The Secrets of Death [P]

Ashborn watched in silence, his gaze steely as the weight of Ayato's actions settled on the young Kage. He had warned Ayato of this long before the ritual commenced, cautioning that reviving the dead, especially in this manner, was not merely an act of power but a blade heavy with consequences. Yet Ayato, driven by the ghosts of fallen comrades and the weight of his grief, had pressed on. Now, Ashborn could see the struggle etched into Ayato’s face, a realization dawning deeper than any blade’s cut.

Aizen stood there, a pale echo of her former self, stripped of warmth yet devoid of the cold she should have felt. Her movements were slow and deliberate as she raised her hands to her neck, almost incredulous to find her head still attached. Each motion seemed a tentative re connection to a reality she had nearly forgotten.

The tension between them was palpable. Ayato whispered words of reassurance, but they seemed swallowed by the void. The ghosts of past battles haunted Ayato’s eyes, the stark reminder that resurrecting Aizen had only restored the shell of the warrior he had known. Her head was reattached, yet her body appeared lost, searching for a sense of identity that had been irrevocably altered.

When Aizen’s eyes finally met Ayato’s, the flicker of confusion, recognition, and pain was almost unbearable. “Ayato-kun?” she whispered, her voice trembling as though emerging from a long, nightmarish dream. She had dreamed she was dead.

Ashborn felt no surprise, only a profound, resigned sorrow. He had witnessed this before—the hollow relief that came with resurrection, the fragile hope clinging to what had been irrevocably lost. I warned you, he thought, his eyes heavy with unspoken grief. I told you this was no path to salvation. You wield a blade far heavier than you understand, cutting deeper than you can fathom, my lord.

The ritual was more than an act of necromancy—it was a stark reminder that even the bravest souls could be twisted into something unrecognizable. Aizen’s relief, her desperate joy at seeing Ayato, was a cruel reflection of their harsh world. Ashborn’s heart hardened as he watched. This was the price of bringing the dead back—there was no true resurrection, only shadows bound to the will of the living.

“This summons appears to be lacking in memory, sire,” Ashborn muttered softly to Ayato. “If you wish, we can de-summon her.” He offered the Kage an out, waiting to see if he would take it.

(WC: 414, TWC: 4217)

Ayato stood before Ashborn, the weight of the moment pressing down upon him like a familiar but unwelcome cloak. He felt Ashborn’s silent judgment, the echoes of past warnings hanging heavy in the air. The ritual was complete, yet something deeper lay unresolved—an unspoken truth neither dared to acknowledge. Ashborn’s cold, piercing gaze remained unwavering, but Ayato glimpsed the flicker of concern in his eyes, a sentiment the man would never voice.

“I appreciate your concern, Ashborn,” Ayato said at last, his tone steady yet distant as a star beyond reach. “But it’s fine. We’ve come too far to turn back now.”

Ashborn had been right to caution him against the dangers of resurrecting the dead—of conjuring phantoms from where once there had been life. For summons were never whole; they were pale imitations, like ashes where a fire once blazed. And now, as he stood before Aizen Hatake, Ayato understood the truth of that lesson all too well.

Before him, the Aizen was no longer the fierce, unyielding warrior he once revered. She was a shattered remnant, a mere echo of her former self. Her once-vibrant eyes wandered through the air, unfocused and searching, her body stiff with uncertainty. She appeared lost as if a part of her still clung to the darkness from which she had been pulled.

“Where... where am I?” Aizen’s voice trembled, teetering on the brink of panic. Her gaze locked onto Ayato, pleading, desperate for answers—something to anchor her to the present. “What became of me?”

Ayato hesitated the weight of the truth pressing down on him like lead. He took a measured breath, his gaze softening as he stepped closer. “You deserve to know,” he whispered, his voice gentle yet laden with unspoken burdens. He turned away briefly, collecting his thoughts before meeting her gaze again. The tale loomed in his mind, a narrative he wished to avoid but one that clamored for utterance.

“Nearly half a decade ago, during the Chuunin Exams, we hosted the last S-rank missing ninja in our village—despite your protests,” Ayato began, the words bitter on his tongue. “The night before we were to march on Axwell Florent, Kobiyashi warned us of his father’s betrayal—how Stein intended to seize the village while we were away, striking at our most vulnerable moment.”

Aizen blinked, confusion etching her features, yet she remained silent, awaiting his next words.

“We altered our course that very night,” he continued. “At the gates of Hoshigakure, we resolved to confront Stein. I considered calling off the attack—it felt too risky—but you…” He paused, her fierce resolve vivid in his mind. “You would hear none of it. ‘We tie up all loose ends with one stroke,’ you insisted. Always so confident of victory, never a shred of doubt.”

Aizen’s brow furrowed, her hands trembling as the fragments of the past slipped through her fingers like sand.

“Kenjiro Shirogane, Jakosaki Dosu, and you—three of our finest, the pride of the Nova Corps—led the vanguard to Fallhalt, intending to strike at the heart of our enemy, while the rest of us prepared to confront Stein. It was meant to be Kenjiro’s final mission as Lord Commander.”

At the mention of Kenjiro, a flicker of recognition sparked in Aizen’s eyes, only to fade, replaced by the emptiness of forgotten memories.

“We celebrated our victory over Stein. Akabayashi, Seto, and I were hailed as heroes across the village. Everyone expected to hear of your triumph over Florent and his Grimma—envisioning your victory, imagining his body lying next to the ragdoll, erasing two evils from this realm. But reality painted a far different picture.”

His tone shifted, growing heavier and more distant as if he were reliving a story told by those who had survived.

“I wasn’t there,” Ayato confessed, his gaze drifting into the past, haunted by memories he wished he could forget. “But I heard the reports.”

He could still picture the grim scene at the Forks of Daishin, where the river, once a symbol of hope, became a place of despair. “Axwell Florent laid the perfect ambush, weaving a web of false leads to lure us into his trap. The narrow, shallow crossing should have offered us an advantage, yet it became our graveyard.”

The weight of those lost weighed heavily on him. “Kenjiro Shirogane was among the first to fall. They found him crumpled on the blood-soaked ground, sword still gripped in his lifeless hand. He never got to pass the mantle of Lord Commander to Akaboshi.”

He paused, the memory of Kenjiro’s unwavering resolve echoing in his mind. “But you… you fought on, even with Kenjiro’s body at your feet, refusing to yield. That fire within you never wavered.”

Ayato’s voice softened as he recalled the chaos that had unfolded. “Jakosaki Dosu tried to rally what remained of our forces, but chaos reigned around us. They said he hacked his way through the enemy, shouting orders, trying to hold the line. In the end, though, he fled—vanishing into the smoke, abandoning the mission… and the village.”

His tone darkened as he continued, the weight of the memory bearing down on him.

“You nearly took Florent’s head that day, forcing him to flee for his miserable life,” Ayato said, his tone softening as his haunted eyes met hers. “But not before he sank his teeth into you, passing his curse—the affliction that made him a plague upon Hoshigakure." His gaze fell to the ground. "When you returned to us, you were… changed. In truth, I wonder if you ever truly returned. And the price you paid… it was far greater than any victory we could claim.”

Silence enveloped them, thick and suffocating, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. Aizen’s breath grew shallow, her body trembling as she grappled with the enormity of it all.

“And what… what became of me after?” she whispered, the words fragile, laced with fear.

Ayato hesitated, his throat tight with unspoken grief. Some truths were too raw, too jagged to speak. What had become of her after she returned, cursed and broken, was a wound he was not yet ready to reopen.

Instead, he stepped closer, his hand hovering just above her shoulder, a gesture of comfort he could not fully offer. “What matters is that you’re here now,” he said, his voice steady though his heart weighed heavy. “And whatever comes next, we will face it together. You were once the warrior who cut through the storm with skill and honor. But the world has shifted, Aizen. So have you. And so have I. I am no longer the boy I once was.”

Aizen’s gaze softened, touched by quiet despair as memories of her death, her resurrection, and the curse that had claimed her stirred like storm clouds on the horizon.

“You were never that boy,” she murmured, her voice heavy with the weight of their shared history.

Ayato nodded, the silence thick with everything left unsaid. They had faced death before, but now they stood before something far more daunting—a future neither could predict nor control. Bound by a past that haunted them both, they could only press forward.

But deep down, Ayato knew—what lay ahead might demand more of them than either was ready to give.

[WC: 1211]

Ashborn stood silently as the ritual concluded, watching Aizen emerge from the shadows of the past. The air crackled with unease, and though the summoning was far from unheard of in Hoshigakure, this particular one carried a weight most wouldn’t comprehend. It wasn’t exactly common knowledge, more whispered among the veterans and survivors—how the Nova Corps had lost nearly half its members in the bloody battle that followed Stein’s ill-fated attempt on Hoshigakure. That was then, and this... this was now.

Ashborn’s gaze lingered on Aizen as she steadied herself. The times had changed, and with a Nova Exam on the horizon, the village had moved forward, but the scars of that time still lingered, deep and jagged. Some wounds never healed from all the changes that had swept through Hoshigakure.

His thoughts shifted to Ayato, standing nearby, still reeling from Aizen’s resurrection. He couldn’t shake the words Aizen had spoken earlier: “You were never the boy you thought you were.”

It made sense in a way, Ashborn mused. People often reflected on their youth, joking about how wild or reckless they used to be and how much they had grown. But in truth, most weren’t that different. Time changed circumstances but didn’t always change a person's core. Ayato Hyuuga? He was never a reckless boy—not in Ashborn’s eyes, at least. He couldn’t imagine Ayato as anything but the focused, calculating man he had become. That quiet determination had always been there, even when he was young.

Ashborn’s eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Ayato now, a man who had carried the weight of command and sacrifice far longer than most. Perhaps that’s why Aizen’s words had struck so deep. She saw what he refused to acknowledge—the man standing before them had always been burdened by responsibility, even when he wore the mask of youth.

Ashborn's gaze lingered on Aizen, his expression unreadable, though his eyes held the weight of the question he had held back. He took a step closer, the air between them thick with unresolved tension.

"And what about you, Aizen-san?" he said quietly, the words slipping out like a challenge, "Who are you now?"

The question's simplicity belied the depth of what he was genuinely asking. He wasn’t asking for a title or a role she once played—he was asking what remained of her beneath the layers of memory, loss, and whatever darkness she had brought back with her.

(WC: 403, TWC: 4620)

Aizen turned sharply, finally realizing Ashborn stood before her. Her brow furrowed as she searched his face, memories flickering beyond reach. His features were familiar yet distant, like a face seen through a fogged mirror. Hope ignited in her eyes as her lips parted, but the words faltered—whispers lost in the wind.

"You… I should know you," she murmured, her voice thin and woven with confusion. It was a fragile acknowledgment of something long buried but not forgotten. A faint connection lingered between them, like an ember barely glowing, slipping away like sand through her fingers.

Ayato stood silently, sensing the weight of the unspoken question hanging in the air. Her eyes, once fierce and unyielding, had inspired courage in those who followed her into battle. Now, they shimmered with uncertainty, the fire within them flickering. She hesitated, her voice barely a whisper.

“I am… I was a Nova Corps member.”

The words struck him hard, twisting pride and sorrow into a tight knot in his chest. He had known her as a relentless warrior, a force of nature in an unforgiving world. But now, she stood before him changed. The Aizen he remembered had spoken with unshakable conviction; every word had declared her strength. Now, her voice trembled, revealing the cracks of their shared past.

Ayato’s thoughts drifted into a dream of what could have been—a world shaped by paths not taken. In his mind, the scene played out like a half-forgotten melody. On that fateful day, he saw himself standing firm as Aizen prepared to chase down Axwell Florent, vengeance burning in her eyes. But in this vision, he stopped her not with command but with a quiet plea. "Stay by my side," he would say, his voice steady though his heart trembled. And she would choose loyalty over vengeance, which would echo through the years.

In this imagined world, that single choice changed everything. Aizen did not leave that day, nor did war sever their fates. She remained unwavering, just as she had stood by Kenjiro Shirogane when he named Akaboshi his successor. She became Akaboshi’s trusted deputy, a pillar of strength—solid as stone, unshakable as the mountains. Together, they faced the horrors of the Fifth Great Ninja War, their blades cutting through darkness, their bond forged in battle fires. They fought not merely as comrades but as something deeper—steel and shadow bound by more than duty.

Yet, the vision did not end on the battlefield. In this life, they were more than warriors. He could see it clearly: a home far from blood and chaos. Children’s laughter filled the air, their tiny feet racing across a sunlit yard. He could almost hear Aizen’s soft laughter, her face no longer hardened by war but warmed by peace. Together, they would sit beneath a great tree, watching their children run free, the echoes of battle far behind them—a life where the only struggles were playful scuffles among their children.

But, like all dreams, the vision began to slip. Even as Ayato tried to hold onto it, the images unraveled like smoke on the wind. That home, those children, that future—none was real. It was a life forever beyond his grasp, tantalizingly close yet impossibly distant. The more he reached for it, the further it receded, leaving him with the bitter ache of what might have been. A house filled with laughter, a life untouched by war—he could see it so vividly, yet it was nothing more than a cruel illusion. A haunting reminder that their choices had reshaped them entirely.

Ayato was left with the cold truth: they were not destined for peace or a quiet life filled with children and sunlight. They were bound to war and duty, locked in an endless cycle of blood and sacrifice. He could dream of what might have been, but reality always pulled him back—estranged by their choices, bound by a fate neither could escape.

He took a step forward, his heart heavy with unsaid words. His eyes searched Aizen’s face, once so familiar, now slipping away before him. He swallowed hard, the moment hanging between them like a blade.

“I never got to say this to you in life,” he began softly, “But I will say it now. Serving with you—it was a true honor.”

For a brief moment, her expression softened. Ayato saw tears well in Aizen’s eyes, her lips trembling as a faint smile flickered to life. Her eyes, dim just moments before, now burned brightly once more—the fire of the woman he had fought beside flaring up one last time. In that instant, she was herself again—fierce, stubborn, alive.

But only for an instant.

The brightness faded as quickly as it had come. Ayato watched helplessly as the spark of Aizen’s consciousness slipped away. Her eyes dulled, the life extinguished, leaving only emptiness. The tears that had shimmered there dried on her cheeks. She was no longer the warrior, the comrade, the friend he had known—only a shell.

Regret flooded him as the truth settled in a doll. That was all she had become. A vessel reanimated without the soul that had defined her.

The resurrected doll that wore Aizen’s face took a step back, its movements mechanical and devoid of the grace that had once been her hallmark. The eyes that stared back were not hers—cold, hollow, empty.

“I have served,” the doll said, its voice flat and foreign, like a stranger speaking through a mask. “I will be of service.”

Ayato’s heart clenched. The woman he had honored, the warrior he had fought beside, was gone. All that remained was this hollow, lifeless echo.

[WC: 940]

Ashborn stood at a distance, watching as Aizen struggled to grasp the elusive threads of memory that slipped through her fingers like smoke. Her brow furrowed, and a dull ache filled his chest—not for her, but for what was fading away. Time was merciless, a relentless tide threatening to wash away the last vestiges of the woman he once knew. When she finally murmured, “I am… I was a Nova Corps member,” the words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of a long-buried history.

He contemplated what this revelation would mean for Ayato. Would it cut deep, this reminder of a shared past now fractured? The Hogokage, usually so focused and resolute, seemed momentarily lost, phased out of reality for what felt like an hour, though it might have been mere minutes. Each tick of the clock stretched into eternity as he witnessed the unraveling.

This emotional peril was more dangerous than any battlefield. War was a language Ayato understood well, but matters of the heart—those fragile threads of trust and loyalty—were less familiar territory. Even the most hardened warriors could not shield themselves from the fragility of love and loss. Ashborn knew that even Ayato Hyuuga harbored a heart, buried beneath layers of duty and stoicism.

As he watched Ayato take a step forward, Ashborn felt the air thicken with anticipation. “It was a true honor, serving alongside you,” Ayato declared, his voice soft yet firm. In that moment, Ashborn saw Aizen's reaction—her eyes, once filled with fierce resolve, flickered as if responding to a distant echo of who she had been. He could almost see the muscles in her face straining to remember, to connect. But just as quickly, that flicker extinguished, leaving behind the hollow gaze of a vessel bereft of life.

Ayato’s expression shifted, too. No longer did he see Aizen Hatake as a comrade in arms; she had become a mere tool for war, a lifeless instrument at the hands of fate. Ashborn felt a swell of regret. Aizen, the warrior, the leader, was fading into memory, and with her departure, something vital within Ayato dimmed as well.

Unable to bear the weight of the moment any longer, Ashborn dispelled the summoning. Half of his chakra had woven into that fragile connection, and he sensed that Ayato was too shaken to dispel it himself. But it no longer mattered. Ashborn did not want to know the depths of Ayato’s turmoil.

“Would that be all for today, sir?” he asked, his voice steady, yet it felt like a thin veil over a churning storm. This time, he did not wish for Ayato to take his exit, though it might have been better for the man’s sanity. Instead, he offered another path. “I have my own prize of battle we could use—a low-tier missing nin I captured while he attempted to infiltrate our village. Perhaps he might find greater honor in death than he ever did in life.”

As he spoke, he observed Ayato’s reaction, the flicker of interest sparking in his eyes. There was a darkness that enveloped them both, a shared understanding that life sometimes demanded sacrifices far graver than they had ever imagined. The world of shinobi was a cruel one, and in these moments, Ashborn felt the weight of his own choices pressing down upon him.

(WC: 555, TWC: 5175)

Ayato let the silence envelop him after the doll with Aizen's face vanished as if her dispelling had drawn all the air from the room. A stillness lingered in the aftermath, an emptiness that gnawed at him more than the fading echoes of her voice. For a moment, he heard nothing but the drumming of his heartbeat, the weight of what had transpired settling in like a cold stone lodged in his chest.

Then Ashborn’s voice sliced through the silence—a proposal for another vessel, another warrior to fill the void left by Aizen’s departure. The words hung in the air: practical and even necessary. Yet Ayato felt fatigue profound in his bones. The day had worn him down more than any battle. Ibari had been an irritation; a relic from the past came to mock him. On the other hand, Aizen had stirred melancholy within him—a reminder of loss, of what war takes and leaves behind. He had expected pain, but this melancholy was more complicated to shake, more insidious.

He glanced down at the black scroll beside him—plain, unadorned, without pattern or flourish. Its simplicity belied the gravity of its purpose. This was a last resort, a measure to be taken only if all else failed. And yet, here they were. The irony wasn’t lost on him: using the lowest tier of missing-nin to summon the strongest. It was a twisted mockery of fate, but fate had never been kind to shinobi.

Ayato placed the black scroll on the ground beside the ritual markings, its weight heavy in his hands. He brushed the worn edges of the parchment, tracing the boundary between what was and what might soon be. Doubt flickered in his mind, but the path lay before him.

Ashborn, ever dutiful, followed suit. With a silent nod, he laid down his scroll—a captured missing-nin, once inconsequential in life, now destined to serve a purpose far greater in death. Perhaps that was the closest thing to honor left for someone like him.

As the two scrolls settled, the ritual began again. This time, the air around them changed. It wasn’t the faint shimmer of energy that had accompanied Aizen’s resurrection nor the unsettling quiet that had marked Ibari’s return. No, this time, the power was palpable—almost violent. The room trembled as books were pulled from the shelves, pages flapping wildly like trapped birds. The floor beneath their feet groaned, and Ayato felt the stone cracking under the weight of the swirling chakra.

The energy surged, nearly pushing him and Ashborn back. Ayato braced himself, teeth clenched, as the storm raged around them. Then, from the heart of the vortex, a figure began to take shape—tall, imposing, with a presence that filled the room even before he fully materialized.

Draped in a tattered cloak, the man’s hair was a messy shock of grey, giving him the look of someone dragged from the grave—and in truth, he had been. His cloak was torn, and three ragged holes punched through the chest where Seto’s tendrils had pierced his heart. But Ayato noticed that the man’s skin had healed. The wounds in his body were gone, even if the marks on his clothing remained. His flesh had knitted itself back together while the cloak remained a ruin—a reminder of the battle that had claimed his life.

Stein of Konoha. The infamous rogue was once feared on the battlefield. Ayato remembered the day they had brought him down; his vacuum wave had connected cleanly with Stein’s skull. Yet now, looking at the resurrected man before him, there was no sign of that wound. His head was whole, untouched. Ayato wondered briefly if the vulture had done too good a job, scavenging flesh to the bone. But that didn’t matter now. The dead were no longer concerned with the scars of battle.

Stein of Konoha could not be kept from the shinobi world, even in death. He had been a force of nature in life, and now he had returned—his body, if not his soul, ready to be used again.

Ayato’s gaze narrowed, locking onto the hollow eyes staring back at him. There was no trace of Stein’s cunning or malice in that gaze—only the blank emptiness of a man stripped of everything that made him who he was. Yet even in this state, Ayato sensed the dormant power within the shell. Stein had been a warrior of unparalleled strength. Now, he was merely a weapon waiting to be wielded.

For a brief moment, Ayato questioned whether this was the right path—if this was indeed what their world had come to: resurrecting the dead, stripping them of their identities, memories, and souls to use them in another war. But he quickly pushed the thought aside. There was no room for sentimentality here. They needed every advantage they could muster.

“Stein,” Ayato whispered, testing the name, feeling its weight in the air. The man before him did not respond meaningfully. He was a husk, a tool—just as Aizen had been, as Ibari had been before her.

“Is this how it’s going to be?” Ayato asked, almost to himself. He wasn’t expecting an answer, not from Ashborn, not from anyone. The question was meant for the silence between the living and the dead, which grew louder daily.

Ayato stood before the man who had once been Stein of Konoha, the weight of their choices pressing down on him. The ritual, the endless resurrections—forcing life upon these fallen warriors—was not the work of men at peace. It was the burden of those bound to grim necessity. Yet, as the cold reality settled around him, Ayato did not succumb to despair. There was no room for weakness here, not now. Their world demanded strength and decisions that weighed heavily on the soul. If this was the price of survival, so be it. He would bear it, not with resignation but with a resolve sharpened by all he had endured. He had chosen this path and would carry it forward, no matter the cost.

Before him, the creature stirred, summoned once more from death's grasp. Stein’s body, now just a vessel stripped of memory and will, lowered its gaze to its hands. For a moment, a flicker of recognition seemed to cross its hollow eyes—like a newborn seeing its flesh for the first time. The fingers flexed, muscles tensing as if testing their strength. The creature turned its hands slowly, palms up and down, studying them with an eerie curiosity.

Ayato watched, silent and still, noting the subtlety of the creature’s reaction. This was not Stein. The man he had known had been ruthless and calculating—a predator in every sense. But this being was an echo, a hollow shell trying to understand its resurrection. Its eyes lifted from its hands to meet Ayato’s gaze, devoid of malice or recognition, filled instead with a quiet, unspoken question—one Ayato could not answer and perhaps one the creature itself would never truly understand.


[WC: 1168]

Ashborn stood a few paces back, his sharp eyes tracking every subtle movement as Stein examined his hands. There was an unsettling quality to this resurrection that set it apart from the others. The energy swirling around Stein was different—heavier, darker, more alive. It pulsed with a quiet menace, filling the room with an oppressive weight that made the air feel thick. Unlike Aizen or Ibari, this creature had not returned with the hollow, mechanical emptiness of a mere puppet. There was a lingering vitality in Stein, something coiled beneath the surface, waiting to strike.

Ashborn felt the hairs on his neck prickle as he regarded the figure before them. Stein’s gaze was unsettling—detached yet intensely aware as if he were piecing together fragments of a life he barely remembered. The way his fingers flexed and curled, testing the strength of his newly formed body, gave Ashborn pause. This was no ordinary vessel. Whatever life had been forced back into Stein’s flesh carried a sense of danger.

He glanced at Ayato, noting the Hogokage’s stoic expression, before returning to the reanimated figure. Stein remained silent, his eyes still fixed on his hands, fascinated by the sensation of being alive once more. Ashborn narrowed his eyes; he had no patience for games, not now, not with so much at stake.

“The Hogokage asked something of you, Ragdoll,” Ashborn’s voice sliced through the silence, sharp and commanding. “This is not the time to play the strong, silent type.”

His words hung in the air like a challenge wrapped in ice. Stein’s reaction was slow, as if the command had to traverse layers of thought before it reached him. He tilted his head slightly, pale eyes lifting from his hands to meet Ashborn’s gaze. There was no hostility in that look, but neither was there submission. It was something in between—detached, calculating, like a beast weighing whether or not to heed its master’s call.

Ashborn tensed inwardly. The aura surrounding Stein was nothing like that of Aizen or Ibari. Those two had been mere shadows of their former selves—tools, pale reflections. But Stein… His presence was formidable as if a part of him had clawed its way back from the void. There was almost tangible power here, hanging in the air like a thick fog. Ashborn could sense it, and he knew Ayato felt it, too.

Whatever this was, it was no ordinary resurrection. Stein had returned, but not as a mindless doll. Something else had come back with him.

(WC: 417 | TWC: 5592)

Ayato watched as Stein’s gaze shifted to Ashborn, a flicker of recognition igniting the hollowness in his eyes. “Ah, Yamaguchi scion. That explains a lot,” he remarked, his voice rich with a strange blend of acknowledgment and intrigue. Stein understood they were employing the resurrection technique—a testament to Ashborn’s considerable skill. “Without the finesse of an expert, even someone of your noble stature would have struggled to bring me back,” he continued, his tone sharp yet respectful.

“Do not underestimate the presence of a Yamaguchi; your bloodline exceeds what many can achieve.” A hint of a smile crossed his lips as he added, “You carry your grandmother’s look, as well as that of her mother before her. I knew the Old Ootsu back in the day—though she was hardly old then, if memory serves.” For a brief moment, nostalgia washed over him, momentarily stripping away the coldness of his current state and revealing a glimpse of the man he once was.

Stein’s hollow gaze met Ayato’s, a spark of awareness flickering within. “Obsession is a dangerous thing, Lord Hogokage,” he said, his voice smooth yet echoing with remnants of his former self. “I recognize it at first glance. If you wish to know why I betrayed you that day, there isn’t much to say. You’ve heard the tale of the scorpion and the frog.”

With a resigned sigh, Ayato nodded, recalling the familiar fable: a scorpion asks a frog for a ride across a river. The frog hesitates, wary of the scorpion's nature, but the scorpion promises not to sting. Yet, halfway across, the scorpion does sting, dooming them both. “Why?” the dying frog gasps. “It’s in my nature,” replies the scorpion.

Stein continued as the story lingered in the air, his voice now heavy with gravity. “To come this far, I understand the stakes are serious. Whatever threatens you may be more dangerous than I hoped to be, and I am willing to assist with what remains of my personality. But I want—”

Ayato cut him off, and his voice was as sharp as a drawn blade. “You were an S-rank missing-nin, a shinobi of the highest order. You understand leverage. You have none here. I once sought to bind you in golden fetters, and you slipped away. I will not pretend this will be enough to hold you now.”

Stein smiled knowingly. “Might be so, but I do not seek salvation for myself. It is for my daughter, Kitiara. The perfect being I sought for so long did not arise from genetics or experiments but from the gift of life itself. My soul was free the moment I laid eyes on her. Please, protect her. My enemies might come for her.”

Stein’s words hung heavy in the air, intertwining with the charged energy still pulsing around them. Ayato felt the gravity of the request settle like a stone in his stomach. Protecting a daughter he had never known, tied to a man he had fought against—could he truly undertake such a burden? Yet, as he contemplated Stein’s plea, a flicker of resolve ignited. The world of shinobi was fraught with danger, and those who fought to protect what they loved often found themselves at the storm's center.

Meeting Stein’s gaze, determination hardened in Ayato’s chest. “If your enemies come for her, I will not allow them to take her. But understand this: I will not be a pawn in your game. My loyalty lies with the village first and foremost.”

Stein nodded, unwavering. “That is all I ask. You are not a pawn, Lord Hogokage. You are a king on this board, and I am merely a piece willing to sacrifice itself for a greater purpose.”

As their conversation lingered in the air, Ayato couldn’t shake the feeling that this alliance was as precarious as the lives they sought to protect. In a world where shadows lurked around every corner, he would need to tread carefully, balancing the weight of duty against the heart’s demands.

[WC: 670]

Ashborn stood silent for a moment, his sharp gaze unwavering as Stein spoke. When Stein mentioned his grandmother, a flicker of something passed through his eyes—a rare acknowledgment. “Yes, you knew Lady Ootsu Yamaguchi,” Ashborn replied, his voice even, measured, “but at this point, everyone does. Knowing her before age bent her will, though? No living man can claim such a feat, I fear. Much less for her mother before her.” His words lingered briefly, then faded, giving way to thoughts he’d long buried.

Lady Ootsu and Tsukiakari—figures from a distant past, both casting long shadows over his life. Ashborn seldom let himself dwell on them, but Stein’s words stirred memories like a breeze through old leaves. He remembered the stories, the towering legacy, the bloodline that coursed through his veins. It was not just history; it was a quiet burden he carried with him always.

Returning his attention to Stein, he smirked faintly. “I don’t underestimate it in the slightest,” he remarked, eyes narrowing as he appraised the resurrected figure. “If I did, you wouldn’t be standing here with resurrection cracks across your face, patronizing me.” The faint smile lingered, tinged with cold irony. Even those cracks were an improvement on Stein’s once hideous face. Ayato’s vacuum wave had done wonders in life, and the scars of death now made the rogue seem almost dignified in comparison.

Ashborn couldn’t help but remember that day vividly. He had watched the battle from the parapets, the wind biting at his skin as he witnessed the convergence of three powerful shinobi. Seto Yomiyama had charged first, his tendrils lashing out like hungry vipers. They had pierced Stein’s chest, but it was Ayato’s precision strike—clean, calculated—that had turned the tide. Ashborn could still see it in his mind’s eye: the way Ayato’s projectile hit with flawless accuracy, while Akabayashi Terumi, ever methodical, cut off Stein’s escape route with an environmental technique. A masterstroke of shinobi tactics, flawless execution. It was a shame that the three of them had never seen eye to eye. Ayato, with his honor-bound ideals; Akabayashi, a man who believed in the end justifying the means; and Seto, whose faith in the Yuumei Engine was unshakable. Three different paths, all leading to the same battlefield that day.

He shifted his weight, returning to the present, his gaze still on Stein. “You’re barely back from the dead, and you’re already asking for a handout,” Ashborn remarked dryly, though there was an undercurrent of surprise when Stein mentioned his daughter. “Your daughter, you say? How old is she now?” His brows furrowed as he considered it. “At your age, she might be a woman in her sixties. Least you had her not long before your passing.”

The mention of a daughter had caught him off guard. Stein, ruthless as he had been, seemed suddenly… human. There was something in his voice—an unguarded vulnerability Ashborn had not expected. It made him wonder. “And what of Kobiyashi?” Ashborn asked, his tone casual yet probing. “You’ve yet to mention him. Do you no longer care for your son?” His words hung in the air, a subtle test of Stein’s awareness. Ashborn knew the truth of Kobiyashi’s fate but chose not to reveal it. He wanted to see if Stein still held any concern for the boy he had once called his son—or if death had stripped that, too, from him.

(WC: 565, TWC: 6157)

Ayato watched Ashborn steady himself, his earlier unease replaced with calm resolve. Few shinobi could adapt to the pressure of a situation like this, learning and adjusting in real-time. Ashborn, it seemed, was one of those rare few. Ayato waited in silence, observing Stein—or rather, the shadow of Stein—the echo of a man whose malice had long since burned out.

"I thought I was offering a compliment," Stein rasped, his skeletal fingers flexing to remind himself of their presence. His tone was oddly light as if the gravity of their situation amused him. "Always a thrill to see the envelope pushed—one way or the other. It’s what I aimed for in life... though I doubt it did me much good in the end."

Ayato remained impassive, though he noted Stein’s words. The man had always been a pursuer of the impossible, and it had led him here—summoned from death, a hollow shell of the figure he once was.

When Ashborn broached the subject of Stein’s daughter, Ayato spoke before the silence stretched too long. "She is eight and ten," he said, his voice measured. Or close enough for it to make no difference. I met her once—she seems decent enough." His words were plain, without the warmth one might expect when speaking of family, but Ayato had never been one for sentimentality, especially not here.

Then, Ashborn mentioned Kobiyashi, and Ayato felt a momentary hesitation. He barely had time to consider whether to reveal the truth when Stein responded swiftly as if already knowing. A sad smile crept across his lips.

"Do not mock me, Yamaguchi-san," Stein murmured, his hand resting over his chest. "Kobiyashi came from my flesh and blood, and from the moment I answered your summons, I knew his flame had already dimmed in this world. A creator—a father—knows." His voice carried an unexpected weight. "For all my plans, Kobiyashi proved to be more human than I ever imagined. The day he refused to stand with me at Heraldry Gate, I was enraged but also proud. Proud that he had chosen his path. He chose the village over his family—what any loyal shinobi would do."

Ayato nodded slightly, the tone of his reply softening. "A boy no more but a man of the Village Hidden in the Stars." The old Hoshigakure saying felt fitting. Kobiyashi had forged his path, earned his place, and in doing so, Ayato understood the depth of Stein’s pride.

Stein’s gaze grew distant, sorrow and resolve mixing in his hollowed eyes. "I beg you, Lord Hogokage... and you, Yamaguchi-san." His voice was low, vulnerable in a way Ayato had not expected. "My enemies may come for Kitiara as they did for Kobiyashi. She is my last trueborn child. Protect her. Do not let her suffer the same fate."

Stein’s plea lingered, heavy in the air. Ayato felt the weight of responsibility pressing down, the complexities of duty entangling with the past. Protecting Kitiara would not be a simple task, yet it was one Ayato could not dismiss lightly.

The air thickened with tension, the unspoken burden resting on Ayato's shoulders.

After a pause, Stein’s voice returned, tinged with bitter humor. "Wherever Kobiyashi has gone," he mused, eyes distant as if peering into the afterlife, "I know I won’t be joining him. I’m bound for some hell—a hell without wine, most likely." His dry chuckle echoed, hollow and humorless.

But as he spoke of Kitiara, the weight of regret returned. "I saw what my influence did to my other children... how it warped them before they even had the chance to become who they were meant to be. My legacy tainted their lives." His hand twitched as though still bearing the chains he’d placed on them. "I won’t do that to her. I’ll stay away. I’ll be a ghost, one that never haunts her."

Stein’s voice grew softer, but the raw honesty in his words cracked through. "I don’t seek a second chance. I’ve had more than enough of those, and each time, I squandered them." His hollow gaze met Ayato’s, the empty reflection of his former self lingering in his eyes. "I’m not asking for redemption. It’s too late for me. But for her..." His voice faltered slightly. "I ask that she be given one. A chance to live free from the shadows I cast over her life. Protect her, Lord Hogokage. She deserves a future unburdened by my mistakes."

The plea hung heavy in the room. Ayato, always the stoic, felt a churn of emotion rise within him, though he kept his expression steady. Clarity, not sentiment, was what the moment required. But for all his stoicism, he couldn’t deny the weight of what Stein had asked—a second chance for Kitiara, a chance her father had squandered but now hoped she might still seize.

[WC: 805]