Part 1
Chapter 3: Housekeeping
As dawn crept over the horizon, gentle light poured into the valley, enveloping the landscape in a warm, golden glow. The air was crisp and clean, filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the gentle chirping of birds, ushering back the serene normalcy that had been momentarily disrupted. The shadows of chaos faded into the background, and the specter of Uchiha Madara vanished as abruptly as he had appeared, like a mirage dissipating with the morning sun.
It almost seemed as if the Uchiha's existence was merely a figment of Shikamaru's overactive imagination, considering how nonchalantly the rhythm of the valley resumed. Yasu and Matsu carried on with their morning rituals, thoroughly unbothered, whilst Old Tome merely tsk-ed at the unfortunate carcass that now inhabited a sizable portion of their compost pit. Shikamaru briefly wondered if their inherent not-giving-a-fuck shtick was another trait that was imbedded in their shared genetic makeup after all.
Conversing with a man filled with equal parts of fierce passion and rage that seemed almost too vast for one's body, yet also so profoundly spiteful in a way that was almost juvenile, was exhausting. Each answer he managed to pry felt like a stubborn tooth being pried from an unwilling patient, with tools far too dull to make the process anything but painful. Not that Shikamaru could prod much beyond the philosophical realm due to the generally more closed-off nature of the Warring-State shinobi. Waxing allegories regarding crimson moon and Kaguya the rabbit-goddess also did not elicit significant reaction beyond wide-eyed confusion. Thus, even if Madara were a fellow traveler from a distant time or possessed knowledge about the future, this version of him was not the same one from that distant future.
Despite his dissatisfaction with his inconclusive findings, Shikamaru wished to avoid any further encounters with the Uchiha in the foreseeable future. With his penchant for solitude and his often-overwhelming lethargy, Shikamaru would very much prefer the quiet comfort of perusing through stacks of treaties and books. Needlessly spending his limited social battery on unwanted interactions simply earned himself a headache. He was truly growing more and more attached to his idyllic routine, with ample time for cloud-watching during the day and stargazing under the unpolluted night sky. Such simple pleasures had become a rare commodity during his first life amidst the backdrop of war and the subsequent duties that followed him, he'd rather not further endanger his already brittle peace of mind. In a world rife with uncertainties and potential conflicts, the comfort of his solitude was a priceless treasure he had no intention of jeopardizing.
Now, as the sunlight danced upon the valley and the day began in earnest, Shikamaru trudged through his responsibilities on less than two precious hours of sleep, fatigue clinging to him like an unwelcome second skin. Every few moments, he allowed himself brief, fleeting respites, snatching power naps between the various chores and tasks that piled up like snowdrifts in winter. He would lay on the grass, close his eyes, and let the warmth of the sun seep into his skin, recharging his batteries for the next push. It was a familiar rhythm, a pattern born from his tenure as Hokage, where the demands of leadership often required him to function on minimal sleep and maximum focus. Yet amid the chaos of his sleeplessness, there was a silver lining—no life had been lost under his watch. The weight of that responsibility, while daunting, provided him some comfort as he trudged through the day's tasks.
Having just reemerged from a brisk, invigorating bath in the river, Shikamaru balanced a heavy basket filled with freshly washed clothes upon his back, the scent of clean fabric mingling with the crisp morning air. The chill of the water had awakened his senses, if only temporarily, offering a brief escape from the mounting responsibilities awaiting him. As he rounded a bend in the path, his gaze was drawn to a sight that made him pause: his clansmen approaching with a muddy wagon pulled by weary donkeys. The animals looked as though they had traversed through a storm and back, and Shikamaru secretly pondered where they had acquired such battered beasts, probably the town beyond the horizon where they had traded their goods. The men, visibly fatigued, were nearly twelve hours late, no doubt due to encountering unpredictable conditions on the road.
"Brother, where have you been?!" Yasu's voice cut through the air, sharp and accusatory, as she tended carefully to the aged venison laid out before her. She brandished her butcher knife in emphasis, torn between worry for her brother's well-being and irritation at his untimeliness.
"Yasu! You won't believe the madness that unfolded!" Eijirō, her brother, had sprinted ahead towards their camp, his youthful energy bubbling over as he flung himself into the embrace of his family, greeting their mother and sister with exuberance. "We're hit by a landslide—freaking landslide on a dry, hot day! Honestly, what kind of deviant uses a water dragon near main roads?! Damned Senju has no respect for nature!"
"Quiet down, you," Old Tome interjected, her voice a gentle reprimand wrapped in the warmth of maternal care. She swatted playfully at her youngest son, a gesture that expressed both annoyance and affection.
Undeterred by the light-hearted reprimand, the boy launched into a tangent on how the ground had rumbled beneath their feet and how, in an instant, boulders and dirt cascaded down the hillside like a waterfall, engulfing everything in its path. Shikamaru glanced over, tuning in with amusement even as his body continued to hang the laundry almost on autopilot. Eijirō was certainly a sprightly young man, an anomaly for a male of the Nara clan, known more for their laid-back demeanor than for any display of overzealous enthusiasm. Shikamaru hoped that the boy would remain this way, unbent by time or circumstance.
"Ah! Ma, I almost forgot! The old man needs treatment!" Eijirō said suddenly, laced with a newfound seriousness that drew Shikamaru from his thoughts. Matsu, too, paused whatever task she was engaged in, her features reflecting the immediate concern that Eijirō's words had spurred.
"And you couldn't start with that?!" Old Tome's voice rose in anger.
With graceful efficiency, Tome wiped her hands on a clean cloth, her expression shifting from annoyance to laser focus. "Eijirō, you go hang the laundry," she commanded firmly, ignoring her son's squawk of protest about needing to tend to the donkeys. She beckoned Shikamaru to follow her, her gaze fixing on him with an intensity that made it clear that another grueling chore had awaited him. "You shall observe and apply what you've learned about our clan's medical process."
Turning her attention to Matsu, she squeezed her shoulder in a gesture of support. "Matsu-chan, please stay here while we take a look at your father." Matsu sighed heavily, channeling her worries into her sewing. Her needle stabbed through the deer hide with an almost aggressive fervor, a manifestation of her pent-up anxiety.
After handing the laundry basket to Eijirō, Shikamaru followed Tome across the campsite, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves and damp earth. The sky was overcast, casting a dull light over the area, which only added to the palpable tension that seemed to loom over them like a heavy blanket. As they approached the old man's tent, a sense of foreboding filled the air, wrapping around Shikamaru like an unwelcome embrace.
Inside the dim confines of the tent, they were met with the anxious stares of the old man's seventeen-year-old twins, whose features were unmistakably Nara. Their dark hair was pulled back into neat ponytails that accentuated their sharp, slanted dark eyes, which darted between Tome and Shikamaru. The boys, despite their youth, had the beginnings of stubble on their jaws—a faint reminder that they were transitioning into adulthood, yet their expressions spoke of a weight of responsibilities beyond their age.
"What's happening, boys?" Tome asked, her voice cutting through the tense silence, a mother's intuition sensing the storm brewing beneath the surface. The twins exchanged quick glances, as though communicating in a silent language only they understood. Finally, the older one cleared his throat and broke the oppressive silence.
"We were trading our wares as usual in a nearby city," he began. His report rushed forth, each one heavy with urgency. "We had received orders from the clan head to meet with some contacts, so we left Eijirō and our father to restock our supplies. But apparently, Father has been meeting with some acquaintances without informing us. Since then, he's been vomiting and suffering from a severe case of diarrhea. We tried to give him fluids to help him recover, but he just keeps throwing them back up. We hurried back as fast as we could, but we were delayed by a mudslide that blocked our path. It's not easy to sneak him out of there; the city is controlled by samurai who have made it clear that they aren't fond of us shinobi, despite our clan's established reputation as traders."
Shikamaru's gaze was fixed on the frail figure of the old man sprawled beneath the dim light filtering into the tent, the flickering shadows accentuating the man's shivering form. There was a palpable tension in the air—an unspoken understanding rooted in previous encounters that had always left Shikamaru on edge. Their interactions were scarce, as the old man confined his attention largely to his sons and nephew, even his daughter seemed merely an afterthought, a fleeting presence in his preoccupied world. Yet, Shikamaru could not shake off the sense of discomfort that often crept up within him whenever the old man's gaze lingered on him. It was an emotion that felt foreign—alien, even—yet utterly insistent, a feeling that forced him to confront the unknown facets of the elderly man's character.
What he had gleaned from his limited observations suggested much: a man shrouded in secrecy, hardness etched into every crease of his weathered skin, a perpetual dissatisfaction emanating from him like a shroud. The whisper of suspicion danced in Shikamaru's mind, hinting at the man's role—perhaps a middle-man entangled in their clan's unsavory dealings, orchestrating actions that sat uncomfortably in the shadows. Adding to this heavy atmosphere was the chilling thought that this same man might have played a part, whether directly or indirectly, in the unfortunate demise of Shikamaru's vessel. It was a festering sensation that made him instinctively veer away from the old man, avoiding his penetrating gaze and any attempt at confrontation that he might initiate. Now, facing him once more under such dire circumstances, Shikamaru felt the weight of the encounter pressing down on him.
As he shifted his attention, Shikamaru's eyes fell upon a wooden bucket by the old man's side, which was filled with watery, foul-smelling, mucus-like stools that bore a resemblance to rice water. Its distinct, foul odor wafting up to him made his stomach twist in knots. The old man's lethargic gaze met his, his eyes hollow and sunken, while the corners of his mouth appeared cracked, a troubling testament to his condition. "It's the mikka korori," Shikamaru murmured. Mikka korori, literally meaning to fall down in three days, korori being a play on korera, a dialect of the region for cholera. Shikamaru examined the man's frail wrist, feeling for a pulse, the rhythm quick yet distressingly weak under his fingers. "He's in shock, we need to quickly replenish his fluid."
Shikamaru couldn't pinpoint the exact source of contamination—be it the deplorable sanitation measures plaguing the city or the unfortunate consumption of tainted food and water. Whatever the sources, the severity of the old man's watery diarrhea had spiraled into a serious point of dehydration. Without immediate action to replenish lost fluids, the cholera would quickly become fatal. With no modern antibiotics at their disposal, the threat of an outbreak loomed ominously—one that could surpass their limited capabilities to manage effectively. Shikamaru's mind raced at the thought, they would need to secure and reconfigure the water source used by their crops and livestocks just to be safe.
"Agreed," Tome acknowledged, her expression darkening as she took stock of the unfolding situation. "We need to sanitize anyone who has come into contact with him," she added firmly, a look of grim determination settling on her features as the old man convulsed again, violently expelling the contents of his stomach into another hastily placed bucket. "Boys, go take a hot bath with Eijirō. Be meticulous when washing—make sure you clean everything, and I truly mean absolutely everything. The wagon and your belongings must be sanitized as well."
As they scurried off, Shikamaru felt the weight of Tome's gaze settle upon him. "I'll prepare a rehydration solution and some ginger to help with the vomiting," Shikamaru volunteered, rather unwillingly to be completely honest.
Tome nodded approvingly, her expression momentarily softening at his willingness to help. "I'll oversee the decontamination efforts," she declared. "Someone needs to make sure that the rascals don't contaminate any of our meat and food supplies." Her voice took on a slightly softer note as she added, "Try to get my brother to drink as much fluid as possible. We might still have some plant extracts that can help inhibit the growth of the pathogen. I'll send someone to assist you shortly."
With a shared understanding of the gravity of the situation they found themselves in, they exchanged solemn nods before parting ways at the entrance of the tent. Taking a moment to gather himself, Shikamaru carefully washed his hands and legs under a steady stream of running water, the cool sensation grounding him amid the urgency of the moment. He meticulously scrubbed at his exposed skin with a paste made from crushed red shiso leaves—a natural and potent antimicrobial and anti-inflammatory agent that had been a staple within the Nara Clan for generations. This traditional remedy was particularly crucial for the women, given their regular interaction with animal carcasses and various food preparations, which made sanitation a priority in their daily lives.
Having deemed himself sufficiently clean and sanitized for the demanding task ahead, Shikamaru deftly donned his spare gloves. The soft, familiar fabric eased over his fingers as he opened the medicinal storage box, its contents a treasure trove of healing materials. He gathered the essential ingredients needed to concoct the remedy and skillfully ground the selected herbs into a fine paste, each movement precise as he channeled the years of practice that his family had imparted onto him. Once the paste was prepared, Shikamaru carefully prepared boiling water using a handy Katon technique, watching as the steam swirled upward into the air, curling and twisting like delicate wisps of hazy clouds. He then mixed the steaming water with sugar and salts, formulating a concoction aimed at replenishing the man's energy and restoring electrolyte balance to his body.
With two bowls now in hand, Shikamaru returned to the dimly lit confines of the old man's tent, where the atmosphere was thick with noxious smells and the faint scent of medicinal herbs. "Old man, I have some medicine for you," Shikamaru called with a steady voice, trying to infuse a sense of reassurance into his words despite his discomfort at the proximity. "Could you lift your head for a bit?"
The old man grunted softly, his weariness palpable as he slowly maneuvered himself into a slightly more reclined position, propped up on his elbows. Shikamaru, steady and focused, pressed the ginger extract against the man's mouth, watching intently for any sign of adverse reaction. When none came, he carefully fed him the larger bowl containing the rehydration solution. "Slowly, slowly," he cautioned, "you'll choke otherwise."
Once the old man had finished the first bowl, he slowly pulled his head back, the movement revealing the signs of struggle etched on his face. Clearing his dry throat with a rasping sound, he croaked out a question, "You're done avoiding this old man then?"
That statement was a weighty one, laden with expectations and insinuations. There was a lot to sift through, a whole world of implications within those simple words. What could Shikamaru possibly say? He had no recollections of the days beyond the exhausting few weeks that had followed after he had parasitized the drowned girl. "Simply doing my job as a decent human being. Besides, what would happen to your children if you die?" he countered, diverting the conversation away.
"Pah," the old man snorted dismissively. "My elder children are well and thriving. Matsu and the twins won't want for nothing." His voice took on a more serious tone as he added, "The real question is, what's going to happen to you? My sister still has two unmarried children, and she won't be able to afford another dowry for you. I saw your mother as my own child—"
"She was your child," Shikamaru interjected, taking a stab in the dark with the statement.
"Merely due to youthful indiscretion," the old man waved a hand in dismissal. A revelation flickered through Shikamaru's mind: just how little he actually knew about these people who had intertwined lives with him. "At least I gave her away to my sister instead of tossing her from a cliff," he continued. "That's exactly what your father would have done had I not intervened—sacrifice you to his whirlpool Goddess." Shikamaru blinked at the casual mention of infanticide, what the locals referred to as Mabiki—meaning to pull plants from an overcrowded garden, a harsh population control measure that had been all too common before the advent of modern birth control methods. "I did promise to take care of you," he added, "but I won't help someone who won't help themselves."
A frown creased Shikamaru's brow as he trailed off, pondering the weight of those final words. "And what does that entail…?" he asked hesitantly.
The old man regarded him with piercing eyes before promptly responding. "Continuing our family business, of course, same as what I told you before."
"Ah…" Shikamaru let the words hang in the air, feeling an unsettling sense of disconnection as the memory of whatever past conversation they may have had completely escaped him.
"My children still refuse to have anything to do with it, even though it's a great source of income. I've invested a lot, so it would be a shame for all of that to go to waste. You have green thumbs, a talent of sorts, so if there's anyone with the potential to take after me, it would be you—to make up for your lack of charm," the old man observed with a sly grin.
"Right…" Shikamaru replied, not entirely convinced, but willing to hear it out.
"Of course, my condition still stands," the old man added, his tone shifting back into business mode. "You need to go to Yoshiwara and meet my contact there. If they deem your… ah, performance satisfactory, they'll relinquish the farm to you."
In that moment, Shikamaru felt the ground shift beneath him as clarity dawned—the catch-22 was laid bare before him. Suddenly, an intricate puzzle clicked into place, and the overarching picture manifested vividly in his mind. Yoshiwara, a name steeped in reputation, was one of the licensed and well-known red-light districts during this era. Established by the shogunate, it had been designed to sequester the desires of the nouveau riche merchant classes from the honorable samurai, a method of managing societal control. The 'entertainment' available in Yoshiwara included a plethora of vices such as illicit substances, liquor, gambling, pawnbroking, and, most infamously, prostitution. This shadowy world enslaved hundreds, if not thousands, of women, effectively indenturing many to a lifetime of servitude. Many were typically indentured to their brothel; if indentured by their parents, a larger advance payment would often be received. Though contracts of indenture often did not last more than five to ten years, the debt accrued by these women could often keep them working for much longer.
For those unfortunate enough to be trapped within its walls, the paths to freedom varied and were fraught with challenges. A young girl, if skilled and lucky enough, could rise from a simple life as an indentured servant to become an esteemed courtesan, navigating the social hierarchy meticulously. Additionally, there were instances wherein a rich man could buy a woman's contract from a brothel, potentially absorbing her into his family as a wife or mistress. Alternatively, some women achieved enough success to buy their own freedom—a rare occurrence, but nonetheless a beacon of hope amidst despair. Yet, the statistics were grim; many suffered devastating fates at the hands of sexually transmitted diseases or tragic failed abortions before they could fulfill their indenture.
In simpler terms, the old man intended to pawn Shikamaru's vessel to reduce the number of mouths that needed to be fed—farmers would often kill their second or third sons, whilst daughters were usually spared, as they could be married off, sold off as servants or prostitutes, or sent off to become geishas—or as a desperate effort to alleviate his own financial burdens, perhaps stemming from debts or gambling losses. The latter move was more likely (because the old man had twins, and to bear twins was perceived as barbarous and unlucky and efforts were usually made to hide or kill one or both twins, thus it was unlikely that the old man was simply trying to control the number of mouths to feed), motivated by the desire to reclaim his ownership of land and the farm that depended on it. The farm, in all likelihood, was not a place of legitimate enterprise but rather a front for cultivating illicit substances, possibly opium poppies, which were then distributed to the patrons in the infamous district of Yoshiwara.
Shikamaru suspected that the girl's premature demise was far from accidental. The act of choosing to end one's life through voluntary drowning was commonly associated with the concept of honourable death, particularly among those who believed in a cycle of rebirth and the promise of a Pure Land. Within this framework, suicide can be viewed as an honorable alternative to a life steeped in shame. A well-known figure who exemplified this tragic choice was Hatako Sakumo, who committed seppuku after being made a pariah for choosing to save his teammates instead of fulfilling his objectives during a pivotal mission in the advent of the Third Shinobi War, an action that was thought to have significantly contributed to its eruption.
For this young girl—an orphan without any real power, who had lived a life of a servant, wholly dependent on the mercy from her extended family—being coerced into a life of degeneracy likely had been the final straw. Her already bleak existence, devoid of joy or purpose, made the notion of taking her own life seem far more appealing than the horrifying alternative of chaining herself into perpetual servitude with no promise of deliverance. The old man, with the girl's blood on his hands, had allowed Shikamaru to be summoned forth as if he were a vengeful spirit destined to fulfill her unquenched desires. Shikamaru knew that until the scales of vengeance had been balanced and her revenge was fulfilled, he would continue to be subjected to a stream of the girl's emotions, feeling the weight of her despair and anger as if they were his own, experiencing the jagged edges of her despair and fury.
"Just to clarify," Shikamaru interjected after a moment of contemplation, "when you talk about a 'farm,' you do mean breadseed poppies, no?"
"Clever girl," the old man replied, a wicked gleam of approval in his eyes. "I had a feeling you would catch on. You're just like me."
Shikamaru managed a serene smile, outwardly masking the fury and disgust boiling within him. "Very well. Upon your demise, I shall gladly take over your business."
The old man let out a hearty laugh, his arrogance palpable as he replied, "Confident, aren't you? I've still got plenty of life left in me. This illness? Just a minor bump in the road! I'll be back on my feet in no time thanks to my sister's care." His self-satisfactory tone grated on Shikamaru's nerves. "Besides, have you ever wondered why diseases spread in the first place? If you must know, everything was all by design, part of a grander scheme."
Shikamaru handed the old man a second bowl of liquid, suppressing the visceral urge—one not his own—urging him to gouge out the old man's eyes. "Here, drink this. You need to rest. I'll go prepare you another bowl," he said, his expression betraying none of his inner turmoil as he excused himself from the tent.
Once outside, Shikamaru made his way toward a secluded area to concoct another rehydration solution. An insatiable curiosity welled within him as he thought of the venom he had obtained the previous night; this was a perfect opportunity for experimentation, one that allowed him to blend creativity with vengeance.
"Fret not," he murmured softly to the spirit of the girl, "I'll make sure you're avenged." And with those words lingering in the air, the gears of revenge began to turn.
Dusk certainly couldn't arrive soon enough for the herders. The air was thick with anticipation and worry, and the darkness of night seemed to drag on, heavy with the weight of their concerns. While their rehydration efforts had slightly improved the man's condition, the gravity of the old man's situation remained palpable. Old Tome had diligently prepared a mixture of plant extracts from a carefully selected mix of wild berry leaves and honey, known for their antibacterial properties, to bolster the man's frail body, though there was little more they could do in the absence of proper antibiotics. In this harsh era, survival was often tethered on a delicate balance, and the specter of death hovered just out of reach. Too many succumbed quickly to diseases, facing a harsh reality where every tick of the clock echoed the uncertainty of whether the pathogens would triumph over the host's immune system, or vice versa.
After what felt like an eternity, Shikamaru finally awoke from a much-needed nap in a reinvigorated state, and made his way back to the circle of herders gathered around the fire pit. The hearty aroma of venison stew wafted through the air, making his stomach growl with eagerness. Matsu, ever the talented cook, had prepared a feast of tender venison mixed with sweet carrots and buttery mashed potatoes. The explosion of flavors on his palate sent delightful shivers down his spine, forcing his toes to curl in pleasure within his sandals. Despite the dire circumstances surrounding them, Matsu's culinary prowess shone brightly, and she refused to let her father's affliction dull her spirit in the kitchen.
Surrounded by flickering flames, Shikamaru settled in as conversations began to ebb and flow around him, animated by the gentle plucking of Matsu's shamisen, its melodic strings creating a soothing backdrop. The music wrapped around him like a comforting blanket, although he could see a hint of worry etched onto Matsu's brow. Her absent-minded demeanor was a sure sign of her gloom, for she must be feeling the pang of isolation from her ailing father. Her brothers had taken their posts, switching off between tending to their father and patrolling the valley. Old Tome had mandated that contact with the ailing man be kept to a minimum, fearing the spread of the disease. Eijirō, too, sat removed from the group, a worried expression clouding his features; he understood his mother's wishes, but the weight of the situation bore heavily on him.
With his belly satisfyingly full, Shikamaru luxuriated in the simple pleasure of the moment. He stretched out on the grass, the chill of the night air contrasting with the warmth emanating from the fire. He lay back against the cool grass, a wave of contentment washing over him, easing him into a state somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. Just then, Yasu, always on the lookout for juicy gossip, broke into his reverie.
"Ne… Shika-chan, what did you do with that Uchiha the other night?" she prodded, a teasing smirk dancing across her lips, her eyes sparkling with intrigue.
Shikamaru blinked slowly as he processed her words, still feeling the lingering drowsiness from his food coma. "What…?" he replied, confusion creeping into his voice.
"You didn't return to bed until a few hours before sunrise," Matsu chimed in, her tone equally teasing.
Old Tome, with a knowing look, snorted in amusement but chose to remain silent, letting the moment play out, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The fire crackled softly, as if sharing in the lightheartedness of the conversation.
"We're just talking… and walking around, I guess," Shikamaru responded, trying to brush off the implications of her question.
"And...? What about? Where did you go?" Yasu pressed, clearly enjoying herself far too much for Shikamaru's comfort.
"Um, you know, life as a shinobi and stuff. Then we went to catch some fireflies," he recounted, his eyelids feeling heavier with each second, memories hazy as sleep began to tug at the edges of his consciousness.
Yasu squealed loudly at his response, her giddy exclamation jolting him out of his growing stupor. She fanned her flushed cheeks, practically vibrating with excitement. "That's so romantic! Getting to know each other, gauging your potential partner's ability to provide for you, and then catching fireflies under the moonlight," she gushed, unable to contain herself. Her enthusiasm bubbled over into more unintelligible squeals that punctuated the quiet night.
Dismissing her enthusiastic declarations as nothing more than typical teenage girl insanity, Shikamaru rolled his eyes and retorted, "I think you've read too many lurid novels, look at you confusing fiction with reality."
Matsu giggled softly at the banter, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Doesn't it constitute as yobai, aunt?" she teased, referencing the traditional custom of sneaking a lover into one's household at night.
Old Tome chuckled softly, stepping into the conversation. "Well, etymologically speaking, the word 'yobai' originates from 'yobu' and 'afu,' meaning to call someone esteemed. It's the youngsters these days who twist such terms into something lecherous. Getting to know each other is certainly a step in the right direction, but you girls still have years ahead before you can sneak any man under the covers of your bed. I'll tan your hide if I ever catch any of you with a man," Tome warned them, half in jest but with an inflection of seriousness.
Yasu screeched once more, nudging persistently at Shikamaru's thigh.
"Troublesome." Shikamaru could only roll his eyes in exasperation, wishing for a quick escape from the ensuing chaos. "Are we all under a genjutsu?" he muttered to himself, feeling as though he were caught in a surreal dream. It was either the heavy influence of his food coma or the women in his life had collectively consumed too much psilocybin, driving them into a state of utter looney exuberance. Perhaps he had unwittingly fallen back into a fictional reality, much like the one created by the Infinite Tsukuyomi, where the mundane and the extraordinary blurred into an ever-twisting narrative of utter insanity.
Just then, with absolutely no warning, a dark, furry mass suddenly breached the camp with an air of primal ferocity. It growled menacingly and huffed impatiently, its breath visible in the cool night air as it swiftly pounced onto one of their tents with a startling ferocity. The beast tore through the hanged meat with jagged teeth, ripping and gnashing as if driven by an insatiable hunger. Its form bore an unsettling resemblance to the creature they had encountered yesterday, yet this one appeared to be slimmer, more agile, and astonishingly three times faster, darting about like a shadow beneath the stars.
In a split second, Shikamaru's trained instincts kicked in, and he jumped to his feet, the mental haze that had clouded his thoughts evaporating instantly as he transitioned into a state of acute alertness, adrenaline coursing through him. "Get back!" he shouted, pushing the startled women away from the encroaching danger, his voice cutting through their panicked screams. He couldn't afford to stop and reassure them. "Go, go, go run! Climb into the trees." His command rang with urgency, igniting a spark of clarity amid the chaos.
Nearby, Eijirō fought valiantly against the chaos of the moment. He had managed to restrain three wolves with his shadow, their forms writhing against the pitch black bind. Shikamaru knew that his hold would not last long; the clouds swirling overhead were obscuring the moonlight, diminishing the natural illumination they so desperately needed. Acting quickly, he hurled his lone, chakra-imbued kunai in a straight trajectory. The weapon whistled through the air before piercing through the bodies of two wolves, dropping them immediately. Eijirō took advantage of the moment, drawing his wakizashi and swiftly decapitating the last wolf before it could escape.
Then, a guttural scream shattered the tension of the night, echoing through the clearing and drawing their attention. They turned their attention towards the source, horror gripping them as they saw the beast had ransacked the old man's tent, now pinning him beneath its massive paws. The old man's arms were torn as if they were nothing more than twigs. The beast's powerful jaws clamped down onto the old man's nape and back, ripping through flesh as blood gushed forth in rivulets, soaking the ground beneath them.
Eijirō instinctively took a step back, glancing anxiously at the increasingly darkening night sky. "Shit, where does the senpai go?! There's not enough light!" His voice quaked with urgency, the reality of their situation pressing down hard upon him.
"Set fire to that nearby tent and scare the beast!" Shikamaru commanded, sprinting to grab a sharp harvesting scythe that had been propped against another tent. "That should produce enough light to restrain it!"
"What?! But everything would catch fire—" Eijirō protested, but his hesitation was cut short by another bone-chilling scream from the old man, "—ah, screw it." The urgency of the moment overwhelmed any hesitation left in him.
Eijirō exhaled sharply and unleashed a powerful fireball from his mouth, aiming it at the ransacked tent, igniting it in a blaze. Thick clouds of smoke and flames surged upward, the flames danced eagerly as they licked the material, consuming wood and leather in a wild frenzy, igniting the nearby grass as it spread. The beast, startled by the sudden conflagration, hesitated for a brief moment before dragging its prey away and bolting into the darkness of the night.
Without missing a beat, Shikamaru followed close behind, adrenaline fueling his speed, while Eijirō leaped next to him, his shadow extending in an effort to immobilize the savage creature. The tension in the air crackled with anticipation.
"Now!" Eijirō shouted, falling back slightly as he maintained his shadow hold in a fierce tug-of-war against the beast, their wills colliding in a battle of survival.
Shikamaru charged forth, the scythe gripped tightly in his hand. He rotated his hips and swung the scythe in a wide arc, feeling the rush of wind against his skin as the blade cut through the air with precision. The scythe met the flesh of the beast, dissecting it from flank to hind, spilling warm intestines that hit the forest floor with a sickening thud. The creature howled in agony, its jaws retreating from the old man as it felt the weight of Shikamaru's attack. Seizing the moment, Shikamaru swung again, this time aiming for the beast's neck and forelimb. The blade bit deep, arteries rupturing, and blood sprayed outwards, painting the ground in a macabre display of violence. The beast wavered on its feet, a final howl escaping its mouth before it collapsed onto its hapless prey, lifeless.
Panting heavily, Shikamaru wiped the blood from his torso, the metallic scent clinging to him. His heart was still racing from the encounter.
Suddenly, from behind him, a torrent of water doused the camp, stifling the raging fire that had taken hold. The force of the liquid swept both Shikamaru and Eijirō off their feet, disorienting them as they tumbled to the ground.
With a heavy thud, the elder twin came stomping into the scene, dragging them by the ears as he glared at them with a mix of outrage and frustration, bellowing, "Which one of you idiots had the bright idea to set fire to a goddamn grassland?!" Eijirō stammered out a string of excuses, his face a mask of guilt, while Shikamaru remained tight-lipped, biting his tongue to avoid further aggravation.
"Brother, take a look at this." The younger twin's demeanor changed as he dragged the carcass of the beast away, revealing their faintly gurgling father beneath. The sight was horrendous—blood pooled under his mouth, his arms gruesomely missing, his spine grotesquely poking through the torn flesh of his back, fecal matter and urine dribbling unnaturally between his naked thighs.
Eijirō promptly turned his face away, the grisly image stirring his stomach to revolt as he retched violently, emptying the contents onto the ground. Shikamaru, likewise, shimmied away to avoid the mess the boy had just created.
The elder twin rubbed his grim face with disbelief, taking a moment to process the horror that had just unfolded before him. "Kami, what a mess," he muttered, his voice laced with disbelief.
"What do we do now?" the younger twin asked, panic creeping into his tone as they stood helplessly in the wake of the devastating scene.
Their father wheezed weakly on the ground, nearing the end of his lifeline, each sound a haunting reminder of their failure to protect him.
With his hands on his hips, the older twin squared his shoulders and took charge. "Eijirō, take a look around the perimeter. Create a firebreak and put out every spotfire you find. We'll deal with…" he gestured towards the mangled form of their father, his voice faltering slightly as he struggled to find the right words. The younger Nara nodded, swallowing hard with determination replacing shock, and ran to follow through with his orders.
Turning to Shikamaru, he instructed him, "Go get the women and clean up the camp. It's no longer safe here; we need to prepare to move at first light."
With a salute, Shikamaru began to carefully make his way through the now-sodden underbrush, wary of slipping, his mind racing through the various tasks before him. Behind him, he heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn, followed by a quiet gurgle that was soon overtaken by a profound silence. It appeared the twins had made the merciful choice to put their father out of his misery in the only way they could.
As he moved through the camp, Shikamaru's mind raced. His earlier hypothesis crystallized into a tangible reality. The beast, which Madara had disposed of the day before, had been a female, prowling for sustenance as she readied herself to breed. By rubbing her preserved venom onto the old man's futon and along the trail of grasses and trees that led into his tent, Shikamaru had set a trap for the male beast lurking in the shadows—an unfortunate male who had been drawn into a fatal trap, instinctively following the scent of a phantom mate. Sweet Eijirō had obediently lent his destructive powers to the situation, hastily unleashing a fireball that erased the damning evidence of his sabotage. With that fire now quelled, Shikamaru was left with the opportunity to dispose of the remaining evidence and tidying up their camp.
Now, with the burden of vengeance lifted from his shoulders, a slow smile crept across Shikamaru's face, almost serene amidst the chaos. A debt had been paid—a life for a life, yet one that he felt strangely at peace with. The crushing weight of the negative emotions and impulses that had clung desperately to his psyche had dissipated into nothingness, leaving behind an unsettling tranquility in their wake. With a new resolve, Shikamaru knew he could move forward, to erase their presence from this place, to pick up the shattered pieces of their existence and move forward into the uncertain dawn, preparing for whatever came next.