Chương 91

I was stunned into inaction. I couldn't believe that someone could kill Daiken. He had seemed like such a stable part of my life that I thought he would always be there. I'd spent three years in this world and I'd already lost someone I cared about. I didn't feel sadness, just disbelief and a general sense of numbness. I looked at Takemaru, collapsed on the ground, weeping while his son held him and wept too.

I knew Genta hadn't always liked how much pressure Daiken put on him, but deep down he knew it was for his own good. Now he was the last male in the Senju compound who wasn't over sixty. Their small clan was basically done for. So he cried not only for Daiken, but for the fate of their line, which seemed destined to disappear. After standing frozen for what felt like an eternity, I finally moved. I patted Genta's back, trying to summon some comfort from my frozen chest but nothing came.

Genta seemed to appreciate the attempt anyway and calmed a little. His father was in terrible shape, so Genta and I helped him stand and moved him with great effort since he didn't want to move at all. We laid him on his bed to rest. He kept weeping, mumbling words no one could understand. I looked at him, then at Genta.

"Genta." Genta, still pale and barely holding back his tears while seeing his father like this, stared at me with an empty look.

"You need to be strong for your father. Let him grieve, yes, but make sure he drinks and eats at least a little. Sit with him when you can." I looked down at my chest, hoping I'd find something warm there, but there was nothing. Everything was just frozen.

"If you want, I can stay with you for the next couple of days and help." Genta couldn't hold it anymore. He grabbed my hand and held it tight, crying so hard his words came out mixed with sobs.

"Thank you, Noa. You're a true friend." I didn't catch every word but I felt the weight he put into that grip. For almost two days I stayed in the house, helping Genta clean, cook, and take care of Takemaru who slowly pulled himself together, switching between sadness, anger, and resignation at the reality they were facing. Since he was the one handling Senju matters in Tsunade's absence, he finally forced himself to stand straight again.

He began visiting the few houses still occupied in the clan compound, all of them home to elderly members clinging to what remained of the Senju name. He delivered the bad news himself. They'd tried to visit him these last two days, worried when they hadn't seen him, but he'd been in no condition to see anyone. We told them he was too sick to risk them catching it, especially at their age, and they understood, though some were stubborn about it.

Now that he was delivering the news, he did it as gently as possible, breaking it to them in small pieces because some of them couldn't handle a direct blow like that. The funeral was held two days later, near the Memorial Stone. Takemaru insisted on doing it properly, even though I could see how much effort it took for him just to stand.

He spent every spare moment making sure the elders were ready, the rites were done right, and Daiken's name would be carved alongside the old heroes instead of forgotten in some half-empty hall. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The sun was out but it didn't feel warm. The village was quiet here, just the faint rustle of the trees as a few ANBU stood watch on the rooftops.

Some old shinobi I had never seen showed up, their faces lined with the same exhaustion that marks any shinobi who lives long enough to bury too many friends. Hiruzen stood at the front, pipe unlit for once, his robes draped heavy on his shoulders like they weighed twice what they did yesterday. Takemaru stood with Genta beside him. Genta looked like he had aged a year in just these two days. His eyes were dry but I could tell he wasn't really seeing any of this.

He was somewhere else, stuck replaying memories behind his eyelids, Daiken shouting at him in the training yard, maybe, or lecturing him about footwork until sunset. I kept my distance, standing behind a couple of older villagers, because I didn't trust what would come out of my mouth if someone asked me how I felt. I don't think anyone did. No one asked questions at funerals like this. Hiruzen stepped forward, his pipe tucked away.

He looked at the small gathering, the worn ground beneath their feet, scarred by so many funerals in so few years, and the fresh stone waiting for Daiken's name. His voice was tired but carried far enough for everyone to hear.

"Today we stand here to honor Senju Daiken. He was many things to this village. A son of the Senju, a teacher to the next generation, a shield when we needed it most. He fought for this village when war threatened to break it apart. He helped rebuild it when the fires died down. He gave us his strength when we had none to spare." He paused, glancing at Takemaru and Genta, then swept his eyes across the small crowd. It felt like he was looking for every ghost whose name was already carved into that stone.

"Daiken was not a man who wanted praise. He would have hated to hear flowery words about sacrifice. He believed in the duty we all share. Protect those who cannot protect themselves. Stand when others fall. Give your life if you must, so that others can keep theirs." His eyes narrowed just slightly, searching the edges of the clearing as if he could see every pair of eyes hiding in the shadows. When he spoke again, his tone hardened.

"We carve his name here so no one forgets what it costs to keep this village standing. We carve it to remind ourselves that loyalty must be honored, and that betrayal will never be forgiven." He lowered his head, letting his words settle. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind passing over the stone.

"May the Will of Fire guide him home." Someone passed around a tray with incense sticks. I took one and held it between my fingers for a while. My hands didn't shake. I almost wished they would. At least that would have been something. When it was my turn, I stepped forward, planted the stick in the sand, and bowed my head. It didn't feel like enough. It never does. Takemaru's shoulders hunched as he watched the smoke rise.

The few old Senju elders who were left murmured prayers under their breath, voices thin like paper. Genta finally turned to look at me when it was over. He tried to project anything but sadness, but it didn't work. I gave him a small nod. It felt like all I had. I lingered after most people drifted off. The ANBU disappeared as silently as they had arrived. Hiruzen gave Takemaru a short squeeze on the shoulder before leaving without saying much else. He carried himself like the years were catching up all at once.

I waited until the courtyard around the Memorial Stone was empty. I stood there with my hands shoved in my pockets, staring at the fresh carving of Daiken's name among the long list of the dead. It didn't make sense that his name fit there so neatly, like he was just another line on a stone when he had been so much more than that. I thought about the lectures, the scoldings, the times he would bark at me to hold my stance until my legs went numb. He had looked unshakeable then. Unkillable. I let out a breath.

Nothing came out of me except that same cold hollow that had settled there since the news hit. Maybe that was fine. Maybe that was how it was supposed to feel for people like me. I left the incense burning. It didn't matter what I said or didn't say. Dead men hear no tales.