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Chapter 17
this is the end, hold your breath and count to ten
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A/N: And here's the second part. Thank you for reading, and until 16th February! ^^
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64年7月28日
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Camp's on fire when he arrives.
Angry tongues of orange and red flame lick across the clearing, devouring everything: tents, supplies, scrubs, trees— people. Ash and embers dance wildly— madly in the air, carried by the whims and wills of the howling, vengeful wind. The air's thick with smoke.
Akuto stops at once. His fingers brush the bow on his back. Draws an arrow. Slowly, silently, he inches closer.
A backdraft— sharp, sudden. A quiet hiss—
Akuto ducks—
An explosion tears through the air above him. The kunai came from the side. Akuto curses, springs back, and climbs up high in the trees of the surrounding forest, away from the fire and the heat of battle. He's pretty sure his intel's useless at this point. Whatever plan Kiri had, it's gone to hell. But he wants his godsdammed pay, and pay means finishing the mission.
So. First things first: get a view of the battle.
From the sheer amount of fire and the very distinct uniform worn by most of the ninja— dark and light green flak jackets— they're most certainly being attacked by Konoha-nin darting around the clearing like wolves in formation. Probably Uchiha and Sarutobi, resident pyromaniacs. Konoha has a knack for breeding them. Resident fire freaks, all of them. (Iwa's got its share, but Konoha's always top of the pyromaniac charts.)
No other uniform sticks out. A few Kiri-nin are wearing uniforms— clearly all at least chūtō. Katō would sooner die than wear uniform. Kiri's is vastly outnumbered. Outgunned? Not necessarily. Kiri-nin tend to fight dirty, tank hits others would run away from, and fight until the very end when others would call for a tactical retreat.
But, ah, no. He's wrong. It's not just Konoha. He sees a few ninja of Taki, not wearing a uniform, but using their village's signature technique: the Takigakure Style: Watercutting Sword, where they engulf their sword with water.
Alright. He's got to be wary of firebreathers and swordsmen, while also trying to not die at the hands of his supposed comrades. In fact—
Oh, hell.
Hijiki Katsuro.
Kiri's very own mad dog is cutting loose on the battlefield, his Typhoon Release tearing through friend and foe without care. The wind howls like a beast unleashed, swirling debris and bodies through the forest. It's mesmerising. Beautiful, in a sickening way. So much power. So much destruction. He watches for a moment too long, half awed, half horrified, then snaps himself out of it.
He can't stand still. Not here. Not now.
Akuto drops from the tree. No sooner does his foot hit the ground than a barrage of kunai and shuriken hurtles toward him. He twists, dodges, snatches one from midair, and with a flick of his wrist, hurls it at the nearest enemy.
A pair of dark eyes widen in shock. The kunai strikes true, and the Konoha-nin gargles, blood spilling from their throat in crimson drops. They crumple, lifeless, to the ground.
They must've been the same age as Aneki.
You get to go home. You get to go home. You get to go home.
Another hostile chakra signature appears. Akuto doesn't need to be a sensor to feel the killing intent pressing down on him. It sends a chill up his spine, but it's nowhere near the sheer force and weight of Saiken's.
He ducks— just in time.
A kunai whistles past where his head was a heartbeat ago, burying itself deep in the tree. His eyes flick to the kunai— his stomach drops. Attached to it, another explosive.
Tiger, Boar, Ox, Dog, Snake. Chakra builds, is released—
The explosion tears the tree apart and swallows everything within its reach—
A tug. A short, familiar darkness, then Akuto finds himself on a different part of the battlefield. Near a supply tent. His breathing is uneven, his left shoulder burns like fire, and the stench of burned flesh nestles in his nose like an unwelcome vespiary. Steam rises where water jutsu has doused the flames. A fresh corpse lies nearby. A younger Kiri-nin, eyes wide and terrified.
He scolds himself, hissing. Inattention on the battlefield is punished with death.
The dizziness comes fast, threatening to drag him under. He grits his teeth, staggering away from the tent until his vision clears. Instinct takes over. He nocks an arrow, looses it— and misses. Then another. Misses again. The third shot hits its mark, but it's not enough. His burned shoulder protests with every movement, and frustration rises like bile in his throat.
Useless.
He seals the bow away and draws his ninjatō.
Then, rushes out, to where he suspects the camp commander is, and plunges into the fighting.
Akuto throws kunai after kunai, distracting and injuring enemies. A Taki-nin spins toward him but gets stabbed for his troubles. Goes down cursing. Another opponent, half-beaten already, sees him as easy prey. He releases a genjutsu— inducing vertigo— and slits the distracted enemy's throat. Blood gushes out. Sticks to his hands— warm, metallic, familiar.
Home. You get to go home.
He pushes onward.
There's no time for second-guessing. Only survival.
Someone else notices him. She steps closer, her black eyes swirling into a glowing, unmistakable red. Sharingan. His stomach plummets. His body freezes, every nerve, every cell screaming at him to run.
Never look an Uchiha in the eyes, Okan says in his mind. He squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that stars burst behind his lids. Never close them either, Fuguki-oji adds. Akuto forces his eyes open at once. His breath shudders.
The world is no longer on fire.
The camp is gone. It's all vanished— the fighting, the fire, the chaos. All that's left are ashes and bones. A lifeless shell. The ground is burned black, ash swirling weakly in the air. Half-melted tents lie in ruins, skeletal trees lean at weird angles, ready to snap with the next breath of wind. He coughs, gagging at the sour smell of charred flesh.
The enemy is gone. But so are his allies.
His heart races and panic claws at his chest like a rabid animal. He spins around frantically, his breathing shallow. This isn't real, he tells himself. This isn't real. But it feels real. Every detail is burned into his mind— the cold air biting at his skin, the absolute silence louder than any explosion, the ash beneath his feet sticking to his boots like burdocks. Shivers crawl down his spine.
"Ya, squirt," a voice says. Weak. Familiar.
No.
Akuto freezes. Slowly, his head jerks to the side.
There. On the ground, lying in the mud and ash by the remains of a burnt tent, is Nanami.
Her left arm is gone, cut at the shoulder. Blood pools around her like a grotesque halo, soaking into the ground. Her pale face is smeared with soot and grime, her lips are cracked and trembling. Her skin is so pale. Like snow. Like death—
No, no, no, no. This isn't real.
His legs move before he can think. He stumbles to her side, drops to his knees in the mud, and grabs her face with trembling hands. Her skin is ice under his touch, fragile like porcelain. He can barely breathe. "Aneki?"
Her purple eyes dim before him. The light fades, her pupils unfocusing. She gives him a faint, trembling smile.
Her body slackens. Muscles go limp. Her chest stills.
Her eyes— so alive just moments ago— go dark.
"No!" Akuto chokes, his voice cracking, breaking. His hands fumble against her neck, desperately searching for a pulse, for any sign of life.
This isn't real. This can't be real.
His fingers freeze—
There's no mole under her right eye.
For a moment, everything stops. The heavy air. The choking panic. The weight crushing his chest.
He gasps, like he's been pulled from underwater, from drowning, and forms a half-Ram seal. His chakra pauses, flares, then—
The world shatters.
Flames soar around him again, scorching heat licking at his skin. Smoke stings his eyes, seeping into his lungs until he coughs violently. Cold mud sticks to his leg. He stares down at his trembling hands.
It's real. This is real.
Relief slams into Akuto like a tsunami, stealing his breath. His chest heaves as he clutches at the ground beneath him, fingers digging into the dirt.
Nanami's not dead. That wasn't real.
He pushes himself up. Pain shoots through his side, hot and sharp. He glances down and freezes. A long, ugly gash runs from his shoulder down his hip. The torn edges of his shirt are soaked with blood, and a faint dizziness starts to creep in.
Move, he tells himself, but his legs wobble. His knees almost buckle. The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth. His breathing is shallow. Each breath painful, burning like a thousand suns. He presses his hands to the wound, trying to slow the bleeding, but his fingers feel sluggish.
"I can't—" His voice is barely a whisper. His focus scatters. He's swaying now, struggling to keep upright. His body feels like it's crumbling, bit by bit.
He takes another step and nearly collapses into the mud. He catches himself just in time, his hands sinking into the dirt. I can't fall. I can't let the wound get infected. I—
He presses his palm to the wound, glowing faintly as he pushes Yang chakra into it. The pain flares brighter for a moment before it dulls, though the bleeding doesn't stop completely. His focus wavers. The edges of his vision blur.
Akuto grits his teeth and finishes the healing, enough to get him moving again. He'll deal with the pain later. For now, he has to move.
His legs feel unsteady as he takes a few steps, the wound pulling faintly with each. He stumbles. His hand brushes against the remains of a burned tree for balance. The battlefield spins for a moment before his vision clears.
He pushes onward.
The camp commander is exactly where Akuto expected: near the heart of the chaos, barking orders at Kiri-nin.
She's tall, imposing, and covered in blood, not all of it hers. Her grey hair is tied back in a tight braid, and her Kiri-blue haori is singed and tattered from the fighting. The moment her sharp eyes land on Akuto, they narrow into slits.
"Another one?" she snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut through the roar of the battlefield. She strides toward him, towering. "What is this? Some kind of joke? Who keeps sending children out here?"
Akuto stiffens, bristles. The words sting, but he bites his tongue. He doesn't have the energy to argue, not now. Instead, he pulls the scroll from his pouch and holds it out.
"Got something to deliver," he says, his voice much, much steadier than he feels. "From Intel."
Her gaze flicks to the scroll in his hand, then back to him. For a moment, she looks like she's about to shove him out of the way and send him into the firestorm as punishment for merely existing. But then she snatches the scroll from his hand, her gloved fingers stained with soot and blood.
The seal breaks with a crisp snap, and her eyes dart across the parchment. She mutters something under her breath, folding the scroll with a sharp motion. "You've done what you came for, brat. Get back home."
It's not a suggestion.
"Go," she snaps again, already turning back toward the battlefield. "Before you get yourself killed."
Akuto's legs move automatically, carrying him away from the fighting. The chaos. Certain death. Relief tries to claw its way into his chest, telling him it's over, that he can leave. Go home, go home, go home, a small voice in the back of his mind tells him over and over and over again.
He did his job. He's done.
Go home.
But then he hears it—
The voice. Quiet, pained. Familiar.
His head snaps toward it. There, hidden by some scrubs and smoke, is Utakata. He stumbles, blood soaking his side, moving sluggishly. He's cornered, three enemy ninja closing in on him. Akuto's breath catches.
The relief vanishes, like ice in the sun. He stops moving, but his hands tighten around his ninjatō.
Go home, the voice tells him. Go back to Nanami.
But his legs are already moving.
Utakata hits the ground, barely twisting out of the way to avoid a kunai aimed at his throat. His eyes are wide, unfocused, flicking too quickly between their enemies. The three enemy ninja— all barely older than them— circle like wolves, closing in for the kill.
Akuto doesn't think.
His ninjatō gleams red in the firelight. He shoots toward the ninja and the world around him blurs. Fades into the background. Like tunnel vision, only this doesn't consume him. He ducks low. Closes the gap in a flash. He doesn't hesitate this time. Slashes upward. The closest enemy stumbles back, clutching their stomach as blood gushes through their fingers.
The second one snarls, then lunges at him. Akuto twists, dodges their blade, then drives his ninjatō into their chest. Blood splatters across his face. He feels sick. Still. His grip tightens on the hilt as they drop to the ground.
The third runs.
Akuto lets them.
He rushes to Utakata instead. Skids down to his knees beside the jinchūriki, hands moving instinctively to check the wound on his side. It's bad. Blood pours freely, staining his hands, but it's not as deep as it could be. But—
Slowly, bit by bit, the blood flow stops.
Saiken.
"I've got you," he says tightly. "We're getting out. You hear me?"
Utakata nods once, his face pale. Not too pale, which means he hasn't lost too much chakra and maybe Saiken's already working on replacing it. His breathing is shallow, and he winces every time he inhales too much. The edges of the wound are slowly, sluggishly stitching themselves back together.
Amazing, he thinks. He stares for a second longer, then hauls Utakata to his feet, hooking the boy's arm over his shoulders. The pain in his torso flares, searing, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to move.
"We're getting out of this," he says, half to Utakata, half to himself.
The battlefield is a nightmare. More fire rages in every direction, smoke curls into the sky like black snakes. The ground beneath his feet is slick with blood and mud. Broken weapons and jagged kunai litter the earth, glowing in the firelight. Bodies lie scattered everywhere— some burned beyond recognition, others twisted in unnatural poses.
Then, there's the wind.
Hijiki's winds tear through the clearing like feral beasts, howling and screeching as they rip everything apart. Bodies are tossed like ragdolls, and shrapnel flies in every direction, slicing through flesh and wood alike. The earth trembles with each release and the trees groan in protest.
A powerful gust slams into them. Nearly knocks them to the ground. His heart pounds painfully in his chest. Memories crash over him— Hijiki's fist slamming into his ribs, his body skidding across the ground like a broken doll, the sharp tang of blood in his mouth as he gasped for air.
For a split second, his legs refuse to move.
"Akuto," Utakata whispers.
The sound snaps him out of it. He pushes the memories away, burying them deep, deep, deep in the back of his mind, where they can't surface. Not now, not yet. He tightens his grip on Utakata. Pushes onward.
Another gust rushes toward them. This time, he ducks low. Shields Utakata with his body as debris flies over them. A shard of metal grazes his arm. He winces. But doesn't stop.
Don't think about it. Don't think about him.
They need to get to the forest proper, then they can disappear into the woods, and find a nice place to recover, before finally returning home. It's not far, either. Freedom lies just in front of them.
Utakata leans more on him. The blood flow has stopped completely by now, and the wound is almost closed.
They're almost there now.
Only a few more metres—
The wind dies.
It doesn't taper off. It doesn't ease. It stops.
He tenses. Utakata tenses as well, his hand grabbing the fabric of his shirt tightly. The sudden silence is deafening— absolute. The clash of steel, the distant shouts, even the chirping of birds. All of it snuffs out. Leaving only the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. Every instinct screams at him to move, to run, but his feet are rooted to the ground.
Something shifts in the corner of his eyes.
Then, he steps into view. Orochimaru glides forward, completely unhurried, like he has all the time in the world, his movements impossibly smooth, regal. His uniform looks perfectly tailored, as though he was born to wear it. It's pristine. Not a speck of dirt or blood mars it. His face is pale but sharp, angular, and framed by ink-black hair that would make anyone green with envy.
Those eyes— striking, golden, slit like a predator's— scan the battlefield.
Then, they land on them.
His lips curl into a smile that sends a shiver down Akuto's spine. But he loses interest quickly. His golden eyes sweep the battlefield again, before they lock onto Hijiki Katsuro.
Hijiki storms toward them, wind roaring around him like a wild animal.
Orochimaru tilts his head and smiles. Unnatural and cruel. "Well," he says softly. His voice carries over the chaos effortlessly despite it. "What do we have here?"
Hijiki doesn't respond. His bloodshot eyes lock onto Orochimaru, his chest heaving as he funnels more chakra into his jutsu. The winds grow stronger, more intense, slashing through the air without rhyme or reason.
Orochimaru steps forward, unbothered. Hijiki snarls. The wind around him sharpens, then rushes toward Orochimaru.
Who doesn't move.
The storm slams into him, and for a moment, it seems to swallow him whole. The cyclone tears through the ground, sends shards of debris flying, and Akuto has to lift his free arm to shield himself from the sheer force of it.
When the dust settles, Orochimaru's still standing. His uniform's still untouched, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement.
"Is that all?"
Hijiki's snarl deepens, his chakra flares, lashing out. He throws his arms out. The winds howl, tearing toward Orochimaru again.
This time, Orochimaru moves.
But. He doesn't evade or block the attack. Instead, he steps into it. He blurs, impossibly fast, weaving through the winds with a playful ease. The storm doesn't touch him. Each slash, each gust misses by a hair's breadth, as though the wind itself refuses to harm him.
Orochimaru's smooth, silky voice cuts through the chaos. "All that power," he says, reappearing behind Hijiki in a blur, "and yet no control. How utterly disappointing."
Hijiki spins. Slashes wildly with a kunai. But Orochimaru is already gone. He appears a few feet away, watching with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Do you even know what you're fighting for?" Orochimaru asks, sounding almost pitying. "Or are you just a beast, lashing out at anything in your path?"
"Shut your mouth!"
Hijiki charges forward, his chakra spiralling out of control. The winds tear through the battlefield again, like a desperate, all-or-nothing attack aimed directly at Orochimaru.
But Orochimaru doesn't dodge.
He raises his hand and the cyclone collapses. The winds scatter like smoke. Leaving Hijiki stumbling forward, his momentum faltering as his chakra sputters. Orochimaru is there in an instant, his hand snapping out to grab Hijiki by the throat. Hijiki's eyes widen, his hands clawing uselessly at Orochimaru's grip as his feet dangle above the ground.
This reminds Akuto uncomfortably of Suiiki, where he'd been in Hijiki's position. Helpless. Useless. Terrified.
Hijiki gasps. The winds flare weakly for a moment, then they still.
"How tragic," Orochimaru says, like a predator savouring the moment before the kill. "All that strength… and this is where it ends? What a waste."
"Go to hell," Hijiki growls, his voice hoarse and cracked.
Orochimaru's lips curl into a smile, slow and venomous. He raises his other hand, his long fingers clawing toward Katsuro's chest.
Akuto moves before he can think.
His hand fly through some seals; Ram, Dog, Rat, Tiger. Mist gathers at his fingertips and transforms into needles. He thrusts his hands forward, hurtling the needles at Orochimaru. They move fast, faster than even Akuto expects— raw, unstable, and charged with too much chakra, his panic fuelling the jutsu.
Orochimaru doesn't flinch.
In fact, he doesn't react at all.
The needles morph into useless water and splash in the ground before him, all without Orochimaru even moving a finger. He looks down at the spot where the needles struck, tilting his head as if mildly curious.
For a split second, it feels like the battlefield holds its breath.
Then, Orochimaru drops Hijiki and his golden eyes land on Akuto.
Akuto's heart sinks.
"Well," Orochimaru drawls, his voice laced with mockery. "That was... bold."
His smile widens as he takes a single step forward, unhurried and predatory. Akuto's entire body locks up. A cold sweat breaks out across his skin as regret slams into him like a blow to the chest.
What did I just do?
Utakata grabs Akuto's arm. His grip is tight and trembling. "What the hell are you doing?" he hisses, frantic. "He was going to leave us alone! Why— why would you—"
"I don't know!" Akuto snaps, voice full of panic. "I didn't— I wasn't thinking!"
Orochimaru approaches, the faintest amount of amusement passing on his face. "You've certainly succeeded in drawing my attention," he says smoothly, his golden eyes glinting. "But tell me... was it courage?" He pauses, his smile widening. "Or sheer stupidity?"
Akuto doesn't answer. He can't. His hands shake as he grips his ninjatō. Every instinct screams at him to run, to move, but his legs still feel rooted to the ground.
Orochimaru stops a few paces away, his eyes flicking briefly to Utakata before settling back on Akuto. "I do so enjoy curiosity," he muses, tilting his head as though studying Akuto under a microscope. "What drives you, I wonder? Desperation? Loyalty? Or perhaps something else?"
Akuto opens his mouth to respond. No sound comes out.
Orochimaru's smile sharpens, and something shifts.
He raises a hand to his throat. For a moment, Akuto isn't sure what he's doing— but then the sound begins. A wet, grotesque slithering noise, like flesh and steel twisting together. Orochimaru's neck extends unnaturally, the pale skin stretching far too smoothly, his head tilting back as his jaw opens slightly.
Akuto's stomach churns violently.
And then, from Orochimaru's throat, the Kusanagi begins to emerge.
It slides out with an almost agonising slowness, gleaming silver in the firelight. The sound of it— slick, unnatural— makes Akuto's skin crawl, and he fights the urge to gag.
The sword is impossibly long, longer than it should be, and yet Orochimaru draws it with ease, as if his body was designed to accommodate something so horrifying. His extended neck twists unnaturally, yet seamlessly and fluidly, until the blade is fully drawn.
Orochimaru's head lowers again, his neck snapping back into place with a sickening twip. He holds the Kusanagi in one hand, as his golden eyes flick back to Akuto.
"Now then," he says, "let's see what you truly have to offer."
Akuto's breath hitches, his body trembling as Orochimaru raises the sword.
He regrets it— everything.
Orochimaru moves before either of them can react.
One moment, he's standing still, the Kusanagi glinting in his hand; the next, he's a blur of motion, closing the distance in an instant. Akuto barely manages to bring his ninjatō up in time to block the strike. The force of it sends him skidding backward. His feet drag through the blood-soaked mud.
Utakata's hands flash through seals. Saiken's chakra lashes out, pale and cold. A torrent of water bullets rips through the air. Aimed directly at Orochimaru.
Orochimaru merely tilts his head and deflects the attack with a flick of the Kusanagi. The water bullets splatter harmlessly, much like his needles before, spraying the ground in a fine mist. "How quaint," he says softly, his golden eyes flicking toward Utakata.
Utakata doesn't back down. He charges forward, a staff of water forming in his hands. He swings it toward Orochimaru's side. But Orochimaru simply sidesteps the attack with casual ease.
Akuto joins. He charges forward, lighting crackling around his legs, and slashes his ninjatō at Orochimaru's unguarded back. For the barest of seconds, it feels like they might have him. Utakata striking from one side, Akuto from the other.
But Orochimaru doesn't fight like a man. He fights like a force of nature.
His movements are fluid, impossibly controlled. Precise. He twists his body with inhuman flexibility, dodging Utakata's staff while parrying Akuto's ninjatō in the same singular movement. The Kusanagi hums faintly as it clashes against Akuto's weapon. The force of the impact jars his arms.
"You try so hard," Orochimaru says, almost pitying. "But effort alone will never be enough."
The Kusanagi flashes again. Akuto feels the sting of metal slicing across his ribs. He stumbles back, his breath catching as warm blood seeps through his clothes.
"Akuto!" Utakata shouts.
"I'm fine!" Akuto lies. He grits his teeth and he forces himself upright. His hands are shaking, his grip on his ninjatō unsteady. But he can't stop. He won't stop.
Utakata lunges again. His staff spins in a blur. Orochimaru dodges easily, looking absolutely effortless. Like this is all just a mild warm-up for him. His eyes flicker with something akin to amusement and he shifts his focus back to Akuto.
"You," Orochimaru says, his smile sharpening. "You're the one I find interesting."
Akuto's heart pounds against his ribs as Orochimaru moves toward him, the Kusanagi gleaming like a predator's fang. He raises his ninjatō. His body trembles, like it knows it won't be enough.
And then Utakata is there, stepping between them.
"Get back!" Utakata shouts. He slams his staff down and sends out a wave of Saiken's chakra that surges toward Orochimaru.
For the first time, Orochimaru falters. The chakra wave slams into him. Forcing him to leap back to avoid the brunt of the attack. His feet skid slightly as he lands, eyes narrowing, the faintest hint of annoyance crossing his face.
"How very rude," Orochimaru says, his tone colder than before. "I wonder, was it worth it?"
He vanishes.
Akuto's eyes widen as Orochimaru reappears behind Utakata, the Kusanagi already raised.
Akuto screams. "Utakata!"
Without thinking, without hesitation, Akuto throws himself forward. His ninjatō clashes with the Kusanagi, sparks flying as he barely manages to deflect the attack. Orochimaru tilts his head. His smile returns as he watches Akuto struggle to hold the block.
"How noble," Orochimaru purrs. "And yet, so exquisitely foolish."
Akuto doesn't see the next strike coming.
The Kusanagi moves faster than his eyes can follow. There's a sharp, blinding pain, and suddenly the world tilts.
He stumbles back. His ninjatō slips from his hand. He doesn't understand what's happened—
Until he looks down—
His left arm is gone.
The severed limb lies a few feet away, still clutching the hilt of his ninjatō. Blood pours from the jagged stump. Stains the ground in violent crimson.
The pain crashes over him like a tidal wave. It's searing, white-hot, consuming everything. His hand clamps over the stump. But the blood keeps coming, warm and sticky, pooling beneath him.
"Ah," Orochimaru says softly, stepping closer. He tilts his head as he studies Akuto again, his golden eyes glinting. "Such a fragile little thing, aren't you?"
Akuto can barely hear him. The sound of Orochimaru's voice feels distant, muffled, like it's coming from underwater. His heartbeat pounds erratically in his ears. Each thud weaker than the last. His breath shudders as he gasps for air, but it feels like trying to breathe through broken glass.
The pain is all-consuming. It radiates from his left side in white-hot waves, burning and freezing all at once. His body is trembling uncontrollably, the jagged stump of his arm slick with blood that refuses to stop. He presses his hand against it, harder, desperate. Tries to push Yang chakra into it. But it's like trying to dam a river with a single stone.
He's going to bleed out.
The thought slams into him. Cold and biting. Yet buried beneath the overwhelming pain. His vision flickers, the edges darkening as the world tilts around him. He can't tell if he's sitting, kneeling, or lying on the ground anymore. He feels so small.
The coppery tang of blood fills his mouth. It's his blood. Warm, sticky, pooling on his tongue. He coughs, and it spills out in thick drops. Staining his lips, his chin, the ground beneath him.
His hand slips against the wound. His hand is trembling too much to hold on, and the loss of pressure sends another wave of searing pain through his body. It's too much. His head feels heavy. His thoughts too slow to keep up with it. All of it.
No.
Screeching tires. A scream— Bone cracking. Blinding pain. Darkness. Bitter copper on his tongue—
"Akuto!"
Utakata's voice sounds so far away. Akuto feels hands on him, shaking him, pressing against his wound, but it feels distant—
Like it's happening to someone else.
It's fine, he thinks faintly, his lips twitching in something that's almost a smile. I'm fine.
But he's not.
His chest heaves. His lungs are burning, but no matter how much he gasps, he doesn't pull in enough air. His body feels lighter. Weaker. The world around him fades into a blur of colours. Firelight, shadows, and the faint glow of what he thinks might be Saiken's chakra.
Don't close your eyes.
He tries to focus on Utakata's face. On the brown eyes wide with panic. On the tears trailing through the blood and soot streaking his cheeks. But even that feels like too much. His vision flickers again. And the world tilts harder this time.
"I... I tried," Akuto breathes. Barely. The words scratch at his throat. He coughs again, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.
Say it. His mind screams at him. The words claw their way forward even as everything else slips away. Say it before it's too late.
"Tell Aneki..." His voice cracks. "Tell her, I... I tried to come home."
He wants to say more— to tell her he's sorry, that he didn't want it to end like this—
But his strength is gone.
A cold wave ripples through the air. Bites at his skin. But it feels distant. Detached. Utakata's voice grows louder. Akuto can't make out the words anymore. His chest feels hollow, empty, the weight of his own body pulling him down.
Numbness creeps over him. Washing away the pain. The fear. The regret.
Home.
It feels so close and so impossibly far.
And then, there's nothing.
.
.
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End of Part I