The streets of the Hidden Mist Village were rivers of blood, and Kimimaro cut through them like a blade. Every few steps, Mist ninja appeared, and each time, Kimimaro's bone dagger found its mark, dropping his enemies swiftly and without pause. Zarato trailed close behind, his own blade trembling—not from fear, but from a mix of controlled restraint and careful deception. He swung when the opportunity presented itself, always a second too slow, always just a touch off-target.
Whether by design or circumstance, he never quite landed a fatal blow, but the appearance of trying was all that mattered. He played the overwhelmed child well, knowing when to stumble, when to breathe too fast, when to act as though the world around him was all too much.
"I can't afford to seem like a threat to him. If it ever comes down to it, I'll stand a better chance if he underestimates me," Zarato thought.
But as he watched Kimimaro cleave through their foes, unyielding and precise, Zarato's mind stayed sharp, his eyes taking in every movement. Not bad. He's more than a little terrifying—probably best to stay in his good graces, he mused, burying his grin behind gasps for air. Each second was another chance to learn, to adapt, to weave himself deeper into whatever fate the night had planned for them both.
As the battle raged on, the frenzied tempo gradually waned, and the chaotic sounds of steel against steel were replaced by heavy, labored breaths. With fewer enemies around, the two slowed their pace, navigating the blood-soaked alleys and crumbling remains of the village. Kimimaro hardly seemed to tire, his movements calculated and fluid, dispatching enemies in a cold rhythm. Zarato's breathing, by contrast, was rough and forced, every step feeling like it carried the weight of the battlefield.
Kimimaro glanced back at Zarato as they caught their breath.
"What's your name?" Zarato asked, forcing a grin despite his exhaustion.
"Kimimaro," came the blunt reply.
"Zarato," he said, nodding. "Looks like we're stuck together for now."
Kimimaro gave a short nod, and they continued forward, cutting through the mist. After a few moments of silence, Zarato couldn't help but ask, his curiosity piqued.
"Do you, uh... enjoy it? Killing people, I mean?" he asked casually, though his eyes flickered toward Kimimaro, studying his reaction.
Kimimaro walked a few paces without answering, his face as still as ever. Finally, he replied, his voice quiet but unwavering.
"I don't know," he said, glancing down at the bone dagger in his hand. "I don't feel much when I kill. Not like the others."
"The others?" Zarato probed, his tone light but intrigued.
"My clan," Kimimaro continued, his expression unchanged. "They... enjoy it. The blood, the battle. They feel alive when they're killing." His eyes darkened, though his voice remained calm. "But me? I don't understand it. I don't feel anything. I just do it because I have to."
Then, out of the mist, a figure emerged—darting forward with startling speed. A boy, not much older than them, his dark hair framing delicate features that could easily belong to a girl. He came to an abrupt stop, eyes locked onto them with an unflinching calm.
Zarato's gaze honed in, scanning the boy's stance: low, balanced, every muscle seemingly coiled and ready to strike. The thin blade of ice in his grip gleamed, its edge keen, and Zarato could sense the tension in the air, like the chill before a storm. He's not playing around, Zarato noted, his mind immediately turning over possibilities, exits, and ways to defuse—or twist—the situation.
"Are you from the Kaguya clan?" the boy asked.
His voice was steady, but the intent was clear as day. There was no idle curiosity in that question; the ice dagger in his hand was more than ready to end any Kaguya he found. Zarato didn't miss the way the boy's eyes bored into them, analyzing, weighing—he'd seen that kind of look before, the look of someone who'd already imagined a dozen ways to kill you. He had no doubts: if the answer was "yes," the fight would be immediate, and likely deadly.
Zarato thought: "It's the second time I'm hearing this question today. And I know better than to say 'yes' to a death sentence. But... Kimimaro doesn't seem like the running type. Should I make a break for it and let those two go at it? Problem is, this ice guy's clearly on the hunt for Kaguyas—and if Kimimaro mistook me for one, then this guy might too, especially with this bone dagger in my hand. No, my best shot is to stick with Kimimaro for now. If it comes to a fight, I'll have a better chance alongside him than against both."
Kimimaro's eyes narrowed, instinct already kicking in. Not a regular Mist ninja. This boy's stance was different—controlled, fluid, with an almost eerie grace that belied his age. And his eyes... steady, searching, like they saw right through the mist and beyond. A challenge, but not one of rage or chaos—something far more precise, like a blade being sharpened in silence.