The Secrets of Death [P]

There was a certain curiosity within him, even more so now that he had taken another person's life. It wasn't as if he desired more or wanted to repeat it as soon as possible, but being able to control how and when someone died left quite the impression on him. Even if it wasn't the case, Ashborn felt like he practically controlled life and death. Perhaps the true power of the Pact Eternal slowly started affecting the Yamaguchi, his necromancy powers beginning to seep through. He had done his fair share of experiments, pushing the boundaries more and more as time went on. In doing so, he was able to create a variant of techniques that allowed him to defy the laws of human nature.

The image of Hoshigakure, or at least what it stood for, couldn't be any more different from the way people would look at him. The village was pure, while corruption always followed Ashborn around. Wondering if he could use his darkness as a strength instead of a weakness, the Yamaguchi ended up at the Unseen University, the center of the City Blessed by the Stars. It was where he hoped to find some guidance, reassurance that despite his wicked ways or peculiar powers there was still hope that he could use them for the greater good. Ironic, thinking that evil could maybe save the day. Nevertheless, for now the emissary simply stood there, waiting for someone to show up and give him what he was looking for.

(WC: 252)

Ayato stood amid the hallowed silence of the Unseen University, his gaze drifting over the shelves burdened with ancient jutsu scrolls. The acquisition of the Edo Tensei technique had thrust him into a moral maelstrom. The very nature of the jutsu, binding the souls of the departed to serve the living, clashed violently with his principles. Such dark arts had once seemed beneath him, mere relics of a best-forgotten time.

Yet, as he pondered the technique’s implications, a novel idea began to take root in the depths of his mind. Perhaps this forbidden power could be redefined, spun into something noble. What if the departed were not bound as mere tools but as vessels for a higher purpose? The bodies of fallen traitors could serve as vessels for revered souls, turning a gruesome practice into a force for justice.

Lost in these thoughts, Ayato’s reverie was interrupted by the arrival of Ashborn, a fellow shinobi whose struggles mirrored his own. Ashborn hailed from the Yamaguchi clan, a lineage deeply entwined with the realm of the dead. Their heritage made him uniquely suited to grapple with the nuances of necromancy and the manipulation of life and death.

As Ashborn approached, Ayato felt a spark of recognition. The potential of their alliance was clear. Yamaguchi’s deep knowledge of the afterlife could shed light on the delicate craft of Edo Tensei. With a measured tone, Ayato addressed the young emissary, acknowledging the weight of their shared path and the complexity of their undertaking.

“Ashborn,” Ayato began, his voice a blend of dry humor and gravitas, “I must commend your clan’s talent for conversing with the dead. If we are to tread the treacherous path of Edo Tensei, your knowledge of the netherworld will be our guide. Perhaps together, we might turn this dark art from a grim folly into something of service to Hoshigakure without inviting too many restless souls to dinner.”

He extended his hand, a gesture of silent camaraderie and shared ambition. Ayato understood that their journey into these shadowed realms would be difficult, but with Ashborn’s rare talents at his side, they might navigate the darkness with a semblance of purpose and hope.

[WC: 341]

He did not need to wait too long as the highest authority of the village himself approached, perhaps a sign that even Ayato caught wind of the young necromancer's recent endeavors. Well, not that it came entirely as a surprise, after all, Ashborn did have  a couple of previous encounters with the Hogokage's siblings so it only made sense that Toneri and Natsuki kept their brother updated on certain matters. That and the worrisome connection between himself and his fellow Yamaguchi, Kharjo could be all the more reason for the Hyuuga to keep a close eye on the mystery that was the Undead.

As he was joined by the Hogokage, something that still felt surreal even though he could witness it with his own two eyes, Ashborn offered a polite bow before listening to what Ayato had to say. Paying close attention, attentively as one should be when in the presence of their Kage, the Yamaguchi prodigy made sure not to miss any words that were being said to him. Doing so, their conversation started and the two of them would touch on the subject of a technique called Edo Tensei as well as the part his own heritage could play in the connection to the world beyond the living.

It was interesting to say the least, to think there would come a day or time when the Yamaguchi's help was required. "Most spirits don't like to be used and would rather be left alone" the young emissary replied in his unique manner, a lack of emotion in his voice and almost as if on autopilot. However, that didn't make it any less true. Majority of them simply wanted to rest, no longer bound by an oath or promise that they had already since long fulfilled. Nevertheless, Ayato's words held truth as well. If they were able to find a way to respect the undead's wishes or perhaps even remove the odds of them possessing such feelings, then Hoshigakure would indeed have gained a formidable ally.

And so, as their conversation continued, it was time for the two of them to discuss how to proceed. "What can I do to make us succeed? I will use my abilities as well as those of my clan to hopefully guarantee our success". Accepting the Hogokage's hand, the young necromancer formed another pact, not with his ancestors but with the leader of their village.

(WC: 401, TWC: 653)

The Starfall Hall was dimly lit as Ayato and Ashborn Yamaguchi shook hands. The torches on the walls flickered, reluctant to fully reveal the scene. Shadows twisted on the cold stone floor, echoing the memories Ayato could never escape. Despite his tall stance, the weight of leadership was palpable as he released Ashborn’s hand.

Across from him, Ashborn Yamaguchi stood silent and still, his presence a living reminder of the rebellion nearly tearing the village in two. Ashborn was no longer the frightened boy Ayato had first seen dragged into Hoshigakure’s custody; a ward meant to keep the defeated rebels in line. He had grown into a man with sharp features and a calm demeanor, the fire of his lineage smoldering beneath a veneer of control. The blood of Lady Ootsu, one of the most dangerous supporters of Haegon Hoshimura’s rebellion, ran through his veins, and with it, the power that had marked him as a valuable tool—or a potential threat.

The silence between them was thick with unspoken history. Ayato’s mind drifted to his youth, fighting a brutal war that had shaped his life. After crushing the rebellion, the victors had taken precautions to quash any remaining sparks of insurrection. Ashborn had been one such precaution—a symbol of submission who had since become something more.

Ayato was aware of the council’s whispers—doubts about keeping remnants of their enemies close and trusting the kin of their foes. But Ayato had always seen further. He recognized Ashborn’s potential and the rare Kekkei Genkai in his bloodline.

Edo Tensei.

The forbidden jutsu weighed heavily on Ayato. Sealed away for its dark potential, it was a power he was prepared to confront. If it meant uncovering the truth about Yasha and finding the traitor who had betrayed the Nova Corps, he would use any means necessary, even those others feared.

The scroll containing Edo Tensei’s secrets had been kept sealed since a man in black delivered it, his cryptic words hinting at its dangers. With the traitor’s trail growing colder and Yasha’s memory haunting him, Ayato was ready to take the risk. He clenched the scroll case hidden in his robes, his decision firm. Ashborn was the key to unlocking Edo Tensei’s secrets and bringing the traitor to justice. Necessity, not trust, drove him.

Yet, a question lingered: Who would he raise from the dead if given the chance? The thought sent a shiver, a mix of fear and longing, down his spine. The idea of seeing his lost family again was both terrifying and tempting. But Ayato knew the dead should remain, and Edo Tensei’s power was for the greater good, not personal gain.

“Ashborn, within this scroll lies the dark and forbidden art of Edo Tensei—an ancient jutsu that calls forth the dead to serve in battle. I entrust you with this knowledge, for your bloodline bears the mark that may unlock its secrets. Yet, be wary, for this power is a double-edged sword, steeped in shadows and fraught with peril beyond imagining.”

The past was filled with restless ghosts, but Ayato was unafraid. He had faced the darkness for too long to fear it now. The truth would come to light, and Hoshigakure would see that its enemies had nowhere to hide. Even the dead could not escape the Hogokage’s justice.

[WC: 511]

Ashborn took the scroll from Ayato with careful hands, feeling the rough texture of the parchment against his own. The contrast between their hands was stark—Ayato’s were calloused and scarred from countless battles, a testament to a warrior’s life. Ashborn’s hands, more accustomed to the delicate art of necromancy, felt almost fragile by comparison. He had always kept his distance in battle, preferring to command the undead from afar rather than engage in the fray himself. Yet this scroll represented a new kind of power, one that promised to shift the balance of their struggles.

He unrolled the scroll on a nearby table, covered in maps and ancient texts. The dust that rose from the parchment was a good sign—it indicated that it had remained undisturbed for some time, its secrets waiting for the right moment. The writing was intricate, a tangle of symbols and spells unlike anything from the Yamaguchi archives. Though complex, it was decipherable with time and effort.

“I can decipher this, given time." Ashborn looked up at Ayato, his expression thoughtful and cautious. “But if I may say so, sir,” he began, his voice laced with apprehension, “this is a path from which there is no return. The dead rising from the ashes is a heavy burden to bear, and the price of wielding such power is not one to be taken lightly. The idea of summoning noble spirits, while alluring, comes with its own dark consequences. We must tread carefully, for the cost may be more than we are prepared to pay.”

He met Ayato’s gaze, a mix of respect and concern in his eyes. The journey they were considering was fraught with dangers and unknowns, and Ashborn knew that their choices would have far-reaching effects on their futures.

(WC: 294, TWC: 947)

Ayato stood in the dim glow of flickering torchlight. His face half-veiled in shadow, the weight of his decision pressing heavily upon him like the weight of the crown itself. The chamber was steeped in silence, broken only by the rustle of old parchment and the faint crackle of the torches. The air carried the scent of history—old, bitter, and filled with the whispers of long-dead strategists who had once faced impossible choices. In his hands, the scroll of Edo Tensei, an artifact of power as dark as it was tempting, seemed to pulse with the gravity of the moment. Its potential filled the room, and Ayato, once a man of sacred principles and unwavering morality, now stood at a precipice where right and wrong blurred beneath the weight of necessity.

His voice, somber and carefully measured, cut through the oppressive quiet. "Yasha’s death has cast us into a vortex of discord," he began, each word laden with sorrow and grim determination. "Blame shifts like shadows among the factions, slipping through fingers, elusive as smoke. Tojo Yomiyama points his accusing hand toward the Hoshimura in exile while others whisper of traitors festering within the Nova Corps, seeking refuge beneath the streets of our city. Even Konoha Root is mentioned in back-alley conversations—old ghosts, using their familiar methods of treachery to tighten the noose around our throats." He paused, the weight of suspicion falling heavily on every name he spoke, every shadow his words invoked.

For a moment, the room felt like it was holding its breath. Ayato let the silence settle, thick and suffocating, before continuing. "We have kept watch on every soul that enters Hoshigakure—whether they come as humble merchants with sacks of grain or disguised threats with darker intentions. If there is a mole in our midst, it is clear they do not walk among us like common thieves. They have slipped through by means far more insidious." His face darkened as he recalled the endless hours of scrutiny, the Public Security Investigations' ceaseless work, unraveling threads only to find more knots, more secrets buried in the rot of the city.

Akabayashi's absence hung over them like a specter, his departure leaving a void that could not quickly be filled. For all his ruthless machinations, Akabayashi had kept order and the wolves at bay, and now that he was gone, the streets felt darker and more dangerous. "We no longer have Akabayashi’s hand to guide our investigations, nor his shadow looming to strike fear into those who would move against us." Ayato’s tone grew harder, colder. "Without him, we are vulnerable—our Public Security is exposed, chasing phantoms without the sharp edge of his insight. And yet, this is not about bringing back the dead for sentiment’s sake."

He turned, his eyes fixing Ashborn sharply, his voice resolute and unyielding. "This is about justice. Yasha’s death, the deaths of our comrades in the Nova Corps—these are not mere accidents. Someone betrayed us, Ashborn, and that betrayal runs deep. We are being outmaneuvered by an enemy that knows us intimately, perhaps because they stand among us." His gaze bore into Ashborn as if willing him to understand the enormity of the task ahead, the ruthlessness required to uncover the truth.

"And if the dead can help us unearth that truth," Ayato continued, his voice darkening with a steely resolve, "then so be it. I will use every tool at my disposal, even if that means turning to the forbidden arts—if that means calling upon the souls of the dead to deliver the living from ruin." His fingers tightened around the scroll, the symbolic weight of his choice settling heavily upon his shoulders. The thought of Edo Tensei lingered like a dark temptation—its cost measured in blood, in the souls of the fallen, perhaps even in his own.

There was a rare flicker of vulnerability as he softened his tone, momentarily breaking through the iron-clad resolve. His eyes, searching for something—understanding, perhaps, or absolution—met Ashborn's. "The cost will be steep," he murmured, his voice quieter now, laden with the weight of what he was about to undertake. "Perhaps even a living sacrifice. It is a cruel irony that the bodies of those who betrayed us might be the very tools to summon the ones who would defend us." He exhaled as if trying to steady himself against the burden he now carried.

He lingered, awaiting Ashborn’s response but also dreading it, knowing that once the decision was made, there would be no turning back from the darkness he had chosen to embrace. The torchlight flickered in his eyes, and the shadows danced, mocking him for the path he had set upon.

[WC: 780]

Ashborn stood across from Ayato, his face impassive in the flickering torchlight, though the gravity of the situation weighed heavily on his mind. The chamber felt stifling, thick with unspoken dread and the scent of burning oils. The scroll in Ashborn's hand was more than parchment—it was a thing of power, dark and forbidden. It was a relic from an age where the lines between life and death were crossed without hesitation, a time when ends justified means, no matter the horrors left behind. The very sight of it sent a chill through Ashborn despite the warmth of the flames.

Ayato’s words had hung in the air like a bell tolling doom, each sentence pressing upon Ashborn with the weight of inevitability. Edo Tensei. He had heard of it whispered in the hidden corners of the shinobi world, a technique that twisted nature itself, bending the dead to the will of the living. A forbidden art, spoken of with awe and dread. To bring it to life again was not just a dangerous gambit—it was a choice that would leave its mark on everything it touched, including those who wielded it.

For a moment, Ashborn studied Ayato in the dim light, searching for any flicker of hesitation. But the leader's face, once bound by honor and principle, now bore the lines of hard decisions. His gaze held no uncertainty, only the cold steel of resolve. Yasha’s death had shattered the fragile peace, and now Ayato was determined to outmaneuver his adversaries, even if it meant embracing the shadows. Ashborn could see it clearly—this was no longer simply about justice. It was about defeating the enemy at their own game, seizing back control, and bending the darkness to his will. The scroll was Ayato’s final gambit, a desperate move to turn the tide and seize victory in the ruthless game of thrones within the Heraldry Gates.

Ashborn’s mind turned, the quiet dread of the situation settling over him like a shadow. He knew well the temptation Ayato faced. Hoshigakure was unraveling from within—factions growing restless, enemies seizing opportunities, and whispers of betrayal carried on the wind. Without Akabayashi's presence to hold the darker forces at bay, the city had become a cauldron of secrets and schemes, ready to boil over. And Yasha’s death, still fresh and unresolved, had cast suspicion in every direction.

Edo Tensei could change all of that. The dead held answers, and in times of desperation, those answers could mean survival. Ashborn had long lived with the uneasy knowledge that those who dealt in death never truly walked away unscathed. The dead always demanded something in return. The cost was never only what was asked of the living—it was more profound, more insidious. The kind of cost Ayato, in his desperation, might not yet fully comprehend.

Finally, Ashborn spoke, his voice careful, each word chosen with the precision of a man who had walked this line many times before. “I do not presume to speak out of turn, Lord Ayato. You’ve won a war that few believed could be won, and you did it with the vulture at your side. For all his faults, and there were many, Akabayashi’s cunning was undeniable. He was a liar and a loathsome man, yes, but no one ever questioned his resourcefulness. He saw paths others would never dare consider. Perhaps that is what it takes to survive such times.”

He paused, his voice softening, turning more introspective. “But as much as Akabayashi played his role, these matters now—dark as they are—fall into the realm I know all too well. I am not speaking as one who sees through mere instinct or rumor. These truths I offer come from the nature of my bloodline, the Pact Eternal. It is not just the dead who are tied to me—their weight, their judgment. Even if my family had never fought for the pretender, I would still be burdened by scrutiny and suspicion. The life of a ninja necromancer is a lonely one, Ayato-sama. People fear what they do not understand, and they always will." He let the weight of those words sink in before continuing, his tone hardening, the pain of old memories flashing in his eyes. "You know the cost of wielding power, but wielding death… is a far heavier blade."

His words lingered, heavy with caution, yet Ashborn knew they would do little to sway Ayato from the path he had chosen. In the end, perhaps it wasn’t convincing him, but instead, to make him fully aware of the shadows he was about to unleash.

(WC: 763, TWC: 1710)

Ayato’s gaze lingered on the unrolled scroll, its dark symbols twisting like the whispers of ancient ghosts in the wavering torchlight. The weight of centuries seemed to cling to it, an artifact that had seen darker days than any man in the room could imagine. Yet here it lay before them, a grim offering to a future as uncertain as it was perilous. Steeled by years of hard choices, his eyes flicked to Ashborn, their cold resolve betraying the weariness beneath.

“This,” Ayato began, voice low but carrying the weight of a man teetering on the edge of light and shadow, “is the cost of survival. For Hoshigakure’s sake, I would cast aside honor a hundred times. Honor is a luxury for those not standing on the brink of ruin. For men like us, fighting to hold on to what little we’ve built, the question is not whether we will dirty our hands—but how deep the stain will go.”

He moved closer to the table, the light catching his face in stark relief, casting deep shadows that merged with the forbidden symbols on the scroll. The relic sat there, a testament to choices that stripped away the veneer of righteousness in favor of raw necessity. “Our enemies," Ayato continued, voice thick with disdain, "do not concern themselves with honor or fairness. They skulk in the dark, dealing in treachery and whispering lies. They are not bound by the principles we once held dear, and if we cling to those same principles, we are already defeated."

He looked up at Ashborn again, and his expression hardened into something impenetrable, a mask of determination born from endless struggle. "This scroll," he gestured toward it, the flicker of torchlight catching on the edge of the parchment, "is our answer to that. Our ace in a game where every piece is already weighted against us. It’s not just a weapon—it’s a promise. A promise that we will do whatever it takes and that no measure is too extreme when the survival of our people is at stake. Mercy is a kindness our enemies would never extend to us. Should we grant it to them, knowing full well, they would slit our throats in return?”

He let the question hang in the air, his tone growing colder with each word. “No. We will meet them in the dark and be darker still. If the path to securing Hoshigakure means embracing the shadow, we will walk it together. This scroll is just the beginning. The world has forgotten that there are worse things than men without honor. It’s time we remind them.”

[WC: 436]

Ashborn stood in silence, his gaze shifting from Ayato to the ancient scroll sprawled across the table. The flickering torchlight danced over his face, but the shadows could not mask the grudging respect that had grown in his eyes. He had once seen Toneri in this very room—a boy who wore the mask of a warrior but had never truly understood the weight of that mantle. Ayato, however, was different. There was no pretending in him, no hesitation. His brother had grown into a man of unyielding resolve, hardened by the burdens he carried.

Ashborn’s eyes drifted back to the scroll, taking in the arcane symbols etched upon it. They pulsed with a dark energy, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, a slight nod betrayed his agreement.  He produced a small brush from his pouch and he knelt down, his movements deliberate and precise as he began tracing intricate symbols onto the cold stone floor. His hand moved with the same focus and determination that Ayato had shown—symbols that mirrored those in the scroll, ancient and complex, weaving a pattern of power that resonated through the room.

When he was finished, Ashborn rose, his gaze fixed on the ritual he had just inscribed. He stepped back and looked at Ayato, his voice quiet but firm. "When you are ready, Lord Ayato," he said, his tone devoid of doubt. "We shall begin now and see if it works."

The challenge lingered in the air, but so did something else—an understanding. Ashborn knew the risks, the consequences of delving into such forbidden power. But looking at Ayato, he saw not just a leader, but a man prepared to face the abyss head-on. And in that moment, he knew—this was no longer a game of survival. It was war, and they would both do whatever it took to win.

(WC: 305, TWC: 2015)

Ayato’s hand moved with practiced precision as he retrieved two items from his cloak, placing them on the table with deliberate calm, betraying none of the moment's weight. The first was a vial of dark, foreboding blood, which he set down grimly. “Operation Night Meeting,” he said, his voice cold and final. “This blood belongs to one who lived and died by the sword, falling against us. Now, it has become a part of our plan. May it serve a greater purpose in death than in life."

He then revealed the second item: a scroll marked “Frankenstein” across the top. Unfurling it, Ayato’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction and resolve. “This scroll is bound to a sedated ninja—one of those who pushed their twisted agenda. Akaboshi’s division captured them, and your Tokubetsu Jounin colleagues carried out their duties precisely. They stopped this Stein imitator before more damage could be done. Now, we will see them meet their end in a manner befitting their misguided reverence.”

Ayato’s gaze shifted to Ashborn, who watched in silent detachment. “I had prepared for this the moment you entered the room,” he said, his tone steady.

Placing the vial on one side and activating the scroll on the other, Ayato prepared for the next step. As his chakra flowed, the vial of blood began to pulse with an eerie light before erupting in an explosion of crimson shards and dark energy. Embers and dark mist engulfed the sedated ninja’s body, swirling in a cloud of ash.

Already steeped in shadows, the room plunged into a deeper darkness as the energy burst forth. Torchlight flickered erratically, then snuffed out, leaving only the faint glow of residual energy around the now-quiet symbols. As the air settled and the last tendrils of the ritual dissipated, a figure emerged from where the ninja’s body had lain—a towering, imposing figure, a head taller than Ayato.

Muscular and menacing, the summoned ninja exuded raw power. His wild blonde hair and fierce red eyes, glowing like molten embers, scanned the room with predatory intent. His gaze finally rested on Ayato, filled with dark disdain as if silently weighing him and the forces at play.

Ayato observed the transformation with grim satisfaction. His voice was calm yet acknowledging the gravity of what had been done. “It seems our ceremony has proven to be more formidable than anticipated,” he remarked, the ritual's success marking both potential and peril in the air. “From what I remember, he had a commanding presence, but nothing that could snuff out the lights like this.”

[WC: 405]