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Chapter 8
I see a red door and I want it painted black
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TW: brief depiction of self-harm
(starts at: "He sits cross-legged...", and ends with: "The door creaks open...")
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64年2月
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As Akuto suspected, guard duty is a bore.
They spend their time patrolling Hinkon-chiku every other hour in changing pairs, with one person watching the base. Nothing ever happens. They pass through Hinkon-chiku's market— which pales even in comparison to the smallest, most rundown markets of Sotogawa— since the crime rates are highest there, according to Mei, but even then, the criminals wait until they pass before continuing their crimes.
It's what he'd do, anyway.
It's not like their patrols are sporadic or unpredictable or anything.
A few pickpockets try to slip their little fingers into his pockets and take some money, so he resolves to carry a few coins and let them. Not every time. Gods, he'd bleed himself dry, but once a day or so.
When they aren't patrolling, Akuto spends most of his time fishing, training, reading, and sparring with Mei and Nanami. Both are far, far better than him, so he usually eats dirt.
It's… humbling.
Still, slightly less so than whenever Hoshigaki kicks his ass. Not that he's particularly proud of defeating children mentally far younger than him, but there's something about the little dopamine hit from winning that he craves. The adrenaline on its own just doesn't do it— it's like trying to stay awake on a sugar rush when what he really needs is a proper high.
On the bright side, Aneki taught him the jutsu she had promised to teach him before she had left for her mission ages ago. An easier but equally important healing jutsu: the Diagnostic Technique. Apparently, each village has its own version of it. In Kiri, it sends you brief pictures of what's wrong—similar to the Genjutsu Haze, actually— while in Suna, it sends your chakra-infused sand revealing ailments through its patterns. In Konoha, it sends symbolic impressions that hover over the affected areas of the body; in Kumo, it sends reverberating echoes that pulse through the patient's body; and in Iwa, it reveals your aura, with different colours corresponding to different health conditions.
And. His Mystical Palm Jutsu is progressing well. He graduated from fish a week ago and has since been focusing on healing small cuts on skin— either from accidents or shallow ones he carefully made himself.
He sits cross-legged on the cold floor, his hands glowing with a faint, greenish hue. His chakra's being a pain, spluttering and flickering, refusing to smoothly transform into Yang Release. He curses his Yin affinity. Takes a deep breath. Aneki said the trick to successful medical jutsu lies in remaining calm and collected— being patient.
Which he can be.
He can.
The slight nick on his forearm bleeds sluggishly. He takes another deep breath and holds his palm close. His chakra trembles, cool and restless, before he wrestles it back into place. Slowly, the glow brightens. Stronger. Greener. The warmth against his skin grows tangible, alive, as if his chakra itself shits, taking on weight. Gradually, bit by bit, the torn skin pulls together. He releases the technique.
The cut is gone. Nary a scar left behind.
"Fuck yeah," he says with a grin.
The kunai flashes in his hand before he can think twice. Its edge bites the back of his forearm. Just a bit deeper, just a bit longer. Blood flows faster, a sharp, dark trail down his pale skin. He doesn't flinch. Adrenaline buzzes in his chest. He closes his eyes and breathes in, long and slow. Reaches for his chakra, a faint hum beneath the surface.
Focus. He draws it in, shifts it, pushes it out through his hand. It warms again as it builds, a faint glow pooling in his palm, soft at first but growing brighter, heavier, more solid. Ying gives way to Yang; thought becomes life. The blood slows. Skin pulls taunt. Beneath his fingers, the wound knits together again, until nothing remains but smooth, unbroken flesh.
He doesn't stop.
Let's see how far I can push this. Another grin tucks at the corner of his lips. The kunai bites in his arm again, deeper still. Blood wells up immediately, dark and thick, and his heart pounds as he watches it drip onto the floor. His hands are trembling now— but not with fear. With excitement.
He summons his chakra again, faster this time. More forcefully. The glow comes quicker, stronger, but it's harder to control. It fights him, resists his will, and his breath comes faster as he struggles to keep it in check. The wound on his arm remains open, stubborn, mocking him.
"Damn it," he growls, frustration boiling over. He slams his hand on the floor. Calm down. In. Out. Breathe. He brings his hand back to his arm, reaches for his chakra again. It shifts, smoothing out like ripples in a pond, and the glow is steady this time. He presses his palm to his wound, his focus razor-sharp. Slowly, painstakingly, the bleeding slows. The torn edges of flesh begin to pull together, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence.
It takes longer this time, and by the end, he's sweating, his breaths shallow and ragged. But when he pulls his hand away, the wound is gone. The skin is whole. He lets out a laugh, loud and triumphant, and flops back onto the floor. His arms are streaked with blood, and the room smells sharp and metallic, but he doesn't care. He did it. He did it.
Next time, he thinks, he'll go even deeper. Maybe something on his leg, or—
The door creaks open behind him. He freezes.
"You good, squirt?" Nanami asks, her head poking out behind the door. If she notices anything about his training, she doesn't say a word. Her eyes dart around, maybe curious, maybe wary, then they land on him again. On his bloody arm, on the kunai.
Akuto smiles. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"No reason. Just askin'." She doesn't look away from him. Her gaze is piercing, as if she could see right through the marrow of his bones. The crease in her brow fades. Her face softens. "Think you can grab some stuff from the main market?"
"What do I look like, your errand boy?"
Nanami grins. "Yeah, yeah. Okan said that's the only reason you exist."
"Yeah, sure," Akuto says, his disbelief practically dripping.
"So?"
"I'm goin', alright," he mutters, rolling his eyes. "What're we needin'?"
Nanami smirks, leaning against the doorframe like she's just won a prize. "The usual— rice, miso, some veg. Oh, and try gettin' fresh tofu this time, not whatever that weird stuff was last week."
"That 'weird stuff' was tofu," he mutters under his breath, grabbing his pouch. "Anything else, or is this it?"
She tilts her head, pretending to think. "Yeah. Don't screw it up this time."
"Lucky for you, I don't charge for this kinda thing."
Nanami's laughter follows him down the hall, light and teasing, lingering in his head even as the bustling market swallows him whole.
He weaves through its narrow lanes in his casual slouch, but his eyes remain sharp, staling every movement around him. The air buzzes with life— the laughter and haggling of shoppers, shouted bargains, clinking coins, and the occasional crash of something expensive meeting an untimely demise. The scent of grilled fish, spiced stews, and freshly chopped herbs tangles in the salt-kissed breeze.
He sidesteps a woman carrying a basket stacked improbably high with melons, her steps sure despite the wobble of the pier beneath her. Another woman with sun-creased skin argues over the price of dried kelp, her words sharp and biting, while a dark-skinned merchant from the isles beyond Water Country displays bundles of woven cloth dyed in the brightest of colours. Nearby, a man with an accent singing of the mainland haggles over crates of fish, gesturing wildly with hands as rough as the cargo he trades.
He stops at a stall stacked high with leafy greens, the vendor's booming voice cutting through the din.
"Leeks! Fresh from the fields this morning!"
Akuto snorts. Fresh? Maybe last week. Still, they look passable. He points to a small bundle. "How much?"
"Two thousand three hundred ryō," the vendor says, already moving to bag them.
"Two-three? For leeks? What, they dipped 'em in gold?"
The vendor gives him a long-suffering look. "You want leeks, you pay the price."
Akuto crosses his arms, and grins, showing teeth. "Or I could just nick 'em when you're not lookin'." The vendor's eyes widen, and Akuto allows himself a smirk. "Kiddin'. One-five. Take it or leave it."
The vendor grumbles but relents, shoving the bundle into his hands. Akuto moves on, bartering for some vegetables at the next stall. It's tedious work but he gets everything he needs with only a few glares and grumbled insults thrown his way.
As he passes a stall selling gear, something catches his eye— a small, rugged field kit displayed on a table cluttered with kunai and smoke bombs. It looks like it's made to survive the harshest conditions. Perfect for Aneki. She tends to break hers quickly.
The vendor, a sharp-eyed woman with a hawk's nose, notices his interest immediately. "Field kit. Compact, durable, and good for any mission. Flint, twine, basic medical supplies, and a whetstone for keeping your blade sharp. Got compartments for poisons or spices, too— whatever your trade is."
Akuto picks it up, feeling the weight of it in his hands. The stitching is tight, the material sturdy. He can already picture Nanami slinging it onto her belt or shoving it in her pack. It's practical and doesn't stick out— just like she likes most of her things.
"How much?" he asks, already bracing himself for another round of haggling.
The vendor taps her chin. "Ten thousand ryō."
He whistles low, shaking his head. "Ten thousand for that tiny thing? You plannin' to fund a vacation?"
"It'll save your hide when you're stuck in the wilds with no matches," she shoots back, arms crossed. "Eight. That's my final offer."
"Six," Akuto counters, jerking his chin toward another stall. "And I won't tell that whetstone guy over there you're undercuttin' him."
The vendor gives him a long, appraising look, then grins. "You've got guts, kid. Six and a half, but only because you've got a smart mouth."
"Deal."
With a satisfied smile, Akuto hands over the coins and tucks the field kit into his bag. As he continues down the market, he spots another vendor selling bags of dried fruit. He grabs a handful for a few coins, stuffing them into his pouch alongside the field kit. If there's one thing he knows about Mei— she'd absolutely destroy him next time they spar if he doesn't bring her favourite snacks.
The crowd thickens again, and Akuto finds himself dodging an older man lugging a sack of grain. His attention wanders briefly to the piers, where the water laps against the wooden supports. He shakes his head, turns to the pier-side stalls to grab some tofu— the last thing on his list.
That's when he sees it.
A few stalls over, where market meets houses, a group of Kiri-nin loom over a hunched merchant. Their uniforms mark them as chūnin, though their behaviour is anything but. Chūtō, at least. No katō in their right mind would sink this low. (They would— he knows they would— but he doesn't want to think about that. Not now. Not here.)
Akuto feels it before he even registers what's happening: the slow, familiar burn in his chest. It flickers, catches, and begins to grow. He forces his feet to move. Slipping closer, his eyes on a pile of half-rotten bell peppers as if they're the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. His hands stay at his sides, though they want nothing more than to reach for the kunai tucked in his pouches.
"Late again," one of the chūnin says, his voice low and cold. "We've been patient, but you're really testing us."
The merchant stammers, his voice quivering like a leaf in the wind. "Please, I just need—business hasn't been good, and—"
"Next week, double." The chūnin cuts him off with a scoff, leaning in so close it's almost intimate, in all the worst ways. "Or we take what's owed… in other ways."
The other two chuckle, their hands drifting lazily to their weapons. A sick, casual gesture that twists Akuto's stomach. He clenches his fists, nails biting into his palms, his entire body taut with the effort it takes to stay rooted. It would be so easy to throw himself at them. So easy to draw his blade and wipe those smug grins off their faces. But he knows better.
This would be suicide. He doesn't have the rank, the skills, the clout, or the backup.
So he does nothing.
Instead, he watches as they saunter away, their laughter sharp and grating, like knives dragging over bone. He swallows the anger, forcing it down into the pit of his stomach where it simmers and churns, searing him from the inside out.
The merchant slumps against his stall, his trembling hands fumbling to straighten a crooked sign. Akuto's jaw tightens. He could help. Should help. He turns away, bile rising in his throat.
The chaos blurs as he walks away, his steps heavier than before. He barely remembers to snatch up the tofu on his way out, tossing a few coins at the vendor without a second glance.
His mind won't quiet. The laughter of those bastards rings in his ears. He clenches his jaw so hard it aches, his knuckles white as he tightens his grip on his bag. It isn't just anger; it's humiliation. Powerlessness. The fire inside him flares again, white-hot and searing, as if his very bones are trying to crack under the heat.
He can't let this go. He won't.
The streets blur past him, his surroundings reduced to nothing but faint buzzes, vague shapes and muted colours. The merchant won't leave his brain. His hunched shoulders, his hands fumbling with that crooked sign. It gnaws at Akuto's mind like a parasite. That could have been anyone. It could have been him. Or worse— Okan, Nanami, in another life. It makes him grind his teeth.
What do the Kiri-nin have that he doesn't? Rank? Skill? Backup? It's all just an illusion, a costume they wear to cloak their rot. He doesn't need rank to be better than them. He doesn't need permission.
Three days. That's all he has.
Three days before he's gone, before this chance slips through his fingers.
The thought gnaws at him. If he doesn't act, they'll continue their reign of quiet terror, picking apart the weak like vultures circling the dying. The merchant's haunted expression flashes in his mind again, and he feels the sharp sting of shame.
He can't let it end like this.
His pace quickens, the plan taking shape in the back of his mind. It doesn't need to be perfect— there isn't time for perfect. He just needs to observe. Track them. Figure out their weaknesses. They're overconfident, sloppy in their cruelty. That's their mistake, and he'll make them pay for it.
The streets continue blurring past him, his fists clenched so tight his nails dig into his palms. He's already running through scenarios, imagining how he'll follow them, how he'll strike. His thoughts are interrupted only when he reaches the base. His chest heaving, his mind racing faster than his feet ever could.
He drops the market goods onto the counter with a clatter, ignoring Nanami's raised eyebrow.
"What's the deal? Someone spit in your tofu or somethin'?"
He doesn't answer.
"What's eatin' at you, squirt?" she asks casually, though her tone holds an edge of concern.
Akuto shakes his head. Hesitates. "Saw some Kiri-nin at the market earlier," he finally says. "Shakin' down the vendors, roughin' 'em up for coin. Thought 'bout helpin', but..." He trails off, unsure of how to express the frustration he felt.
Mei— joining them from their makeshift bedroom upstairs— nods slowly. Heavily. "Hijiki's lot," she mutters, her voice barely above a whisper. "They're known for things like that. The worst part is, no one can stop them— not yet."
Nanami places a hand on his shoulder. "C'mon, Akuto. It's Kiri. You know how brutal it is. Sometimes, you just do what you gotta to make it through."
Akuto's fists tighten, a bitter taste filling his mouth. "Yeah, I get it," he says quietly, his tone sharper than usual. "Doesn't mean it's right, though."
Nanami exchanges a look with Mei, their expressions unreadable. Mei gives him a faint smile, though her eyes are clouded. "One day, things will change," she says quietly. "But for now, we have to be careful which battles we choose to fight."