The days in the Akashio compound dragged on like the mist that never truly left Kirigakure, a constant and suffocating presence that turned the world into a gray, unpredictable veil. Three months had passed since Father left for that shadowy mission, and the emptiness he left behind had seeped into everything — into the training sessions that felt more mechanical, into the meals that lost their flavor without his imposing presence at the head of the table, into the nights when the wind howled through the corridors like a distant lament. I found myself more and more immersed in the routine, no longer as a child discovering the world, but as a gear in a larger machine, turning relentlessly to become something beyond human. Training was no longer a novelty; it was an obsession, a way to fill the silence that echoed in his absence. I ran across the courtyard at dawn, the damp ground squelching under my sandals, the cold air cutting through my lungs like invisible blades, while my mind wandered to him: was he still alive? Fighting in distant shadows, the Kubikiribōchō reaping lives to regenerate itself?
I knew he was alive. In Kirigakure, the death of a man like Isamu Akashio — a Jōnin elite, one of the Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist — would not go unnoticed. The news would spread like hungry crows: messengers racing through the damp streets, rumors spreading in markets filled with fresh fish and dried seaweed, the Mizukage sending emissaries with grave looks and formal words. But none of that happened. Only silence, punctuated by the constant roar of waves against the cliffs below the village, and the mist that devoured everything, as if the world beyond the village was merely a distant rumor. I did not allow myself to worry — worry was for the weak, those who did not understand that shinobi like Father were forged to survive hell. But the absence weighed heavily, a void I filled with more intensity, muscles burning in katas, chakra flowing like a wild river in jutsu, senbon throws echoing like deadly whispers against straw targets. But in moments of pause, like now, helping the mothers in the kitchen, the emptiness settled in.
I was in the auxiliary kitchen, the hot, steamy air contrasting with the cold outside, thick with the smell of fresh fish being gutted and rice cooking in iron pots. The mothers moved around me like an organized ballet: Hanae slicing vegetables with precise cuts, the rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board echoing like a metronome; Miyu stirring the miso soup, steam rising in spirals carrying the salty, earthy aroma of the broth; my mother, Maluso, kneading dough for dumplings, her fiery red hair stuck to her forehead from the heat, her strong hands shaping the dough with an efficiency that masked the worry in her eyes. I helped with simple tasks — cleaning fish, the metallic smell of blood and scales sticking to my hands, the wet sound of entrails being removed. "You've grown, Arashi," Hanae said, passing me another fish, the slippery, cold body in my palm. "Your father would be proud." Her voice was firm, but I saw the tremor, the way she glanced at the door, waiting.
Maluso nodded, her hands pausing on the dough for a moment. "He'll come back. He always does." But her voice was low, laden with a doubt she tried to hide, the smell of warm milk emanating from her as she leaned to check the fire, the flames crackling softly. The mothers exchanged glances — Miyu murmuring about "missions that take time," Kaho casually mentioning village rumors — but I felt the tension in the air, thick as the soup steam. The babies, Kenji, Yumi, and Taro, were in baskets nearby, gurgling or whimpering, their sweet smells of milk and new skin contrasting with the heavy atmosphere. Yumi, quiet as always, watched with curious eyes; Taro screamed sporadically, as if sensing the absence of the father; Kenji gripped a wooden toy with surprising strength for a baby.
It was at that moment that I heard the distant creak of the main gate — a deep, metallic sound, like the groan of an ancient beast waking up. My heart raced, a warm pulse in my chest that contrasted with the kitchen's heat. I stopped mid-cut, the fish blood dripping cold down the blade, and turned toward the door. The mothers froze, their movements halting as if time had solidified. "It's him," Maluso whispered, her eyes shining with relief mixed with fear, dropping the dough and wiping her hands on her apron. The smell of raw fish intensified in the still air, while the soup steam rose in lazy clouds.
We rushed out to the courtyard, the cold air hitting like a slap after the kitchen's warmth, the mist swirling at our feet like it was greeting us. The gate opened slowly, the creak echoing in the morning silence, and then he appeared: an immense silhouette, advancing slowly, heavy footsteps sinking into the damp earth, leaving deep footprints like battle scars. It was him. Father.
But something was wrong.
He walked with a stiffness I had never seen, shoulders slightly hunched, as if carrying an invisible weight beyond the huge Kubikiribōchō on his back. The sword seemed intact, its chipped blade shining faintly in the gray light, but he… he was covered in white bandages. Arms wrapped from shoulder to wrist, the white fabric stained dark brown in some spots, as if blood had leaked despite the dressings. His chest was also wrapped in thick bandages, visible under the torn and hastily patched tunic. And his face… his face was the worst. A fresh scar crossed his left eye, an irregular red line starting at the eyebrow and descending to the cheek, the eye itself opaque and swollen, as if spared by a miracle. Almost blind. His wild black hair was tangled with dirt and salt, and he limped slightly, favoring his right leg, the step producing a wet, painful sound on the muddy ground.
My stomach churned. That mission had been hell — not a clean victory, but a bloody survival, the kind of battle that leaves marks that never fully disappear. I saw the evidence: hastily stitched cuts, purple bruises escaping the bandages, the pallor beneath the grayish-blue skin suggesting significant blood loss. But he tried to hide it, straightening his shoulders when he saw us, forcing a grunt meant to be a casual greeting. "Family," he said, his voice hoarse and tired, echoing in the damp air like a distant echo. "I'm back."
The silence that followed was broken by Rokuta, who came running from the dormitory like he had been launched from a catapult. "Dad!" he shouted, his voice echoing across the courtyard, feet splashing in the mud. He stopped a few meters away, eyes wide, face paling as he absorbed the injuries. "What… what happened to your eye? That… that almost blinded you?" He approached, hesitant, reaching out as if to touch, but stopping halfway. "Was it an ambush? Enemies with kekkei genkai? Tell us, Dad, please!"
Daigo came right behind, more controlled, but with clenched fists at his sides, tension visible in his rigid shoulders. "Welcome back," he said, his voice steady, but his eyes fixed on the scar, assessing the damage like a trained shinobi. "The mission… was brutal. But you won." He stepped forward, stopping beside Rokuta, his gaze quickly passing over the bandaged arms, the limp. "You need fresh dressings. And rest." His voice was low, almost a command, but laden with concern he tried to disguise with practicality.
Nao watched from a distance, silent as always, but his dark eyes blinked rapidly, processing every detail. "Dad… you're limping," he murmured, approaching slowly, the smell of fresh sweat from a recent training session mixing with the damp air. He showed no fear, but curiosity — as if he wanted to dissect the injuries to learn from them. "What did the enemy use to do this? A blade infused with chakra? Or poison?" His voice was low, almost clinical, but I saw the tension in his shoulders, the way he bit his lower lip.
The mothers arrived next, a whirlwind of emotion that filled the courtyard with movement and voices. Hanae was the fastest, running with a clean cloth in her hands, her face pale under the gray morning light. "Isamu! By the gods, look at you… these injuries, this scar!" Her voice was a mix of maternal anger and deep fear, her trembling hands touching the bandaged arm with delicacy, feeling the heat of inflammation. "You almost didn't come back. What did they do to you?" She turned to the other mothers: "Bring the herbs! He needs fresh dressings now!"
Miyu and Kaho followed, carrying the babies in their arms — Kenji gurgling softly, oblivious to the drama, his tiny fists waving; Yumi quiet but hungry, whimpering softly with a high-pitched sound that cut through the air; Taro screaming loudly, as if sensing the tension, his cry echoing like an alarm. "Thank the gods you're back," Miyu said, her voice choked, approaching to hug him carefully, avoiding the injuries. "But look at you… we almost didn't recognize you." Kaho, practical, was already ordering: "Hot water! And the strong ointment for the cuts!"
My mother, Maluso, stopped beside me first, her hand on my shoulder, warm and comforting, but trembling like leaves in the wind. "He's alive," she whispered to me, her eyes fixed on Father, shining with relief and pain. Then she approached him, touching his face with delicacy, her fingers tracing the scar on his eye without touching it, as if fearing to make it worse. "What did they do to you, Isamu? This mission… it almost took you." Her voice was a broken whisper, laden with relief and pain, her eyes fixed on the opaque eye, imagining the near-blindness that could have destroyed him as a shinobi. She didn't cry openly — shinobi mothers don't cry — but I saw the contained tears, the way she bit her lip to maintain composure.
Father stopped in the center of the courtyard, the mist swirling at his feet. He raised his head, ignoring the limp, the swollen eye blinking slowly as if testing the limits of his remaining vision. "I'm fine," he said, his deep voice trying to sound normal, but laden with a deep exhaustion that echoed like an empty echo in the courtyard. "The mission was accomplished. That's what matters." He tried to smile, but the gesture came out crooked, the scar pulling his face irregularly, revealing serrated teeth that shone faintly in the dim light. I saw the effort — rigid shoulders, controlled breathing to hide pain, the way he leaned more on his left leg to relieve the right, the smell of dried blood intensifying with the movement. He was covered in injuries, his body a tapestry of bandages and hidden bruises, but he tried to appear strong, as if those wounds were mere training scratches.
Rokuta approached, touching the bandaged arm hesitantly. "Dad… does it hurt? I mean, I know you're strong, but… look at this. It almost blinded you." His voice was low, almost reverent, eyes fixed on the scar. Daigo placed a hand on Rokuta's shoulder, calm. "He's here. That's what counts. Dad, you need rest. We'll help with the dressings."
Father grunted, waving his good hand. "Dressings later. First, I want to see my children." He extended his good arm to Kenji, who gurgled happily, gripping the bandaged finger with surprising strength. "He's strong," Father said, his voice softening for a moment, but the effort to maintain the facade was visible — cold sweat on his forehead, slight tremor in his hand.
The mothers surrounded him, Hanae guiding him inside, Miyu murmuring prayers, Kaho ordering herbs. Maluso stayed by his side, hand on his waist, whispering: "You don't have to be strong all the time. Not with us." He looked at her, the good eye softening. "Shinobi don't stop, Maluso. You know that."
Lunch was an improvised feast, the main hall filled with warm aromas contrasting the cold outside. The mothers served extra portions, as if food could heal. The brothers crowded around him, Rokuta begging for stories, Daigo calculating impacts. Father told fragments, avoiding the worst, his presence filling the space even wounded.
The afternoon brought light training, Father watching from the side, correcting despite the pain. His resilience inspired, but worried — the mist swirled, reminding that survival was fragile.
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