Chapter 118
Demons Reborn: The Wrath of Zabuza Momochi and Mei Terumī
The town of Tsugaru was once regarded as the haven for prosperity, trade and expansion in the Land of Water. All roads led to Tsugaru, they said. And they were right in their conceited sentiment.
Long ago, long before Blood Mist, money flowed like spring mountain streams born of melted ice through the town Tsugaru, plentiful, clean and essential to the ecosystem, lending it the capital it needed to develop and expand within the Valley of Life; a valley renowned for its marvelous fields of orange poppies, purple lupines and other such colorful natural displays in the spring and summer months along the hills and white-capped mountains it was surrounded by.
Indeed, there was a time when Tsugaru stood as a glittering gem of the Land of Water. A representation of financial prosperity and growth. A haven where bold ideas, new businesses and culture flourished.
But this was before Blood Mist. Before the Land of Water sank into dismal poverty, and with it the gem had lost its luster; few traveled the roads anymore, and none truly cared that they led to Tsugaru.
What remained of Tsugaru and its population was the bitter reflection the Land of Water was now known for. Decade old businesses boarded up and abandoned stood within the town, heaps of snow accumulating on their rooftops and blockading their doors with no one to shovel it; the infrastructure of the town was weathered, lone and forgotten, significantly damaged by skirmishes between bandits or shinobi and bearing dark stains of old blood.
Orphans and the homeless occupied the streets, sitting beneath whatever shelter they might find from the snow, searching through the trash for food, fighting off hungry dogs for their meals. Others occupied the various unfinished buildings constructed on the town's outskirts, huddled around small fires in mismatched and ratty garments meant to aid survival, not coax a vision of fashion.
Indeed, this gem was as lustrous as a lump of coal buried in a pig pen.
By the time of Blood Mist, the Valley of Life had become known as the Valley of Death. And Tsugaru's conceited claim that all roads led to it was a joke worthy of bitter laughter.
In time, perhaps, this reality could change.
In time, perhaps, it could represent new life.
Among the handful of businesses open was a quaint flower shop. Adjoined with a greenhouse, the flower shop was nothing of substantial worth or as bold as the businesses of old, but it had kept its doors open throughout the worst of Blood Mist and survived to witness the fall of the Fourth Mizukage, and the first steps of the Fifth. There were those who believed the owner was merely a lucky woman, someone who scraped by with little to show for it. After all, she lived at her business, and appeared just as impoverished and hungry as them.
Appearances were deceiving.
Those who knew the truth said nothing. Their silence had been bought.
The cloaked shadow entered the impoverished town, gliding through unseen and unheard. It glided in silent malevolence, traversing through abandoned alleyways smelling of garbage and bodily fluids, melding into shadows, on a sinister hunt for the target building.
When it located the flower shop, it patiently examined all possible entrances, seeking one which would conceal his presence from any possible onlookers.
Orphans and the homeless were quite perceptive. They saw all, but went unseen. They made for excellent agents.
The cloaked shadow entered discreetly through the defenseless greenhouse. It slipped through the adjoining door, into the flower shop, where the owner—a meek appearing woman of small stature and dark hair—was reorganizing a low cabinet at the back of the shop, humming softly. Innocently. As oblivious as a newborn pup excitedly chasing small critters and birds, ignorant to the mountain lion stalking closer.
The shadow silently approached the entrance. It shut the shades and flipped the Open sign around to read Closed. All without making a sound.
When the front door's lock audibly clicked into place, the owner did not hear it with her head buried in the cabinet. She did not hear its footsteps, nor did she hear it breathing.
It was the shift in the air that alerted her to danger, the chill of someone's eyes bearing down on her raising the hairs on her neck.
When she peered up, she saw the cloaked shadow and its bandaged features. She saw its malevolence.
"Try to scream," he dared in a deep, menacing voice.
She did try, or her body wanted to. But the paralyzing fear stole her voice, stole her air and left her quivering.
"You disguise yourself well, woman," the malevolent shadow rumbled. "You must wake up early to pale your skin and fashion this gaunt and dirty appearance I see. Quite professional. Yes, you disguise the wealth and health you've attained through other's misery well. You may have even fooled a Mist Genin."
He crouched in front of her. Despite that, despite tossing aside his towering frame to level with her, he somehow became even more menacing.
"You will face judgement, woman. Be grateful it isn't mine you will face. If it was, I would cut open your belly and make you watch your insides splatter all over the floor. I would watch you fumble in horror and shock to stick your guts back where they belonged. And you would plead for your life," he promised. "You would plead for mercy. Plead that you were forced to do this. You would beg me to fix you. And you would beg for forgiveness, claiming this was never what you wanted, just like all cowards do when they are faced with judgement for their crimes.
"But I would say nothing. I would do nothing. I would find a chair, sit it in front of you and watch you try to claw your way over to me, pleading, crying, begging me to end your miserable life swiftly. Just as you have said nothing, done nothing and sat here in your well-furnished business as others have suffered. You would understand in those final moments the agony your silence and inaction has caused. Be grateful I am not your executioner, woman."
The woman smiled timidly, taking on the demeanor of an innocent and pretty, if not gaunt, young maiden. Feminine charm was her choice of weapon. Men, after all, were easily persuaded to look the other way for the right price.
"You wouldn't hurt a woman like that. I can tell."
The malevolent shadow's shoulders shook with chuckle. "You're right. I wouldn't gut an innocent woman."
Suddenly the shadow's large hand wrapped around her throat. She gasped for air, eyes wide as he lifted her effortlessly off the floor. What she saw when she looked at him wasn't a shadow any longer.
It was a demon. She tried to scream, but could not.
"However, you're not an innocent woman," it said. "You're an abomination."
Every Flower Shop operator had creative control over the presentation and appearance of their business. For this reason, no single Flower Shop was similar in design. There were lower-end shops for the minimalists or least wealthy clients of the Land of Water, only seeking to sate their carnal desires without extravagant entertainment then continue on with their day. Then there were the high-end shops, built for the customer who sought more, and could afford more.
These shops were more reminiscent of expensive lounges and cabaret clubs in the main halls, where expensive alcohol flowed, where Flower Girls provided entertainment through means of music when they could sing, dance if they were talented, conversation and, of course, lustful satisfaction.
Some clients preferred private rooms. Others held no shame and satisfied themselves in the main hall, with some among them offering other clients to join their act of carnal lust, which was acceptable in the Flower Shops.
Zinan, the dignified and resplendent owner and operator of the Tsugaru Flower Shop, couldn't be prouder of his business. He was certain of all the high-end Flower Shops, his was the best decorated, best in service and obviously the best operated. The flamboyant man was the premier earner for his organization, yearly. Of course. One look at the dazzling interior of his shop was all one needed to recognize his wealth of customers.
Once all roads led to Tsugaru. Now all roads led to him and his life's work.
Zinan, seated on his favorite red velvet, gilded-framed lounge seat, twirled strands of his fabulous crimson-dyed hair around his finger, smiling and humming as one of his Flower Girls—a child—rubbed his feet and another older, more seasoned Flower Girl massaged his shoulders.
He nursed a cup of red wine, observing the scenery with a decorative white flower tucked behind his left ear, attired in a loosely tied kingly white robe adorned with a crimson flower and black slacks.
Around the main hall, draping delicately over the well-lit cream walls, were gallant tapestries woven from the finest threads, emblemized at their centers with the symbol for his organization for even an old biddy with cataracts to see. The hall was vast and wide, with a high ceiling to accommodate a second-floor balcony and the grand bifurcated wooden staircase fit for a king and queen to descend down to entertain themselves among other royalty.
Expensive paintings were hung around the room depicting scenes of people in the throes of lust, ecstasy and romance, among wrinkled sheets in the finest of bedrooms and on hard floors while surrounded by others also engaging in such intimacy. They were imaginative depictions, explicit in detail and meant to stir the thoughts and feelings of his customers, to probe their minds for their greatest fantasies, and to encourage their reenactments.
Clients of all genders occupied his lavish hall. And he could see some already engaging those reenactments, on couches and on the floor. He could hear them, too. Their guttural grunts, their extravagant groans and ecstasy consumed vocal fry's rising in crescendo into squeaks and body-clenching moans were all music to his ears.
Some were merely enjoying their drink as they spoke to their chosen Flower Girls, or guided their obedient servants to private rooms. A group of Flower Girls were on stage performing a song, one singing, one playing the flute and another strumming a lute. He hummed along, tilting his head back in relaxation.
His life's work was perfection. However, in this lawless sanctuary there were still rules. His merchandise could be bruised and beaten, but not visibly disfigured or killed. Those who disobeyed were punished according to the severity of the expense their action would cause his business in the future. Sometimes they were only blacklisted from high-end shops, permanently. Sometimes a finger or two would be removed, along with blacklisting from all Flower Shops.
Other times the client would be given a choice: Either they could pay with their life, blood for blood, or they could replace the merchandise they had broken. They did not need to become the new Flower Girl if they could offer another, but if they couldn't… Well, there were mines and other Flower Shops where they could serve.
Another rule: Money was provided upfront for all endeavors before any merchandise, whether beverages or Flower Girls, was used. Any who could not provide money were removed, immediately. And clients were checked regularly for diseases, as were his Flower Girls.
Guards were stationed in his shop, for his safety, the safety of his employees and the safety of their clients. Sometimes they had to protect a client from a Flower Girl pushed past her limit, or protect a Flower Girl from clients who couldn't control themselves. The majority of their time, however, was spent lounging, drinking and savoring the company.
The Flower Shop in Tsugaru couldn't be more serene or lavish.
For that reason, when the wooden balcony at the top of the bifurcated staircase shattered and the limp, fat body of the door guard crashed down onto the main floor, the entire atmosphere shifted.
Zinan bolted upright, kicking the child away in the process. He could see the door guard's dead face, frozen in a moment of utter fear. His teeth were shattered by the kunai shoved through his mouth and out the back of his neck. Two of his guards, now alert, rushed to the side of their fallen comrade. Others were appearing from private rooms and the bar with their weapons drawn.
The music had stopped. The moans and groans of his clients hadn't, not completely. Not yet. The sight of death pushed a few over the edge.
Heavy footsteps thudded slowly, casually, almost methodically on the wooden floor at the top of the stairs, from the shadows beyond the entryway.
"Oops." The newcomer's voice was somewhere between a sadistic growl and a dark laugh.
A foreboding, thin layer of mist, Zinan noticed, was curling into the main hall, seemingly from the hallway. Or perhaps the air itself.
"Have I interrupted your entertainment?"
"What is the meaning of this? Who are you? I demand you to answer me!"
"Do you now? Hmph."
The individual's dark rumble made Zinan's gut clench. They stopped at the balcony they had broken, looming over the entire hall with a tremendous height and muscular build shrouded by a black cloak. They wore a Mist headband tied sideways on their head. Their dull dark eyes and hideous eyebrowless bandaged face scanned the room with cold calculation. Zinan swore he was memorizing their faces, as if deciding who would live and who would die.
As if he could actually kill them all.
"Yo- you!" one of his guards gasped. A former Mist shinobi, he recalled.
The tall individual seemed to smile beneath his bandages, but he ignored the man. Mist continued to pour in. Visibility was lowering.
"You listen here, you peasant Mist shinobi," Zinan spoke with authority. Authority that the Mist shinobi chuckled openly at; he tilted his head back at an angle, wearing an expression of malicious amusement. "In case you haven't noticed, my guards outnumber you."
"I noticed," the man drawled. "A few of them are already quaking in fear. Very frightening."
Zinan wasn't used to being interrupted or disrespected. His lips curled in an unattractive snarl.
"You have invaded my home. You have killed one of my employees. I suggest you answer my questions before I order my guards to beat the answers out of you. Who are you?"
"I'd like to see them try," he chuckled.
"That's Zabuza Momochi, the Demon of the Hidden Mist!" one of his guards explained frantically.
Zinan recoiled slightly. "Im- impossible! The rumors said Zabuza died in the Land of Waves!"
"I was reborn," he declared. The mist was thickening. "Don't bother trying to flee. There is nowhere left for you to run or hide now."
He and his shadow vanished among the mist, briefly. The dreadful moment of silence was shattered by a screech of fear from who Zinan assumed was a guard or client.
Then silence again.
Through the mist, a shadow stumbled towards Zinan, forming into the shape of the guard who had recognized the Demon. He grasped onto Zinan's robe.
Zinan gasped as he saw not only blood begin to soak into his white robe, but blood pouring down the man's neck. He gurgled. His eyes were wide, hideous and horrified. He'd seen a demon.
No, he had seen the Demon.
When he opened his mouth a bubble of blood popped, splattering crimson over the Flower Shop operator's chest. More screams echoed around him. Desperate and afraid, Zinan freed himself from the man's clutches, shoving him off. Before the guard could fall and collapse to the floor a violent shadow as tall as the ceiling formed amidst the mist behind the dying man.
A curved kunai was then impaled through the back of his neck. More flecks of blood splattered over Zinan. His eyes went wide as the body was sent careening into his favorite velvet lounge chair, knocking it over. The wicked shadow loomed over him.
"Oh- oh god. Guards! Guards!" Zinan screeched in terror, body quivering. "What am I even paying you for?! Protect me!" he pleaded.
The shadow lurched away. The noise within the Flower Shop rapidly shifted between screeches of terror and utter silence. Screams. Then silence. The only consistent wailing was that of Zinan as he stumbled through the mist and that of the Flower Girls, who were left untouched as the Demon unleashed a vengeful dance of death through the mist.
Wooden and glass tables could be heard breaking, splintering and shattering. Bodies dropping dead or unconscious thumped all around him. He tripped over the body of an unconscious client lying face first on the floor, nose broken and face swelling and discolored by a powerful fist—a woman whose skirt was still pulled above her waist from her previous activities.
Zinan crawled over the floor, whimpering. Breathing heavily and sweating like an unattractive beast. He screamed when a dead body, cut from throat to waist, crashed down beside him with wide, terrified eyes, their hands pressed against their abdomen in an attempt to hold their insides inside. It reeked horribly.
He crawled faster. Crawling over other bodies, pushing aside Flower Girls curled up on the floor.
I can start again. Yes! I can rebuild a new fabulous Flower Shop and regain all that is lost. Everything here is replaceable! I can acquire new merchandise. I can acquire new guards. But I must live! I am irreplaceable!
When his hands found the first steps of his glorious bifurcated staircase, a wondrous thrill shot through his core. Freedom! Safety!
He could hear someone dying behind him, the powerful thrusts of a kunai impaling their body at repetitive intervals, their screams of agony weakening into grunts and choking noises. But that was fine. No, that was perfect! His guards were fulfilling their purpose. They were meant to protect him with their lives, and now they were buying time for him to escape and rebuild.
Suddenly a heavy weight crashed down on top of him. Zinan wailed, screeching a terrified ear-piercing soprano. Squirming and thrashing and clawing at the stairs, believing it to be the Demon himself stopping his escape, it wasn't until he felt warm liquid soaking through his expensive robe that he turned to see what had hold of him.
One of his guards, barely clinging to life, bleeding hideously from every conceivable portion of his fat body, was lying on top of him.
Not only that, but holding him in place.
"You don't get to leave!" he roared. "If we die, you die, too!"
"Let go of me you filthy peasant!"
Zinan thrashed harder. He squirmed like a wriggling, greasy snake that had grown appendages it didn't understand the purpose of, scratching and clawing at the floor. When that didn't work, he gouged out the guard's eyes in a frantic fit for survival. As the fat guard screamed and grabbed at his face, the Flower Shop operator wriggled free and kicked him away.
At that moment, Zinan sucked in a sharp breath.
The malevolent shadow was looming behind the screaming guard.
Like he'd been shot by a cannonball, the guard's body was yanked abruptly deeper into the mist, vanishing within a moment's breaths. His screams did not fade immediately. They grew worse, more intense, more violent in the pain he was enduring.
Concerned only with survival, Zinan scrambled with heavy breaths on all-fours up his staircase. He was almost free! It encouraged hope and renewed his strength. He leapt to his feet at the top of the stairs and rushed for the exit.
At the door, he struggled with the handle. It was locked. Fueled by a desperate need to survive, Zinan slammed his shoulder into the door. Once. Twice. A third time. It hurt his delicate body. But he kept at it, screaming for assistance from the agent meant to be operating their flower shop front.
"Open this door this instant! Open! Open! Open!" he screeched on every attempt to charge the door down.
Finally, he heard the door unlock. He grasped the knob and shoved it open, panting and sweating in exertion, in fear.
"You worthless peasant! I'll have you—"
Zinan's voice died in his throat. He gaped in fear at the hideous, eyebrowless man looming over him. The unconscious body of their agent lay on the floor, bound, blindfolded and gagged.
"Were you expecting someone else?" the Demon asked, a vindictive grin beneath his bandages.
The Demon stepped closer. The air thinned. Zinan unconsciously stepped back.
"Where do you think you're running off to? All the entertainment is happening downstairs, right?"
He stepped closer. When the Demon leaned over, bringing his bandaged face closer to Zinan's, the visage of a true devil replaced him. His eyes became entirely white. His bandages vanished to reveal a sharp, nauseating grin worthy of his moniker.
The Demon rested his large hands on the corners of the doorframe, boxing in the frightened and defenseless Flower Shop owner. He leaned closer, closer. Zinan felt sick to his stomach. His dazzling skin had paled, his heart pounded in his chest.
"We- we- we can strike a deal!" he declared, struck by inspiration.
"A deal? Heh!" The Demon's chuckle quickly transformed into a rumbling, shoulder shaking roars of laughter. "A deal, huh?" he laughed. He shook his head. "Oh, you pretentious fool. You unmitigated flowery weasel. Do you have any idea who you are talking to? I'm a Demon!"
The guttural roar terrified Zinan, sent him stumbling back. And then crashing down the flight of stairs to landing below. Bruised, aching and nursing a broken hand, he whimpered and wailed pathetically. The Demon glared at him from above.
"I only accept souls as payment in my deals. But your soul? It's worthless," he growled.
"O- oh god," he whimpered, tears pricking at his eyes.
"God? Heh. Hehehe! Ha ha ha ha!" The Demon shook with terrible laughter. "They aren't waiting for you there. No. There's only one place for an abomination like you."
"N- no! Don't!"
"Yes," the Demon grinned sadistically. "Where you're going is far less pleasant! There are plenty of hungry demons who enjoy devouring souls like yours! In hell!"
"Please!" he begged.
"But there's something I have to do before I send them your black soul. You've entertained yourself on these poor souls in this hell you've created. Now it's my turn. And you'll be my entertainment!"
The Demon slammed the door shut.
From his side, from the mist, the malevolent shadow emerged.
"I'll make you suffer," the Demon rumbled.
It lurched forward and snatched him by the foot, dragging Zinan back into hell.
"Noooooooo! Noooo! Please! Noooooooooo!"
He scratched and clawed at the floor, screaming for mercy as he vanished into the mist. The Demon laughed at his pathetic cries.
There would be no mercy.
The snowfall over Shinjuku had ended, if only temporarily. The air remained bitter, the wind gusted every now and then, the streets were blanketed in frozen waves of white, tainted by stains of crimson where corpses of the Hound's men and their victims were buried. But the precipitation had halted. The storm had calmed.
The road the Flower Shop was located on, though covered in snow, was wholly devastated. Chunks of earth were missing entirely from the street, situated at askew angles elsewhere or left in tiny fragments; cracks mirroring shattered glass tore through the entire road, rendering passage by horses, mules, carts or non-shinobi all but impossible; a massive sinkhole scarred the environment, inside of which a destroyed building could be seen.
It was the site of a war. And among the debris, half buried in the snow, the partially frozen and dismembered body of the Hound of the Mist could be found.
Eventually it would be buried, as would his men. But only after it became clear no fire could melt the ice molded to his body.
They would be buried in an unmarked mass grave on the outskirts of Shinjuku created by an Earth Style user from the Mist, away from any water source it could poison.
Their bodies would be disposed of as garbage, the site of the grave forgotten decades later by those who had not witnessed the battle between the Pillars of the Mist and the Hound. But the story of the war for the soul of Shinjuku and the future of the Land of Water would not be forgotten.
The survivors would tell the story for years to come as they worked to repair their town. The scars of the battle and their mistakes would be lessons for the next generation to learn from.
As for the shinobi from the Hidden Mist Village, the squads sent by the Fifth Mizukage to provide aid to the mines and the Shinjuku Flower Shop would retell what they had seen to their comrades. Stories of the darkness spread by the Crimson Flowers. Stories of suffering and pain, of hope and determination. It would be a story of inspiration, a large leap in their new beginning.
And it would create a new legend for those who had fought the war.
The Pillars of the Mist. Their origin was born in Shinjuku.
But it was only the beginning.
"Ow ow ow ow ow ow!"
"Stop moving and let me hit you, you big dope!"
"No way! If I stop, you'll pummel me into the ground!" replied Nen, covering his head as he was chased around the room by a fiery, and recovering, Natsumi. "You're the one supposed to be resting anyway! The medic-nin said so. You shouldn't be up chasing me— ow!"
"I rested enough. And you deserve it! Rushing in like a reckless idiot to fight the Hound of all people—twice! Nearly getting yourself killed, knocking his ridiculous tooth out—"
"Admit it, that was pretty awesome!" Nen grinned. The crimson-haired kunoichi slapped him alongside the head. "Owwwww!" He dashed off again.
"Oh yeah? So awesome that you pissed him off into trying to impale that thick head of yours! Now get back here!"
Chōjūrō watched the chase with an awkward smile on his face. He wasn't sure if he should step in as a voice of reason, or simply let Natsumi work it out of her system. Haku, who was seated adjacent to him, seemed to choose the latter.
The Swordsman had lost consciousness sometime after the battle against the Hound ended. He had no memory of being moved to the messenger bird station's upper floor, or of the medic-nin tending to his or his comrades injuries.
According to Haruhi, who had freed the Flower Shop alongside their reinforcements, besides his obvious injuries, he had expended a significant portion of his chakra through siphoning it to Hiramekarei and his Water Style ninjutsus. It took its toll.
He wasn't alone, however. Haku and Natsumi, too, had either lost consciousness or were too injured to offer further aid immediately after the conclusion of their battle. Their bodies were all battered and bruised, damaged considerably by the Hound's immense strength. But they would recover.
The same couldn't be said of the Hound.
"Master Chōjūrō, help!" Nen pleaded.
"Hehehehe," Chōjūrō laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh, maybe you two should settle down a little?"
"Stay out of this, Chōjūrō!"
"Ri- right. Sorry."
"What kind of help was that?!" Nen demanded.
"Don't you drag him into this! Chōjūrō is injured, you big dope! He needs to rest!"
"Haku—"
"Forgive me, Nen," Haku apologized with a sincere smile. "But I believe in my condition I would be of little help."
"Oh, come on!"
"Think of it as evasion training," Haku offered.
"That is totally unhelpful! Geh!"
Natsumi wrapped her arms around the smaller boy. At first, Chōjūrō thought it was an embrace. So did Nen, he believed, by the blush forming on the boy's face. And then…
"I've got you now, Murasame!" roared Natsumi.
"Ahhhhh!" Nen wailed and flailed, reaching desperately at the air for something to cling on to.
The kunoichi lifted the aspiring Swordsman up, performing a backbend to suplex him straight into the floor. He wheezed and groaned.
Satisfied with her work, Natsumi rose, brushed herself off and then the young boy. She seated him upright and continued to brush him off.
"Reckless little fool," she scolded, kneeling beside Nen. "My life isn't worth your sacrifice. You're part of the Mist's future, Nen. The future we're building is for your generation and those after you."
"Wrong."
Haku and Chōjūrō perked up, eyes drawn to the doorway and the cloaked figure standing there. Standing behind him was Haruhi.
"Zabuza," Haku greeted his mentor.
"Master Zabuza," Chōjūrō dipped his head in small, painful bow; his body still ached from the beating he received.
"The Hound did a number on all of you, huh? But you're all in one piece." He smirked beneath his bandages. "Unlike him. Good work." He drew his eyes to Natsumi. "As Mei's assistant, you should know the future she is building isn't just for the runt's generation or for those that come after. It's for yours as well. Mei works herself to the bone to improve our Village and this Land for all of us who inhabit it, young or old."
"Yeah, I know. Just trying to get this dope to stop acting so recklessly." Natsumi cast a quizzical look his way. "What are you doing in Shinjuku anyway? You're a little late for the party."
"Hmph," Zabuza chuckled deeply. "Mei sent me. She was worried about you runts taking on the Hound. Sent me to take down one of these so-called 'Flower Shops' in Tsugaru beforehand."
"How did it go?" Haku asked.
The Demon smiled. Even with bandages covering his mouth it was quite frightening.
"It was enlightening." Zabuza's hand flashed out of his cloak. Natsumi quickly snatched the flying scroll. "Here's some reading material while you rest. Our work isn't finished yet. Take what time you need to recover and prepare yourselves. There's still plenty of work to be done to remove this cancerous organization from our Land."
Haku nodded. "Right."
"We'll be ready," Natsumi replied.
"You can count on us, Master Zabuza," Chōjūrō said.
"They will all be removed," Haruhi agreed.
"I'm not sure if I'll be able to help, but I'll still try my best!" Nen declared.
"Good. I'll return after I check the Flower Shop here for Intel." He turned to Haruhi.
"Have you sent a message to Mei yet regarding the success of your operation?"
"Yes," Haruhi answered plainly. "It should be in her hands soon, if it hasn't reached her already."
"Then it is only a matter of time," he said.
"Only a matter of time for what?" Chōjūrō asked cautiously.
"For Mei to descend on those fools hiding in the Mist."
On that ominous promise, Zabuza departed silently.
Haruhi entered the room. "I will be leaving, temporarily," she said.
"Where to?" Natsumi asked.
"Our mission is not yet complete. Chinami has not been reunited with Mika. I promised I would bring her there as soon as I finished aiding you three."
"Oh, right," Chōjūrō's eyes widened. "So much has happened with the Hound, I almost forgot. Can you bring her back here first, Haruhi?"
The kunoichi tilted her head curiously. "I can. For what purpose?"
"I'd like to go with you. Like you said, our mission isn't finished. And we promised Mika we would reunite him with Chinami. I'd like to be there."
"As would I," Haku nodded.
"That makes three," Natsumi voiced her agreement.
Haruhi was unbothered by the request. She nodded. "Then I will return here with Chinami as swiftly as I can carry her. Rest well until then."
"Be careful, Haruhi," Chōjūrō said.
"I will be vigilant."
With Haruhi's departure, Chōjūrō's eyes were drawn to Hiramekarei, wrapped in bandages and leaning against the nearby wall in reaching distance. He heard Natsumi unroll the scroll Zabuza handed over, heard Haku exhale a relaxed breath as he focused on resting. Nen pestered Natsumi with innocent curiosity.
But the Swordsman's attention was drawn to Hiramekarei. Visions of the battle in the mines and of the whipper he impaled flashed in his mind's eye. He could still see it all so vividly, still feel the sensation of hatred and rage unfurling and overwhelming his body.
He thought of their battle with the Hound. The nearly impenetrable Earth Style armor he wielded thwarted Hiramekarei's power throughout their battle. He laughed off pain and powerful jutsus at every turn. He almost killed them.
Sōma Akebino was a monster. A fiend worthy of the legend he had engrained into the Land of Water.
And they had slain him. Together.
Truthfully, Chōjūrō was happy enough to survive the encounter. But he was proud, too. Proud he had taken what he felt was a large leap on his journey towards becoming worthy of Lady Mizukage's trust and placement as her bodyguard. Someone stronger, maybe even a little more confident.
Someone his comrades could rely on.
We'll be a sword of justice for Lady Mizukage, Hiramekarei. That's what I hope, anyway.
The Swordsman recalled the final push to defeat the Hound. It wasn't just him wielding the mystical blade, but Haruhi, too. His friend had wielded the blade expertly for someone who had never trained to wield it.
Each of the seven mystical swords handled differently than not only regular swords, but from each other, too. There were differences in weight, differences in the special qualities that made the mystical seven swords legendary and differences in techniques. The training program to choose shinobi to wield the seven swords was extensive, and grueling; it had crushed those who lacked the will, drive and skill to call themselves a Swordsman.
Haruhi was a natural, a prodigy, he'd even say.
As Chōjūrō examined Hiramekarei, recalling the final moments of fighting the Hound alongside Haruhi, he came to a decisive conclusion. He would need to speak to Lady Mizukage when they returned to the Mist.
Chōjūrō glanced to Natsumi. She bore a severe expression, turquoise eyes gliding over the Intel within the scroll.
Our work isn't done yet, though, he thought.
For all they accomplished in the mines and against the Hound, they hadn't eliminated the Crimson Flowers just yet. Even assuming the other operations went perfectly, the Crimson Flowers were bigger than the human trafficking and labor camps—far bigger. They had other operations to cripple or destroy. They were profiting off their poisonous narcotic. Gambling dens, prostitution and extortion rackets were all under their umbrella—some of which treaded the legal line finely.
There were also the clients involved in the Flower Shops to apprehend, distributors of the narcotic to locate, as well as an antidote to aid those afflicted by it. Not to mention they still had plenty of work left just tending to those who had been enslaved at the labor camps and in the Flower Shops.
No. Their work was far from over. They had won a few victories, true. But their war against this organization required more than the death of the Hound and liberation of their slaves.
In the end, whoever was leading this organization was still out there, and they could create new Flower Shops, they could enslave more natives of the Land of Water to brand with their terrible symbol and continue afflicting this Land with suffering.
We have more work to do.
Chōjūrō was ready for it.
"Lady Mizukage, the final squad has reported in," Ao informed, standing before the Mizukage. "No allied injuries or casualties to report of. All enemies have been eliminated, clients apprehended and slaves liberated. Only one non-combatant was slain; they were afflicted with the narcotic uncovered by Haruhi and Natsumi's squad and threw themselves as a shield in front of an enemy."
Mei received the news with a slight frown and solemn nod. She rested her forearms on the armrests of her chair and steepled her fingers. In total that made four non-combatants slain between all the operations. No one was to blame. This was all an unfortunate result of limited Intel on their enemies other business dealings beyond human trafficking.
"As we speak, I have our best medic-nins researching the sample of the narcotic Haruhi acquired," she said. "But deciphering its contents will take time, or so I am told. And there is no guarantee we can create an antidote, and even if we can, I fear there is a chance we lack the necessary resources for the mass production and distribution of it. However, I will remain hopeful. Have they learned anything from the Flower Shop's operator?"
Ao lowered his gaze to read the report. "A list of client names. Logbooks listing the ages, weight, height, blood types and talents of Flower Girls trafficked to and from their shop. Income and expenses. There's more, but nothing the other operations haven't uncovered. Useful information, of course, but whoever leads them has been careful. They sign their letters with their symbol. Nothing more."
"Mm. They have survived and prospered through an abundance of caution and meticulous planning. We will need to keep searching to uncover their identity."
"Agreed," Ao nodded.
"In the meantime…"
Mei rose from her desk. She opened a drawer, retrieved her ninja pouch and fastened it to her belt, at her left hip. After shutting the drawer and tucking her chair in, she strutted towards the door.
"With the liberation of Haruhi, the mines and Flower Shops beyond the Mist completed, it is time I visit the Flower Shop they shamelessly setup within our Village. The Fourth, or whoever was controlling him, may have tolerated their heinous acts. But I am not the Fourth. I am Mei Terumī, the Fifth Mizukage. I will see that they understand that in intimate detail."
"Lady Mizukage, I must protest!"
Ao rushed to stand in front of her, blocking the path to the door. Mei narrowed her eyes. Ao placed a hand over his chest.
"Allow me to handle this. There is no need for you to endanger yourself in this operation. I understand your feelings. But you are the Mizukage now. Our Village and our shinobi look to you for guidance. Were you to be injured in any form, your strength and leadership would be thrown into question. We must protect you and your image at all costs. So please, send me instead."
"Ao, I appreciate your thoughtfulness, truly. I can see the wisdom in your words. But my strength and leadership are already in question. Just by this Flower Shop existing inside our Village, right beneath our noses, do the Crimson Flowers brazenly declare my ineptitude and weakness as Mizukage. They draw doubt to the legitimacy of the power and prestige the title of Mizukage once held by strangling this Nation with human trafficking, narcotics and slavery."
Mei swiped her hand through the air. "I will not allow it! I will not be a Mizukage who sits in her office under the pretense of protection while my people suffer. It is my duty to protect them. That was the oath I took when I was elected Mizukage. I will not watch my people and my shinobi from a gilded tower and decide their fates; I will walk among them and face the challenges alongside them, shoulder to shoulder.
"These monsters are responsible for an endless trail of bloodshed and tears. They have shamelessly challenged the office of the Mizukage. Their mere existence challenges my ideals and the future I have clawed, fought, bled and killed for. And they dare to build a Flower Shop in our Village. They dare to hurt my people. They dare to callously cage them, molest them and kill them, believing they will never be punished for their actions.
"No more," Mei shook her head. "I will not sit here any longer. I will not send you or another squad in my place. If they seek to challenge and corrupt the heart and soul of this Nation of ours, I will answer their challenge and their corruption by corroding their flesh and melting their black hearts. They believe they are frightening monsters. Hmhmhm!" She laughed darkly. "When I am through with them, they will understand a monster is nothing compared to a wrathful demon."
Ao had visibly paled. He sensed the pyroclastic flow and witnessed the Oni within its tumultuous clouds of volcanic ash.
Mei patted his shoulder, smiled warmly and strolled around him.
"Come along, Ao. I will need your aid to scout the Flower Shop."
"Uhh…" Ao shook off the fear. "Of course, Lady Mizukage."
Mei couldn't recall exactly when the flower shop first opened in the Mist. But she remembered the difference of opinions its opening stirred among the citizens and shinobi.
Most saw it as a pointless venture. Few had the money to spend on frivolous flowers which would inevitably wilt away within a week or so, depending on who nurtured it. Fewer were willing to risk attachments in a Village and Land where the probability of an early death was practically a guarantee.
Still, there were some who appreciated the attempt to brighten the hopeless nature of the Mist through colorful bouquets and displays of adoration. Mei, ever the romantic, considered it an inspired choice.
What better metaphor was there for nurturing hope and life than a flower shop? She was hopeful it would survive.
And it had. Against all odds, it had. When other stores that had greater chances of surviving their impoverished Village boarded up or were outright abandoned, the flower shop had survived. Now she knew why.
They've corrupted a symbol of purity, Mei thought, standing outside the shop in the snow, wearing a hooded black cloak. Citizens of the Mist strolled past her and the shop without a single inclination of her identity or the true nature of the flower shop. A flower shop should be a place of joy, of nurturing. But all they've nurtured is this twisted sickness. They've nurtured the affliction that taints this Land.
The Mizukage strutted forward towards the door, a severe expression on her face.
I will melt it all.
Ao's Sensory Abilities and Byakugan provided her all the Intel she needed to destroy this abomination masquerading as purity. At present he waited in the shadows of the rooftops, watching the Flower Shop from afar for any individuals who might by some grand miracle escape her wrath or were monitoring the surrounding area for, perhaps, an enraged Mizukage set on uncovering their secrets and corroding flesh from bone.
A light bell, hung from the door, chimed when she entered. The Mizukage immediately began scanning the room before the door finished creaking shut.
She noticed the frail boy Ao had observed; he cradled a bouquet of white chrysanthemums—flowers of grief, Mei noted. Leaning on the counter, speaking to the child, was the operator of the front.
"I will be with you in a minute," he called to Mei, failing to identify her. He directed his attention to the child again. "How about this, kiddo: Since you bought the bouquet with your hard earned money, I'll give you another for free. After I take care of this client, you can come with me to the backroom and have your choice at whatever flowers you like. How's that sound?"
"But I don't want any more flowers," the boy replied, tilting his head as if the question were strange.
"Not now. But wait until you see the special flowers I have back there."
"Special flowers?" the boy repeated.
Mei's heels thudded roughly on the wood floor as she approached the counter.
"Flowers few have ever seen," the operator said. "They're imported from all across the shinobi world. Wouldn't you like to see them?"
Mei rested her hand on the boy's head. The owner furrowed his brow, flashing an annoyed glare at her concealed face. The frail boy looked up to her with a confused expression. And an adorable pout on his lips.
At the sight of her warm emerald eye and strands of her auburn hair peeking through the shadow of her hood, his eyes grew wide.
"Miss Mizukage?"
"Mizukage?" the owner gasped, annoyed expression shifting to appear as if she had entered his shop covered in the guts and gore of a wild beast. Or a human.
"Greetings, young one," she smiled warmly at the boy, blatantly ignoring the man. "Are those flowers for someone special?"
"They're for a lot of special people. My parents, Kira's uncle and aunt, Hiro, Sera's grandpa and a few others."
"Mm," she frowned in sympathy. "I'm sorry you've all suffered so."
"It's okay. You're trying to make it better, right?"
"I am."
"Then we'll work hard, too. Hiro always said it would take the right Mizukage and everyone working together to change our Village. I think you're the right one."
"Mm," Mei smiled warmly. "Thank you, young one. Now," the Mizukage gingerly guided the child away from the counter and towards the door, "allow me to walk you out."
"Okay. Bye, mister! Thank you for the flowers. Maybe you can show me the special flowers another time."
"Uh, right."
"Yes, perhaps he will," Mei said in a kind voice that betrayed the fury within.
The boy bid a pleasant farewell to her at the door and walked off. As soon as he was out of sight, the Mizukage shut the door and locked it. She flipped the open sign to read Closed and shut the shades. Only then did she draw back her hood.
"As a courtesy I will inform you that I am in an immensely foul mood," she said in an even tone, eyes drawn to a bouquet of carnations set up in the room.
The air was thinning with killing intent. The owner's throat, she could tell, was tight. He was beginning to sweat, and he was slowly opening a drawer behind his counter.
Mei drew her finger tenderly over the delicate petals.
"I should apologize, though. I interrupted your snake's tongue so rudely, didn't I? Forgive me. I'm sure that boy would've been intrigued to see real flowers from beyond this Land, unaware no such shipments ever make it to our Village."
"Lady Mizukage, I can explain."
"I escorted him out before you could steal him, didn't I?" she spoke without acknowledging him. "How exceptionally rude of me. But I certainly would cherish the opportunity to see these special flowers you speak of. In fact, you're going to show them to me. Right now."
Mei finally turned to look at the owner, with all of her unrestrained pyroclastic wrath bubbling at the surface. He froze, sucking in a sharp breath then failing to breathe entirely. His trembling hand was hidden inside the drawer. Mei eyed the hand, then the man.
"Allow me to explain something exceptionally vital if you hope to live beyond the next minute. Presently, I cannot see what you are reaching for. Oh, but I know what it is. Indeed, I can see it in my mind's eye with perfect clarity, the sharp and pointed object you're clutching oh so tightly in that trembling hand of yours. Let's pretend I do not know, though. Let's pretend I am an innocent child unaware of your true nature.
"Under the previous leadership, just the suspicion of what you are reaching for would be cause enough to slay you where you stand. And believe me, were you to reveal a weapon and attempt to attack me, it would not be me who would be left bleeding on the floor. Rest assured it would be you breathing desperately for oxygen as your lungs filled with blood."
Mei took a single, meticulous step forward. The thud of her heel caused him to flinch. The owner began to breathe again. Heavily, in abject fear reflected on his strained and quivering facial muscles.
"And I would leave you there in a pool of your own blood, choking, hacking up blood on this pristine floor you've worked so hard to clean, fearing every agonizing second you were deprived of oxygen, for the exquisite torment of death by suffocation is all you deserve for the crimes you've committed."
She took another step.
Another thud, another flinch.
"But I digress, for I do not know you are reaching for a weapon, now do I? And I am not the past leadership. Assumptions alone are not enough to merely slay a non-combatant, and those who seek to spill the blood of non-combatants have no place in the new Mist.
"However…" Mei took another meticulous step closer. She was three steps away from the counter. "The line between combatant and non-combatant is incredibly thin. As thin as the final sheets of lake ice we see before the spring blooms; as a native of this Land, you are obviously well-aware how one wrong step, one reckless act is all it takes for the ice to break beneath you."
She saw his Adam's apple sink, heard his rough swallow.
"For instance, were a non-combatant to bear a blade against a shinobi, they would from that moment on be considered a threat. And a Mist shinobi has every right to kill a threat to their lives, their comrade's lives and the lives of this Nation's citizens."
Thud.
She took another step. The owner was panting in fear, for the closer the Mizukage approached, the thicker the killing intent became, and thus the easier it became to see the furious ash cloud and hungry Oni hovering around her.
"So, hypothetically speaking, were you to lift a blade out of that drawer, you would become a threat. A pathetic excuse of a threat, but a threat nonetheless."
Thud.
Another step.
"In retaliation to the threat you posed, I wouldn't stab you. No, no. Nothing so unrefined."
She did not slam her hand on the glass display case his counter was constructed from. She rested it there gingerly and loomed over the sweating and panting man with her unrestrained killing intent curling, cutting and corroding his soul.
"I would simply melt you where you stand." The Mizukage smiled. It was a cruel smile. "So please, enlighten me as to what you are reaching for. Is it a weapon? Or is it the key to the backroom where your special flowers are located? Well? Do not make me peak behind the counter. We both know how that would end now, don't we?"
Whether in a fit of primal fear or desperate loyalty, the owner drew a kunai knife from the drawer and cried out wordlessly as he swung for the Mizukage. His strike was reckless and weak. Mei evaded the strike by leaning her head out of the way. She caught his hand at the wrist with ease before he could retaliate further.
"Foolish, foolish man," she spoke, the cruel smile on her lips splitting into a demonic grin. "Never let it be said I did not give you a chance."
Mercilessly, the Mizukage twisted his wrist, snapping the bone's audibly. Before the owner could finish his cry of agony, Mei snatched him by his head and slammed him face first through his glass display case.
She left the motionless and bloody body lying limply on top of the broken display. She acquired the kunai from the midst of shattered glass then located a key for the backroom.
At the door, the Mizukage listened for a moment, sensing the guard on the other side. She unlocked the door and opened it gracefully. The man on the opposite side had just enough time to appear startled. Then a glob of lava splattered over his face.
His blood-curdling screams intensified briefly as he clawed at the viscous lava dribbling down his face and onto his neck. His attempts to claw at it only spread it to his fingers, his screams only caused it to enter his mouth, and through that his throat. Eventually his screams died as his vocal chords and esophagus was melted by molten lava.
Mei did not watch him crumble to the floor, thrashing, clawing, choking and dying. She continued to strut down the stairs with measured and purposeful steps.
Thud, thud, thud, thud!
The stairwell was L-shaped, with a small landing before a 90-degree turn to the right. The rapid steps racing up them did not belong to her.
As Mei neared the landing, the second guard Ao scouted rushed around the corner into view. Ironically, for all his haste, he was too far slow to counter an attack.
The Mizukage kicked him in the face; the flat heel of her high-heeled shinobi sandals shattered his nose, the kick sent him stumbling into the wall.
As he bounced back, Mei stepped down onto the landing, half-turned to descend and, with an imperceptible movement, slashed the man's throat with the kunai of the store owner. Blood sprayed in an arcing line over the angular walls. The guard grabbed at his throat as he collapsed to his knees.
Mei impaled the blade through the top of his skull and left it there, continuing down the stairs with an air of calm that was betrayed by molten killing intent she exuded.
The stairwell opened up to a balcony, at which a male guard was half-turned with a hand on his sheathed sword. When the cloaked Mizukage emerged, fair features speckled with blood, her emerald eye locked onto the guard, and the pyroclastic flow tumbled forth to claim his life next.
The guard, an admittedly handsome man, gaped and choked at the sight of her, body seized by intense molten flood of killing intent he'd never experienced the likes of. He drew his sword, but it was a defense only suitable for children playing with wooden swords.
Against a Lava Bullet, it was nothing.
His sword clattered on the floor, the metal slowly heating to its melting point. The wooden balcony behind him was victim to the searing, viscous liquid. The guard, previously handsome, screamed hideously as his flesh was charred; he melted far quicker.
By the end only the puddle of lava and a charred balcony missing chunks remained, which the Mizukage cooled instantaneously with a snap of her fingers.
Her sharp snap was more attention grabbing than the hideous screams that came before.
She commanded the attention of the entire room with the simple gesture. Her emerald eyes scanned over the quaking clients in varying states of dress, drunkenness, lounging and fiendish satisfaction, the bewildered and speechless guards, the female owner distinguishable by the attire of feigned royalty she bore through her regal gown and tiara, and the poor, poor Flower Girls, whom the sight of intensified the volcanic eruption bubbling in her heart.
"Normally," she began in a venomous hiss, a dribble of lava at the corner of her lips, "I would offer you a chance to surrender and turn yourselves over for punishment. However, seeing you all here, seeing how you've defiled these children, teenagers and adults for your repulsive and monstrous satisfaction has proven Zabuza's words true: You are no longer human. You are just vile fiends, masquerading as humans in daylight while you revel in this twistedness behind closed doors.
"You have gone unpunished for far too long. Plead, beg, prostrate yourselves and pray in search for mercy if you like. But you will find no mercy today. You will find no god who will protect you from me. And as the light begins to dim in your eyes and your souls are scorched, corroded and melted on their path to hell, you will be grateful."
Mei Terumī, Fifth Mizukage, wielder of the kekkei genkais of Lava Style and Vapor Style, allowed the churning volcanic eruption she restrained until that moment to explode the entire mountain range and unleash a devastating cloud of pyroclastic fury to encompass her entire being.
She licked up the lava at the corner of her lips and grinned a furious, fiendish and sadistic grin. The peacekeeping Lady Mizukage was gone.
The Oni was laughing. The guards, clients and operator were seized by superheated swaths of killing intent.
"You will be grateful to die," she promised, grinning. "For it will be your only escape from the demon you've unleashed. Hmhmhm!"
Mei unfastened her cloak. Before it hit the floor where she stood, she vaulted over the balcony to the bottom floor of this luxurious and ostentatious ring of hell, landing in a crouch with a dull thud reverberating through the still and silent room.
There she was met by possibly the bravest and most foolish of the guards charging her with a sword. He dashed in with a primal cry, drawing his blade back as she rose.
Blood splattered through the air. A stunned gasp turned into an agonizing groan. Unexpectedly—for the guards—it belonged to the man who charged her, whose strike was evaded by a graceful pivot, whose blade was twisted out of his grip in the middle of his strike and impaled through his abdomen as if committing seppuku; his hands were wrapped around the hilt of his blade, eyes wide open like an owl.
Before he could react further, a puff of what appeared to be mist was exhaled into his face from the slightly parted lips of the Mizukage. He inhaled. And began to choke on more than blood. Lungs, throat and the flesh of his face were encompassed by searing pain he could no longer vocalize.
When he collapsed onto his back—an act which cause the sword to impale into the floor– scratching at his throat in silent but visible agony, his fellow guardsman, the clients and the owner all witnessed a sight they would never forget; the flesh on his face was corroding, his eyes were utterly red and blind, burning, glistening, and though they could not see it, they knew the tissues of his internal organs were suffering the same corrosive fate.
Without a word, Mei stepped over the dying man, pulling the blade from his abdomen, a blade which was streaked and dripping crimson. When two guards leapt over tables, grinding their teeth audibly in fear, the Mizukage pivoted again, evading the first guard's strike with grace, flourishing the blade around to block the second's three strike combo.
The first guard whirled around and dashed in again. Mei parried the second guard first, slashing a nasty and ugly cut over his face, which sent him stumbling back, groaning and grabbing at his bloodied face. With a quick twirl, which caused her dress's skirt to flourish like a young maiden's gown amidst a royal dance, she caught the first guard in a temporary deadlock.
"Crossing blades with me?" Mei smiled cruelly. "How daring."
He flinched. It was his final mistake.
One moment they were in deadlock. The next his sword was pushed aside and two deep and long fatal cuts were tore through his clothes and torso. He collapsed to the floor; a pool of blood was spreading beneath him.
Mei turned towards the second guard, still clutching his bleeding face in trembling hands, and dashed gracefully over the floor. Through the crimson mask she saw his terror. Then his agony. And then his demise.
She swept his legs out from beneath him then impaled him through his center, crashing his body through a wooden table. As the wood splintered and his final death cries were silenced by the kunoichi twisting the blade, the clients began to regain control of themselves, the majority of whom thought escape was an option available to them.
Simultaneously, more guards rushed Mei.
"Flower Girls, please duck low to the floor," the Mizukage commanded, rising while bringing her right hand close to her lips.
The Flower Girls complied, without hesitation. Mei was grateful.
From her lips she created a long, sharp whip of pure water, molded and crafted to be held in her hand without losing its shape or strength. She whirled the whip around her body in one long sweeping motion. The room seethed with a clatter of cries, knocked over furniture and bodies crashing to the floor.
Clients who had dashed for the exit lay curled up with their backs torn open, raw and bloody; the appearance of their wounds brought to mind the image of exfoliating with barnacles. A group of guards mirrored them, except their torsos took the brunt of the attack.
All alive. For the guards that was only temporary. For the clients their punishments were far from over.
"If you are a client of this so-called Flower Shop and you do not wish to die, I suggest you sit quietly and await your punishments," commanded Mei, lowering her water whip. "If not, by all means continue your futile attempts to escape. I will savor lashing your flesh from your bones as vengeance for the harm you have caused these people you've enslaved."
Of the clients that were unharmed, many sank to the floor or into their seats in despair and horror. Some tried to escape. As promised, Mei lashed them with her water whip and left them curled up on the floor, writhing with the threads of their unbuckled pants, unbuttoned shirts and disheveled blouses and skirts shredded through to their flesh.
Thinking her distracted, another guard lunged in from her blindside with a small dagger in one hand and a broken bottle in the other. The Mizukage glanced at him, a terribly violent expression shadowing her face. The pyroclastic flow and Oni was his and his alone to witness in that moment, which also meant the full extent of her killing intent was centered on the guard.
He froze on the spot two steps away, dagger raised. But he was overcome by a deathly pallor, expression stricken by horror and muscles contracted. Despite being among the living in that moment, the man had already died, or believed he had having witnessed it with his own eyes. Like all those who misunderstood lava, he believed it would be an immediate death.
It wasn't.
Struck by the water whip, he fell to the floor with his face and chest shredded open. He shakily lifted his head, expecting again for death to claim him painlessly.
Again he was left disappointed. The water whip assaulted his body, shredding his flesh in a repeating onslaught, and when he was finally gripped by terror, when he came to believe he'd died and was being punished for his crimes by demons, the onslaught ended.
Only for the Mizukage to break his neck beneath her high-heeled sandal as she leapt onto his body and catapulted off into the fury of battle.
"She's a Demon!" a guard cried out.
"We're dead!"
"Please! Lady Mizukage, have mercy!"
"Mmhmhmhm!" Mei hummed a demonic laugh of sadistic pleasure. "Squeal and screech all you like, you fiends. Let those you have tormented relish at how utterly hopeless and powerless you are!"
Carnage seethed throughout the Flower Shop. In place of the satisfaction and relaxation the fiends solicited from their slaves, they were tormented and traumatized by water whips that tore their flesh apart, lava that melted them slowly, and eventually death. They screeched and wailed. They begged and pleaded. They fought and struggled.
In the end they all suffered.
Amidst the carnage, however, the operator—the woman feigning a royal air through a regal gown and a shimmering silver tiara—crawled to her office as all her employees died around her, snatching a young Flower Girl and dragging the screaming androgynous child along as a meat shield to protect her from the Mizukage's remorseless wrath.
Her office, which was on the same floor as the main hall, had a window looking out at the hall, where she spent many a time admiring the cultivation of her hard work and the pleasure of others while a Flower Girl dotted on her.
The main hall resembled nothing of her hard work. Furniture upturned, tapestries cut down, corpses of her guards lying everywhere and clients either frozen in fear or writhing on the floor while Flower Girls huddled together watching their liberation by the darkly dazzling Fifth Mizukage; it didn't even look the same anymore.
Inside the office, she clutched the androgynous and struggling child to her chest, ripping open drawers in search of her knife with a trembling hand. Her blond hair was a mess, her gown torn and ripped, her tiara missing.
At the same moment she located her knife, the knob of the door she slammed shut behind her turned, the door creaking slightly as a gentle and manicured hand opened it.
Mei entered with narrowed eyes. The operator brought the blade to the child's throat, backing frantically into a corner.
"Stay away or I'll kill them!" the operator threatened.
"And would you like to know what I would do to you then?" Mei asked, slowly entering the room but maintaining her distance.
"You won't do anything! I'm the one making demands now, you- you-"
"Overcome by grief and rage," Mei continued, ignoring the woman, "I would seal the door shut and corrode your flesh with Vapor Style first. But I would adjust the pH so it wouldn't kill you outright. No, I would watch you corrode slowly, painfully. I would make you suffer for hours, maybe days. But I wouldn't kill you with my corrosive vapor. I would force you to swallow lava, and watch you melt from the inside. Then, and only then, would you understand the mistake of killing that child in front of me. Do you understand?"
"Shut up!" shrieked the operator. Her hands were trembling. The blade was dangerously close to the child's throat. "Your hands are bound here, Fifth Mizukage. The death of a child you had a chance to save through negotiating would fracture your image permanently. You're powerless. So you listen to me now! I'm in control!"
In a blink, Mei was standing in front of the woman, the knife clutched in her hand. The blade was sharp, digging into the soft flesh of her palm. The pain was warm. And her blood was bubbling lava in her veins.
She pulled the blade away from the child's throat, unfazed by the pain.
"Do I look powerless to you?" Mei questioned in a quiet hiss. "Do you still feel like you are in control?"
The operator's eyes were wide, and her breathing had stopped entirely.
"Release the child. Now."
The child was released. They collapsed to the floor, terror stricken on their face and frightened tears streaming down their cheeks.
"Please join the other Flower Girls, young one," Mei requested kindly, cold eyes never leaving the operator, hand clutched around the blade.
They stumbled and ran out of the room.
When they were alone, the Mizukage disarmed the woman swiftly and impaled the blade through her hand and into the wall. The operator cried out in ear-piercing agony.
Mei strolled over to the door, shut it, locked it then returned to her desk, seating herself in the expensive and comfortable leather chair. She exhaled a long breath, expelling vapor into the air. Mei kicked her feet up onto the table as she did.
Panicked cries and sobbing left the operator as the acidic vapor enveloped and clouded the room entirely.
"Don't begin screaming yet," Mei requested. "The pH is relatively neutral presently. Should you not comply with my questions and answer honestly, however, I will adjust it until eventually you'll be enveloped in vapor stronger than hydrochloric acid. It will be very unpleasant for you, believe me."
The operator learned to believe her.
Through the haze of a heavy, dreamless slumber, Mika blinked and stirred awake. His body was comfortably warm, and though his feet were still a little achy, he was drawn to a gentler sensation. He felt the nimble and gentle fingers of another threading through his hair, caressing his cheek, coaxing him awake with their warm and, admittedly, slightly ticklish touch.
He blinked in sleepy innocence. The ceiling, and subsequently the room, was dimly lit by the crackling fire somewhere beyond his immediate line of sight. It was hard to see. Steadily, however, his vision refocused, clearing away the haze until he could finally see the person responsible lying right beside him.
Mika recognized her mint green eyes and platinum hair immediately. He turned onto his side and scooted into her, wrapping his meek and frail arms around her body as he buried his face into her neck. Chinami wrapped him in a warm embrace, rubbing her hand gently over the back of his head.
"You came back," he murmured weakly, eyes squeezed shut tight against tears.
"I promised I would," she replied softly. "Though I had help along the way. Thank you, Mika. Without you, many people who are free today wouldn't be. Me included." She nuzzled her nose into his hair. "You're my hero, little brother."
Mika sniffled and clung tighter to his sister. Had he heard her right? Had she said they were free? Had the Mist shinobi saved them all?
"Do we have to go back to the Flower Shop, Chinami?" he asked in a quiet, cracking voice.
"No. Never," she replied firmly. "We never have to go back. We're free now, Mika. Free. All of us. The Hound is dead. The Flower Shops are destroyed. No one will ever whip or use us ever again. We are…finally free."
Mika squeaked out a muffled sob. Warm tears streamed down his cheeks as another sob broke out of him. Then another. His body quaked and quivered as he cried in joy and in trauma. But he was not alone. Chinami, too, had begun to cry.
So they held onto one another. They held on and cried together, because they were free. They were free to cry, freed from slavery and the hell they endured, and yet still chained by their trauma. Still scarred. Still afflicted by their experiences as Flower Girls.
But they were together. Free. And here, in each other's embrace, they were happy.
At the sight of their tears and sobs, the four Mist shinobi departed silently as shadows into a side room to grant the pair privacy. Although they understood the cause of their tears and the arduous path still yet ahead of the two former Flower Girls—as well as the others enslaved by the Crimson Flowers—this small reunion, heartbreaking though it was, meant something.
It was a sign of change. A sign for second chances. And a display of what the new Mist stood for: Overcoming their suffering, enduring through the tumultuous trauma and reaching out towards a better and brighter future; never giving in, no matter how stacked the odds were against them.
The four Pillars circled around a lamp lit table, met one another's eyes and nodded in cohesive agreement.
Their work was far from over.
They were ready for it.
A/N: I hope everyone had a safe and merry Christmas, happy holidays and good New Year. Thank you all for reading this fanfic, for the favorites, follows, reviews and the private messages; I appreciate them and all of you for sparing the time in your days to read this fanfic. And I hope you continue to find entertainment and enjoyment from it as we move on through this new year. And I hope you all have a great day/night and a better year.
For anyone interested, Zabuza's assault on the Flower Shop was written to Orochimaru's organ theme and Mei's was written to Ikari/Anger from Naruto Shippuden. Also I forgot to mention it in the previous two chapters, but Chojuro's and Natsumi's fight in The Gallows, specifically after he accidentally cuts down a prisoner, and the fight against the Hound of the Mist were written to Apple Seed, and the Attack on Titan suite from Hiroyuki Sawano. Awesome songs, highly recommend them.
Anyway, thank you again for reading!