Naruto: IHCS Ch. 126

The plaza was packed with people.

The refugees stood there, the tattered hems of their clothes trembling slightly in the breeze, exposing gaunt frames and bluish-purple skin.

Having just gone through a life-and-death crisis, many of them still hadn't fully registered what had happened.

But their expressions had changed.

When Shiratori and his group first arrived at Aomine, the refugees huddled beneath the walls had vacant looks.

There was nothing to be seen in their pupils.

They curled up tightly and were unmoved even by the smell of food drifting from the shops.

It wasn't that they didn't care, rather, they had developed self-restraint out of experience. They didn't look, they didn't even breathe in the scent. Under long oppression, they had learned to restrain themselves.

Shiratori treated the injured ninjas and warriors one by one.

The ninjas and warriors watched their wounds close rapidly, their eyes filled with an indescribable emotion.

The emotion wasn't only that the wounds were healing, more importantly, after being hurt there were comrades who cared and worried, comrades who treated their injuries.

Not like before, when getting hurt meant secretly licking your wounds for fear of being discovered and losing the chance to take on another mission.

[Gratitude detected]
[Multiple sources: +1,000 points each]
[Total accumulated: 13,000 points]
[Curse Growth - Gratitude: 27%]

When everyone's wounds had been healed, he withdrew his hands. He turned and looked at the refugees behind him. He reached out and pointed to the entire row of shops across the street.

"You have endured for too long! Now charge in and rescue the comrades you've lost! Drag those who have oppressed you out and put them on trial!"

"Right now they no longer have ninjas guarding them, but you are not alone, countless like-minded comrades stand beside you!"

"Happiness must be fought for with your own two hands!"

"Go!"

"Go and seize back all the rights you were born to enjoy!"

His words echoed over the plaza.

The refugees stood motionless, making painful choking sounds.

They stared fixedly at the shops across the way.

Could they really do it?

Could they really pull it off?

They swallowed.

"Mom… they took Mom!"

"Go get Mom back!"

"Bring Mom home!"

From the crowd came a child's pitiful cry.

She pushed through the people, her bare feet were covered in scabbed frostbite. She ran wildly across the ground toward the shops opposite, her tears streaking trails through the air.

One, two, three, four, a great many, more and more refugees began running toward the shops.

Their eyes were fierce, faces and necks flushed bright red, veins standing out, yet their eyes glittered with tears of pain and anger.

They shouted different names.

Some of the people those names belonged to had already turned to dust, some had become nothing but bones, others had simply vanished through the tightly shuttered back doors of the merchants' shops in Aomine.

The crowd of rioters surged forward like a flood toward the shops opposite the plaza.

The roar nearly upended the whole of Aomine.

At that moment, on the opposite side of the central plaza, the shop owner Takahashi had latched the door shut and was trembling all over from the vibrations coming through the floor.

After locking the front, Takahashi searched for a hiding place in the two-story building.

His gaze fixed on an overturned counter, without a second thought he vaulted over it and shoved his fat body behind the counter.

He curled up there like a slab of pork on a cutting board, greasy enough to make someone sick.

Takahashi breathed rapidly, his heart hammered in his chest.

From time to time he poked his head up to peer at the door.

"These damned scum have gone insane!"

His pupils dilated. His door, the door was smashed open.

With a thunderous "boom," the door slammed against the wall.

Countless people poured into the shop.

Hands reached in from behind him.

"Ahhhhh!"

Takahashi's terrified screams were drowned out by the refugees' shouts.

They hardly thought, bloodshot-eyed, they lunged forward.

The moment their hands touched Takahashi, a furious strength surged through them.

No one could tell whose hands hauled Takahashi out from behind the overturned counter.

He uttered a shriek like a slaughtered pig, kicking wildly with his limbs, but was pinned down by the flood-like crowd.

Ropes?

The thought had barely formed in their minds when someone, out of nowhere, produced hemp rope.

Countless hands passed it along until the coarse rope used to tie bundles of goods reached the dozen or so people nearest Takahashi.

They held him down with all their might.

The rope bit into Takahashi's flesh, tightened until it was constricting, they tied a hard knot as if trying to snap his bones.

Death?

For them, it was too easy!

They had already tasted despair, now it was time for the merchants to taste it too.

Takahashi screamed in pain.

Meanwhile, Takahashi's shop was not the only one.

More and more shops were stormed by refugees, they dragged the hiding merchants out of rooms.

Even more merchants were hauled to the middle of the street.

One after another, bound tight, they lay on the cold ground.

The "bosses" who had been in charge were now like animals waiting to be slaughtered.

The plaza had become a place of judgment.

Across all of Aomine, the merchants who had committed countless evils, those who had once bullied the refugees, were all dragged out.

To prevent the refugees, in their heated state, from simply killing the merchants, the ninjas and samurai would, at crucial moments, hand them the coarse rope.

Merchants who had packed a bundle on their backs and tried to flee were quickly tied and dragged back.

Those ordinary townspeople who had not mistreated the refugees escaped being seized, they held their breath behind bolted doors. From narrow cracks in second-floor windows, they peered out to spy on the scene below.

Suzuki, the owner of Full Moon Steamed Bun Shop, stood at the end of the street, watching the chaos in the plaza with worry flashing across her face.

In the square, an old woman whose body had been reduced to skin and bone flung herself onto a short, fat merchant. Her withered, claw-like hands clung to his lapel as if to tear it off, her voice split as if it were being ripped:

"Where's my son!? Where did you sell him? He was only ten! Tell me! Tell me where he is, you beast!"

Scenes like this played out across every part of the plaza.

Takahashi struggled desperately.

On his face was a mixture of fear and a lingering arrogance.

Even though he had already fallen into the state where others held all the power over him, Takahashi stubbornly refused to believe that this group of lowly people would harm him.

He screamed hoarsely, trying to drown out the furious cries around him:

"Treason! This is rebellion!"

He suddenly twisted his head, his tiny eyes squeezed by layers of fat glaring viciously at the surrounding refugees.

"If it weren't for us giving you something to eat, you would've long rotted by the roadside!"

"Those useless brats, keeping them would only mean starving to death! Selling them off gave them a chance to live! That's a blessing!"

"What do you know!"

"A bunch of ignorant fools…"

Merchants like Takahashi, still spouting hard words even at death's door, were not few in number.

The refugees stared at them in disbelief.

"A blessing?"

When their loved ones were forcibly taken away, their eyes had been full of fear.

Even now, they could still remember those eyes.

Every night, those eyes were like red-hot branding irons, searing their chests again and again, reminding them never to forget.

Yet their suffering, in these people's eyes, was worth nothing.

These people even regarded their crimes as an act of mercy…

How damned!

Every day, every night of surviving here was filled with torment.

And still, the merchants, oblivious to death, spewed out more words in front of the refugees.

"You should be thanking us!"

"If it weren't for us bringing a doctor to treat your daughter, she would've died sooner! We even let her live two more months!"

"You ignorant rabble deserve to starve your whole lives!"

"Once you're fed, you only cause trouble!"

In the refugees' ears was only a sharp ringing.

Before their eyes were only the merchants' mouths, opening and closing, spraying spit.

Their mouths gleamed with gold teeth, their gazes still filled with superiority.

"Bastard!"

"You tortured my daughter to death!"

"It was you who tortured my daughter to death!"

Countless arms swung upward.

The dignity that had been plundered, the hope that had been crushed, the silent sobs in the dead of night, the helplessness of watching loved ones taken away, the pain of losing them, all of it condensed into those fists raised high.

Bang, bang, bang…

The dense storm of fists landed squarely on the merchants' faces, their chests.

The sound of bones breaking was crisp and clear.

Blood spurted from the merchants' noses and mouths.

Teeth stained with blood scattered to the ground.

Their howls turned into muffled whimpers.

Their proud posture was gone.

Their bodies collapsed like piles of rotting mud.

Their limbs twitched uncontrollably.

The refugees clenched their fists tightly.

Their knuckles split open, smeared with blood, sticky and raw.

Their arms trembled slightly from the force they had used.

And yet, they seemed to feel no pain.

They opened their mouths, but no sound came out.

Scalding liquid streamed down their faces.

It was only after an unknown stretch of time that countless cries of grief finally burst from their throats.

The sound was like the blood-weeping call of a cuckoo, chilling to the bone.

Tears gushed madly from their eyes, washing away the dirt on their faces.

Their eyes, cleansed by tears, became piercingly clear.

Looking at the merchants collapsed on the ground, what surged in the refugees' chests was not the joy of revenge, nor the desire to burn away everything with rage, but sorrow.

Sorrow so sharp it nearly tore their chests apart.

No matter what they did, their lost loved ones would never return.

The terrifying sorrow coursed through the refugees' veins like venom.

Every bone and limb ached.

That pain welled up into their eyes and flowed out as searing tears.

At last, they wept.

At last, they could truly weep.

Never before had they so clearly recognized that they were human, that they were alive again.

The agony and anger were so sharp, so scalding, yet so real.

The refugees stood encircling the merchants, gasping for breath, looking down at the writhing masses of bloodied flesh on the ground, their faces streaked with tears.

The wind swept across the square.

But neither the heavy hatred could be blown away, nor the fire of their awakened resolve.

Beside Shiratori came the sound of weeping.

"Uuuh… uuuh…"

Yahiko sobbed, tears spilling endlessly from his eyes.

When Shiratori glanced at him, he quickly turned his head in guilt, and only after wiping his tears dry did he look back.

"Just now… the wind blew sand into my eyes…"

Yahiko choked as he spoke.

Shiratori: "…"

The wind blew sand into your throat too?

He said nothing more. He turned instead toward Nagato and Konan.

Nagato's expression was complicated, while Konan's eyes were red-rimmed.

"What are you thinking?"

Shiratori fixed his gaze on Nagato.

Nagato stared at the refugees without blinking.

"I'm wondering… if someday, we'll become like them."

The words slipped unconsciously from Nagato's lips.

Shiratori raised his brows in surprise.

"No, we won't! How could we!"

Before Shiratori could answer, Yahiko spoke firmly.

Looking at the refugees, he drew in a deep breath: "They've suffered this kind of pain, how could they possibly inflict it upon others?"

Nagato lowered his eyes.

"For refugees, they've endured extreme deprivation, injustice, and violence. Deep wounds can make some among them harbor boundless hatred for oppression. But for others, it breeds a desperate hunger for power. Because they have suffered the agony of weakness, they develop an instinctive yearning for the kind of strength, wealth, authority, that might spare them from suffering again." Shiratori whispered in Nagato's ear.

Nagato slowly lifted his head, looking at him.

Meeting his eyes, Shiratori spoke, "That is why we exist, Nagato. That is the meaning of our ideals. Our existence is to build a peaceful order, to distribute resources fairly. Those who fight monsters must take care not to become monsters themselves. When you gaze into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. Ideals are the lighthouse that guide us away from the abyss. And we, in turn, are the beacon that guides them away from the abyss."

Nagato stared blankly at him.

"That's why, we must hold fast to our ideals!"

Shiratori said to the three of them.