The stone plaza of Degarashi Port was radiating a heat that traveled through the soles of my sandals, vibrating in time with the distant, rhythmic pounding of ceremonial drums.
Abundant mid-November sunshine turned the wide grey tiles into a shimmering mirror, catching the salt-crust on the northern docks. Every inhalation pulled warm, damp air into my lungs. The moisture clung to the mesh undershirt beneath my tank top until the fabric adhered to my ribs in a clammy, unmoving layer.
Naruto leaned against a nearby stone pillar, his shoulders already glistening with sweat where the dark netting of his fitted tank top left his skin bare. To our left, the gold-tipped roof fins of the Wagarashi estate glinted like predator eyes. Massive festive banners snapped in a weak breeze—flp-flp—the heavy canvas sounding like the wings of a trapped bird against the stone walls.
Jirōbō Wasabi stepped forward, his weathered face set in a grim mask. Behind him, Hantō gripped his lead rope while Idate stood with a vibrating, white-knuckled focus.
"New Team 7," Jirōbō grunted, gesturing toward the ceremonial pavilion. "I must present you to the authorities before the launch."
Honcha Kannon, the Daimyō, sat atop the raised dais.
He possessed a rigid stillness that allowed the indigo silk overcoats to swallow his frame. The voluminous sleeves remaining perfectly motionless as they buried his hands. I looked at the lack of calluses on his visible wrists, the total absence of tension in his shoulders—he lacked the coiled readiness of a fighter. He adjusted his black kanmuri court hat, the red tassels framing a rounded face and notably large ears.
"The Todoroki Shrine Race demands integrity," Honcha said, his black eyes tracking our movements with a detached scrutiny. "I trust these Leaf-nin understand the gravity of the spiritual anchors they defend."
He gestured to the woman beside her. "My wife."
"Maria Kannon," she said.
The name struck like a hammer to my sternum. My lungs seized, the damp air suddenly too thin to support life. A cortisol flood washed through my system, turning my blood to ice as the stone tiles of the plaza tilted at a nauseating angle. My hand jerked toward the black pouch on my left thigh, fingers digging into the fabric over the Void Ring.
I stared. A rounded softness defined her features, her raven hair bound at the nape with a simple cord of raw flax. She wore a cerulean mantle embroidered with water lilies—the exact shade of a memory I had buried under layers of iron and silence.
Maria.
My mother's name.
The radiating heat of the plaza intensified, the scent of celebratory incense turning cloying and thick. My auditory field dropped out, the world narrowing to the violent, irregular pulse drumming in my own ears—thud-crack, thud-crack. I looked for a ghost in her brown eyes and found only the serene poise of a stranger. I couldn't look away, my brain frantically trying to map her features onto a face that had been gone for a decade.
"Sylvie?" Naruto's voice arrived as a muffled distortion. He nudged my arm, his brow furrowed. "You okay? You look like you saw a swamp monster."
"I'm fine," I managed to whisper, the words vibrating through a throat that felt lined with sand. I forced my hands to stop trembling, burying my fingers in my mesh gloves until the pressure of the leather against my knuckles forced my nervous system to reboot.
I needed a second to breathe, but the world refused to wait.
An invasive sensory spike lunged from the opposite side of the arena. Fukusuke Hikyakuya strutted forward, his red headband bright against an arrogant smirk. But it was the trio trailing him that forced my hyper-vigilance back to the present, the sudden adrenaline spike burning through the fog of my panic. They wore breath-masks and head-wraps, their movements fluid and predatory.
"Who the heck are these weirdos?" Naruto asked, squinting. "They look like they're allergic to the sun."
"Team Oboro," I rasped, my focus narrowing as I forced the shock of the name into a tight, temporary box. Aoi remained hidden, likely playing a longer game from the shadows. I felt my teeth grit. "Naruto. They were in the Forest of Death with us. They hunted us for seventy-two hours."
Naruto scratched the back of his head, his expression remaining stubbornly blank. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
The total amnesia in his tone made me feel isolated, a jagged doubt tearing at my own threat assessment. My skin crawled with the realization that his nervous system had simply deleted the trauma I had painstakingly mapped. How could he not remember the rain, the leeches, the feeling of being hunted?
"Come on," Idate interrupted, grabbing Naruto's shoulder. "Let's get ready."
Hantō climbed onto the driver's seat of the single mustang carriage, his palms slick against the heavy leather reins. He could feel the power of the beast through the wood—a coiled tension that matched the roar of the crowd. Beside him, Idate anchored his feet against the frame.
The sun rose exactly in the center of the arena's massive torii gate, a blinding orb that turned the teal ocean into a shimmering sheet of silver.
"Start!" Honcha bellowed.
Hantō snapped the reins.
The carriage lunged. The sudden displacement snapped my head back against the timber siding with a jarring thud. Sideways gravity wrenched my spine as we veered, my obliques burning as I fought to maintain my center. My fingers strained against the rough wood, the grain biting into my palms to keep my ribs from being crushed against the frame.
Ahead, the Wagarashi carriage roared, the wheels of both vehicles screaming against the stone tiles. Suddenly, an old man wandered directly into our path, frozen by the terror of the charging mustang.
Ssh-flicker.
In a blur of displacement, Kakashi appeared. He scooped the man up and Body Flickered to the sidewalk. The carriage rattled violently, nearly bucking me off as he flickered back onto the moving vehicle, his Icha Icha book already in hand. The ease of the rescue felt wrong—a casual dismissal of the dangerous momentum throwing the rest of us around the interior.
"Kakashi!" Anko barked from the roof, her metal chainmail glinting as she flipped down beside us. "I told you to let the kids handle the obstacles! How are they supposed to learn if you keep showing off?"
Kakashi shrugged. "The horse wouldn't have appreciated the impact, Anko."
Anko growled. "Fine. New plan. Kakashi and I provide minimal support. Use this chance to practice your tracking. If you die because you didn't see a kunai coming, I'm putting it in my report."
The carriage swerved hard, tires screeching. The movement through the humidity didn't create a breeze; it produced a blast-furnace effect, the air growing hotter as it rushed past our faces. Dust kicked up by the wheels mixed with the sweat on my skin, creating a gritty, abrasive paste that stung my eyes.
"Hantō! Turn North!" Idate yelled over the rattle. "Away from the docks!"
"What?!" Naruto screamed, clutching the side of the carriage. "The docks are that way! Fukusuke is getting on a boat! We're going the wrong way!"
"North, Idate?" I asked. My lungs struggled to pull in the thick, superheated air.
Idate pointed toward the horizon where thin, white cirrus clouds veiled the sky. "The air is fuel!" he shouted, his voice a ragged burst against the wind. "It's sucking the heat north to spin. The docks are a death trap. If we take a boat there, we race straight into the eye. We head North. We find a boat out of the path of the spin before the eye forms. Fukusuke is racing into a trap he can't see!"
A pressure built in my sinuses, echoing the shift in the atmosphere.
I looked back at the Sea God's Portal, now a distant silhouette against the shimmering current. 48 hours until landfall.
The storm was thickening, and threatening ready to pull us under.