Chapter Text
Part I — Born For This
impulsive spark, adrenaline’s flight
a heart that aches for justice’s right
64年1月24日
“Alright, next up: Moyashi-dono and… hmm— how ‘bout you, Sanbokan?”
Akuto smiles from where he stands, hands tucked in the pockets of his black shorts, cocksure. To his side, leaning against the dojo’s wall, is their Academy teacher, Munashi Masaki, his dark lips curled in thinly veiled disgust. Moyashi sneers, tucked away behind his kachū friends.
All Akuto really wants to do is say “no thanks”, fuck off back home, waste chakra on fish that don’t want to heal, and read dry but interesting books on chakra theory all day. Alas, he can’t. So, he steps forward, slouching, and yawns. Moyashi flushes a bright red. His little friends around him sneer like they usually do, whenever forced into proximity with those beneath them, but none of them look particularly fond of Moyashi, either.
Oh, well.
Moyashi deigns to join him in the sparring circle after a few moments— when his friends look at him with raised eyebrows and poorly hidden snickers and Moyashi’s blush darkens into a crimson. The worn wooden floor creaks under their weight. Faded scrolls adorn the walls, and a single kanji, han’ei for prosperity, is painted on each one. Dim lanterns cast flickering shadows.
A charged silence crackles in the air.
“You really think you’re special, do you?” Moyashi says, sneering. “Prove it, then.”
Akuto snorts. “Please, Moyashi, even a dead fish’s got more fight in it than you.”
“Keep talking, katō!”
Akuto laughs.
Moyashi’s blush spreads to his ears. Behind Akuto, his fellow katō shuffle. They’re taller than him and older but with the same pale, dirty skin and cheap, torn linen clothes. Tired, they are. And nervous. These spars usually end up with them being humiliated without any consequences.
He smiles impishly. Moyashi is taller than him as well— which isn’t difficult, given that Akuto’s ten and Okan once said he’ll always be on the shorter side thanks to his father— and has far more muscles; as many as a trained eleven-year-old child soldier has, anyway. And though Moyashi has the same pale skin everyone in this damned village has, he wears far more expensive clothes: a light blue cotton kimono embroidered with golden dragons, white trousers, and white boots. It’d be a shame if those clothes got dirty…
Oh, well.
It be like that sometimes.
“If you’re done with yer little show?”
Akuto drops into the opening stance of the Sokudo-style Okan taught him; feet shoulder-width apart, weight evenly distributed. Usually, he’d raise his arms to protect his face and throat, but he decides to forgo this today and keeps his hands tucked away. His purple eyes meet Moyashi’s black and Akuto can feel the hate burn brighter than a thousand suns.
He grins.
Munashi Masaki— gangly, surly, and for evermore inferior to his brother— drops his hand. “Begin!”
Moyashi moves first. He is fast, Akuto gives him that. He saw Moyashi spar last Friday, against some Hoshigaki brute— all muscle and chakra and as tall as a small adult— and Moyashi beat the kid unfairly, though deviously fast.
Akuto dodges kicks and punches. Blocks a right hook. Moyashi takes control, pushes Akuto into defence. Not that it bothers him much. He can wait— Okan always has him when they spar, or when he spars with Aneki.
Moyashi swings his leg— aiming for Akuto’s left. There, something in the back of his mind screams. The kick is too wide. Too ambitious. He intercepts it, locks Moyashi’s leg, and pulls him close. Thrown off balance, Moyashi can’t react in time—
His leg connects with Moyashi’s chin—
—only for Moyashi to dissolve into a puddle of water.
Akuto spins around. Just in time to block a kick aimed at his kidney. He answers with a punch. Dodged. They trade punches, kicks, and avoid throws. Akuto elbows Moyashi in the sternum. Moyashi wheezes but replies with a knee to his side.
They separate, huffing and panting. Akuto wipes the sweat from his forehead, brown hair sticking against it. A pleased smile passes on his face, adrenaline pumps through his veins, and blood rushes in his ears. His fingers twitch. He feels breathless and strangely alive and just the barest bits of guilty all at once.
Moyashi is frowning. His stormy eyes jump up and down, clearly looking for a weakness to exploit.
“Bit weak, that,” Akuto says, hands already back in his beloved pockets. He tilts his head and casts a small genjutsu to pretend to look away from Moyashi. Using jutsu is technically forbidden; these are supposed to be taijutsu-only spars. He eyes Munashi wearily, but the man just remains where he is, bored, looking like he wants to be anywhere but here.
Which, mood.
Moyashi glares. “Shut up!”
“Wow, such eloquence.”
Akuto moves first. He needed that quick breather, but he also didn’t want to give Moyashi the chance to gain control again. He opens with a quick elbow to the larynx. Larynx, spine, lungs, liver, jugular, subclavian veins, kidneys, and heart. All vulnerable spots. Spots his taijutsu-style focus on. That, and speed.
He hits. Akuto takes another step and slams his palm against Moyashi’s nose— breaking it with a satisfying crunch. Nose, throat, solar plexus, groin, eyes, and temples. Different weak spots, though not as deadly as the first eight. Akuto moves. Got another two hits in. Finally, he finishes off with a knee to the solar plexus—
Only for Moyashi to turn into a puddle again. Akuto spins around, eyes wide and wild, focusing only on Moyashi soaring mid-air. His nose is crooked and blood rushes down his mouth and chin. He runs through a series of hand seals Akuto doesn’t quite recognise—
The air crackles with a surge of static, as if invisible fingers dance through it. A sharp, acrid scent fills the dodo. Something buzzes. His hair comes alive, lifting and floating, rebelling against the low ponytail it’s tucked in. A tingling sensation creeps across his skin. The charged static morphs into crackling miniature lightning bolts, each glowing iridescently—
Akuto hurries to run through hand seals of his own. Ram, Hare, Snake, Monkey—
Heat rises and rises and rises. His pale skin flushes, turning a painful shade. Sweat floods down his back. The lightning bolts grow, roaring at him at unused speeds. Akuto releases his technique just as the lightning blushes against his face—
Burning pain spreads across his cheek. Chakra tugs on his stomach, right where the Keimon lies. A blur. Darkness. He crashes against something, winding him. It’s rough and icy against his skin. Tiny fists dig into his skin—
His breathing hitches and shudders. Desperate shouts echo through his head. Tires screech. Glass shatters. His heart pounds wildly. The sharp smell of gasoline nestles in his nose, like particularly tacky mildew. His hands shake and flutter, so he tucks them back away.
He takes a deep, controlled breath.
Moyashi spins around, a satisfied smirk plastered on his face. “Bit weak, wasn’t it? Must run in the family— starting with your whore of a mother.”
Akuto stills. The trembling stops, his breathing slows, his chakra settles and calms. The shouts fade, replaced by a drumming in his ears.
“Me Okan is no whore,” he says softly.
Moyashi’s mouth twists into a cruel smile. It’s an ugly mouth, small and pale as though it consists of twin maggots. “If you say so.”
His pulse elevates. Anger blazes like a white-hot furnace, scorching through his veins and igniting every nerve. Thoughts blur. Sounds cease. His vision narrows on Moyashi to a single, unwavering focus— a tunnel devoid of anything but the object of his ire.
It consumes him.
The world around him fades to insignificance. His nostrils flare. His hands shake. Akuto feels his lips pull back, baring his sharp, jagged teeth. His eyes focus on the blood smeared across Moyashi’s face.
It’s not enough.
Akuto wants to see him bleed.
He pushes himself off the wall. It cracks. Moyashi’s smirk falls.
Ram, Dog, Rat, Tiger. Akuto draws the needed water from the mist outside, and thrusts his hands forward, releasing a burst of chakra that transforms into a swarm of thin, gleaming needles, their surfaces reflecting the lantern light as they hurtle through the air. Moyashi cries out. More in surprise than pain; the needles were designed to stun rather than injure. Akuto rushes at him. He attacks relentlessly. Pushes, pushes, pushes. He falls back on everything Okan taught him, pushes Moyashi into a desperate defence, leaves no chances for a counter—
Moyashi collapses—
Someone jerks him away. His breathing is shaky and shallow. His vision zooms in and out, like an unstable camera lens. Shifts to the dojo and away. He closes his eyes— briefly, not long enough to be vulnerable— focusing on the sensations that are and not were. Something to anchor him.
Firstly, there’s the damp, musty dojo. Now partly charred and broken. Outside, it’s drenched and humid. It rained throughout the whole damn night until late this morning and the clouds have not yet dissolved. Some of the shitty mist now seeps inside. Gathered in the dojo is his entire form— today is one of those days where the teachers like to pitch the kachū against the chūtō and katō, and chūtō against katō. To keep morale high among the kachū, the chūtō satisfied enough, and the katō small and insignificant, like ants.
This is what the higher-ups resorted to after Zabuza killed his entire bloody year and forced them to change the graduation exam. (Apparently, the mighty clans are worried about this happening again but to their children because they pushed the wrong buttons of some rabid mutt. Their words, not his.)
Speaking of the cunts—
They are walking to Moyashi— whose chakra is still there, Akuto notices. He isn’t much of a sensor, but if he focuses, he can faintly feel it— and talking among themselves. A Hōzuki brat, Akuto can tell by the flask clasped to the belt and the pale blue-white hair, and a Hijiki brat, all self-important because she was the Sandaime’s third cousin or something, sneer at him. Munashi picks Moyashi up and carries him out of the dojo.
He is still being held back.
Akuto tries to wrestle himself free, but the grip is tight. “Leggo,” he hisses, ready to hurl another jutsu at whomever the fuck is holding him back.
“No,” they say, their annoying ass voice strangely calming. He hopes it isn’t one of them kachū.
“Leggo of me,” he says again. Tries to make his stupid high-pitched voice sound as dangerous as possible.
It doesn’t work. The persistent fucker drags him away— away from the dojo and the class and the stupid kachū and their bloody superiority complexes. Akuto is angry and jittery and somewhat relieved all the same, and he’d really like to go home now, thank you very much.
Instead, he is stuck with his kidnapper and that boy trailing after them. Akuto doesn’t know him. He knows few people from the Academy, actually. The old graduation exam didn’t exactly encourage friendship and camaraderie and two years aren’t bloody enough to undo years of conditioning.
The boy, tall and much too thin, with closely cropped auburn hair a few shades too dark to be Uzumaki-red, pale skin, and ragged clothes, follows them. Probably a Terumī. (Which is weird. Terumī usually take care of their own— even bastards. Unlike the upper clans.) He keeps glancing between Akuto and the bastard behind him.
Which reminds him—
“Will ya just bloody let go already? Or are ya tryin’ to hold my hand?”
He looks down and sees blue arms. Blue arms. The Hoshigaki brat is the one dragging him away. No wonder he can’t do anything about it; Hoshigaki is easily three heads taller than him and has four times his muscle mass.
He crosses his arm.
“You need to hide,” Not-Uzumaki says, voice quiet and croaky as if he doesn’t use it very often. “They’re gonna do you in.”
Akuto scoffs. “Nah, they ain’t.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Hoshigaki says. “You’re katō. No way they’ll let that slide.”
“Ain’t my fault Moyashi can’t fight his way out of a bloody paper bag, yeah?” Akuto sighs. “Besides, I know people, yeah?”
Well, Fuguki-oji knows people, but that’s beside the point.
"Oh, you know people?" Hoshigaki raises an eyebrow, amused. "Is that why they dumped you in our year all of a sudden?"
“None of your damn business,” Akuto snaps.
Not-Uzumaki frowns. “You’re crude.”
“So?”
They are far outside the dojo by now, in the courtyard between the round buildings of the Academy and the many dojos available for all students. Mostly those who don’t have any at home. You can book them and hope they don’t slot in anyone else (read: kachū or chūtō) instead.
They were the only ones outside. Everyone else is in class, in a dojo, or, much like Akuto, still wishes he did, stayed at home, doing whatever they prefer. It’s a pretty big courtyard, encircled by weathered stone walls and filled with trampled grass. A few trees are scattered about. Scant sunlight filters through the mist. Beyond it, lie the Academy’s training grounds proper.
It’s a rather sad courtyard, to be honest.
And still, he is dragged away again. Only when they are past the gate of the academy grounds does Hoshigaki finally let go of him. Akuto jumps away at once. Creates a safe distance from the other two. He eyes them warily. “Who the hell are you two, anyway?”
“What,” says Hoshigaki, smirking. “You don’t even know your own yearmates? Little full of yourself, ain’t ya?”
Akuto tsks. “Yeah, sorry for not bothering to remember every forgettable face.”
Hoshigaki laughs. Not-Uzumaki rolls his eyes and elbows Hoshigaki in the ribs. They are communicating, though Akuto has no idea how, or even what they’re saying, so he settles on smirking and looking as though he knows exactly what is going on. They’d either tell him what the fuck they want anyway, or would fuck off. Regardless, Akuto gets away with a win.
They don’t let him wait for long. It’s Hoshigaki who is elected as the spokesperson. Unsurprisingly. With a smile— Akuto wouldn’t call it soft. Maybe gentle. He doesn’t think Hoshigaki can smile softly, but it’s close enough— she introduces them, “I am Shizuki of the Hoshigaki clan, and this is Kirimaru.”
“Sanbokan Akuto,” he offers curtly.
“A pleasure, Akuto.” Hoshigaki’s tone turns formal. Akuto scowls. “I trust we’ll get along.”