Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 41

Chapter 41

Kiri 

“Your people couldn’t even manage to finish the job properly,” Baki muttered, his voice as dry and cutting as the desert winds of his homeland. His sandal landed with a crunch on scorched, brittle ground, the air thick with the coppery stench of burnt flesh and blood. “Now we have to waste our time cleaning up your mess.”

The Kirigakure hunter at his side, a wiry man with a shark-toothed mask, snorted, his contempt barely concealed. “Fuck you, Camel-fucker,” He gestured broadly at the clearing with a sweep of his hand, his tone acidic. “And fuck your 'hero' too. Nasty one.”

The clearing was a massacre. The charred remains of four bodies lay sprawled across the ground, grotesque and twisted, their features obliterated by intense heat. Blackened flesh curled away from the bone, and what little clothing remained was fused into the ruined flesh. One body had a gaping hole where the chest cavity should have been, ribs sticking out like the jagged edges of a broken trap. Another’s skull had cracked open, leaving a hollow crater where the face had once been, ash and bone fragments scattered like macabre confetti.

Baki stepped forward, his sharp eyes narrowing as he examined the scene. His hands rested lightly on his hips, fingers twitching near the hilt of his sword. He forced himself to breathe evenly through his nose, though the rancid stench made his stomach churn. He had seen worse, but there was something particularly vile about the precision of this destruction.

“Scorch Release,” Baki murmured, crouching low beside the first body. His gloved fingers brushed against the cracked ground, where remnants of dried blood had been baked into the earth. “This was Pakura’s work.”

The hunter let out a low chuckle, pulling his mask down just enough to expose a jagged grin. “No shit — sure you're not a Nara? And judging by this,” he nudged a severed arm with the toe of his boot, the charred fingers still clawed in rigor mortis, “she put up a hell of a fight. Didn’t do her much good, though.”

Baki straightened and turned toward the fifth body—or what was left of it. This one was different. Where the others were destroyed by intense heat, this body had been torn apart with surgical brutality. A torso lay slumped against a rock, its midsection split wide open, ribs cracked and jutting at unnatural angles. The legs were several meters away, severed cleanly at the joints. One arm dangled from the branch of a tree, the hand still clenched in a death grip around a kunai. The face—if it could even be called that—was a mutilated ruin, the features obliterated by jagged slashes. Blood pooled beneath the remains, soaking into the ground in thick, viscous puddles.

The hunter crouched beside the torso, poking at it with a kunai. “Water Dragon. Point-blank. Tore her apart like a fish on a chopping block.”

Baki ignored the comment, his sharp gaze locked on what little remained of the clothing. He stepped closer, his sandals sinking into the blood-soaked earth. The tattered remnants of green and yellow fabric clung stubbornly to the torso, unmistakably the colors of Sunagakure. His lips pressed into a thin line. He did not found what his Kage had ordered to be…Well, orders were orders. It had to be her. Pakura. No one else could have done this kind of damage—and no one else would have worn that peculiar kimono here.

But certainty was a luxury no shinobi could afford. He crouched low, gripping the corpse’s head—or what remained of it—and turned it sharply. The flesh was torn and blackened, but the nape of the neck was less damaged. There, just below the hairline, was a small mole, a distinctive mark he remembered all too well.

“Perfect,” Baki said, his voice calm but taut with tension. He released the body, letting it slump back into the mire. He rose to his full height, brushing the dirt and blood from his gloves with a faint grimace. “Relay the message to your Kage. The deal is still on. You had Pakura. Now redirect the missions to us as agreed.”

The Kiri hunter stood slowly, his body language radiating barely restrained disdain. “Convenient, isn’t it?” he muttered, his words sharp as the kunai he slid back into its sheath. “We bleed for your village, and you get all the benefits. Your Kazekage must sleep well, knowing we do his dirty work.”

Baki’s gaze snapped toward him, cold and unyielding. “Your Kage made the deal. If you have complaints, take them up with him. But next time your men fail to report back, consider the possibility that they weren’t up to the task.”

The hunter stiffened, the tension between them crackling like a taut wire. For a moment, neither moved, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. Then, with a low growl, the hunter turned sharply on his heel. The mist seemed to rise and swirl around him as he walked, and within seconds, he was gone, swallowed by the haze.

Baki lingered for a moment longer, his sharp gaze sweeping over the carnage one last time. The stench of death was suffocating, but he forced himself to breathe deeply, to commit every detail to memory. Pakura’s legacy, it seemed, was destined to end in betrayal and blood. Without another word, he turned and vanished into the shadows, his thoughts already on the next steps. There was still work to be done, and the machinations of Rasa’s plans left no room for sentimentality. Only results mattered.

— — —

Konoha

Shikamaru trudged along the winding path with the energy of someone heading toward their execution. The mid-morning sun bore down on him, filtering through the trees, casting fragmented patterns of light on the ground. He sighed, hands stuffed in his pockets, his head tilted back just enough to track a particularly fluffy cloud drifting overhead. He already envied its freedom.

Two weeks into his life as a genin, and it was already exhausting. Sure, he’d expected missions, training, maybe some scolding from Ino—but Asuma had turned their days into a brutal regime. It was supposed to prepare them for the realities of being shinobi, but it mostly felt like a physical reminder of how much he hated moving. The idea of “Specialization Monday,” which promised a break from Asuma’s grueling drills, should’ve been a relief. But no. While Ino was at the hospital,  Choji and him were headed to some lecture about social sciences at the newly constructed university.

Troublesome didn’t even begin to cover it.

“Social sciences…” Choji mumbled beside him, stuffing a chip into his mouth. “That’s, like… politics and stuff, right?”

“Maybe,” Shikamaru muttered, his voice flat. “Probably just a lot of talking. Better than running laps.”

“Yeah,” Choji agreed, crunching loudly. “Talking’s not so bad.”

They rounded the corner, and the amphitheater came into view. Even Shikamaru had to admit, it was impressive. The massive wooden structure stretched upward like a monument to architecture, its design both intricate and imposing. The building had been grown overnight by an ANBU with Wood Release, but the artisans had worked overtime to carve and paint the exterior into something worthy of admiration. The wood was polished to a soft sheen, its natural grains highlighted by streaks of deep red and gold. Carvings and murals adorned the walls, depicting Konoha’s history in vivid detail: Hashirama Senju and Madara Uchiha forging their pact, the chaotic battles of the Great Ninja Wars, and even depictions of the Hokages watching over the village.

“Troublesome,” Shikamaru muttered, shading his eyes with his hand. “They could’ve built something smaller.”

“Looks nice, though,” Choji said, his voice tinged with awe. “Way fancier than I expected. Way fancier than the Academy.”

Shikamaru let out a noncommittal grunt as they approached the main entrance. Inside, the open hall buzzed with activity. The sound of dozens—no, hundreds—of voices filled the air, a low hum that grated against Shikamaru’s nerves. His sharp eyes scanned the crowd, immediately noting the diversity. This wasn’t just genin or shinobi. Civilians in fine robes mingled with merchants and chunin in standard-issue flak jackets. Toward the far corner, a minor noble from House Taneka stood in quiet conversation with a group of scholars. Shikamaru sighed. Why did it feel like he’d stumbled into a political summit instead of a classroom?

Choji nudged him. “Uh… is that a noble?” he whispered, gesturing subtly toward the group.

“Looks like it,” Shikamaru replied, scratching the back of his neck. “Probably trying to act important. Or maybe just bored.”

Before Choji could respond, the large doors at the far end of the hall creaked open. Above them, a gold-embossed plaque read Amphitheater Hashirama Senju. The crowd surged forward, and Shikamaru found himself swept along in the tide of bodies.

“Troublesome,” he muttered, elbowing his way through to secure a seat. He and Choji finally managed to find a spot near the middle, squeezing between a chunin and a merchant whose cologne was strong enough to make Shikamaru’s nose twitch.

The amphitheater’s interior was just as grand as the exterior. Rows of seats cascaded downward in a perfect arc, all facing a circular stage in the center. Above, the ceiling bore a sprawling mural of Konoha’s forests and rivers, the greens and blues so vivid they seemed almost alive. Shikamaru slouched in his seat, letting out a long sigh. All this effort for lectures? What a waste of chakra.

As the murmurs of the crowd grew louder, he let his thoughts drift. The very idea of a course like this—open to so many people—went against everything he’d been taught about shinobi strategy. Information was power, and secrets were weapons. Sharing knowledge freely, even among allies, was practically inviting enemy villages to steal it. Someone here would talk—someone always talked. It felt like a disaster waiting to happen.

The room fell silent suddenly, the shift so abrupt it jolted Shikamaru from his thoughts. He looked up just in time to see a figure step onto the stage. His eyes widened slightly, though his expression remained neutral.

The Hokage.

But this wasn’t the Hokage in his ceremonial robes, the image of authority and grandeur. Today, Sarutobi Hiruzen looked entirely different. He wore a crisp, fitted shirt that accentuated his broad shoulders and powerful physique, paired with neatly pressed trousers. A pair of round glasses perched on his nose, giving him an air of quiet sophistication. If Shikamaru didn’t already know his reputation as “The Professor,” he might’ve thought he was just another academic.

“Uh… Shikamaru?” Choji whispered, leaning closer. “The Hokage is… ripped. Almost as much as Gai-sensei.”

Shikamaru rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Choji. That’s the takeaway here.”

Hiruzen stepped forward, his movements calm and assured, exuding a quiet authority that silenced the room without effort. His sharp eyes swept over the crowd, and a faint, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips. When he spoke, his voice was steady and clear, carrying easily to every corner of the amphitheater.

“Welcome,” Hiruzen began, spreading his hands in a gesture that was supposed to feel inviting. “To the first session of the General Course on Economics and Social Sciences. Over the next twelve lessons, we will explore a wide range of interconnected topics that shape the modern world: the organization of production, from how goods and services are created to how trade connects nations; the role of markets in distributing resources efficiently, and the times when state intervention is necessary to correct imbalances; the persistence of social inequalities, exploring how wealth, education, and opportunity are distributed across groups; the processes of socialization, through which individuals learn societal norms and form their identities; and the complex dynamics of political power and democracy, where we’ll question who holds power, how it’s legitimized, and what it means for justice and collective action.”

Shikamaru’s brow furrowed. It already sounded like too much work.

“But before we dive into these subjects,” Hiruzen continued, pacing slowly across the stage, “we need tools. Tools to think critically. Tools to question what we know and how we know it. Today’s lesson is about one such tool: epistemology.”

The word landed in Shikamaru’s mind like a lead weight.

“Epistemology,” Hiruzen explained, “is the study of the study of knowledge, the science of science. How do we know what we know? How do we know that what we think we know is to be trusted? Thought of as knowledge? As shinobi, as scholars, as individuals, these questions are fundamental. They shape how we understand the world, and how we choose to act within it.”

Shikamaru groaned softly, sinking further into his seat, the Hokage’s words swirling around him like an unwanted puzzle. Epistemology? It sounded like an elaborate way to waste time. And yet, as much as he wanted to dismiss it, the question lingered, stubborn and sharp. How could anyone choose to trust what they believed to be true? 

It was an annoying thought, one that poked at the back of his mind despite his best efforts to ignore it. 

Troublesome.

— — — 

Konoha

Chihiro Hyuga stood beneath the rain as if sculpted from porcelain and agony, her white eyes fixed on the boy she had brought into this world. Her son. Her Neji. The rhythmic crack of flesh against wood cut through the storm like the beat of a cruel drum, each strike vibrating through her chest—not the noble crest the clan honored, but the full, maternal weight she carried beneath her soaked yukata.

The rain poured in relentless sheets, drenching the courtyard and the woman who watched from its edge. Her traditional lavender robe clung tightly to her, the wet fabric outlining the curves the Hyuga would never acknowledge: a waistline narrow but soft, hips wide and inviting, and breasts that swelled full and proud against the damp restraint of her attire. Beneath the muted drapery, she was more than Hyuga perfection; she was a forbidden beauty that even tradition could not conceal. Her pale skin, kissed by rain, carried a glow of vitality, and the outline of her shoulders and collarbones framed a neck as regal as it was fragile. The sodden fabric of her yukata molded against her thighs as she shifted slightly, revealing the faint arch of her back and the fullness of her form, sensual yet confined by duty.

But Chihiro didn’t move. She didn’t dare. She stood like a statue, carved by the harsh hand of fate, watching the storm rage in the boy who bore her blood.

Neji's fingers hammered against the wooden training post, each strike fueled by anger so raw it scraped against her heart. His chakra flickered faintly with every blow, driving deep into the wood as if he could punish the world through sheer will. His hands bled freely now, streaks of crimson mingling with the rain and painting the soaked post with his despair. His drenched training gi clung to his wiry form, outlining the taut muscles of a boy who had already shouldered more pain than most men.

Stop, Neji, she wanted to whisper. But her lips remained sealed. Hiashi-sama’s words echoed like a mantra in her mind, suffocating her voice before it could rise. He must grow stronger, Chihiro. You coddle him, and he will remain weak. The clan does not forgive weakness.

But was it weakness to hurt? To feel? To grieve? Chihiro’s nails dug into her palms as she fought against the instinct to run to him, to hold him close and let his anger break against her instead of that post.

Neji struck again, his chakra flaring briefly before sputtering out. He gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening as his strikes grew more erratic. His frustration rippled across the rain-soaked courtyard. His young face — so young, too young —, sharp and precocious, twisted in an expression of fury and shame.

The wooden post stood unyielding, mocking him. He wasn’t fighting it. He was fighting the loss, the humiliation, the endless injustice of being born with greatness chained to servitude. Chihiro had seen that fury before—in his father, her husband, before they took him away.

Her heart thudded against her ribs, the weight of guilt and helplessness squeezing her lungs. The rain cascaded down her face, hiding the tears she refused to acknowledge. Chihiro shifted imperceptibly, her soaked yukata shifting with her, revealing more of her legs, full and smooth beneath the traditional garb. She felt the pull of her station, of the suffocating decorum that demanded she remain a shadow in this moment. Her beauty, her body, her very self—none of it mattered in the eyes of the Hyuga. She was a vessel, a duty fulfilled. Her only worth lay in what she could produce for the clan: a prodigy like Neji, now breaking himself in the rain.

Her lips parted as if to speak his name, but nothing emerged. She couldn’t. The shame of Hiashi-sama’s reprimands loomed too large. She couldn’t comfort her son. She couldn’t hold him. She could only watch as his fists hammered against the post, as the rain plastered his hair against his forehead, as his small shoulders trembled with the weight of a man’s grief.

Finally, Neji struck one last time, his body freezing mid-motion. His shoulders slumped as his hand fell limply to his side. Blood dripped from his fingers, bright against the muted gray of the rain. His head bowed, his wet hair hiding his expression, but Chihiro didn’t need to see his face to feel his anguish.

She turned, her movements precise and practiced, though her chest heaved beneath the confines of her yukata. She didn’t dare let her expression betray her. But in her heart, she screamed. 

She had done her duty.

And her duty had broken them both.

— — — 

Konoha

“…and he was so sure he had it!” Nono’s laughter was soft, almost musical, but the amusement behind it was genuine, her reserved demeanor cracking under the funniness of her story. “Jiraiya had barely explained the balloon exercise before Naruto decided he’d just… improvise. And what does he do? He tries to pop it with his teeth!”

Kushina snorted, her beer sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass as she leaned back in her chair, shaking with laughter. “That little idiot!” she said, her voice carrying above the murmur of the bar. “He tried pulling the same stunt during training with Haku. Thought he could ‘wing it’ mid-spar. You can guess how that ended.”

“Oh, I can.” Nono smiled into her wine glass, her eyes warm as she glanced at Kushina. “But do tell me.”

Kushina slapped the table, the sound sharp enough to startle the bartender across the room. “Haku froze him solid. The balloon wasn’t even half-inflated when it popped in his face, and then—” She doubled over, caught in a fit of laughter, barely able to finish. “He had the audacity to stand there, covered in ice, and lecture Haku about giving him a fair chance!”

Nono couldn’t suppress her own laughter, her shoulders shaking as she set her glass down with care. “He really is… something else. I don’t know where he gets that level of confidence.”

“From me, obviously.” Kushina wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, her grin wide and unapologetic. But as her laughter ebbed, her gaze drifted to the foam in her glass. A faint shadow crossed her expression, subtle but there, as though her thoughts had taken a different turn.

Nono noticed but said nothing at first. Instead, she sipped her wine, her calm presence a steadying counterpoint to Kushina’s fiery energy. “You know,” she began softly, “he adores you. That’s clear as day.”

Kushina looked up sharply, surprised by the tenderness in Nono’s tone. “Yeah, well…” She shrugged, her grin returning, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time.

They fell into a companionable silence, catching their breath between sips of their drinks. Kushina sighed. She never would have thought she’d be sitting there, sharing drinks and laughter with Nono. She’d pegged the woman as cold and distant when they first met, her composure as impenetrable as steel. An ex-spy from root. But as she watched Nono laugh—a soft, genuine laugh that lit her face in a way Kushina hadn’t expected—she realized how wrong she’d been. Nono wasn’t cold. If anything, her warmth was subtle, steady, and quietly powerful, the kind that grew on you without fanfare.

Still, the jealousy lingered.

Nono was his caretaker, the one who tended to Naruto’s bruises, made sure he ate, and gave him a sense of home. She acted like a mother—was a mother in every way that mattered right now. And while Kushina knew she should be grateful, she couldn’t help the sting that came with it.

Because she was his mother.

Except she wasn’t. Not yet. Not really. She was his sensei, and she had thrown everything into that role—training him, yelling at him, pushing him to be better, but also encouraging him, cheering for him, and making sure he felt loved. She was teaching him to survive, to fight, to think.

But…

She was supposed to guide him as his mother, not just as his teacher. But instead of cradling a newborn and easing her way into motherhood, she had died and instantly waken up to a thirteen-year-old boy—a stubborn, loud, wonderfully infuriating boy—who already carried years of hardship she hadn’t been there to share.

And it terrified her.

It wasn’t just the responsibility, though that alone often felt crushing. It was the fear of failing him, the question that gnawed at her every time she looked at him: What if I’m not enough?

Nono, though—Nono didn’t falter. She stepped into the role with a quiet expertise that Kushina couldn’t help but admire. She had patience that Kushina could only dream of, a calm that seemed unshakable, and an uncanny ability to make Naruto feel safe.

And Kushina was grateful. Angry at herself for being grateful instead of taking the role — but truly, deeply grateful. For all her pride, for all her fiery, headstrong ways, she couldn’t resent Nono for being there when Naruto had needed someone the most. If anything, she felt relieved, because as much as she doubted herself, she knew one thing for certain: Naruto was cared for.

She glanced at Nono, who held her wine glass with a quiet elegance, her laughter soft but unmistakably genuine. That flicker of jealousy ebbed, replaced by something stronger—respect, even affection. Their friendship was strange, no doubt about it. Unlikely, even. But it was also becoming something real, something that felt like it might last.