Chapter 9: Smoke and Silence
The morning came with smoke. Not the thick, choking kind of fire, but a soft, steady drift from the north side of camp—where the wounded were brought in and the dead were burned.
Ren didn't look away this time.
Three shinobi had returned during the night, carried in on stretchers. Two were unconscious. One had no arm. The fourth came in walking, but his eyes were blank. Hollow. Like whatever he saw had stayed with him, carved into his mind.
Ren watched from the edge of the tent. He had been assigned to help carry water and clean bandages—menial work, but close enough to listen.
A medic-nin barked instructions. A genin wept softly while holding a comrade's hand. One of the younger orphans vomited behind a crate. No one scolded him. No one had the energy.
It was the first time Ren had seen a shinobi cry.
---
By midday, the worst of the chaos had settled. Ren stood in the sun scrubbing blood from metal tools with cloth and alcohol. The scent burned his nose. His hands were sore. But he kept scrubbing.
"You're not squeamish," a chunin medic said, watching him.
Ren didn't look up. "It's just blood."
The chunin snorted. "Right. Just blood. Remember that when you see your own."
Ren filed that away.
He wasn't brave. Not yet. But he could learn.
---
The jonin returned that afternoon.
This time, he didn't walk through the camp in silence. This time, he called names.
Five children were chosen—three boys, two girls. All of them older than Ren. All of them had shown skill. One had already activated his chakra. Another could use a basic jutsu.
Ren stood at the edge of the group, heart quiet.
He wasn't called.
Of course he wasn't.
But he watched.
The jonin's eyes moved slowly, measuring the orphans like weapons on a rack.
Taro, arms crossed and face like stone, said nothing. Haru watched, wide-eyed, gripping the hem of his shirt.
One of the girls chosen began to cry softly.
Ren didn't know why.
Excitement?
Or fear?
---
The next day, the chosen five were gone.
Just like that.
No goodbyes. No ceremony. No promises.
Just silence.
And empty spots in the tents.
Ren returned to his cleaning.
---
That evening, as dusk painted the sky with streaks of orange and purple, Ren carried water to the medic tent again. On his way back, he stopped. Not because of the view—but because of the smell.
Smoke. Closer this time.
A burning cart. Supplies wasted. Shouts from the outer perimeter. Movement.
Chunin sprinting past. Genin snapping to attention. A siren—not mechanical, but a shrill bird cry from a signal summon—pierced the air.
"Bandit scouts," someone shouted.
"Just a warning raid!"
Ren stood still. Breath shallow. Muscles tight.
He wasn't trained. He wasn't armed.
But he didn't run.
This wasn't bravery.
This was instinct. Stillness.
He crouched low behind a broken fence, watching as a squad of genin formed a defensive line. The bandits never reached the camp. The shinobi pushed them back quickly—trained blades and well-aimed kunai driving the untrained raiders into the trees.
But it didn't feel like a victory.
One of the orphans—a boy no older than Ren—had been hit in the leg by a stray shuriken.
Ren helped carry him.
He didn't look away from the blood.
---
Later that night, Haru sat beside him on the steps of the supply hut.
"You didn't run," Haru said quietly.
Ren shook his head. "There was nowhere to run."
"You were calm."
"No," Ren said honestly. "I was frozen."
"Still felt brave."
Ren didn't reply. He didn't feel brave. He felt cold.
But he remembered how the medic had thanked him.
And how the injured boy had gripped his sleeve and whispered, "Don't leave me."
He hadn't.
---
In the early morning, Ren returned to his hidden place beneath the trees.
The forest was quiet again. The camp was rebuilding. But the air still tasted like ash.
He sat.
Breathed.
And began the meditation.
Root. Sacral. Solar. Heart. Throat. Third eye.
He didn't reach for the seventh.
But the sixth burned brighter now. Not hot, but clear. Focused.
He didn't understand it.
But he accepted it.
---
When he returned to the camp, the medic-nin who'd scolded him before called out.
"You. Water boy."
Ren stepped forward.
"You ever stitch a wound?"
"No."
"You're going to learn."
And just like that, he was handed a needle.
The thread trembled in his fingers, but he didn't drop it.
---
He was still weak. Still untrained.
But they needed hands.
And his were steady.
---
Later that night, as he scraped rust from old kunai near the fire pit, Taro sat beside him without speaking. Just dropped a sharpened stone next to him and started working.
After a moment, Haru joined too.
None of them said anything.
But the silence felt less empty.
More like a promise.
They were still here.
Still breathing.
Still surviving.
And Ren, in his quiet way, was becoming something more than a number on a ration list.
Not a ninja.
Not yet.
But something real.
A flicker of purpose in the smoke and silence.