Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Konoha

"Fuck you, Hound!" Tiger bellowed, his voice rough as he twisted mid-step to avoid the chakra-coated kunai hurtling toward him. His hands were tied behind his back, his sweat-soaked uniform clinging uncomfortably, and his thigh muscles burned from the constant dodging.

Hound—their commander, now, thanks to some cruel cosmic joke—barely tilted his head at the insult. His lone visible eye sparkled with that infuriating blend of amusement and apathy. "That's Commander Dragon to you, now" he replied, the mock authority in his tone only fueling Tiger’s frustration. "And lazy? I’m delegating. It’s leadership."

“Why do you inflict this on us, Commander?” Tiger growled, half-growling, half-yelping as he narrowly avoided a kunai aimed at his ribs. He barely caught his footing before another came flying toward his face. "Fucking torture is what this is!"

Near him, Panther—normally as silent and cold as the grave—was spitting out curses under her breath as she dodged another barrage of kunai, her hands similarly bound behind her back. “You absolute shit-for-brains of a Commander” she snarled, leaping into the air to avoid a sweep of shuriken that carved grooves into the dirt where she’d just stood. Her pale mask was cocked at an angle, making her look more unhinged than usual. “Who the fuck throws dulled weapons like this?”

The answer stood in the middle of the training ground: Dove. Itachi fucking Uchiha. Calm, collected, and throwing weapons with mechanical precision. His mask hide his expression, but everyone knew that behind it, his face probably didn’t even twitch.

Tiger ducked just as a kunai slammed into the post behind him, sending a dull shock up his spine. "You’re just angry the Hokage tricked you into being commander," he shot at Kakashi, his voice half-wheeze, half-accusation. "So you’re taking it out on us! Don’t fucking lie."

A sharp sting blossomed in his thigh as one of Itachi’s kunai found its mark. He hissed, biting back a howl as blood seeped through the fabric of his pants. “Fuck! That hurts! You said they were dulled!!”

Kakashi let out a long, theatrical yawn, his shoulders slumping like he was about to nap where he stood. “Nope,” he said, his voice as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. “This isn’t about me being commander. This is about Gai.”

“What?” Tiger barked, clutching his bleeding leg while trying not to face-plant. "What the hell does Gai have to do with this shit?"

Kakashi lazily rubbed the back of his neck. "He’s my eternal rival, you see. Apparently. Our newest competition is about training plans. And I’ll be damned if I let him win."

Tiger’s jaw dropped, and a kunai zipped past his ear. "You absolute bastard! We’re not pawns in your fucking pissing match!"

Panther, still dodging and snarling, whipped her head toward Kakashi. “I swear to whatever gods are out there, Dragon—if we survive this, I’ll gut you myself.”

Kakashi chuckled under his breath and waved a dismissive hand. “Focus on your dodging. You’re doing great.”

Tiger glared at the bleeding hole in his leg, then at Kakashi’s insufferable mask. He didn’t know who he hated more at that moment—Kakashi or Itachi. Probably both. Definitely both. But…cursing at Kakashi was sure as fuck less risky for his life.

— — — 

“Stop fucking twitching, Chōjūrō.”

Mei’s voice cut through the mist. The boy stilled immediately, his shoulders locking into place, his hands frozen at his sides. For a second, she regretted the sharpness of her tone, but not enough to take it back. The only thing twitching in this cursed place would be the corpses of the weak.

The mist around them was heavy, suffocating, as if the ocean itself had risen to strangle the forest. Dark, wet air pressed against her skin, and she tasted salt with every breath. The sun, weak and red, was slipping toward the horizon, its light dissolving into the ever-thickening gloom. Her rebellion was born in this kind of darkness—crawling, festering, waiting for its chance to strike. It suited her.

Two jōnin flanked her, silent as death, their faces obscured under heavy hoods. They were killers—good ones—but their presence wasn’t for protection. It was for witness. If this went wrong, the rebellion’s future wouldn’t be a story whispered over sake; it would be a massacre rotting in the mist.

Ao wasn’t here. Her choice. Mei had left him at their stronghold despite his protests. He’d argued, spat words like knives, but Mei’s orders were absolute. If she fell here—if her body fed the forest—someone had to pick up the pieces. The rebellion couldn’t die with her.

Beside her, Chōjūrō shifted again, his voice a thin whisper. “Mei-sama… I feel it. They’re here.”

Mei’s eyes narrowed. The kid was a good sensor. She felt it too. The mist was moving, stirred by something unnatural. The temperature dropped—a tangible chill that wrapped around their ankles like unseen hands. There, beyond the fog, something shifted.

Mei straightened, her chin lifting as she turned her eyes to the gloom. “Steady,” she murmured, more to herself than to her men. Her breath came slow and measured, every nerve in her body wired for bloodshed.

A low creak split the silence—a boot on a branch.

And then they emerged.

From the depths of the mist, four figures arrived like ghosts clawing their way from the grave. They moved without haste, without sound, and yet each step struck like a war drum against Mei’s nerves.

The first to appear was a woman, perched high in the withered crook of a tree, one leg swinging casually as though she were bored of the entire affair. Her chakra crackled like static, a live wire beneath her skin. One leg dangled lazily, but her posture was too still, coiled like a Snake mocking them. Mei’s gaze caught the glint of her eyes beneath her hood, a predatory amusement. But it was the sharp grin barely visible under her hood that made Mei’s lip curl. Taunting. Playing. Mitarashi Anko. 

Then came the man leading them, walking with an arrogance so practiced it might have been royalty. Which he may very well be — the Hidden son of the Hokage. The Monster that ate the Monster. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried the unmistakable silhouette of a weapon strapped behind him. Samehada. It loomed like a monster bound in rags, its scales twitching hungrily beneath the wrappings. Mei’s stomach tightened as the man’s dark eyes settled on her, a wolfish gleam in their depths. His grin split his face—a grin far too easy, far too comfortable for someone standing in the midst of enemies.

Who are you, exactly? she thought. And what the hell do you want?

To his left and right, two others flanked him. On his right was Zabuza—Zabuza Momochi, the Demon of the Bloody Mist, wearing the unmistakable jōnin jacket of the Leaf. Mei’s heart lurched at the sight of him. His eyes locked with hers, and there—there it was—a gaze layered in meanings she couldn’t yet parse. Guilt? Challenge? Obedience? Whatever it was, it vanished in an instant. He did not speak. Instead, he shifted his stance ever so slightly, standing behind the man with Samehada like a loyal hound at his master’s heels.

What the hell are you doing here, Zabuza?

On the Monster's left was a masked figure. Mei’s brow furrowed. She couldn’t place the chakra—it was faint, careful, but powerful. The mask hid everything, even gender, its smooth face devoid of any feature save two thin slits for vision. But the way the figure stood—still and unnervingly calm—sent a ripple of unease through her gut.

The four of them stood there, half-formed shadows in the gloom, perfectly still. The silence stretched out, heavy and menacing, the mist curling and whispering around their feet. Then the man with Samehada stepped forward, and when he spoke, his voice wasn’t what Mei expected.

“Mei Terumī,” he said. There was no leer, no mocking edge. His voice was deep, steady—like a hammer striking stone. “Leader of the rebellion. And maybe…” A pause, deliberate, as if to test the weight of his words. “The next Mizukage?”

Mei’s spine stiffened, and the air around her seemed to crackle with heat. Her voice was steady, low, and venomous when she replied. “Maybe?” She let the word hang, sharp and cutting, before taking a step forward. The jōnin on her flanks didn’t move. “If you came to offer me insults, I’ll send you back to your grave early.”

The man chuckled softly, the sound reverberating through the mist, though there was no humor in it. He tilted his head slightly, Samehada groaning as it shifted behind him. “You think that sword scares me?” she hissed, her voice harder now, laced with authority. “I’ve seen better men carry it.”

A faint, approving hum rumbled from the man’s chest, his grin widening ever so slightly. Zabuza’s gaze darted toward her again—still unreadable, but Mei felt the weight of it like a hand pressing against her throat. Was he…worried for her? 

No time to think. She had to keep her focus on the man with Samehada. This… Sarutobi. He hadn’t come here to posture or throw insults. There was something colder in his gaze, something that sent a rare thrill of unease through her veins.

But Mei Terumī was not a woman who bowed to monsters. Not to Yagura. Not to this man.

Mei lifted her chin. “You didn’t answer my question.” Her gaze was unrelenting, a fire burning through the smothering mist. “What do you want? Ao said you had a proposition. A choice for me.”

The man’s laugh was a hollow sound, like wind scraping across a mass grave. It had no humor—just a cold, biting edge that made the silence afterward feel heavier. “No,” he replied, his voice level but sharp enough to flay skin. “Our Lord Hokage already gave an overview of the deal to Ao, who undoubtedly told you. So you've probably already made a decision. But…the choice is not yours. It is mine. And before I decide—whether to support Yagura or your rebellion—I wanted to see you.”

Mei’s shoulders stiffened, her pulse a steady beat against the suffocating air. Chōjūrō tensed beside her, his sword hand trembling faintly before he crushed the reaction into stillness. The jōnin flanking her shifted; killers by trade, their instincts bristled, hands itching to rip this man apart.

“Watch your tone,” one of them growled, his voice a low, venomous snarl. “You’re speaking to the Fifth Mizukage, Lady Mei Terumi.”

The man ignored him completely. Like the four of them — A Kage-level, a high A-rank and two jonins, like if they were not a threat. His eyes never wavered from Mei’s face. Dark. Flat. As expressionless as stagnant water. Yet something in them made her flesh crawl, as though she were being taken apart piece by piece under his gaze, every strength cataloged, every weakness exposed. He was studying her—not as a man studies an adversary, but as one weighs a tool for its utility. And she noted the pronoun I. Before I decide, he had said. Who was he to say he could take — him, not his Hokage — the decision?

“Ninja warfare is asymmetrical,” he said suddenly, the words soft but cutting through the tension like a bone saw. “Numbers don’t matter when power isn’t balanced. Send four hundred genin against a Kage-level shinobi, and you won’t win. You’ll just make the massacre take longer. The Kage won't have a scratch.”

“What do you want?” Mei asked again, her voice edged with the promise of violence. And why did he explain that ?

The man tilted his head slightly, mock-thoughtful, and Mei’s stomach churned at the feigned casualness of it. Every gesture was calculated to provoke, to bait. “Kiri,” he began, “has sixteen thousand shinobi. A little less, now, since this war has been so… unkind. But the one that clearly chose a side ? Two thousands, at most. Yagura commands all ANBU — but only holds the loyalty of half of them. His other allies ? A smattering of the regular shinobi ranks. But most of his forces?” He paused, his voice darkening. “Fanatic genin. Blood-drunk chunin. Nothing more.”

The fog pressed closer, damp and cold against her skin. Her pulse slowed as his words crawled under it. He knew. The bastard knew. 

“And the rebellion?” His voice dripped with clinical precision, like a surgeon narrating a dissection. “A Kage-level shinobi—yourself. Four A-rank elites. Two hundred jōnin. Eight hundred chunin. And the rest? A handful of genins clinging to fraying threads of hope.”

Mei’s breath stayed steady, though something inside her recoiled like a struck viper. How? Her thoughts scrambled against the impossibility. Had Ao spoken? No. She crushed the thought instantly. It was impossible. Ao was too loyal, too careful. But then how? How did he know the rebellion’s strength, its exact numbers laid bare as though he’d seen their records with his own eyes?

“And here,” he continued, as though her silence was invitation, “is Konoha’s stance. Your war is good for us. Very good. As long as you keep killing each other, your villages burn, your economy collapses, and your contracts dry up. Your clients flee your blood-soaked streets and come to us. Konoha thrives as Kiri bleeds itself dry.”

Mei’s mouth twisted in barely contained fury. Her voice came low, a hiss of acid through her teeth. “Then why come here? Why waste my time?”

The man’s posture changed. Subtle, but unmistakable. A stillness fell over him—predatory, like an animal moments before it struck. “Because,” he said, voice calm, deadly serious, “I don’t like war. I don’t like waste.”

A laugh broke from one of her jōnin—a sharp, mocking bark that scraped the edge of panic. “Waste?” he sneered, spitting the word into the mist. “You’re in Kiri, stranger. The Bloody Mist. War is our birthright. It’s in our blood. It’s what we are.”

The man turned toward the speaker with an almost painful slowness. For the first time, Mei felt it—a shift in the air, so sharp and immediate it nearly stopped her breath. His chakra didn’t roar or crash through the space. No. It spread out like poisoned silk, suffocating, perfect in its terrifying control. It was precise. Unholy in how it thrummed through the fog, pressing against her skin like unseen knives.

The amount of Chakra was not incredible — about as much as Mei herself had. Low-Kage levels.

But the control? The precision? 

It was inhumane. Almost godly.

Mei forced herself not to react, though the weight of it clenched around her chest like a vice. The jōnin who had spoken froze, his bravado shattered, the breath caught in his throat as if it refused to leave him.

“I know,” the man said, each word carved into the air. “And that is why Konoha will take part in Kiri’s war.”

Mei’s mind jolted as if struck, her thoughts fracturing like stone beneath a hammer's blow. Outwardly, she remained composed, her posture unwavering, her face cold and impassive—only a slight narrowing of her eyes betrayed her. Take part in the war?

“For a fast,” the man continued, his voice steady as the mist itself seemed to ripple under its weight, “swift ending. And I came here to decide which side will end.”

Mei’s gaze sharpened.

So, the negotiations had begun.

— — — 

Konoha

Hiruzen felt it before he saw it—a shift in the air, heavier somehow, like breath held too long. A thin mist seeped into the office, gathering at the center of the room in a silent swirl of movement. Droplets hung suspended for an impossible second before falling, pooling into something more. Someone more.

Tobirama Senju materialized as though conjured by some forgotten god, his presence as stark and sharp as it had been decades ago. The armor gleamed beneath the pale glow of Edo Tensei, polished plates molded to his frame with near mechanical precision. The Senju crest burned bold on his shoulders. His glowing eyes met Hiruzen’s as he took of his mask, flat but alive. 

And then—always a soldier first—Tobirama saluted. It was the kind of motion that could shame even the ANBU into straighter spines: disciplined, swift, and utterly respectful. “Lord Hokage. Military Police Commander reporting.”

Hiruzen looked at him for a long moment, unreadable. His chair creaked faintly as he shifted his weight, and the sound might as well have been a sigh itself. He finally exhaled, leaning an elbow on the desk and resting his chin lightly against his knuckles.

“Tobirama-sensei,” Hiruzen sighed quietly, “call me Hiruzen.”

Tobirama’s hand lowered from the salute, but his expression remained as firm as steel. “No.” The word cut cleanly through the air. “You are the Hokage now, Hiruzen. My Lord. It is proper I address you as such.”

Hiruzen’s lips quirked into a faint, knowing smile—a tired one, like an old man humoring a child he no longer had the heart to scold. “There’s no need for that,” he said. “I know your loyalty. To me, to the Hokage, to the village—none of it’s in question. But you are my teacher, Tobirama-sensei. No title, no hierarchy, will ever change that.”

“No,” Tobirama said again, unyielding as a wall of water. His tone carried the finality of a man who had already considered every argument before the first word had been spoken.

For once, the Second Hokage hesitated. Just a breath. His hands fell behind his back as he turned his head toward the window, where sunlight spilled across the village. The light gave his stark features a momentary softness, though his voice, when it came, was as clear and pointed as ever.

“Konoha is beautiful,” Tobirama said. His gaze wandered across the rooftops, where smoke curled from chimneys and merchants lined the bustling streets. Children darted beneath the watchful eyes of shinobi. “Bigger. More developed than when I was alive. It thrives now, Hiruzen. And with your plans following the invasion, it will grow even more. Your ideas…”

His mouth twitched into something that might have been a smirk.“More powerful, too.”

Tobirama turned back, his pale lips pressing into a thin line before he spoke again. “I know what I was. The Second Hokage. A machine. A killer. I could put the fear of gods into men with a look, and I have no doubt I could still give you a decent fight. Hell, win, maybe.” The smirk returned, sharper now, but fleeting.

“But that’s all I was—a warrior.” His tone steadied, each word clean and deliberate. “In my time, Hiruzen, Konoha housed twenty thousand people. Two thousand were ninja. I was a tactician. I saw battles, targets, the immediate path to victory. You see the future.”

Tobirama paused, letting the weight of his words settle. He raised a hand then, as though measuring something unseen in the air. “I was a blade. You are the smith who forges it. I was a war chief—you are the king. Even if I were alive today, you would still lead better than I ever could. I'm…not a man made for this epoch, Hiruzen.”

The silence that followed was so deep it could have filled the room, until Tobirama spoke again, softer this time. “Hell, even if my brother Hashirama still walked these halls, you would still be the better Hokage.”

Hiruzen blinked, just once, though his chest tightened at the admission. He wasn’t often left without words, but this… this was something.

“It’s not about titles,” Tobirama finished, meeting his gaze head-on. “When I call you Hokage, Hiruzen, it isn’t out of obedience. It’s because you’ve earned it. I mean it.”

Hiruzen swallowed, though the motion was subtle, his throat bobbing just slightly. He couldn’t respond—not yet. To thank Tobirama outright would feel cheap, somehow, too small for the moment. Instead, he let the quiet stretch just long enough to say what words couldn’t.

Tobirama smirked again—small, but unmistakably proud. He broke the silence with a crisp nod, shifting back into the commander’s stance he always defaulted to. “Now, for my report. I’ve begun training the Military Police,” Tobirama said. “It’s been two weeks. They are competent enough, but their discipline is lacking.” The smirk slipped into a scowl then, as though the thought alone insulted him. “Not to my standards. Not yet.”

Tobirama’s eyes flickered back to the window, and his tone cooled once more. “And you were right,” he added. “The Hyūga have grown… Uchiha-like in some of their ways.” The word curled in his mouth like a bitter taste, though his lips tilted into something that resembled respect. “But with the Hyūga from the Military Police as the Trojan horse for my vision—our vision—of the village, our ideals will spread. Quietly. Efficiently.”

Hiruzen smiled then, small but genuine, his old teacher’s unrelenting resolve familiar and strangely comforting. “You haven’t changed, Tobirama-sensei.”

Tobirama turned back to face him, his expression returning to its practiced sternness. “And you did Hiruzen. For the better.”