Sakura's voice came soft beside us, cutting through the silence like a timid breeze. “...Um, Sasuke-kun,” she said. We turned our eyes toward her. “Are there ninjas in the Land of the Waves too?”
“No,” we replied, our gaze shifting back to the dirt road stretching ahead. “No, there are not... But most other lands have hidden villages where shinobi clans reside. Just like Konoha. For most countries, these villages serve a militant purpose. Mercenaries, more often than not. But they also fill roles of national importance. They guard borders, handle intelligence, espionage. Counter-terrorism, state defence, internal security. That sort of thing.”
We glanced at her, watching her face twist up with confusion.
“You find it strange that the Land of the Waves doesn’t have its own ninja village despite the need?”
She nodded, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
“Well,” we continued, “there’s a myth among lower-level shinobi, a tale the civilians cling to. It’s said that small island nations, isolated and hard to invade, have no need for shinobi villages. But that’s just a lie. And before you ask how I know this, think for a moment: do those minor nations have a choice in the matter? Could they refuse a shinobi clan wanting to establish a village within their borders?”
“A choice?” she echoed, her brow furrowed.
“Yes, a choice. If a clan decided today to settle in the Land of the Waves, to create their own hidden village, do you think the civilian government could just say no? If they did, I’d be surprised if they weren’t replaced by a puppet regime before the day was over.”
Sakura frowned, pondering. But it wasn’t her voice that broke the silence next. Kakashi stepped forward. “But why?” he asked, curiosity clear in his voice. “If it’s so easy for a shinobi village to take over, why haven’t they done it already? Infact, what stops Konoha, or any other village, from toppling the Daimyō and ruling the country themselves?”
His gaze held ours, waiting. We glanced at Sakura, her wide eyes still searching for understanding. The question lingered, delicate, as if fragile in the wrong hands. ‘Should we tell them?’ We wondered, weighing the tactical cost of divulging our thoughts on this matter against the micro-reactions we would be able to glean from the Jōnin should we continue.
“It would disrupt the balance of power,” we finally said. “No other shinobi village would allow the rise of another, especially not in a strategic location like the Land of Waves. Those shipping lanes, for instance—they’re too important to let fall into the hands of a foreign power. Our current mission proves that. Do you think the Hokage authorized an investigation into the death of the owner of the Gatō Company simply for money? The Daimyō himself is involved. That means national interests are at stake. Any shift in the power structure of the Land of the Waves would have implications that extend far beyond the reaches of its shores."
We observed Kakashi, his quiet contemplation, the way he processed each word. His pulse, muscle contractions, the minute eddies in his chakra pool, and even the composition of his sweat. It was like watching someone arrange delicate pieces in a mosaic, careful not to disturb the pattern. As we watched, our secondary brain―a super dense cluster of neurons tucked away behind our T2 to T7 vertebrae―worked hard at deciphering the stream of data we were feeding it.
"And as for why the Hokage doesn’t rule the Land of Fire directly," we continued, "well, such a move would unravel the balance between the villages. The First Hokage ensured civilian governments took control long ago, perhaps as a safeguard―a mistake, no doubt. But now, with power consolidated as it is, no single village could hope to undo that structure without considerable cost. Even the Daimyōs, though civilians, control the economic lifeblood of their nations. Their removal would lead to chaos, the kind that would take months—if not years—to resolve."
Kakashi remained still, considering, while Naruto’s impatient voice broke through once more, a jarring contrast to the weight of our words.
"Oi, Sasuke, what are you even talking about?"
Beside us, Sakura’s temper flared, and for a moment, we saw the impulse to leap to our defence in her eyes. It was a predictable reaction, almost amusing in its intensity.
But there was no need for it.
"It’s nothing important," we said, our voice a balm meant to soothe. Naruto, appeased by the dismissive tone, let the matter drop. And with that, the conversation drifted into silence, as fleeting as the fog gathering around us.
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"Wow," Naruto muttered, his voice quiet with awe. "I can barely see a thing in this fog."
"We’ll be at the bridge soon," our porter said from the back of the canoe.
"A bridge?" Sakura asked, her brows furrowed as she glanced at a map. "There’s no bridge on my map."
"It was constructed recently," the porter explained. "Though work stopped after the architect disappeared."
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“...This architect,” Kakashi asked, his voice quiet, “was his name Tazuna?”
The porter blinked. “Yes. You know him?”
“...Who’s Tazuna?” Sakura asked.
Kakashi sighed, running a hand down his face. “The Hokage briefed me about other missions related to the Land of Waves. Tazuna requested protection a while ago. He claimed he had important documents and needed escort through dangerous territory. But he wasn’t completely honest. When the team assigned to him realized he was the target of an assassination far exceeding what they were hired for, they cut him loose.”
“They abandoned him?” Naruto exclaimed.
“I can’t blame them,” Kakashi said, resting a hand on Naruto’s head. “One of the Genin on the team was poisoned during the attack. They had to bring her back for medical attention. There was no way they could continue.”
“So… Tazuna is dead?” the porter asked, his face darkening.
The silence that followed was heavy, laden with things left unsaid. But it was all the answer any of us needed.
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As we drifted down the inland waterway, the gentle rhythm of the water against the hull seemed to lull us all into a contemplative silence. It was our porter who finally broke it. "Best take the inland way," he said. "Safer there, through the mangroves. Gatō might be missing—hopefully dead—but his men are still very much a menace around these parts. With no one to pay them anymore, and the Gatō shipping company in ruins, they’ve turned to extortion. You’d probably prefer to go unnoticed. If they find us, they’ll stir up trouble, and you folks wanna avoid that, I reckon.”
Kakashi only nodded. We pushed forward through the waterway, the mangroves thickening around us, sheltering our passage until, finally, we arrived at a small fishing shack perched on stilts.
“This is as far as I go,” the porter said, bringing the canoe to a halt alongside a rickety wooden jetty. We stepped out, murmured our thanks, and left him as we moved into town.
Sakura looked around, her brow drawn tight. “Where to now, Kakashi-sensei?”
“Tazuna has a daughter and grandson,” he replied, sounding as though he’d already anticipated the question. “It would be prudent to seek them out. They may know something.”
We walked into the town, its atmosphere pressing down on us like a damp fog. It was, by all appearances, a place long abandoned by hope. The streets were narrow and filthy, their stones slick with mud and refuse. Buildings leaned at odd angles, their wooden frames rotting and disintegrating, roofs sagging from neglect. Even the air smelled of decay—a mix of stale water, sewage, and the faintly sweet stench of garbage left to rot in the gutters.
There were people, though, dotted through the alleys, looking as hollow and bedraggled as their surroundings. Children darted in and out of shadowed doorways, their eyes dull, their faces smeared with dirt. A few of them watched us, curious but wary. One, braver than the rest, tugged at the hem of my cloak. He was small, barely more than skin and bones, his eyes wide with an imploring look.
We crouched down, offering him a small sweet from my pouch. He stared at it for a long moment before snatching it, his hand disappearing into the folds of his ragged clothes. Men shuffled by with signs around their necks, offering labour, offering anything. A cloaked figure ran by, clutching loaves to their chest as cries of “thief” were hurled by the merchants chasing them.
We moved on, weaving our way toward the centre of town. It was there we found what passed for a market, though the few stalls that remained looked more like remnants of better days. Behind one, an old man sat hunched, his face deeply lined, his eyes hooded beneath heavy brows. As we entered, he gave us a long, scrutinizing look.
“What happened here?” Sakura whispered.
An old man behind the counter of a store shook his head, overhearing her. “What happened? Gatō happened. That’s what.” His voice was raspy, worn like the rags he wore. He didn't look at us, but his resignation was bare to see.
“Cowards, fools, all of us now,” he muttered. “What’ll it be, then?”
We gestured to a handful of vegetables. Sparse, withered things—withered and ageing, barely fit to eat—on near-empty shelves. He took them, packed them up in silence. As he did that, Kakashi coaxed the man into conversation. It wasn’t long before he mentioned Tazuna’s family, the names we’d been hoping to hear.
“His daughter? Tsunami, wasn’t it?” Kakashi asked, carefully neutral.
The old man nodded. “Tsunami and her boy, Inari. They live just up the road.”
With a direction set, we made our way out of the market. At last, We made our way to the house. Simple. Quiet. But the woman who answered the door was nothing but fire. Rage etched in every line of her face.
“Get away,” she snarled. “Get away from my family.”
Peeking from behind her was a boy—Inari, we presumed. His eyes, wide and unblinking, met mine. In those depths, we saw something that fascinated me: the unmistakable glint of hatred, pure and unformed, but potent.
What a fragile, beautiful thing we had found.
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It wasn’t hard to get permission to investigate on our own. Kakashi probably knew, probably expected us to circle back. He sent a clone, thinking it’d be enough. It wasn’t.
Now, we found ourself standing before the door of Inari’s room, a subtle flare of chakra unlocking it with ease. The door creaked as it opened, revealing the small figure seated by the window, staring out at the sea.
The boy turned slowly, his eyes meeting ours. “Why?” he asked, his voice a quiet monotone.
We tilted our head, unsure of his meaning.
“Why did they have to die?”
We didn’t answer. Our Sharingan flickered to life, reading his thoughts, the surface of his thoughts. Names floated up—Tazuna, Kaiza—both father figures, both dead. His grief hung over him like a shadow, hate boiling underneath. Hatred. Pure, unadulterated hatred. And yet, there was potential in it.
“They were weak,” I said at last. “You were weak.”
He didn’t flinch. He only stared harder, out at the endless grey of the ocean. “Will Mama die too?”
“Probably,” I replied, indifferent. “She is weak.”
There was a long silence. Finally, he looked back at me, his voice calm, almost detached. “You’re strong. You could protect her.”
“Yes,” I said, “easily.”
“Will you?”
“For a price.”
“What do you want?”
I smiled.
“Your soul.”