A vibration traveled through the soles of Kakashi's boots long before the sound arrived.
A subtle hitch in the rotation.
A fraction of a beat too long between turns.
Wood ground against iron where it should have glided.
The frequency traveled from the axle through the frame and into his tailbone—a familiar, grinding rhythm of imminent failure. He had been monitoring the misalignment for several minutes, his body tensing with every rotation as the wood fibers groaned under the afternoon glare.
CRACK.
The rear wheel splintered against a jagged jut of basalt. The entire structure listed violently, sending a jolt up Kakashi's spine as he braced his hands against the sun-baked timber. Naruto yelped—a sharp, strangled sound—fingers digging into the leather frame; Idate's breath hissed; Hantō's knuckles turned white. A dry, choking plume of dust kicked up, stinging Kakashi's eyes and triggering a sharp, dry cough from Naruto. Swallowing became a conscious effort, his windpipe feeling narrowed as a layer of mineral salt coated the back of his throat.
Kakashi remained seated atop the listing frame for a heartbeat, measuring the silence. The air stayed dead. Insects had gone silent. Only the parched, metallic hiss of distant steam vents bled into the afternoon. He waited for his inner ear to settle, the atmosphere congealing around the settling dust and making the volume of the world feel too thick to move.
Anko dropped from the roof, her boots hitting the brittle soil with a dull, heavy thud. She crouched by the ruin, her gloved fingers tracing the fractured spokes.
"Grain's gone," she said, her voice a flat rasp, breath catching slightly from the heat. "Brittle."
Kakashi slid down, his feet crunching on earth that radiated energy through his sandals. He brushed the grain, feeling the wood flake away like bone. He wiped sweat from his forehead, his fingers coming away grey with grit. He glanced at the bleached sky, where high cirrus clouds threaded the atmosphere like white scars. The air pressure pressed unevenly against his sinuses, a mismatch between the still forest and the falling barometer.
"Reset the axle," Kakashi directed, the oxygen-starved stillness making his voice sound deeper than usual. "Naruto—lift. Hantō, help."
He put his shoulder into the wood, feeling the temperature transfer through his vest. As they heaved, a splinter drove into his palm. He tried to adjust his grip, but the shard snapped off beneath the skin, leaving a sharp needle of pain that throbbed in time with his pulse. Tendons in his neck stood out; Naruto's breathing arrived in a ragged, synchronized rhythm with the groaning timber. Dizziness spiked as the sun beat down on his neck, his skin slipping against the parched wood until the frame finally sat level on a temporary basalt block.
Kakashi straightened, heart hammering. He stayed focused on the axle for a second too long, testing the tension of the repair while a delayed pulse of pain from the buried splinter registered. When he finally turned his head, the town shimmering in the distance seemed to waver. The scale failed to anchor; buildings appeared to recede and then jump forward as the horizon warped.
Structures rose in layered tiers, steam drifting lazily between dark blue tile roofs. The edges wavered, depth flattening intermittently in the glare. And beyond them rose the arc.
Grey stone. Immense. It curved behind the settlement, a hollow stone socket staring out over the greenery. Kakashi waited for the flight of a bird from the rim or the glint of a guard's polearm, but the structure remained a void. There was no thermal distortion rippling around the dark openings, and no sound echoed from the tiers. He tried to reconcile the mass of the building with the silence surrounding it, but the model wouldn't stabilize.
"Fix it fast," he said, the words tight in his dry throat. "Don't linger."
Anko's jaw tightened. Naruto moved to obey, but a tingle crawled up Kakashi's spine—the weight of eyes. He let it sit in the background, a peripheral itch, as he scanned the town again. A shape moved near a building—not a statue, but a person. The footsteps didn't sync with the unhurried rhythm of the locals; the sound arrived in a pattern that broke the ambient noise of the steam vents.
And one man refused to blend.
Beige hair, violet lenses, and clothing far too colorful for the terrain emerged from the street. The man's focus didn't rest on the adults; it snagged on the height of the genin, the calluses on their hands, the specific weight of their weapon pouches. He moved with a heavy-heeled gait, yet his weight distribution was too precise for his loose garments.
The man's mouth curved into a mask of a smile—welcoming, wide, and entirely hollow. He began to approach, a small figure trailing in his wake.
"Ah! Ah... how unfortunate!" the man called, his voice a lilting performance that didn't quite sync with his rhythmic stride. "A sudden halt... on such an afternoon? The Land of Tea... famous for hospitality, but its roads? They require patience."
Kakashi stayed motionless, redistributing his weight to his heels. He gave no verbal response to the prompt, letting the silence serve as a reaction test. A scent reached him—not sweat or dust, but something sterile and sharp, like chemical masking. The man's large sunglasses didn't fog despite the stifling air, and the pink bangles on his wrist stayed cool against his skin. Behind the violet lenses, there was a mismatch in the reflections, a tracking delay that suggested the man was looking at everything and nothing at once.
"My name is En Oyashiro," the man declared, stopping just shy of the team's perimeter. "A humble merchant... lover of fine things. Devoted admirer of shinobi! Imagine my delight... finding such... promising individuals gathered here."
Kakashi waited, his mind processing the specific choice of the word individuals over ninja. "Individuals," he repeated after a micro-delay. Oyashiro's gaze remained fixed on Sylvie, tracking the micro-adjustments of her posture. "Specialties, perhaps? Bloodline techniques... rare skills—those are always... so fascinating."
Anko stepped forward, her body blocking the line between Oyashiro and Naruto. "Not here to chat," she said, her voice reclaiming the space through clipped volume.
Oyashiro's smile flattened into a fixed lacquer. "Oh... of course. But you must stay... rest, recover. It would be my honor... to host—"
"I don't think so," Anko cut in, her posture shifting into a defensive anchor.
Beside her, Sylvie adjusted her stance. The girl, Chino, took a single step forward, her head tilting in a slow, calculated mirror of Sylvie's own posture. Chino's blinks came in long, timed intervals. Her chest moved in a shallow rhythm that failed to align with the pace of the talk.
"Take them off," Chino said softly.
Naruto blinked, wiping sweat from his brow. "Huh?"
Chino pointed a steady, small finger at Sylvie's glasses. Her breathing stayed shallow, almost non-existent. "Your eyes. I... want to see them."
Kakashi repositioned his body until his torso became a barrier, cutting the line of sight. Sylvie adjusted her glasses, her jaw locking as she gripped the frames.
"No," she said.
Chino didn't flinch. She watched, her facial muscles perfectly still, before a slow smile spread across her face—one that didn't affect the depth of her violet eyes. Oyashiro's hand settled on her shoulder, his fingers tapping a rhythmic, silent pattern.
"Chino... now now," he chided with a chuckle. "We don't... impose on guests."
Guests. A spike of cold pressure hit Kakashi's stomach. He couldn't reconcile the civilian drape of their clothes with the way Chino's eyes continued to measure Sylvie's height. His pulse jumped.
"We have a job," Anko said, her tone signaling the end of the negotiation. "Transport. We need a boat... to Nagi Island."
Oyashiro's enthusiasm drained, replaced by a measured recalibration. "I see. You're on a schedule."
Anko stared him down. "Yes."
"Of course. Allow me... to assist," he said, his tone now perfectly transactional. "The docks... are not far."
Kakashi watched the man turn. The townspeople subtly parted for him—a collective recoil. One vendor failed to move fast enough, stumbling back with a look of frantic correction as Oyashiro passed. They followed, the warmth from the basalt radiating through the soles of their shoes.
The docks carried the scent of salt and rot.
The teal water moved in slow, oily patterns. Kakashi scanned the pier for a clerk or a checkpoint—the pier remained clear. No voices called for registry papers, and no hands reached out to block their path as cargo moved in a silent, unresisted stream.
Rope fibers brushed Kakashi's ankle and tar stuck briefly to his sandal sole before releasing with a tacky pop. A young man with long violet hair approached—Suzuran. His gloves were too clean, the creases unworn, and his red robe was stiff, as if the fabric were resisting the humidity.
"Welcome," he said with a bow. "I am Suzuran. I can arrange a vessel... for temporary use."
The process lacked the usual friction of a port. Within minutes, the boat was ready.
They began to board. Naruto first, then Hantō and Idate. Sylvie stepped aboard last, her foot hitting the deck. Her balance faltered, her inner ear lagging behind the roll. Kakashi followed, his own vestibular system misfiring as he stepped onto the slick wood. His knees buckled slightly, a momentary miscalculation of the deck's angle, and he had to reposition his foot and anchor his grip on the railing before he could correct.
Chino watched from the dock. Unblinking. Kakashi met her gaze. Her eyes were violet, but beneath the surface, he sensed a mounting distortion—like a color waiting to break through a thin membrane.
He turned away. When the others were occupied, Kakashi reached beneath his mask. A small, bitter pill slipped between his teeth. He swallowed it dry, the tension in his stomach a knot that wouldn't unbind.
His gaze flicked back toward the town. The shadows cast by the buildings sharpened against the stone. The grey maw of the arc remained fixed on the horizon, an unresolved weight pressing against the base of his skull.
"I hate boats," he muttered, stepping onto the deck.