The dark-haired boy and Kimimaro faced each other in the mist, both silent, both still. Kimimaro's eyes locked onto his opponent's, cold and detached, like a predator analyzing its prey—not with hunger, but with calm indifference. Without a word, he darted forward, his bone dagger gleaming in the dim light. The boy responded quickly, raising his ice dagger to meet the attack.
The two blades collided with a sharp, clear ring—ice against bone. For a moment, they stood in place, locked in a contest of strength and precision. But then, a crack. The ice dagger splintered in the boy's hand, shards scattering to the ground like fragile snowflakes. Kimimaro's wrist twisted with mechanical efficiency, slashing across the boy's cheek, but the dark-haired shinobi had already moved, slipping back into the mist with grace.
Senbon needles flew out of the fog like icy darts, quick and silent. Kimimaro tracked them without hesitation, his body moving smoothly, as if he were an automaton designed for combat. He sidestepped, spinning as a needle grazed his cheek. His opponent moved like water, fluid and unpredictable, circling around him as the senbon continued their assault. But Kimimaro didn't waver. His movements were measured, precise, and he closed the distance between them with unnerving calm.
Watching from the side, Zarato could see it clearly: Kimimaro didn't need him. Any attempt to join the fray would only get in the way. Kimimaro wasn't just good—he was efficient, detached. For now, Zarato could only watch the scene unfold, realizing that Kimimaro wasn't like the rest of the Kaguya.
Kimimaro's bone dagger struck out in rapid, calculated bursts, forcing the dark-haired boy to duck and weave, just barely avoiding the deadly strikes. Then, with an almost unnatural movement, Kimimaro's arm twisted, a long, sharpened bone spike erupting from his wrist with sudden force. The boy's eyes widened, and he leaped back just as the bone spike sliced through the air where his throat had been moments before. He landed gracefully, but there was no time to rest—the bone spike was coming at him again, slashing in swift, measured arcs.
The boy retaliated, his hands a blur as he hurled more senbon, some aimed at Kimimaro's joints, others for his eyes—each one perfectly aimed to cripple or kill. But Kimimaro didn't flinch. His bone spike deflected every needle with pinpoint precision, sending the tiny weapons scattering as though they were nothing. Without a word, Kimimaro closed the distance once more, his bone dagger arcing down in a cold, vertical slash.
The dark-haired shinobi's feet moved with icy grace, barely skimming the ground as he slid to the side. He spun, sending a wide kick aimed at Kimimaro's head, but the Kaguya boy ducked low, his movements more animalistic than human. With another twist of his wrist, Kimimaro's bone dagger lunged upward, aiming for his ribs. The blade brushed against the fabric of the boy's clothes, but in a swirl of mist, the boy twisted his body and leaped back, his movement as smooth and calculated as his opponent's. He landed lightly, his breath steady despite the relentless exchange.
As he took in Kimimaro's stance, the boy's eyes flickered with something like confusion. This boy... this Kaguya. Where was the bloodlust, the savage frenzy his clan was known for? He didn't see a wild monster, driven by bloodthirst. No, Kimimaro wasn't enjoying this at all. He was calm, almost emotionless—too similar to himself.
A brief hesitation crept into the boy's mind as he quickly formed another ice dagger in his hand, after a series of one-handed seals. His gaze flicked over Kimimaro's face, searching for something—anything that might explain the emotionless efficiency of his he just a tool—a weapon, like me?
The mist around them swirled, obscuring everything beyond their fight. And in that stillness, both of them waited for the moment the silence would break—until a low, commanding voice cut through the fog.
From the mist, a tall man with bandaged features and a massive blade on his back stepped into view. His eyes, hard and cold, flickered to Kimimaro and then back to the boy wielding the ice dagger.
"Haku," the man said flatly, acknowledging him with a brief nod.
"Zabuza-san," Haku responded, his tone respectful but strained as he kept his gaze on Kimimaro.
"They're all dead—the Kaguya," Zabuza continued, his voice as cold as the mist that surrounded them. His words hung in the air like the final toll of a bell. He wasn't just speaking of the battle—he meant the entire Kaguya clan. Haku lowered his dagger slightly, taking a step back, his gaze shifting to Kimimaro, searching for his reaction.
Kimimaro's eyes went wide, and his breath caught in his throat. This can't be true, he thought frantically. He's lying. He has to be. But the look in Zabuza's eyes held no deception, only the cold indifference of a killer who had seen—and caused—too much death to find joy in a lie. The smell of blood and ash filled Kimimaro's nose, the screams of his clan's last stand still echoed faintly through the mist. It was real. All of it. The weight of Zabuza's words crashed over him like a wave—he was the last one. The Kaguya clan, his kin, his family—all gone.
And yet, unlike his brethren, who had flung themselves into battle in a blind, blood-soaked frenzy when faced with their inevitable demise, Kimimaro felt none of that. He felt... empty. Alone. For a heartbeat, he was adrift, floating on the realization that he was not a warrior, not a Kaguya fighting for blood—he was just... one boy.
In that moment, Kimimaro understood something he had never confronted before—there was no joy for him in the violence, no satisfaction in the bloodshed. He didn't revel in the hunt, didn't lose himself in the frenzy like his kin. He killed because he was good at it, because that was what was asked of him. Approval was all he sought—the quiet nod of acknowledgment, the fleeting feeling of belonging. But now, there was no one left to grant it. No family, no purpose. Just an empty void where meaning should be. He was a weapon without a master, a blade without a hand to wield it.
"Oh," Zabuza said, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the boy before him, immediately spotting the unmistakable markings on Kimimaro's forehead—the mark of the Kaguya clan. "Looks like we missed one." He began to pull the massive blade from his back, the weight of the massive sword cracking the earth beneath it as he raised it high. "Well, kid, I'll make it quick," Zabuza muttered, the cold steel glinting in the foggy light as he prepared to swing the blade down in a single, merciful strike.
This was not a punishment; it was a mercy, a clean end to a life without a future.
Kimimaro stood there, frozen in place, the truth of his solitude and hopelessness sinking into his bones. He didn't resist. Part of him welcomed it—an end to the battle, the blood, the loneliness of being the last Kaguya. He was ready to die.
Zabuza's blade hung in the air, poised to fall, and for one terrifying second, all time seemed to stop. Kimimaro's eyes were closed, his face calm and still, as if he had already accepted death. And as the blade began to descend, cutting through the air like a final whisper, the world seemed to shrink to the point of that edge—cold, unforgiving, and inevitable.