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Chapter 23

the times, they are a-changin'

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64年11月30日

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It appears Fuguki is the last to arrive for once.

Everyone else is already here, gathered around a round table in their favourite pub, no one else but them present. Not even a barkeeper. Privacy seals have been drawn and carved into the wood and stone around the table, quietly humming and buzzing. Activated, then.

He wonders what Jūzō knows that he doesn't know— he and Hiyu are both well-connected inside and outside the village, and yet neither of them have heard anything new that's more than the usual recent chatter and gossip. Then again, Jūzō has always had the strange talent to weasel crucial information out of anyone. No matter how unimportant they seem.

His eyes drift over his colleagues, as he's come to call them. They're not his friends, not his teammates, not really, and yet he finds himself stuck with them far more often than he'd like. Kisame's here, his prodigious apprentice, with an empty seat to his right. Jūzō, of course, with a grumpy and surly-looking Zabuza next to him. Akebino Jinin with his apprentice Setoka Tomoe, who he must've recently taken under his wing (Fuguki thinks of the implications of the Setoka trying to claim a different Yōtō and finds he doesn't like what he sees). Kushimaru and Kinkan Ibuki, both yet without an apprentice. Munashi with— much to his surprise— Moyashi Yūji in tow (Fuguki doesn't like those implications, either). And lastly Raiga… with Ameyuri nowhere near in sight. Kiba lays in front of him, entirely wrapped in bandages— a showing of respect.

Fuguki sighs mournfully. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," Raiga says, subdued, his head bowed lowly.

"What's the COD?"

"Don't know," Raiga says quietly after a few seconds. "Doctor Iyokan hasn't done the autopsy yet. I found her body this morning."

"Was she killed?"

Raiga shakes his head, just barely, and Fuguki knows this is all he'll be able to get out of him today. So he sits down between Kisame and Ibuki, and lets his gaze drift over the group before settling on Setoka Tomoe. She's tall from what he can tell— nearly the same height as Jinin when seated— with long, lustrous dirty-blonde hair styled in elaborate braids, heavily lidded, pink eyes, a strong jaw and an air of casual elegance. Fuguki would estimate her to be eighteen, maybe older.

He hasn't heard of her much before this meeting, just the usual gossip of kachū prodigies making their waves on the frontlines, but even then she rarely came up. Yet she must be incredibly strong— physically and mentally— to be able to impress Jinin and be chosen to wield Kabutowari in the future.

He files her name away for later, and focuses on the other newcomer. Of him, he's heard plenty more. Moyashi Yūji sits next to Munashi like he was born for this, looking like a perfect storybook prince: short brown hair, piercing black eyes, and an aristocratic face that would fit right in with the daimyō's family. He sits perfectly composed, shoulders rigid, one leg crossed over the other.

Fuguki looks over the Swordsmen one last time, then says, "Why are we here, Jūzō?"

Jūzō leans back in his chair, rocks back and forth, and Fuguki can see an older Akuto in the movements, though he thinks Jūzō's missing the impish grin his nephew tends to put on. No, Jūzō's dead serious. His dark grey eyes don't wander— they're still. Locking onto his own. Steady. Cold. "We've head a similar conversation before," Jūzō says. There's no hesitation to his voice. No warmth. Just the flat kind of finality of someone who's seen too much and expects worse. Fuguki thinks back on all the countless conversations and meetings he's had in the past few months and can't place any specifics. "Back when Raikage A died," Jūzō dies.

Fuguki remembers.

He sees Kisame glance at him in his peripheral. Ibuki shifts slightly, Jinin looks up from his drink, brows furrowed. A grin spreads on Kushimaru's face, as if he's smelled blood in the air— which, given the nature of their conversation then, he has— and Munashi stops drumming his fingers on the table. Zabuza, Setoka, and Moyashi all look at Jūzō curiously.

"Are you still concerned about the succession?" Munashi asks. He eyes Setoka, then Moyashi. "Why?"

"Yeah," Zabuza says, lifting his chin in a way that reminds Fuguki of Nanami. "Why would ya be worried 'bout the succession?"

Kisame grins, baring jagged teeth. "Haven't you paid attention at the Academy?" Zabuza glares at him. Kisame's grin widens. "Our successions are rather lovely."

Jinin drowns his sake. "You, Zabuza—Yūji, Tomoe, Kisame… you're all too young. You don't remember what it was like when we didn't have a Mizukage." His voice is flat, but there's something tense behind it, like an old scar pulling tight. "Truth is… barely anyone in this room does."

"I've heard the rumours," Moyashi says, voice measured, but with a spark behind his eyes. One Fuguki dislikes on sight— in Kiri, it can only mean one thing. Moyashi leans forward slightly, the corner of his mouth curling. "I'd like to hear what really happened. From someone who was there."

He fits right in, Fuguki thinks, maybe a touch too bitterly. Not just with the Swordsmen, but with the whole village. Thirsty for violence, happy to take lives. He'd need someone who teaches him how to value life— to value life in the first place— but he doubts Munashi is the right person for this. Quite the opposite, in fact. Munashi is the worst person for this, apart perhaps from Kushimaru and Hijiki Katsuro.

Jinin stares at the glass in front of him with a faraway look. "I was just a boy. Around ten. Old enough too remember, too young to understand fully." Moyashi leans in. Quiet. Listening. "My father was involved. My brother, too. All the clans were, one way or another." He exhales through his nose. Swirls the sake once, then drowns it. "The First War had just ended. The world was bleeding and the kage dropping like flies— Lord First, then Lord Second. Barely time to breathe between the funerals." A beat. "Couldn't've been more than three years between 'em."

"Lord First ruled from year one until year nineteen. Lord Second from year twenty until year thirty," says Setoka coldly. "From year thirty until year thirty-five, we had no ruling Mizukage—"

"We all can read history, Setoka-san," Moyashi says, not looking at her. "I'd rather hear what it was like to live it."

Kisame grins, Kushimaru snickers, and Zabuza snorts, "You two done sniffing each other, or what?"

Setoka doesn't rise to any of it. She lifts her glass and sips. "Very well," she says. "I imagine you'll learn more than you're ready for."

Jinin glances at Setoka, so minutely he knows only he, Jūzō and maybe Ibuki caught it. Then, Jinin leans back and continues, voice worn, "Like I said… it was bad. Real bad. Every damn kachū clan thought the Hat should be theirs. Moyashi, Hōzuki— those two were the loudest, but they weren't the only ones." Jinin pours himself another drink, then swirls it. "Meanwhile, Konoha had their little dynasty goin'. Hokage after Hokage, all liked to the Senju—"

"And Kumo had their As," Jūzō says wryly, much to the amusement of himself, Jinpachi, and a crackling Kushimaru.

Kisame doesn't grin when he speaks up this time. "Even Suna with their assassination curse have a more stable succession."

"And Iwa doesn't need one," Kushimaru says between crackles. "Because Ōnoki the Fence-Sitter refuses to kick the bucket."

"—Anyway. There were only four real contenders, as far as I remember. Could've been more, sure— but those got knocked out early. Or killed. Or both." Jinin taps his fingers once against the glass. "Four clans. One hat. You can do the math. It didn't start with battles. Started with whispers. Ambushes. Cold war shit. Guerilla tactics. Poisoned wells, burned fields, disappearances." A pause. "You name it? It happened." He shifts, jaw tight. "It was a bloody goddamn mess. Nothing like Lord Second's succession— he played the long game. Talked, bribed, cut deals. Had a whole little circle he pulled strings with."

Zabuza, slumped in his seat, grunts. "Whatever."

Jūzō sighs heavily. "Show some respect," he says and lightly smacks the back of Zabuza's head.

"What? Like you do?" Zabuza grumbles and crosses his arms.

Fuguki catches Jūzō's gaze and suppresses a sigh. With their luck, this succession is going to be as bad, if not worse, than the last one. He wishes it was like their first succession, Lord Second's, but he knows Hōzuki Ryūgetsu doesn't have the same sort of charisma that Lord Second had, one that allows him to charm his competitors and allies. Hōzuki Ryūgetsu relies on fear and respect— often both at once. Respect through fear.

But still. If it's only Ryūgetsu and one competitor, perhaps the whole thing'll be resolved internally in a matter of months.

"Hm," Moyashi says after a moment, his voice smooth. Still, there's a little hint of something Fuguki can't quite place but dislikes nonetheless. Excitement, perhaps. That would certainly fit right in. Apprehension, if he's being more optimistic. Moyashi's eyes remain fixed on Jinin. "Doesn't sound too bad."

Fuguki sighs inwardly. Excitement, alright.

Setoka rolls her eyes with a low scoff. "You've lost it, Moyashi. Almost as badly as Katsuro."

Moyashi's lips curl into a slow, measured grin. One that doesn't reach his eyes— those remain as cold as his heart. "You wound me, Setoka-san," he says lightly. "I thought we were getting along."

"I wish," she mutters under her breath, turning back toward her glass.

Zabuza, sprawled across his chair like he owns the floor, glares at both of them. "Shut up, both of you," he snaps. "You're fucking annoying. Fucking kachū."

Moyashi goes still. Too still.

Then he rises— graceful. Deliberate. His hand twitches toward the katana resting at his hip, fingers grazing the hilt like muscle memory. He doesn't raise his voice. But it's dangerously— tellingly— low. "What did you say, katō?"

Kushimaru crackles, delighted, the sound like tearing silk and broken teeth— one that he knows has haunted many a shinobi, Kiri and non-Kiri alike, on the battlefields. Munashi's eyes gleam as he leans forward, folding his hands together like this is dinner theatre. Setoka raises her eyebrows. Ibuki watches it all, bored.

Raiga wails.

Jūzō, Jinin and Fuguki exchange a look. It's one of those looks— one that says, "Again?"

Fuguki sighs heavily. This is exactly why he doesn't like being around his colleagues. Unfortunately, as it is, he often finds he doesn't have a choice.

Jūzō rests a hand on Zabuza's shoulder, to stop the lad from jumping into the fight. One Fuguki fears Moyashi would currently win. Zabuza is nothing to scoff at, a feral beast in his most intense moments, but Moyashi is older, stronger, and has had more focused training, likely since before he could even speak properly. Moyashi is also a prodigy among the likes of Hōzuki Gengetsu and Moyashi Byakuren himself and while Zabuza is a genius himself, there's still a gap between their levels.

For now, that is. He knows Zabuza is rapidly gaining strength with every passing day, never resting, and Moyashi's arrogance and entitlement might just become his undoing.

Kisame— who moved the second Moyashi's fingers touched the hilt of his katana— stands behind Moyashi, one large hand curled around the boy's shoulder. Not aggressive, Fuguki can tell. But firm. Final.

Kisame's other hand hovers near his broadsword, just in case.

"Sit," Kisame says, voice low and calm.

Moyashi doesn't turn around. His fingers tighten slightly on the hilt, but then, slowly, measuredly, he exhales and releases it. He sits, smooth as his sword itself, like he meant to do it all along.

Kisame leans in, just enough that only Moyashi hears. Fuguki pushes chakra to his ears, to listen in. "Pull your little katana again in this room," Kisame says, "and someone's going to bleed. Might not be you. Might be." He pauses. Grins, teeth bared. "But I'll enjoy it either way." Then he straightens and moves back to his seat beside Fuguki without fanfare.

Fuguki sighs, once again. He'll have to take his own criticism and teach Kisame about valuing life. Clearly, his apprentice has a bit of a sadistic streak going on.

Moyashi smooths his silk kimono sleeves, adjusting them carefully. He crosses one leg over the other, entirely composed. But his jaw is tight. "My apologies," he says to the room, too controlled to be anything but a mask. "It seems I mistook the conversation for a professional one."

"It's not," Zabuza says, glaring daggers. "It's personal."

"Everything in Kiri is," Moyashi replies, without looking at him.

Setoka says nothing. But the corner of her mouth twitches— just slightly. Approval? Maybe. Maybe not.

Kushimaru snickers again, threading something invisible between his fingers. Jūzō picks up his drink, as if to say "Glad that's over." Ibuki still watches, bored, and Munashi's amusement has dwindled, clearly disappointed nothing has escalated.

Fuguki doesn't even sigh this time. He's sure he looks as tired as he feels. "What about the succession," he asks after a few more moments of silence, to let everyone compose themselves and calm down, putting the meeting back on track.

Jūzō ruffles Zabuza's hair, much to the lad's displeasure, then drums his fingers on the table, once, twice, thrice. "A little birdie told me," he says, almost offhandedly, "that Doctor Iyokan Hiroya was recently called to the Mizukage Estate to presumably examine Lord Third."

"And?" asks Ibuki, yawning. Ibuki is slumped in his seat, his shoulders lowered and loose, and is picking at lint, clearly not interested in the slightest. Which means, of course, that he hangs onto every word. Fuguki takes a long look at Ibuki, then his eyes land back on Jūzō. Similar to the Moyashi clan, the Kinkan clan is slowly losing its relevance and status among the chūtō, with only Ibuki (and two others) keeping their power and the clan from an internal ridicule like the Moyashi are experiencing. Though— Fuguki glances at Moyashi— the lad seems to do well to rectify that.

Jūzō shrugs half-heartedly. But Fuguki can see the tension in his eyes and jaw. "It's bad. Doctor Iyokan diagnosed him with microscopic polyangiitis."

Raiga wails louder.

Fuguki momentarily closes his eyes. Sends prayers to all the gods he knows. "How bad is it?" he asks and, much to his surprise, his voice comes out stable. Even.

"Since Lord Third is stubborn—" Kushimaru crackles again. It's almost gleeful now, his brown eyes wide and bright, and his thin lips stretched into a wide grin. "—it was diagnosed pretty late—"

"Meaning?" Munashi interrupts, sneering. His hands are folded across his chest, and he is quickly tapping a foot against the hard wooden floor. His dark lips are pressed together in a thin line. Fuguki blinks. He did not expect that— he thought Munashi'd be right up there with Kushimaru, ready to jump into the next war.

"Meaning," Jūzō says, offering a bemused smile, "Lord Third is moments away from kidney failure, already has lung damage— pulmonary fibrosis, they called it— and some nerve damage."

Ibuki raises his eyebrows. "He has been coughing more lately."

"Katsuro says Lord Isui's stamina has been worsening," Setoka adds softly.

Zabuza frowns. "Are you friends with that bastard?"

"Are you?" Moyashi asks, then looks betrayed by himself for agreeing with Zabuza.

"None of your business."

Fuguki ignores them. "What's the prognosis?"

"Apparently, he either needs close, intensive treatment," Jūzō says through gritted teeth. "Or he only has a few years left— four years, tops."

Jinin leans forward, elbows on his knees, and closes his eyes. "And he's too proud to accept treatment," he says, sighing in resignation.

Kushimaru crackles, in delight this time. "We'll be at war again!"

"Can we even afford a civil war?" Ibuki frowns. "Or sustain one?"

Fuguki speaks this time. "No to both— and technically, we're still at war with Kumo and Konoha."

"I thought it ended?" asks Zabuza, running his hand through his closely cropped hair.

"Most of the fighting has," Setoka says coldly but not unkindly. "Iwagakure has fully surrendered, as have most of the minor Lands— none of them are able to sustain the war they started— and Kumogakure had dialled down their fighting with the death of the Fourth Raikage, but they haven't surrendered yet; neither have we. So, yes, Suikazan-senpai is right, we are technically still at war."

Zabuza nods, grunts his thanks, then leans back against the chair, and props his leg up on the table. For the split of a second Fuguki allows a soft smile to pass on his face. Zabuza really does remind him of his Nanami and Akuto. He catches Fuguki's gaze and grins brashly, baring jagged teeth. Yeah, Fuguki thinks with an inward snort, Akuto would like him.

Moyashi asks the burning question. "Then… who do you believe might be considered viable candidates?"

"Not you," Munashi says at once, leering.

Fuguki sighs heavily. "He didn't ask you, did he?" Munashi glares at him but he holds the gaze until Munashi turns away with a scoff, crossing his arms and staring at the table instead. Fuguki turns to Moyashi. "What Munashi means to say is that you're too young yet to properly compete for the Hat. In a few years, this might be an entirely different story, though."

Zabuza snorts. "Fuguki-senpai means you're too weak."

"Too inexperienced," Setoka adds with a trace of playful amusement.

Moyashi exhales softly, the hint of a smile brushing his lips. "Duly noted," he says. His tone is pleasant. Neutral. With not a flicker of offense. But Fuguki has the strange feeling that Moyashi is watching this, remembering.

Ibuki taps his lips. "Hōzuki Ryūgetsu would be a prime candidate— the most popular certainly."

"Among the kachū maybe," Zabuza argues, snorting.

Moyashi tenses, then exhales through his nose and crosses his arms. "Well, forgive us if your opinion wasn't consulted— clanless katō voices tend to have less weight in succession matters."

Zabuza freezes for half a second, grin twitching wider, too sharp to be friendly. "Who's got your panties in a twist?"

Before Moyashi can say anything, Kisame speaks up. "Easy," he says, voice smooth and full of sarcasm. He places his palms flat on the table and grins. Sharp. Unbothered. Ready to fight.

That's when Fuguki claps. The sound cracks like Kiba through battlefields. He rises, towering above the others, drawing the attention to him. Kisame starts to rise too, automatically, but Fuguki lifts a brow, and Kisame sits back down without protest.

Zabuza mutters something under his breath. Moyashi just smooths his sleeves again.

"Moyashi is correct," he says, walking up and down the room. "Besides Hōzuki Ryūgetsu, the other clans cannot present a candidate more suited for the Hat— they can try, certainly. The Hijiki might try and build a dynasty with Hijiki Katsuro—"

Setoka grimaces. "Katsuro certainly wants it."

"—and the Moyashi might think of trying to instate Hiromitsu or Yasuharu." Moyashi nods. "Or perhaps even Yūji here, if Lord Third does manage to live for more years. And the Setoka—"

"And the Setoka will support their allies," Setoka says, voice cold as ice. Fuguki raises his eyebrow at her. "Apologies," she says, sounding vaguely like she means it.

Zabuza grins. "If it's just the kachū, we can just stay out of it. Don't matter to us what bastard gets the hat. They're all the same, anyway."

Jūzō grimaces for the split of a second.

Fuguki's eyes snap to him at once.

"Unfortunately," Jūzō says wryly. He drums his fingers against the table again. Once, twice, thrice. Then, calm as still water before the fall, he says, "Rumour has it, Karatachi Yagura wants the Hat."

For a heartbeat, the room seems to forget it exists. The silence doesn't settle over them. It slams. Like a pressure drop before a storm. Like a kunai hovering just above the skin. Like the breath before a scream.

Setoka's pink eyes widen— just a flicker— but it's the most emotion she has shown all night. Moyashi doesn't move at first. Then, slowly, he straightens in his seat. His mouth opens, as if to speak, but no words come. He exhales through his nose and folds his hands in his lap. Raiga wails again. Jinin drowns his seventh glass of the evening. Ibuki curses under his breath and even Munashi and Kushimaru go quiet, the latter's grin faltering.

Fuguki's blood runs cold.

He doesn't blink. Doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe.

And then, like a crack splitting the surface—

"Karatachi?" Ibuki says, his voice ragged with disbelief. He sounds as stunned as Fuguki feels. "A katō?"

Zabuza looks around the table, frowning. "Who's Karatachi? He anyone important?"

"One of our jinchūriki," Moyashi says, just a touch too quickly. Like he's eager to show that he knows something as well. "The Three-Tails, if I'm not mistaken." He sits a touch straighter and adjusts his obi. "The other one is younger. Also katō."

"Utakata," Setoka adds.

Jinin refills his glass to the brim, fingers tight around it. He knocks it back in one swallow. "How do you know?" he asks. "How sure are you?"

Jūzō meets his gaze without blinking. "Very."

They fall silent again. And Kushimaru's grin fades completely. He watches the others, like a predator about to strike its target, and leans forward. Munashi reaches for the sake bottle, pours everyone nearby a glass, and drowns his in sync with Jinin. Raiga lowers his head and grips Kiba tightly. Ibuki crosses his arms but his jaw works soundlessly, like he wants to say something but can't quite find a place to put the words. Setoka and Moyashi glance at each other. Zabuza looks at Jūzō— who is spinning a kunai in his hand— and Kisame is already searching for Fuguki's gaze.

Then Kushimaru breaks into a grin. A slow, horrible thing. Jagged and hungry. "A jinchūriki with ambition," he drawls, delighted. "How delicious."

"You're not getting it," Jinin says quietly, not rising, not raising his voice. "If Karatachi Yagura puts his name forward— even hints at it— it stops being a clan matter." He looks around the table, jaw tight. "This won't be politics. It'll be civil war."

He lets that hang. As if daring someone to fill in the blanks.

They all know.

If a katō— and a jinchūriki to boot— so much as dares to even think about declaring for the Hat, this stops being a kachū-internal clan conflict. It would become a caste-wide conflict. And since Ryūgetsu would rather die a thousand deaths at the hands of any Konoha-nin than see a katō rise to power, this will certainly escalate. Beyond assassinations. Beyond skirmishes. Beyond the occasional ally disappearing.

A katō candidate breaks the unspoken rules. There's no precedent. No compromise.

Fuguki can feel it in his bones. Suddenly, he understands why Jūzō called for a meeting— called for all of them. He takes a long look over every one of his colleagues and wonders if he'll see them on his side or on his opposition.

He rubs his forehead.

If Karatachi Yagura truly declares for the Hat…

No one can tell how that ends.