Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Shikamaru sat on the grass, back against a tree, his legs stretched out lazily in front of him. His whole body ached, not the sharp pain of fresh wounds but the dull throb of overused muscles. He winced as he shifted his weight, the effort just enough to remind him how much yesterday’s “bell test” had taken out of him. Asuma-sensei hadn’t been gentle, that was for sure. His idea of an introduction involved them eating dirt more times than Shikamaru cared to count.

Nearby, Ino perched on a fallen log, fussing with a scrape on her arm like it was a mortal wound. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered, pulling a bandage tighter. “What kind of teacher goes this hard on the first day?”

“Mm,” Shikamaru grunted, not bothering to respond. She wasn’t wrong, but complaining wouldn’t undo the bruises. Choji, a few feet away, had settled into a familiar rhythm, popping chips into his mouth between slow breaths. Shikamaru envied how unbothered he looked—though even Choji had moved a little slower than usual when they arrived.

A rustle in the bushes drew his attention, and then Asuma stepped into the clearing, as casual as if he’d just wandered in from a nap. “Yo,” he said, raising a hand in a lazy greeting.

Shikamaru sighed. Of course he looks fine. Asuma didn’t have a single scratch on him. He strolled toward them, cigarette already lit, smoke curling lazily upward. Shikamaru’s sharp eyes took in the man automatically: broad shoulders, slightly rumpled jonin vest, and the rough edges of someone who didn’t care much for appearances. But there was more there, and Shikamaru knew it. Asuma moved like someone who’d been in too many fights to count—effortless but controlled. It wasn’t just experience; it was the kind of confidence that came from knowing you could handle almost anything.

Son of the Hokage, former member of the Twelve Guardian Ninja, Shikamaru thought, his mind wandering. That wasn’t just a teacher’s résumé. And here he was, teaching three clan heirs. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots. Sarutobi Asuma wasn’t just their sensei because he was skilled—he was here because someone up the chain wanted to keep an eye on them. Or use them. Politics was always troublesome, but it wasn’t like the Nara Clan didn’t know how to play the game.

Asuma pulled the cigarette from his mouth, letting out a long exhale as he approached. Ino immediately wrinkled her nose. “Seriously, Sensei? Right in front of us?”

“What?” Asuma asked, grinning faintly as he gestured with the cigarette. “Keeps the bugs away.”

“Ugh,” Ino groaned, waving a hand in front of her face. Shikamaru smirked faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching before settling back into his usual neutral expression.

“Anyway,” Asuma said, crouching down and pulling something from behind his back. He set it on the ground with a thunk—a cake, though calling it a cake might have been generous. The frosting was smeared unevenly, and one side looked like it had been squashed on the way here. Choji’s eyes lit up immediately, though, his nose twitching.

“So, technically,” Asuma began, scratching the back of his head, “this is your first day as genin. Congratulations, or whatever. I, uh… made this. Kind of.”

Shikamaru raised an eyebrow. Huh. Clumsy but thoughtful. Not bad. Choji, meanwhile, was practically salivating. Asuma grinned awkwardly before standing up and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Right, so… I’m supposed to give you some big speech. Something inspiring, probably. But let’s skip that part.”

“Lazy,” Shikamaru muttered under his breath.

“Like you can talk,” Asuma shot back, smirking as he exhaled another puff of smoke. He shifted slightly, leaning on one knee as if to get comfortable, but his tone sharpened. “Anyway, there’s something I need to explain. Starting this year, the Hokage’s decided to shake things up a bit. There’s a… what’s the word? Reformation?”

Shikamaru sat up just enough to give him a squint that clearly said, Go on, but I already know this sounds annoying.

Asuma took another drag before waving the cigarette casually, his gestures loose but the undertone serious. “See, the old system was simple—one jonin sensei, three genin, and a whole lot of free rein. Your sensei trained you however they wanted, took you on missions, taught you their personal style. The idea was basically, ‘Here’s your master; you’re the apprentices.’ Worked fine for decades, but the Hokage thinks it’s outdated. Says the world’s changed, and we need to change with it.”

“Outdated how?” Ino asked, leaning forward. Her voice was sharp, curious, though she tried to hide her interest behind crossed arms.

Asuma grinned slightly. “Well, for starters, it didn’t account for broader teamwork or long-term development. It made genin depend too much on their jonin sensei instead of learning from multiple sources. Plus, some jonin weren’t exactly what you’d call ‘balanced’ teachers—one might focus on taijutsu, another on ninjutsu, and your education could get pretty one-sided.”

“That’s... fair,” Shikamaru admitted, his tone grudging. He could see the logic already, though it still sounded like more work for him personally. “So what’s the change?”

“Glad you asked.” Asuma straightened slightly, flicking ash onto the ground. “From now on, genin training is going to be more, uh... comprehensive. We’ll still do the usual—missions, sparring, team exercises—but now there’s a bigger structure. About seventy-five percent of your time will still be with me, doing the classic stuff. The rest will focus on larger-scale training and specialization.”

“Specialization?” Ino repeated, her voice tinged with curiosity.

Asuma nodded. “Yep. Once a week — mondays, I think — you’ll each split off for focused training in specific areas, based on your strengths or the team’s needs. For example, Ino, you’ll be working toward becoming the team medic. That means you’ll spend every Monday at the hospital, learning from professionals.”

Ino’s eyes widened slightly, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Asuma raised a hand. “Hold on. Don’t knock it yet. Medics are vital in a team, especially for missions where backup isn’t guaranteed. And don’t think it’s all bandages and chakra healing—it’s tough work. You’ll be learning techniques that could save lives, including your own.”

Ino crossed her arms again but didn’t argue. Shikamaru could tell she was already warming to the idea, though she’d never admit it outright. He glanced at Choji, who looked intrigued but wary.

“For you, Choji,” Asuma continued, “I’m recommending training in management and logistics. Once a week, you’ll work with experts from the supply corps. You’ll learn how to coordinate resources, manage team dynamics, and handle critical planning under pressure. That’s something the Akimichi clan already excels at, so it’s a good fit. And Shikamaru,” Asuma said, turning to him with a small grin, “you’ll be training as the team strategist. You’ll spend your Mondays at the University, working on advanced tactics and problem-solving. You’ll learn how to outthink and outmaneuver enemies, no matter how strong they are.”

Shikamaru groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “The University? That sounds like a hassle.”

“And that’s not all,” Asuma added. “There’s going to be group training exercises involving other genin teams. Survival drills, large-scale combat scenarios, even full corps activities. The goal is to get you used to working in bigger units, so when you’re in real missions—or wars—you’re not stuck thinking like a three-person squad.”

“Wars?” Ino asked, her voice quiet but firm.

Asuma’s face softened for a moment, but his tone remained steady. “It’s always a possibility. Better to be prepared now than regret it later. This isn’t just about making you shinobi—it’s about making you ready.”

— — 

The Kiri ninja took a shaky step back, his sword raised in a trembling hand. "Show yourself!" he barked, trying to project authority, but his voice cracked, betraying the terror bubbling beneath his mask of bravado. The mist swirled thickly around him, making every shadow seem alive, every whisper of movement a threat. He was a man on the edge, and Pakura could see it.

She smirked, blood dripping from her lips. Her body screamed in agony, her muscles seizing with pain, but she couldn’t resist taunting him. Her voice was hoarse, a rasp that sounded as if it came from a corpse. “You’re running on fumes,” she croaked, her golden eyes narrowing. “A stiff breeze could knock you over. You’re pathetic.”

"You bitch!" he snarled, his face twisting in rage. He lunged at her with his boot, striking her side hard enough to make her cry out. The pain was blinding, a sharp jolt that stole the air from her lungs. Blood gurgled up her throat, spilling from her mouth as she coughed violently. Still, through the haze of agony, she forced herself to spit at him, her blood streaking across his face.

He recoiled, wiping his cheek with disgust, but his attention was fractured, his gaze darting to the swirling mist. Something was out there. Something that had decapitated his comrade in an instant. His voice cracked again as he screamed into the mist, "Whoever you are, come out! Stop hiding!"

A high, taunting laugh drifted through the air, soft at first, but it grew louder, sharper, until it became a piercing sound that twisted the atmosphere. The laugh belonged to a woman, but there was nothing human in its cadence. It was the laugh of someone who found exquisite joy in another’s terror. “Hiding?” the voice purred, mocking him. “Oh, we’re not hiding. We’re right here, watching you flail like a fish out of water.”

Another voice joined her, this one male, deep and smooth, but laced with a chilling indifference. “He doesn’t realize it yet,” the man said, as if discussing the weather. “He thinks he still has a chance. It’s adorable, really.”

“Maybe we should tell him how this ends,” the woman replied, her tone syrupy sweet but undercut with sadistic glee. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

The man chuckled softly. “No need. He’ll figure it out soon enough.”

The Kiri ninja spun in circles, his blade swinging uselessly at the fog. His panic was palpable now, his breathing erratic, sweat dripping from his brow. “Fight me, you cowards!” he shouted, his voice breaking.

Then, the mist parted, and a man stepped forward.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, his posture relaxed as if he were taking a leisurely stroll through a battlefield. His short black hair were a bit messy, but his presence was anything but simple. He wore the garb of Konoha’s ANBU, his lower face obscured by a mask that gave him an air of calm menace. But it wasn’t his demeanor or his uniform that made the Kiri ninja freeze—it was the weapon strapped across his back.

Samehada.

The sword was alive, its grotesque, scaly surface shifting with a wet, rasping sound, as though it were breathing. The Kiri ninja staggered backward, his blade shaking in his grip. “L-look, man, I don’t know who you are,” he stammered, desperation dripping from his words. “Just let me go, okay? I—I won’t tell anyone. I’ll disappear, I swear.”

The ANBU tilted his head slightly, as if considering the plea. Without a word, he reached over his shoulder and unsheathed Samehada. The sword seemed to writhe with anticipation, its jagged, tooth-like edges glinting wetly in the dim light. He took a single step forward, the ground crunching beneath his boots.

“No—wait!” the Kiri ninja screamed, but it was too late.

With a single, devastating swing, Samehada struck. The blade didn’t slice—it tore. Flesh ripped away in great, wet chunks, muscle shredded like paper, and bone cracked under the weapon’s relentless bite. Blood sprayed in a wide arc, painting the mist and soaking the ground. The Kiri ninja’s body convulsed as it collapsed, his torso ripped open, organs spilling out in a grotesque, steaming heap. His final scream was cut off mid-gurgle, his eyes wide with terror even in death.

Pakura watched the scene with a mix of horror and grim satisfaction. She wanted to laugh, to spit on the Kiri ninja’s mangled corpse, but her body was too weak, her vision blurring. Blood loss was dragging her consciousness into a dark, swirling abyss. Still, she couldn’t look away. She had seen brutality before, but the efficiency with which this man had killed was something beyond human.

As the mist shifted behind him, two more figures emerged. Pakura’s breath hitched as she tried to focus her failing vision. A woman with wild purple hair strode forward, her expression a mix of playful cruelty and razor-sharp alertness. Her distinctive mesh bodysuit and tan trench coat left no doubt—Anko Mitarashi. Beside her, a hulking figure carried a massive sword across his shoulders, the cleaver-like blade glinting even through the fog. His shark-toothed grin was unmistakable. Zabuza Momochi.

Pakura’s head slumped to the ground as her body gave out, the weight of her injuries pulling her under. Her last thoughts flickered between disbelief and bitter relief. What kind of insanity have I stumbled into now? And then, darkness claimed her.

— — — — 

Ōnoki stood by the wide window, the jagged skyline of Iwagakure stretching before him. The village seemed carved directly from the mountainside, its architecture an unflinching reflection of its people—unyielding, functional, and proud. The stone buildings rose from the ground like natural outcroppings, their exteriors weathered but immovable. Lights began to flicker on in the waning light, golden glows against the cool, shadowed stone. From above, he could see the familiar movements of his shinobi—training, patrolling, living. Yet to him, the scene felt heavier than usual. The village thrived, but the burden of ensuring it endured lay solely on his shoulders, a weight that had grown no lighter with age.

The mountains loomed like sentinels, surrounding the village and shielding it from outsiders. They had protected Iwagakure through countless wars, yet in this fragile peace, even the mountains seemed insufficient. The world beyond was shifting, and the signs, though subtle, were impossible to ignore. That restlessness clung to the edges of his vision, faint but persistent.

“Is something troubling you, Lord Tsuchikage?”

The voice behind him was steady, composed, but carried a hint of curiosity that she hadn’t masked well. Kurotsuchi’s tone had sharpened over the years—she no longer sounded like a child eager to please. At eighteen, she was on the cusp of true authority. Ready to shoulder his own burden when the time came. 

Still…she should call him Grandfather. 

Ōnoki turned his head slightly, casting her a glance. She was poised but vibrant, her beauty unmistakable even under the utilitarian shinobi attire. The snug fit of her flak jacket, layered over her sleeveless black top, accentuated the elegant lines of her figure, though nothing about her stance invited indulgence. Her short, spiky black hair framed her face, its sharp angles mirrored in the precision of her movements. Her dark eyes were focused, assessing, yet there was a glint of fire behind them—ambition tempered by discipline. She stood straight-backed, confident, and ready to absorb whatever lesson or command might come her way.

“No,” he said, his voice gruff but even. “The opposite, even.” His gaze drifted back to the window. “Well—it should be the opposite.”

Her silence was measured, patient. She had learned not to press him, though he could feel her watching, waiting for the meaning behind his words.

The news of Hiruzen Sarutobi’s killing of Danzō Shimura had reached him days ago. The idea of those two wretched men facing each other in combat was almost comical. But it had made him smile — which had frightened his secretary. It would have been better if they had managed to kill each other. Hiruzen had always been the idealist—soft, naïve, and hypocritical, masking his ruthlessness with a paternal smile. Danzō, on the other hand, had been pure venom, a schemer with no regard for the consequences of his ambitions. To hear that Hiruzen had done what no one had expected of him… remarkable, perhaps, but it left questions. Why now? What had shifted in the Leaf to force such a drastic outcome?

Over the last month, Konoha’s movements had become erratic, harder to interpret. The reorganization of their Academy was troubling in its own right, though his spies had yet to uncover the specifics of the changes. Security within the village had been fortified; even the usual informants had gone silent. Fucking Morino Ibiki. His name kept appearing, a shadow in the corner of every report. Torture, interrogation, intelligence—it seemed Ibiki was everywhere, his reach expanding, apparently, even to Administration, now.

And then there was the spectacle of the Chūnin Exams. The decision to broadcast the exams to every major nation was unprecedented, forcing every Kage to rethink their strategies. It had disrupted his plans entirely. Now, he would send his strongest candidates—not just to showcase the strength of Iwagakure but as a deterrent. The occasion was too good. With the eyes of the entire shinobi world on the exams, Konoha would think twice before making a move against his people. And with Danzō supposedly dead, the risk of kidnappings had diminished. Not that such assurances offered much comfort. That old war hawk had been a master of deception. Until Ōnoki saw the corpse with his own eyes, kicked it to ensure it didn’t twitch, and reduced it to dust with his release, he would consider Danzō very much alive.

The door creaked open, breaking his chain of thought. A shinobi stepped in, bowing briefly before speaking. “Lord Tsuchikage. The bounty for Kisame Hoshigaki has been claimed.”

Ōnoki turned fully now, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Kisame Hoshigaki?” His tone was steady, but there was an edge of curiosity. “The Monster of the Hidden Mist? Wasn’t he roaming the lands with Itachi Uchiha?”

The shinobi hesitated, as if weighing his next words carefully. “Yes, Lord Tsuchikage. And… apparently, someone tried to also claim the bounty for Itachi Uchiha has also been claimed. Well…the intel is not totally credible and it's some upstart we never heard about but, considering the one about Kisame is serious…”

The room fell silent. Ōnoki’s expression remained unreadable, but the tension in his posture betrayed the storm brewing in his mind. Kisame and Itachi—two names that carried the weight of legends. Shinobi of their caliber were not defeated easily, and to hear that both had fallen in such quick succession was more than surprising. It was alarming.

“Which village?” he asked finally, his voice quiet but sharp.

“We’re still investigating,” the shinobi replied, his unease evident. “But initial reports suggest it wasn’t the work of any of the major villages. It may have been an independent group.”

Ōnoki’s jaw tightened, his thoughts racing. Independent? His old wrinkled ass. No single shinobi could take down opponents like that. It had to be an organization—one with resources, skill, and, most troubling of all, an agenda. A Village. Or…something new had entered the playing field. 

And Ōnoki, old and tired though he might be, would need to prepare. The storm was coming.