That night, the fog seemed alive. It drifted slowly through the complex's corridors, seeping through the cracks in the sliding wooden doors, enveloping the paper lanterns hanging from the beams and casting a silvery glow on the damp stones of the courtyard. The cold bit their toes and crept up their legs, but no one complained. Everyone knew: when their father returned from an important mission, the cold was merely background noise. Life returned. And with it, warmth.
I sat on the stone bench near the entrance to the main hall, my legs dangling without touching the ground, my body still feeling the accumulated weight of a whole month of training. My muscles protested with every movement, but it was a good kind of pain—the pain of someone who is growing. The air carried the scent of salt from the nearby sea, damp earth after the afternoon rain, and already mingled with the warm aroma emanating from the kitchen: grilled fish with coastal herbs, fresh rice, miso soup bubbling in large iron pots. My stomach rumbled softly. I smiled to myself. A month. Thirty days of push-ups until my arms trembled, kata repeated until the air vibrated, hands immersed in the icy lake until my palms ached from molding the chakra. My body was no longer that of an ordinary four-year-old. It was something more solid. More alive. The chakra flowed passively through my veins like an underground river that I was only beginning to feel, but that already made me different.
But that night I wasn't thinking about training. I was thinking about the sound of the gates.
The creaking sound came suddenly—deep, long, echoing throughout the complex like distant thunder. The lanterns trembled. The younger brothers stopped mid-run and turned their heads at the same time. Kenta was the first to exclaim, "Dad's back!"
The shout spread like wildfire. Haruto gave up his failed attempt to jump over the puddle bigger than himself, Toma dropped the pebble he was holding, and the three ran towards the gate, their feet splashing in the water, loud laughter cutting through the mist. The older ones tried to maintain their composure: Rokuta crossed his arms and muttered something about "not being a child anymore," but his eyes betrayed him, straying towards the gate every two seconds. Nao and Shun exchanged a quick glance, a half-smile of relief they couldn't hide. Daigo, already eleven years old and with his genin headband on his forehead, stood beside his mothers, carrying heavy trays with apparent ease. He didn't run. He just stopped, took a deep breath, and straightened his back—the silent gesture of someone who already carried the weight of the clan on his shoulders.
The main hall was lit by dozens of lanterns. Flames danced on the stone walls, reflecting in small puddles on the floor. The ten mothers moved as if they had rehearsed for weeks—and probably they had. My mother, with her fiery red hair loose over her shoulders like flames, carried a steaming tray of grilled fish with coastal herbs. The aroma permeated everything: salt, lemon, garlic, a touch of pepper that made my nose tingle. She placed the tray on the long table and exclaimed, smiling incessantly:
"Careful, kids! If you drop this, you'll be washing dishes until next year!"
Beside her, Daigo's mother—tall, with obsidian-black hair and piercing eyes—laughed as she cradled Kenji in her arms. The baby, with skin a darker grayish-blue than mine, his dark eyes already open and curious, grasped her finger with surprising force.
"Look at this," she said, pointing to Rokuta's mother, who was stirring a pot of miso soup. "He's already as sharp as his father. He'll want a sword soon enough."
Rokuta's mother—short, practical hair, a stern expression, but eyes shining with joy—answered without stopping her fidgeting:
"Taro cries louder than all of them combined. If he yells like that during training, he'll scare the enemy before they can even lift a kunai."
Yumi's mother, with hair as light as wheat, was gently cradling the little girl:
"This one is quiet... but when she decides to nurse, it looks like she's going to swallow the whole breast." She chuckled softly. "Arashi was like that too, remember? It looked like he was going to bite."
My mother gave a loud laugh and placed another tray of rice on the table.
"He really bit me. I had to switch sides quickly."
The three mothers of the newborns exchanged knowing glances. Kenji, Yumi, and Taro—born weeks apart, almost temporal triplets—carried the same mark of the clan: grayish-blue skin in varying shades (Kenji darker, Yumi lighter, Taro almost identical to his father), deep black eyes, thick black hair beginning to sprout on their little heads. They whimpered in unison, as if they had rehearsed, as if they already knew that the patriarch was returning.
When the priest walked through the main gate, the entire hall seemed to hold its breath.
He was immense. His silhouette filled the entrance like a mountain. His wild, black hair dripped with mist, his dark eyes scanned the room with a mixture of exhaustion and something I rarely saw: pure relief. The makeshift armor—black plates, worn leather, the old style of great shinobi—was marked by recent cuts, dried blood, and dirt. The enormous sword on his back creaked with every step. He stopped in the doorway, took a deep breath, and said simply:
"I'm at home."
The hall exploded.
The mothers were the first. My mother ran, hugged him around the neck (she had to stand on tiptoe), and he wrapped one arm around her while the other still held his sword. "Thank the gods," she whispered, her face buried in his chest. He merely nodded, his stern expression softening for a moment.
Daigo's mother arrived soon after, handing him a clean cloth to wipe his face. "You smell of blood and mist," she said with a crooked smile. "It's the smell of victory," he replied, and she laughed, kissing his cheek.
The three mothers of the babies stood up, showing off their newborns. Kenji's mother stepped forward:
"They arrived while you were away. Kenji was the first."
The father picked up the boy with a gentleness that seemed impossible for someone his size. His enormous hand almost swallowed the small body. Kenji stopped crying instantly, looking at his father's face with the same identical black eyes.
"He has your eyes," the mother said softly.
The father nodded, running his finger along the baby's cheek.
"He is strong."
Then Yumi arrived. Her mother, with blonde hair, carefully handed the girl over.
"She's quiet... but she's hungry."
The father hugged Yumi tightly to his chest. The girl opened her eyes, looked at him, and let out a small cry, as if she were complaining.
"She's already complaining," he murmured, almost smiling.
Finally, Taro. The younger mother, with black braided hair, handed over the youngest child.
"That one over there... cries louder than you when he's angry."
The father let out a deep, rare laugh that made the whole room stop for a second. He held Taro in his lap, the baby gripped his finger with surprising force, and the father said softly:
"They carry the strength of the clan."
The mothers exchanged proud glances, with tears glistening in the eyes of some.
The real celebration has begun.
The long table was laden with food: grilled fish with coastal herbs, steaming rice, bubbling miso soup, steamed vegetables, shrimp and vegetable tempura, and hot sake for the adults. There were 26 siblings (including myself, the 23 oldest and the 3 newborns), 10 mothers, 1 father—37 souls crammed into the stone hall, voices overlapping, laughter, babies crying, clinking of bowls.
The father sat at the head of the table. The babies' three mothers remained beside him, showing off the children and recounting details:
"Kenji wakes up every two hours," his mother said, "but when he nurses, it seems like he's going to devour the world."
"Yumi is quiet, but hungry," added the girl's mother.
"Taro screams as if he's declaring war," laughed the youngest child's mother.
My father listened to everything, nodding his head, eating slowly, with a cup of sake in his hand.
Rokuta, of course, tried to steal a sip. He furtively reached out his arm. His father, without even looking, pushed the cup away. "Don't even think about it." Rokuta laughed: "Just one sip, Dad! To celebrate!" His mother picked up the wooden spoon and gave him a light tap on the head: "Behave yourself or you'll go to bed without dessert!" The room erupted in laughter.
I sat among the elders, my plate full, feeling the warmth of the food and the family. My mother passed by me, adding more fish to my plate: "Eat more, Arashi. You're growing up too fast." She ruffled my hair before continuing.
It was chaotic. Noisy. Full of love and exhaustion.
But it was ours. It was family.
During a calmer moment, I stood up and approached my father. The smell of sake, fish, and sweat was strong.
"Dad," I whispered, "can we talk tomorrow, just the two of us?"
He looked at me. Piercing black eyes. He nodded once.
"Yes. Meet me at the office early tomorrow."
I returned to the table. My heart was racing, but my face remained neutral.
Rokuta pulled me by the arm: "Secrets with Dad?"
I smiled: "Nothing. Just training stuff."
The night continued. Laughter. Stories. Mothers recounting details of childbirth. Younger siblings falling asleep in their laps. The room was full of life.
37 people celebrating the patriarch's return.
It was noisy. Disorganized. Full of love and exhaustion.
But it was ours. It was family.
Advance chapters: https://www.patreon.com/cw/pararaio