Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Rin stood quietly in the corner of the workshop, her sharp eyes fixed on Jiraiya-sama as he bent over the scroll. He muttered to himself, the brush in his hand moving with precision even as his words betrayed irritation. He was sulking about the work — but still doing it very efficiently and seriously. Good — he knew their Lord Hokage never made them do useless things. To him, she was just another silent, masked and anonymous laboratory assistant to the Hokage —he had no idea of her identity. Only the Hokage, Nono, and Kabuto knew the truth. Kabuto…young as he was, had already proven himself an unsettling genius, training her relentlessly in medicine and combat. Chakra scalpels, she had learned, were nasty. 

“Heartbeats and entry wards?” Jiraiya groaned, throwing down the brush in frustration. “Why does Hiruzen need both? Track the number of people entering and leaving, fine, but now we’re counting heartbeats, too? What’s next, tracking sneezes? Who in their right mind is worried about ghosts sneaking into the Hokage Tower?”

He rubbed a hand through his ink-streaked hair, the motion making his irritation even more pronounced. “And matching the two numbers to trigger a signal? It’s absurd! The Hokage can’t seriously think someone’s just going to appear inside the building, bypassing every other defense.”

Rin’s expression didn’t waver, though she found herself biting back a faint smile. The Hokage’s paranoia wasn’t misplaced, and her own experience with death coupled to Kabuto’s lessons had reinforced that in gruesome detail. There were threats that didn’t need doors to get inside, enemies who could erase their chakra signatures or bypass detection entirely. Ghosts weren’t the issue—real danger was far worse. Jiraiya grumbled louder, waving his brush at the scroll like it had insulted him. “This isn’t sealing work; this is punishment!”

Jiraiya let out a long, theatrical sigh, but his hands moved with the precision of a craftsman, the brush tracing flawless arcs and lines across the parchment. “Punishment…For what? I stopped spying on women!” he grumbled, though the edge in his voice had softened, replaced by a simmering unease. For all his bluster, he knew his Sensei too well—this wasn’t overkill for its own sake. If the old man wanted something as meticulous as seals that tracked heartbeats and movement, it wasn’t paranoia; it was preparation. That realization tightened the air around him, a subtle tension creeping into his shoulders.

— — — 

Ao woke slowly, his instincts taking control before his thoughts could catch up. His breathing remained even, his eyes shut. He didn’t flinch, didn’t shift. He stayed perfectly still, forcing his body into the illusion of unconsciousness. Awareness crept back in layers. He was seated, upright. His wrists were bound tightly behind him, and chakra suppression thrummed through his system like a suffocating weight.

Confusion flickered, but he buried it. Think. Gato’s manor. The villagers, eating well. Mitarashi Anko. And then... that thing with Samehada. A Sarutobi wielding Kisame’s blade like it belonged to him. And it did — Kisame was dead if someone used his sword. No, not a shinobi—a monster.

He flexed his fingers, testing for injuries. Nothing. No sharp pain, no broken bones. He felt… whole. Too whole. Someone had healed him thoroughly. His ribs, which should have been shattered, were intact. His teeth hadn’t been knocked loose. Even the surface aches were gone. That wasn’t mercy; it was preparation.

“I know you’re awake.”

The voice struck like a kunai to the back. Calm. Measured. Unyielding. Ao felt his chest tighten, his steady pulse betraying him for the briefest moment. He cursed himself silently.

“Good effort with the breathing. Even the eyes. But your pulse always gives it away.”

Ao opened his eyes slowly, keeping his expression blank. The sight that greeted him chilled him to his core. A concrete cell, plain and featureless. The door was reinforced steel, devoid of hinges or handles. No wires, no flames, no visible weaknesses. The only light came from fluorescent moss clinging to the walls, casting a faint, greenish hue. Nothing he could use. His chair was bolted to the ground, and the bonds around his wrists were tight enough to restrict circulation.

But it wasn’t the room that struck him. It was the man standing in front of him.

Ibiki Morino.

The name came to him instantly, and with it, a heavy sense of dread. Ibiki wasn’t dressed to intimidate—his plain flak jacket and dark attire were unremarkable. But his presence made the air feel heavier. Scars mapped his face like a battlefield, each one a silent reminder of horrors endured and inflicted. His eyes, cold and unflinching, didn’t just meet Ao’s—they penetrated, prying into places no one should have access to.

Ibiki stepped closer, his movements controlled, almost casual. “Welcome back,” he said, his tone dry, almost conversational. “You’ll be happy to know we patched you up. Don’t want you falling apart too soon.”

Ao stayed silent, his mind racing. Every part of this was wrong. Ibiki didn’t posture, didn’t sneer. He didn’t need to. Ao already knew about him. He was the type of man who didn’t just extract secrets—he broke people so completely they handed over their lives without realizing it.

"You…It's a terrible diplomatic mistake…", he tried. 

The silence stretched, thick and unbearable, until Ibiki leaned forward slightly, his face a mask of indifference. “Let me make this easy,” he said. “I don’t care about your rank, your mission, or your pride. What I care about is whether you talk to me the hard way or the harder way.”

Ao’s throat tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. He’d faced interrogators before, men who used pain or fear as blunt tools. But Ibiki? He wasn’t wielding tools. He was the weapon.

And Ao wasn’t sure he could survive.

“Come on, Ibiki. It’s a terrible way to treat diplomatic envoys.”

The voice sliced through the silence, soft yet unrelenting. Ao’s chest tightened at the intrusion, and for a split second, relief sparked. But it died just as quickly, replaced by suspicion. Too obvious. The textbook good cop, bad cop routine. It was insulting in its simplicity, yet he couldn’t deny the sudden loosening in his shoulders. Even knowing the game, how do you stay calm in front of Ibiki Morino?

The footsteps were measured, deliberate. Ao didn’t turn his head, didn’t let his face betray the curiosity burning beneath his professional mask. He stayed focused on Ibiki, whose expression didn’t shift. Not that Ao had expected it to. Monsters like him don’t need expressions.

Then, the footsteps stopped, and Ao let himself glance toward the source. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop the sharp intake of breath threatening to escape.

The Hokage.

Hiruzen fucking Sarutobi. The "old senile man" said some. The God of Shinobi, said others. But Ao knew he was in front of neither of them — he was faced with Saurtobi Hiruzen, the military dictator. He looked every bit as unassuming as the stories suggested—his age visible in the lines of his face, his posture almost relaxed. But the presence he carried was suffocating. The way he moved, the way he spoke—it wasn’t power, it was inevitability.

“Hello, Ao,” the Hokage said lightly, as though they were meeting over tea instead of in a cold, concrete interrogation room.

“I apologize for the little… unconventional meeting,” Hiruzen continued, stepping further into the room, his hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t look at Ibiki, didn’t need to. The scarred man stepped aside, wordlessly shifting the center of gravity in the room to Hiruzen. It wasn’t submission; it was precision. Ibiki, as terrifying as he was, wasn’t the real threat here. The real threat was the quiet man in the simple robes who made every step feel like a blade pressed to Ao’s throat.

My ass, Ao thought grimly, his jaw tightening. This wasn’t an apology. It was theater. You don’t apologize to someone you’ve already broken. The message was clear, and it landed like a hammer to his ribs. Konoha didn’t just have monsters—it controlled them with ease. Ao knew how to calculate odds, and these odds weren’t in his favor. Hell — the Leaf had Jiraiya, Hiruzen wasn't as old as they thought and…the fucking monster who had killed Kisame. No. The odds weren't in Kiri's favor if Konoha decided to…gaze at them. Nobody thought they would — weakened as She was by Orochimaru's defection and the Uchiha massacre. But…Well, things changed. 

“But,” Hiruzen said, his tone softening like a parent chiding a child, “it was the only way I could think of to contact Mei. I hope you’ll forgive the breach of etiquette. I wouldn’t want the soon-to-be Fourth Mizukage to think we mistreat her most trusted right-hand man.”

Ao froze, his pulse spiking in spite of himself. How did he know? The question burned through his mind, leaving charred fragments of his composure in its wake. Hiruzen Sarutobi didn’t deal in speculation. If he said Mei would be Mizukage, it was as good as written. And if he said Yagura would stay Mizukage, he would — and the resistance would be defeated. 

Still, Ao forced his mask back into place, though he could feel the cracks threatening to show. 

“But,” the Kage kept going, “whether Mei becomes the Fourth depends on a few things, doesn’t it?”

The Hokage’s faint smile didn’t shift, but there was something in his eyes—something so cold it made Ao’s stomach twist. “Yes,” Ao replied. “It does. And those things... are why we’re here, I presume, Lord Hokage?”

— — — 

Shikamaru slouched low in his seat, letting his head rest on his palm, half-lidded eyes scanning the crowded amphitheater. Yeah, about two hundred... no, maybe two thirty? He sighed. All the students from the six Academy tracks were crammed in here, from the generalist classes to the specialist and administrative ones. Fifty or so were from his class—the "favored" group, as he liked to call it. Heirs of major clans, orphans with crazy potential, future prodigies. The kind of people who got stared at in public.

Usually, after the first year of shared classes, the Academy split them up and kept them that way. Graduation wasn’t supposed to change that. But this year, they’d lumped everyone together. Fewer kids graduating across all the classes, probably. It was rare for him to see so many of the “others,” but here they all were—chatting loudly, oblivious to the idea of being quiet.

“Silence!” Iruka barked from the front of the room.

Nothing. The chatter kept going. Shikamaru smirked faintly. Figures.

“Silence!” Iruka tried again, louder this time, his tone sharp enough to make a few students glance up, though not enough to actually stop the chaos.

Shikamaru leaned back a little farther, staring at the ceiling. Troublesome. Just let them talk. No one cares.

And then, it hit.

“YOOOOOSH!”

The word exploded into the room like a bomb. Shikamaru's body moved before his brain did—he dove under the table, banging his knee in the process. His heart raced as he crouched there, sweat forming at his temples. He dared to peek out, just enough to confirm his worst fear. There he was. 

Maito Gai. The bushy devil himself.

And probably not a Shadow Clone. The devil in person. In the spandex.

Gai strode into the amphitheater with the swagger of a man who had never questioned his own magnificence. His skin-tight green spandex stretched over muscles so defined it looked like they might burst through at any moment. His orange leg warmers did nothing to tone down the sheer absurdity of his presence. He struck a pose at the front of the room, one hand on his hip, the other pointing to the heavens, and his teeth—those horrifyingly perfect teeth—shone so brightly they practically reflected the overhead lights.

“MY BELOVED GENIN!” he bellowed, his voice shaking the walls. “CONGRATULATIONS ON GRADUATING FROM THE ACADEMY! YOU HAVE TAKEN YOUR FIRST STEP ON THE GLORIOUS PATH OF YOUTH!”

Shikamaru sighed from under the table, his head bumping lightly against the wood. Why is he here? He’s not even subtle about his madness. How does he have this much energy at— he glanced at the clock on the wall, —11 a.m.?

If he weren’t so busy sweating, he would’ve appreciated the fact that even the students from the other tracks—the ones who he thought had never trained under Gai—had gone completely still. Apparently, his “ministrations,” as Shikamaru liked to call them, had been more universal than he had thought.

Gai’s speech was a whirlwind of enthusiasm. He spoke about youth, the will of fire and sweat, perseverance, the beauty of hard work, and something about his eternal rivalry with Kakashi, which no one asked to hear about. By the time Gai’s voice cracked with emotion and actual tears rolled down his face, the amphitheater was dead silent—not out of reverence, but sheer, unadulterated fear.

“And now!” Gai declared, pulling a scroll from his vest with the flourish of a magician unveiling his greatest trick, “I leave you a gift! A specially crafted taijutsu and physical training regimen, designed by none other than ME!”

A collective groan rippled through the amphitheater. One kid actually whispered, “No,” with the defeated air of someone who’d just been sentenced to a lifetime of hard labor.

But Gai, unfazed, grinned even wider. “Do not fear, my young shinobi! This training will mold you into the strongest ninja Konoha has ever known! And I am honored—honored, I say—to announce that this program will now be the standard for all future Academy students, starting today!”

Shikamaru let out a shaky exhale of relief. "Thank every star in the sky I graduated this year", he muttered. He’d barely survived a single month of Gai’s training regime when paired with Kakashi’s, and even that felt like it shaved years off his life. A full year of Gai’s personal program, even if the devil did not taught them personally? 

That was a fate worse than death.

For a Nara, had least. Naruto had seemed to like it. 

And then, as if to punctuate his lunacy, Gai didn’t leave through the door. No, the man turned and punched through the nearest wall, sending wood flying in every direction as he exited with a victorious, “YOUTH WILL NEVER BE DEFEATED!”

Shikamaru crawled out from under the table, brushing dust off his clothes with a long, dramatic sigh. “Troublesome,” he muttered, shaking his head. At least Gai and his insane spandex-fueled speeches were someone else’s problem now. His knee throbbed where he’d banged it during his reflexive dive, but even that was preferable to being the target of Gai’s “youthful exuberance.”

At the front, Iruka cleared his throat. “Alright, everyone. I’ll now announce your placements and team assignments.”

The room quieted, though there was still a faint hum of anticipation. Shikamaru slouched in his chair, listening with half an ear as Iruka began calling out names.

“Anakao Minra—Genin Corps, Unit B, Cell 34.”

Most of the names blurred together, and yet Shikamaru found himself mentally cataloging them without trying. About seventy-five percent of the students were sent to the general Genin Corps—grunts, essentially. A few got assignments to specialized units, probably based on some niche talent or good luck. Nothing surprising. Then Iruka’s tone shifted, and Shikamaru perked up slightly.

“Now, for the combat teams.”

Finally, he thought, stifling a yawn. These were the real assignments—the teams that actually mattered. Combat teams were reserved for those with potential, a steady head under pressure, or the right family connections. He had no illusions about which category he fell into.

“Team Ten,” Iruka announced. “Assigned to Jonin Asuma Sarutobi. Members: Shikamaru Nara, Ino Yamanaka—”

Shikamaru groaned quietly. He’d seen this coming a mile away but still couldn’t summon any enthusiasm for it.

“— and Choji Akimichi.”

Classic Ino-Shika-Cho. A tradition so old even the Hokage wouldn’t dare mess with it. Well — he totally would. But what would be the point. It worked. And under a Sarutobi? That all but screamed “political placement.” Shikamaru sighed and slumped lower in his seat. Whatever. Could’ve been worse.

“Team Eight. Assigned to Jonin Kurenai Yuhi. Members: Kiba Inuzuka, Hinata Hyuga, Shino Aburame.”

Shikamaru straightened slightly as Kurenai entered the amphitheater. She walked directly from the wooden walls with a confident grace, her crimson eyes scanning the room as though seeing right through everyone. Her outfit clung to her curves in all the right places without sacrificing practicality, and her long black hair framed a face that radiated poise and danger in equal measure. Shikamaru pegged her as a genjutsu specialist—a dangerous one, if her aura was anything to go by.

She gave the room a small, knowing smile that made even the loudest students sit up a little straighter. Yeah, she’s got them in the palm of her hand already, Shikamaru thought.

Iruka moved on. “Team Seven. Naruto Uzumaki,—”

“Yosh! It’s my team!” Naruto Uzumaki’s voice rang out, cutting through the air like an explosion.

Iruka pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “—, Sakura Haruno—”

Shikamaru glanced at Sakura, expecting her usual groan or eye-roll, but... nothing. She actually looked calm, even vaguely pleased. That was weird. Shikamaru raised an eyebrow. Guess Naruto’s been doing something right lately. Maybe sparring with Sasuke paid off.

“—and Haku.”

Shikamaru blinked. Haku? And no family name? That was unexpected. Combat teams were almost always made up of their own Academy classmates. But Haku was an unknown, their presence making them an outlier. He turned his attention to him - her ? - as she stood.

She moved with an eerie calm, her face soft yet unnervingly composed. Her long dark hair framed her features delicately, but there was a coldness beneath the surface—a sharpness you didn’t notice until you looked too closely. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet and measured. “It’s an honor to be part of the team.”

Naruto, predictably, grinned ear to ear. “Yosh, it’s the best team, dattebayo! Welcome, Haku!”

Haku’s lips curved into a small, polite smile, but her gaze never fully warmed. Shikamaru leaned back, considering her. Polite. Calculated. But dangerous. Definitely someone to watch.

“And your Jonin sensei will be—”

Before Iruka could finish, the wall behind him exploded in a shower of debris. Shikamaru flinched, barely stopping himself from diving under the table again. Through the dust and rubble stepped a woman with fiery red hair and a presence that could only be described as overwhelming.

“I’m going to be the best Jonin sensei, dattebane!” she declared, her voice loud enough to rattle the remaining bricks. Her mask, similar to Kakashi’s, did nothing to hide her strange black eyes and the wild energy she exuded. Her figure was striking, all lean muscle and curves, her outfit somehow managing to be both practical and utterly attention-grabbing. She planted her hands on her hips, her grin as fierce as it was infectious.

The students gawked, half in awe, half in shock. “Let’s get to know each other over some ramen!” she declared, her tone almost daring anyone to object.

Shikamaru buried his face in his hands. There are two of them, he thought, despair creeping into his voice.

He peeked through his fingers at Naruto, who was practically bouncing in his seat like an overexcited puppy. Haku, meanwhile, tilted her head slightly, her expression as serene as ever, though there was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. She seemed to be analyzing the situation, calm and composed even in the face of the red-haired tornado that had just demolished the wall.

And then there was Sakura. Her eyes were practically sparkling—figures, Shikamaru thought dryly. A powerful, confident woman with a larger-than-life presence? Yeah, that would hit all the right notes for Sakura. It was probably a relief for her to see a female sensei who wasn’t just strong, but outright intimidating in a way she could admire—or maybe even aspire to.

— — — 

Yamato stared at the gaping hole in the amphitheater wall, his eye twitching. “What do you mean you punched through the wall, Gai? Again? I’ve rebuilt this thing three times!”

Gai beamed, hands on his hips, chest puffed out. “Ah, Yamato! It was no mere punch—it was a symbolic display of the fire of youth!”

“Symbolic?!” Yamato gestured wildly at the rubble. “There was a door! Right there!” He pointed to the perfectly intact door not ten feet away.

“A door lacks impact!” Gai exclaimed, striking a pose. “The youth of today must remember their sensei’s passion, not his mere arrival!”

Yamato dragged a hand down his face. “Great. You can explain this to the Hokage.”

“Excellent!” Gai gave him a thumbs-up, teeth practically glowing. “I shall demonstrate my dedication with push-ups! Ten thousand if necessary!”