The courtyard was very quiet. There was no sound of blades cutting through the air as during sword practice—only the faint rustle of wood shavings falling.
Yamagami Motoya sat in the shadow beneath the corridor, head lowered.
In his hand, he held the sword he usually used for practice.
At this moment, however, the tip of the blade was pressed against a rough block of wood, slowly carving and outlining with breath-holding caution.
His movements were very slow. Every motion of the sword was exceptionally careful, as if what lay beneath the blade were not wood, but fragile glass.
Wood shavings peeled away along with the nearly inaudible scraping, gradually revealing a vague seated outline—solemn and upright, its posture composed, with a faintly serene expression and the suggestion of multiple arms beginning to take shape, reminiscent of the guardian figures enshrined in the Fire Temple.
His expression was unusually calm, completely different from the usual look when he swung his sword—eyes splitting with rage, hatred burning in his heart.
Sweat still ran down from his temples, yet the hand holding the sword was astonishingly steady.
The habit of carving such temple figures had begun half a year ago.
Hatred! Resentment! Anger!
And injustice!
Since taking a shisho and learning the art, his progress had been rapid. But in his sword techniques, there was not the slightest trace of defense—only offense, only killing. It was as if, at every moment, the edge of his blade pointed toward that colossal entity called the Holy God Church.
Overwhelming negative emotions, like tangible miasma, coiled around his blade and lingered about his body.
That was the fierce poison wine called "revenge," brewed from the sediment and fermentation of all despair and pain after the destruction of his home, the loss of loved ones, and the collapse of faith.
This poison burned through his organs, yet also became the most violent fuel driving every muscle and every thread of chakra in his body.
It turned into a flame of grievance that scorched the heart and corroded the bones, granting him obsession and explosive power far beyond ordinary people. It allowed him to squeeze out every ounce of his body's potential, absorbing swordsmanship at an astonishing speed, turning pain into brute force for advancement.
This was perhaps the root of his rapid progress—his path of the sword had, from the very beginning, been paved with hatred and blood.
But half a year ago, on that day, his shisho had said this to him:
"Hatred is a powerful drug. It can let you erupt with strength in a short time, break through ordinary bottlenecks—just like you are now."
"But Motoya, this flame of grievance burning in your heart—while it pushes you forward, it is also burning away, bit by bit, the part of you that is human. You see power, you see hope for revenge—but do you see where it is pushing you?"
His shisho stared into his eyes, speaking each word clearly:
"You are falling into the path of the Shura."
"Shura?" Motoya's body trembled.
"To fight for the sake of fighting, to kill for the sake of killing—until nothing remains in your heart but destruction. In the end, you lose yourself in bloodshed and power, becoming a Shura that knows only destruction and slaughter."
His shisho's words were like a dull blade, slowly scraping into his heart:
"Your sword is filled with killing intent—that is not wrong. But if one day that killing intent turns back and devours you, leaving you unable to tell why you raise your blade, and after revenge there is only emptiness and an even greater desire to destroy—then you will no longer be yourself! You may even become another kind of monster—a Shura no different from what you hate."
"Your anger and resentment are your current driving force. But if you do not want them to burn you to ashes, then you must learn—even within raging flames—to find a pillar in your heart that cannot be burned away. As for what that pillar is…"
"You have to find it yourself."
A pillar within the heart?
At that time, upon hearing this, Motoya instinctively reached into his chest and tightly gripped a hard object close to his body.
It was a small wooden pendant carved in the likeness of a Fire Temple guardian. Its edges had been worn smooth and warm from handling. The carving was simple—almost crude.
This was the pendant his younger sister had gone to the only temple in town to pray for when she learned he was going to join the security force.
"Nii-san, take this. You have to come back safely, okay?"
In his memory, her upturned little face, her smile so clean without a trace of shadow, gradually overlapped with the simple wooden pendant before his eyes.
"It seems you've found it," his shisho nodded. "Then hold onto it tightly—and use your sword to carve it!"
"Yes!"
From that day on, Motoya developed the habit of carving in his spare time from sword practice.
And what he carved was precisely the same guardian figure depicted on the pendant his sister had given him.
Motoya could feel that when he held the sword and immersed his mind completely in that delicate carving, the flame of grievance burning day and night in his chest would indeed temporarily subside.
Focusing both sword and mind into a single point, letting them move along the grain of the wood, those surging feelings—hatred, restlessness, pain—seemed to peel away bit by bit along with the falling wood shavings.
Snick.
The last excess shaving was lightly picked away by the tip of the sword.
Motoya stopped. Looking at the wooden statue in his palm—less than 15 centimeters tall, carved by the edge of his blade, with a calm and serene expression—he slowly exhaled a long breath.
He raised his thumb and gently brushed away the fine wood dust clinging between the statue's brows and eyes, the motion so light it seemed he feared disturbing a fragile dream.
At the other end of the corridor, Isshin stood with his arms folded, silently watching the scene.
His gaze lingered briefly on Motoya, who was focused on carving, then shifted to the side, where Chūgi—also known as Owl—was scratching his head in curiosity. He could not help but mutter inwardly.
A sculptor… and Owl… well, now half of Ashina's Four Elite have gathered. Oh right, and the Ashina Seven Spears too.
So I really have become "Isshin," huh?
Isshin rolled his eyes inwardly.
Does that mean in the future I'll also have to start a war to seize a country, shouting about "severing immortality"?
But…
Which country would I even seize? The Land of Iron? Or the Land of Hot Water?
And whose "immortality" would I cut off? That so-called "Holy God" that cult preaches?
The thought flashed by, and even Isshin found it a bit absurd.
At this moment, Motoya finally noticed Isshin standing under the corridor. He quickly set down the wooden and the sword, stood up, and bowed respectfully.
"Shishō."
Isshin nodded, his gaze sweeping over him and Chūgi. He spoke concisely: "I'll be going out for a while. While I'm gone, the two of you will train on your own."
"Yes!" the two responded in unison.
Isshin said nothing more. He turned and strode out, the hem of his clothing cutting a sharp arc through the air.
"Shishō!" Chūgi—Owl—could not help raising his voice and calling out to his retreating back, "Where are you going?"
Isshin did not stop. Only one word drifted back clearly with his departing steps: "Konohagakure!"
Konohagakure!?
Hearing this, Owl's eyes widened instantly, his face filled with envy and longing.
Konohagakure! That was the sacred land of shinobi he had long dreamed of!
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