The Awa Odori drums were just a heartbeat in the distance now, swallowed by the silence of the Tanzaku ruins.
Tanzaku Castle loomed overhead, a white bone jutting out of the hillside. But they weren't at the castle. They were at the base of the hill, in the courtyard of a dilapidated shrine that had been forgotten by tourists and gods alike.
Tsunade stood on the cracked paving stones, the wind whipping her blonde hair across her face. Beside her, Shizune was trembling, Tonton pressed tight against her chest.
"You look terrible," Tsunade said.
It wasn't an insult. It was a medical diagnosis.
Orochimaru stood across the courtyard. He looked like a corpse that had been dragged out of a river and propped up by sheer will. His skin was pasty, glistening with cold sweat. His breathing was wet and labored.
But it was the arms that drew her eye.
They hung at his sides, turning a shade of purple that spoke of deep, irreversible necrosis. The chakra pathways were shredded. The cellular bonds were unraveling. It smelled like rot.
"Time hasn't been kind to you either, Tsunade," Orochimaru rasped.
"Cut the reunion act," she snapped. "Kabuto said you had a deal. I don't make deals with traitors. Especially not ones who look like they're rotting from the inside out."
She took a step forward, her fists clenching.
"You want me to heal you," she deduced. "That's it, isn't it? You pushed your experiments too far, and now your body is rejecting you."
Orochimaru chuckled. It was a dry, rattling sound.
"Not an experiment," he corrected. "A battle."
"Who?" Tsunade demanded. "Who is strong enough to do that to a Sannin?"
Orochimaru smiled. It was a thin, cruel expression that didn't reach his eyes.
"The Third Hokage."
The air left Tsunade's lungs.
"Sensei?" she whispered. "But... he's..."
"Dead," Orochimaru finished smoothly. "He died protecting his precious village. But before he passed, he managed to take my arms with him. A parting gift from the God of Shinobi."
Tsunade felt the world tilt.
The Third was dead.
The old man who had taught her the bell test. The man who had bought her ice cream when she scraped her knee. The man who had looked the other way when she gambled away her allowance.
He was gone.
And the thing standing in front of her—the thing wearing her teammate's face—had killed him.
"You..." Tsunade's voice shook. "You killed him?"
"I ended his suffering," Orochimaru said, his voice devoid of remorse. "He was old. He was weak. He was holding onto a past that no longer mattered."
"How dare you!"
Shizune stepped forward, drawing a poisoned senbon. "Lady Tsunade, we have to kill him! Right now! While he's weak!"
Kabuto stepped out of the shadows, a kunai in hand, placing himself between Shizune and his master.
"I wouldn't," Kabuto warned pleasantly.
Orochimaru didn't flinch. He just looked at Tsunade.
"Why so upset, Tsunade?" he asked softly. "People die. Especially the people around you. First Nawaki. Then Dan. Now Sarutobi-sensei."
He took a step closer. The smell of rot grew stronger.
"You should be used to it by now," he hissed. "You are the Slug Princess, after all. The only thing you're good at is surviving while everyone you love rots in the ground."
Tsunade froze.
The words hit her harder than a punch. They bypassed her guard and struck the dark, festering wound in her soul that never healed.
Used to it.
She looked at his dead, purple arms.
She hated him. She wanted to crush his skull into the pavement.
But her hands... her hands wouldn't move. They felt heavy. Cursed.
"What do you want?" she whispered, her voice hollow.
Orochimaru's grin widened.
"I want you to fix my arms," he said. "And in exchange... I will give you back the two things the world stole from you."
He let the silence hang for a moment, heavy and suffocating.
"I will bring them back, Tsunade. Your brother. And your lover."
The tea house was quiet, save for the muffled rhythm of the festival outside.
The private room was illuminated by a single lantern placed on the floor behind a paper screen. The light cast long, distorted shadows against the rice paper.
"Again," Anko said.
We were playing Tora Tora—The Tiger, The Samurai, The Old Woman.
It was a variation of Rock-Paper-Scissors, but you played it with your whole body. You hid behind the screen, picked a role, and jumped out.
The Tiger eats the Old Woman.
The Old Woman outwits the Samurai (because he cannot strike an elder).
The Samurai kills the Tiger.
"Ready?" Anko called from behind her side of the screen.
"Ready," I answered.
My heart was beating a little too fast. It was just a game. A way to pass the time while Jiraiya "investigated." But Anko played games like she fought—with intent.
Analyze the pattern, I thought.
Last round, she was the Old Woman. She likes to trick me. She knows I tend to play defensively. She expects me to be the Old Woman this time to counter a Samurai.
So she'll play the Tiger to eat the Old Woman.
So I have to be the Samurai. The hero. The one who slays the beast.
I took a deep breath. I imagined the katana in my hand. I imagined the steel in my spine.
"Tora! Tora! Tora!" we chanted together.
I leaped out from behind the screen.
I struck a pose—legs wide, imaginary sword raised high, face set in a grimace of determination.
The Samurai.
I looked across the room.
Anko leaped out.
She wasn't the Old Woman. She wasn't the Samurai.
She was the Tiger.
But she didn't just mimic a tiger. She became it.
She landed in a low crouch, fingers curled into claws. Her face was twisted into a feral, open-mouthed snarl, her eyes wide and manic. For a split second, the lantern light caught her gold-flecked eyes, and I didn't see my teacher.
I saw a predator.
I saw the thing that had survived the Forest of Death. I saw the student of the Snake.
A spike of genuine, primal fear shot down my spine.
I froze.
My "sword" wavered. My determination shattered. I flinched, taking a half-step back.
Anko held the pose for a second longer, letting the growl rumble in her throat. Then, the tension vanished.
She straightened up, laughing.
"Gotcha," she grinned, reaching for the sake bottle on the table.
"I..." I lowered my arms. "I was the Samurai. The Samurai beats the Tiger. I won."
"Did you?" Anko asked, pouring a cup.
She looked at me over the rim of the cup. Her eyes were still sharp.
"You picked the winning move," she agreed. "But when you saw the claws, you flinched. You stopped your swing."
She took a sip.
"In a game, the Samurai wins because the rules say so. In the real world?"
She tapped her temple.
"Hesitation kills the Samurai, Sylvie. It doesn't matter if you have the better weapon. If the Tiger scares you, you're just meat with a sword."
I looked at the shadow of the screen.
The distorted shape of the lantern looked like a snake coiling in the dark.
"I froze," I admitted quietly.
"Yeah," Anko said, her voice losing its humor. "You did."
She poured a cup for me and slid it across the table.
"Drink up. Tomorrow, we stop playing games."
I stared at the clear liquid, wondering why the room suddenly felt so cold.