The people of Hot Springs Village began to whisper about the silver-haired boy.
Every day without fail, he could be seen leaving the medicine shop with bundles of herbs stacked in his arms, far too many for a child to need.
He was never sick, never feverish, yet he bought more than even a household would use in a season.
And every time, he returned home and stored them carefully, his small hands precise, like an apprentice healer.
Eventually, a neighbor asked him outright, "Boy, what are you doing with all those herbs? Planning to open a pharmacy of your own?"
Hidan had only smiled, his voice quiet and shy, almost embarrassed.
"๐'๐ฎ ๐ฎ๐ข๐ฌ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ข ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ค๐ฐ๐ค๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏโฆ ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ค๐ข๐ฏ ๐ฑ๐ถ๐ณ๐ช๐ง๐บ ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ญ๐ฆ'๐ด ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ๐ต๐ด."
The answer always earned scoffs and laughter.
"๐๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ด๐ฆ! ๐ ๐ค๐ฉ๐ช๐ญ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ข๐ญ๐ฌ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ญ๐ช๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ข ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฌ."
"๐๐ฆ'๐ด ๐ซ๐ถ๐ด๐ต ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ญ๐บ, ๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ. ๐๐ฆ๐ต ๐ฉ๐ช๐ฎ ๐ฑ๐ญ๐ข๐บ ๐ธ๐ช๐ต๐ฉ ๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ฑ๐ญ๐ข๐ฏ๐ต๐ด."
And so, the villagers stopped asking.
They pitied him, even found him "harmlessly strange," a boy broken by the loss of his parents.
๐๐ถ๐ต ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ฎ๐ช๐ญ๐ฆ, ๐๐ช๐ฅ๐ข๐ฏ'๐ด ๐ฑ๐ญ๐ข๐ฏ๐ด ๐ต๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฌ ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ต.
The apothecary owner, a kind old woman with a stooped back, had grown fond of him.
"You remind me of my grandson," she said once, wrapping his herbs in paper.
"Always curious, always asking questions."
Hidan bowed politely, his voice warm.
"๐๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐'๐ญ๐ญ ๐ฎ๐ข๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ถ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ญ๐ช๐ท๐ฆ ๐ถ๐ฑ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ณ๐บ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ฉ๐ช๐ฎ."
Meanwhile, the children of the village adored him.
When Hidan needed help grinding roots or carrying herbs, he made it into a game.
"Whoever brings me the biggest leaf gets a prize!" he'd say with a gentle laugh.
The little ones would run through the fields, gathering plants, smiling as though it were play.
To outsiders, it looked like children enjoying an innocent pastime.
In truth, Hidan had turned them into eager little helpers, making his work easier and faster.
And the villagers?
They only saw a boy, smiling among friends his age, finally less lonely.
None realized that the game they found so harmless was just another step in the boy's quiet design.
---
"Ahhhโฆ finally enough."
Hidan looked at the large pile of black ointment in the corner of his room and let out a quiet sigh of satisfaction.
Days of work had finally borne fruit.
Once ignited, the ointment released a thick smoke capable of putting people into a deep unconscious state for twelve hours. No one would stir, no matter how loud the world outside became.
The stack before him was more than just medicine, it was the perfect stage prop. A tool to ensure the success of his first ceremony.
Of course, with his own skills, Hidan could have killed many directly. But brute force was crude, noisy. He preferred solutions that were elegant and simple. And to him, this was elegance: silence wrapped in smoke.
Night descended on Hot Springs Village.
Unlike the fortified villages of shinobi, Hot Springs prided itself on peace. Its wealth came from resources, not from war.
When the sun set, no watchmen stood on the towers, no patrols walked the streets. Families closed their doors and drifted into rest, leaving the night still and unguarded.
For Hidan, it was the perfect invitation.
The stars burned brightly above, countless and clear. Beneath them, a silver-haired boy moved like a shadow between homes, his steps soft, his presence unnoticed.
One by one, he placed his little piles of black ointment. With careful hands, he lit them, watching the smoke curl upward and spread.
The fumes slipped through windows, into every room. Slowly, gently, they wrapped themselves around the slumbering villagers.
And so, without ever knowing it, the people of Hot Springs fell into his dream.
As the last curl of smoke rose into the night, Hidan straightened and gazed over the sleeping village. His lips curved into a faint smile.
"Now," he whispered, "my first grand ceremony in this world begins."
"Little brat! What are you doing? What's burning? Are you setting a fire or something? I'll beat your ass if you are!"
Hidan froze with the last match still smoldering between his fingers.
A middle-aged man with a figure-eight beard and the sour scent of alcohol stumbled out from behind a low fence. Bucura Enmoto, the grocer, swayed on his feet, eyes bloodshot.
Hidan knew him well. Bucura drank most nights, came home loud and clumsy, but he'd never done anything truly cruel.
"It's you, uncle," Hidan said, voice soft as paper. He set the match aside and stood up straighter, folding his hands politely as if answering an adult.
"You're back late again. The wine from the next village must be good, huh?"
Bucura blinked, recognition surfacing. "Hidan? You little...what are you doing sneaking around?"
He squinted, trying to read the boy's face in the lamplight. Suspicion warmed his words.
Hidan smiled the way he had practiced with elders warm, steady, the sort of smile that made people forgive oddities.
"๐๐ฏ๐ค๐ญ๐ฆ, ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐บ ๐ด๐ข๐บ ๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ต๐ฐ๐ฐ ๐ฎ๐ถ๐ค๐ฉ ๐ฃ๐ณ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ๐ด ๐ต๐ณ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฆ." he said lightly, tilting his head up to meet Bucura's taller frame. The words were casual, like a proverb.
For a heartbeat everything stayed ordinary: the smell of smoke, the scrape of sandals on stone, the distant croak of the village night.
Then Hidan moved.
Poof.
A thin, hot flash...too quick to name and Bucura staggered.
Drip.
Drip.
Blood welled on the ground, dark and bright under the lantern light, painting the stone like fallen petals.
Bucura's face collapsed into confusion, he had no time to summon anger, no time to curse the child who had helped him load sacks or straighten his shelves. Only questions remained in his eyes.
"Why? why would youโฆ" His voice was a wet whisper, disbelief more than pain.
Hidan watched him with the same composure he used when tying pouches of herbs. His voice did not tremble. It barely rose above the night.
"I'm sorry."
Then, he rekindled the unlit smoke and stepped aside quietly.
He wasn't in a hurry. The fumes only needed a short time to take effect.
To leave no hidden danger, Hidan had lit the smoke door to door. In his eyes, these extra minutes of waiting were nothing.
๐๐ต ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ด๐ต, ๐ช๐ต ๐ธ๐ข๐ด ๐ข ๐ฒ๐ถ๐ช๐ฆ๐ต ๐ฃ๐ข๐ต๐ฉ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ง๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐บ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐จ๐ข๐ฏ.
"๐๐ญ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ด๐ตโฆ" Hidan murmured. "๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐บ ๐ด๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ญ๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐จ๐ช๐ฏ. ๐๐ฆ๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ฐ-๐ค๐ข๐ญ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฆ๐ท๐ช๐ญ ๐จ๐ฐ๐ฅ ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฆ ๐ช๐ตโฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฃ๐ช๐ณ๐ต๐ฉ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ญ ๐ฆ๐ท๐ช๐ญ ๐จ๐ฐ๐ฅ."
He walked back to Bucura's corpse, pulled the dagger from his chest, and then entered the homes of the other villagers.
One by one, he dragged bodies from their slumber.
One by one, he carried them into the central square of the village.
There, dozens of ebony crosses had already been erected...ropes coiled thick around them, arranged in a strange pattern across the stone ground.
Minutes passed as Hidan tied his chosen targets the ones on his death list, securely to the crosses.
The drug worked beautifully.
Even shinobi with trained bodies remained fast asleep, unable to stir.
Hidan bound them, dragged them, positioned them yet they did not wake.
"๐๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐บ, ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐จ๐ช๐ฏ." he whispered.
His hand tightened on the dagger.
Calmly, he drove it into the hearts of those bound on the crosses.
No screams. No struggle.
Only the steady trickle of blood running down the wood, gathering into grooves carved into the ground.
Slowly, the red pattern revealed itself: a circle enclosing a triangle, simple yet cruel, drawn with life itself.
๐๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ช๐ณ๐ด๐ต ๐ต๐ช๐ฎ๐ฆ, ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฎ๐ข๐ณ๐ฌ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐๐ข๐ด๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ธ๐ข๐ด ๐ฑ๐ข๐ช๐ฏ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ธ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ญ๐ฅ.
Expressionless, Hidan lifted a torch.
He dropped it into the ravine he had prepared.
Boom.
Flames roared to life, brilliant yellow against the dark sky. The fire oil he had soaked into the ground caught instantly, burning even through the blood.
The corpses twisted on the crosses, blackened by the fire. The scent of blood thickened in the air...sharp, metallic, almost sweet... kinda.
Hidan stood in the center of the red triangle, unmoving. His small figure looked like a priest before an altar, bathed in both blood and fire.
At last, footsteps approached.
From the shadows, a man in a black robe stepped into the firelight. His mask hid his face, but his body trembled not from fear, but from barely contained excitement.
He stopped before Hidan and spoke in a voice hoarse as rusted steel, dry as a whisper from the pit of hell.
"๐๐ฐ๐ฏ๐จ๐ณ๐ข๐ต๐ถ๐ญ๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ด. ๐๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฎ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต, ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ข๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐๐ถ๐ญ๐ต ๐ฐ๐ง ๐๐ข๐ด๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ. ๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฅ ๐ด๐ข๐ค๐ณ๐ช๐ง๐ช๐ค๐ฆ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ท๐ฆ ๐จ๐ช๐ท๐ฆ๐ฏโฆ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ด ๐ฑ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ข๐ด๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐จ๐ฐ๐ฅ ๐จ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ต๐ญ๐บ."
Hidan looked up at him in silence, then let a smile spread across his expressionless face.
๐๐ช๐ด ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฃ๐ฆ, ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ต๐ฐ๐ถ๐ค๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐บ ๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฅ, ๐ง๐ญ๐ถ๐ต๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ด๐ฐ๐ง๐ต๐ญ๐บ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฏ๐ช๐จ๐ฉ๐ต ๐ธ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฅ.
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