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Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 48
🕑 Added 2025-08-09 15:00:02 +0000 UTCChapter 48
Bear Country
The mist hung low in the thick silence of the Land of Bears, broken only by the faint crunch of boots on forest debris. Zabuza Momochi ran in step with the team — his team, now, he thought —, Kubikiribōchō balanced on his back. Ahead, Sura raised a hand, and the group stilled in perfect unison. Zabuza narrowed his eyes, scanning the landscape.
A few kilometers out, nestled in the natural cradle of jagged terrain, the faint outlines of a village came into view. The place looked… unimpressive, though Zabuza had long since learned not to let appearances lull him into complacency. Hoshigakure, he assumed. The "Hidden Village Among Stars." What a pompous name for what was probably a backwater hole probably staffed by barely-trained chūnin.
He’d never heard of Hoshigakure before—hardly surprising. Most of these minor "villages" were just glorified hamlets where a few chunins, often led by one or two low level jonins who usurped the title of Kage, played shinobi dress-up. They’d call themselves hidden villages, raise a handful of genin, and declare their importance to a world that wouldn’t even notice if they were wiped off the map. But, Zabuza knew, if Sura brought them here — it meant there was something with this village. Something important.
Sura crouched with fluid ease, Samehada shifting silently on his back. Zabuza followed the gesture, lowering himself to the ground. He allowed his eyes to flick briefly to Anko and Pakura.
Anko grinned, teeth glinting against her perpetually mischievous expression. Her messy ponytail bobbed with suppressed energy as though even crouching was an inconvenience to her. Pakura, by contrast, moved like a shadow—a quiet, coiled presence with the stillness of a poised blade. Zabuza had sparred with both women, and while he feared more Pakura’s lethal efficiency any day — she was clearly high A-rank, it was Anko who left an impression. The brat — well, she was about his age, but certainly did not act like him — could talk like an unruly teenager and fight like a summoned demon.
“So, Boss, you explain to us what we’re doing here, huh?” Anko’s voice carried that irreverent lilt Zabuza was still trying to get used to—like a bratty sister who refused to acknowledge Sura as the elder but still listened to him.
Sura, unbothered as always, leaned casually on his knees. “Yep,” he said, rolling his shoulders like they were warming up for a lazy stretch rather than scouting potential enemies and getting debriefed for a mission.
Zabuza bit down the reflexive growl at their casual banter. He’d been traveling with these people long enough to know their habits, but the dynamic still rankled. Where he’d come from, leaders were followed with stoic silence—or not at all. The way Anko spoke to Sura, like she was asking a buddy to share his lunch, was a far cry from the cold, disciplined chains of command Zabuza was used to.
But then again, he’d seen her fight.
Anko, for all her bratty irreverence, transformed into something chillingly mechanical the moment steel was drawn. Zabuza had sparred with her enough in the weeks since joining Sura’s team to know the truth—she wasn’t just skilled; she was dangerous. Not because of overwhelming strength—her current status as a middle A-rank ninja was decent but not exceptional—but because of the sheer, unyielding ruthlessness that had clearly caught Orochimaru’s attention when he’d chosen to train her. That decision made sense. What baffled Zabuza was how someone with her raw talent had stagnated for so long.
Under Sura’s hellish training, though, the stagnation was rapidly eroding. In just a month, she was pushing past her previous limits, inching ever closer to the precision and lethality of a high A-rank. Her improvement was obvious, and at times unsettling. Whether it was Sura’s methods, her rediscovered drive, or both, she was turning into something truly dangerous.
Still, Zabuza could see how she’d gotten stuck before. After Orochimaru discarded her, she’d likely been left to rot—ignored by the village, her talents intentionally suppressed, or worse, lost in the mire of her own trauma. Maybe it was all of that. Or maybe it really was just laziness. That sounded about right. He’d once caught her napping under a tree during an assassination mission, as though murder could wait until after a quick snooze.
And then there was Pakura. Her reputation preceded her—a kunoichi betrayed by her own Kage and gifted with a terrifying kekkei genkai. Her Scorch Release made Zabuza uncomfortable in a way no fire-style user ever had. He…disliked what she could do to his mist. Her quiet nature suited him just fine, though; she knew how to shut up and follow orders. And he liked that. It was normal. It was what he was used to.
Sura, though—Sura was a different breed altogether. Too laidback, too casual for Zabuza’s taste, and yet… the results spoke for themselves. Life under Sura’s command wasn’t the merciless grind of the Mist, nor was it the constant, knife-edge paranoia of a missing-nin’s existence. It was strange, almost unsettling, to have something resembling stability. He could sleep—actually sleep—for more than two hours a night without fearing a blade at his throat. He could eat regularly, even check into a hostel if the mission allowed for it.
And Haku—Haku had a better life, too. Safer, more structured, without nights spent starving or hunted. That alone made this arrangement worth tolerating. Zabuza wouldn’t call it trust—he wasn’t an idiot—but he trusted in Sura’s self-interest. The man had no reason to kill him; Zabuza was far more useful alive than dead, and betrayal wasn’t even a question. The chain of command held, if only because they all knew how to calculate their odds.
And then there was Sura’s training. That maddening, deceptively lazy grin concealed a man who was unrelenting when it came to sharpening his team. Zabuza had improved under his guidance—dramatically, and in ways he hadn’t thought possible since his exile. For that alone, he could stomach the laidback demeanor. Beneath that casual exterior was a monster Zabuza could respect—one that might even help him become the kind of monster he had always aspired to be.
He scoffed at the thought, the old title of Demon of the Mist flickering through his mind. It had been a name, a reputation built on blood and fear. But compared to Sura? Maybe he’d been more demonling than demon, an imp, maybe.
“Hoshigakure,” Sura said. “Let me give you the facts so you don’t go in blind and embarrass yourselves.”
Zabuza barely glanced at him, keeping his gaze fixed on the faint outline of the village in the distance. His ears, though, didn’t miss a word.
“Two hundred years ago, a meteorite landed in this region. Not a big one, but big enough to change the lives of everyone here. It leaked chakra—enhanced it, actually. The locals figured they’d struck gold and built a village around it. Named it Hoshigakure—the Village Hidden Among Stars—and crowned themselves with a ‘Kage,’ like they were on the same level as the Five Great Nations.”
Sura let the sarcasm hang in the air for a moment, and Zabuza caught the faint twitch of Anko’s lips, though she stayed silent for now.
“They weren’t, obviously,” Sura continued. “Their ‘Kage’ is a title in name only, recognized by no one but themselves. But here’s the part that matters—the meteorite’s chakra wasn’t some kind of benevolent gift. It was dangerous. They developed a technique to use it, the Mysterious Peacock Method, which let them manipulate their chakra in ways that would’ve been impressive… if it didn’t kill most of the people who tried it.”
Now Anko reacted, her head tilting, a flicker of genuine curiosity in her sharp amber eyes. “Wait—killed them? How?”
“Radiation,” Sura said flatly. “The meteorite’s chakra isn’t just poison. It seeps into the body, twisting it beyond what it was built to endure. Flesh begins to falter, organs collapse, and blood thickens into something unrecognizable. But it’s not just the body that pays the price. The mind begins to warp under its influence. Shinobi speak of dreams that aren’t dreams—visions of strength laced with the sense of being watched, stalked. They describe it as if the star itself is alive, feeding on them even as they grow stronger. Even if someone survives the training, they’re living on borrowed time. Only two people ever completed it without dying immediately, and even they didn’t last long. Proud and persistent bunch, though. You can say that for them.”
Zabuza let out a faint, dismissive grunt, though he had to admit Sura did not disappoint. That was information worth filing away. Sura, as always, knew far more than he should. The man’s grin might be infuriating, but his knowledge was sharper than any blade in Zabuza’s arsenal.
Sura shifted slightly, his posture casual, though his tone remained serious. “Eventually, the Third Hoshikage—the only one with half a brain—banned the training. He saw the writing on the wall and decided it wasn’t worth the body count. Of course, not everyone agreed. One of their jonin, the one who would become his successor, Akahoshi, decided that glory mattered more than survival. So, he assassinated the Third with two of his students — chunins, I believe — and brought the star training back, hoping to make Hoshigakure a village worth noticing.”
Anko let out a low whistle, her teasing edge replaced by something sharper. “Killed his own leader over a rock? That’s commitment to being stupid.”
Zabuza grumbled at the comment, thinking about how he had also tried to assassinate his own Kage — but keeping his gaze on the horizon as if bored.
Sura leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as if they were discussing the weather. “Well,” he said, “that’s the real story. Not the fairy tale the Fourth Hoshikage sent us in his nice little missive to Konoha. According to him, some unknown parties are trying to steal the meteorite, and he’s all worried about his precious rock. Even suspects it’s Orochimaru.”
Anko’s teasing grin evaporated, replaced by sharp seriousness. “Is it?”
Sura scoffed, shaking his head. “Not even close. Well, we’re not supposed to know this—and even the Fourth Hoshikage doesn’t—but it’s his own people trying to snatch it. Specifically, a very cute, very skilled jōnin named Natsuhi.” He paused, then waved his hand as if swatting away his own comment. “Cutest girl from the fill—err, never mind that. The important part is the why.”
The casual demeanor dropped as Sura’s tone hardened. “Years ago, Natsuhi and her husband, Hotarubi, survived the star training—one of the few to make it through alive. But surviving didn’t mean unscathed. They saw the toll the training took on others: bodies breaking down, minds unraveling. So, they stole the star, hoping to stop it all. The Third Hoshikage caught them but didn’t punish them outright. Instead, he faked their deaths and ‘banished’ them, keeping them close enough to monitor the village after agreeing to stop the star training. They had one condition: that their young son, Sumaru, believe they were dead. He gave the kid his father’s necklace as a final memento.”
Sura shrugged. “Hotarubi didn’t last long—side effects of the training caught up with him. That left Natsuhi alone, stuck outside the village, trying to protect it from afar. Now she’s back at it, trying to steal the star again. This time? She’s doing it for her son. Kid’s a genin in the village, and she’s hoping to keep him alive.”
Zabuza’s control slipped for a fraction of a second, his brow twitching before he smoothed it over. How the hell did Sura know all this? Even Konoha’s vaunted intelligence network couldn’t pull details this specific out of thin air. And if Sura already had this intel, why the delay? Why wait until now to act? The man was suspicious as hell.
“Huh,” Anko muttered, her amber eyes narrowing. “So, in short, Star-Kage wants us to guard his precious rock so he can get stronger and become competition for us, major villages? ”
Pakura, silent until now, spoke in her usual quiet, controlled tone. “It doesn’t make sense. Why take the risk of alerting a major village like Konoha to the meteorite’s existence? If the meteorite is precious…If Konoha wanted to, they—” She hesitated, correcting herself. “We—could just take it.”
“And I’m guessing that’s exactly what we’re going to do, isn’t it?”, added Zabuza.
Sura snorted. “Almost,” he said. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it—a lot, actually. Why did he call us? Why risk bringing in a major village that could turn around and stomp on his little operation? And the only explanation I’ve come up with is this: the meteorite — and maybe his own ego — have been rotting his brain. He’s probably been sitting too close to that rock for too long, believing in his own invincibility or trusting way too much in Konoha’s reputation as the nice guys. Maybe both. Either way, he’s rolled the dice, and here we are.”
Zabuza’s grin widened slightly, a hint of teeth showing. He liked where this was going.
Sura’s grin mirrored his, though there was a sharper glint in his eye now. “One thing’s for sure: the Hokage wants that stone. He’s curious, and we’ll collect it for study. But that’s not the full mission. See, there’s something else here—this village has a few strong jōnin. Not bad for a minor village, honestly. So, we’re going to clean house and do a little recruitment while we’re at it.”
Zabuza chuckled. “I like the sound of that.”
Sura nodded, standing and brushing nonexistent dirt off his hands. “We’re splitting into two teams. Pakura and I will stroll into the village, nice and polite, and introduce ourselves to the Hoshikage as the official Konoha team. Say we're a pair of chunins, or something. Meanwhile, Anko and Zabuza, you’ll track and find this Natsuhi.”
Anko scoffed, crossing her arms over her breasts and giving Sura a pointed look. “Figures you’d send me off with Mr. Sunshine over here.”
Sura’s grin widened into something entirely too pleased. “That’s right. You get to spend quality time with Zabuza, far, far away from me. Don’t worry—I’m sure you’ll survive being far from me for a few hours.” He said it with such mock sincerity that Anko flushed, her scowl deepening as she looked anywhere but at him.
“And there’s another reason,” Sura added, his tone sobering slightly. “If I sent Pakura or Zabuza into the wild, no one would believe they were representing Konoha. Pakura is supposed to be dead, and Zabuza’s still a big name in the bingo books. They’d have Natsuhi bolting before you could say ‘hello.’ Anko, you’re an old hand at playing Konoha’s wildcard. Your reputation can be useful. Zabuza can back you up. Between the two of you, she might actually stop long enough to listen.”
Anko huffed, but she didn’t argue. Zabuza simply nodded, though the spark in his eyes suggested he was already running through the possibilities.
Sura folded his arms and fixed them with a grin that had too much wolf and too little reassurance. “And here’s what you’re going to tell her…”
Waves Country
Shikamaru arrived in the so-called "village" with a sigh escaping his lips. Calling this place a village felt like a misstep—this was clearly a town, sprawling and loud, with a population that had to be pushing twenty thousand. But what did it matter? People called things whatever they wanted, and it wasn’t like he was here to play semantics. He’d come a few kilometers ahead of the caravan, tasked with ensuring the place was secure. A dull job, but at least it gave him a chance to stretch his legs.
The town stretched out before him. Its buildings pressed together as though huddling for warmth. Yet its state betrayed years of hardship. Most homes looked like they might crumble if the wind hit them wrong, patched up with whatever scrap materials were on hand—sheet metal, rotting planks, faded tarps. The streets were uneven and damp, puddles reflecting the muted colors of a sky that hadn’t yet committed to rain. There was a tang of salt in the air, carried in from the port, but it mingled with other smells—stale water, the acrid bite of fish left out too long, and the faint, persistent odor of smoke, as though the town had never quite shaken off its past fires.
Shikamaru’s gaze flicked upward briefly, catching the faint outline of an Anbu perched on a rooftop. Asuma had already leapt toward the shadow, leaving Shikamaru standing below. The Anbu was likely one of the four stationed here, member of a regular team : One Jonin Captain, three chunins. They were here to maintain Konoha’s control over the town — and over Gato's corporation, ensure the port—a key economic artery—was secure, and deal with the detritus left by Gato’s reign. That last part was the messiest: rooting out the criminals who’d thrived in the chaos Gato fostered. Shikamaru didn’t envy them the work. Cleaning up wasn’t glamorous, and it certainly wasn’t fun.
He turned his attention back to the streets, watching as the townsfolk moved about their day. They looked happy, but there was a tension in their steps, like they were still learning how to exist without fear dogging their every move. Their clothes hung loosely on them, marked by wear and patchwork repairs. Their faces were pale, lined with exhaustion, their body frail but there was an undeniable spark in their expressions. He caught glimpses of smiles—real—passed between people as they exchanged loud words.
The marketplace was where the town truly came alive, though “alive” might have been a stretch. Stalls made of uneven planks and crates formed crooked rows, their surfaces covered with goods that spoke of necessity more than abundance—fresh fish, rough bolts of cloth, jars of pickled vegetables. And a few military rations — probably brought here directly after the fail of Gato by Konohans Anbus. The chatter of bartering filled the air, rising and falling in bursts, but the largest crowd gathered at the center, where a food distribution line stretched toward crates stacked with cans. Crates of canned food — probably also brought here by the Anbus in sealed scrolls — were being handed out, and the operation looked surprisingly smooth.
The woman leading it moved with steady hands even as sweat traced her brow. She had been at it for a few hours. She paused occasionally to offer a kind word, her expression warm, and the villagers responded to her like she was more than just another person. She wore her exhaustion plainly—her damp hair clung to her skin, and her loose clothing, damp from sweat, revealed glimpses of a form that might have stirred more than idle thoughts in someone less detached.
“What a pain,” Shikamaru muttered to himself, trying to redirect his focus. His mind couldn’t help but assess her, though, running calculations in the background. She wasn’t a shinobi—that much was clear—but whoever she was, she mattered here, for the villagers. That was enough to note.
Nearby, another Anbu stood at ground level, unmoving but visibly alert. His presence was a kind of unspoken insurance—no one was going to get out of line while they knew he stood watch. Nobody would try to steal anything. Shikamaru observed him briefly, appreciating the efficiency. No energy spent, just like he liked. The Anbu didn’t need to do anything overt; just standing there was enough.
“Thanks, Tsunami,” an elderly woman said as she stepped forward to accept her ration. Shikamaru’s ears perked at the name. Tsunami, he thought, tucking it away in the catalog of useful information his mind constantly kept. He watched the woman shuffle back, her frail frame bending slightly as she paused to bow toward the Anbu. The shinobi gave her only the barest nod in return, a gesture so slight it was almost imperceptible. Yet, it was enough. The old woman straightened as much as her hunched posture allowed and moved on, clutching the can of food to her chest like a lifeline.
Nearby, two men stood in line. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop— did not need, he could have guessed everything from their expressioN. Eavesdropping wasn’t necessary when you were tuned to the subtleties of human behavior. Their words floated to him as naturally as leaves on the wind.
“Konoha’s done more in weeks than nobody ever did,” the younger of the two said. His voice held an almost eager confidence, as if the act of saying it aloud would make it irrefutable. “Food. The bridge. Actual protection. It’s a different world now.”
The older man shook his head slowly, his lips pressed into a line so thin it seemed it might disappear. “Different, sure,” he said, his tone measured, weighted by years of suspicion. “But not better. Not yet. What happens when they’ve had their fill of us? Or when they decide we’re worth more under their thumb than on our own?”
The younger man stiffened, his shoulders squaring instinctively as his eyes darted to the nearby Anbu. “Keep your voice down,” he hissed, his words sharp enough to cut. “You don’t want to give anyone ideas. They’re here, aren’t they? They’re helping. That’s enough.”
The older man’s mouth twisted, a bitter half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Enough for now,” he muttered. His voice dipped lower, more for himself than his companion. “But don’t fool yourself. Tazuna said it plain: ‘Our new bosses.’ I knew he meant that we would have works for year now…That’s what they are. Our new bosses. They hold the strings, not us. You’d better learn to pull your weight—and keep quiet.”
The men’s words lingered with him, threading themselves into his thoughts as he shifted his weight and cast his eyes across the bustling square. Gratitude, suspicion, hope, and fear were all tangled here. The people of this town weren’t naïve. They understood power. They had been crushed under it, wielded like a hammer by Gato. Now Konoha had stepped in, extending an open hand. The question in every villager’s mind was the same: How long before that hand curled into a fist?
Except for them.
The children darted through the legs of the waiting adults, their laughter cutting through the heavier atmosphere. Shikamaru tracked a group of them as they wove through the line, their faces lit with uninhibited joy. It was disarming, the way they could carve out moments of happiness in a place still so drenched in shadows. Maybe they didn’t know any better. Or maybe they were the only ones who still believed in something brighter.
From the edge of the square, a burst of girlish laughter broke through the heavier sounds of the marketplace. Two teenage girls stood apart from the line, their heads close together as they giggled and whispered about the incoming caravane they were told about by the Anbus this morning.
“They’ll bring medicine,” one said, practically bouncing on her toes.
“And Ninjas,” the other added, her eyes sparkling with imagined possibilities. “Maybe some our age. Handsome ones.”
“Maybe rich,” the first chimed in, and they dissolved into more laughter.
Shikamaru watched them, his expression flat but his thoughts moving. Their naivety irritated him, but it also stirred something closer to pity. For them ? Or for himself ? What would it be like to see the world like that? To believe in heroes and fairytales? He didn’t remember a time when his own thoughts were so simple. And now, standing in the middle of this fractured town, he wasn’t sure which of them was worse off—those who dreamed of something better or those who already knew better than to dream at all.
A sharp cry jolted the crowd, and Shikamaru turned toward the sound. The caravan had arrived.
The air shifted in an instant. Conversations fell away, replaced by cheers that rippled unevenly through the square. Some clapped with fervor, their smiles wide, their relief palpable. Others joined in more cautiously, their expressions measured, their applause tentative. Shikamaru’s sharp eyes scanned the faces, reading the crowd as easily as a strategy board. For every genuine smile, there was a set of narrowed eyes. For every shout of thanks, a mouth pressed into a firm line.
The wagons rolled to a stop, flanked by Konoha shinobi — the two chunins, their presence steady but not overtly threatening. Still, the tension in the air didn’t dissipate. If anything, it thickened, the unspoken truth hovering over the square like a storm cloud:
Konoha was here to help—but Konoha was also here to stay.
