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Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 60
🕑 Added 2025-11-01 13:00:04 +0000 UTCChapter 60
Samui gritted her teeth so hard she felt the pressure crack through her jaw.
She was tired—far more than she would ever show in front of Karui and Omoi—but her muscles screamed with every movement, and her ribs burned from where Raiga's lightning had grazed her earlier. Still, she pushed forward. She had to. The runt was good—too good for his age, what a fucking monster he would be in a few years—but she was better, she was trained, and she was done playing. She felt the narrowing of the space between them, the familiar tightness in the air that said it was time for the killing blow. It was close. One more clean step. One more strike. She set her teeth, raised her blade—and then she saw it.
The boy’s eyes.
They flared open, bright and deep and utterly wrong. Red. Spinning. A sickening shiver ran down her spine before she could even name it.
Sharingan.
Samui cursed silently, cold sweat breaking out across her neck. She knew the stories: hesitation, a single faltering breath, and then you were dead before you realized you had moved wrong.
And she didn’t hesitate. She was so tired, and hurt, and if she made a mistakes she felt the kid would just chop her head off and —
She drove forward, going for the decisive strike—clean, quick, brutal—
—only to feel herself yanked bodily into the air by the collar of her flak jacket, her momentum ripped away so hard her lungs slammed against her ribs. For a half-second, Samui thought it was the boy’s backup—ANBU, some Leaf specter they hadn’t sensed—but then the chakra hit her like a wall. Familiar. Massive. Heavy enough to anchor the world.
Bee.
She tried to gasp in a breath, but it caught in her throat, the force of the sudden stop crushing against her burning muscles. Bee was rapping something absurd in the background, but Samui didn’t hear it, didn’t care. She barely registered the sound. Her gaze locked on Sasuke.
Only Sasuke.
The boy was standing—barely. His body swayed like a flame caught in high wind. Blood ran down his arms, staining the black of his clothes to a deeper, sicker color. His face was pale, lips drawn tight, and every breath he took was visible, ragged, and shallow. He looked like he should have been unconscious three times over.
But his eyes—those eyes.
They blazed, newly awakened and spinning, defiant and sharp and unbroken. In their depths there was no fear left. Only will. Unshakable, grim, bloody-minded fight.
Samui felt a cold, sinking feeling in her gut.
Karui’s voice cracked through the tension, still burning with anger, still too young to see the whole board. “Hey, Sensei! Why’d you stop her?!” she barked, rubbing her bruised jaw, glaring at Sasuke like she still wanted to bite his throat out. “We could’ve finished it!”
Samui braced herself for Bee’s usual nonsense, for a rap about diplomacy, about how they needed to keep things smooth for the Chunin Exams. She almost rolled her eyes preemptively.
But Bee didn’t rhyme.
His voice came low. Steady. Serious in a way that made the hairs on Samui’s arms lift.
"To save your fucking lives, kids," Bee said. "Don’t play."
The words dropped into the clearing like boulders.
Karui blinked, caught off guard. She frowned. “What? Because he’s got an ANBU guard or some shit? Who cares ? As if Anbus could hurt us with you there !”
Bee didn’t answer immediately. For the first time since any of them had known him, the grin fell away, the easy swagger drained from his body like blood from an open wound. His frame stiffened, not with fear exactly, but with a tension too sharp to mistake. Slowly, almost mechanically, he turned his head, his gaze locking not on the boy, not on the clearing, but far beyond—into the heart of the mist-dark trees. His eyes narrowed, and the laid-back façade that had always seemed invincible bled out of him all at once, leaving only the raw steel underneath.
Samui found herself following his stare without meaning to. The forest beyond the clearing looked the same as ever—broken trunks, curling smoke, the faint shimmer of evening mist—but now it felt like standing on the lip of a chasm. Something was there. Watching.
When Bee spoke, his voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It rumbled low, steady, heavy with a weight that made the skin crawl.
"No," he said, voice rough like stone dragged across stone. "It’s not just an escort. The man hiding in the forest..."
He inhaled once, slow and deep, as if pulling enough breath to say the unthinkable, and when he exhaled, even his broad shoulders seemed to sink under the burden of it.
"I don't know who he is," Bee said, the words grim as a grave. "But my partner can feel it. I can feel it."
Samui didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The clearing itself seemed to go still, the air thick and heavy.
Bee, who laughed at enemy Jonin, who fought armies without so much as missing a beat, spoke again, and this time his voice crushed the last bit of safety out of the night:
"This man... even if I moved first, even if I gave everything..."
A pause.
"I don’t know if I could save you."
Another pause.
"If we were to fight with him…I don’t even know if I could save myself."
Samui’s blood turned to ice, and for the first time that day, it wasn’t the exhaustion or the pain that made her shiver.
— — — —
Naruto staggered forward, his mind a disjointed whirl of broken images—the woman’s bloodied form, the weight of chains, the burning hunger gnawing at his belly. He had reached out to her, desperate, aching—his soul had screamed for something, anything, to anchor him back to the life he had clawed for—
And then, the world had shifted. Without warning, without mercy, the ground beneath his consciousness had twisted into something unrecognizable, and he fell not with his body, but with his very sense of being, plummeting into a darkness so complete it seemed to gnaw at the edges of thought. He landed—if it could be called that—upon a slick, cold surface, the impact soft but revolting, like falling onto the skin of some immense, breathing thing.
He was no longer among the wreckage. No longer tethered to the battlefield. Instead, he stood in a corridor where the air itself seemed to sweat sickness, thick with an oily dampness that clung to his skin like a second, suffocating flesh. Endless tunnels sprawled into darkness around him, the walls slick with moss and some blacker growth that pulsed subtly, as though breathing. The stone here was not dead—it twitched, quivered, as though the entire structure lived and hated the burden of his presence. The oppressive atmosphere pressed against him from all sides, a miasma thick enough to choke on, tasting of copper and rot and something sweeter, more nauseating, like overripe fruit gone rancid.
The floor was a thin sheet of water, cold and clinging, rippling with each unsteady step he took. It lapped at his ankles now, though he could swear it had only kissed his toes a moment before. Droplet by droplet, it rose—impossibly, inexorably—each faint splash whispering into the fetid air. Beneath its surface, shadows moved, shifting forms that defied sense, brushing against his feet with the gentleness of graveworms. A foul, coppery stench rose from the stagnant flood, curling into his lungs and lining his throat with a film of decay. He coughed, gagging, the sound muffled by the heavy, shuddering silence that swallowed all, a silence too vast and purposeful to be natural.
"Come," whispered a voice—a voice that was not a voice at all, but a writhing sensation, sliding under his skin and burrowing into the marrow of his bones. It was not heard so much as experienced, a foul caress against the soul, sweet and persuasive and so very wrong. Each syllable seemed to squirm, to breathe, each note vibrating with an obscene familiarity that Naruto knew he should not trust—knew he should run from—but his feet moved of their own volition, dragging him deeper into the horror.
Naruto shivered, every instinct screaming to run—to flee this place where even sound seemed malformed—but he stumbled forward instead. His muscles felt like they moved through molasses, and the deeper he waded, the more he realized the water was thickening—a sludge that clung to his skin, eager to pull him down. The unseen current wound around his ankles, his calves, breathing against him with mock caresses, and he pressed on through the gloom, drawn by the inexorable pull of the thing that waited. Around him, the tunnel walls shuddered, veins of something darker than night pulsing and bleeding into the water, turning it murky and alive.
At last, the tunnel widened into a cavernous chamber, the ceiling lost in a choking, fogged void. The walls here curved inward like the ribs of some gigantic, long-dead beast, and the water—now a sluggish, shivering sea of filth—clung to his knees, resisting every step. The air throbbed with a heartbeat that was not his own, a slow, monstrous rhythm that sank into his bones and set his teeth on edge. Overhead, unseen things moved, casting rippling shadows across the walls, whispers too low to be understood scraping at the edges of hearing.
And at the heart of the chamber—a cage.
It loomed monstrous and vast, the iron bars slick with rust and dark ichor, towering into the suffocating gloom above. Each bar was twisted, gouged with claw-marks too deep and too wide to have been made by anything mortal. Ancient sigils—half-erased, half-mutated—crawled across the floor, glowing faintly with a color not meant for human eyes, a hue that seemed to hum discordantly against the mind, a sound made visible. The bars were not merely barriers; they shivered in place, vibrating in a subtle, fevered dance, as though barely containing the abomination within—as though the very metal wept in terror of what it imprisoned.
Naruto’s eyes—his poor, foolish eyes—were drawn unwillingly to the thing behind the cage.
And there it stood—or floated—or seethed within the cage. It was a beast, yes, but not merely a beast—a thing ancient beyond counting, stitched together from every nightmare humanity had tried and failed to forget. It had a form, if form it could be called: a vast body of rippling crimson fur, each strand twitching with a life of its own, each tail—nine in total—coiling and uncoiling through the mist, carving impossible geometries in the air. The tails did not move like living limbs; they undulated like the tendrils of some abyssal leviathan, warping space around them, dragging the dim light into spirals of madness.
He knew it from the stories.
The Kyubi.
Its head, when Naruto forced his gaze upward, was the most terrible of all. A fox’s visage, stretched and broken by an anatomy that did not belong to this world—jaws too wide, teeth not merely sharp but serrated like the fangs of deep-sea things that had never known sunlight. Its eyes—dear gods, its eyes—were not mere orbs, but twin vortexes of molten hatred and void, spiraling inward to devour sight and thought. When it breathed, the mist recoiled, and the walls—the very fabric of the dream—shuddered as if bracing against its exhalation. Its mouth yawned open, and within, there were not rows of teeth, but endless caverns—chambers that hinted at worlds swallowed whole, civilizations crushed and forgotten within its maw. Crimson saliva dripped from the fangs, hissing as it struck the water, sending ripples that twisted into shapes no sane mind could decipher.
The Kyūbi was hunger, was rage, was the pure, unfiltered will to destruction given form—and it watched him.
The very sight of it hammered at his sanity, clawing at the edges of his mind with filthy, grasping hands. His knees buckled, his body crumpling into the tainted water, his reflection shattered and devoured by unseen ripples. He pressed his palms against his eyes, desperate to tear the vision from them, to unsee the crawling, heaving monstrosity that writhed with impossible malevolence.
But it was too late.
"At last, I meet my warden. Hello, Naruto. I have so many things to tell you…We're going to be friends. The very best friends."
— —
Leaving the Land of Waves should have felt like a relief.
It didn’t.
Shikamaru slouched atop the cart they’d hitched for the road, head tipped back, watching the lazy drift of clouds overhead. Waves of heat shimmered on the distant horizon, and the sharp scent of the ocean was already fading into dust and earth. He sighed. Too bad. He’d actually been learning something useful for once. Not just the usual "stab here, dodge there" nonsense, but real, interesting things. Like how Taro somehow conned physics into letting him survive, or how even the most miserable sack of crap—Gato, the little troll—had managed to build a mini-empire off lies, brutality, and sheer pettiness. It had been educational in a depressing sort of way.
But no. Asuma-sensei had declared, with that irritating "trust me, kid" smile of his, that Shikamaru was forgetting he was supposed to be a ninja. As if being able to outthink half the village wasn't enough. As if the looming, brain-dead nightmare known as the Chunin Exams was some kind of sacred rite he should be grateful for. So now they were off, pulled from the muddy, blood-smeared little miracle they'd carved out in the Land of Waves, shipped off like packages to gods-knew-where.
Supposedly, they were going to "rejoin Team Kurenai"—because of course that made sense. Kurenai had left weeks ago with a cart full of whatever, and apparently no one had thought it important enough to explain what was so valuable it needed three genin and a jonin playing escort in the middle of nowhere — except, as Shikamaru suspected, if Konoha was secretly funding a civil war or some shit.
Shikamaru shot a glance at Asuma, who was trudging ahead, cigarette clamped between his teeth like he was chewing through irritation. Yeah. Real subtle. Shikamaru would bet his last shogi set this had nothing to do with mission urgency and everything to do with Asuma wanting to chase after Kurenai like a lovesick teenager with worse hair.
Troublesome. So troublesome he almost wanted to turn back, curl up in some half-collapsed shack in Wave, and spend his days playing shogi with Taro, learning how to be an irresponsible genius and a professional headache. At least there, the stupid made sense. Instead, here he was, bouncing in a squeaky cart on a cracked road, wondering how many more "adventures" he'd have to survive before someone realized maybe, just maybe, he was more useful with a pen and a nap than a kunai and a pep talk.
A dragonfly buzzed past his ear. Shikamaru stared after it, squinting thoughtfully.
Maybe he could fake his death and start over as a monk somewhere.
The thought had merit.
Comments
Carlos Medina
Oh Kurama is here
