Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 27

Hi ! Someone on Patreon flagged chapter 27 as not respecting the conditions of Patreon and it was taken down, so here is a repost. Chapter 28 is coming out soon !

Chapter 27

Gatō jolted awake, his senses snapping to life in a way that only pure fear could summon. His eyes fluttered open, heavy and disoriented, the remnants of sleep clinging stubbornly to his mind. He blinked, once, twice, but the haze didn’t clear. Something was wrong.

His room—the room in his private manor—looked familiar, but only just. The walls were the same, the faint smell of sandalwood and liquor still lingered, but the bed was missing beneath him. 

He wasn’t lying down.

He tried to move, but his arms stayed pinned at his sides. Panic crept in as the realization dawned: he was tied to a chair. His skin prickled against the rough wood pressing into his back, the chill of the room biting at his bare chest. He was nearly naked.

“Wh-what the hell?” Gatō rasped, his voice cracking. He thrashed against the ropes, his movements clumsy and useless. “Guards! GUARDS!”

“Oh, look. Your guards are here.”

The voice came from somewhere in the shadows—feminine, cheerful, almost sing-song. But there was nothing comforting in it. Before he could place the sound, a dull thud hit the floor in front of him. Then another. And another.

His gaze dropped. His stomach flipped.

Three severed heads stared back at him, their lifeless eyes wide, mouths frozen mid-scream. Blood dripped from the stumps of their necks, pooling onto the polished floor. Gatō’s breath hitched. These weren’t just any heads. They were the ronin he had personally hired, men he had watched fight and win against a high-ranked chunin just with the three of them.

“No,” he whispered, the word trembling on his lips. “No, no, no…”

His heart pounded as his mind raced to catch up. How? How had anyone gotten past them? They were monsters, killing machines. They were supposed to protect him.

His blood ran cold. He couldn’t stop staring at the heads. Their faces still seemed alive, like they might scream at any second, accuse him for bringing them to this.

“I...” He swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak. “What do you want? Money? Is that it? I’ll pay whatever you—”

“Oh, Gatō,” the voice interrupted, softer now, almost pitying. “You really think this is about money?”

The source of the voice emerged, stepping into the pale moonlight spilling through the windows. Gatō’s breath caught in his throat.

The woman standing before him was covered in blood. It streaked her arms and splattered across her torn clothing, as if she’d walked through a battlefield and liked the way it felt. Her hair was wild, framing a face that wore the kind of smile you only saw in nightmares. It was too wide, too full of teeth, and her eyes… her eyes were alive with something deranged, something that made Gatō’s skin crawl.

“Mitarashi Anko,” he croaked, the name tumbling from his lips before he could stop it. Her reputation wasn’t just whispered—it was advertised in some circles. And a drug kingpin like him one about her. Konoha made sure of that, weaving fear into the fabric of her legend, just as they did with Ibiki Morino. Stories of her sadism weren’t just meant for enemies; they were meant to keep their own in line. Civilians, shinobi, even informants—nobody dared cross a system that boasted monsters like her.

Gatō understood people like Mitarashi Anko. He’d hired his share of torturers and maniacs, men and women who took pleasure in breaking bones and unraveling minds. Gatō had seen psychopaths before. 

But none of them smiled quite like her.

“I’ve got money,” Gatō stammered, the words spilling out too fast. He hated the way his voice sounded—weak, trembling. “Power. I can make you rich, richer than you’ve ever dreamed. You kill me, and you’ll make enemies. I’ve got ninjas stronger than you working for me.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. She crouched suddenly, bringing her face level with his. The movement was so fast it made him flinch. Her smile widened, impossibly so, and she tilted her head as if considering his words.

“Stronger ninjas, huh?” she said, her voice laced with amusement. “Oh, you mean Zabuza? The Demon of the Mist?”

“Yes!” Gatō seized the name like a lifeline, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “Zabuza will come for me! You kill me, and he’ll come after you! You don’t know who you’re dealing with!”

Anko tilted her head, her blood-slicked smile stretching wider. It wasn’t the smile of a person—it was something feral, something that thrived on fear. “Oh, Gatō,” she said softly, her voice dripping with mockery. “Even you don’t believe that.”

Her words pierced through his bluster, shattering the thin armor of bravado he clung to. Gatō’s breath hitched as the truth clawed its way into his mind. She was right. He didn’t believe it. This wasn’t just any ninja—this was Mitarashi Anko. Konoha’s nightmare incarnate. Not someone people could hire. Not a hired assassin. Not a mercenary looking for quick ryo. This was worse. Anko presence here meant it was on orders from Konoha. It meant only one thing: he’d attracted the attention of a hidden village.

Hidden Villages weren’t places—they were pits where monsters were born. To a civilian like Gatō, they were black voids, repositories of assassins, shadows, and eldritch horrors that obeyed no moral code and only the most ruthless logic. Their shinobi weren’t human. They were weapons in human form, honed to kill, infiltrate, and dismantle lives with a precision that defied nature. Gatō had heard the stories whispered in darkened rooms: entire families erased overnight, children taken and molded into something unrecognizable, entire towns scorched to ash for standing in the path of their objectives. To those outside their walls, Hidden Villages weren’t just military powers—they were nightmares with borders.

And now, one of those nightmares had walked into his home, blood-soaked and smiling. Gatō’s stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. The idea that such creatures existed was terrifying enough; to be their target was worse than death. They weren’t here to bargain, and they weren’t here to warn him. He wasn’t just an inconvenience to be squashed—he was prey. Gatō had spent his life crushing people weaker than him, controlling those he could intimidate or buy. But there was no leverage here. Konoha wasn’t something he could bribe or threaten.

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but all that escaped his lips was a choked sob. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling over despite his best efforts to keep them at bay. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t stop. The room felt smaller, darker, and the air seemed to constrict around him.

“Oh, poor baby,” Anko cooed, her voice syrupy and mocking. The pity in her tone made his stomach churn, but before he could react, her hand shot out. The slap cracked through the room like a whip, snapping his head to the side. His vision blurred, the metallic tang of blood filling his mouth as something hard and small hit his tongue.

He spat instinctively, two teeth hitting the floor with a faint, dreadful clink.

Gatō whimpered, his trembling breath hitching in his throat. He barely had time to process the pain before Anko grabbed his face, her fingers digging into his jaw with a strength that made his bones creak. Slowly, almost playfully, she pressed her bloodied finger into the raw, exposed socket where his tooth had been.

The pain was excruciating. It tore through him like a wildfire, consuming every coherent thought in its path. Gatō screamed, a high-pitched, broken sound that echoed off the walls. His legs thrashed against the chair, but the ropes held tight, unyielding.

“Stop! Please! Stop!” he begged, his voice cracking under the strain.

“Enough, Anko.”

The voice came from behind him, low and calm. The kind of calm that froze the blood in your veins. Gatō gasped, his chest heaving as Anko’s hand finally withdrew. Relief flooded him, brief and shallow, but enough to make him sag against the ropes.

“Aww, no fun, boss,” Anko pouted, wiping her bloodied hand on her thigh. Her tone was light, but the glint in her eyes spoke of something far darker. She turned and strolled lazily toward his bed, her boots leaving faint streaks of blood across the floor. She flopped onto the mattress with a sigh, stretching out as if she hadn’t just tortured a man for sport.

Gatō’s head slumped forward, but the sound of steady footsteps behind him forced him to stiffen. He didn’t dare look, didn’t dare move.

“Name. Identity. Activities,” the voice said, sharp and unyielding. It wasn’t a request; it was a command.

“G-Gatō,” he stammered, his throat dry and raw. “Shipping magnate. Smuggling… contraband. Trafficking.” The words clawed their way out, each one dragging a piece of his pride with it. “I run the trade routes, control the sea lanes. Anything that makes money.” His voice broke slightly on the last word, and he coughed, the metallic taste of blood lingering on his tongue.

“Good,” the voice replied, cool and detached. “Net worth?”

Gatō hesitated for the briefest moment, but the memory of Anko’s bloodied finger pressing into his gums crushed any thoughts of deceit. He knew better than to lie now. “Two billion ryo,” he croaked. He coughed again, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Liquid cash.” He inhaled shakily and continued before they could prompt him. “Twenty-two ships. Fully armed. The stocks, the sea routes. Control of all the ports in the region. And…” He paused, his throat tightening. “Five mansions. Each one heavily secured, with vaults.”

“Good,” the man said, his tone unchanged. “Now, what are your projects for the Land of Waves?”

Gatō’s lip quivered. He didn’t know if they wanted specifics or a summary. He decided quickly that brevity might save him. “Control,” he muttered. “Keep the bridge from being built. Use the monopoly to squeeze the rest of the country dry. Turn it into a hub for contraband.”

The silence stretched, and he felt the weight of judgment in it. Finally, the man spoke again. “Good. And what are your projects for Zabuza?”

The name alone made Gatō’s pulse quicken, and he cursed himself for the faint tremor in his voice. “Z-Zabuza… He’s useful. For now.” He swallowed hard, sweat dripping down his face. “But once the bridge is finished… or destroyed… I’d liquidate him. Can’t afford to pay him long-term. Well…I can. But it's not by paying your debt that you stay rich.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he heard it. A faint rustle behind him, followed by the unmistakable, gravelly growl of a voice that froze his blood in his veins.

“Fucker.”

Zabuza.

Gatō’s heart plummeted, dread pooling in his stomach like ice. He didn’t dare look over his shoulder, didn’t dare move a muscle. He swallowed hard, his body trembling, but his mind grasped at the only thread of survival he had left. The man asking the questions—he was the only reason Zabuza hadn’t gutted him yet. Gatō needed to answer correctly, honestly, and above all, he needed to make himself useful. A reason to keep breathing.

“Good,” the voice behind him said again, calm, controlled, and terrifying. “Now, explain why the Land of Waves is important.”

Gatō licked his lips, trying to force the words out past the dryness of his throat. “It—it’s the gateway,” he stammered, his voice quivering. “To everything. To the southern seas, to the islands. It’s a choke point for trade. Whoever controls Wave controls the routes. It’s—it’s why I’ve—why I’ve spent so much keeping it locked down. The ports, the bridge—they’re everything.”

“Good,” the voice replied, and for a moment, Gatō thought he detected the faintest trace of approval. It was gone as quickly as it came. “But there’s something I don’t understand.” The tone shifted slightly, colder now, probing. “Explain to me how, in the world, such an important country hasn’t been taken over by a Daimyo or a Hidden Village. How you, with a few lousy ronin and some thugs, have managed to keep control.”

Ah. The true question. The one no one else had ever thought to ask.

Gatō blinked rapidly, his mind scrambling for an answer. He hesitated, feeling the weight of his predicament settle heavier on his chest. If he told them the truth—all of it—there would be no going back. But he could feel Zabuza’s breath behind him, his unseen presence promising swift and brutal punishment for anything less than total honesty.

“It… It is…” he started, his voice faltering. He took a shallow breath and pressed on, his words coming out in a nervous rush. “The Land of Waves—it’s tiny. A rock stuck between Fire and Water. About twenty years ago, it was Fire Territory. I was just a young ship captain then, running routes. Back then, there was talk of a project—a train that would connect the capitals of Fire and circumvent the Land of Waves entirely. No one wanted to invest in a place that was about to be made irrelevant.”

He coughed, spitting blood onto the floor, but continued. “The train never happened. Too complicated. Too expensive. But by then, the Fire Daimyo had already pulled out. Disinterested. It wasn’t worth the trouble to maintain control of the island—not for a shipping route. So I started investing here a bit. My second boat. And as long as I gave nobles from the Fire Capital preferential rates on shipments? They did not give a fuck. No problems. So I developed my empire - but it wasn't my principal interest at the time. And then…”

Gatō paused, his gaze flicking toward the severed heads of his former bodyguards as he spoke again, his voice shaking. “Seven years ago, I came back. This time, with support. Seven samurai from the Land of Water. They posed as ronin, but they were trained—better than most mercenaries. I had made a deal with a minor noble from Water, someone connected to the Daimyo. They backed me. I’d take control of the island, secure the ports and trade, and in exchange, I’d give preferential treatment to shipments from Water, the same as I kept giving to some of the shipments form the Capital of Fire Country. It worked. The ronin kept the locals in line. I built the monopoly. Everyone profited.”

“Interesting,” Anko interjected, her voice light but sharp enough to cut through the air. “But here’s what I don’t get.” She sat up slightly on the bed, her predatory eyes narrowing on Gatō. “Why did they need you? You were a nobody—a scummy little ship captain. Why not just send ninjas from Kiri? Why not take over the island directly?”

Gatō’s face twitched. His lips trembled as he hesitated, hoping they wouldn’t take offense at the truth he was about to say. Finally, with another painful swallow, he spoke.

“Because…” He spat another tooth onto the bloodied floor, his mouth throbbing. “Because ninja and samurai—they’re good at fighting. Amazing, terrifying at it. But logistics?” He chuckled bitterly, the sound hollow and shaking. “They’re horrible. Accounting. Shipping manifests. Building a functioning business. It’s not their skill. It’s not what they do.”

He licked his cracked lips, daring to glance up at Anko’s unreadable expression. “But I… I’m good at it. I’m a genius at it. They didn’t care about me. They cared about the results. That’s the only reason I was useful.”

For a moment, there was silence, and Gatō felt a flicker of hope that maybe—just maybe—his explanation had bought him a sliver of safety. But then his face darkened further, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“But…”

“But what?” The man’s voice behind him was calm, yet it cut through Gatō’s hesitation like a knife.

“But that support… the ronin, the noble… it’s been shaky,” Gatō rasped, his breath ragged and wet. Blood trickled from his mouth, pooling at the edge of his lips. He coughed, his chest heaving as he forced the words out. “And then… one day, about a year ago… they were gone. All the ronin. Just disappeared. No warning.”

His body trembled as he spoke, the fear clawing at his throat. “A man came to see me after that. A ninja. From Kiri. Well - he had a Kiri headband, and the accent. But with ninjas ? Can't be sure. He said the samurais from Water had been called back. Claimed it was just… a change in liaison. Routine, he called it.” Gatō let out a bitter, choking laugh, cut short by another painful cough. “But it wasn’t routine. No way it was. He got rid of them. Killed them. Cleaned house.”

He paused, sucking in air through gritted teeth. “And the noble? The one from Water? Didn’t care. Didn’t send anyone else. Or maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he did send others, but they…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, the taste of blood burning his throat. “...but they didn’t make it. Either way, no one came.”

He licked his cracked lips, his voice lowering to a strained whisper. “The ninja stayed. He took over.  'Protected me', when a few missing chunins or ronins came and tried to make themselves the Kings of Waves. Even killed a jonin, once - from Iwa. But…He started giving me orders—special shipments. To Kiri. Things I didn’t want to know about. Things I didn’t dare ask about.”

“Why didn’t you refuse?” Anko’s voice sliced through the air. She leaned forward slightly, her bloodied fingers drumming on the bedframe as she watched him struggle.

“Refuse?” Gatō barked a laugh, high-pitched and broken. His breath hitched as another coughing fit overtook him, his body shaking. “You… don’t refuse men like that. You don’t even look at men like that wrong. I’d have been dead before I finished saying ‘no.’ And why would I? Why should I? I… I was getting richer. Filthy rich.” His lips twitched into a weak, hollow smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s all that matters, right? Staying alive. Keeping the money flowing. As long as Fire and Water kept profiting of the shipping, as long as the ninja had his stuff, nobody cared what I sold, what I did. I became rich…”

He coughed again, spitting more blood onto the floor. His voice dropped, barely audible now, as if speaking the truth was sapping the last of his strength. “So rich, in fact, that if anyone knew—if they realized how much this rock in the sea is worth—Fire and Water would go back to war over it. They’d tear each other apart. And… and I guess…” His voice cracked, his body trembling as he stared at the blood pooling beneath him. “I guess that’s why you’re here. Because someone finally noticed.”

“The man,” the voice pressed, sharp and unyielding. “What did he look like?”

Gatō let out a weak, ragged laugh, one that sent a shiver of pain through his chest. His ribs screamed, and his head swam, but the absurdity of it all forced the sound from his lips. “I guess I’ll have to stick to you Konohans after this.”

The room was silent, save for Gatō’s wheezing breaths. He coughed, spitting a glob of red onto the floor, then licked his cracked lips and tried to steady his voice. 

“He wore… an eyepatch".