Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Sasuke sprinted through the forest, his breath even despite the hours he had spent running, hiding, and strategizing. The air was thick with the earthy scent of moss and damp leaves, and the canopy above allowed only fractured beams of sunlight to pierce through. He moved with purpose, weaving through the undergrowth as though he had been born in it, though every muscle in his body screamed for rest.

The medal in his pocket weighed heavier than it should, a reminder of what it had taken to claim it. Tracking the ninken had been far harder than he anticipated. He’d assumed the fight would be the real challenge—a clash of strength and skill. But no, the real test had been everything else: the silence required to move undetected, the patience to follow faint tracks, the endurance to push through hunger and exhaustion.

It was a good test, Sasuke admitted to himself, though grudgingly. Not just of combat prowess, but of survival. Of wit. Of the ability to adapt. The kind of challenge that separated true ninja from hopefuls.

Two months ago, he might have approached this differently. The memory of his old self crept into his mind: impatient, self-assured to the point of recklessness, and determined to prove his superiority. Back then, the idea of leaving the forest without having hunted down and outclassed on of the genins to show he was the strongest would have seemed intolerable.

But things had changed.

Pride is the enemy, Lord Hokage’s words echoed in his thoughts. The lesson had been simple yet profound, delivered without judgment but with the weight of someone who understood the stakes. Pride makes you reckless, makes you weak. Success doesn’t come from being the best—it comes from doing what must be done.

Sasuke exhaled slowly, his focus sharpening. He had no intention of letting old habits jeopardize his progress. Not today. The medal in his pocket wasn’t just proof of his success in this exam—it was proof that he was learning. That he was growing.

Ahead, the forest began to thin, light filtering through the branches more freely. He was close to the exit now, his pace quickening in anticipation. And then, the peace shattered.

“DYNAMIC ENTRY!”

The voice came from above, loud and unrelenting, like the roar of a cannon. Sasuke’s instincts took over, and he skidded to a halt just as a blur of green and orange crashed to the ground in front of him, kicking up a wave of dirt and leaves. He shifted into a defensive stance, as his eyes tracked the figure that emerged from the dust.

Rock Lee. He remembered from the introduction.

The boy stood with his arms crossed, his trademark bowl-cut gleaming in the sunlight, his orange leg warmers practically glowing. His eyes burned with unshakeable resolve, his expression one of pure, unfiltered enthusiasm.

“Sasuke Uchiha!” Lee declared, his voice brimming with righteous fervor. “I challenge you to a duel! This is the moment I prove to you—and to everyone—that hard work surpasses natural talent! The genius against the hard-working ninja!”

Sasuke blinked, his first instinct irritation at being delayed. He wasn’t in the mood for theatrics. But then, almost as quickly, the anger dissipated. He caught himself, remembering the Hokage’s teachings. Emotion clouds judgment.

Straightening, Sasuke considered Lee with an appraising eye. Lee was here to take his medal. And Lee wasn’t just any opponent—he had trained under Maito Gai, a man Sasuke couldn’t dismiss.

“Alright,” he said evenly, his voice carrying an edge of curiosity. “If you’ve worked half as hard as I think you have under Gai, then you’re a worthy opponent. Let’s see what all that effort has done for you.”

Lee’s face lit up with unrestrained joy at seeing himself and his work acknowledged by the 'genius'. “Yes! Thank you, Sasuke Uchiha! I will not let my sensei—or my training—down!”

And then, without warning, Lee lunged forward, his speed so sudden it was like he had disappeared. Sasuke’s eyes widened as he barely managed to sidestep the first strike, the wind from Lee’s kick brushing his cheek.

He’s fast.

Faster than Sasuke had anticipated. This fight was going to be anything but simple — he barely thought before a fist crashed on his cheek.

— — —

The forest was deathly still, the kind of stillness that only came before a kill. Zabuza crouched at the edge of the clearing, his eyes locked on the three targets. A drunken old man flanked by two shinobi.

Gato’s orders had been simple: eliminate the trash. Kill the client and anyone foolish enough to stand in the way. Zabuza didn’t care for the reasons—he never did. The only thing that mattered was completing the job, and the bodies left behind were just part of the process.

His lip curled as he sized up the group. One of the ninjas was a stranger, someone he didn’t recognize—nothing about him screamed trouble. A nobody. The other, though… Mitarashi Anko. Orochimaru’s little apprentice. That explained why his subordinates hadn’t come back.

Anko could be trouble. Fast. Vicious. Annoying. But Zabuza had faced worse. And if she gave him more than he could handle? Haku was nearby, quiet as the grave. That kid could tear through most chunin-level threats with ease.

He pulled Kubikiribōchō from his back, the massive blade catching the light as he hefted it in one hand. There was no hesitation, no thought. Just action. Zabuza hurled the blade forward with such force that it roared through the air, aiming to cleave through all three targets in one devastating strike. He followed immediately, his kunai flashing in his hands, body moving like a shadow behind the blade.

As expected, Anko reacted first. She yanked the old man down, shoving him to the ground just before the blade could connect. Her movements were quick, efficient.

Predictable.

The other shinobi? Not so much.

Zabuza’s eyes sharpened as the unknown man twisted almost lazily his body at the last possible moment, spinning to catch the massive blade by its handle. The stranger used the blade’s momentum, redirecting it with a force that sent it screaming back toward Zabuza with terrifying speed.

Zabuza felt a flash of instinctive alarm. He lunged to the side, grabbing Kubikiribōchō out of the air before it could end him. The force of the catch rattled his arms, but he didn’t let it show. He landed lightly, his stance low, his grip tight on the blade.

He stared at the man, his expression hard and unreadable, though his mind was racing. No Unknown moved like that—faster than Zabuza, precise enough to control the swing of Kubikiribōchō. This wasn’t some nobody. This was someone dangerous. A-rank. Easily. He prayed that it wasn't more.

Stillness returned for a moment, broken only by the faint sound of leaves rustling above. Zabuza straightened, blade in hand. The tension in the air was suffocating, but he thrived on it.

“Not bad,” he said, his voice low and cutting. “But if you think that’s enough, you’re dead wrong.”

No response. The stranger’s expression didn’t waver, and for a moment, Zabuza thought the man might be testing him. That kind of calm didn’t belong to a weakling.

“Suiton: Hiding in the Mist.”

Zabuza’s voice cut through the clearing like a blade, and in an instant, the area was cloaked in dense fog. The mist rolled over the trees, swallowing everything in its path, perfect for the silent killing he excelled at.

Then came a voice. Cool. Almost amused.

“Fūton: Great Breakthrough.”

The words were spoken with such casual ease that Zabuza almost missed them—until the wind hit. The fog vanished in an instant, stripped away by the gale. The clearing was exposed once more, the stranger standing there as though nothing had happened. He didn’t even look winded — and there had been a serious amount of Chakra in this technique.

“Momochi Zabuza,” the man said, his tone sharp but almost conversational. “Just the one I wanted to meet.”

Zabuza’s grip tightened on his blade, his expression hardening further. “You’ve got guts,” he growled. “But in a few minutes, you'll be dead. .”

The man tilted his head, a smile tugging at his lips. It wasn’t mocking, but it wasn’t friendly, either.

“I was afraid you’d see me and not come, boy. That you’d be smart enough to run.”

Zabuza's jaw clenched as the stranger’s words sliced through the tension. Run? Him? Never. The Demon of the Mist didn’t run. He killed, he conquered, he silenced. His voice came out low and biting, a weapon of its own.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

The man cocked his head, his smile spreading wider like a blade drawn from its sheath. “Oh, but that’s the fun part,” he said, voice dripping with something far too confident. “It’s not me you need to be worried about. Not yet.” His hand drifted lazily to his side, drawing out a scroll etched with swirling red lines. “No, I was worried you’d run when you saw my little toy. That’s why I kept it hidden.”

Zabuza’s muscles tensed. There was something off about this man, something wrong. He watched as the scroll unraveled, chakra flaring like a sudden roar of thunder. The weapon that emerged was unmistakable.

Samehada.

Its scales twitched, pulsating as if alive, an aberration of purple scales, flesh, metal and chakra. The air around the blade felt heavy, suffocating. Samehada radiated hunger.

“Shit,” Zabuza hissed, his grip on Kubikiribōchō tightening as the first bead of sweat trickled down his temple. The words escaped him in a harsh whisper before his mind could catch up. “Shit. Shit.”

The stranger tilted his head further, his grin growing sharper, more feral. “Ah, there it is. That recognition.” He stepped closer, dragging the blade casually behind him, the spikes scraping against the earth with a low, grating sound. “It’s a beautiful thing to see fear in someone who calls himself a demon.”

Zabuza’s mouth went dry. His eyes darted to the sword, then back to the man holding it. “You’re… Kisame?” he managed, though the question felt absurd even as it left his mouth. Kisame under a henge ? No, Kisame wouldn’t play games. Kisame didn’t need to. But if this wasn’t Kisame…

The man chuckled, a sound far too at ease. “Kisame?” he echoed, almost amused. “No, no, no. Though…” He reached into his pouch, pulling a smaller scroll, this one smeared with what looked like dried blood. “Would you like to see him? Say hello?”

Zabuza’s gut twisted as the seal broke. He had no time to react before a heavy object hit the ground with a sickening thud. The sound carried an unnatural weight, one that dragged silence into the clearing like a corpse.

It was a head.

Kisame’s head.

Rotting flesh clung to the jagged edges where it had been severed. The once-proud monster of the Mist now lay discarded, lifeless, the faint stench of decay seeping into the air. Zabuza’s breath hitched. His throat constricted.

The stranger spoke again, his voice light and disturbingly cheerful. “Well, not all of him. Just this part. But I think it gets the point across, don’t you?”

Zabuza’s mind screamed at him to move, to act, but his body stayed rooted for a moment too long. His instincts, honed through years of survival and bloodshed, were screaming the same thing they hadn’t screamed in decades.

Run.

Zabuza turned sharply, his feet pounding against the earth as he surged forward. The plan was clear: find Haku, grab the kid, and flee as far as possible. He didn’t care where, just somewhere this… thing wouldn’t follow. Distance was the only option.

But then it hit.

A strange sensation gripped him, a twisting force that tugged at his very being. His momentum halted abruptly, his body lurching backward as though caught in an invisible current. The trees ahead blurred, replaced by the smirking face of the stranger, standing exactly where Zabuza had just fled.

What the hell?

His instincts roared to life, and Zabuza swung Kubikiribōchō with all the force of a man cornered, the blade screaming through the air in a deadly arc meant to cleave the stranger in two.

The man moved—no, he flowed—his body sidestepping the massive blade with an ease that bordered on mockery. Before Zabuza could recover, a palm struck his wrist, sending the heavy weapon off course and biting into the dirt. The stranger’s knee followed, driving into Zabuza’s ribs with brutal precision. The impact forced the air from his lungs, his vision flickering for a brief second.

Zabuza growled, lashing out with a kunai, but it was deflected with a casual flick of the stranger’s wrist. Every movement the man made was efficient, surgical. Zabuza felt like he was swinging at a phantom.

The stranger didn’t retaliate further. He just stood there, watching Zabuza with that infuriating calm, his presence suffocating.

Desperation clawed at Zabuza’s mind. Get out. Get out now.

He wrenched Kubikiribōchō from the dirt, using its massive weight to create a defensive gap, and leapt back. His heart pounded as he prepared to retreat again, only to freeze mid-step.

From above, a shadow dropped into the clearing.

Anko.

She landed lightly, her expression unreadable as she straightened. Draped over her shoulder was Haku, unconscious, their small form limp as a ragdoll.

“Got her—or him, not sure which—boss,” Anko said, her voice casual, as though she were discussing the weather. She unceremoniously deposited Haku next to the stranger, stepping back as though passing a trophy to its owner.

Zabuza’s stomach sank. His vision narrowed, focusing on Haku’s still form. For a moment, his world became very, very quiet.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his throat dry.

His mind raced. Run. The thought came automatically. He could leave Haku. Save himself. Maybe the kid would survive, maybe not. But he’d live. He’d find another way. Another day.

But the thought sickened him.

Haku wasn’t just a tool. Not anymore. The kid had followed him, trusted him, believed in him. Zabuza had taught them to be strong, to stand tall in a world that would crush the weak. And now? Now Haku lay there because Zabuza had failed to protect them.

The stranger’s voice interrupted his thoughts, cool and level. “You could leave, you know. I might even let you. But if you go…” He gestured toward Haku. “This one doesn’t.”

Zabuza’s grip tightened on his blade. Every instinct screamed at him to turn, to run, to live. But another part of him, a smaller, quieter part, wouldn’t let him move.

He exhaled, slow and heavy. His decision was made.

The Demon of the Mist straightened, Kubikiribōchō resting across his shoulder. His eyes locked onto the stranger with a fire that hadn’t been there before.

“I don’t run,” Zabuza said, his voice low but steady. “And I sure as hell don’t leave my own behind.”

The stranger smiled faintly, almost approvingly.

“Good,” he said, his tone smooth, yet carrying an undercurrent of something far more dangerous.

“If you had run, I wouldn’t have given you a choice to join me before you died.”

Zabuza’s eyes narrowed. “Huh? What the hell are you talking about?”

The stranger tilted his head, his gaze never leaving Zabuza, and for a moment, there was an eerie stillness in the air. “Oh, I suppose you’re owed an introduction, if nothing else,” he said, his voice almost amused. “My name is Sura Sarutobi.”

Zabuza stiffened, his grip tightening on Kubikiribōchō. Sarutobi?

"Ah! I knew it!", exclaimed Anko.