.
Chapter 11
it's a bitter place and I'll be on my way
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64年4月13日
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Fuck this shit, Akuto thinks as he dodges another damn kunai.
He got lucky at the mission board (having run out of the missions Okan gave him yet again), for once happening to be in the right place at the right time, when a paper-nin— of them Satsuma, he thinks— happened to post new missions to it. Or so he stupidly thought.
One of the missions sounded familiar; a simple intel mission. He's done about forty of those already, and only a third of them in the village as well. This one even had him go to the Continent. He's never been there before. He should be ecstatic. Really.
Too bad about four other people had the same fucking idea.
They're barely out of Yunokō, still roughly twenty kilometres out from the camp the intel is supposed to be delivered to and be exchanged for updates from the front. Akuto took the first ferry out of Suiiki he found— no matter how shabby and shady it looked— that travelled straight to Yunokō, Hot Spring Country's main port city.
He tore off the mission post immediately. It's a lucrative mission that pays well. Naturally, everyone and their mother heard of it. Somehow. By some fucking miracle, Akuto got to Intel first and thus received the only scroll with said intel.
Which means, of course, that people are after him. Four, currently. Thankfully all around his skill level— most other ninja are needed and ordered to the frontlines (by way of really well-paying missions most just can't pass; and everyone will be paid— as long as they make it back home alive).
To be honest, Akuto hoped that they'd take each other out. Preferably before they even got to Hot Springs Country. Can't even have that anymore.
He fears they might be a team.
But still. It's an exciting country to travel to— even considering the circumstances. For one, as the name implies, they've a fuck ton of hot springs (and according to Okan, many of them even have medicinal properties) and, more importantly, potatoes. He's missed them. And will definitely take some home with him. The least he can do. He wishes he could spend more time to really explore the country, alas he has a time limit and there is a fucking war going on.
Another problem, now that he thinks of it: Hot Springs Country, and Yugakure aren't that peaceful place Hidan complained about yet in the source material. He'll definitely come back in a few years again, when, hopefully, none of the above applies anymore.
But first, he has to stay alive long enough to reach camp in the first place.
A whistle. Two more kunai come flying. He pauses, dodges one—
The other fucking grazes his ear. He touches it, briefly, fingers coming away wet and red.
"Shit."
He's got the unpleasant feeling he won't get out of here alive if he keeps running.
Akuto jerks to a stop. Boots skidding on the soft forest floor. He slides his ninjatō free from its scabbard in one smooth motion. Spins around. His breath is ragged, heart thundering against his ribs. The faint whistle of another kunai slices through the air, and he tilts his head just in time to avoid it. It buries itself in the tree behind him with a loud thunk.
Close. Too close.
"Alright, you bastards," Akuto mutters under his breath. "You wanna dance? Fine, let's dance."
He doesn't want to do this. But the kunai flying toward him don't give him a choice.
Akuto jerks sideways, the blade grazing his left arm. His breath hitches. He grips his sword tighter, the metal cold despite the heat rising in his body. They are closing in— all four of them. A team, as he feared. Rather uncommon. Either really good friends or family. Maybe they'll double-cross each other.
Regardless. They're four people.
His heart thunders in his chest, adrenaline mixing with dread. It's them or me. The thought loops over and over and over in his head. He lunges forward, boot pounding against the loam.
The first ninja appears, too close— too fast. Akuto reacts instinctively. Slashes upward with his blade. Steel clashes, sparks flying as they parry. For a moment, their eyes meet. Brown eyes, wide with shock. Younger than Akuto expected— hell, the girl barely looks older than him. Thirteen, maybe. Same age as Nanami.
"Damn it," Akuto breathes, sweat dripping into his eyes.
She recovers quickly, driving her wakizashi forward. Akuto barely blocks, his arms burning with the effort. He's losing ground. Losing time. He pushes against it, tries to shove her away—
Another kunai whistles past his ear. Narrowly misses. He growls, clenches his jaw. Bares his teeth. They're not going to stop. You're already bleeding. If you don't fight, you're dead.
Akuto's body moves before his mind catches up. Instincts honed by years of training. His free hand snaps back, fingers curling around an arrow. In one fluid motion, he nocks it to his bow, draws, and releases.
The arrow punches into her thigh with a sickening thwip. She cries out, stumbling. Akuto pushes forward, heart pounding in his rips. Do it. Finish it, a small voice in the back of his mind shouts. His ninjatō arcs clean across her neck.
A spray of red. The body crumples.
Akuto freezes for a moment, chest heaving. The coppery scent of blood curls in his nose. His hands tremble as he looks down at the body. Sour bile rises. The face is slack now. Lifeless.
You didn't have a choice.
Didn't he?
He tears his gaze away, just as another one barrels toward him. Tantō raised, mouth twisted in fury. He feels sick. His grip tightens around his sword.
Block. Dodge. Counter. Survive.
This one's relentless, faster than the last one. Far slower than Hijiki. (Beady eyes— You can't save yourself—) Akuto parries frantically. The sound of metal on metal rings in his ears. Still. He doesn't see the kick coming— pain explodes in his ribs as he stumbles back, grasping. His sides are burning now. Blood steadily drips down his torn shirt. His pulse hammers in his ears.
His attacker lunges again, blade flashing.
Akuto drops low at the last second. Sweeps his legs out. His attacker topples with a surprised yell, hitting the ground hard. Akuto scrambles forward, his sword finding the guy's chest before he can rise.
The guy— the teenager, Akuto realises, horrified— coughs, gasping, blood bubbling at their lips.
Akuto wrenches the ninjatō free, and the sound makes him nauseous. He stares at the crumpled figure beneath him. Chest heaving. Bile rises again. He can still hear the ragged breath, faltering. Dying.
(Bulging eyes. Trembling chin. Rasping breaths— Sour bile— )
He throws up.
"Fuck," he whispers. His voice cracks. They're going to kill you, the voice says again. They wouldn't hesitate. Why do you?
He staggers back. Just barely escapes the strike of the third one. His ninjatō is red and slick in his grip. Pain blossoms in his ribs, sharp and bright.
This one doesn't give him time to think.
More kunai dart at him. Forcing him to move. Keep going. Move, move, move! He ducks low, slashes wide, but his sword meets only air. This one is faster, sharper. His own movements are slowing, his limbs heavy with blood loss and exhaustion.
And then he falters.
A blade grazes his side, slicing deep. Akuto chokes back a cry as he stumbles, one hand pressed against the wound. They see their chance, lunging for the kill.
His body screams to move.
He doesn't want to do this. Doesn't want to kill.
(Screeching tires. A scream— Bone cracking. Blinding pain. Darkness. Bitter copper on his tongue—)
He also doesn't want to die.
At the last second, Akuto pivots. His ninjatō drives up, under the ribs. They gasp— a sharp, strangled sound— as their body goes still.
Akuto lowers them to the ground, his breath ragged. He can't look at their face.
There's only one left now. Akuto feels it— sees them lingering at the edge of the clearing, just out of reach. He can't tell if they're cautious or just afraid. His vision swims as he straightens, one hand slick with his own blood.
"Just… get outta here," he mutters hoarsely. But they don't. Of course.
They lunge.
Akuto doesn't remember the final blow. Doesn't notice the sharp clash of steel or the sickening jolt of his sword finding its mark. When it's over, he stumbles back, chest heaving, the blood soaking his clothes no longer distinguishable as his or theirs.
The forest is silent.
Akuto leans against a tree, his knees threatening to give out. His body screams, his mind blank, save for the pounding echo of his heartbeat.
He wipes his blade clean, though his hands still tremble. He doesn't look at the bodies. He can't.
"All I wanted was the damn mission," he whispers bitterly to no one. The words taste like ash.
It's them or you, he tells himself. Again. And again and again and again. It doesn't stop the gnawing guilt lodged deep in his chest.
With trembling hands, he heals himself up as well as he can— the cut on his side is tricky, difficult. Especially with the pain ripping through his focus like a jagged knife tearing through silk. Then, he searches for a nearby river.
He finds one not too far away. Akuto kneels at its edge, he icy water biting into his skin as he splashed it over his face and neck. The chill numbs his trembling hands. His fingers slick with dirt and dried blood. Some grime swirls away downstream.
He freezes when he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the rippling water. It's distorted, broken by the current. For a moment, he thinks he sees someone else staring back at him— someone unfamiliar. Someone with neither Emery's brown hair and brown eyes nor Akuto's brown hair, purple eyes, and soft cheeks.
His breath hitches. He jerks his head away, his hands clenching into fists.
Don't look.
He doesn't want to see. He can't bear to.
What if he sees someone he doesn't like? Doesn't recognise?
He scrubs harder, his movements frantic, almost punishing. The cold bites deeper, but it isn't enough to drown the nausea rising in his throat. He doubles over and retches, his breaths coming in short, shuddering gasps.
He pushes himself up, avoids the river, and moves onward. When he finally reaches the camp an hour later, his movements are sluggish, his limbs heavy.
Akuto trudges into the clearing— a handful of battered tents and a smouldering fire surrounded by muddy ground and faint footprints. It's quiet, save for the distant groan of wind through the trees and the faint crackle of the dying embers. His pack hangs heavy against his back, the aftershocks of combat thrumming through his bones.
His face feels raw— like the guilt could wash off as easily as the grime.
He barely takes two steps into the camp when a deep, familiar voice cuts through the silence.
"Well, don't you look like you've been through hell?" Kisame stands off to the side, perched casually on a splintering bench like it's a throne, his massive broadsword leaning lazily against his shoulder. His shark-like grin stretches wide across his face, full of teeth and amusement.
Akuto sighs, dragging a hand down his face before glaring half-heartedly at the taller teenager. "I look amazing. Thanks for askin'."
"Yeah?" Kisame tilts his head, gaze raking over him like a hunter assessing prey. "For someone who scrubbed up so nice, you're walkin' like a stiff breeze'll knock you flat."
Akuto's lip curls. "Appreciate the concern. Warms my heart."
Kisame snorts, his grin widening. "No one said you can't polish a corpse before buryin' it. So? What was it? Wolves? A bounty squad?"
"Comrades," Akuto snaps before he can stop himself. The word tastes bitter in his mouth.
Kisame stills, eyes narrowing slightly. "Comrades?"
Akuto exhales, slouching. "Four Kiri-nin," he mutters, his voice low. "After the intel. Probably figured offin' me'd make the mission a whole lot easier for 'em— and they'd take the payout too."
Kisame hums softly, leaning back on the bench, one arm draped lazily over his sword's handle. "That's Kiri for you. Trust's just another word when there's ryō on the table." He gives Akuto a pointed look, though his tone is disturbingly neutral. Bored, almost. A tad chiding, too. "You shouldn't be surprised."
"I'm not," Akuto admits, fists clenching at his sides. "But that doesn't mean I gotta like it."
For a beat, Kisame watches him. His grin fades a bit. "You're still green, kid. That'll change."
Akuto glares daggers at him. "The hell's that supposed to mean?"
Kisame shrugs. "Means you still care. Still think what you did— what you had to do— was wrong." He leans forward. "In Kiri, you don't survive by second-guessing yourself, Sanbokan. You survive by being the one who walks away. The ones who don't? That's on them for failing. You don't owe them regret."
Akuto's jaw tightens, his nails digging into his palms. "Yeah, it's not that simple."
"It is," Kisame says, rising. His sword shifts with him, scraping faintly against the bench. "You'll get it eventually. Till then, try not to bleed out on the furniture."
"Bite me," Akuto mutters, though there's no venom to it.
Kisame grins again, all teeth. "Nah. You're too scrawny for my taste." He turns and saunters toward the edge of the clearing. Just before he can disappear behind the crowd of trees, Akuto blurts—
"Why aren't you with Suikazan Fuguki?"
Fuguki-oji was still out on that mission somewhere. No one knows what mission or where he is. He's been gone so long, even Okan started worrying. She's been in the living room more than usual, lighting incense and praying to various gods— to whoever will protect him and guide him home, he supposes.
Kisame stops. He turns around halfway and grins, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Didn't want me to tag along this time," he says with a shrug. Though he says it not unkindly, Akuto can hear a tinge of something colouring his voice. Anger? Resentment? Dissatisfaction? Something else? He can't quite tell.
"What mission?"
Kisame laughs. It sounds hollow. "That's classified, I'm afraid. Mizukage-sama's orders."
Akuto tsks, his fists clenching at his sides. His pulse quickens, each beat pounding in his ears. The edges of his vision blur as the white-hot anger begins to rise, boiling just under his skin. It reduces the world down to only Kisame. Who stands there, all relaxed, refusing to tell him where his Uncle is.
"What miss—"
"Oi!" someone shouts. "Are you the one with the intel?"
Akuto jerks around, frowning and narrowing his eyes. The someone is a woman, tall, brown-haired, and wearing Kiri's standard but entirely optional jōnin uniform— a dark grey flak jacket and black clothes.
Akuto purses his lips and crosses his arms. "Yep, that's me. Sanbokan Akuto."
"Finally." She shrugs half-heartedly. "Let's not waste any more time, shall we?"
He is just about to start following her when a hand clasps his shoulder. Quick as lightning, Akuto pulls out a kunai and holds it against Kisame's throat. "That's Lieutenant Hijiki Kaori," Kisame says, sounding amused. "My advice: don't piss her off." He pauses, then adds, "Work on your speed. I could've killed you before you even blinked."
Akuto gulps. Feels a bit of colour drain from his face. "She tight with Hijiki Katsuro?"
"Nah," Kisame says nonchalantly. "Pretty sure she hates him, actually. Why?"
"That's classified, I'm afraid."
Akuto walks away, following Hijiki Kaori, with Kisame's barking laughter ringing out behind him. Hijiki leads him to the main building of the camp. Or well, main tent. It's sparsely decorated, no more than the bare necessities. A cheap desk, some cheap chairs, a map, a shelf filled with scrolls, and some sealing supplies.
Hijiki mounts the chair behind the desk like a throne. She tilts her head, watching him with curious eyes, and gracefully lowers her chin onto the tips of her fingers. "Well?" she prompts, gesturing to the desk. "You've come this far. Don't keep me waiting."
Akuto doesn't rush. He pulls the scroll from his satchel with deliberate slowness and sets it down with all the reverence of someone placing a brick. "Delivered," he says flatly.
Kaori's fingers tap an idle rhythm on the desk as she reads the scroll. When she reaches the end, she smiles coyly; almost like Nanami when he's about to walk into her prank. He feels very wary all of a sudden. "Tell me, Sanbokan," she says, voice smooth as silk, "what's your take on Kannabi Bridge?"
Akuto tucks his hands in the pockets of his pants. "Way out there," he replies carefully.
Kaori chuckles. A sound that sends an unpleasant chill up his spine. "Far away, yes. Yet hardly irrelevant. It collapsed three days ago." She tilts her head, grey eyes pinning him in place. "A devastating blow for Iwagakure, wouldn't you agree?"
Akuto forces a shrug. "Depends who you're askin'."
"And if I were asking you?"
He meets her gaze without flinching, though his throat feels tight. "Sounds like not my problem."
The air in the tent goes still. Kaori's smirk sharpens, thin and deadly. "You speak like someone who doesn't understand the weight of their position. Or perhaps you just don't care?"
"If I cared, I wouldn't still be standin' here," Akuto says flatly.
Kaori hums softly, clearly entertained. "Smart mouth for a genin. Do you think that'll keep you alive?"
"If it doesn't, my skills'll pick up the slack."
She studies him for a long moment, the weight of her gaze heavy as a kunai at his throat. Then she slides another scroll across the desk toward him. Before he can grab it, her hand snaps out, pinning it in place. "Straight to Captain Kawachi Syouma. No detours, no mistakes."
She releases the scroll, and Akuto snatches it up, tucking it into his satchel. He turns for the exit, ready to get the hell out of here—
"Sanbokan."
He stops and turns around.
Kaori leans back against the chair, eyes glinting. "Try not to die on the way back. It'd be a waste of all that charm."
Her soft chuckle follows him as he pushes through the tent flap. The cold air bites at his face. He takes a deep breath, feels the tension leave his shoulders. Shit, he thinks. Kannabi Bridge is gone. Rin'll die soon. Obito'll lose himself to the Cycle of Hatred. The fourth war will be set into motion soon— even if only by baby steps. Gods. They haven't even finished the third one.
How do you fight a god?
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64年4月15日
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Daiki parries a strike from Yūji. Metal hits metal. Yūji's cleaver slides down his katana, letting out a sharp, piercing screech. Shivers run down his body. A short, stinging pain crawls up his arms. His knees give way. For a split second, he is certain he has been pushed into the ground.
As Yūji applies more and more pressure to his sword, Daiki's grip grows slippery. The danger of his being split in half creeps closer and closer until it is lurking just around the corner. His arms start trembling and weakening. Yūji notices. A smug smirk passes on his face.
Daiki's arms give way.
Not too much— he catches himself just before the spine breaks his nose. Again, he thinks angrily. Why is he so weak? So weak to lose against that katō not once but twice. Just like Cousin Yūji said…
He shakes his head inwardly. Shoving the thought far away the second it came to his mind.
"Katsu!" Cousin Yūji shouts suddenly.
Daiki flinches. Both swords slide to the ground, thankfully without hitting either of them. His cousin's cleaver digs deep into the ground, its edge burying itself halfway. Daiki clenches his jaw.
"For sage's sake!" Daiki snaps, glaring at Yūji. "What was that for?"
A pleased smile crosses Yūji's face. "You were distracted. I thought it better to teach you the lesson here than have you learn it the hard way on the battlefield."
"You could've simply told me!"
"And let it simply pass you by? Oh, hardly." Yūji shrugs, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "This way, it sticks. Much more effective, wouldn't you agree?"
Fuming, Daiki kicks the hilt of his cousin's cleaver, glares at him, and then spins on his, stomping back to their house. Okaa-sama and Otou-sama are both away; Otou-sama is at a meeting with Lord Third and Okaa-sama is somewhere else— she didn't tell him. Akiko and Kizuki are both with her.
"Oh, come now, Dai-tan," Yūji says, sounding vaguely annoyed. "You know I didn't mean it like that. Oji-sama would have my head if anything happened to you. Surely, you wouldn't want that, would you?"
Daiki sinks down beside the sakura tree, his fingers curling around a pebble. The koi fish are swimming about happily in the pond, sometimes playfully running into each other. "Fine! I'm sorry," Daiki bites out. He hurls a pebble into the pond, scaring away the fish. "I'm just— I'm angry. All the time."
Yūji comes over and steps on the pond. "This is about that katō boy, isn't it?"
Daiki nods and throws another pebble. It slips between Yūji's feet, then skips another two times before landing on the other side. Yūji follows the pebble with his eyes, amused. He is often amused by things Daiki does, actually, always with that damned gleam in his eyes and smirk plastered on his unfairly pretty face.
Why does Yūji get to be strong and handsome?
"You really ought to stop letting him take up so much space in your head," Yūji says, spinning a senbon between his fingers. It is a habit he recently picked up, ever since word of that Yellow Flash got out. For days, there was nothing else he talked about. Namikaze this, Namikaze that. He sounds like those simpering girls— or even the boys— at the academy when they had a crush on someone, but he would really rather die than tell Yūji that.
Daiki nods, pretending to care about what Yūji has to say. He might have cared not even that long ago, but the look of disappointment on his father's face when Daiki was forced to tell him how he lost Lord Byakuren's katana still makes him angry at Yūji every time he sees his cousin's stupid face.
Yūji walks up and down the pond without causing a single ripple, a single movement. Almost like he glides over the water rather than walking on it. Stupidly elegant. He looks just like Otou-sama when he first showed Daiki how to walk on water.
Showed, not taught.
Because it is a tradition of their clan, a rite of passage. Once you figure out how to walk on water on your own, without any help, the clan accepts you as a member— not an adult, not yet. It is the bare minimum you need to know to be able to function as a ninja in Kiri, after all. And as the heir, Daiki has twice the pressure on his shoulders.
Especially when Yūji was able to walk on water at the tender age of four.
How is he supposed to surpass that?
Yūji stops walking and Daiki tunes in to listen. "It might please you to know," he says airily, "your little katō has been firmly put in his place."
"Oh?" This actually piques his interest. "Go on, then."
Yūji preens like a peacock and cocks his head, smirking. "I heard about it at the jōnin station—" Daiki rolls his eyes. Stupid show-off. "— Hijiki Katsuro— always so charming— was grumbling about some pesky little pest he had to deal with. Of course, I couldn't resist a little inquiry of my own." He leans back, his grin widening. "Purple eyes, long hair, rather short? That's your katō, isn't it?"
Daiki glares at him. "He is not my katō."
"Sure, sure, Dai-tan, whatever helps you sleep at night." He waves a hand in dismissal. "But yes, him. Funny thing, Katsuro's been in charge of Suiiki patrol assignments since— hmm, let me think— March? No, February. Right after your graduation, if memory serves. Turns out your katō has an older sister—Sanbokan Nanami. Katsuro detests her for reasons he refused to tell me. So, he did what Katsuro does best and sent them both to Hinkon-chiku. Absolute misery, that place— one of Suiiki's finest hellholes."
"Get to the point, Cousin."
Yūji rolls his eyes. "Honestly. People these days. No appreciation for a good story. Anyway, to the point: your little katō apparently challenged Katsuro to a fight. And predictably, lost. Spectacularly, I might add. Dai-tan, if there's one thing you must never do, it's challenge Katsuro to a fight and lose."
"Why?"
"Because Katsuro's a proper bastard." Yūji lifts his chin, though it lacks the usual confidence accompanying it. "Lives for violence, that one. Breathes it. Lord Third pulled him off the battlefield to cool him down. Something about... what was it? Oh, yes— starting to kill our own men along with the enemy."
Daiki exhales shakily. "What?"
"Yup," Yūji says, aspirating the P.
"What did Katsuro do to him?"
"Oh?" Yuji grinned mischievously. "Are you worried about your little katō?"
Daiki rolls his eyes again. Yūji sometimes really brings out the worst in him— though not nearly as much as that idiot Sanbokan does. "Just tell me."
An unkind smile spreads slowly over his cousin's face. "Well, Katsuro humiliated him in front of a group of civilians he was foolish enough to try and protect. Left him on the brink of death."
Daiki pales. "What?"
His hands curl into fists, the tips of his fingers digging into his palms. The thought of Katsuro— brutal, unstoppable— standing over Sanbokan, sends an ugly thrill through him. He should feel satisfied. He should feel justified. But instead, there is… something else. Something sharp and sour curling in the pit of his stomach.
"What would you have done?"
Yūji snorts. "Not lost, for starters."
Daiki nods once. That much is probably true. Yūji is a terrific fighter— skilled and ruthless enough to join the Swordsmen too, if he wants to. Though Biwa Jūzō already has an apprentice. That maggoty-headed Zabuza. He eyes the cleaver on his right, still half-buried in the ground. Well, Yūji might just be maggoty-headed enough himself to ask Munashi Jinpachi to take him on as an apprentice. He's certainly enough of a pyromaniac to want to wield Shibuki.
Yūji follows his gaze.
"Now," Yūji claps his hands together, his tone shifting to faux enthusiasm. "Shall we return to training, or would you prefer a nap first?"
Daiki glares at him. "Shut up!"
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A/N:
I'm not completely satisfied with this, but eh. Here we go ^^
On another note: Happy Yuletide! To those who celebrate, I hope you had a wonderful Yule; and to everyone else, Happy Holidays!