The room felt smaller the longer Zabuza stayed in it.
Be it the cracked walls, the rotting futon, the damp smell clinging to everything — all of it pressed in on him, suffocating him. He felt as though he couldn't breathe freely in here, not after what the messenger shinobi had said. So he opened the door and stepped back out into the mist.
'If I am to make an educated choice, I need information, much more information.'
The streets of Kirigakure were no good no matter where he looked; the place was foggy, damp, and the people looked mentally exhausted and on edge.
Thanks to the annoying fog, it was pretty easy to get lost, and the alleys winding like scars through the village, each and every one of them thick with the stench of fish, sweat, and saltwater, did not help much with orientation. Occasionally, he saw children in ragged clothes darting between stalls, snatching scraps of food when vendors weren't looking. Shinobi in flak jackets walked past without glancing down, their masks of indifference sharper than any kunai.
'Seems like not everyone can become a ninja.' he thought to himself when he saw other children running around.
Zabuza walked with his hands in his pockets, his head down, and all he did was watch.
It didn't take long before he noticed something, and patterns began to emerge. He noticed how people moved around one another, how they interacted, and behaved. Who bent their heads to whom, and who demanded space, walking around like they owned the place.
Near the market square, a man with a clan insignia stitched into his robes strutted past the civilians. The civilians pulled aside, bowing slightly as they let him through, lowering their voices, avoiding his gaze. A boy carrying baskets stumbled in the man's path, and the clan shinobi shoved him aside without a word, spilling fish onto the dirt.
"Thank the sage for this lord being merciful!" an elderly woman admonished the boy whose eyes were burning with indignation at how he was treated.
No one interfered or argued with the elderly woman; instead, some nodded along, and at this point, Zabuza's eyes narrowed.
'Weak.' he thought, disgusted. To him, human weakness is not about being physically weak, but because they do not dare to fight back.
Further down, near the docks, he saw shinobi without clan symbols unloading crates. They worked fast, remaining absolutely silent, while sweat dripped down their faces. When one of them dropped a box and cracked the wood, a higher-ranked shinobi barked at him, calling him "clanless trash." The man bowed his head, muttered an apology, and picked up the splintered remains.
For the whole day, Zabuza kept walking and kept observing, and with each passing hour, the picture grew sharper.
For reasons he couldn't yet comprehend, at the top of the hierarchy sat the great clans, their influence and power evident in their attire, their way of walking, talking, and the deference shown to them by everyone.
Beneath them were the smaller clans; they were quite numerous and respected enough to hold a position above clanless shinobi, yet still subservient to those big clans and clans possessing Kekkei Genkai.
And beneath them all, the civilians. Be it the civilians or the shinobi born without names, none of them were worth remembering. They weren't treated as part of the village or as assets, but mere tools.
Tools that could be used and discarded or replaced once broken.
Zabuza stopped at the edge of a bridge, staring down into the water below. The mist rolled thick across the river, curling against the wooden supports. His murky reflection stared back at him, pale in the shifting light.
"This place…" His voice was barely a whisper, drowned under the sound of waves. "It's absolutely rotten to the core. Layered from top to bottom with rot."
The division was clear enough even for a child. Big clans held the village's leash, and counting in the smaller clans, they outnumbered the Kekkei Genkai users' clans ten to one. The imbalance was obvious, and it was a frigging time bomb waiting to blow everything to kingdom come, a pretty dangerous situation.
A struggle was happening in real time beneath the surface, one even he could already feel, like how in high school the outcast knows instinctively which groups are vying for being the VIPs on campus. One can feel the tension in every exchange, every sidelong glance between different groups.
"This village is a powder keg, and I am a bottom feeder here." he muttered to himself with a heavy sigh.
The memory of the shinobi's words returned. Rise or sink. The village does not care for those who drown.
Zabuza sat there with a clenched jaw, watching his own reflection in the water. Nobody, but himself saw the dangerous glint and sharpness in his eyes.
Eventually, he turned away from the bridge and walked back through the misty village, having made up his decision.
Early the next morning, he stood at the base of the Mizukage's tower, even before the tower's gates were opened.
The structure wasn't an architectural marvel by any measure, and looked pretty ugly as it loomed above the village, luckily its surface disappeared into the rolling fog. The gates were opened eventually, and Zabuza entered without showing a shred of hesitation.
The interior was colder than he expected, walls made of stone with odd pieces of paper tagged every few steps on them, dim lanterns giving sparse light, and the lingering faint smell of ink and seawater.
A kunoichi sat behind a desk, head bent over scrolls. Without looking up, she said, "Name."
"Zabuza Momochi."
The woman's pen scratched against parchment. "Reason for being here?"
"I'm here to sign up and receive shinobi training."
That finally earned him a glance. The woman's eyes scanned him, sharp and assessing, before dropping back to his papers. "What happened to your father, brat?"
"Dead," Zabuza said flatly.
The kunoichi didn't ask more. He scribbled something, then she stood up. "Follow me."
And Zabuza saw that she was missing a leg as it was replaced by a prosthesis; seems like you only get a desk job once you're unable to be part of the active force.
Zabuza followed her quietly, his footsteps echoing against the stone as they descended into a stairwell. The air grew colder, damper, the sound of rushing water faint beneath the ground. They passed through twisting corridors until they reached a heavy door. She opened it and gestured for him to walk inside.
The room beyond was larger than Zabuza expected. Children stood clustered together, about his age, some younger, some older.
Their eyes flicked toward him as he entered, curiosity sharp in their gazes. A few clutched at each other nervously. Others stood alone, trying to look braver than they felt.
The woman spoke once more. "You begin here. If you survive the selection and training, you will be able to enter the academy; everything else will be explained later." Her voice was clipped and cold. "Survive, and you may one day earn a place among the village's shinobi."
"What if I fail?" Zabuza asked just out of curiosity.
"Fail? You will become food for the fishes, and not be remembered."
She shut the door as she left, and the lock clicked into place.
She left him standing there without any more directions, and he noticed that he was feeling odd standing next to the door, and so he moved to stand near the wall, scanning the room.
His body and mind were tense, his senses on high alert. He did not know what to expect and so he chose to be as prepared as could be for whatever was to come next. He could feel the eyes of the others on him, measuring him, the way wild animals or inmates measure the new comers in their territory.
A boy near him, with a small build and wide eyes, decided to approach him; he was maybe six or seven years old. He took a cautious step towards Zabuza. He had messy brown hair and a timid smile. "Um… hey. My name's—"
"Shut up," Zabuza cut him off without even looking at him. Zabuza's voice was sharp and flat, leaving no space for negotiation.
Something told him that everyone here would eventually be forced to fight one another to cull the weak ones amongst them. He had observed the village and knew that this simply was the way these morons would go about doing things with all the rot in their brains.
The boy blinked, startled. His mouth hung open for a second before he backed away, shrinking back into the group.
Zabuza's gaze stayed fixed forward, his arms crossed. He had no interest in names, neither was he interested in befriending these weak children. Weak friends and allies in this society and probably this world, well, that is one dumb way to ask for getting screwed over.
They can be taken hostage, their deaths will burden your consciousness, their misfortune and agony will drag you down, the best approach is to stay away from the weaklings, and not develop any sentiments for them.
After the silence returned, he could hear the children shifting uneasily and whispering among themselves, but no one approached him again.
Zabuza exhaled slowly, letting the tension roll off his shoulders. He leaned back against the cold stone wall, the bestial hunger inside him stirring once more.
'This is where it begins,' he thought. 'This is where I either climb to power, or I die trying.'