then hit like one by his own weapon.

He careened through another wall, flailing and flopping with wet noodle limbs onto the street. Lying face first in the dirt, body unpleasantly warm and throbbing everywhere, Fuugetsu savored the cold breeze and the new snow falling onto him and the street.

He watched the snowflakes through his crimson and blurred vision. He outstretched his trembling left arm and turned his palm upwards, burying the brand in the earth, catching tiny specks of pure white.

It's funny. All those years ago I was afraid to die. I thought living, even in servitude, would be better. In a cruel twist of irony, though, choosing to live was more painful than dying. This time I feel relieved instead of afraid.

Sōma kicked him over, turning him flat on his back. Fuugetsu didn't bother to look at the freak of nature, who leveled his Kanabō with his skull. He looked at his hand, which he turned over again to catch snowflakes.

"Any partin' words for me, Fuugetsu? Hm? No? Ain't feeling too talkative? That's strange for ya."

I would've liked to kill you. But I knew I was too weak. And I fulfilled what I came here to do. My goal wasn't to ultimately deal the final blow; I just had to buy my new best friend some time to hurry along here.

Fuugetsu smiled through a grimace.

I think I'll take my bow now. Thus the Malignant Monsoon and its magnificence madness ended, and the world, watching, waiting, weathering the winter will not wither, worry, wilt or weep, but walk on. Willful. Wanting to wring and wreck the wretches as they weave a new world of wisdom.

That's not so bad.

Fuugetsu Hōzuki shut his eyes and exhaled, embracing the darkness.

---

Like an executioner wielding an axe, Sōma lifted the Kanabō over his head, aiming for the swelled, bloody and nearly unrecognizable face of Fuugetsu Hōzuki with sadistic laugh in his throat and an ugly grin on his split lips.

A solid blast of wind capable of bowling three cows over collided against his side suddenly, throwing the Hound head over foot across the street, disarming him. He rolled onto his feet and, upon hearing the second, sharper gale approaching, slammed his hands into the earth and raised a tall and thick Earth Wall to shield himself.

The wind did not carve through the wall. It did not need to.

A dashing shadow appeared behind the Hound. And with them came pure, raw chakra suddenly exploding into existence.

He whirled around, wide-chin slack at the sight of a familiar massive chakra hammer shrouding Hiramekarei, and its wielder. A madman he was certain buried himself and the little rat in a snowy grave.

Chōjūrō slid on the snow, a snarl on his lips, already swinging the mystical sword for its target.

Sōma raised up his arms for meager protection—a natural instinct. But it did not stop the blow. The hammer struck him with all of its power and latent rage, plowing him through his own Earth Wall. A direct hit.

Chōjūrō did not celebrate; there was nothing to celebrate today. He rushed after the flailing body, allowing the hammer to fade as he siphoned more of his chakra into the sword.

At the other end of the street were his comrades. Haku was checking Fuugetsu for a pulse, Natsumi was preparing to Seal his body away so it wouldn't be damaged further or impede their fight.

The Swordsman wished he could say he was happy to buy them time. But he was not happy.

He was furious!

Somehow, despite the direct hit, his enemy recovered again without broken bones. How he survived a powerful blow like Fuugetsu's and now from Hiramekarei, Chōjūrō did not know. But he intended to find out, and then he would slay the monster for Mika, for Chinami, for Haruhi and all the others he had hurt.

He sharpened the edges of Hiramekarei with chakra and struck. The Hound was quick on his toes. He evaded his strikes while weaving handseals, grinning and chuckling at him.

"Ya survived that avalanche, eh? Hmm. Yer different than before, runt. I can tell. It's yer eyes. I can almost see a demon in ya. But that ain't gonna save ya."

Sōma stamped his foot on the ground. The ground beneath Chōjūrō abruptly plummeted.

He centered his weight on the plunging piece of earth, regaining his balance, and cast his eyes about. The ceiling slammed shut, and with it all light was shut out except the glowing blue chakra around Hiramekarei. He could hear the walls were closing in, though—the sound of an imminent death. But he would not die while vengeance and justice had yet to be served.

Swiftly, he leapt to the wall and flickered to the ceiling. He sharpened the edges of Hiramekarei and slashed once.

On the surface, the very earth seemed to split. White powder snow appeared as steam venting from the earth. And leaping out of the tear like a demon from hell was Chōjūrō, to the shock of his enemy.

"I'm not finished with you yet!" Chōjūrō roared.

"Ha ha ha!" Sōma laughed merrily. "I like yer new backbone, boy!" He threw his arms out, presenting himself to the dashing Swordsman. "Come! Entertain me!"

Chōjūrō grit his teeth. He stopped abruptly a few meters from his target, took a heavy swing back while channeling chakra throughout his body and threw the mystical sword Hiramekarei. The fish-shaped sword, coated by chakra, whirled horizontally through the air, mirroring a large shuriken.

The Hound leapt and split his legs to evade the blade with agility and flexibility betraying his towering size. But as he jumped, the Swordsman vanished, Body Flickering faster than his flying blade.

"Where'd ya—" Sōma broke off.

He heard the hilts land firmly in the hands of the Swordsman.

"Huh?"

Turning to look over his shoulder, he saw Chōjūrō rotating through the air, spinning upright and heaving his weapon in a fluid overhead cleaving strike aimed for his exposed back. He clenched his sharpened teeth in a violent growl. And as he followed through, his eyes went wide behind his glasses as the flesh of the Hound's back discolored on its own, darkening into a shade of obsidian.

Sparks rather than blood flew upon contact of blade and flesh.

When Chōjūrō landed, he did not leap back in retreat, but pressed the assault, feeling a sense of urgency to dissect the technique of his enemy, for the answer to the apparent invulnerability of their enemy was in reach. A jutsu of some kind. A jutsu he'd never encountered before, but one he knew had to bear a weakness or limit of some kind.

That was the nature of all jutsus, after all.

When Sōma landed, he whirled around with his cruel grin on his lips, lightly stepping back in retreat while motioning the boy to attack with a wave of his massive hand.

"Come on, boy! I said entertain me!"

He obliged. Slashing with controlled strikes, Chōjūrō aggressively advanced on the Hound, who used his forearms, colored obsidian, to block his blade.

There had to be a limit. The split lip of his enemy proved he could be damaged.

He's not invincible, Chōjūrō told himself. You just have to find the weakness in the jutsu. So find it, Chōjūrō.

The Swordsman slashed two times, the first strike coming down from over his right shoulder to meet the obsidian arm. As he drew back from the first strike, he pivoted on his foot quickly, narrowly avoiding an obsidian colored fist, feeling the bitter air whip past him, hearing the wind whistle, then attempted to cleave the arm off.

Again his efforts were thwarted by the formidable jutsu. The air rang with the collision of blade and obsidian flesh.

Hopping to the side, hoping to get behind the Hound, he struck again. The Hound was quick, though. The massive beast of man blocked his first strike with his hardened flesh, evaded the second with a laugh and pivot. This was all just a game to the infamous shinobi. An amusing diversion apart of the chaos he'd unleashed on the town.

That angered Chōjūrō more. But he did not allow himself to become blinded by anger. He struck swiftly, striking with the speed of a sailfish. He aggressively pressed the assault, watching intently the jutsu he was bearing his sword against.

Where was the weakness? Where was it?

Upon attempting a horizontal slash, the hardened hand of the Hound caught Hiramekarei. The blade halted in its tracks. Chōjūrō's eyes went wide.

"Okay, boy. Enough of the foreplay. Time for some fun!" Sōma grinned.

He threw the sword aside, nearly tearing it out of the Swordsman's hands, stepped in and straight kicked him. The power of the blow lifted Chōjūrō off his feet and knocked the wind out of him. By the time he landed, skidding back on the fresh snow, the Hound was already upon him with a hearty laugh and a darkened fist drawn back.

Hiramekarei was up and in position to block the rapid series of punches that followed. The ear-ringing collisions sang fiercely across the street. Footwork drilled into the Swordsman kept him agile, kept him moving in retreat as his eyes kept watching.

This jutsu hardens his flesh, he dissected in the midst blood pumping combat.

Block, block, evade and skip back and then to the side; he retaliated with a quick but fruitless three strike combo, finishing with a thrust that did not penetrate the Hound's hardened chest. Chōjūrō hopped back again and timed his block perfectly, batting away the fist by doubling his block as a strike to the Hound's wrists and forearms.

As far as the Bingo Book and shinobi records on Sōma Akebino say, he possesses no kekkei genkai. That means this must be some sort of highly advanced Earth Style offensive and defensive technique. For him to withstand Hiramekarei's strikes without even the slightest hint of damage… There's a reason the stories paint him as an invulnerable freak of nature.

The jutsu was incredible. His flesh hardened to something akin to diamonds, shielding him from damage and augmenting his already monstrous strength. It was obvious how he had survived all these years despite the squads of hunter-nin sent to kill him.

"Come on, boy!" the Hound taunted obnoxiously, holding Hiramekarei in a deadlock with his forearms. "Show me more of that fightin' spirit!"

"Shut! Up!" Chōjūrō roared. "You've enslaved innocent people! Poisoned them and twisted their minds through torture and drugs! Forced them into labor camps! Branded them forever with marks and scars they will never be able to remove!" He broke the deadlock and struck viciously, pushing his amused enemy into a consensual retreat. "You caged them! You broke them! You trafficked them! You abused and molested them! And you enjoyed it, too!"

The jutsu was incredible, but not infallible. He was beginning to see its weaknesses, and he sensed his comrades were, too.

Behind the Hound, three Ice Mirrors were forming—one above and two on opposing sides. Chōjūrō was determined to push him into the center of them.

"Ha! Yer not wrong 'bout that!"

Sōma suddenly caught Hiramekarei by its edge. The grin that twisted his scarred lips was disgusting, drawing to mind an image of a swarm of flies devouring piles of dung.

"Do ya want me to tell ya about that little rat ya tried to rescue? I've got plenty of stories for ya, if yer interested."

Chōjūrō growled, but he did not lose himself to rage bubbling beneath the surface. No. With the heat of their violent exchanges paused, he had time to focus and breathe; the chakra shrouding the edges of Hiramekarei wasn't sharp enough to penetrate the Earth Style jutsu, not at its current level. But in the heat of combat it was difficult to directly focus on sharpening it, especially while dodging and blocking a beast like the Hound.

Here and now, though, he could do exactly that.

Chōjūrō lowered his chin slightly. Hiramekarei hummed. Pulsed.

"His name…"

The Hound winced. Streams of crimson escaping from the small rift opened in his palm slithered down his forearm and the edge of Hiramekarei. He quickly pushed the blade away and hopped back. Chōjūrō chased him with a determined expression.

"Is Mika!"

Hiramekarei located and fed on more blood, slashing open a surface level wound across the Hound's chest. He appeared more annoyed than injured. Again, however, he hopped back.

Directly between the three mirrors.

A human-shaped bullet flashed out of the left mirror, untraceable to the human eye. Flecks of blood splashed out from the nape of the Hound's neck; he grunted and recoiled, the skin around his neck beginning to harden. The human-shaped bullet was faster than the hardening.

More blood splashed into the snow as he melded into his original mirror—a deep gouge tore open along the Hound's forehead and senbon penetrated his calves. The trail of the Mist shinobi blurred to the top mirror, then to right, across to the left and back to the right. Senbon pelted the Hound along his back, shoulders; cuts and gouges opened along his thighs, biceps and grinded against his obsidian colored flesh as the Earth Style jutsu spread over his vital areas.

He can't keep up with Haku's speed, and…

Chōjūrō squinted at the sight of blood spraying over the snow as a cut tore open along the Hound's shoulder—the flesh of which a moment ago was hardened by his jutsu.

I don't think he can cover his entire body with this technique. He can cover a decent portion, even while under pressure, but it's like he has to risk exposing other parts of his body in order to protect the vital spots. At least while under this level pressure, where he can't see the attacks or where they are coming from.

Or… Chōjūrō pursed his lips. Maybe he's trying to conserve chakra. Maybe the technique is chakra intensive when applied to his whole body.

Speculation, of course. The Swordsman had never seen this technique before, and without knowledge of its name or a lecture from their enemy on how it worked there was no other way to learn its weaknesses beyond staying alive to observe the technique and the Hound's reactions to their assault.

Conversely, Sōma was hunting for the same weaknesses in their abilities. He already outmatched them in raw physical power, with an ultimate defense ninjutsu that thwarted their painstaking efforts to slay the monster. A war of attrition was unwelcome. To eliminate the Hound would ultimately require them to learn his weakness swiftly, then exploit it before he could do the same to them.

The three of us together, with our different array of abilities, should be all that's needed to kill him.

Chōjūrō gripped the hilts of Hiramekarei tightly. Before he could dash in, Sōma suddenly sank into the ground, vanishing from sight.

Eyes wide, the Swordsman quickly leapt off the ground, back flipping through the air and onto the roof of a two-story building with a tea shop on the ground floor and a home on the second.

Natsumi, he noticed, followed his action, jumping onto the roof of the Flower Shop. Haku leaned out of his mirror, scanning the ground for sight of their enemy's reappearance.

"Natsumi, can you sense him?" Chōjūrō called across the street.

"Yeah. He's still beneath us. Don't let your guard down," Natsumi called back.

Chōjūrō swallowed. Then exhaled.

What are you doing down there?

Vibrations rumbled through the earth, through the structures and supports of the tea house he was standing atop of. Snow settled and compacted at the edges of the roof slid off and scattered through the air like white powder. The Swordsman scanned his surroundings nervously.

"That doesn't sound good," he murmured to himself.

"Chōjūrō—"

Natsumi's sudden cry of warning was drowned out by the raucous noise of the earth suddenly opening up beneath the tea house. For Chōjūrō, the scene of disaster swallowing the building beneath him was perceived in vivid, horrifying detail. He saw the sinkhole, wide and vast, greedily devouring the home with him still on the roof—a roof currently splintering, crumbling and pulling apart beneath his feet.

There was no chance to jump. The foundation beneath his feet had become air. Dangerous debris flew through the air around him. His ears were deafened by the roar of destruction.

Then an opposing force to gravity slammed into his body, knocking the wind out of him. He sailed through the air, carried by the opposing force, until they ultimately slammed against the snowy street.

Staring at the sky with wide eyes, holding his breath, Chōjūrō watched as white specks landed on his glasses.

"Chōjūrō, are you all right?"

Haku's voice was a reminder to breathe. The Swordsman inhaled sharply and flung upwards, first seeing his comrade kneeling beside him and then the mirror floating above the sinkhole.

Too close. Way too close.

"You saved me again. Thank you," Chōjūrō bowed his head in gratitude.

Haku smiled. "We're comrades. Think nothing of it."

"Too early for celebratin', don't ya think, boys?"

Together they turned their heads to face the Hound. Together they saw him slam both palms into the ground and the earth around him shatter and crack, levitating chunks of earth in the air. The chunks suddenly hardened and sharpened.

"Earth Style: Rock Volley!"

Like a volley of loosed arrows, the stones flew directly for the two Mist shinobi at speeds far too quick for them to defend properly against. At their velocity, with their sharpness, they'd tear holes straight through them, Chōjūrō realized morbidly.

Natsumi landed behind the pair and outstretched her arms. A violet orb encased the trio of shinobi a second before the stones reached them. Chōjūrō still flinched when the volley impacted against the barrier, but they did not penetrate; they bounced off uselessly to the ground.

"Haku, Chōjūrō, less sitting on your asses and more standing up, yeah? I can't maintain this forever, you know."

"Ri- right," Chōjūrō stammered, rising to his feet with Hiramekarei in hand. "I think if we attack together, we can overwhelm his Earth Style defense ninjutsu and eliminate him. He doesn't seem able to cover his entire body at once, or if he can, he doesn't to avoid draining chakra."

"A head-on fight isn't ideal for you, Chōjūrō," Natsumi shook her head, disagreeing. "This demented bastard is shrugging off you, Hiramekarei and Haku. I'd say he possesses a ridiculous life force, and I know for certain he has insane levels of chakra. We won't wear him down, not like this. Speed, strength, agility, destructive power, he's just as the stories say. And we can't know for certain if the limits you've stated are true, or just what he wants us to believe."

"It sounds like you have a plan in mind," Haku noted.

"I do," Natsumi nodded. "In a moment, I'll eliminate his bothersome defensive ability. Before I do, Chōjūrō, I want you to use a Water Style jutsu to soak the ground; make puddles anywhere you can. Then run through them, splashing as much water into the air as you possibly can. From there, Haku can handle the rest."

"It'll keep us out of his range," Haku said, nodding along. "But how do you plan to eliminate his defense?"

Natsumi smirked. "You'll see." She dropped her smile for a serious expression. "The volley is about to stop. Once I lower my Barrier Ninjutsu, Chōjūrō, you'll need to act. We can't give him a moment to retaliate or see through our plans, and I need a little more time to set up my technique."

"Right," Chōjūrō replied, placing Hiramekarei into his harness. He quickly began to weave handseals.

Tiger, Snake, Rat, Snake, Tiger.

Molding his chakra in his belly and drawing his head back, the Swordsman prepared to attack.

This will take some chakra, but if it means finishing this fight, that's fine!

The barrier dropped when the stones finished.

Water Style: Water Wall!

A large stream of water expelled from his mouth, hitting the earth in front of their feet before rapidly shooting up into a powerful wall of water. Chōjūrō didn't stop. He weaved a large set of handseals in quick succession.

"Water Style: Water Dragon Jutsu!"

From the wall of water emerged the slim body of a Water Dragon, shooting forward, raining water onto the ground in its wake. Then another Water Dragon emerged. And another. And another. One after another, the Swords sent Water Dragons out of his Water Wall until little more than a paper thin wall remained as the army of dragons snaked through the air.

He dropped the wall, splashing a large puddle around their feet. On the other side of the battlefield, the Hound was laughing, calling his attack futile and a party trick while stubbornly holding his ground, smashing the dragons with his hardened fists or hardening his body and outstretching his arms as if expecting to hug the beasts of water.

"What kind of monster is he?" Chōjūrō muttered.

"A soon to be dead monster," Natsumi said. "Now get going!"

Chōjūrō pulled Hiramekarei out of his harness and dashed off, his sandals splashing harshly in the puddle created by his Water Wall. The majority of the puddles were around the Hound—perfect.

"Come on, boy! Surely ya can see how utterly hopeless this is. Ya may have given me a few scratches and prettied up my face, but ya ain't any closer to killing me."

"We'll see about that!"

Hiramekarei glowed with razor sharp chakra, but the blue had begun to shift again towards ominous purple as the blood of the Hound mixed together with the chakra. Chōjūrō stamped through another puddle as he neared. Then, rather than attack head-on, he dashed around the Hound swiftly, again stamping through a series of puddles left behind by his felled dragons.

"Playin' in the puddles now, eh? How cute!" Sōma laughed

He ducked beneath a fist, pirouetted and landed hard in another puddle, splashing water into the air and even some onto their bodies. He slashed two quick strikes, measured his next hop and leapt back. More water in the air. And the air around them was growing significantly colder.

Every breath they took created a cloud of condensation. The chill tightened around their lungs as he hopped to another puddle and pivoted out of the way of another attack.

The earth began to rumble again. Chōjūrō feared it was another jutsu from Sōma, feeling his leg muscles begin to contract and tense in preparation to leap away. But then three chains burst forth from the ground. They rattled like rattlesnakes and wrapped around the Hound's neck and arms like constrictors.

"What the?!"

The hardened obsidian colored flesh faded from his body.

"What's the matter?" cooed Natsumi menacingly. "Are you not having fun anymore?! Don't even bother trying to break these chains; they're made of pure chakra, and they've just sealed yours away. After all the destruction and death you've wrought, I think it's poetic you're going to die helplessly bound and chained, unable to do anything except scream as you watch your death approach."

Chōjūrō hopped through three more puddles before ultimately retreating back with a final leap, sliding back on his heels with Hiramekarei still lifted in front of him. It was unnecessary. What appeared to be thousands upon thousands of ice needles surrounded Sōma.

Haku didn't bother with words. He unleashed the pouring rain of ice needles into the Hound, impaling him like a pincushion. The Hound screamed for a few moments in pain, but then fell silently.

When the attack ended and the chains were released, he collapsed chest first into the ground.

Chōjūrō exhaled a breath of… It wasn't relief. But it was something close enough. He placed Hiramekarei on his harness again and turned away from the Hound.

"Heh…"

The Swordsman froze on the spot, a swath of killing intent flooding the street.

"Hehehehe!"

The Hound rose onto all-fours. The Swordsman stared at him with a horrified expression; Haku with bewilderment.

"Oh no. No, no, no, no," Natsumi growled. "You have got to be kidding me!"

"Oh ho ho, ya rats. To think ya did this much damage to me." He spat blood on the ground. A vile grin appeared on his split lips. "Normally, I'd recruit ya. Don't find gems like ya often. I can't remember the last time someone entertained me this much. Ya might have killed me if I were anyone else. Congratulations! Yer gonna live just long enough to see The Hound. Don't celebrate too long. 'Cause yer gonna die right after."

A violent, grotesque lashing aura of black and mahogany erupted off the giant's body. Chōjūrō took an involuntary step back as the visage of a drooling, hungry hound formed within the cloak.

"Hehehe! Ha ha ha ha!" The Hound barked with maniacal laughter. "Oh, I haven't let loose like this in years."

A sea of obsidian began to spread out from the center of his chest. Within moments the entire body of Sōma Akebino was covered. As a result, the ice needles and senbon protruding out of his body were pushed out and into the snow.

Shrouded by his black and mahogany grotesque aura, shadowed by the drooling, hungry hound within the cloak, covered from head to toe in obsidian, he no longer appeared human.

What is he?! Chōjūrō gulped but lifted Hiramekarei up.

"Try not to blink, ya rats. Or ya gonna miss yer own death!"

Sōma shifted his legs. The earth suddenly cracked beneath him.

Then he was gone.

Chōjūrō felt wind rush whip past him, followed by Natsumi's cry of agony. His delayed reaction meant only catching the final blows delivered to his kunoichi comrade. She was forced to float in the air, drilled by rapid fire punches his eyes couldn't even track, blood trailing out of her mouth. Sōma was laughing wildly.

He drew back his right arm and slammed it into Natsumi's midsection. She hurtled through the street, crashing and skipping roughly through the snow. Sōma followed, chasing her down like his namesake, practically dashing on air to catch up with belly shaking laughter. He caught her by her neck, slammed her into the earth and then proceeded to dash towards the other two Mist shinobi, dragging her across the unforgiving street.

It was hard to see their comrade through the wake of snow her body was creating. But Natsumi had one hand wrapped around his massive arm and the other stabbing a kunai relentlessly and fruitlessly at his obsidian forearm.

Haku dashed to meet Sōma first. Chōjūrō followed a second later. Before the Ice user could react, Natsumi's body was plowing into his; he caught the kunoichi but was knocked off his feet, shooting through the air from the force of the powerful collision.

"Yer next, ya pale imitation!"

The Swordsman felt his head recoil back slightly, eyes going wide as the monster appeared beneath his guard, grinning like a man possessed.

He's a monster!

Hiramekarei was knocked from his grasps with a single strike, impaling into the side of a building. Chōjūrō felt the massive hand of his enemy grip him by his throat. Then he was coughing up blood, the earth shattering beneath him as he was crashed through it. Sōma followed him down, laughing. Always laughing.

He drilled rapid fire punches into the Swordsman's chest, shattering more and more earth, burying him deeper and deeper into the ground. His cries of pain were drowned in fracturing earth. And malicious laughter.

When the pummeling ended, the metal plate bearing the Mist symbol was broken. Split jaggedly in two separate pieces hardly hanging on his harness.

Chōjūrō tasted blood. His vision was dark, but he could see snow falling through the cracks of debris laying over his body, and the slate sky beyond it.

Sōma was gone. But unfinished with his assault. Haku was next. Though he couldn't see anything beyond the debris, he could hear Haku's futile counters before he, too, was overwhelmed by the beast. He was left in a seated position beneath a broken window, head slumped down and blood dripping out of his mouth with his own ice needle protruding out of his gut.

Mad laughter filled the air.

Is…this the end? But…there's so much left we have to do.

Chōjūrō squeezed his eyes shut against tears.

No. This can't be the end. Not yet. Our mission isn't complete. We haven't changed this Land.

"We—you, Haku, Natsumi and myself, specifically—were all effected by the past era. It did not end when Blood Mist Exam was abandoned. It did not end with the last war, or when the kekkei genkai purges seemed to end. The taint of the last era afflicted our childhoods. It afflicts us even now, for we are the students of Blood Mist survivors.

"However, we reject their philosophy. We reject the ceaseless bloodshed, the violence and wars that destroyed settlements and propagated fear of kekkei genkais. Indeed, we even reject the brazen cruelty and joyful slaying of innocent bystanders and comrades. Because we are students of Blood Mist survivors, and we learned all too well the price of their mistakes. Because we, too, are survivors—survivors of what their philosophy of bloodshed has wrought in this Land."

Chōjūrō, against the agony of his body, struggled to move.

That's right, he tried to motivate himself, to surge his body with Haruhi's will. We reject the philosophy and violence the Hound represents. We are students of Blood Mist survivors. We are survivors. We are Mist shinobi!

He continued to writhe and fight to dig himself out.

"Before I met Lady Mei, I didn't believe in anything except survival. I was just another cynical Land of Water native who saw no future. Lady Mei made me believe. I owe her everything, and I'll do everything I can to make her dream come true."

He felt the same. He hadn't been a cynical person, but Lady Mizukage made him believe. She made them all believe. For her dream and for the dreams of his friends he couldn't—he wouldn't just die here while there was still fight left in his body.

For Lady Mizukage's dream and the dreams of my comrades to come true, for Mika and Chinami and all the other prisoners to have a chance at a normal life, the Hound must die here. The Crimson Flowers must be stopped.

"Chōjūrō, it may be difficult for you to see," he recalled Lady Mizukage's warm voice and smile, "but you will one day stand as a pillar of the Mist."

"Me?! A pillar… I don't know if I'll ever be anything that special."

"You already are," Lady Mizukage smiled. "You are Chōjūrō, wielder of Hiramekarei, member of the Seven Swordsman."

Chōjūrō grunted and rose, pushing the largest piece of debris pinning him down. It crashed beside him loudly. His shirt was ripped slightly open, revealing a portion of his scraped and bloody abdomen. He panted heavily, spitting blood into the snow. He raised his gaze to see the Hound standing amidst the carnage. He observed his comrades through cracked glasses; they weren't in any better shape, but they were still alive.

At the sound of his movement, Sōma turned to face him. His obsidian lips split into a grin. He let out a hearty laugh.

"Look at ya! Still breathin' and still givin' me the stink eye. Have no fear, ya rat. I ain't finished with ya yet. I wanna savor tearing ya apart."

Chōjūrō grinned a bloody, sharp-toothed grin. "That's funny. I was thinking the same thing."

"So was I!"

The shinobi each snapped their attention down the street, seeing Nen standing behind the Swordsman wielding the Kanabō belonging to Fuugetsu.

"Nen?! What the hell are you doing here! I told you to stay away!" Natsumi screamed hoarsely, falling into a fit of bloody coughs.

"Sorry, Lady Natsumi," Nen replied sincerely, wearing a brave face despite the fear in his eyes. "But I couldn't just stand around. Not while you three were in danger."

"Get the hell out of here, you idiot!"

"Sorry. But I've never been very good at listening." Nen widened his stance. "All right, you fat-headed scumbag. You're fight is with me now!"

"I was gonna kill ya anyway. So thanks for savin' me the trouble of huntin' ya down! Ha ha!"

The Hound prepared to launch after the young boy.

In his peripheral, Chōjūrō saw a flash of movement rush up the side of the building Hiramekarei had been impaled into. The mystical blade was yanked free, and the flashing object sped straight for the Hound, interrupting his charge, leading to the meeting of razor sharp chakra and obsidian colored flesh. Sparks flew, but the wielder quickly retreated, sliding back to stand between Chōjūrō and the Hound.

The Swordsman recognized the short chestnut hair instantly.

"Haruhi, what are you doing here?" he asked, bewildered.

The kunoichi, attired in Natsumi's cloak and a similar Mist shinobi garb to Haku's clearly belonging to someone else, clutched the mystical sword in front of herself.

"Our allies arrived. But our mission was not yet finished," she replied. "I was…worried for all of you… For my friends."

"How touchin', Sōma drawled. "I ain't never met so many young rats with death wishes before. But I'll grant them, if yer in such a hurry."

"The only one to die here will be you," Haruhi promised coldly. "You represent the darkness Lady Mizukage seeks to reform. You are but one of many of the cancerous tumors poisoning this Land of ours. And though I may not know or understand how to rebuild this Land, I do not need to. My talents and skills are better suited to removing scourges like you. And you will be removed. By me and my comrades."

"But have no fear," Lady Mizukage's voice returned to him, "for you will never be alone, Chōjūrō. You are not a lone pillar who must bear the weight of the future in stark solitude. Beside you will be Haku, Natsumi and Haruhi."

Chōjūrō pushed himself to stand, swaying side to side before steadying and straightening his posture. It hurt. He was hurt. But just like Haruhi in the mines, he could move out of necessity.

"We are pillars of the Mist," he panted. "All of us. That's what Lady Mizukage believes. And that means we can't fail." Chōjūrō trudged forward. "For Lady Mizukage's faith in us, for the future she seeks to build, for Mika and Chinami's freedom and the freedom of all those your organization has imprisoned and traumatized, we cannot fail now."

"Ya talk nearly as much as Fuugetsu," Sōma sounded as bored as he looked. "Quit it with yer self-righteous speeches. It ain't gonna change nothin'. Ya ain't gonna change nothin' in this Land. And ya got as much of a chance at killin' me as a rat has got at killin' a lion. Pillars? Ha! Ya can barely stand on yer own feet. How do ya expect to bear the weight of this Land on yer own?"

"I never said we would do it alone," Chōjūrō countered. "We'll bear the weight of the future together. Us, our comrades and the people of this Land. We'll work together to build the path forward. Stone by stone, step by step, we'll do it together. And when we screw something up, we'll learn from our mistakes, make adjustments and continue forward. That's what the new Mist is all about. Learning from the dark past and its mistakes and building towards a brighter, prosperous future."

He made it beside Haruhi and gripped the bottom hilt of Hiramekarei. With a practiced movement he unlocked the blade, revealing the reason Hiramekarei was referred to as the twinsword: It was two separate swords bound together, now released. Chōjūrō channeled his chakra into the second blade, coating it in razor sharp chakra.

"You're just a ball and chain holding this Land back," he said coldly. "No, you're worse than that. You actively imprison this Land's inhabitants in fear, traumatizing them, molesting them and ripping their dreams and hopes from their arms like the children you ripped from the streets and poor families."

"Ya know, plenty of those 'families' yer raving about sold us their children without threats or coercion. For money and food. Ya gonna 'remove' them, too? Ain't they more of the cancerous tumors yer talkin' about? Or what about the 'poor' people of this Land who sought out our merchandise?

"Ya talk about changin' this Land together with its people. But at the end of the day, the people are as sick and twisted as the rest of us. That's what makes this Land great!" he declared wildly.

He threw his hands out in a grand gesture.

"There ain't no need to pretend we're saints. This is a Land where ya can do what you want, satisfy yerself how ya want and kill whoever gets in yer way as long as ya got the power. The strong thrive, the weak die. That's the way of nature, my boy. Ain't need no other reason to do what we do. Ain't need no higher cause to follow. Ain't no need to follow a Mizukage or die for one. Just listen to yer primal instincts."

Disgust filled Chōjūrō. And yet he smiled. It was a violent smile.

"I am listening to my instincts. And my instincts are telling me to kill you."

"Ha! I like that!" barked the Hound joyfully. "It's almost too bad I got to kill ya. But I know there ain't know changin' yer mind. I think yer principals and morals are worth less than a cow pie, but I can respect yer refusal to break them."

Natsumi managed to make it onto one knee. Haku pulled himself onto his feet, hand gripped around the ice needle. Nen steadily, cautiously approached closer to Chōjūrō and Haruhi. Sōma looked around at them, grinning.

"All right, 'Pillars of the Mist'. Ya have got tenacity, I'll give ya that. Do try to impress me before ya die. I might even tell stories about the young rats who bravely stood against the Hound."

"I've heard all I can stand of your stupid voice," Natsumi growled.

"What hope do ya think ya have at shuttin' my mouth, girl? Three of ya look pale as death. And the other two are a helpless whelp and a demoness without the strength to back up her fiery spirit. I am Sōma Akebino, the Hound of the Mist! Do ya really think ya can win this battle?"

"I can't wait to shut you up."

She created the Ram handseal.

At that moment, Sōma's eyes widened. His left hand clutched and scratched at his right forearm as he let out a sharp cry of pain. The obsidian flesh along the right forearm began to fade, starting at the fingertips and leading up to the elbow. It revealed an intricate pattern of jagged black tattoo like marks branded on his flesh, extending across the entire limb.

A single chakra chain roared out of the earth, wrapping around Sōma's ankle. More of the obsidian flesh began to recede.

"Haku, now!" Natsumi called.

The Ice user vanished on the wind, reappearing beside the Hound with the ice needle he'd been impaled by in his hand. He impaled it into the exposed flesh of Sōma's right bicep. The Hound retaliated by punching the Mist shinobi with his natural immense strength, using his left fist. Haku tried to block the attack. Or so Chōjūrō thought.

Although Haku careened into a nearby wall, Chōjūrō noticed a thin layer of ice had formed over the Hound's left forearm. But that was not all. The ice along his forearm was spreading over his flesh without further physical contact, slowly. There was even ice beginning to spread from the ice needle.

"Ya little rats," Sōma grunted. "Do ya think a little ice will be enough to stop me?!"

Chakra exploded off of the Hound. Whether because of her weakened state, Sōma's strength or a combination of both, Natsumi's chain retracted off him, back through the earth and into her lower back, leaving her a grunting, panting, trembling mess.

Sōma turned his attention towards her, flesh beginning to return to its obsidian color. Except at his branded forearm. Even then the ice continued to spread.

"Killin' ya both should be enough to stop yer jutsus, right? If not, at least I'll get to revel in the satisfaction of exterminatin' the lot of ya!"

Nen dashed past Chōjūrō.

"Nen, wait!" the Swordsman called.

The Hound bolted for Natsumi, slower than before. Chōjūrō furrowed his brow.

Is he reaching some sort of limit? Did Haku do more damage than we thought with his ice needles?

Before he could wonder further, he saw Nen jump in front of the kunoichi and swing the Kanabō. The war-club shattered, breaking in half over the Hound's obsidian face. But among the debris of splintering wood and metal studs was a small flash of gold.

Chōjūrō and Haruhi were already charging in.

"Gah! Ya little whelp! I was gonna save ya for last, but now ya pissed me off!"

The young Mist shinobi froze in fear as the towering giant, bleeding from the mouth, snatched the shattered half of the war-club and prepared to plunge it into his head. Natsumi lurched out of the snow, wrapping her arms around Nen, pivoting around and diving to the ground. The piece of the Kanabō protruded out of her back.

Nen panicked at her unresponsiveness, calling her name as he tried to shake her awake.

Before Sōma could further damage them, Chōjūrō cut him off, slashing quicker than before without the extra weight of a second blade. The ominous purple chakra at the end of his blade was sharper than before, too. With the first slash he opened a long surface level cut over the Hound's chest. Simultaneously, as the Hound jumped back in retreat, Haruhi rushed past his back, cutting the mystical blade horizontally across the middle of the wide expanse of obsidian flesh.

She, too, had drawn blood.

The monster was bleeding. The ice was spreading; his left arm from the middle of his bicep to his fingers was frozen solid, immobile; the ice from the needle had spread over his shoulder, onto his neck and down his bicep and pectoral muscle.

Sōma slammed his foot into the ground, displacing shattered earth into the air.

"Earth Style: Rock Volley!"

The volley rapidly targeted the Swordsman, but evasion wasn't an option. Not while Nen and Natsumi were behind him. Shifting Hiramekarei's chakra into a giant hammer, the Swordsman smashed it into the street, creating a massive shockwave of snow, earth and wind that deflected, parted or outright overpowered the Hound's volley. It was the Hound who had to evade back in retreat, his grin faltering for an annoyed and bloody grimace.

Sharpening his blade with chakra again, Chōjūrō dashed through the debris still floating in the air, eyes determined behind his cracked glasses and the emblem of the Mist perhaps destroyed on his harness, but still shining brightly in his heart.

The Hound rose his foot again. A gale of wind suddenly roared and collided against Sōma's back, stumbling him, interrupting his attempt to use another jutsu.

Haku, bracing himself against a wall, complexion paler than normal and covering his wounded gut with one hand, commanded another gale of snow and wind to crash into their enemy's body.

Haku…

As Sōma stumbled again, roaring incoherently, a rattling chain exploded out of the earth, cutting through his obsidian flesh and wrapping around his thick neck. Chōjūrō couldn't dare to look back, but he knew who that chain belonged to.

Natsumi…

"Haku, can you crystalize a Water Style ninjutsu?!" Nen yelled over the street.

Haku nodded weakly.

"All right! Here it comes!"

A slim stream, shaped like a dragon, cascaded over Chōjūrō. As it neared the Hound, it suddenly crystallized and crashed into the bound man, tearing apart his flesh and embedding more ice into his body.

Haku collapsed into the snow. Natsumi's chain retracted.

Even Nen. They're all fighting. We're all still fighting despite our pain. That is who we are! That is the way of the Mist shinobi! We suffer, we endure and we push on towards the future!

Chōjūrō and Haruhi reached the Hound at the same time.

They passed by one another, Haruhi slashing past his back to face his front, Chōjūrō doing the opposite. The pair charged in again with heavy cleaving strikes that buried into his obsidian shoulders, then tore down through them, eyes burning with the Wills of their comrades and friends, their dreams and their determination to see the future pushing them on.

The ice had spread over the upper half of his chest and was overcoming his wide chin.

It is because we have suffered that we refuse your philosophy! It is because we have seen compassion and hope that we refuse to relinquish it to your darkness! For the first time in our lives, we have a purpose to exist, a dream to hold onto!

Chōjūrō rushed in at the Hound's right side, ducked beneath a strike and cleaved his branded forearm off at the elbow. Blood sprayed through the air, the severed limb flopped into the snow. The Hound screamed a blood curdling scream; he tried to grab at the stub with his frozen left arm. Chōjūrō smelled garlic in the air, strangely.

And we won't let you take that from us!

The chakra around both blades of Hiramekarei shifted crimson. The vengeful demon and demoness of wrath knew their swords were not weeping blood, but hungrily devouring the grotesque, depraved and evil soul of the monster they were destined to slay.

Together they slashed quick strikes, feeding the monster's blood to the twinswords of Hiramekarei. The impenetrable Earth Style defense jutsu was faltering, breaking beneath their vengeful wrath.

For the first time in the fight, Sōma was neither grinning nor laughing. He looked helpless and weak. He struggled fruitlessly against his steadily freezing body to evade and strike back.

When his frozen left arm was shattered into nothing but ice crystals by Haruhi, the Hound could only scream.

Haruhi and Chōjūrō hopped back once together, side by side.

"Haruhi, let's finish this," Chōjūrō said coldly.

"Those who align themselves with such vile darkness are no longer welcome in this Land. Let us remove this cancerous tumor, Chōjūrō."

"Right!"

The wielders of Hiramekarei darted in, separating briefly to charge a pincer attack.

Chōjūrō leapt up and met the wide eyes of the Hound, who could see the vengeful demon visage overcoming the Swordsman. He looked to his opposite side and saw the demoness of wrath with remorseless, cold eyes.

And then his soul was devoured.

Chōjūrō cleaved the Hound's head clean off, while Haruhi cleaved straight through his waist. He collapsed into the snow in three separate pieces.

Chōjūrō and Haruhi lowered the blades of Hiramekarei, standing opposite of one another on the fractured battlefield where their comrades lay, beaten but awake and alive.

We are the pillars of the Mist. Do not underestimate our Wills.

Chōjūrō dropped Hiramekarei and collapsed back into the snow.

As he lay there, specks of snow obstructed the cracked vision of his glasses.

Although this Land has been cruel and full of suffering…

The Swordsman smiled.

I think it's worth fighting for. It's our home, after all.

Right, Lady Mizukage?

---

Review Response to Guest: Yep, those were chakra chains. And Natsumi is a descendent of the Uzumaki Clan. Mei will not be a part of the Uzumaki Clan; different shade of red hair. There is definitely a chance for Naruto and Natsumi to meet in the future. As for Nagato and Karin, we'll have to wait and see.

Thank you for the review!