Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 42

Chapter 42

Kiri. Hidden base of the rebellion. 

“Chōjūrō,” Mei’s voice cut through the oppressive stillness of the stronghold like the hiss of a blade leaving its sheath. Low, sharp, and cold, it commanded obedience. “Stop fidgeting before I nail your feet to the floor.”

The words struck him as intended. His hand froze mid-air, hovering over the hilt of Hiramekarei like a guilty child caught stealing. He straightened, his posture rigid and his wide eyes fixed downward. The Jonin standing before her, fresh from delivering his report, shifted awkwardly on his feet. His gaze darted between her and Chōjūrō, but he wisely chose silence. Mei flicked her wrist in a curt dismissal. 

“Enough,” she said suddenly, holding up a hand to silence the jonin. “You’ve made your report. Go.”

The Jonin bowed, retreating with haste. Good. He knew when to vanish.

She looked every bit the leader they needed her to be. Her long auburn hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, the strands catching the dim torchlight like threads of copper. Her face, with its smooth, porcelain skin and high cheekbones, was poised and unreadable—a mask perfected over years of survival in the Bloody Mist. But beneath the surface, tension coiled in her jaw, her hands twitching imperceptibly before she stilled them. Mei Terumī radiated chakra like a storm about to break, the air around her charged with the weight of her power. It wasn’t an illusion; she was Kage-level, and every person in the room felt it.

The silk of her robe, cinched at the waist to emphasize her elegant form, hinted at the curves beneath—broad hips, a generous chest that her attire did little to disguise, and an almost unfairly shapely ass. But the way she held herself left no room for indulgence. Mei wasn’t here to be admired; she was here to lead. To win. And to survive.

As the door thudded shut, silence reclaimed the chamber, save for the faint rustle of Mei’s coat as she shifted her weight. Chōjūrō still stood as though pinned to the floor by her earlier words.

She sighed through her nose, pressing her fingers against her temple. Her voice dropped, quieter now but laced with irritation. “For gods’ sake, Chōjūrō. What’s the matter with you? You’re one of the Seven Swordsmen of the Mist. Act like it.”

“I—I’m sorry, Mei-sama,” he stammered, his voice cracking slightly. “It’s just—Ao hasn’t returned, and I—”

“Enough,” she interrupted, her words slicing through his like a kunai through paper. “You’re letting your emotions show. That’s unacceptable.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, sharp and unyielding. She hated the way his nervous energy seemed to vibrate through the room, infecting the air with a tension she couldn’t afford to let fester. Chōjūrō wasn’t just a boy with a sword. He was a symbol, a piece of their rebellion that people could rally behind. And right now, he looked like a nervous wreck. That wouldn’t do.

Still, she exhaled and let her expression soften—not much, but enough to ease the blow. Her tone shifted, becoming more measured, though still tinged with steel. “Listen to me, Chōjūrō. I understand. Believe me, I do. But you need to understand something too—something critical. In a civil war like this, appearances are everything.”

He blinked, his confusion plain. She stepped closer, her emerald eyes locking onto his with an intensity that rooted him in place. Mei’s words began to flow, her tone taking on a rhythm, deliberate yet unrelenting, like the ebb and flow of a rising tide.

“Let me ask you something. Do you know how many people in this village hate Yagura?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Ninety percent. At least. If Yagura’s corpse was laid out in the middle of the village tomorrow, ninety percent of Kirigakure would spit on it. They hate him. His brutality, his paranoia, his reign of fear—it’s made him despised by almost everyone. Even Zabuza, the coldest, most heartless bastard I’ve ever known, tried to slit his throat.”

Chōjūrō swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Mei didn’t let up.

“But here’s the problem. Do you know how many of those ninjas who hate him would actually fight alongside us? Do you know how many are willing to pick up a kunai and stand in open rebellion against a Kage? Against a jinchūriki who’s mastered his bijū?” She tilted her head slightly, her voice cutting deeper. “Ten percent. Maybe. If we’re lucky.”

“The rest?” She gestured broadly, her tone laced with disdain. “The rest are cowards. Spectators…Ninjas. They’ll tell you how much they hate him, how they dream of the day he’s gone, but when the time comes to actually fight? They’ll keep their heads down. They’ll take long-term missions out of the village, follow orders, and pray to whatever gods they believe in that Yagura doesn’t notice them.”

She stopped pacing, turning back to Chōjūrō with a piercing gaze. “Do you see the problem? Do you understand what that means for us? It means that when the final battle comes, when it’s all on the line, most of those people—the ninety percent who hate Yagura—will do absolutely nothing. They won’t fight for him, but they won’t fight for us either. They’ll just watch. Waiting to see who wins.”

She let the weight of her words sink in before continuing, her tone hardening. “And here’s where it gets worse. If they think we’re going to lose—if they see even the slightest sign of weakness—they’ll scramble to save themselves. They’ll trip over each other to look loyal to Yagura. They’ll rat out our hideouts, sabotage our plans, do whatever it takes to protect their own skins. Not because they want him to win, but because they think he will.”

Chōjūrō’s face twisted in discomfort, the reality of her words settling over him like a heavy shroud. Mei stepped closer, her presence looming, her green eyes boring into his.

“This is why appearances matter, Chōjūrō,” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, though it lost none of its intensity. “If we don’t look like we can win, we can’t win. That’s the truth of it. People won’t fight for us because they believe in the cause. They’ll fight because they think we have a chance. If we seem strong, they’ll rally behind us. If we seem weak, they’ll abandon us before the battle even begins.”

Her tone softened slightly, though her words still carried the weight of command. “That’s why you need to stop fidgeting. Stop showing your nerves. I know you’re scared. I know you’re worried about Ao. Believe me, I am too. Probably more than you realize. He’s more than just a fighter—he’s my right hand. And if he does come back…Hell, the just went to check our supply lines. What if they disappear with him? No, Ao keeps this rebellion steady when everything feels like it’s falling apart. If we’ve lost him…” She trailed off briefly, her jaw tightening before she forced the thought away. “If we’ve lost him, it’s a blow we can’t afford. But you showing fear? That’s even worse.”

Chōjūrō’s lips parted, as if he wanted to respond, but no words came. Mei’s gaze softened, just enough to let him breathe. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her grip firm but not unkind.

“You’re one of the Seven Swordsmen of the Mist, Chōjūrō. One of the last ones — and you support the rebellion. Do you understand what that means? You’re not just a soldier. You’re a symbol. People look at you and see what we’re fighting for. If you show weakness, they’ll think we’re weak. If you look confident, they’ll believe we have a chance. It’s that simple.”

She stepped back, her voice rising again. “So act like it. Stand tall. You’re a swordsman of the Mist, damn it. Start looking like one. This war isn’t just about jutsu and kunai. It’s about belief. And belief starts with how we carry ourselves. Remember that.”

The echo of her words barely faded before the heavy doors slammed open, their impact reverberating through the room like a hammer against stone. A scout stumbled in, his breath ragged, his forehead slick with sweat.

“Lady Mei!” he shouted, his voice breaking with urgency. “It’s Ao! He’s back!”

Relief flooded through Mei like a rush of cool water against fire-hot tension. She felt her chest loosen for the first time in days, her breath drawing in deeper. But just as quickly, she stifled it. Relief was a luxury she couldn’t afford to show, not in front of the scout, and certainly not in front of Chōjūrō, not after lecturing him on appearances. 

“Where?” she asked sharply, her voice as composed as steel. “And is he hurt?”

The scout hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “No,” he said finally, shaking his head. “Not hurt. Not a speck of blood. But…”

Mei’s emerald eyes narrowed, catching the unspoken edge in the scout’s tone. “But what?”

The scout looked down briefly, as if gathering his thoughts, then back up. “But he looks… grim, Mei-sama. I mean, Ao’s always grim, but this is different. And confused, too. I’ve never seen him look confused. And… and there’s something else.”

Chōjūrō stepped forward slightly, his brows furrowed. “What else?” he asked, his voice tinged with apprehension.

The scout glanced at him, then back at Mei, as if weighing his words. “He… he’s wearing Konoha clothes.”

Mei did not move, though her fingers pressed against the wood of her chair so hard she thought it might splinter. The impulse to stand, to push through the door and meet Ao face to face, roared through her veins. To see him, to rip answers from his mouth, to be certain of what had happened out there.

But Mei Terumī was not a woman who gave in to impulses. A leader doesn’t leave their seat. A leader doesn’t betray urgency. No, people came to her. Even Ao.

Minutes stretched like wire pulled too taut before the heavy doors opened again. Ao entered, his steps a rough march, his broad frame silhouetted by the light spilling in from the hall. The chunin he passed flinched as Ao snarled at him, voice gravel-thick. “Get me something proper to wear, something that wasn’t sewn by those tree fuckers.”

Mei’s eyes narrowed faintly, taking him in. His clothes—Konoha’s clothes—sat awkwardly on his body, sleeves slightly short, the insignia of that village emblazoned far too clearly on the fabric. It was like looking at a wild beast caught in chains, too out of place to feel real.

Ao halted three steps from her and saluted sharply, every line of his body rigid. “Lady Mei!” he said, voice full of forced formality. “Ao, reporting to Lady Mei.” He made the barest flick of his left hand, a subtle gesture by his hip, and Mei’s stomach tightened. The code. Alone.

Her face betrayed nothing as she turned toward Chōjūrō, who stood hovering like a nervous shadow. “Chōjūrō,” she said, smooth as water over stone, “you’re dismissed. I will hear Ao’s report alone.”

“What—?” Chōjūrō’s voice broke, more bewildered than indignant. His wide eyes darted between Ao and Mei, uncertainty clear on his young face. He didn’t understand, didn’t trust it. Mei fixed him with a stare as sharp as any kunai. A silent control yourself hung in the air.

Realization struck him like a slap. His spine straightened, cheeks reddening faintly as he dipped his head. “Y-yes, Lady Mei,” he murmured, backing toward the door. It closed behind him with a soft thud.

The room settled into silence. Mei let it linger, let the weight of the moment pull everything taut. Finally, she rose, taking a measured step forward to study the man in front of her.

Ao, her Ao. Mentor. Ally. One of the last men alive she trusted. The Byakugan hidden beneath his patch was sharp enough to pierce mountains, but it was the normal eye—the human one—that Mei scrutinized now. He was changed. The deep lines etched into his face were sharper, his jaw tighter, his shoulders holding a weight he rarely allowed to show. And there, beneath the exhaustion, was something else. Something guarded. Something dangerous.

“Not much of a fashion statement, is it?” she said lightly, breaking the silence with a thin attempt at humor. Her gaze flicked to the foreign insignia on his shoulder. “Konoha colors, Ao? I’d expect better taste.”

Ao didn’t smile. He didn’t even scowl. Instead, his face darkened like a gathering stormcloud. “It’s the only thing they gave me,” he said quietly, voice grave. “When they let me leave.”

Mei’s expression froze, the words ringing sharp in her ears. Let you leave. Not escaped. Not freed. Let go. She inhaled slowly, keeping her voice steady. “Let you leave?”

Ao held her gaze, steady and unwavering. “Yeah,” he said, exhaling through his nose. “Woke up naked in a cell. Across from Ibiki Morino.” The name alone sent a ripple of unease through Mei’s mind. She knew of Konoha’s chief interrogator, the man who could strip a prisoner bare of their mind and soul with nothing more than a chair, a spotlight, and silence.

Ao gave a dry, humorless chuckle, the sound harsh against the stillness. “Not that they were unwilling to give my clothes back when I walked out of there. Those were torn apart.” He paused, meeting her gaze, and said the word like a curse. “By Samehada.”

Mei’s mask slipped. It was brief, a flicker of shock in the set of her mouth, but Ao caught it all the same. “What?” she said, sharper than she intended.

And then it was as if something inside him caved. He moved to the chair closest to him and sank into it, the movement slow, heavy. The Ao who had barked orders moments ago, who had saluted with iron stiffness, was gone. In his place was a man who looked like he had crawled out of a grave.

“Lady Mei,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges. “I come with a message.”

Her blood turned cold.

Ao leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands interlaced tightly as if to keep them from shaking. “From the Hokage,” he said. The word dropped like a stone in water, sending ripples of implications through Mei’s mind. The Hokage? Not Kisame? What game is Konoha playing?

Ao didn’t wait for her to ask. “They have a proposition,” he continued, his eye heavy with meaning. “And…” He hesitated, just for a heartbeat, before meeting her gaze head-on. “Him. The Monster. The new wielder of Samehada. The one who killed Kisame's and Zabuza's new boss. He’ll be here in two days for the answer.”

Time stopped.

Mei stood perfectly still, her face betraying nothing, but inside, her thoughts screamed.

"What is the offer, Ao?"

— — — 

Konoha 

Hana Inuzuka wanted to scream, but her lungs were too busy dragging in air to fuel the hellish torture disguised as "training." Instead, she cussed silently, a stream of profanity that scorched through her mind, aimed with pinpoint malice at the Hokage, fate, and whatever cosmic prankster had decided her life was worth screwing over.

“Fucking Hokage with his ‘unity in strength’ bullshit. Fucking genius idea, dragging me out here to do this crap when I should be up to my elbows in an injured ninken’s guts. And fucking Maito Gai—fuck that man sideways and upside down for being so fucking… Gai.”

The so-called "unity initiative" had been the Hokage's brainchild, a reform intended to bring every chunin in the corps together, regardless of their assignments. Twice a semester, every last one of them—from frontline fighters to veterinary specialists like herself—was ordered to endure three days of rigorous training exercises. The goal, apparently, was to remind the non-combat types that they were still shinobi and ensure that combat-ready nin didn’t lose their edge. In theory, it sounded noble—effective, even.

In practice? She hated it. Who thought it was a good idea to lump combat-focused chunin in with people like her, who wanted nothing more than to stitch up injured nin-dogs? Well she knew — the Hokage — their military dictator — had also thought it a good idea to put Maito Gai had in charge of this exercise, a decision Hana was certain had been made solely to punish her for existing. She wasn’t just a vet—she was the bestdamn vet in Konoha. And now, instead of stitching up wounded ninken, she was lifting a fucking boulder because someone thought it would make her "youthful spirit burn brighter."

The boulder wobbled above her head as her arms trembled. She gritted her teeth, sweat pouring down her face as she forced herself to stabilize the stupid rock. Her legs were solid and rooted, her thighs thick and powerful beneath the clingy fabric of her shorts. She adjusted her grip, her muscles flexing, the cords of her forearms visible even through the dirt streaks. The taut expanse of her abs, glistening with sweat, rippled with every breath as her core tightened to maintain balance. The sports bra she wore hugged her full breasts tightly, the soaked material clinging to her like a second skin as her chest rose and fell with effort.

Her ass, though—well, her ass deserved its own poem. Her shorts barely contained it, every squat and lift making it pop in ways that could make statues weep. She knew damn well she looked like a warrior goddess out here, but she didn’t give a shit about that right now.

She cared about surviving this nightmare.

Next to her, poor Iruka Umino looked like he was about to meet his maker. His smaller boulder was barely above his head, his arms visibly shaking as his sweat-soaked hair clung to his forehead. His knees wobbled dangerously, and his face was the color of a ripe tomato.

“Oi, Iruka!” Hana barked between breaths, her voice sharp enough to snap him out of his impending collapse. “Don’t you fucking drop that rock! You hear me? If I have to suffer, so do you.”

Iruka made a pitiful wheeze that might have been a sob, but he pushed the boulder higher, his legs shaking like wet paper. Hana grunted, more annoyed than concerned. She wasn’t about to let him fold. Gai would turn their failure into some philosophical “Lesson of Youthful Perseverance,” and she’d rather punch herself in the face than listen to another one of those.

With a guttural growl, she hoisted her boulder one last time, locking her arms overhead as the weight strained every fiber of her body. Her back arched slightly, the motion emphasizing the sinewy power running from her shoulders to her thighs. Her muscles quivered as she lowered the rock to the ground with a heavy thud, her breathing ragged as she finally straightened. She stretched her arms overhead, her entire torso flexing as she let out a short, triumphant laugh.

“Fuck you, rock,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair as sweat dripped down her neck and back. For a moment, she let herself savor the small victory, her chest heaving, her legs planted wide and solid like the battlefield warrior she didn’t want to be. Her body, slick with exertion, felt like it had been forged in fire.

And then, from somewhere above, a shadow moved.

She blinked and tried to look up. Maito Gai was standing on her goddamn head. Balanced perfectly on one foot. Arms crossed. Teeth practically sparkling. Like this was just a normal thing to do.

“YOSH!” he bellowed, his voice shaking the very air. “HANA INUZUKA! YOUR FLAMES OF YOUTH BURN BRIGHTER THAN A THOUSAND SUNS!”

She froze. Her brain scrambled to catch up to the sheer audacity of this man. “The fuck are you doing up there?” she barked, incredulous. “And why the hell are you looking at me? There’s like ninety-nine other idiots here!”

Gai grinned wider, somehow, if that was even possible. “BECAUSE YOU, HANA INUZUKA, ARE THE EPITOME OF YOUTHFUL ENERGY!” He leaped off the boulder, landing in front of her with a flourish so perfect it made her want to scream. “AND NOW—TEN MORE REPS!”

Her jaw dropped. “Ten. More?” Her voice was low, dangerous, full of venom.

“Yes!” Gai thrust a thumbs-up at her. “LET US TRANSCEND OUR LIMITS TOGETHER!”

She turned to Iruka, who looked like he was about to pass out. He mouthed, “Sorry,” and promptly collapsed onto his knees.

Hana glared at the boulder. Then at Gai. Then back at the boulder.

“Fuck this,” she muttered, gripping the rock again. “Fuck this, fuck you, and fuck the…” Hokage, she wanted to say, " Tsuchikage, yeah. Old fucker."

And then she lifted the damn thing again. Because somehow, this was her life.