The Secrets of Death [P]

Ashborn regarded Stein’s plea for Kitiara with a cool, measured indifference. His voice, clipped and dismissive, cut through the air. "Yes, yes, you beg for her safety. I’ll promise this—so long as you keep your tricks in check, she’ll remain unharmed. Consider that generous." The words were calculated, meant to sound tough, though a flicker of unease stirred beneath his calm. Even in this diminished, resurrected form, Stein’s presence was not to be underestimated. Ashborn knew better than to grow complacent. He’d seen how close Stein had come to slipping free, despite all of Ayato’s careful preparation. One misstep, and they'd regret it.

His thoughts drifted to Kobiyashi, the boy now gone, having paid the ultimate price for his father’s crimes. Ashborn felt a grim kinship with him, a thread of shared fate connecting their stories. The Yamaguchi name, once proud, had been stained by their allegiance to the false Kage during the rebellion. Ashborn, too, had come perilously close to a similar end. Were it not for the mercy of the Old Kage and the calculated shield Ayato had placed over him, he might’ve been executed for his family’s betrayal. Kobiyashi hadn’t been as fortunate, and the same shadow loomed over Kitiara. She, like him, bore the weight of another’s sins, and Ashborn knew too well the bitter sting of that burden.

He looked back at Stein, eyes cold and unyielding. "I’ll tell you what I told the Iron Tank before you," he said, gesturing toward the marked stone floor where the last summoning had left its scars—Ibari’s echo still faintly visible. "Whatever you were in life, this is my realm now. Here, you are bound to me. In life, you might’ve destroyed me, but now you move at my command." The finality of his words hung in the air, sharp and undeniable. Ashborn understood this was a test of wills as much as anything else, and he would give Stein no more power than what the ritual had already grudgingly granted.

(WC: 333, TWC: 6490)

Ayato watched the boy speak, carrying the resolve of someone twice his age and thrice as experienced. It was both admirable and unsettling. Ashborn was still young, yet he bore himself with the gravitas of a seasoned warrior. Ayato understood that feeling all too well—the weight of command falling on young shoulders. He’d been no older than Ashborn during the Hoshimura Rebellion, just beginning to grasp the cold realities of power. By the time the Fifth Great Ninja War broke out, he was bloodied and battle-hardened, though underestimated by many. That underestimation had become a weapon; Ayato wondered if Ashborn had yet learned to wield it.

Stein’s amusement flickered through the chamber, a faint echo of his former self. His spectral form turned toward the summoning circle, still humming faintly with lingering power. "To find myself at your service, Yamaguchi-san," he mused, dark humor lacing his hollow voice. His eyes traced the marks of other rituals etched across the floor. "Busy, aren’t we? Building a garrison for your castle?" He paused, a glint of mischief lighting his gaze. "Or are you planning a march back to Tsukiakari to cut the head off that bloated fool who calls himself the Governor?"

The jest might once have carried weight, but Ayato noted the moment Stein’s demeanor shifted, his expression darkening. The mention of Ibari—the Iron Tank—had pierced through whatever mirth he clung to. Stein’s voice dropped, weighted as though sifting through long-buried memories. "The Iron Tank," he murmured. "In life, I was the last S-rank Missing-Nin. I’d scoured every corner of the world, turned over every stone… save a few names even I dared not seek." He paused, recognition settling in his eyes. "Xyxer Gyojin, Haegon Hoshimura, the Royal Samurai Ryo Yomiyama, the Black Bull of Kumogakure… your father, Lord Hogokage… Hibari Hyuuga."

Stein looked at Ayato, his expression measured, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his eyes. He was older now, grayed around the edges, the wisdom of his years etched into the lines of his face, yet his gaze was as sharp as ever.

"So," he began, almost wryly, as if the weight of all those years and losses had settled into a dry acceptance. "Ibari’s dead, then. You've turned the stones and moved the pieces in ways I never could. And here you stand, victorious." He tilted his head, a faint trace of a smile shadowing his lips. "Not that I’m surprised—I always knew you’d outlast him."

Ayato’s silence lingered as Stein’s gaze hardened. “And the battle you’ve summoned me for,” Stein continued, a glint in his eye, “is a different one now, isn’t it?”

Their eyes met, old and new, each man’s gaze bearing the marks of their shared legacy. And in that brief moment, Stein’s mouth tugged into something between a grin and a challenge, as if to say he was ready, old bones and all.

Stein leaned forward, his voice low but with a calm certainty. "I understand your ambition, Ayato," he said. "But any power struggle after the Fifth Great Ninja War—another Hoshimura Rebellion or some underground alliance—will be fleeting.” He paused, his gaze steady, each word deliberately chosen. "Whatever rises to claim the ninja world be a mere echo. The real conflict ahead, the one that will carve the fate of these lands, won’t be a war between men. It’ll be between the living and... the neverborn. And when that comes, Hoshigakure’s path may already be written."

The dead man let the silence settle as if giving weight to some distant, unspoken vision. "I didn’t see it in my dreams," he murmured, almost to himself. "That revelation eluded me, as it did so many who came before. But I found pieces in the old texts—buried and forgotten secrets. And perhaps, now that I’ve been dragged back from the dead, this is the purpose I was meant to serve.”

The Kage had heard such sentiments echoed by men with grand ambitions and well-worn tales, each claiming to see the future as clearly as daylight. Yet here he stood, having experienced his share of mishaps and miscalculations, finding those proclamations as trustworthy as a merchant's promise of quality.

"I’ve heard loftier claims from drunks in taverns and from wet nurses by the hearth. If I’d believed every tale I heard as a boy, I’d have claimed the heavens twice over—and even then, I was wise enough to take it all with a grain of salt."

“And who’s to say you haven’t? Some reach for the sky, while others can do little more than tread the earth.” Stein gazed out the hall window, watching the sun sink behind the distant hills, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson. “It’s a curious dance we all partake in. The dreamers with their heads in the clouds and the grounded souls who keep things steady. Each has its place. After all, roots must hold strong to nourish the branches above, and navigating that space is what truly matters.”

The ragdoll's words lingered in the air, a testament to his knack for language. “Such eloquence from you, Sir Ragdoll,” Ayato remarked, a smirk on his lips. “You’ve always had a gift for words.” As the setting sun bathed the old man’s face, the light revealed the deep lines of age etched into his features, yet Ayato found sincerity in his gaze, a truth that didn’t require the scrutiny of his Kanjutsu to discern. “If the day comes to confront any magical beasts, I’ll keep your… extensive repertoire in mind,” he continued his tone lightening. “Let’s hope your sword arm and that sharp tongue hold up.”

Stein chuckled, the glimmer of sincerity still dancing in his eyes. He knelt with practiced ease, his tall frame folding gracefully as he met Ayato’s gaze. 

“I’ve served before—before I earned the title of the Last S-rank Missing Ninja,” he stated nostalgically. “First as a Jounin of Konoha, and later as the Kage of Kazan Village,” Ayato recalled the old Kage hat from the forgotten village and the ancient Konoha flak jacket found among Stein's belongings—the latter was a relic styled like the uniforms worn by shinobi from the era of Ayato's father, or perhaps even older. Accompanying them were headbands that whispered tales of a distant past.

"I tried to serve you and Hoshi during the Global Chuunin Exams when the cheers of the people were loud enough to silence the whispers of doubt. In those days, there was still hope that war might be avoided. But later, I could not forsake my nature, which proved a fatal mistake.” He paused, his gaze distant. “The Last Mistake of the Last S-rank Missing Ninja,” he recognized solemnly. “That man died in the Battle of your Heraldry Gates.  This time, in this second life, I’ll ensure I do it right—whatever comes our way, for the sake of my living daughter and all the other children."

Stein gave a faint nod, one last look lingering on his surroundings as the summoning light swelled around him, casting his worn features in an almost holy glow. The air thrummed, and as his outline softened into rays of light, he vanished—leaving only the faint scent of dust and iron. Ayato and Ashborn stood silently, watching the space he’d filled a moment ago and the fading light's warmth on their faces. As the light faded, Ayato let out a breath, glancing over at Ashborn with a wry smile. "I can’t tell if that man's monologues make more sense in death than in life." He paused, shaking his head just slightly. "Though I suppose some things never change."

[WC: 1267]

Ashborn watched Stein’s smirk fade in a blaze of light, hands in his pockets, as the older man dissolved in a shimmer of chakra. He cast an eye toward Ayato, suppressing a grin. "A castle, eh? If I had one, I’d just as soon let it crumble than try to keep up with the repairs. My knees, on the other hand… I’m rather attached to those." He’d always found Stein’s brand of grandiose talk amusing, but he had to admit, the man was sharp. Picking through Ayato’s plans, slipping into the right places, speaking of battles yet to come as if he’d seen the pages of prophecy himself—it was enough to make you think.

But some war against celestial beings? The real fight would come long before any of that, right here in Hoshigakure. The forces within—the Nova Corps, Public Security, Yomiyama’s samurai, even that Ninshu Sect cropping up—all vying for their share of power. And that wasn’t counting Hoshimura remnants in exile or any survivors from old Kirigakure looking for a score to settle. Still, despite Ayato’s quick dismissal, he’d caught a flicker of something in the Kage’s gaze, a concern that passed like a cloud on a clear day. Stein had touched on something, though what, he wasn’t sure.

"Not one bit, sir," he replied dryly to Ayato’s remark about things never changing. “I’ll prep a few scrolls, make the summoning smoother,” he added, feeling the weight of his task. "You should be set to summon the three new Knights of the Black Sun Division before long. As for rewards," he paused, dipping his head in respect, "granting me access to the technique will be enough, an honor to put my skills to real use for the village." He offered a brief bow. "Anything more you wish to send my way, of course, would be deeply appreciated—but please, take your time."

Leaving Ayato, Ashborn made his way back to his apartment, slipping up to the rooftop with a cigarette in hand. A night this clear, stars scattered like gems across the sky, was a small reward in itself. He’d done his work, served the village, and if there was no one waiting to celebrate, well… he was used to that by now. His family and friends, the people who’d cheered him on, they were back in Tsukiakari, long past.

He leaned back, memories drifting up of his brother—the two of them floundering in the waves after their ship capsized on that ill-fated trip to the Aiso Islands. They’d held to a makeshift lifeboat, a basketball of all things, bobbing along in the endless black. “We’ll make it,” his brother had promised, voice strained but steady. “Make it where?” he’d laughed back. "Toward the lights of Tsukiakari," his brother had answered, simple as that. They’d made it, too, until that light was no longer his.

Ashborn hadn’t thought of that in years. He had set the old basketball on his brother’s grave, a mark of all they’d survived together and all they hadn’t.

Feeling a dampness on his lip, he brushed it aside with the back of his hand. "Rain," he murmured, though he knew better. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a small scroll, unsealing a firework. It split the night in three colors as it rose, each spark a tribute. “Ibari, the Iron Tank,” he murmured as the first burst lit the sky. “Aizen Hatake.” He watched as the last flickered, letting it linger. "And Stein of Konoha.”

(WC: 582, TWC: 7072)