Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 40

Chapter 40

Pakura’s body twitched before her consciousness fully returned, the sensation of a warm fire pricking at her exposed skin. Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, and for a moment, the world around her felt foreign, almost surreal. She blinked, her golden eyes narrowing against the flickering light as her vision sharpened. The last thing she remembered was blood—so much blood—and the suffocating mist of the Kirigakure assassins. Her fingers curled instinctively, seeking a weapon. Pain lanced through her arms and ribs, snapping her into alertness. She was alive. How?

The realization sent her heart racing. Her mind scrambled to make sense of it. Captured? Tortured? Her body felt stiff and battered, but there was no searing pain, no sensation of restraints. She tried to sit up, her movements jerky, only to hear a voice cutting through the fog of her thoughts.

“Well, sleeping beauty’s awake,” a woman drawled, mockery dripping from her tone.

Pakura’s body jolted upright, pain be damned. Her instincts took over, her hands flailing for a kunai or any kind of weapon. Her golden skin, completely bare, caught the firelight, every movement exposing her vulnerability. Her breasts shifted with the motion, but shame was a distant thought. Survival overrode every other instinct. She was naked, vulnerable, and surrounded. None of that mattered—she needed to fight.

Her gaze locked onto the source of the voice: Mitarashi Anko. The infamous kunoichi lounged casually by a campfire, gnawing on a stick of dango as if nothing in the world could disturb her peace. Her trench coat hung loosely over her shoulders, framing her sharp, amused expression. The firelight flickered across her pale skin, casting faint shadows across her face. Anko grinned, tilting her head slightly as she met Pakura’s panicked glare. “Relax,” she said, her voice light but with a dangerous edge, “we’re not gonna kill you. You’d already be dead if that was the plan.”

Pakura’s gaze darted to the other figures around the fire. The man grilling fish immediately drew her attention. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and unnervingly calm, his dark eyes steady as they observed her from across the flames. His black hair was tied back neatly, and his movements as he turned the fish were deliberate, almost lazy. Behind him, leaning casually against a log, was Samehada. The monstrous weapon, wrapped in bandages, radiated menace even while dormant. A few meters away, almost deliberately distanced from the two others, Zabuza Momochi leaned against a tree. The rogue swordsman drank from a gourd, his expression unreadable but his eyes flicking to Pakura every so often, as if silently assessing her. Strange combo — a missing nin from mist, the T&I Vice Commander from Konoha and a man that looked, without his face mask, like an unknown Sarutobi. 

The man by the fire finally looked up, his gaze meeting hers with an unsettling calm. Without a word, he reached for his jōnin vest and tossed it toward her. It landed in a heap on the ground near her legs. “Cover yourself first,” he said, his voice even but firm. “Then we’ll talk. Anko patched you up—she’s our team medic.”

“Team medic?” Pakura muttered under her breath, her fingers clutching at the fabric instinctively. She didn’t trust them. Not for a second. But modesty, at least, would offer her a sliver of dignity. Every movement sent sharp pain through her ribs and legs, but she gritted her teeth and forced her battered body to obey.

Anko chimed in, her grin widening as she licked the sticky remnants of her dango off her fingers. “Normally, I dismantle people,” she said with faux cheer, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “So it’s kinda refreshing to... you know, ‘remantle’ them for a change. You’re welcome.” The playful malice in her tone made Pakura’s stomach twist. She’d heard the stories. Anko’s reputation was as messy as the remnants of her skewered treat.

Pakura slipped the oversized vest over her head, the coarse fabric scratching against her skin. It draped loosely over her shoulders, the hem falling just to her mid-thighs. The firelight highlighted the bronzed tone of her skin, catching the faint shimmer of sweat and the fresh scars marring her otherwise flawless body. Her thighs, strong and toned, were bare beneath the vest, and each step she shifted into place caused the fabric to brush lightly against her exposed ass. Her breasts, fuller than the vest was designed to accommodate, pressed against the inside, the fabric tightening slightly around them as she adjusted it. The motion exposed glimpses of her nipples through the wide armholes, adding to her frustration at the inadequacy of the garment.

Her hands, trembling slightly from exhaustion, tugged at the edges of the vest, but there was no way to make it cover more. She glanced toward the fire, catching Anko’s sly smirk. Pakura shot her a glare before sitting down stiffly, her back straight, her body still braced for an attack. Every muscle was taut, her golden eyes flitting between the strangers, reading every movement and expression.

“Had to burn your clothes,” Anko said, her voice casual as she reached for another stick of dango. “Too much blood and guts. Trust me, they weren’t worth keeping.”

The man handed her one of the grilled fish without ceremony, holding it out as if this were a routine exchange. “Eat,” he said, his tone neutral. “You’ll need your strength.”

Pakura hesitated, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. The scent of the fish wafted toward her, and her stomach twisted painfully in hunger, but her instincts screamed not to trust them. Her hand hovered near the skewer, every nerve in her body primed for a trap.

“If we wanted to kill you,” the man said, his voice calm but firm, “we would’ve done it already.”

Her golden eyes met his dark ones, searching for any hint of deception. There was none. The clarity of his statement cut through her hesitation like a blade. Slowly, she reached out and took the skewer, her fingers brushing briefly against the wood. She nibbled on the fish cautiously, every bite feeling like a concession, a betrayal of her instincts. But the taste, salty and rich, forced her body to acknowledge its hunger. Whatever — if she had the opportunity to escape, she would need strength.

And she recalled the speed at which the man had moved. The fact that he held Samehada — and the fact Kisame's bounty had been claimed. Yeah, escaping this monster…

The minutes passed in silence, her tension coiling tighter with every second. She ate without meeting their gazes, her movements slow and deliberate. Her body, though weakened, still sat poised like a cornered animal, her eyes darting between the three figures as she assessed their postures, their proximity, and their weapons. Anko seemed more interested in her snack than Pakura, her expression flitting between boredom and mild amusement. Zabuza remained distant, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the campfire, as though none of this concerned him.

Finally, the man by the fire spoke again, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “So... Rasa sent you to die, huh?”

The words struck her like a blow. Her hand froze mid-motion, her golden eyes widening before narrowing in a flash of anger. Her grip on the skewer tightened, the wood biting into her palm. The betrayal she had fought to suppress surged to the surface, raw and undeniable. Her jaw tightened, and a tremor ran through her body as the truth she had tried to ignore clawed its way into the open.

Pakura’s mind churned with the weight of realization. Rasa had sent her to die. That much was clear. Her chest tightened, the betrayal burning hot and thick, but she swallowed it down, forcing her breath to steady. She was alive. For now. And she needed to stay that way. Her surroundings came back into focus—the crackling fire, the man’s even gaze, Zabuza’s silence on the outskirts—and then Anko’s sharp voice broke the stillness.

“Wow, that’s gotta sting, huh?” Anko smirked, tossing her dango stick carelessly into the fire. “Big, shiny Hero of the Sand tossed out like yesterday’s trash. Maybe they got tired of the whole ‘scorch and scream’ routine.”

Pakura’s head snapped toward her, golden eyes narrowing into a glare so fierce it could have melted steel. Anger and humiliation swirled like a tempest in her chest. “Careful what you say,” she hissed, her voice low but taut with venom. She was too weak to back it up, but she wouldn’t let herself appear broken.

The man grilling fish didn’t look up, but his voice cut through the tension with an easy authority. 

“Anko, be nice to your future teammate.”

The air went still. Anko froze mid-reach for another dango. Zabuza, who had been staring into the dark like a ghost at the edge of the scene, stiffened slightly and turned his gaze toward the man. And Pakura—Pakura stopped breathing entirely. Her mind stumbled over the words, trying to make sense of them. Future teammate?

“What... What do you mean?” Pakura’s voice wavered slightly, a mixture of disbelief and confusion.

The man shrugged lazily, as though the implications of his statement weren’t earth-shattering. His demeanor was deceptively casual, his movements fluid and unhurried. But Pakura wasn’t fooled. This was the man who had likely felled Kisame and—if the rumors were true, if the two men travelled together and both bounties were claimed—Itachi Uchiha, even though the latter was just a rumor — but Kisame? That was certainty. He didn’t wear his strength like a boast, but it was there, looming just beneath the surface. She could feel it in the way the others deferred to him without question. Even Zabuza, the Demon of the Mist, lingered at the edge of the firelight like a wolf keeping its distance from a greater predator. This man wasn’t just stronger than her—he was leagues beyond Rasa. And that knowledge made her chest tighten with apprehension. She’d already underestimated one leader. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

The man finally looked up, meeting her gaze with an expression that bordered on amused disinterest. “Look,” he said, his tone as easy as if they were discussing the weather. “Here’s how I see it. There are two possibilities. Well, three, but let’s be honest—the third one is us just killing you after Anko wasted chakra healing you, and that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, does it?”

Pakura’s jaw tightened, her fingers curling into fists as she stared at him. His words hung in the air, casual but cutting.

“The first option,” he continued, still turning the skewered fish over the fire, “is that we let you go.  You just leave. First possibility if you take the first option : you make your way back to Sunagakure, all battered and bruised, and then what? You could accuse Rasa publicly, raise hell, maybe even get a few people to take your side. But then some will take his side, and congratulations—you’ve just weakened the weakest of the Five Great Nations. Your village fractures, your enemies see an opening, and before you know it, Kumo, Iwa, or even—” his lips quirked faintly, almost a smile—“Konoha comes knocking.”

Pakura scowled, the heat of his words sinking into her skin like blades. She hated it, but she couldn’t deny it. He was right. Sunagakure was fragile, and its desperate alliances with Sound and Kirigakure had reeked of a village clinging to survival. If her death had been part of the price for that alliance, it made perfect sense. Painful, cruel sense.

“Or, second choice if you take the first option” the man went on, his voice sharpening just slightly, “you keep your mouth shut. You slip back into Sunagakure quietly, no fuss, no accusations. And then, one night, a few ANBU come knocking. Maybe they hold your student, Maki, hostage—”

Pakura’s heart stopped. Her eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. Maki. How did he know about her?

“—and then they kill you. Clean, quiet, no mess. Maybe they make it look like an accident. Either way, you’re out of the picture, and Rasa wins. So, those are your options if you go back: either you die, or you weaken your village enough to make it easy prey for the rest of us.”

His words landed like hammer blows, and for a moment, Pakura couldn’t speak. Her mind raced, the implications sinking in deeper and deeper. He wasn’t just speculating. He knew — Konoha knew, for he was obviously from there. Or…had Anko betrayed Konoha? No…Konoha definitely knew. About Rasa. About Maki. About her village’s precarious position. And, worse still, he was right.

Pakura stared at the man, her breath caught somewhere between disbelief and dread. His words weren’t just predictions—they were a dissection of every path she could take, each one leading to its own unique brand of despair. Her throat tightened as he spoke again, this time addressing the third possibility, his voice calm but cutting like a scalpel.

“Let’s consider the third path of the first option,” he said, setting his skewer of fish aside and looking directly at her. “You don’t go back to Sand at all. Maybe they believe you died in Kirigakure. Maybe they won’t hunt you down immediately. Maybe—just maybe—they won’t threaten Maki, the one you see like a daughter, to force you to come back. But even if they do let you run, it won’t end there. They’ll paint you as a traitor, a rogue, a missing-nin.”

Pakura’s heart clenched. She could already see the scenario in her mind: her face on wanted posters, labeled as a deserter by the very village she had given everything for. The betrayal felt like a knife twisting deeper.

“And let’s say they don’t track you down,” he continued, his gaze unwavering. “What happens to Maki then? You think she’s safe? Maybe she’ll publicly denounce you, under threat of torture or death. Or maybe they’ll hold her hostage, make her dangle your name like bait in front of the public while they use her as leverage to keep you working missions for them from the shadows, as a reject. A discarded ‘Hero’ of the Sand, still obeying because Maki’s life depends on it.”

Pakura gulped hard, her fists trembling as she clenched the fabric of the oversized jōnin vest draped over her. She hated the words, hated him for saying them aloud, but the horrifying thing was… he was right. Rasa and the council were capable of such things. She had seen the lengths they would go to in pursuit of power, the cruelty they masked with false patriotism.

“And then,” he said, his voice dipping lower, more pointed, “Maki dies in the invasion. Six months from now.”

Pakura recoiled as if she had been struck. Her eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. The man’s words crashed over her like a wave of ice. How did he know? HOW? Only a handful of trusted Sand shinobi knew about the invasion plans, and even fewer knew the details. The alliance with Otogakure, Orochimaru’s involvement—it was all tightly controlled information. And yet this man spoke about it as if he had read the minutes of their most classified meetings.

Her voice came out shaky, but it was sharp with anger. “How… how do you know that? How could you know?” She swallowed hard, her mind racing. “Did… Did Konoha know about this? Are you saying—” Her words faltered, her thoughts darting in a thousand directions. It couldn’t have been Orochimaru who betrayed them to the Leaf—he would never work with them. But then… who?

Anko, who had been gnawing on another dango stick, froze mid-bite. She sat up straighter, her expression sharpening in a way that was entirely unlike her usual mischievous demeanor. “Wait, wait, wait,” she said, her voice taut with disbelief. “Boss, what do you mean, invasion?”

The man didn’t even glance at her, his attention still focused entirely on Pakura. “Sand doesn’t have a choice,” he said bluntly. “They’re under pressure. Economically, politically, militarily. Konoha has squeezed them from every angle—cutting off their trade routes, stealing contracts, draining their resources. They’re desperate to appear strong again. And what’s the best way to prove you’re strong?” He smirked faintly. “You take on the biggest target in the room: Konoha.”

Pakura’s mouth went dry as the truth unfolded in his words. She had known Sunagakure’s situation was precarious, but hearing it laid out so plainly made it feel even more damning. She felt the weight of her village’s desperation pressing on her shoulders like an invisible boulder.

The man continued, his tone even. “During the Chūnin Exams, an alliance of Sand and Otogakure shinobi—Orochimaru’s secret little village—will attack Konoha. It’s a bold plan. Too bold. They’ll try to assassinate the Hokage, cause chaos in the village, and even target civilians.” His voice darkened slightly. “It’s nasty stuff.”

Anko sat up straighter, her dango forgotten, her lips pressing into a thin line. Her sharp, playful demeanor evaporated in an instant, replaced by something darker. Her eyes narrowed, her shoulders tense. “Orochimaru…” she muttered, her voice low and venomous. It wasn’t just anger—it was personal. A heavy silence fell over the group. The fire crackled softly, the sound almost deafening in the quiet that followed his words. Pakura sat frozen, her mind spinning. She could barely register the enormity of what he had just revealed.

“Wait,” Zabuza’s voice broke through the stillness. His tone was quiet but sharp, his posture stiffening. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing at the man. “You’re telling me Konoha’s about to be attacked during the Chūnin Exams, and you’re just sitting here talking about it?”

Pakura glanced at Zabuza, surprised by his reaction. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was something more. Something strange. Did he…care? Why did he care, him, the Demon of the Hidden Mist, if some Konohans died in an invasion? 

The man’s lips curled into a smile—dark and cold, a grin that promised violence. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. “We’re ready for them. In fact, we’ve been ready for months. Orochimaru and Sand are walking into a trap. Their entire plan is based on flawed intel. Very, very flawed intel.”

Pakura felt a chill run through her, the certainty in his tone sending a shiver down her spine. She didn’t want to ask, but she had to. “What…what do you mean?”

“They’re banking on their jinchūriki,” he said, leaning back slightly. “The One-Tail. Shukaku.” His tone was dismissive, almost mocking. “They think it’ll tip the scales in their favor.”

Pakura froze, her heart pounding. Shukaku was no ordinary weapon. The One-Tail was chaos incarnate, and yet this man—this stranger—spoke of it as though it were a minor inconvenience.

“But they don’t know what they’re up against,” he added, his smirk deepening. “And on the bright side for you…” He glanced at her, his eyes gleaming with dark humor. “Rasa won’t be alive in five months.”

Pakura’s stomach twisted. Relief flickered at the thought of Rasa’s death, but it was short-lived as his voice dropped, the finality in his words sinking like a stone. “On the bad side, well…faithful Sand shinobi—and maybe even Maki—might not make it either.”

The firelight flickered erratically, shadows dancing across Pakura’s strained face. Her breath hitched, her chest tightening under the weight of the silence that followed her question. Her golden eyes bore into the man, searching for cracks in his composed exterior. But there were none. The clearing itself felt heavy, as though the air carried the unbearable weight of her uncertainty.

“And the second option?” she asked finally, her voice a careful balance between bitterness and raw exhaustion. The defiance she tried to cling to wavered just enough to betray her vulnerability.

The man leaned back slightly, tilting his head in a way that felt unnervingly casual, as though he had all the time in the world to dismantle her. “You join us,” he said simply, his tone devoid of theatrics or persuasion. It was a statement of fact, a declaration as plain as the sky above them.

Anko’s sharp laugh broke the tension like a brittle twig snapping underfoot. The sound was too loud, too strained, and utterly fake. “That’s your pitch, boss?” she said, a grin stretching across her face like a poorly placed mask. “Real smooth. I’m sure she’s lining up to sign the dotted line.”

Her words came quick, but her usual sharpness was dulled, her cheer forced. Anko’s dark eyes darted briefly toward the man as if hoping for reassurance, but his silence offered none. She looked away quickly, her grin faltering for the briefest moment before she leaned back, crossing her arms like a shield. The information about the invasion — about Orochimaru — had truly shaken her.

“Shut it, Anko.” The man’s voice cut through her feigned levity like a blade. He didn’t even look at her; his gaze remained fixed on Pakura, unwavering and sharp. It wasn’t loud, but the authority in his tone was absolute. Anko’s grin disappeared entirely, her shoulders stiffening before she sat back, lips pressed into a thin line.

Pakura’s stomach churned. The silence that followed felt suffocating, as if the clearing itself were holding its breath. The man’s dark eyes didn’t leave hers, cutting through her like he could see every desperate calculation running through her mind. His posture remained relaxed, but the tension in his presence was undeniable. It was the ease of someone who didn’t need to assert dominance because it was already implicit. Every word he spoke seemed to carry the weight of an unspoken certainty that he was already in control.

“I’ll give you the same deal I gave Zabuza,” he said finally, his voice even but with an edge of finality. “He was in your position once. Cornered. Betrayed. Backed into a corner with no way out. A missing-nin with nothing left to lose. And when I offered him an out, he took it.”

Zabuza, who had remained at the edge of the clearing, shifted slightly. His jaw tightened, his grip on the gourd in his hand visibly firming. He didn’t speak, didn’t move beyond the subtle flicker of tension in his frame, but the firelight reflected briefly in his eyes, casting a hint of unease across his stoic expression.

The man continued, his voice growing firmer, more deliberate. “Here’s the deal: you defect from Sand. You serve under me. You become part of my team, a jōnin in everything but official name. You’ll get protection, resources, and purpose. All the privileges of a Konoha shinobi. You’re strong, Pakura—stronger than most. I don’t need you, but you’re a bonus. And I know how to use strong people. The right way.”

Pakura’s golden gaze hardened. Her fingers twitched where they rested on the oversized vest draped over her, her body stiffening like a coiled spring. “And why,” she asked, her voice sharper now, defiance rising to the surface, “should I agree to that? Why should I betray everything I’ve fought for just to work for you?”

The man didn’t flinch at her words. He didn’t bristle or scowl. Instead, the faint smile on his face stretched into something darker, something cold and predatory. His eyes gleamed with an unsettling confidence, as though her question amused him.

“Because,” he said, his voice dipping lower, carrying a weight that silenced even the crackling fire, “here’s what’s really going to happen during the invasion. First…”