The pungent stench of day-old blood hit him before he even saw the black patch in the narrow mountain path.

Long shadows stretched over the ghastly trail, lined with the cinders of burnt paper lanterns. Pausing at the threshold, Danzō took in the aftermath of last night's slaughter. The scrambled footprints and forgotten trinkets had turned the paved stones into a red and black brocade under the agonizing light of sunset. It looked so… quiet. Eerily beautiful.

Or it would have been, if not for the pair of severed fingers waiting for him at his feet.

He glanced at the Jizō statues standing watch by the roadside, their stone smiles unwavering even in the face of those they failed to protect. Swirling the jug of saké he'd bought from the old geezer, he listened to the meager slosh inside. He winced.

"Next time, I'll bring one for you too," he excused, taking a long swig for himself. The cheap, vinegary stuff burned his throat in all the wrong ways. He relished it.

Wiping his chin with the rough cloth and worn iron of his vambraces, he dropped a small stack of loose stones at the foot of the closest statue. He'd better get moving; he barely had any light left—and he wasn't one to linger around death anyway.

But then again, what was he lingering for?

The world flickered between pools of shadow and dying light as he walked. Every other step crunched over combs, pipes, and shattered tobacco boxes. Their echoes carried through the empty gallery of trees, tumbling down the hillside into the valley below. He picked up the pace amidst a dead murder of crows—some of them still with a bite halfway down their beaks. Up the bend, a pair of feet dragged limply through the underbrush. He chased after, heart thrumming in his head. And there, he saw it: a small figure bathed in red, tugging at a body nearly twice its size.

A small figure that breathed.

"You idiot!" He snapped, his voice booming in the empty road.

Swallowing a shriek, the boy stumbled back. Fear flashed clear as daylight in his eyes—his gaze unfocused, darting past Danzō's shoulders and catching on the glint of mail, beneath his collar. But then it softened as it traced the worn brocade lining his cloak. Lingered briefly on the dull-crimson lacquer of his scabbard before stilling itself beneath the fraying hood.

"What the hell are you still doing here?" Danzō asked, slightly annoyed by the defiant glint in the boy's wary gaze. He'd expected—well, anything but.

"Can' leave," the kid muttered, shrinking slightly even as he held his gaze.

Danzō drew a sharp breath. He turned, eyeing the dense underbrush encroaching on the narrow path, the gaps between ancient cedars that once neatly lined the road, and the steep drops just beyond. From up here, the way down wasn't nearly as clear-cut as it had seemed from Innai. The corners of his mouth tightened. Of course the kid couldn't leave…

"Let's go," he grumbled, giving a tentative step toward the valley.

"Can' leave."

Danzō's brow twitched. What?

"Why?" he spat through gritted teeth. The boy stood slowly, wobbling as he wiped the bloodied dirt from his palms. Without saying a word, he wrapped his arms around the corpse's neck, and tugged its dead weight backward—toward the hollow roots of a fallen pine a few steps ahead, beneath which lay a dozen corpses, half-buried beneath dry leaves, pine needles, and sticks.

For the love of Buddha. "They're dead! They don't care anymore!" Danzō exploded, throwing his arms up with the exasperation of more than a day of restless, unrelenting—what? Anger? Shame? He scoffed in disbelief. Why the hell had he bothered?

"I care."

Wild-eyed, Danzō stared at the stupid boy, nearly swallowed by the nobody he dragged toward a grave kinder than the bastard deserved. There was an obstinate stubbornness in the way he struggled with a weight probably three times his own—but also something of a steadfast tenderness and care not to pull or rip anything as he did it. He'd seen that care. That mulish glint beneath the boy's hood.

Damned those eyes.

"… Move."

Hoisting the corpse onto his own shoulders, Danzō crossed the distance to the hollow pine in a few strides. He found a spot between a large, bloated lump and a bird-boned girl in a pink, flowered dress—and laid the body as gently as he could manage, despite the way his skin crawled.

The boy shuffled next to him, carrying an armful of dirt, leaves, and pine needles to blanket the poor bastard with. He'd been too thin for a bodyguard, yet too wiry for a merchant. "A slave too?" Danzō asked as he watched the boy pick small handfuls at a time to cover him from head to toe.

"Mm. Bandit."

Danzō stared.

"He can't 'urt no one now though."

It was the most idiotic answer he'd ever heard. Borderline insane. As if that pink, flowered strip sewn onto the boy's hood marked precisely where his head had split.

His gaze drifted to the bird-boned girl's dress, its bloodied sleeve missing an inch of cloth.

"Stupid boy," Danzō muttered, shoulders sagging slightly.

He stood back as the kid continued to cover what was left of them with stones and sticks. He didn't point out how futile it was. A stubborn crow could easily undo all the boy's work—let alone a peckish bear. He just waited in silence until the kid stuck an upright branch at the head of each mound. Then, slowly, almost affectionately, Danzō uncorked his jug of saké and poured it onto each one—its scent swept away by the rising wind.

"I have no incense, no offering but this," he began, his voice rough around the edges. "But to die without knowing the taste of a good saké is a crime—be it man, woman, or child."

Glass-eyed, the boy watched the last drops scattering in the fading light. His fingers uncoiled. Then, a slight, shallow nod over an even shallower breath—a silent 'thank you'.

Danzō corked the empty jug with a grunt. Stepping back towards the road, he winced at a rough spot, still parched right at the back of his throat. Such a waste… Had he saved a drink or two, he could've enjoyed it under the first stars, aggressively shimmering against the blueing sky above his head. He could already feel the chill seeping inside his collar. That would be a cold, cold night…

"Come," he beckoned over his shoulder as he bundled up for the road back.

A quiet shuffle snapped him back and he turned to face the pair of large, clear eyes emerging from the underbrush. The boy swayed in place, waiting—ready to follow him home like a lost pup. What was he going to do with that kid? Winter ain't kind to mouths that can't work, Danzō remembered with a wince. The boy could definitely use a bowl or soup or two, and he certainly didn't see how he could fare against the smallest bale of rice, but to put him down just because he was a bit of a runt…

But what was the difference between letting him rot on a mountain in death, and doing it in life in such a dead-eyed, backwater village?

Well… to hell with that.

His grip tightened around the empty jug. "Let's go," he ordered, decidedly turning his back to the valley up north. "Leave the dead to their rest"

The boy looked back to the silent graveyard hidden in the underbrush. And didn't move.

Danzō's brow furrowed. "You won't forget them," he assured. "You will remember the weight of their lives, of the things they never did. But wallowing won't help you—or honor their memory."

The woods sighed in the breeze. He couldn't see the boy's face under his patched hood, but what he could see were his tiny hands, squeezing and twisting the bloodied front of his robe. Fair enough, Danzō thought as he took a deep breath in: He had needed a little nudge long ago too.

"Boy. Name?"

For a moment, the wind stilled. Fluttered.

Then, barely a whisper: "… Shinta."

A soft smile curved Danzō's lips as he turned his back to the boy, picturing the vast paddies of the valley, ripe rice swaying softly over the quiet pools mirroring the skies. "That name is too soft for the world you were born into."

A low rustle, like cloth folding onto itself.

"Your only chance is to become strong yourself," he continued, placing a heavy hand on the hilt of his sword. "From now on, you'll be Boro."

"… Bo… ro?"

Looking over his shoulder, Danzō sized the scrawny little figure now facing him straight on. "You're broken, boy—stitched together with grief and guts. Nothing will put you right again. But you'll live on."

Beneath his small hood, the boy's eyes were ablaze. He smirked.

"I'll make sure you grow into it."

But he wouldn't know how quickly that promise would sour.