.

Chapter 3

you better run, you better do what you can

.

.

.

64年1月26日

.

Daiki paces across the tatami mats, the chill from the floor biting at his bare feet. He cannot keep still. His esteemed cousin Yūji, as always, sits cross-legged on a purple zabuton, leaning against the pillar where the fusuma divides the room. Yūji is calm, composed. Daiki? The exact opposite. Emotions tear through him— anger, humiliation, shame— each crashing over him like waves against rock.

Useless. That's what Itsuki called him. Much like the rest of your clan. To lose against a dirtblood? Have you no pride?

But it is Kaya's words that stung the most. You disgrace your ancestors.

"He's nothing but trouble!" Daiki spits the words. His voice is trembling, his hands are shaking. He is hot, like he is burning from the inside out. Cousin Yūji shifts, resting his arms on his knees, that damn wry smile gracing his face again. Only fifteen and already a jōnin. Of course, he is. Haha-ue keeps comparing him to Daiki. Rightfully so. He bets Cousin Yūji would not have lost against that bastard of all people. No. Yūji would not have lost at all. He never does! "How dare he challenge me?"

"Oh, Dai-tan," Cousin Yūji says, black eyes gleaming with something Daiki cannot quite place. He stiffens immediately. "Your frustration is understandable, but to lose to a katō? How unfortunate." Somehow, the words cut deeper than anything Kaya had said. They freeze Daiki in place. He doesn't even feel the anger for a moment— just shock, like a sudden cold wash over him. "Still, since you seem so eager to correct your mistake, why not allow me to handle it? Consider it a favour from your cousin."

You dishonour your ancestors.

Anger surges again. Harder. Fiercer. "You don't get it. You would—" He bites back the rest. He cannot afford to lash out again. Last time, that bastard used his anger against him, made him look like a fool. Otherwise, Daiki would have won for certain, and not even be in this cursed situation.

Bruises still cover his body, most movements still hurt, but he would rather die than tell his lord father about those. He had no chance of lying about his nose— it was broken, clear as day, and so he spun a tale about letting the katō land a hit to lure him into a false sense of security— then turning that arrogance against him.

Chichi-ue approved.

I am proud of you, son, he said. Perhaps you will become a proper shinobi after all.

They called for a doctor right away, had his nose healed. Breathing is still difficult, however, and his voice sounds off, but that is to be expected— the doctor said it would last only a few days.

"I can handle it myself," he snaps, his voice sharp, trying to regain control. "I don't need your favours, thank you very much."

"Suit yourself." Cousin Yūji stands, smooth and collected as always, and walks toward the shoji, sliding it open. Steps on the engawa. Mist is wreathing through the well-kept garden. Daiki can barely see their koi pond a few paces ahead, where it lies before the sakura tree. "What gives you the confidence to face him again? He bested you once— there's little stopping him from doing so again."

Daiki snarls, "Watch me."

.

.

64年1月27日

Dawn breaks bright and early.

The mist is present as always, shrouding Kiri in milk-white, and making everything smell musty. Akuto's glad Kiri, and by extension Water Country, isn't typically hot. He'd really rather not deal with humidity like they have to in Fire, Rain, and Grass Country as well, thank you very much.

Anyway. He's on his way to the Academy, the last day before the graduation exam. Finally. He can't wait, excitement already bubbling in every cell of his body, as though his insides are vibrating. He still wishes Okan just continued teaching him at home, but he gets why she enrolled him. Really, he does. Doesn't mean he has to like it, though.

Five minutes later, he arrives at the gate. It's massive, looming far above him, painted a dark purple. Akuto supposes that's cause purple's a royal colour in this world and the Academy technically belongs to the Mizukage. Ugh. A large board, he'd call it, connects the two posts. In silver, a single kanji, gaku for learning, is written on it.

Fitting, he supposes. If anything.

Behind the gate, the Academy stands, steadfast as the mountains beyond it. It consists of seven buildings, all varying in size. The largest building in the back, Ichinenkan, is for first-year students, the second smallest building, Rokunenkan, for sixth-year students. In the middle stands the smallest building — also called Chūōkan — which holds the canteen, staff room, administration, library, headteacher's office, and the infirmary. The latter is on the ground floor, closest to the entrance. Akuto's been in it twice in his two years.

If Akuto were to keep walking, he'd reach the backdoor and through it, the Academy's training grounds. They hold at least three throwing ranches, five different sparring terrains, and seven obstacle courses. The dojos are to the side of the training grounds.

Because, according to Fuguki-oji, Nidaime Mizukage Hōzuki Gengetsu— responsible for building the Academy— was actually supportive of all castes (to varying degrees) and wanted his soldiers to be as strong as possible.

It's the Sandaime who encourages this classism.

"Running a bit behind, aren't we?"

Akuto's eyes trail away from the distant training grounds and land on one Hoshigaki Shizuki. He sighs. Really? Must they do this whole pretending-to-like-each-other thing because of their chat after the spar? He's pretty sure he never agreed to be friends with them. Especially not out of any misplaced obligation.

"Yeah, so?"

Not-Uzumaki stifles a yawn. "It's a lost cause, Shizuki. He's always late."

Akuto bites down on a smile. Hurries past them, hoping to lose them, and makes his way to the Rokunenkan. He's in class 6-F, same as Not-Uzumaki, apparently. Speaking of the devil, Hoshigaki and Not-Uzumaki slot in next to him, walking with him to class, talking about shit Akuto doesn't care to know about. Something about some project Not-Uzumaki has going on.

"So," Hoshigaki asks, sliding the door open with a grin, "got anything exciting going on?"

Akuto shakes his head. "Nah, I cease existing after class— I'm just a side character in Moyashi's life to make it difficult."

Hoshigaki rolls her eyes, but she can't quite hide the amusement that shines in them. "Thought I heard somethin' 'bout fish," Not-Uzumaki mutters from where he's half-hidden behind her. A drumming starts in his chest.

"Nah, it's preloaded banter."

They lapse into silence, at least until the stairway. Hoshigaki points at it with her thumb, clearly only for his sake. "I'm in 6-C."

Well, that answers that.

Akuto shrugs, tucks his hand in his pocket to stop it from waving, then walks towards his own classroom. In his peripheral, he can see Hoshigaki snickering and Not-Uzumaki waving at her. Then, he's off as well, trailing after Akuto.

Classes A and B usually hold all the kachū kids. Occasionally, class C is designated for them as well, but with thirty kids per class, it's usually unnecessary. Kachū never had the Old Graduation Exam to worry about and have therefore fewer children than the katō and even the chūtō.

Classes C, D, and E are reserved for chūtō kids, also often clan kids— though not all. Some parents leave their clans, but the families still keep their status as chūtō. Other parents were promoted by really outstanding service— and classes F through J are typically reserved for katō kids: clan kids, kids of shinobi families, civilians, and orphans. Loads of orphans currently. Sadly. And all these classes are regularly pitched against each other.

He slides the door open, lets Not-Uzumaki enter before him. Everyone else is already present. He can tell cause the classroom is overfilled once again; technically, it can host only thirty students but there's, at least, forty shoved in each katō class.

The classroom's benches are arranged in curved rows, each slightly higher than the last, auditorium style. Huge windows are set into the far wall for natural light and an easy escape route. In the front is a large blackboard and the teacher's desk, slightly to the side. A door leads to a small side room. He's never been in it.

Munashi Masaki glares at him, arms crossed, clearly in the middle of writing something on the blackboard. Akuto tucks his hands in his pockets and grins at him. "Sorry, I'm late," he says, and he can practically see the vein on Munashi's forehead twitching. He calls it Twitchy. "My plants threw a fit 'bout not gettin' enough sun, so I had to sort 'em out.

"Detention, Sanbokan," Munashi says, then continues writing on the blackboard.

Akuto sticks his foot to the door, slides it shut, then walks to his designated seat.

They don't really have arranged seats here, but Akuto's usual seat— last row next to the window— is always available. Not-Uzumaki's still following him. Akuto sits down and promptly pretends to be asleep. He can feel someone squeeze in between him and today's seatmate, a Terumī girl with auburn hair and green eyes. He doesn't bother to look, but he knows it's Not-Uzumaki.

"Sensei's talking about the exam tomorrow," Terumī whisper-tells them. He likes her well enough; she's quiet, kind, and kinda reminds him of Hyūga Hinata. "Those are the times each exam starts."

Akuto opens his eyes, props his head up on his palm, and stares at Munashi's ugly scrawl. The exam starts at eight in the morning with the written part, continues with the physical part at eleven, and after a two-hour break, ends with the ninjutsu part sometime in the afternoon.

"Cheers," he says.

Not-Uzumaki nods once. "Yeah, thanks."

Munashi then starts yet another revision, this time about the Warring States Era. More specifically, he talks about Byakuren's Conquest. It started half a year after the Founding of Konoha, though its formation was much more violent than Konoha's, or even Kumo's. He was, apparently, scared of the combined might of Senju and Uchiha forces, so he gathered his allies, and his allies' allies and dragged the Land of Water into a bloody, bloody war lasting four years.

Akuto sighs, enjoys the warm, sparse sunshine on his skin, and actually dozes away.

When he wakes up a few hours later, most of the students are out in the yard. Lunchtime, then. It's loud, like in a monkey enclosure. He twists his neck until it pops, stifles a yawn, and proceeds to ignore Hoshigaki and Not-Uzumaki chatting away next to him.

Even from in here, he can see Daiki stalking through the yard, shoving and pushing others. He's looking for someone specific. Akuto can tell by Daiki's random, messy paths and the fact he doesn't stop and pick a specific victim of the day, as he's wont to do.

"He's looking for you," Hoshigaki says needlessly.

Akuto turns his head to look at her. Much like the rest of her clan, she has shark-like features: small, round, white eyes; two sets of gill-like features under said eyes; blue-grey skin; and sharp, jagged teeth. Apparently, they always grow back. Her hair's long, wavy, and black. She's wearing a nice grey pinstripe kimono, blue pants, and blue open-toed sandals.

The Hoshigaki clan itself is small in numbers, but each member is twice as strong as a regular ninja in turn. They have ancient history— legends say they've been around since the age of the Sage of Six Paths— and are only chūtō cause of their alliance with the Setoka. According to Fuguki-oji, some member of the Hoshigaki clan accidentally merged with their summons many years back, which gave them their distinct features.

Akuto shrugs. "So what?"

Not-Uzumaki rolls his eyes. From this close, Akuto can see they're a really bright purple, like an amethyst. He's terribly thin, too. More so than he thought originally. Probably from the outskirts or even Saigawa, then.

Before Hoshigaki could say anything, Akuto adds, "Why do you care?"

"You're kinda interesting."

Akuto scoffs. "Yeah, sure."

"Don't believe me, huh?" Hoshigaki says, sounding neither surprised nor annoyed.

"Not at all."

She shrugs. "That's fine. Didn't really expect you to."

"What do you want?"

"A spar."

Akuto blinks rapidly. "A spar? You pulled all that for a spar? Storms, you could've just asked."

"Told you," Not-Uzumaki says.

"So, what do you think?"

Akuto snorts. "Yeah, sure. If you wanna get your arse kicked."

"Wednesday, 0900 hours, at my place?"

He grins. "Fine by me."

Not-Uzumaki shakes his head. "You're all the same. Always scrambling around in the dirt like animals."

Akuto snorts. Turns back to look out of the window, eyes trailing after Moyashi as the idiot continues to stalk through the schoolyard. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He wills it away. Though he is loath to admit, perhaps he doesn't mind the two too much.

They're decent enough.

.

.

By the time he leaves the Academy, the sun is high up in the sky.

Not at its zenith, just a bit behind that, but high enough for Akuto to know that the market will be bustling. (One thing he loves about the mist is that he can always see the sun in its clear shape and stare at it without damaging his eyes.)

And bustling it is.

Rows of tables and booths are filled with local produce: bundles of carrots, spinach, and bamboo shoots, bags of rice and sweet potatoes, crates of shiny eggplants, courgettes, napa cabbages, cucumbers, radishes, and peppers. Others hold all sorts of seafood: salmon, tuna, pufferfish, mackerel, oysters, lobsters, shrimps, and whatnot.

Loads of people mingle. Few just pass through. Many are carrying bags filled with goods, held close to them to discourage slipping fingers. Vendors are shouting, each trying to drown out the others with better offers; going cheaper, then starting again from the top.

And though individually Akuto knows the food and drinks smell good, they blend together into a nasty cocktail. He can make out fresh herbs, flowers, soju and beer, dirt clinging to root vegetables, spices and sugar, and freshly smoked fish.

Akuto tucks his nose in the collar of his sea-green shirt and hurries onwards. Right to one of his favourites; a lovely little stand selling sweets. Like rice pudding, sugared lychee, dango, or— his favourite— uirō-mochi.

Brilliant, that.

"Welcome!" shouts the owner, Mikan Megumi, when she spies Akuto. She's a bit on the smaller side, with sandy brown hair and brown eyes, and always unfailingly kind. "What can I get'cha?"

"Uirō-mochi, please."

She grins, brighter than the sun on a clear spring day. "Comin' right up!"

With swift, energetic moves, she puts together his order, humming happily under her breath. On her back rests a small toddler, Miwa, wrapped around Megumi with a simple baby sling. Little Miwa's sleeping, unbothered by the noise.

Seconds later, Akuto's order is finished, and he's back on his merry way, if a few ryō poorer.

The silence of the alley he enters is almost deafening in contrast.

He hurries past more alleys and gravel paths, keeping his footsteps light and quiet, munching on his well-deserved snacks. The uirō-mochi are sweet on his tongue. Delightful. Akuto briefly closes his eyes, savouring every bite.

Heavenly.

He's almost home now, only a turn to the right, then—

Akuto stills.

A flicker. A shadow— a crate out of place. He takes a left. Moments like this make him wish he has any sort of talent for sensor stuff, but alas, it isn't meant to be. He takes another bite of his snack. Acts like he noticed nothing. Whoever's following him— he's got some theories— clearly doesn't know where he lives, otherwise they wouldn't follow.

They'd be waiting.

He turns left again. Faint footsteps— a clear giveaway. Most ninja take the roofs, silent as shadows in the night, and civilians are loud. They can't hide the thudding, or— if they try sneaking— pitter-patter of their footsteps.

So, it's likely someone of his skill-level.

But he can't quite tell. It could also be a trap, to lure him into a false sense of security. He takes another left—

Ah, fuck.

One too early.

A cul-de-sac.

Akuto takes a deep breath and eats his last uirō. Takes a good look. The narrow alley is filled with stacks of water-stained crates, litter— crumpled rags, empty liquor bottles, and broken glass— puddles of vomit, rats and cockroaches and ants, and mildew stains on the brick walls of the buildings. It smells of rotting garbage, waste, beer, and mildew. Yummy. Mist trickles in, slowly and thinly, like an ever-present nuisance.

No way out, except up.

It lives up to its name.

Lovely.

Akuto turns around, hands in his pockets, and smiles, cocksure. He's standing in the middle of the alley, with his back to the wall. The sun provides enough light overhead. The bottle just off his right foot is a good weapon if needed; if he can grab it without being noticed.

In strolls one Moyashi Daiki.

Well, then.

"Ready for another beatin'?"

Moyashi smirks. "You wish," he spits. "This time, I'll make sure you regret it." And true to his word, he unsheathes a katana strapped to his back.

Ah, fuck.

Suddenly, the bottle feels a bit useless. He bites the inside of his cheek. Then, he juts his chin out. "What, compensating for your lack of skills with that oversized letter opener?"

"Shut up." Moyashi's smirk turns into a sneer. "Know your place."

Well, here's to hoping Moyashi isn't a sensor, either. Otherwise, this would become extremely annoying. Akuto flies through the first set of hand seals he ever learned, hopes that the widening of Moyashi's eyes means he's in fact not a sensor, and puts on a smirk he doesn't feel.

Within seconds, the mist in the alley thickens. Denser and denser it grows, until Akuto can barely see his feet, much less the bottle next to it. He runs through another set, this time for a genjutsu. Area-of-effect. Makes the alley look wider than it is.

"Come out, you coward!" Moyashi snarls, probably— hopefully— swinging about his katana like a total idiot.

Akuto casts a small genjutsu to make his voice echo, then says, "Not really my type, Dai-tan. Didn't know you were interested, though. Sorry." He grabs the bottle and pulls back a bit, hitting the wall with his back.

"Keep dreaming," Daiki sneers.

Metal slices through the dense fog with a sharp hiss. A string of curses follows. Akuto stays pressed against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest. He grips the bottle tighter. Looks up. He could try to walk up the wall— not that he's much good at it. Walking on water comes naturally to him, but on walls?

He's not sure he wants to risk giving away his position if he were to fail.

A harsh metallic thud breaks the silence.

Metal hits a brick wall.

To his right.

Akuto mourns his kunai. He left them at home— the teachers don't typically encourage bringing live weaponry to school, though that's about the only sensible thing they do. And Akuto never had any sort of need for them. Until today.

Lesson learned.

Another clang resounds. Still from his right.

"You think you're clever, don't you? Mocking me with your pathetic little tricks?"

Akuto doesn't respond. Instead, he focuses on the subtle sounds— the slight shift in Moyashi's footsteps, the swish of his kimono, the controlled breaths that betray his position. Like Okan taught him. He moves silently, circling around to get a better position.

He runs through yet another set of hand seals, for another genjutsu. One that induces vertigo. But he doesn't release it just yet— he needs eye contact or direct bodily contact for the genjutsu to take hold. Like a delayed technique of sorts, to be used within a split second if you aren't fast enough with using hand seals in the spur of the moment.

Only downside: you can't use any other techniques meanwhile. His chakra is restless in this state, swirling wildly about—

Lightning crackles through the alley.

Akuto staggers back, drops the genjutsu. The bottle shatters on the ground. Seconds later, a katana swings down at him in a wide arc—

He can't quite substitute himself in time.

The katana slashes deeply across his upper arm. A jolt of white-hot pain soars through his body. A tug. Darkness. He trips, crashing to the ground. He hears the dull thud of the katana connecting with the wooden crate.

Blood wells up, stark and shocking against the grimy alley floor.

"Fuck."

Moyashi laughs. "Not so cocky now, are you?"

Akuto curses. Shit, shit, shit, shit. He tears off a strip of his shirt and uses that as a tourniquet to cut off the blood flow in his left arm. Not ideal, but it'll have to do. He curses the fact that changing his chakra to yang chakra is so damn difficult.

The hell's Moyashi's problem, anyway?

Akuto jumps to his feet. Checks his arm. Still losing blood, but not as much as before. Alright, then. He takes a deep breath, steels himself, then runs through the hand seals for the Water Release: Needles technique; Ram, Dog, Rat, Tiger.

He watches as some of the mist gathers at his fingertips and transforms into needles. He thrusts his hands forward, shooting them all over the place. Follows them. Runs through the hand seals for the vertigo genjutsu again without releasing it.

Daiki spins around. His eyes are wide and wild, like a caged animal. A manic smile spreads on his face as he sees Akuto. Daiki swings the katana vertically—

But Akuto ducks in time.

"Fucker," he says, and releases the genjutsu when Daiki's eyes meet his.

For a split second, Akuto can see his genjutsu taking hold. Chakra causes the air to blur momentarily, like the haze in the air caused by heat, and Akuto sees how Daiki's sense of equilibrium is attacked and how the world spins in front of him. Then it's gone.

Daiki staggers, the katana clattering from his hand.

He doesn't waste a second. Akuto lunges forward, snatching the katana. Chakra spikes violently. Moyashi, disoriented and vulnerable, can only watch as Akuto turns the table, the blade now pointed at his throat.

"Not so cocky now, are you?" Akuto asks through gritted teeth. He juts his chin out, tucks his free hand in his pocket, and bares a grin he doesn't feel.

Moyashi's black eyes are wide open, the pupils dilated to their limits as if trying to absorb every last detail of the world he fears leaving behind. Sweat beads on his forehead. They trickle down his temples in slow, meandering paths. His lips part slightly, trembling uncontrollably as rasping breaths escaped in quick, erratic bursts. "I… huh?" he manages to gasp. His skin turned a ghostly shade, illuminating the dark circles under his eyes.

Akuto stares. Watches as a few drops of blood trickle where the katana cut Moyashi's skin and feels violently sick. His stomach churns, like a tumultuous sea threatening to breach its boundaries. Sour, burning bile creeps up his throat. His hand trembles. He pulls back the sword, resting the dull side on his shoulder. He can't end it like this—

He's not a killer.

He eyes the katana. It's a beautiful weapon; the tsuka is wrapped in black silk, adorned with ornate menuki. The tsuba is elaborately designed, with golden twin dragons chasing each other. The saya, still fastened to Moyashi's back, is lacquered to a glossy sheen, embellished with detailed artworks of dragons and water gods.

"Give me the scabbard," he says, barely keeping his voice from shaking.

Moyashi frowns. "…What?"

"Give me the scabbard and I'll let you live." Akuto shrugs. Cold sweat drenches his clammy skin. "Right of conquest and all that."

Moyashi scoffs, opens his mouth to say something, but then clicks it shut. Wordlessly, he pulls out the scabbard and throws it at Akuto. Akuto sends chakra to his foot, picks the saya up and sheaths the sword, always careful not to get too close to Moyashi.

Then, he leaves Moyashi behind and drags himself home.

.

.

"What happened?"

Akuto's sitting on the table in their kitchen, Okan standing next to him. Her face is blank, her eyes focused on the deep gash on his upper arm. She already cleaned and disinfected the wound the second he came home and almost passed out from blood loss.

She gave him blood pills immediately.

The world's still a bit dizzy, but Akuto doesn't feel like passing out any second anymore. Medical supplies sit on the table behind him. On the counter lies Moyashi's katana. His katana now, he supposes.

Okan places her palm on his wound, glowing green, and within seconds, the gash is no more.

"Moyashi tried to ambush me." Akuto pauses. "Well, not exactly— he followed me, and I took a wrong turn."

Okan sighs and cups his face. "You need to be more careful, Akuto. Next time, I might not be there next time." She pauses. "And you really should work on your healing jutsu."

"But," Akuto said, stifling a groan, "the damn fish keep dying!"

"I know. But it could save your life someday."