The dining hall of the Akashio compound had never been a place of quiet reflection. It was built for war councils, for feeding armies of children, for the kind of raucous energy that kept twenty-six siblings from turning on each other in boredom or idleness. Tonight, though, the usual chaos felt different—thicker, warmer, electric. Lanterns hung from the heavy wooden beams, their paper shades glowing amber, casting long, dancing shadows across the low tables. Steam rose from massive iron pots and clay bowls, carrying the heavy, comforting scents of miso thickened with seaweed and cubes of soft tofu, grilled mackerel whose skin crackled and popped with every touch of chopsticks, sweet soy-glazed chicken skewers dripping with caramelized sauce, steamed rice so fresh it still carried the faint green fragrance of the paddies, and the sharp, clean tang of pickled daikon cut into perfect translucent moons.
I walked in last.
My legs still felt like they belonged to someone else—ankles throbbing with every careful step, tendons pulling with sharp little reminders of the tree, calves and thighs burning as though I'd run through fire instead of climbed through mist. My tunic clung uncomfortably to my back, damp with the day's sweat and the evening fog that had followed me home. I'd washed my face and arms in the cold stone basin outside, but the exhaustion sat heavy in my bones, a dull, satisfying weight that made every movement deliberate.
The hall was already full. Voices overlapped in a constant roar: Kenta arguing loudly with Haruto over who got the last skewer, Toma laughing so hard he nearly choked on his rice, Rokuta dramatically recounting some exaggerated training mishap to anyone who would listen (and even to those who wouldn't). The mothers moved between the tables like a living current—my mother with her bright red hair tied back in a loose knot, ladling soup with practiced grace; Rokuta's mother slicing fish with the same precision she used for kunai; the younger mothers quietly feeding the infants and toddlers. They worked in seamless coordination, never needing to speak, passing bowls and plates with the quiet efficiency of people who had raised armies together.
Yumi—barely a month old—was cradled in one of the younger mothers' arms at the far end of the table, tiny fists waving aimlessly, eyes half-open in that dreamy, unfocused way newborns have. She made soft, hiccuping coos and gurgles, completely oblivious to the noise around her, her little mouth working instinctively around the bottle.
I slipped onto my usual spot between Rokuta and little Haruto. I reached for the rice bowl, hands still trembling slightly from the strain.
That's when Daigo stood.
The room quieted in less than two heartbeats.
Daigo was eleven, the oldest brother, freshly graduated from the academy and the family's only genin. He carried himself with a seriousness beyond his years—tall for eleven, already showing the broad shoulders and gray-blue skin that marked him as Father's son. His black hair was tied back in a short tail, and his dark eyes held the same calm weight that made people listen when he spoke.
"guys," he said, voice clear and steady, carrying effortlessly to every corner of the hall. "Today we have something to celebrate."
Silence stretched for one perfect second.
He lifted his bowl slightly—the old shinobi gesture of respect before battle or feast.
"Our little red shark—" he looked straight at me, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in the rarest of smiles "—just completed the challenge Father gave him. Tree-walking. Without hands. In one week."
A beat.
Then the hall detonated.
Rokuta, nine years old and the second oldest, slammed both palms on the table so hard the bowls jumped and soup sloshed over the rims. "WHAT?!"
Kenta leapt onto his seat, fists pumping the air. "YES! YES! YES!"
Haruto threw a piece of pickled radish at me, grinning like a maniac. "You absolute little monster!"
The mothers were already clapping—soft at first, then louder, smiles spreading across every face. My mother reached across the table and squeezed my shoulder, her fingers warm and steady, eyes shining with something brighter than lantern light. "We knew you had it in you," she said quietly, voice almost lost in the growing roar. "We always knew."
Daigo raised his voice again, still calm, still commanding, cutting through the noise like a blade through water.
"A round of applause for the youngest Akashio to ever complete the tree challenge."
The hall erupted.
Hands slammed tables. Feet stomped the floorboards until the entire building seemed to vibrate. My older siblings—those still in the academy, the ones closest to graduation— grinning wide enough to show sharp teeth. Even the quiet ones, the ones who usually watched everything and said nothing, were clapping, nodding, eyes bright with something close to awe.
Rokuto with crossed arms and smirked. "He beat us. Took me almost a month. And I had Daigo coaching me every damn day."
Daigo snorted. "You still fell on the third branch and blamed the wind."
Laughter rolled through the hall like thunder over open water.
Shun leaned in close, voice loud over the din. "I'm gonna beat your time, you hear me? Next year I'll do it in six days, then rub it in your face every morning!"
Haruto shoved him sideways. "You'll take three weeks and cry when you fall on your face, drama queen."
Kenta, still standing on his seat like a tiny conqueror, pointed at me dramatically. "You're not allowed to be cooler than me yet! I'm supposed to be the cool one!"
The mothers began passing extra portions—more grilled mackerel for me, another full bowl of rice, a second helping of the sweet soy-glazed chicken that left sticky caramel on my fingers. "Eat, eat," my mother said, piling my plate high until it threatened to overflow. "You burned too much today. Need to rebuild that strength."
I looked around the table.
Faces lit by lantern glow, mouths open in laughter or shouting encouragement, hands clapping, chopsticks waving. The noise was overwhelming, chaotic, warm. Competitive—already they were making bets on who would break my record, who would climb higher, who would do it faster—but there was no malice in it. Only the fierce, unspoken promise of family: We rise together. If one of us climbs higher, we all reach for the next branch.
Yumi let out a small, sleepy gurgle from her mother's arms, tiny hands waving aimlessly as though trying to join the celebration in her own unknowing way. The sound made several of the mothers laugh softly, and one reached over to stroke her fine red hair.
I looked at the empty seat at the head of the table.
Daigo caught my gaze and gave one slow, deliberate nod.
Then he raised his bowl again, higher this time.
"To Arashi," he said, voice carrying over the noise like a banner. "The youngest Akashio to conquer the tree."
Twenty-six voices answered in roaring unison.
"To Arashi!"
Bowls clinked. Laughter swelled. Someone started chanting my name—Kenta, of course—and soon half the table joined in, the sound bouncing off the stone walls and wooden beams. Yumi cooed softly again, eyes half-closed, completely oblivious but somehow part of it anyway.
My mother wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and pretended it was from the steam rising off the soup.
I lifted my own bowl, hands still trembling slightly from the day's strain, rice and fish balanced precariously.
I didn't say anything.
I didn't need to.
For once, the silence inside me felt like victory.
The chanting slowly faded into the usual chaos of dinner—someone stealing someone else's skewer, arguments over who got the last piece of mackerel, mothers scolding and laughing at the same time. But the warmth remained. Not just from the lanterns or the food or the crowded bodies.
It came from them.
From the way Rokuta kept elbowing me and grinning like an idiot.
From the way Haruto kept throwing things at me, each one accompanied by "You're still short, prodigy!"
From the way the older academy siblings raised their bowls again in silent salute when no one else was looking.
From the way my mother kept watching me with that quiet, proud smile that said more than any words ever could.
They were proud.
Not because I was better than them.
Because I was one of them.
And I had climbed higher than any of them expected.
I took a bite of the mackerel—salty, crispy skin giving way to tender flesh—and felt the warmth settle deeper.
Tomorrow there would be Father's office.
Tomorrow there would be whatever came next.
But tonight, in this hall full of noise and laughter and the smell of home-cooked food, surrounded by twenty-six siblings, ten mothers, and the empty chair of the man who had set the challenge—I let myself simply be.
The youngest Akashio who had conquered the tree.
And for the first time, I didn't feel like I had to prove anything to anyone.
Because they already knew.
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