---
The morning mist had not yet lifted from the forested ridges when Team 11 emerged from the trail. A cold dampness clung to their flak jackets and skin, mingling with the iron scent of blood left in the aftermath of the skirmish. The trees around them stood still, their trunks draped in damp moss, their leaves heavy with dew, shrouded in mist. The silence of the forest was almost unnatural, a heaviness pressing down on the air like it was holding its breath.
The bandits had come out of nowhere.
And now, they were gone.
Asenari moved like a phantom between the fallen, her pale hands already soaked in chakra-tinged blood as she crouched over Noboru's side. His breath came in shallow bursts, his face pale, but despite the grimace of pain, he was alive.
"Hold still," Asenari murmured, pressing her fingers to his ribs. Green light flared briefly around her palms, the faint hum of chakra vibrating in the air like a whisper. She worked quickly, her brow furrowed in concentration, but there was a gentle care in the way she handled him. He was her teammate, but something more. She had healed him countless times, but it never got easier.
Noboru gave a low groan, wincing as he shifted. "Damn, that hurt like a bitch..." He tried to chuckle but it turned into a coughing fit, the air sharp with his wheezy breaths.
Akira stood a short distance away, his katana loosely in hand, its edge wet. His Sharingan had faded, but the echoes of that crimson clarity still lingered in his mind. The swirl of motion, the split-second decisions, the instincts sharpened to the edge of impossibility—it always left a residue. Not just exhaustion. A kind of hollowness.
The young Uchiha didn't speak. He rarely did after combat.
Instead, he stared at a body nearby. The last bandit—the one who had nearly skewered Noboru before Akira's blade took him in the throat—now lay still. The corpse looked… small now. Human. Blood pooled beneath its neck, staining the earth. For a moment, Akira couldn't tear his gaze away. The man was dead. His life had been snuffed out in the blink of an eye, a fleeting thing that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. Yet, Akira felt that same hollow weight settle in his chest.
Exhaling slowly, Akira blinked, shaking off the thoughts. He couldn't afford to dwell on them now.
He clenched his fist, feeling the pulse of his chakra still humming faintly through his fingers. It was a residual echo. But it lingered, just beneath the surface, an itch that wouldn't be scratched.
"Hey," Noboru grunted through clenched teeth, breaking the silence. "That was some damn fancy sword work. You saving my butt or showing off?"
Asenari gave him a sharp look but didn't pause in her healing. "He saved your liver. Maybe thank him when you can stand."
"Yeah, yeah," Noboru muttered, half-laughing, half-coughing. His voice was rough with the aftertaste of pain, but there was a grin on his face. The same grin Akira had come to expect from him in any situation, no matter how dire.
Akira turned toward them. The expression on his face was unreadable, as always, but his eyes softened just a little.
"I saw the trap too late," he said. His voice was calm, flat even, but there was something underneath it. The unspoken guilt that hovered between them, unacknowledged. "Won't happen again."
"That makes two of us," Asenari murmured, finishing the last pass of her green-lit chakra hand over Noboru's ribs. "He'll bruise like hell, but he'll walk."
"Damn straight I will." Noboru pushed himself upright, the pain evident in his face as he straightened. He hissed as his ribs protested the movement. "Okay—standing might wait a few minutes."
Akira's lips twitched. It wasn't much, but it was enough. The tightness in his chest seemed to ease, if only slightly. Noboru never changed.
They sat in silence for a moment—just the three of them beneath the trees. The sun was still low, the mist swirling around them like a ghost, the faint hum of the forest filling the air. The leaves rustled softly in the slight breeze, but everything felt muffled, like the world was dampened by the aftermath of violence.
Somewhere deeper in the forest, a bird let out a low call, unanswered.
Then Asenari spoke, her voice quieter now, softer than before. "We were sloppy. They used the terrain, chokepoints… they knew someone would come through here."
"Think we were baited?" Noboru asked, his voice hoarse but tinged with a smirk.
"Feels that way," Akira answered, his tone just a little colder than before.
She looked over at him. "You alright?"
Akira nodded, but didn't meet her eyes. "Fine."
But he wasn't. Not entirely.
The tremor in his fingers hadn't shaken off yet.
The moment his blade entered that man's throat... it had felt too easy. Too clean. The sharp slice of steel through flesh, the warm gush of blood. The force of his chakra, amplified in that singular, perfect strike. But it didn't feel like victory. It felt… hollow.
Pushing it down, he refocused on the present. Not now. Not here.
"Let's move," he said, his voice firm. "We still need to report back to the outpost."
Asenari rose without protest, her movements deliberate and controlled. Noboru grumbled and leaned on her shoulder, the weight of his injury forcing him to rely on her, and together, they began walking back through the mist-wreathed trail, their steps quieter now. Heavier.
Behind them, the forest slowly swallowed the bodies and blood. The mist clung to the ground like a blanket, covering up the remnants of the skirmish, hiding them from the world. The silence was oppressive, as if the forest itself was mourning what had just transpired.
And yet, somewhere else, far from the team's notice, a figure stood hunched on a high branch, watching them.
His silhouette was shrouded in shadow, blending with the darkness beneath the canopy. Spiky blue hair stood out against the grey-green backdrop of the forest, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of curiosity and something darker. A long, cracked flask hung loosely from his belt, and his bloodshot eyes never left the trio below.
"Still… they made it this far," he muttered to himself, the corners of his mouth twitching into something like a smirk. "Something interesting… finally."
His voice was low, rough, as if he had been talking to himself for too long, the words slipping out with an almost bitter edge. His fingers clenched around the flask, the motion sharp and jerky, like he was trying to suppress something deep within.
The mist around him seemed to ripple, distorting the air just slightly. He exhaled slowly, as if savoring the quiet before whatever storm was about to break. He hadn't counted on them surviving the ambush. And yet, here they were. Just one more piece in a game he had only just begun to understand.
"Not yet. But soon."
He took a swig from his flask, eyes gleaming with something between guilt and anticipation, before he melted back into the shadows, disappearing as silently as he had arrived.
And in the distance, far above, the mist seemed to shudder. The faintest flicker of distorted light blinked out near the stars.
No one noticed. Not yet.