Lord Danzo had promised. He had promised that as long as Kabuto completed his mission here, the Dean would be released from the shackles of Root and granted her freedom. They would be able to start their lives anew in a safe place.
This conviction was the lighthouse in his darkness, supporting him through every day spent behind a mask, helping him swallow the bitterness of loneliness and deception.
The ox cart passed through the final inner gate constructed of heavy rock, and the clamor of the city was instantly cut off. The air in the Seventh Prison Sector became cold and stagnant, a mixture of damp stone, disinfectant, and a faint, lingering scent of despair. High grey stone walls blocked out the sunlight, casting frigid shadows.
The guarding Star Shinobi wore dark uniforms, their expressions blank and their gazes as sharp as hawks. Their blades and armor glinted coldly in the gloom. The heavy iron doors groaned open with a piercing metallic screech, revealing an even dimmer corridor within.
The logistics team began unloading, moving the heavy supplies into the warehouse. Natsuhi spoke in low tones with the prison captain, verifying the inventory. Kabuto, Katsuhito, and Hazuki followed instructions, carrying prepared food baskets into the interior to be distributed by specialized guards to the cells.
"Tch, this place... it's depressing," Morishita Katsuhito whispered as he carried a basket of dark bread. He wrinkled his nose, trying to ward off the persistent, chilly smell. His voice echoed slightly in the empty stone hallway.
"Focus, Katsuhito," Murahashi Hazuki whispered back. Her sensory abilities made her exceptionally sensitive to the negative emotions and chaotic chakra of such a place; her face was slightly pale.
Kabuto said nothing. He simply pushed a small cart holding several food baskets. He kept his head lowered, his glasses reflecting the dim light and masking the emotions deep within his eyes. He behaved exactly like an ordinary Genin entering such a high-security environment for the first time—tense and slightly uncomfortable. The cart's wheels made a monotonous rolling sound against the uneven stone floor.
The distribution point was a long, dark corridor deep within the sector. On both sides were rows of heavy iron doors with small, palm-sized observation slots. They had to stop at each door and pass a portion of food through the slot. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, mold, and bland food.
Kabuto was responsible for the windows on the right side of the passage. He mechanically placed dark bread, a handful of dried vegetables, and a scoop of thin bean soup into the worn wooden bowls or tin plates extended from the slots. His gaze remained low to avoid direct contact with eyes that were either numb or filled with resentment.
"Faster," a guard's raspy voice commanded.
Kabuto picked up a piece of dark bread, habitually preparing to place it in the bowl at the window. His gaze inadvertently brushed past the slot, catching a glimpse of the face emerging from the shadows of the iron door.
Time seemed to freeze at that moment.
The rolling of the cart wheels, the guard's shouting, the coughing of a distant prisoner, the thud of Katsuhito moving boxes—all sounds receded like a tide. Only the sound of his own heart remained, thudding wildly in his chest like it was about to burst.
Those were a pair of extremely familiar eyes.
Those brown eyes that had once been as warm as spring sunshine, holding all the grievances and fears of the orphanage children, were now covered in a thick, unerasable layer of dust. They were hollow, unfocused, and devoid of any light. They stared blankly in Kabuto's direction, yet seemed to look right through him toward some point in the void.
There was no recognition, no confusion, not even the numb wariness one usually showed toward a stranger distributing food. There was only a deathly white void, like two dried-up wells.
It's the Dean!
Yakushi Nono!
His... mother!
Kabuto's mind went blank. The blood in his body seemed to rush to his head, only to flow back down to his feet in an icy torrent a second later. The dark bread between his fingers was nearly crushed by his unconscious strength.
He stared at that face—the face carved into the deepest part of his soul, the face that had sustained him through countless dark years. He could not possibly mistake his own mother! Even if those eyes had lost all the light he knew... it was her!
It was the Dean who had picked him up during the war, who had used her warm hands to wipe the mud from his face, who had given her own glasses to him because he was nearsighted, and who had hummed soft lullabies to soothe him to sleep!
"..."
Kabuto's throat felt as though it were being crushed by an invisible hand; he couldn't make a sound. He wanted to scream, to shout that name regardless of the consequences. But his remaining rationality was like a taut string, reminding him of his current identity and situation.
He was "Kumamoto Kabuto," an orphan and Genin of the Land of Stars. He could not possibly know the "Wandering Miko," a spy of the Konoha Root.
Massive shock and a tidal wave of panic overwhelmed him.
Why? Why is the Dean here? Why is she in a prison in the Land of Stars? Shouldn't she be on a mission in another country or at the Konoha Orphanage?
And... she doesn't recognize me?
How could she not recognize me?!
How long has it been since I left the orphanage?
But that's the Dean! The woman who treated me like her own son! My mother!
How could she look at me with those hollow eyes, like I'm a complete stranger?
Kabuto forced himself to look down, hiding the storm and the tearing pain in his eyes. He used every ounce of strength to control his trembling fingers, gently placing the deformed bread into the cracked bowl held by that withered hand. His movements were as stiff as a rusted machine.
"Tha... thank you."
A dry, raspy voice sounded. It was weak, faint, and carried the awkwardness of long-term silence.
That "thank you" was like a red-hot blade stabbing into Kabuto's heart and then being cruelly twisted. There was no familiar warmth, no flicker of emotion, only a numb response born of near-instinct.
This was not the voice in his memory! Not the voice that would tenderly call his name!
An icy chill raced up his spine, colder than the deepest stone walls of the Seventh Sector. The world he had painstakingly constructed to survive began to crack and shatter under that hollow "thank you." The pillar of his faith shook violently, as if it would collapse entirely in the next second.
Lord Danzo's promise... the Dean's freedom... the promise to start over...
Was all of it... just...
"Kabuto! What are you dazing for? Move it!" His companion's voice boomed in his ear like a thunderclap, snapping him back to reality.