Kitsu in the village working

In the heart of the forest, where the first rays of pre-dawn only crept under the dense blanket of foliage above, Kitsu opened his eyes to the sound of the world awakening. Held by the guardians of time, the ancient groves passing between the camp and the imminent source took on a new light. However, as many before, this day would start with a ritual that knit him to the world in a way that went beyond the physical. Seated on the ground, hunched over and exhaling, Kitsu could only breathe in and out. Inhaling deeply and allowing the forest to fill his heart through his nostrils, he breathed out, releasing the remains of the night and the many crushes that bore down on his soul. It was a form of mediation that connected his inner being to the web that danced all around, alive and refreshed. However much he doubted and thought, discussing the futility and lack of value behind most things throughout his life, he could not escape the feeling that came with this rhythmic cycle. 

The forest greeted him, and he could detect his existence regardless of his beliefs accurately; this served as the heavenly bridge of meditation. Although he did not believe in such things, the forest spirits were not entities in themselves. They manifested ancient spirits of all the creatures that lived and died through the centuries. Even for an atheist, the sacredness of the circle of life appeared as the day was born. While the rest of the forest and everything within awakened, starting or continuing the eternal game of the survival of the fittest, Kitsu remained still.

Barely breathing more, lost inside plants and branches, his mind wandered far and wide. Not that he tried to use the forest's energy to gain insight or wisdom; it was merely a way of reaching out and grounding his soul. It was the most forceful and humbling way of reminding oneself that they are a small part of the cycle. Unknown power that seeped through the trees and rocks into his hearth fortified and focused his whole body on the rising day. Opening his eyes slowly, the first sun shone through leaves, and shadows danced across his skull. His morning ritual was over, and with it, a piece of silent solace attached to the earth. As he stood up, looking around, Kitsu felt the urge to say goodbye to the ancient spirits. 

Emerging from the tranquil embrace of the forest, Kitsu gazed upon the serene blue of the sky, now marred by the soon-to-be tumult of the storm. Leading the way were dark, heavy clouds, rolling in with a speed that spoke to the unbridled power of the earth, casting an ominous shadow on the village's future. Once a gentle whisper among the leaves, the wind now carried the sharp scent of soon-to-be rain, foreboding the storm that would test the land and its people. Kitsu stood on the forest's edge, staring at the rapidly deteriorating sky, his heart laden with foreboding. 

An expert in nature's ways, he knew what was to come and how little man could do to prevent it. Everything around him was electric with tension, mirroring the storm that had already started in his spirit. The village spread with a collection of houses and makeshift structures built from scratch by people, and it looked vulnerable. As the storm approached, Kitsu knew that it would not discriminate. The soon-to-be deluge would remind humankind of their place in the face of adversity, insinuating the indifference of nature to human achievement. Driven by duty to his people and kinship to the land and its gifts, Kitsu hurried towards the village. The storm was not just a physical test but a test of his community's spirit, showing them the true strength of unity and preparedness.

Even before his approach, the first distant and vibrating rumbles of thunder came across the land. Lightning forked across the sky, demonstrating the energy of nature; bright flashes of light illuminated the thick, black clouds in the sky. However, Kitsu's arrival was noticed. The villagers, already attempting to withstand the imminent storm, saw him as a symbol of strength and knowledge. Without any phrases, Kitsu assisted them; his meek endeavors testified to the integrity of his sentiments. They strengthened the rooftops, fastened the windows, and secured the most simple things to benefit them during the gale. The wind grew ferocious, and the sky darkened even more, almost obscuring the sun. However, the villagers' words ended when the stormy weather approached—the heavy raindrops named themselves, announcing that a cloudburst was on the way. Kitsu stood amongst those whom he had relinquished in this rain, alone but in harmony, protected by the prospect of that cloudburst. 

A savage storm, as yet unredeemed, howled out across the region since it showed more to come. However, the village held firm, as though the swindled grail would have to do the same. In the fleeting moments that persisted, as the storm bombarded the state, Kitsu stood still and quiet, his existence facilitating safeguards against the unrest. The storm may recede, but the persistent interaction would remain, indicating that the human spirit is vibrant when resonating with nature.

The storm's fury grew more robust, its winds so fierce that they seemed howling like spirits roused from death by an unfathomable fury. However, amidst the turmoil and destruction, Kitsu noticed a family whose needs could not be ignored. Their home, although humble and tired with age, showed clear traces of the previous storms and was now assaulted by the relentless gale, so vulnerable that passing by would mean leaving them to the storm's embrace. The roof, in particular, was in much disrepair. Kitsu saw with despair how sections of it had already given up against the unrestrained wind, poised to leave the family unprotected against the storm's cold grip. With no intention to deliberate, he approached the family, his silence serving as an unspoken promise of help. 

The people, seemingly bound by concern, watched him as he surveyed the roof with an experienced look. Time was of the essence, and Kitsu sprang into action with the surety that only the most dire emergencies could cause. He guided the family in gathering the precious materials, the scraps of wood lying around, tools from the neighboring homes, the tarps that were to stop at least the rain, the whole village, even amidst the storm's onslaught, united by the familiar urge to help. Kitsu climbed the fragile roof with the grace of a man who faced many obstacles; his movements were as precise as a knife, even amidst the chaotic gale. The wind fought him at every step of the way, an actual opponent that seemed to take vicious glee in removing the roof against Kitsu, but he was focused, determined, and surrounded by a gale.

But Kitsu had little time to lament his troubles. Working swiftly, he patched the weakened sections of the roof, reinforced it with the wood, and secured the tarps with a precision that belied the ferocity of the wind. Each hammer strike was a defiance, a small victory against the storm's might. Now falling in sheets, the rain-drenched him to the bone but did little to dampen his determination. Beneath him, the family watched, their anxiety giving way to hope as they saw their home was now fortified against the storm. Kitsu's actions, though born out of necessity, spoke volumes. What he did that day was nothing extraordinary, but it nevertheless served as a powerful reminder of the strength to be found in unity and the courage to act in the face of adversity. As the storm raged on, its peak reached a cacophony of thunder and lightning, and the family's home stood resolute, a beacon of steadfastness amid the storm. 

Kitsu, his task complete, descended from the roof, his figure a silhouette against the storm's fury. The gratitude in the family's eyes was palpable; their relief was a balm to the weariness that now clung to him. Still, in true Kitsu fashion, he accepted their thanks with a nod, a quiet acknowledgment of the bond adversity had woven between them. And with that, he stepped back into the storm, leaving the family in their fortified stronghold. But as Kitsu walked away from the family, he carried more than just the satisfaction of a well-done job. Kitsu Yok is the storm. Kitsu Yok is Nell, Lirit, and Imalda.

Like all storms, this storm would move on, but the memories of this night, of a community united in the face of the anger of nature, would never fade, a lesson in the strength and spirit that hardship can breed.

With the storm winding down, its wild fury spent, and its unbridled wrath reduced to a gentle drizzle, whispers began to flit through the town like leaves on a gentle breeze—the bold claims of a marksman whose skill could rival even the most storied archer. The villagers, restless in the aftermath of a fearsome storm and eager for a story to pass the time, converged on the town square to hear of a marksman unlike any other. Kitsu's obligations to the storm-ravaged villagers were momentarily discharged, and a flicker of interest was felt. It arrested his steps and drew him to the square, where a crowd had gathered, and a man stood at its center, his chest puffed out and his boasts leveled at those before him. The man was a stranger from beyond the village walls, and he spoke with confidence that bordered on arrogance, daring anyone who would listen to question his skill at the bow. Kitsu, standing at the back of the gathering, watched with owlish eyes and said nothing. 

He was a hunter, not a braggart—one who had learned the art of the bow not to display it but to use it in times of need. But, the man's boasting stirred something quiet within him, a need to show that skill could also be humble. He stepped forward suddenly, silent and implacable; his mere presence drew the stranger's eyes, and when Kitsu's reputation came to light, hanging like a shroud over his shoulders, the boastful marksman nodded atMarksmansilent greeting. The language of archers is silent, and the nod was all that was needed for the challenge to begin. It was simple—a series of targets, growing further and demanding more skill and knowledge of targets and weapons alike. Not just hitting the target, but knowing why—and understanding in your heart how the arrow moved and how the bow sang.

Kitsu checked his bow, a humble but well-groomed acquaintance who had seen him through countless hardships. His arrows, every one of them traced with his hand, were tributes to his accomplishment as a bowyer. As he stood at the nuclear square, the group was tranquil. The exhilaration had dissipated, and the individuals here acted with hushed respect toward the event they were now experiencing. He rediscovered his harmony as Kitsu came out with his first bolt. The universe had disappeared, and all that was left was the rounded bowstring and the remote target. The bolt shot out, and it was a true hit on the bolt. One of them bows everyone, and even as the marks got further and more challenging, it was a similar situation for Kitsu. 

Each bolt flew through the sky, a lethal weapon directed by an unswerving arm and eye. The definitive endeavor was the last objective that several people might see as hopeless. Kitsu paused for a moment to collect himself before firing the bolt. The effort was achieved when a bolt flew through the atmosphere and crashed about the sheet's middle. The arresting motion produced no noise the viewers did not require since their applause filled the air. However, many of those watching had learned from the show, too. The marksman offered marksman to the prodigy with a stiff incline the edge, having been shown a spectacle that no civil individual could beat, was grateful. Kitsu, for his part, would offer a nod in return.


In the silent aftermath of the village's day, Kitsu took comfort in the village armory. It was a bastion of steel and quiet, a place that reeked of the unending cycle of preparation and protection. The place smelled, in equal measure, of metal and oil. The walls were covered in implements of defense and declarations of war, and each item, large or small, had a history. Among the shimmering ranks of weapons, his eyes rested upon the knives. They were simple but vital, for the most recent generation of genin had become the lynchpin of the village's defense, and the weapons their elder kin wielded on their behalf had to be just as ready and keen-edged as the children behind them. He sat before the blades and, with praxes hands, went to work upon them, one stroke of the whetstone at a time, bridging the past with the future. The power and reality of warrior preparation insisted on its constant presence in the quiet sound of the knife against a stone. For Kitsu, the labor was a sacred thing, for it was not just for the blades themselves, though they were keen but gathered upon those who would bear them. 

The blades became new under his hands, and smiling at their readiness, Kitsu arranged them in contrast against a lining rack within the armory. They were a testament without words repetitive of the fiber of warriors, the transcendent repetition of the cycle from teacher to student. Although he lived alone in the village, Kitsu realized he was a part of the village, and the village was a part of him; his work was manufactured with the unbroken cycle of obligation without the need for words. Leaving, the armory did not feel a creation, but a focus of spirit, the line knives flashing in the low light as ideas of where each genin would locate on his route from the planet of seed, throughout development, challenge, and dominance. Departing, Kitsu appreciated that he had achieved his responsibility for his fragment in the village's future, readying to sit quietly along the corridor. The only sound he created was that of his steps; the only image he shaped was the shadow he cast, and the only word spoken was between man and the village he served.

As the day transitioned into twilight and the ambient light began to dwindle, Kitsu found himself at the library of Tsukigakure – a beacon of knowledge and learning that lay at the heart of the village. The building was an imposing structure, filled with endless shelves and countless tomes that served as a silent testament to history's stories. Kitsu himself approached the library entrance with a newfound confidence. He was walking with a sense of purpose, driven by a desire to uncover some of the forest's more profound mysteries – the one that had cradled him in safety for so long. Upon entering the library, one was invariably greeted by a cool dampness, a stillness in the air, and the scent of books – ancient paper and even vaguer ink – a smell that practically screamed "secrets". Kitsu was noted by the librarian upon entry: it seemed to Kitsu that his role in village life alone earned him at least that much respect. But, of course, he would never dare assume he didn't have to return the library's workers' confident nods with a respectful dip of the head. The principal librarian knew of his intentions and pointed him toward a secluded corner of the library and, more significantly, to a personal reference selection. These texts were quieter and dustier than those on the main shelves – hidden deep within the heart of the library.

Sliding into the reading table, Kitsu began his research, his fingers unrolling scrolls like black windows and turning through the frail, discolored, dry pages of volumes that were not made to feel skin for years for what was most likely to be centuries. The text talked about the forest in a poetic and outdated language. The forest's spirits were not part of the fantasy folklore; the transcripts told of them as a representation of nature's soul, entities that existed in a separate plane of reality from the material, yet still weaved into the forest living, breathing soul-force. The more he read, the more he realized that the forest's spirits were not meant to be understood only in the head. Instead, they were a tale of the forest's knowledge, the aspen's fireproofing, the mystery's complete cycle. It signified the unkillable loop between the matter and whatever more amazing thing bound everything in check, constantly at the edge. 

Hours later, Kitsu arose from his study on the practices, mortals forgotten and alone in the tower's emptiness while his intellect felt alive. The ritual governed how the spirits could be engaged. It talked out of politeness and listening, of a closed mouth and open thoughts, out of presence and absent pursuit. As the darkness crept and the lanterns of the library threw lengthy shadows within the stacks, eventually shutting the final book, Kitsu emerged. He felt with a clear head of what was most likely nonsense to anyone else that the change of thoughts pierced the cynicism. Whichever form the spirits of the forest took, whether myth embodied nature's more profound truths, they were his world to shield, the link to the wonder only out of reach.

Leaving the library, Kitsu seemed to feel free about the forest, which was both his friend and an enigma. His curiosity did not uncover the mystery; it increased his respect for the spirit of the forest. An imaginary reality was as fascinating and sometimes even more captivating, for it undertook a magical power to open the hearts of humans to the marvelous mysteries hidden behind nature.

Kitsu could still feel the thoughts of ancient texts in the back of his mind, but they were different somehow. He had learned a new respect for the world around him and the more esoteric parts of it, and he found that he appreciated the ways that the residents of Tsukigakure connected with the forest despite his continued sense of doubt. That newfound connection inspired him to come to one of the spirits' shrines, where the people of the village quietly showed deference to the forces of nature in a way that the storm had disrupted. The shrine was not far from the town, situated on the forest's edge, where it began reclaiming dominion over the world. It was a simple structure, built to blend in with the natural environment, where human construction and nature could live side by side. The storm had also intruded here, the path scattered with branches, the area around the shrine strewn with leaves and debris, and the unmistakable scent of the earth in the air. Kitsu walked with purpose in his steps, feeling that the place deserved his respect and had somehow earned it before he arrived. The task of engaging with it was something he felt, again wordlessly, as a promise to what he could see and the parts of it that were unseen.

He cleared the path, removing branches and debris that hid the path from the travelers. He swept away the leaves that clogged the entrance, revealing the patches of smoothed stones long since rubbed bare by thousands of feet, each a testament to faith or curiosity. When the wind blew away the food offerings brought by the villagers, he reorganized the tables with gentle hands, their presence a dialogue between the villagers and the spirits they meant to feed. The trees seemed to watch him with approval as their whispers merged with the distant sound of water, forming the melody of existence to score the importance of his work. The veil of the rubble was receding, and the sanctuary hidden behind it was one of tranquillity and simplicity, its humble beauty merely a reminder of the greater importance of such acts. Once done, Kitsu stood before the shrine, thoughts turning inward. The link forged by the book and his physical act of care had pulled the strands of skepticism in his past life into a sense of belonging to something bigger. It wasn't merely about the information or his role as a caretaker but the relationship bound by his learning and service.

The path to the shrine behind him was open, and the shrine itself was a testament to the effort he had put into caring for it. Kitsu could not have expressed the feeling better than with one word: fulfillment. The forest, lying in impenetrable mysteries with an ancient source of wisdom within earshot, seemed a little closer. Furthermore, he had drawn from the culture of Tsukigakure, respected the beliefs of its people, and honored the spirits' traditions to access the land he resides in the forest. On his way back to the village, there was the peace of the shrine, which bore the forest's silent recognition. The night was gentle, and the stars aligned in the sky as if willing his identification, the path before him vested in an earthy reality that Kitsu knew could go beyond into domains he had once ignored. Thus, he realized that the revived balance between skepticism and belief, action and reflection, was not a position but an expedition for which he had new familiarity and dedication from his outward and enjoyable heart.

WC: 3582
TWC: 3582
EXIT

Claims:
Completion of 5 E rank missions
+10k ryo
+50 AP
Doubled from Beloved Presence

WC Claims:
+1125 towards Shadow Clone [v7] (Complete)
+1500 towards Chakra Infusion (Complete)
+957 towards Shuriken Shadow Clone Jutsu (957/1875) (Replacing Imitation White Hole)
MAX STAT DISCOUNT APPLIED