Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 47

Chapter 47

Somewhere in the Southern Land of Fire 

The forest canopy stretched endlessly around Shikamaru, each leap through the trees a calculated effort that pushed his body just enough to be effective, but no more than necessary. It was exhausting but he couldn’t deny there was a certain thrill to it. If it weren’t so troublesome, this kind of movement might have actually been fun. The wind in his face, the rhythm of his steps, the subtle give of the branches beneath his feet—it all had a kind of flow that was almost... enjoyable.

Almost.

He scanned the ground below, his sharp eyes combing through the landscape for anything out of place. Shadows, stray sounds, the faintest flicker of chakra—he’d accounted for all of it. So far, nothing. No ambush waiting to pounce on the caravan. Just the usual mix of wildlife and the creak of the caravan rolling forward on the dirt road below. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. At least something about today wasn’t overly complicated.

Satisfied, he shifted direction and made his way back to the caravan, his legs burning as he sprinted the two kilometers in about ninety seconds. Not bad for someone who preferred brains over brawn. As he neared the group, he caught himself thinking, Huh, maybe Asuma’s training wasn’t as pointless as I thought. He pushed the idea away quickly—it felt too much like admitting his sensei might be right.

Landing lightly in front of the caravan, he raised a hand in a quick signal to Kotetsu and Izumo, who were stationed by one of the lead carts. The pair nodded, their attention shifting back to their conversation with the caravan’s conductor. Shikamaru slipped his hands into his pockets, his posture slouching slightly as he let his gaze wander over the caravan.

Twenty-two massive carts rolled slowly forward, their heavy wooden wheels creaking under the weight of their cargo. Most were covered in thick tarpaulins, the contents hidden from prying eyes. Not from his, though. He’d pieced it together during the mission briefing and in idle moments since: food supplies, crates of medical equipment, and precision tools for repairs and building. The really important stuff, though, was sealed in scrolls, tucked safely away and invisible to the casual observer. The goods and logistics were... impressive, if a bit much for what was supposed to be a standard  caravan.

At the back of the procession, Kurenai was deep in conversation with Asuma. Their body language was relaxed, the kind of ease that hinted at something more than just camaraderie. Shikamaru glanced away, not particularly interested in dissecting their dynamic. Too troublesome. On the left side of the caravan, Choji was walking alongside Ino, his ever-present snack pouch in hand as she animatedly gestured about something he was clearly only half-listening to. On the right, Kiba was throwing exaggerated remarks in Shino’s direction, the latter responding with the kind of calm that could make even Shikamaru seem excitable.

And then there was Taro.

“Yo, Shikamaru!” The voice was unmistakable—loud, confident, and entirely too familiar. Shikamaru turned, already anticipating the sight of Taro hopping down from one of the lead carts, his garish jacket catching the sunlight in a way that practically screamed for attention. Hands shoved casually into his pockets, Taro’s smirk was the kind that invited trouble—and somehow always managed to escape unscathed.

Taro, Shikamaru thought, a faint snort escaping him. The so-called “shame” of the Sarutobi family. It was a laughable label, really. Sure, Hiroto was the ANBU Commander with a spotless record, Kanna was the head of Konoha Hospital and a medical prodigy, and Asuma was a renowned jonin. But Taro? 

Taro was something else entirely.

He didn’t have chakra. He didn’t have the accolades. What he did have, though, was something Shikamaru respected more than he cared to admit: intuition. Raw, unpolished, and startlingly effective. Shikamaru had spent hours talking to Taro, playing shoji with him, dissecting problems both large and small. The man wasn’t educated in the formal sense—his speech was rough, and he lacked the polish of his siblings—but his ability to understand and manipulate systems was uncanny. At twenty-seven, Taro had built an empire in Konoha’s business world, entirely on his own. No chakra. No nepotism. Just sheer ingenuity and charisma. Asuma liked to call him a “barman,” but Shikamaru knew better. Taro was a strategist in his own right, even if he refused to admit it.

“What’s on your mind, genius?” Taro asked, leaning against the cart with his usual air of nonchalance.

Shikamaru sighed again, dragging his fingers through his hair as if the weight of the conversation alone was too much to bear. His dark eyes flicked toward the caravan, then back to Taro, whose smug grin was firmly in place. Troublesome. Everything about this mission was beginning to feel layered, deliberate—like there was a puzzle waiting for him to solve. He let the silence stretch before finally speaking, his voice calm but tinged with exasperation.

“Yes, I know. I’m just tasked with guarding the caravan—a C-rank mission. When we get to the Land of Waves, my team will get another C-rank assignment. But…” He trailed off, narrowing his eyes as they drifted over the line of carts. “Why this caravan? Why all this?”

Taro’s grin widened, and he tilted his head slightly, his tone casual but with an edge of mockery. “Oh, do tell, kid. What do you think we’re doing here?”

Shikamaru hesitated. It wasn’t that he didn’t have ideas—it was that he had too many. And all of them felt equally troublesome. Finally, he let out a breath. 

“The presence of you, Asuma, and Homura makes this caravan feel elevated. It’s not a simple merchant run — you would do something like that, yes, but financed by the Hokage? With Homura? No, it’s more like a diplomatic envoy.” He nodded toward the carts. “And the cargo… it’s not ordinary trade goods. It’s too diverse. Food, medical supplies, tools—it feels like supplies for rebuilding a war camp or a devastated outpost. Something meant to restore stability, maybe.”

His tone sharpened as he continued. “But we’re headed to Waves. A land of rocks and poverty. Waves is insignificant, at least on paper. The only thing it has going for it is its trade routes, and even those are controlled by nepotism. A tycoon runsthe place. Pablo, or something? ”

“Mmhmm.” Taro leaned back against the cart, crossing his arms. “Go on.”

Shikamaru’s frown deepened, his voice slowing as he worked through his thoughts. “If I had to guess, Konoha wants to strengthen its grip on Waves. Securing the trade routes, stabilizing the region, and earning goodwill with the locals. That tracks. Two jonin like Asuma and Kurenai would be more than enough to topple a local government. Maybe some thugs, a few rogue chunin at most? You’re installed as governor, Homura helps you rebuild and smooth things over.” He raised an eyebrow. “That about right?”

Taro let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Almost. You’re one for three.”

Shikamaru groaned, the weight of being wrong pressing on him like a physical burden. “One for three? That’s terrible.”

Taro smirked, leaning in slightly. “Hey, one’s better than none. Don’t beat yourself up, kid. Here’s the part you nailed: yes, the caravan is destined for Waves. Reconstruction, feeding the people, patching up what needs patching—it’s all part of the plan. But,” he added, his voice dipping conspiratorially, “Konoha isn’t interested in taking over Waves. Why would we? We already have it.”

Shikamaru’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Taro straightened, his tone shifting just slightly, though his usual smugness lingered. “Alright, let’s break this down. First, the caravan is headed to the Land of Waves for reconstruction—feeding the people, rebuilding infrastructure, and making sure they think of Konoha as their saviors. That’s one part. But Konoha isn’t here to ‘take over.’ We already have Waves under control. The tycoon you mentioned? He’s been answering to me for months now—day-to-day business over radio, more sensitive stuff through letters. So yeah, I’m going there to ‘take over,’ but it’s nothing new. I’ve been running things remotely; now I’ll just be on-site to handle things directly.”

He gestured toward the caravan. “As for your role, this caravan is relieving an ANBU unit—a jonin and three chunin—who’ve been stationed there the last few weeks. Their job was to monitor the tycoon and keep him cooperative while we got everything set up. Now that I’m heading in personally, they’re no longer needed. And I just need a few ninjas to protect me, right? And to deal if 'problems' if they arise, but not something as complicated as taking over the country.”

Shikamaru processed the information quickly, his mind running through the ramifications. Konoha had been quietly pulling the strings in Waves, ensuring control without overt intervention. It was smart. But there were still gaps. “That’s two out of three,” he said slowly. “What’s the third?”

Taro’s grin returned full force. “Now, that’s the real fun part. Why don’t you figure it out?”

Shikamaru resisted the urge to roll his eyes, though he could feel the frustration bubbling beneath his calm exterior. His thoughts began clicking into place, moving faster now.

Two combat-trained genin teams. Two jonin. A caravan full of supplies. If this isn’t about fighting or solidifying control of Waves, then why send so much firepower? Why two teams instead of one?

He sorted through the possibilities methodically, discarding the improbable. Hidden threats? Unlikely. If there were dangers, they wouldn’t have been left out of the mission briefing. A show of strength? Possible, but it didn’t explain the redundancy.

Then, a thought struck him.

“If the supplies are for Waves,” he began slowly, his tone thoughtful, “but there are two teams and two jonin… then that means the caravan isn’t just for Waves. The caravan will split. There’s something else. Another destination. Another objective.”

Taro’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with approval. “Now you’re thinking.”

Shikamaru frowned, leaning back as he mulled over the implications. “Half the caravan, maybe less, is for Waves. The rest… where’s it going?”

Taro’s expression grew smug, as though he’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Exactly. Why do you think Konoha sent two jonin and not one?”

Shikamaru’s gaze turned back to the carts, the realization settling uneasily in his chest. Whatever the second objective was, it wasn’t something they were meant to know—yet. And that made it far more troublesome.

— — — 

Konoha, Sarutobi Compound 

Kushina fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, the faint rustle of fabric barely audible over the crackle of the fireplace. She kept her voice bright, teasing Hiruzen as she always did, but her restlessness betrayed her. It wasn’t fear that made her hands twitch or her feet shift—she wasn’t afraid of the old man, not after all they’d been through—but anticipation coiled tightly in her chest.

This house, Hiruzen’s personal refuge within the Sarutobi compound, was far too cozy for a military dictator. Pictures lined the walls, snapshots of a life that seemed so distant from the heavy mantle of leadership. Her eyes lingered on one in particular: a younger Hiruzen standing beside Biwako, their four children scattered around them. Asuma’s grin caught her attention, and her throat tightened. He’d looked so carefree, so young. 

A reminder of how life had moved on without her, without any consideration for what she’d lost or missed.

The door creaked, and Kushina turned as Nono entered, her movements graceful and precise, though her face carried the faint weariness of someone who had wrestled with Naruto’s and Sasuke's stubbornness for hours.

“I finally convinced them to go to sleep,” Nono said, her voice steady but carrying the faintest trace of triumph. “Naruto was determined to spar Sasuke until he dropped. Sasuke seemed…distracted, and I guess Naruto wanted to be a kind distraction. In his own way. I told him they’d get stronger faster if they rested, but it took some persuasion…and I had to spar with both of them to make my point.”

“Hi,” Kushina said with a wide grin, stepping forward to pull Nono into a quick, casual embrace. She felt Nono stiffen for half a second—always so composed, even in the smallest moments—but the other woman relented, relaxing slightly before stepping back.

Before Kushina could say anything else, the door opened again. She turned, expecting another familiar face, but her eyebrows shot up in surprise at the sight of Inoichi Yamanaka. 

She hadn’t seen that one coming.

“Good,” Hiruzen said, his tone calm but authoritative, the kind of voice that brooked no delay. “Please, sit.”

Kushina exchanged a glance with Nono before they took their seats, flanking Inoichi. The Yamanaka clan head gave her a polite nod, and she returned it warily. 

Hiruzen lit a cigarette—not his usual pipe, which caught her attention—and leaned back in his chair, the lines of his face illuminated by the firelight.

“I’ve asked you here to discuss Naruto,” he said, his gaze sweeping over them. “As his mother and sensei,” he continued, nodding toward Kushina, “as his carer,”—his eyes flicked to Nono—“and as his psychologist.” Kushina’s eyebrows twitched at that last part, her mind snagging on the subtle diplomacy of the wording. He hadn’t called Nono another mother. She appreciated the tact, even as her thoughts spiraled elsewhere. Psychologist? she thought, blinking in surprise. Naruto had mentioned seeing someone—a man he talked to because the old man thought it was important to share his life with others. But she hadn’t realized it was therapy. And she certainly hadn’t realized the therapist was Inoichi Yamanaka. But again, Naruto was very bad at explaining. 

“Specifically, to consult you on three significant matters. Naruto has grown tremendously, not just in strength but in maturity. And now, the question is whether he should be told the truth about three key aspects of his life.”

Kushina’s heart tightened. She knew where this was going.

“First,” Hiruzen said, his eyes sweeping across them, “the Uzumakis. Naruto has no idea he comes from a clan, let alone what that means.”

Kushina stiffened, her hands gripping the edge of her chair.

“Second, his parents. I’m not suggesting you reveal your identity yet, Kushina—that is your choice to make. But Minato… he deserves to know about his father.”

Her nails dug into her palms. She’d imagined this moment so many times, but now that it was here, the weight of it threatened to crush her.

“And third,” Hiruzen said, his voice softening slightly, “the Kyūbi. He deserves to know the truth about the burden he carries.”

The room fell silent.

Kushina’s mind raced, the words swirling in a storm of what-ifs and half-formed fears. She’d dreamed of telling Naruto everything, but those dreams always ended with nightmares—his face twisted in anger, rejection, pain. She’d held onto the secret so tightly because the alternative terrified her.

It was Nono who broke the quiet, her voice calm but carrying the kind of quiet certitude that Kushina envied.

“I think it’s time,” Nono said, her words deliberate but with a warmth that softened their edges. “Naruto has come so far in the last year. He’s more stable emotionally, and he’s started to find himself. He’s forming meaningful relationships, learning to rely on others. Hiding the truth from him now could do more harm than good.”

Kushina’s eyes flicked to her friend, startled by the conviction in her tone.

“He has a right to know who he is,” Nono continued, her gaze sweeping briefly toward Kushina. “The Uzumaki legacy, his parents, and yes, even the Kyūbi—it’s all part of him. Denying him that truth could make him feel like we don’t trust him, or worse, that we don’t believe in him.” She paused, her voice softening even further. “Naruto is resilient. I’ve seen him face challenges that would have broken most children. He’ll face this, too.”

Kushina’s stomach twisted. She wanted to believe Nono was right. She wanted to believe Naruto was ready. But…

Inoichi cleared his throat, his tone measured but tinged with hesitation. “I understand your point, Nono,” he began, leaning forward slightly. “And I agree—Naruto has made remarkable progress. But I don’t think we can ignore the risk of overwhelming him. Progress isn’t the same as stability.”

Nono raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting him continue.

“Naruto is resilient, yes. But resilience doesn’t mean he’s immune to setbacks. He’s had years of isolation, rejection, and pressure. Those scars don’t vanish just because he’s learned to smile through them. And while he’s forming connections now, those bonds are still fragile. If we drop all of this on him at once—his clan, his parents, and the Kyūbi—it could shatter the foundation he’s just beginning to build.”

Kushina flinched at his words. They struck too close to home.

Inoichi continued. “Naruto is just starting to trust people, to believe that he’s not alone. But trust takes time. He’s growing closer to his teammates, yes, but those relationships are still new. And his bond with Kushina and Nono is still developing. Pushing him too fast risks undermining those fragile connections. He needs more time to grow, to feel secure in those relationships. Once that happens, he’ll be better prepared to handle the weight of the truth.”

Kushina’s throat tightened as she listened. She wanted to argue, but Inoichi’s words echoed fears she hadn’t dared voice.

“What would waiting accomplish?” Nono countered, her tone sharp but not unkind. “The longer we wait, the more he’ll feel betrayed when he finally learns. Keeping secrets from him won’t strengthen his bonds; it will make him doubt them. We owe him honesty.”

“And we owe him protection,” Inoichi replied, his voice calm but firm. “There’s a balance, Nono. Rushing this could backfire. If he learns too soon, when he’s still vulnerable, he might not recover from it. I’ve seen what happens when trauma compounds. I’m not saying we keep him in the dark forever—I’m saying we give him time to solidify his place in this world before we add more weight to his shoulders.”

The tension in the room was palpable, and Kushina felt like the air had been sucked out of her lungs. Her gaze darted between Nono and Inoichi, their arguments weaving into an intricate web of logic and emotion that left her reeling.

Finally, all eyes turned to Hiruzen.

The Hokage. The Military Dictator, God Emperor of Konoha. 

The one to make final the decision. 

The old man took a long drag from his cigarette, his expression contemplative. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling upward, and then looked at Kushina with an unflinching gaze.

“He’s your son, Kushina,” he said quietly. “The decision is yours.”

Her heart stopped. “Huh?” she said, the word slipping out before she could catch it.

Hiruzen smiled, but there was no humor in it. “You’re his mother. Whatever choice you make, I trust it will be the right one.”

Kushina’s mind raced, her thoughts spiraling into chaos. She wanted to shout, to demand answers, to push the responsibility back onto someone else. But Hiruzen’s steady gaze held her in place, the weight of his trust pressing down on her. This wasn’t just a decision about truth—it was a test of her own belief in herself, in her ability to guide Naruto through the storm. 

She didn’t know if she was ready, but she knew one thing with certainty: the choice was hers. 

And no one else could make it for her.

"I…I think we should…"