Muzan sat inside his tent. The scene replayed in his mind.
Thrust. Squelch. Gurgle.
The sound of his kunai piercing flesh echoed in his memory. He remembered the wet scrape of the blade against bone. The Nara's eyes had widened—not in anger, but in surprise, as if he couldn't believe this was how it would end.
This was Muzan's first conscious kill.
He felt wrong.
Not sick. Not horrified. Just wrong, like something inside him had shifted permanently.
Should I feel worse than this?
That thought kept circling. He'd taken a life and ended someone's existence. Shouldn't that feel more significant? Shouldn't he be throwing up or crying or something?
Instead, he just felt hollow, as if his emotions had been scooped out and replaced with cotton.
Is this what guilt feels like? Or is this what it feels like when you can't feel guilt anymore?
He tried to summon remorse. He forced himself to imagine the Nara's family and friends, people who would miss him. But every time Muzan tried to feel bad, another voice whispered that the Nara was going to kill Toshiro and him.
But then why did his hands keep trembling?
Muzan stared at his palms. They were clean now. He'd scrubbed them raw that night, watching pink water swirl away. The blood was gone, but he could still feel it—sticky, warm, wrong.
He had lost Genzo, gotten captured by that madman, watched hundreds die, turned into a demon, and eaten human flesh.
How much trauma could one person absorb before they just stopped feeling?
Was he broken? Or was he finally becoming what he needed to be?
The tent rustled.
Someone entered his tent. Muzan had already sensed him approaching. It was Toshiro.
Toshiro looked at Muzan's tense face and at the way his fingers were digging into his knees. "What happened?"
Muzan shook his head. "Nothing."
His voice came out flat.
Toshiro's eyes widened. "Hey, was that your first kill?"
Muzan nodded slowly.
Toshiro clasped his shoulder, his grip warm and solid. "It's okay, man. We're shinobi. It's our destiny to kill or die. What you did back there—I'm really grateful. If you weren't there, I wouldn't be standing here." He squeezed harder. "Lord Urashi is happy to hear about it too. Keep up the good work, and I'm sure he'll help you with your illness."
The word achievement tasted like ash.
Muzan nodded again, not trusting his voice. His throat felt tight—not with tears, but with something worse: the absence of tears, the inability to cry even when he wanted to.
He looked up at Toshiro. "If you had died back there, would you have regrets?"
Toshiro blinked, surprised. Then he smiled. "Regret, huh? Even though we're shinobi, we still hope to live long, happy, healthy lives. But not at the cost of our comrades." He paused. "If I'd died there, I'd have just one regret: that I wouldn't be there to help share my comrades' burden anymore."
"Then why have wars?" Muzan's voice cracked slightly. "If we could all live in harmony, there would be no death. We could live happily."
A bitter smile appeared on Toshiro's face. "It would've been possible if we'd tried it long ago. But now we've crossed the line where we can forgive each other." His expression darkened. "My parents died in a war against the Senju. My grandparents too. One day, I might die the same way. All these deaths—won't they be meaningless if we just suddenly decide to live happily?" He met Muzan's eyes. "The want for happiness is the root of all tragedy."
The words hit Muzan like a kunai to the chest.
They would be meaningless.
Could he ever forgive his uncle? No. Could he ever forgive that madman? No. Would he sacrifice himself to save Genzo if given the chance? Yes.
Then what right did he have to feel guilty?
The realization came slowly, like poison seeping through his veins.
He'd wanted to feel guilty. He'd wanted to feel something—anything—that proved he was still the old him. But guilt was a luxury, a privilege reserved for people who had the option to choose peace.
He didn't have that luxury.
His mother had sacrificed herself. His father had sacrificed himself. Genzo had sacrificed himself.
If he wanted to respect their sacrifices, he couldn't afford to break down. He couldn't afford to drown in guilt and self-pity. He had to be selfish. He had to survive. He had to become strong enough that their deaths meant something.
Thinking of others' wellbeing was a luxury that few people had.
He wasn't one of them.
The hollow feeling in his chest didn't go away. But it shifted and became something he could carry instead of something crushing him.
Toshiro was still watching him, concern creasing his face. "Muzan? You okay?"
Muzan blinked, pulled from his thoughts. "Yeah. I think I understand now."
"Understand what?"
"Why we keep fighting." Muzan's hands finally stopped trembling. "Why we can't stop."
Toshiro's expression softened. He squeezed Muzan's shoulder once more, then stepped back.
"Ahem! That's enough philosophical talk for today." His usual grin returned. "The reason I came here was to tell you that Lord Urashi wants to grant you a reward for your work. He's invited you to his tent."
Muzan nodded mindlessly.
A reward for killing.
He should feel disgusted. But he just felt tired.
Seeing him like this, Toshiro sighed. "Gosh, you're too slow. Let's go quickly. Lord Urashi is a very busy man."
Toshiro grabbed Muzan's arm and dragged him out of the tent.
As they walked through the camp, Muzan caught his reflection in a puddle.
His eyes looked different.
---
Three days later.
The night air tasted of ash and dew.
Muzan stood at the camp's edge, watching smoke curl from dying cooking fires. His fingers traced the kunai holster at his hip.
"Yo, Muzan!" Toshiro bounced over, grinning. "Did you hear? Miyako-san is leading the other squad. Miyako-san! Can you believe it?"
"You've mentioned it seventeen times." Naroi's dry voice cut through Toshiro's enthusiasm. The older shinobi sat on a supply crate, methodically sharpening his tanto. Shhk. Shhk. Shhk. The rhythmic scrape set Muzan's teeth on edge.
"Seventeen? Really?" Toshiro's face fell.
"Eighteen now," Masai added, adjusting the bandages wrapped around his forearms. He was built like a boulder—short, wide, immovable. "You're more nervous than a genin on his first mission."
"I'm not nervous!" Toshiro's voice cracked. "I'm just appreciating talent. Miyako-san awakened her Sharingan at thirteen. She's already taken down two Sarutobi shinobi solo."
Naroi didn't look up from his blade. "And you've taken down three scouts with Muzan here. Stop comparing yourself."
Thunk!
Muzan's attention snapped to Amanai, who'd just driven a kunai into a wooden post. Their squad leader pulled it free with deliberate slowness, examining the blade's edge.
"When Miyako's squad arrives," Amanai said quietly, "you will show respect. You will follow orders. And Toshiro—" He fixed the younger shinobi with a flat stare. "You will not embarrass this squad with your lovesick puppy act."
"I'm not—!"
"You are." Masai clapped Toshiro's shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "It's painful to watch, honestly."
Muzan almost smiled.
"Muzan."
He turned. Amanai stood closer than expected. When had he moved?
"Your mind is elsewhere." It wasn't a question.
Muzan met his squad leader's eyes. "I'm focused on the mission."
"Your body is here. Your mind isn't." Amanai's voice dropped lower. "I've been watching you. You're lost in your thoughts. If you continue, you're already a dead man."
The words hit like kunai.
"I—"
"You survived your first kill. Good." Amanai's expression didn't change. "But survival isn't the same as being ready for the second. The third. The hundredth." He paused. "This mission isn't patrol duty. The Sarutobi will have their supply convoy guarded. You'll need to kill again. Today. Maybe multiple times."
Muzan's jaw tightened. "I can do it."
"Can you?" Amanai tilted his head. "I was twelve when I made my first kill. Couldn't eat for three days. Threw up every time I closed my eyes. My father told me I'd get used to it." His fingers flexed around his kunai. "He was right. And that terrified me more than the killing itself."
Crunch. Crunch.
Naroi approached, chewing dried meat. "Deep conversation time? Should Masai and I leave?"
"No." Amanai stepped back. "We're done." He looked at Muzan one more time. "Guilt, numbness, rage—whatever you're feeling or not feeling—lock it away until the mission ends. Your emotions are a luxury we can't afford when lives depend on split-second decisions."
"Incoming!" Masai pointed toward the camp's main path.
Five figures emerged from between the tents.
Toshiro instantly straightened, smoothing his hair. Naroi rolled his eyes so hard Muzan thought they'd fall out.
Uchiha Miyako walked at the formation's center.
She was younger than Muzan expected—barely looked sixteen. She was short for a shinobi, with dark hair pulled into a practical ponytail. But the way she moved carried an authority her age shouldn't possess.
And her eyes were crimson with three tomoe spinning slowly in each iris.
"Amanai-san." Miyako's voice was crisp and professional. She didn't bow—equal ranks didn't require it. "My squad is ready. Shall we review the mission parameters?"
"Miyako-san!" Toshiro stepped forward, grinning. "Good to see you again! It's been, what, two months since—"
"Toshiro." Amanai's tone could've frozen fire.
Toshiro's mouth clicked shut.
Miyako's expression didn't change, but something flickered in those red eyes. Was it amusement or pity? "Toshiro-san. You're looking well."
"Y-yeah! You too! I mean, not that you don't always look well, but—"
"Moving on." Miyako turned to Amanai, completely ignoring Toshiro's stammering. "Intelligence suggests the convoy will pass through the valley two hours past noon. Ten guards minimum. We'll need precise coordination."
Masai leaned close to Muzan. "Watch this," he whispered. "She's about to destroy him without saying a word."
"Toshiro-san." Miyako's gaze shifted back. "You're the squad sensor, correct?"
"Yes!" Hope flared in Toshiro's voice.
"Good. You'll maintain perimeter watch with my sensor. Twenty-meter radius minimum. No exceptions."
Translation: Stay away from the actual fighting.
Toshiro's face fell. "But I could help with the initial—"
"Are you questioning my tactical assessment?" The tomoe spun faster.
"N-no! Of course not!"
Naroi coughed into his fist. It sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Miyako's squad spread out—two men and two women, all looking battle-hardened despite their youth. One of them, a tall man with a scar across his nose, nodded to Amanai.
"Ichiro." Amanai returned the nod. "Your squad ready?"
"Always." Ichiro's hand rested on his sword hilt. "Heard you picked up a new guy. That him?" He looked at Muzan.
Every eye turned.
Muzan felt his shoulders tense.
"Muzan killed a Nara scout last week," Amanai said flatly. "Saved Toshiro's life. He's proven himself."
"A Nara?" One of Miyako's female squad members—Asuka, judging by her stance—raised an eyebrow. "Impressive." She paused. "I heard you were only trained for a week before landing on the battlefield."
"Yes," Muzan said quietly.
Miyako studied him with those scrutinizing eyes.
"Good," she said finally. "But that wasn't your strength that won. It was your opponent's underestimation." She looked at Amanai. "You're confident he can handle combat against prepared opponents?"
Muzan answered before Amanai could. "I'll do what needs to be done."
Miyako's lips quirked. It was almost a smile. "We'll see."
Fwip.
She produced a small scroll and unrolled it with practiced efficiency. The map was hastily drawn but detailed.
"The convoy route." Her finger traced a path through sketched terrain. "They'll enter the valley here. Narrow walls on both sides. Poor visibility. Ideal ambush position."
"Split formation?" Amanai asked.
"Obviously. My squad takes the eastern ridge. Yours takes west. We let the front guards pass, collapse on the center where the supplies are concentrated." Her finger tapped the map. "Quick, brutal, efficient. No survivors to report back."
The two squads formed up—ten shinobi ready to kill for their clan.
Miyako stepped forward one last time, her Sharingan blazing. "For the Uchiha."
"For the Uchiha," the response came as one.
Then they moved out, shadows slipping between trees, heading toward the valley.