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Chapter 9

I've dug two graves for us, my dear

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64年2月25日

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The sun hangs low over Suiiki, casting long shadows across the streets. As always, the marketplace is alive: vendors shout their prices, that nice, sharp tang of salt and fish fills the air, and children dart between stalls, their laughter mixing with the cries of seagulls overhead. It's chaos. But by now, it's a comforting kind. The kind that feels normal.

Perched high above it all, Akuto crouches on a rooftop, pressed against sun-warmed tiles, his legs cramping. He tones out most of the noise, of the action. Focusing only on the three bastards (whom he's come to call the Tawdry Three) moving through the crowd. They're laughing, shoving each other, and snatching stuff from hapless vendors who don't dare complain.

For two days, Akuto watched. He watched as they shoved civilians around, stole from stall owners outside the market, vandalised art and sculptures, and harassed servers at the various shady tea houses they love to frequent. He memorised their faces— the ugly broad-shouldered one with a scar on his cheek, the dull, wiry one with a perpetual sneer, the dumb, tall one who never seems to stop cracking his knuckles. Followed them through winding streets. He saw them target the weakest vendors, the ones who can't fight back. Saw them extort money, extort money, steal goods, and humiliate those who dared to protest.

And he did nothing.

The guilt of it gnaws at him like a particularly disgusting parasite, burrowing deeper and deeper and deeper with every passing hour. He tells himself he's waiting for the right moment, gathering information, preparing a plan. But the truth's simpler: he's fucking terrified. He's not really ready to admit it, not even to himself, but deep down he knows. He feels it, the weight of it pressing down on him, heavier than humid air.

He shifts his position. Winces as his knees protest. His scrappy little notebook lies open beside him, filled with scrawled observations and scratched-out lines of thought.

morning patrol: 0800. regular stops at food vendors. no pattern in selection.

afternoon: break for lunch at tea shops near the docks— some shady as hell. spend at least sixty minutes there.

evening: target specific vendors. tendency toward older or lone workers. favor intimidation over physical violence.

The notes are neat. Precise. Critical. They're supposed to make him feel in control, to make him feel okay, to give him the confidence that he can fucking do this. But every time he glances down at them, laughing their ugly laughs as they shove their way through the crowd like the imbeciles they are, his stomach twists.

They're not even that strong, he tells himself for the hundredth time. They're sloppy. Undisciplined. I can take them.

But. But what if he fails? What if he makes things worse? What if someone gets hurt because of him? What if someone innocent gets killed because of him?

He adjusts his position again, shifting to keep the bastards in line. They stop in front of a street musician. One of them kicks the man's hat, scattering the coins he collected across the ground. His mind screams at him to just fucking jump down, to do something—

But his body doesn't move.

He closes his eyes. Clenches his jaw. He can't let this keep happening!

What if this— in another life— were his family?

He swallows hard, forces himself to breathe.

No more waiting.

The Tawdry Three move deeper into the market. Akuto follows. He's got pretty damn good at this. Following, surveilling, stalking. Whatever you want to call it. It's easy to blend in with the crowd, to become a forgettable face among the many; to see but never to be seen. He looks at ware, feigns interest, chats with vendors (he's got pretty damn good at small talk too), all without never once letting the Tawdry Three out of his sight.

They pause at a fruit stall. It's a humble thing. Wooden crates stacked high with oranges, apples, and a scattering of glistening lychee. The vendor— and old woman— hunched behind it barely stands taller than the display. Her gnarled hands are trembling as she rearranges the fruit again and again and again.

The ringleader— the wiry one— leans forward, his elbow resting on the edge of the stall as he picks up an orange. He tosses it in the air with a lazy grin, letting it spin once before catching it. "Business must be good," he says, his tone light and innocent. It disgusts Akuto. "Look at all this fruit. You must be raking it in."

The woman shakes her head quickly. Her voice is trembling. "P-please. I already paid you this week. I don't have anything more."

"Not good enough," the ugly one— Idiot Two now— sneers. "Prices went up."

The ringleader's— Idiot One— grin widens as he gestures to the crates. "Guess we'll just have to take it out of your stock, then. You wouldn't want us to go hungry, would you?"

The old woman stiffens, her hands clenching the edge of the stall. Her voice cracks as she speaks. "I… I have a family to feed—"

"And what about us?" Idiot One interrupts, slamming the orange down hard enough to send a stack of fruit tumbling to the ground. "What's a few apples compared to your life, huh?"

The woman flinches but holds her ground. Her voice rises slightly, trembling but steady. "Don't you have a family?"

The words hit Akuto like a kunai to the chest. His vision blurs. Just for a moment. But when it clears, he's not in the market anymore.

He was in an alley. It was dark, its walls slick with grime and graffiti. A small shopfront at the end of the street had its shutters pulled halfway down, but it wasn't enough to stop the gang Akuto— Emery, then— had stupidly fallen in with. The shopkeeper— a portly man in his forties, with streaks of grey in his mousy brown hair and a deep, weary scowl— stood in front of the doorway, blocking their path.

"We don't want trouble," the man said in English, calmly but firmly. "You've already taken more than I can afford to lose."

The leader of Emery's gang— tall, broad-shouldered, and far too comfortable with the knife he twirled between his fingers— grinned. "Yeah? Then maybe you should've paid up on time."

He gestured to Emery who stood off to the side, a baseball bat dangling from his fingers. "Hey, new kid! Don't just fucking stand there. Smash some things, would ya?"

Emery's stomach churned, but he didn't move. The shopkeeper's eyes flicked to him then, sharp and searching, and for a moment, it felt like the man was looking straight through him. "Why are you doing this?" he asks, voice laced with desperation. "Don't you have a family?"

The bat felt like lead in Emery's hands. He wanted to say something. Anything. But his throat closed up. Behind him, one of the others stepped forward and shoved the shopkeeper back, sending him stumbling into the shutters. The crash was loud, jarring, and final.

The gang laughed. Emery stayed rooted to the spot, his fists clenched. His eyes flicked to the shopkeeper's daughter— a girl no older than ten, crouched behind the counter inside, her small hands covering her mouth to stifle her cries. Emery wanted to tell the gang to stop. He wanted to help the shopkeeper, to pull the girl out of the line of fire, but he didn't.

"Are you crying?"

Idiot One's grating, mocking voice snaps Akuto back to reality. His head jerks up as though he's been doused with cold water. His surroundings rush back into focus: the spilled fruit rolling across the ground, the murmurs of the crowd as they watch from the edges of the square, and the old woman, still trembling in front of the stall.

Barely seconds passed.

Idiot One leans closer, his grin wide and vicious. "Aw, did we make you sad, baa-san?"

Akuto's hands clench into fists, nails digging into his palms. Not quite hard enough to break skin. His heart pounds. Each beat roars in his ears, drowning out the murmurs of the crowd. A spark flares deep in his chest— small at first, but it catches and spreads quickly, a blaze consuming everything in its path. His breath comes faster, shallow and sharp, as his vision narrows. Zooms in on the Tawdry Three— their sneers, their mocking laughter, their casual cruelty etched into every movement, every fibre of their beings.

He won't freeze again. He won't let them win.

Not this time.

His voice rings out, echoing across the market thanks to a minor genjutsu, just as Idiot One grabs a second orange. "Back off. Now."

The crowd falls silent. Heads turn around, and for a moment, the Tawdry Three hesitate, their laughter cutting off abruptly. Akuto emerges from the crowd, shifting from faceless to known. His kunai gleams in his hand.

Idiot One recovers first. His smirk is plastered back on his ugly face within seconds. "Well, look who it is. A little genin playing hero." He steps closer, tilting his head. "You lost, kid? This doesn't concern me."

"It does now." Akuto's voice is steady, even as his heart pounds. "You've got three seconds to walk away."

Idiot One laughs, slow and mean. "Or what? You gonna take all three of us?"

"Go on. Try me."

Idiot One's smirk widens. "Oh, this is going to be fun." He cracks his knuckles. His two little friends flank him, their smirks sharp as kunai.

Akuto stands firm. "Three seconds," he repeats, his voice cold as wind on a mountaintop. "Walk away."

Idiot One snorts. "And what are you gonna do if we don't? You're just a kid."

"Two."

The marketplace grows unusually quiet. Idiot Three reaches for his weapon, but Akuto moves first. He lunges forward, his kunai slashing in a blur. The ringleader jerks back. Avoids the strike. Akuto follows with a spinning kick that catches one of the others— Idiot Two— square in the chest.

Idiot Two stumbles back. The crowd gasps. Akuto doesn't wait for him to recover— he ducks low, his kunai flashing again as he forces Idiot One onto the defensive—

Idiot Three interrupts. Akuto blocks the first strike, sidesteps the second, and throws himself backward to avoid the third. His feet skid across the ground as he lands. Idiot Two is right behind him. Darts in from the side. His fist connects with Akuto's shoulder in a sharp, punishing blow.

Akuto staggers. The impact jolts through his body, but he spins with the momentum, aiming a kick at Idiot Two's knee. It connects, and the man grunts, stumbling back a step. Akuto tries to follow up with a strike to his ribs, but Idiot Three is already there, grabbing Akuto's wrist and twisting it sharply.

"Not so fast, kid," the bastard hisses, wrenching Akuto's kunai from his grip. He flings it aside with a smirk, and Akuto barely has the time to duck as Idiot One's blade slashes where his head was.

They're faster than him, stronger than him, and better trained. Akuto can feel the gap between them with every exchange. For every single one of his moves, they have a counter. For every small victory—a glancing hit, a brief opening— they retaliate with crushing force.

Idiot One's kick catches Akuto square in the chest. He goes flying, his back slamming against a stack of crates. The wood splints under his weight, and he gasps for air, his vision swimming.

The crowd murmurs uneasily, their fear a low hum in the background. The old woman's voice reaches him faintly, "Please, stop…"

Akuto groans, forcing himself to his feet. His body screams in protest, his ribs aching with every breath, but he can't stop. Not now. Not when people are counting on him.

"Still standing?" Idiot One says, mockingly. "You've got guts, I'll give you that."

"Shut up," Akuto spits, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. His hands fly through a series of seals, and he exhales a burst of lightning toward them. They scatter, momentarily thrown off-balance, but it isn't enough to slow them down for long.

Idiot Two charges him, feinting left before striking from the right. Akuto barely manages to dodge. His body twists awkwardly. The man's kunai slashes across the bridge of his nose. Blood wells up, staining his shirt, and Akuto seizes the opportunity to grab a broken crate board from the ground.

Akuto swings it at Idiot Two, catches him in the ribs. Kicks him in the groin for extra measure. The man lets out a sharp grunt, but retaliates brutally— a punch to his jaw that sends him sprawling.

"Stay down!" Idiot One barks, kicking Akuto in the side.

Akuto coughs, blood splattering the ground, but he claws his way back to his feet. His vision blurs, his legs tremble, but he forces himself to stand. I can't stop. Not now.

"You're a stubborn little mutt, aren't you?" Idiot Two says, shaking his head as he wipes dirt from his face.

"More like suicidal," Idiot One adds, his smirk returning. "Let's finish this."

Before they can move in for the kill, a slow, deliberate clap echoes across the square. The sound is sharp and cutting, carrying over the hushed whispers of the crowd. The Tawdry Three stand frozen, their smirks vanishing as they turn toward the source. Their postures stiffen. Their arrogance dissolves into something far more subdued.

Akuto's heart sinks as sees who steps out of the crowd. Hijiki Katsuro moves with an air of casual authority, his strides slow and deliberate, like a predator that already knows the outcome of the hunt. His dark eyes sweep over the scene. He seems to take into the scene; the broken crates, the scattered fruit, and Akuto's battered, bleeding self. His lips curl into a faint, humourless smile.

"Well, well, well," Hijiki says. His voice's smooth and laced with disdain. "A little genin playing hero. How… quaint."

Akuto's grip on the broken board tightens, his knuckles white. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, every muscle in his body screaming at him to flee. But he can't move. Hijiki's presence is suffocating, a pressure that pins him to the ground as effectively as a physical blow. His gaze bears into Akuto like a blade, cold and precise, stripping him bare with the promise of violence.

Idiot One straightens. "Katsurō-sama," he says quickly. "We had it under control."

"Clearly," Hijiki says dryly, his gaze flickering briefly to the Tawdry Three before returning to Akuto. "Though I can't say I'm impressed. Three against one, and you're still struggling?" He shakes his head, a trace of mockery in his smile. "Pathetic."

The Tawdry Three flinch but don't dare respond. Hijiki steps closer to Akuto. The crowd shrinks back as he passes, the space around him clearing like the eye of a storm.

"And you," Hijiki says, his tone soft but razor-sharp. "There's fire in you, katō. I can see it. But fire like yours..." He tilts his head, his smile turning colder. "Burns out all too quickly."

Akuto forces himself to stand tall, his legs shaking beneath him. "You don't scare me."

Hijiki's smile widens, but there's no humour in it. "Not yet," he murmurs.

Before Akuto can react, Hijiki moves. He is fast— faster than anything Akuto ever saw. One moment, Hijiki's standing a few feet away; the next, his hand's around Akuto's wrist, twisting it with brutal efficiency. The broken board falls from his grip as he gasps in pain, his knees buckling.

Katsuro doesn't stop there. He spins Akuto around and slams him into the ground with enough force to crack it. Akuto's vision blurs again, the breath knocked from his lungs as he struggles to get up.

"Is this it?" Hijiki says, crouching beside him. His voice is calm, almost conversational. "Is this really the extent of your ability?"

Akuto grits his teeth, forcing himself onto his hands and knees. His body screams in protest, but he manages to push himself upright. He lashes out with his kunai, aiming for Hijiki's throat, but Hijiki catches his wrist mid-strike.

"Sloppy," Hijiki says, almost bored now. With a flick of his wrist, he sends the kunai flying, clattering to the ground several feet away.

Hijiki's other hand shoots forward, grabbing Akuto by the throat and lifting him off the ground. Akuto claws at Hijiki's grip, his legs kicking uselessly as he gasps for air.

"Let me give you some advice, katō," Hijiki says, voice low and icy. He lets Akuto go, dropping him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. "You can't safe anyone. Not her." His eyes flick briefly toward the old woman, who's huddled behind her stall, trembling. "Not yourself." Then he adds, almost casually, "And certainly not your precious Nami-chan."

Akuto freezes for a split second, his breath catching in his throat.

And then he snaps.

The rage surges through him like a tidal wave breaking free of a dam, violent and unstoppable. It isn't just anger— it's a blistering, all-consuming force, hotter than any flame, searing through his veins and igniting every nerve. The world around him blurs, fading into insignificance. The only thing left is Hijiki—his smirk, his ugly maggot-mouth, the casual cruelty in his beady, little eyes. His vision burns red at the edges, his fists clenching so tightly that his nails cut into his palms, but the pain only fuel the rage. His muscles coil like springs.

"You don't get to say her name," Akuto spits. He surges to his feet, his entire body trembling with adrenaline.

Akuto charges. Throws everything he has into the strike— a chakra-fuelled punch born out of sheer rage and utter desperation, aimed directly at Hijiki's jaw. Hijiki doesn't move, doesn't dodge, and for a brief, shocking moment, the sound of impact echoes across the square.

Hijiki's head snaps to the side, his smile disappearing as he staggers back a step. The crowd gasps.

For a fleeting second, Akuto thinks he won. His chest heaves, his knuckles aching from the force of the punch. But then Hijiki straightens, his dark eyes locking onto Akuto with an intensity that freezes the air around them.

"Not bad," Hijiki says, lowly and dangerously. He touches his jaw, his fingers brushing the faint red mark Akuto left. "I'll grant you that much."

Then, he moves. His fist slams into Akuto's stomach with the force of a sledgehammer, lifting him off his feet. Akuto crumples to the ground, gasping for air. Hijiki isn't done. He grabs Akuto by the collar, hauling him upright, and drives a knee into his ribs. The sickening crack rings in his ears, and black spots dance across his vision, threatening to swallow him whole.

"You've got guts, katō," Hijiki says, his voice calm again, almost amused. "But guts won't keep you alive."

He throws Akuto to the ground, his body skidding across the ground. Akuto tries to rise, but his arms give out, the pain too much to bear. Hijiki steps forward, plating a boot on his chest and pressing down hard.

"This is what becomes of little heroes," Hijiki says softly, leaning down so his voice's just for Akuto. "You think standing against me is courage. But all you've done is dig your own grave.."

Akuto gasps for air, his chest heaving as Hijiki's weight crushes him. He tries to claw at Hijiki's leg but his strength is fading fast. The world around him darkens. Faintly, he hears worried cries, shocked gasps, and the mocking laughter of the Tawdry Three.

Then, everything goes black.