Darkness swallowed the forest. After the clash, the trees and undergrowth seemed to hold their breath, as if the fierce fight had never happened at all. Only the three wounded moved with slow, painful steps; the fourth supported them where he could, and the night hummed with the sound of insects and restless mosquitoes.
Nawaki swatted at his arms while stealing glances at Mikoto and Hayashi. He was outwardly jocular, but his eyes flicked back and forth with the same assessment any teammate gives after a mission: who is still able, and who is brittle.
Hayashi's arm rested over Mikoto's shoulders; with her help he forced his legs onward. The scrutiny from Nawaki made him uneasy.
"What are you staring at?" Hayashi asked, more brusk than he intended.
"So what if I'm looking?" Nawaki shrugged.
Hayashi tried to keep his temper in check. "I didn't ask for your help, did I? Anyone would pick Mikoto over you if they had the choice."
Nawaki stuck out his lower lip and made a ridiculous 'ooh ooh' noise, the kind of sound he used when teasing. "What are you calling me, Hayashi? I'm a warrior, not a doll."
Hayashi's discomfort prickled under his skin. The unease felt stranger than the blood that still stained his clothes.
Nawaki glanced up at the sky, tilt at forty-five degrees, then let his brown hair fall back as he sighed. "You don't get it. A kid who killed a Jōnin at nine, the other awakened the Sharingan at nine, suddenly I feel like the weak link."
Hayashi opened his mouth to offer some comfort, but Nawaki kept going, voice soft with a melancholy that didn't suit him. "Maybe excellence makes you arrogant. Maybe being too bright makes you a target."
Orochimaru walked ahead in the same ninja uniform he always wore, expression unreadable. He said nothing for a while as the four of them moved through the burned-out outskirts until at last the ruined Windmill Village came into view.
The village looked worse than a battlefield. Black smoke rose from scattered ruins, small fires still licked through thatch and timber, and the sky above was stained red by the glow of explosions. Windmill Village had been flattened as if a demolition team had passed through and left smoke and ruin in their place.
Hayashi scanned the devastation, a hard light behind his eyes. A small mission could generate such large consequences. He forced a rueful smile at himself; if nothing else, the future held a title — he would be the one who had once broken a village.
Orochimaru halted at the threshold of a house that had somehow escaped total destruction. The elder's face reflected the crimson sky as he looked back at the ruins, and then he turned to the three of them.
Mikoto helped Hayashi to a cleaner patch of ground and he sat down. Nawaki folded his hands and formed the required seals, then puffed his cheeks out with a childish flourish. "Water Release: Water Dragon Jutsu," he announced. A surge of water rushed out, slamming across the nearest flames and snuffing them with efficient force.
Nawaki grinned at his own show. "Not bad for a Water Release, right? Has a little Water God flavor."
Hayashi gave a short nod. "Not bad at all. If this ninja gig doesn't work out, you could be a firefighter."
Orochimaru remained still for a beat, then spoke in his hoarse, measured voice. "Your mission is not yet complete." His words were short, the kind of sentence that feels like a judgment.
Nawaki blinked. "Not complete? This place is ash and smoke, isn't that enough?"
Orochimaru sat down cross-legged on the earth. He looked each of them in turn, then fixed his eyes on Nawaki and asked a question they had not expected.
"What do you think a ninja needs the least?"
It was a strange question. There were a thousand answers a ninja might give: chakra control, cunning, hand seals, speed. But what is not needed? The three young faces showed they were thinking.
Orochimaru pointed to Nawaki and signaled him to answer. Nawaki scratched his head and guessed, "Not needing to be too excellent?"
Hayashi let out a quiet sound that might have been a laugh or the start of one. Nawaki continued, voice half serious now. "People who are too excellent stand out like bright fires in the dark. They get targeted."
Orochimaru watched him as if weighing the truth. Then he shifted his gaze to Mikoto, whose Sharingan still shimmered faintly beneath her lids. Awakening the Sharingan at such a young age marked her as a rare talent within the clan, and Orochimaru's interest was sharp.
"Mikoto," he asked, "what do you think ninja need the least?"
Mikoto considered, then answered carefully. "Emotion?"
"You are partly right. Your answer is too broad."
Orochimaru spoke slowly, as if lecturing a student and unrolling a lesson at the same time. "Ninjas are people. They feel anger, grief, fear. No one can fully remove their emotions. Emotions become a problem only when they cloud judgment. What a shinobi can least afford is compassion."
The three of them looked puzzled. Orochimaru's voice grew flat. "Not compassion for yourself alone. Not compassion for the enemy alone. Compassion, meaning pity that prevents you from doing what must be done on the battlefield. If the mission requires a cruel choice, or if an enemy pleads for mercy, the shinobi who lets pity rule will not survive long. Mentality determines fate."
Hayashi listened without comment. He felt the truth in the lesson, and a weight settled into his chest. He had made hard choices before; the memory of the kunai and the smell of blood still lingered in his mind. Being strong meant making decisions no one else wanted to make.
Orochimaru stood and reached into his pouch. He produced three kunai and tossed them to the feet of Hayashi, Mikoto, and Nawaki. "Inside that house there are bandits and some of their families who were not killed by the explosive tags. They are tied up. Pick up the kunai and kill them. I will wait at the door."
The instruction hit them like cold water.
He added, voice almost casual, "It does not matter if you cannot do it. This is about who will go to the battlefield and who will not."
Hayashi stared at the kunai at his feet. The blade felt heavy with implication, and everything inside him gathered into a single, silent decision. He thought of the ruined village, of friends and enemies and of the hard line drawn between mercy and duty.
Mikoto's hand trembled, but she did not refuse. Nawaki's grin had gone from playfulness to something tighter. For each of them, the night folded into a single test, one that would mark the difference between standing and falling.
They moved toward the house, the kunai cold and real in their palms. The wind carried the scent of smoke and ash, and above it everything seemed quieter than before, as if the world was listening to the choice they were about to make.
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