The Sun and the Stars (IO | NK)

Toran’s eyes read Ayato when his knee felt the rattled strike of Ayato’s own. He felt the pulsating pain of what would definitely become a bruise later on down the line. But it wasn’t anything he wasn’t use to. Toran’s eyes continued to slowly read Ayato’s movements, becoming far more accustomed to how he moved. Hints of grace peppered Ayato’s form. It was flashy, and certainly effective. Yet Toran wasn’t one to let up once he had sent out a single strike, fights were far more about continuous actions rather than a simple back and forth. The moment Ayto had begun to speak, the left side of Toran’s body shifted, his left foot stepped forward, bracing the rest of Toran’s body in that single motion right as he would lower his stance. His left fist rocketed forwards towards the center of Ayato’s body. His fist would slam into Ayato’s gut, interrupting his comment about jabs and a good knockout blow.

It’s better to stay silent in an exchange of blows, you can easily reflect on what you did right or wrong after the fact. If you weren’t dead by the end of it. He could at least understand that in front of the Kage before him. Yet it left slightly open to attack, as Toran would feel Ayato’s hand slam into his chin. He felt the soreness of his jaw at first, along with the blood rushing towards it. His vision was slightly impaired, yet the pain in his jaw only soared upwards. He hadn’t been struck with something like that before, if ever. A pain he’d remember as a byproduct of their sparring session. Toran would back up a few meters, opening the distance between himself and his kage by 5 meters. Yet it made him remember, or at least, made him want to ask Ayato now that he had his kage's attention. He wanted to ask him so many things, maybe too much for a young genin to ask. His body posture changed, no longer fully ready for combat, instead, his arms rested by their sides, with a small droplet of blood sliding from the right corner of his mouth. Yet, in an instant, Toran’s eyes glowed a brilliant red, right as his eyes morphed from the three tomoe, directly into the 6 curved tendrils that was his Mangekyo sharingan. He could feel the burning sensation around his eyes and cheeks. Yet he wanted to ask Ayato this simple question.

“Are these eyes cursed?”

He stared down his kage, wanting an answer as to why these eyes seemed cursed. It was the only moment he had. Hikari had called them cursed, his own father had called them cursed eyes. These eyes were painful to use, and they only made his vision worsen as time went on. Yet he wanted an answer before they could conclude this meeting.

WC:483
TWC:2713

Toran surged forward, closing the distance with raw determination. As Ayato began to speak, the Uchiha planted his left foot firmly, driving a powerful punch into Ayato’s gut. The impact was solid, sending a jolt of pain through Ayato’s core and forcing a sharp exhale.

Though the punch landed true, it also put Toran directly in the path of Ayato’s incoming strike. He stepped in without hesitation and practiced calm, delivering an upward strike with precise force. His knuckles connected with Toran’s chin, snapping his head back. Ayato felt the impact resonate through his hand, bone meeting bone in a brutal reminder of their clash. He stepped back smoothly, breath steady and eyes unwavering.

The shock of Toran’s strike still reverberated through Ayato—a reminder that even practice carried painful truths. Pain taught lessons no words could. Ayato steadied himself, meeting Toran’s gaze—eyes ablaze with the red fire of the Mangekyo Sharingan, tendrils of fate twisting within. Ayato had seen those eyes many times before, in allies and enemies alike, and he knew all too well the power they carried. Their sparring had shifted into something raw and heavy. Toran’s voice, weighted with need, cut through the tension.

“Are these eyes cursed?”

The words lingered, heavy as a blade poised to strike. Ayato drew a slow breath, tasting the copper tang on his tongue where Toran's earlier blow had forced his teeth to split the inside of his lip. He took one step forward, trimming down the five-meter gap like an old tree leaning into the wind. He let the silence settle first, heavy and meaningful, letting Toran’s question dig its roots.

“The question is old,” Ayato began his voice low and even, a stone tossed into deep waters. “Akaboshi asked the same of me once.” He let the name linger, a whisper of memory that stirred and scattered like leaves. “We trained here, on this same field—scarcely more than boys ourselves, though we fancied ourselves grown men. He bore that burden, those eyes that twisted at the edges of destiny.”

Ayato's gaze turned far away, but only for a heartbeat. His focus returned to Toran, sharp as a drawn blade. “Curse or gift—it’s all in how you carry the weight. There is pain, yes—a price exacted by power. Every wielder before you has paid it: loss, sacrifice, and victories that taste like ash.” He stepped closer, his words striking like tempered steel. “But cursed? That is for you to decide. Whether these eyes consume or guide you depends on the strength of your spirit.”

He allowed a pause, the wind breathing across the scarred training ground. “Our Nova Commander made his choice. So did I.” His voice softened, but not weakly—it softened like steel tempered in flame. “The power does not curse you. How you wield it defines whether its weight pulls you under or lifts you to greatness.”

Ayato held Toran’s gaze for a long moment, the world around them seeming to hold its breath, the murmurs of past battles in the wind and the earth beneath their feet. “The pain? It will always be yours, Toran. But so, too, is the strength. What you do next—that is your answer.”

[WC: 546]

Toran remembered when he was a boy playing in the snow. His hand had been bit from the cold like nips from a mosquito. During those times, he remembered how his father carried himself, full of poise, full of vigor for the next days to come. His mother alongside him during those times, a Jonin as well, the both of them carrying the heavy burden of being from a village that did not want them, and they didn’t want them either. Yet they had always wanted him, filling him with the joys of life as a small family could provide. He was given everything, he didn’t need to join this life, he could have lived comfortably. He remembered how his father had changed when his eye went missing. How he carried himself on that day when his eye went blind.

“What happened to you, father?” He asked. His small voice almost pricked his fathers ears when he heard it.

“Nothing, my son. I’m just. . . recovering is all. Your mother will be carrying on my duties while I remain here,” He spoke with such a heavy heart, it felt like he was walking on eggshells looking back. His father had tried to remain stoic, unable to bear the news to his young son of what had occurred to him while he was out on a mission. He remembered how his fathers body had been damaged, clean white gauze stained with hints of his fathers blood, yet he was none the wiser. Instead, he could only remember now what it was, he had figured it out long ago when he acquired these eyes. Yet he could only linger with the feeling for a moment longer. He could feel his chakra soaring throughout his body. Instead of the usual red, it was a dark crimson, threatening to take shape and form into the dreaded Susano’o. Yet there was a thought lingering in the back of his mind, that he had to control himself in this endeavor. He couldn’t allow himself to lose control.

Ayato’s words cut him out of his trance, the kage closed the 5 meter distance between them, just as Toran’s chakra slowly began to return back into his body. He felt like his whole body was on fire. His eyes formed red tears of blood from the slight activation of such a heavy burden. Yet he continued to hear Ayato explain to him about this question, how these eyes were cursed. How the Nova Captain felt that his eyes were cursed as well when he and Ayato were young. His gaze lingered on Ayato. It bordered between interest and hatred at what felt like being talked down to once again by someone who was his superior. His fists clenched. Heart beat racing, he registered Ayato’s words about ash, reminding him of the small child he burned away to those ashes just to receive an artifact from a museum.

“Yet why’d they have to die Ayato? Why did they all have to go?! Isemori, Hikari, and Hotaru, my own teammate, die on the village's watch?! Yet I can only stand around and do nothing?! I had to use these eyes to kill a child, a shinkou child! All for what? I’ve been used as bait and nothing more in my life. The moment I have something I can use to help the village, everyone tells me not too. The chance to have these eyes mean something, and the one chance I could have to make them eternal is snatched away from me. . .”

He could feel his emotions blasting up to the surface. His body shaking, breathing unsteady, only keeping pace by counting in his head. He felt his feet unbalanced inside of these training grounds. Ayato’s words were burned against the flames of his hatred for only himself. His words about what he would do with his strength made him grit his teeth and pure anger at the thought.

“Strength?! I don’t have any strength! I’m not strong enough to do anything, not to help with Isaribi’s execution besides acting as bait, not in avenging Hotaru’s death, not even being able to fight my teammates. I’ve had no one to tell me the strength of these eyes. I’ve only been told they are cursed. My own father lost one of his eyes to that curse. I wish I was born like you! Like all the others, because maybe then I would have been able to stop my own teammate from dying, maybe I could have stopped Isemori from disappearing after the invasion. Maybe I could have had the strength to not burn a five year old to ash because she stole a FUCKING. RELIC.”

He could feel the warmth of tears down his face. At letting it all out in front of the leader of this village. He felt like a child, he felt immature, yet it felt gratifying in a way that nothing else would. His eyes had returned back to the cool charcoal of before. His eyelids stained with small amounts of blood near the edges, all the while he stood there in anger at the situation at hand. His fists squeezed to the brink, as he felt the sharp sting of pain from digging into his palms, yet he only awaited Ayato's response. Even if he felt as though he wouldn’t have any.

WC:895
TWC:3608