Yama wanders

The first thing Yama's eyes saw was the unfamiliar ceiling of a room in Tsukigakure’s modest inn. The soft rustle of silk curtains fluttering in the wind and the murmur of the still-dawning village seeping through the thin walls were barely a reminder that he was farther from fields of rice or roars of battle than ever. He lay there for another moment, staring at the dimly lit room and letting the red glow of his chakra-infused eyes dim as his thoughts gathered. Yama’s eyes shut – his massive frame occupying more space than the bed could handle. His head nearly touched the room’s ceiling when he pushed himself up. The room felt smaller as he swung his legs on the bed with a thud. The inn was quiet, and all was peaceful; it was an uncanny but welcome contrast to what his life had been like for years – chaos. It would allow him one morning at last, not bitten by scars of memory or swathed in the weight of regret. His muscles stretched as he stood, and his steps echoed towards the window. 

He stretched in a yawn and finally pulled the curtain aside. The village of Tsukigakure was awoken by the sunrise, tainted with soft pink hues and curves of the new dawn. Could he find what he was seeking here? Redemption, or acceptance – his fingers tingled at the thought of his violin’s strings, and his travels into the village signified a new path, world, and hope for peace. His footsteps thudded against the bare morning on the stairs; today, he’ll infiltrate the village as a visitor, not a demon. He promised himself that maybe he could play his music here for the villagers: it calms the beasts, and he might genuinely feel at ease with it.

Starting morning from the inn, Yama got up from his bed and walked through the cold room; out of the steamed-up glass window, he saw Tsukigakure’s streets illuminated by the sun's soft light just rising over the horizon. His oversized silhouette cast a long shadow on the ground as he exited the village’s main road. The architecture of this village, still fresh in the morning light, was enough to mesmerize every visitor. This place was surprisingly lively for someone in pursuit of killing the boss of this village and having absolutely no prior knowledge of what to expect from Tsukigakure. Shopkeepers were setting up their stores with cheerful conversations that could be heard from every open window, and children were dashing between the stalls head first like some bizarre tag game no one but them understood. 

After just a few moments of walking, Yama stumbled upon “Dark Side”- a breakfast joint famous among the locals for its dumb gothic theme. It had a tall, wide sign shaped like a crescent moon glowing with an eerie blue light above its door. The walls were painted deep matte black and were covered with intricate silver patterns made to look like something you would see on an iron door of a tomb. Yama pushed open the carved wooden door and walked inside. The interior was illuminated by the same eerie blue light that permeated the sign above as an array of crystal chandeliers hung almost low enough to touch the black-painted ceiling. The walls of the restaurants were draped in tacky velvet, and every table had a single iron candle stick, casting dancing shadows all over the room. A waitress in a Victorian uniform greeted Yama with a smile and seated him, handing him a black-wood-mended menu.

When served, Yama took a moment to acclimate himself to the setting. The sight through the window was a stark contrast to the dank interior. The lively morning of Tsukigakure was on full display, and the sunbeams painted the dining dishes in various colors. Inside, the environment was sedate. Instrumental music played softly in the background; the notes were distorted as if they had traveled across time from the forgotten chamber in a cathedral. While he absorbed the surroundings, a server with a gothic outfit approached him. She wore black lace gloves and a choker with a small ruby graced her neck. 

The server handed Yama a menu, and he immediately noticed the detailed illustrations of steaming dishes and meals fit for a day of indulgence. He decided to take a combined breakfast comprising eggs done sunny side up, thick black bread, platters of smoked sausage, and a pot of steaming strong coffee. He waited for his meal and took the time from his surroundings. The other diners seemed at home, and the melody of soft-spoken conversations arrived in waves, complementing the music. The meal arrived shortly after the server. Yama’s appetite was generous, as was his size, and he was a short and girthy individual. The platter was expertly prepared; the yolk of the egg was a brilliant orange with rich contents. The sausages were seasoned well and burst with an aroma. The coffee was a dark brew, and each sip promised him to maintain his senses on high alert. The flavor matched the environment.

Yama continued to eat and looked out the window into the world. Whatever pace life in Tsukigakure moved at, it had given him a chance of hope to find a place of his own, not just where he existed but where he belonged. Each sip of coffee and every bite of his breakfast seemed to take even more of the heavy burden of his past life, allowing him to explore the prospects of his future in this village of mystery and wonder.

With his breakfast at “Dark Side” now finished, Yama pushed back from the table, feeling satisfied yet impassioned. He remained seated for a moment more, savoring the last few sips of coffee, letting the scents and sounds of his new home wash over him. The world spread out before him, with multiple paths offering themselves to him. One intriguing path was Shinoda Springs, the village’s celebrated training area. It was where Tsukigakure’s warriors came to test themselves and perhaps even reach new limits. He would also have the unique opportunity to prove his might or forge friendships with the strongest locals. The other was Kage Tower, the village governance seat, and Kage Junko's home. 

He could learn about Tsukigakure’s mores, people, and ways to make his place in the village there. Still, as Yama’s gaze turned to the window, the town's serenity seemed to reach him. Today was not a day for insights or alliances forging but for seeing and being seen. So Yama decided to walk the streets, see the sights, and gain insight into the place cherished by its inhabitants. Leaving “Dark Side,” Yama emerged into the brightness of the day. The village was bursting with color, with ivy climbing the walls of well-kept houses and gardens tucked away in corners. The colors were vibrant, with the deep green of ivy and the light hues of flowers. Yama strolled through the village, his large frame moving carefully and deliberately.

As he wandered, he saw the small ponds that reflected the sky from the heavens, a fish leaping from the water here, and a leaf drifting silently there. He walked on a stone path into the village through the building's twists and turns. Lines ran on all sides, leading the man through rows of quaint shops selling a variety of wares from jewelry to spices; all the shopkeepers nodded or waved at him, and the expressions of their customers spoke curiosity about the man’s identity. Finally, the path came to a small park, a microcosm of the village itself, as peaceful as it was beautiful. The pond, which sat with a sheet of water, dozed undisturbed by anything, and benches were nestled around its edge, seeking people to sit and be one with the world for a time. Yama found a tree and sat underneath the bulk of its shade, shutting out the sun that pressed through the leaves and cohered on the earth in dappled shadows. 

As he nursed a moment of quiet relaxation, hidden in seclusion from the people who moved puzzled heartbeats around him, Yama began to comprehend the village of the moon, not as a battleground but as potentially his home. And as he did well to know, Yama knew he would see it the same way again; his path had to be quiet today, and resting in the heart of the forest and the sun in the park, he allowed himself to be that which he was; a man lost among the greens, trying to find what he might become. When the hell was a lot more in the west, Yama rose and went to see what the inn of Tsukigakure could say to him, if anything.

Yama, meanwhile, continued his more relaxed tour of Tsukigakure, wandering through the various landscapes that made up the picturesque village. They roamed over small wooden bridges, arched just enough to cross over a bubbling brook running clear with mountain spring water. The trails led through fields of wildflowers, where butterflies danced from bloom to bloom, and bees hummed around, gathering pollen. The village did not seem to be built so much as incorporated into the world, and every turn of the path led to a new image that grasped Yama’s attention. 

Fields and groves of fruit trees with ripe offerings heavy on the branches, small stands of bamboo that whispered secrets as the wind passed through them. Even though he was a stranger in this land, Yama felt a connection to the earth that he had not been able to access for far too long. After a while, his wandering brought him to Shinoda Springs. He had considered visiting earlier, but the journey there seemed as good as any way to pass the time. The area was packed with people; the sharp sounds of combat drills rattled through the air, now punctuated by shouts and cheers. Young ninjas ran through their jutsus with almost the same enthusiasm as Yama once had back in the days of endless drills. He spent some time on the edge of the training area, a hillock that gave him a good view of the whole area.

However, each participant showed determination and discipline, which Yama deeply respected. He followed their movements, noting their strikes' precision and subsequent form. These were not just fighters; they were artists in their own right. Every move they made was a brush; the ring was their canvas, and they painted with their martial prowess. As he watched them, something stirred within him; it was an old, familiar feeling. The thrill that came with combat, the sense of achievement that followed mastering a tricky move, and the bond that fighters shared from having gone through hell and back. It reminded him of his journey, the pain, lost opportunities, and the harsh lessons learned along the way. Looking at them from where he sat, he could only imagine the challenges and choices before these brave warriors, terrifying decisions that could make or break them. Soon, his gaze turned from the busy participants to the training grounds' tranquility. 

The environment was peaceful; the land was vast, seemingly breathing at every flicker of motion from the intense activity at its center. It was bordered by trees whose leaves rustled softly, providing a natural contrast to the background sounds of exertion emanating from the participants. He remained unnoticed, as none had time for anything except to train. He was alone, and it was good for his soul. There were no dark memories or burdensome thoughts around him. The sun was setting, and its golden light was projecting long shadows. The view was untainted, and he was at peace. For now, this village could be home.

Sitting and watching the ninjas of various forms of combat and nature’s prowess at the Shinoda Springs might have seemed like Yama was under a lot of pressure, given his constant surreptitious glances. However, staying still appeared to be his thing as his eyes followed a young practitioner of fire techniques. The young man seemed to be at the height of his concentration, seamlessly absorbing his chakra with every deep, measured breath he took. His facial expression could only be described as maliciously grinning, showing intent and the inner desire to become a true master. The clearing around him was impossibly large, and it seemed like a couple of manifest audiences kept a safe distance as they were aware of the destructive power of fire jutsu. 

Fumbling hands went through several seals, each being an exact hand gesture to channel the chakra and fire element. However, after the last one, his eyes on Yama, he inhaled deeply and exhaled, releasing a massive fireball. Blinking, naked to the fire’s reflecting light from the training water pond and the echo from it that reached Yama’s spot, he felt the same warmth from the sphere hit his face—the moment when Yama understood the young man’s control of the element plus the power of concentration. The fireball fizzled into smaller embers as the young practitioner released the technique into the air until they disappeared before their magic touched the water. It was the control of power, where it was evident the blasts did not get out of hand and put everyone and everything in their wake at risk.

Yama was impressed, seeing that to handle such a solid and destructive power was nearly impossible without the mental excuse and strength. The boy felt that he had someone’s attention. Yama turned around, met his glancing eyes, and read the asking and thanking expression. Yama barely nodded, showing respect and gratitude. Looking back at the jutsu, Yama felt something close to the steeled training he had gone through over the years. For every technique the fighter displayed, Yama watched the long-shinobi heritage feel close, which Yama was interested in. The colors of the shining power reflected in the pond water, reddish under the setting sun, and Yama felt peace in his heart, resembling the Tsukigakure fighters. In this moment and this case, Yama was another student and observer rather than an assassin.

After the fiery display on the training grounds, Yama experienced a different kind of yearning, a personal one. Akaime, his love, was missing from this new experience. The young man’s mind was determined that it was time to find him, and Yama left the training grounds. With his large frame moving with conviction, he trotted through the streets of Tsukigakure. The young man did not know where to start. He wandered through the bustling marketplaces with their loud vendors calling out to potential customers. Yama peeked into cafes and shops, hoping that Akaime’s familiar form would be visible to him. He even trekked into some of the quieter, more secluded parts of the village, places that they had discussed exploring. 

Despite his best efforts, Akaime was nowhere to be found, and an hour passed before Yama made his way back to the training grounds with disappointment but not disillusionment. The evening may be meant to reflect rather than reunite. The young man walked to one of the many bars in Tsukigakure, most known for their warmth and quality drinks. Yama found and entered “The Crescent Moon,” a waning establishment on a side street with many flowering cherry trees. The bar's interior was comfortable and dimly lit, with lanterns illuminating the polished wooden counter and the small tables scattered throughout. The walls were covered in artwork depicting various shinobi legends and famous battles, which gave the bar a historical and charming ambiance. Yama chose a spot at the counter to watch the door in case Akaime appeared. The bartender, a middle-aged man with a warm smile, greeted him and handed him a menu. The selection ranged from traditional Japanese sake and nihonshu to locally brewed specialties.

Deciding to take something substantial, he chose to have a glass of whiskey to wash over his melancholy. He felt the gulp of warm liquid and shivered as it seemed to spread a warm comfort within him to combat the cool breeze that had picked up pace this evening. The bar hurled with more people, loud chatter, and laughter, and the ambiance brightened with life. He took another sip, indulging himself in the intoxicating thoughts. The last few days, he had been full of wonder and beauty as he thought about Tsukigakure and admired the skills of the shinobi. And yet, he could only think of Akaime. 

Where was he? Was he okay? He pushed aside the troubling thoughts and focused on the feel of his body warming up from the inside. He raised another glass, his thoughts heating up as his body followed suit. The night grew quieter as Yama continued to drink alone. The moonlight filled the bar, and for once, he was immersed in melancholy. Yama was not one to sit over what had happened and was never a man with grudges. For now, he would enjoy this moment and this place. He raised his glass to the darkness and wished that somewhere around the tugging fear of his heart, hoping Akaime felt the same pull.

And so, as the evening continued and the alcohol flowed more freely, the patrons of “The Crescent Moon” began to become rowdier and rowdier. Yama and the rest of the clientele were all in high spirits, drinking away and enjoying each other’s company. Yama’s massive appearance and strong-tasting drinks made him a favorite among the local bar-goers, who often cast curious and defiant glances. The friendly atmospherics of camaraderie were being replaced by competitiveness. A group of men, drunk on their alcohol and feeling inspired by their challenging opponent, started taunting Yama. 

At first, their jests were playful, but soon enough, one of the men started saying disrespectful things about his strength. The stings of the insult, combined with the fact that the alcohol had numbed his judgment, made Yama react in kind. Yama accepted the challenge to their pride in his deep and booming voice that cut through the bar sounds. The tension finally came to a head when one of the men pushed Yama on the back. The reaction was not to Yama’s anger but to his muscle memory; catching the man’s wrist, Yama twisted it in a gentle but very effective hold. The simple but powerful motion, a product of his training and natural strength, signaled that he could quickly escalate if needed. The signal, however, was not responded to with tact or retreat; the drunk friends of the man jumped to Yama’s defense.

Chairs scraped against the floor, and glasses clinked ominously as chaos consumed the bar. However, Yama had more than one opponent. He deflected and dodged every punch that came his way, his motions tight and controlled. The ability to manage a multitude of attackers was never in doubt, and in the mayhem, it was a dance of power and restraint. More fists flew, with various patrons joining in or scrambling for cover. The bartender and a handful of the more sober individuals tried, belatedly, to put an end to it. “Enough!” and “Stop this madness!” they screamed, and eventually, Yama realized his influences and gradually ceased his actions, though his chest rose and fell with exertion. 

The fight ended as quickly as it began, with minor injuries and bruised pride scattered throughout the bar. Yama stood in the wreckage, surrounded by upturned tables and splintered glass, a colossus among scrappy bystanders. Apologies were mumbled, mainly from the bashful young men who had marveled at and challenged the stranger’s strength. With a deep sigh of regret, Yama offered his help cleaning up the mess, a negotiation as calm as his fists had been violent moments ago. After many years of playing mediator, the bartender nodded his thanks for the apology, although it went unspoken. The rest helped put the bar back in order, and Yama used his moments of solitude to reflect. It was an unfortunate excursion, a brief regression into the fire he so often attempted to avoid. Yama realized his place in Tsukigakure would require more than strength; it would take wisdom and patience. He vowed to embody these principles more fully as he trekked throughout the new land.

The other drinks quickly progressed, and the atmosphere inside “The Crescent Moon” became more boisterous. Yama and the other local patrons had drunk the bar narrowly dry, and the alcohol drew crowds to the remaining beverages. Yama’s intense physicality and deceptively large drinks attracted attention as neighboring drinkers tried to catch a glimpse of him from behind their beverages. Unsurprisingly, the camaraderie shifted with the alcohol consumption. Specifically, a group of young men, perhaps filled with vigor at the prospect of their increased alcohol consumption, decided to test how their strength compared to the stranger on their table. 

The trolling quickly turned to direct insults against Yama and taunts, flaunting improvements in strength. As the taunts turned to jabs against Yama’s size and strength, Yama’s whiskey-soaked mind and over-inflated ego reacted a little more quickly than perhaps was wise. His chest puffed out, and his voice resonated deep and threatening against the chatter of the general room. The tension broke, and a shove against the big man’s back was all the signal needed to explode the keg of frustration and liquor. Yama turned, catching the wrist of the shover’s arm in his hand. With a practiced discipline and humorous physicality not expected of a man of irreverent size, Yama twisted the arm gently in a standard martial arts tension pull. The friends of the shoving man quickly turned violent.

At the same time, after the events of the bar fight, Yama chooses to distance himself from the chaos and the slowly dissipating frustration of “The Crescent Moon” to drive his thoughts inward. Yama could feel himself losing composure; simultaneously, the cold night outside the bar seemed to have revived him. The backside alleyway beckoned with a kind of welcome quietness after the raucousness of the bar. The darkness was only punctured by single beams of pale light escaping from the randomly cracked opened doors in between the backside buildings. The shadows of the cables and pipes crisscrossing above ran down the large brick backdrop with an un-subtle assertiveness. 

The hushed scratching of what Yama assumed to be stray animals or muffled by distance nightlife in the village made him feel isolated. He pressed himself into a corner of the more astonishing brick wall and sat down. He had a bottle that he grabbed on the way out and paid for, but he barely drank half when he was inside. The amber glint of the whiskey rising through the bottle under the dim light seemed like everything that would numb Yama’s probing mind said to him. He twisted open the bottle and took a swig, feeling the golden alcohol sliding within and down his gullet against the cold coolness of the night. It was so quiet here, unlike the bar, and Yama’s mind wandered back to the day from the moments of peace at Shinoda Springs to the unapproved bar fray.

Yama mulled over his reactions, and the responses they had elicited came to him with each sip. It was clear that, despite his physical journey to Tsukigakure, he still had much to traverse in his emotional landscape. The alleyway was his place of solitude, a spot where he could process this information and confront the parts of himself that still grappled with the violence of his past. Yama's reflections intensified as the hours turned into the night and the bottle emptied. He thought about his need for companionship, his automatic response to perceived challenges, and his ongoing struggle to find peace within himself. He considered that while the physical scars of this past no longer showed, the emotional ones would no longer need to be tended to. The night drew on, and the nightlife in Tsukigakure faded to whispers. In these quiet moments, Yama felt the weight of his solitude press against his breath.

Nonetheless, this solitude somehow clarified him in ways he had not felt in a long time. It explained what he needed to change within himself and how he might begin to make this change. By the time the first hints of dawn tinged the sky, Yama felt a resolve. He understood that, from here onwards, it would not just be a path of physical might but one of emotional wisdom. He resolved to find ways to form deeper connections with the people of Tsukigakure, to learn from them, and to create relationships robust enough to withstand the difficulties of his nature.

Standing up, Yama put the bottle near the trash bin in the cabinet. A moment later, a sober understanding of the situation came to him. When he walked out of the alley, it was with a straightforward understanding – he was not only looking to place a death-dealer, Tsukigakure, but a better man, as well—a new day dawned on a battle-weary warrior and one who sought the truth.

After spending the longest, most introspective night of his life deep in the alley on the streets of Tsukigakure, Yama’s body finally steered him back to the inn. The roads were empty that early in the morning before dawn; only a few early risers or stragglers would cross Yama’s path. The cold, fresh air helped a bit to clear his head, but the drunkenness from the whiskey was still quite strong. His steps felt unsteady, and so did his head. It was a familiar way back to the inn, just a few turns and pushes of doors. Yama’s hand pushed the front door open, and it gave out with a slight creak – pushed open slowly by its iron hinges. Yama was grateful to the innkeeper for letting a dim light burn in the hallway; it offered a warm, welcoming glow in the quiet morning. Ascending the stairs, Yama could feel his weary limbs give out – he became increasingly aware of how drunk he was. The alcohol was taking its toll as Yama’s large hands fumbled with the tiny key. 

He opened the door, which creaked sweetly as he entered the room. Everything was just as before – just a bit cold, as the curtains were drawn out, and the bed gave a slight still-warm feeling. Yama looked longingly at the bed and tolled towards it, but he wasn’t strong enough. He was a few steps short when his entire body gave in and pulled him to the floor. His last waking thought was to let go, and so he did. There, on the cold floor, Yama slept – deeply, recklessly. The dimension of sleep was new, and the room was irrelevant – the cold was nowhere near enough to disturb the sleep. Yama breathed deeply, and his face looked pained at relaxation. Downtown, just as the sun rose, Yama’s vantage was hit by the first light rays – soft, yellow, and wholesome. His body was still in pain from the hardness of the floor, but his mind was miles away. Hours would pass before Yama Allen would revisit the real world. As the day broke tomorrow, it was the first chance Yama would have to reflect on his mistakes, the intussusception of his village, and his attitude toward life.

The physical unpleasantness of his improvised bed was forgotten as Yama lay stretched out on the cool floor of his inn room. Where had he been? The exhaustion that swallowed him whole. His massive frame, forever poised in tension and readiness, was now slack, and his deep breath even. The quiet filter of the first light of dawn crossed the village and painted a soft pastel picture over the inn’s window and Yama. His sprawling shape Lolled still sprawled as his mind turned languidly through the world of dreams, in which conscious fears and desires spun out like vivid tapestries. Images of battle and old slights were forgotten this morning. This morning, Akaime filled the hollow space that Akaime’s absence had always carved. 

The dream took place in a version of Tsukigakure where the rivers ran silver with moonlight, and the trees blossomed golden leaves. Yama walked beside a radiant river, which reflected the swirling sky above like watercolor. The sky was a soft blend of purple and deep blue. A violin sang quietly in the distance, and Yama’s northward journey all but pulled his legs. He followed the river around a slow curve, and then she appeared. A bridge spanned the luminous river, and Akaime stood there, the violin cradled softly in his arms. His face was open and his smile light, and the song he played haunted Yama with its familiarity and filled him with an aching he could not name.

But there was one more image in the dream, the one to whom Yama could say everything on his mind in an instant. As Yama boarded the bridge, Akaime looked up. There was no nostalgia, there was no sadness, there was no happiness, but they looked at each other. Then he walked to his side, and they began to listen to the violin together. He doesn't often think he's okay like this. Sometimes, he's just drunk like that. The mood that made him exhausted, the loneliness he couldn’t confide in, and the constant pressure he put on himself disappeared as if the dreamt river and the fantasy of his loved one were washing it away. Over time, they both walked down the bridge together on the river bank. Then he grabbed his hand without a second thought and grabbed Yama's hand. The scenery around him was unreal. The trees in the forest gave off a light of their own. It was beautiful to look at the fields illuminated by stars and their starlight and to walk past mountains that couldn’t be more sublime. 

However, he gradually woke up. The scenery became duller, the sound of the violin in his ears faded away, and the overall physicality of my room came to him. He's lying on the floor; Akaime isn’t there, but he's there because he knows he will eventually come. Then he got up, and the pale light of the early morning penetrated the room's window. The principle is more complicated than it was in my dream. The dream of Yama, who woke up in a vague light, was a bittersweet acknowledgment of his love and dreams of peace in the real world.

When Yama opened his eyes, he rose from the deep and colorful dream that sleeping on the hard floor during the night seeped through his muscles. After all, the emotional residue of his dream with Akaime had been heavy and sat on the early morning like a soft, nostalgic blanket. Yama sighed heavily and shifted his body weight in ritual abatement; the stiff arrangements of his body demanded adjustment on a new day. 

Naturally, the first cause was before him – it was to heed his previous advice and rinse the foolish remnants of yesterday and the physical annoyance. Yama found in his room the humble bathing facilities offered by the inn. A large wooden tub stood gratefully in the bathroom's corner to accommodate his size. It was a few pieces of wood but suitable for a nice bath. Yama filled it with steaming hot water, the steam rising from it in swirls that lined the small mirror on the wall and the windows’ cold panes. He added some bath salts and a small jar holding the infused herbs for a nice soothing bath, and he said the lavender and chamomile. As the room perfumed, Yama removed his garments; the act was labored, the gait was slow, and the apparitions of his dream with Akaime lingered in the back of soaked lids.

As Yama stepped into the hot bath, he drew a deep sigh of relief as the heat enveloped him. The water was on the brink of scalding, but it gently embraced his tired muscles. He slid into the tub, feeling the tension leak from his body. The heat seeped into his consciousness, loosening the tension in his shoulders and back and relaxing the bruises and soreness from the last night’s endeavors. The young man sighed, allowing himself to float in the pool, losing himself in the sensory deprivation. The heat and the herbal scents worked their magic, whispering in his ears that everything would be fine, his body would relax, and his mind would quiet. Unlike the commotion at the bar or the agony-filled vision at the forefront of his thoughts, this was a moment of peace, a reconnection to the world around him. 

Yama knew he was not only cleansing his body but also his spirit. The time seemed to drag during the bath, the water settling into lukewarmness while his thoughts floated freely. He meditated on the way here, the challenges that had come and gone, and the paths he still wanted to take in Tsukigakure. He meditated on the ways he could find a place with the people here, whether he could find Akaime. Finally, Yama emerged from the bath, feeling resolved and refreshed. He dried himself off, the rushing towel reminding him of the tangible world that needed his attention. He dressed, prepared to meet the day with a new resolve, the burden of his terrible night washed away. His next steps would be clear and chosen, with the knowledge of his earlier suffering and the wisdom of what had gone before.

Yama’s morning began again, new and hopeful after the reflection soaked through his bath. Upon stepping out of the inn, Tsukigakure had already transformed into a hive of motion. The sun hid behind the canopy leaves, playing with the fresh shadows all over his way. Every step he took was more pondered than the last day, and all his surroundings were now viewed with fresh regard for foreign places only the day before. He returned to “Dark Side,” the morning spot where he had the morning before. This time, though, Yama led the time to understand the village he passed. The streets of Tsukigakure were aflame with life in the morning rush hour as vendors quickly paced their way to stalls where they offered not-yet-rotted crops and hand-crafted things. The scent of street food began invading the sun-filled air around him. Groups of youngsters laughed and chattered as they danced around and between adults. 

Shopkeepers tried to get their attention by haggling and hawking their sunlight-exposed stands. Yama found the village’s style fascinating: wooden buildings clashing with more modern design demanded a look that society was both reverent but forward-looking. Here and there, gentle flags fluttered half-up the wind, branded in diverse colors with the emblem of the mighty village and its various but prominent clans, adding color to the dull but calm of our world. Flowers arranged into bouquets on a vendor’s stand with bright colors that were at odds with the village’s palate made him smile. The scents of the flowers combined with the earthy smell of the morning dew took him back to the summers in the fields near his home. It was sentimental but only a touch bitter. Approaching “Dark Side,” the gothic exterior was the most distinct of any he had seen, bold against the probable traditional shops surrounding it. The black and silver mingle said it resided a day story. But Yama did not mind the bold expression; it reminded him of how various the village was in that kind of way.

Upon entering, the dark, brooding interior struck Yama in stark contrast to the vibrant, bright street from which he had just left. The dim light and soft, comforting cushions hugged him and welcomed him from the noisy life outside. Yama took his usual seat in the booth by the window, positioning himself to look down at the villagers below but still be surrounded by the comforting sense of isolation he enjoyed. The menu was familiar to Yama at this place, and he ordered smoked sausages, scrambled eggs, thick slices of toast, and a mug of coffee on the waiter’s arrival. 

Yama’s gaze wandered around the room as he awaited his food. Some filled the tables in various stages of solitude and conversation. It was almost as if coming back here felt practically normal. There was a sense of pattern about this that curled around Yama’s heart and helped him feel at home. The coffee was just what he needed, and he sipped it like life depended on it. It was rich and bold and rooted him even further into the table. With every bite of his food, Yama began wondering what today might have in store for him in Tsukigakure.

As Yama was delighting in his breakfast at Dark Side, his eyes floated across the compartments of the half-dark room that were his fellow patrons. The stained glass windows cast the morning light into an almost mystic aura over their faces, and the general gothic design of the place added to the solemnity. Alongside him was a party of young ninjas – judging by the headbands marked with the symbol of Tsukigakure, his village – discussing their training. There was a lot of technical mumbo jumbo in their speech – words about all sorts of jutsu and preparations for some exam – and plenty of chuckling and high spirits now and again, breaking the grim visage of the Dark Side. In a corner booth, shielded by shadows and half-covered by a pillar, was an elderly couple. They were talking in whispers, and Dhand could only see gentle touches as their hands occasionally reached each other across the mesa; they could only see shared smiles and the depth of warm companionship for many years. They added gentle serenity and a touch of gravity to the place; they said that everybody inhabited the village. Across the window, against the wall, a single man sat with a hefty tome occupying the bulk of the small table before him. He pored over it with intense enthusiasm, occasionally dipping into a smaller book and making notes. Given his brow furrowed with concentration and the familiar look of mild confusion associated with bookworms, Dhand assumed that he was probably a scholar or a strategist planning for some campaign. From what Dhand could catch, his book was of maps and runes, usually of historical use.

Three well-dressed people with the hurried look of merchants or traders were having a heart discussion at the bar. They exchanged happy yells about fluid trade routes and abrupt political changes in local businesses. I quietly listened, and the conversation fed me endless information about Tsukigakure’s economic climate. The village was not only populated by ninjas but was also a hub of daily life. The pieces of the village’s puzzle coalesced around Yama, a small gear in the mechanism that was learning to stabilize. Eventually, as he continued to eat, Yama found himself eagerly piecing those who shared the restaurant with him into the village’s story. Each person and group was created differently; everyone had life stories, struggles, and hopes. And Scoffs had let Yama know that he belonged; he was one of those people, no one but the outsider eating breakfast at a gothic place in the middle of the chief business district in Tsukigakure. Yama had never felt this energy in Scoffs before, much less at ease with it, and his stomach gave a happy groan to signal the end of his meal. As Yama gathered up his plate and left “Dark Side” behind, he knew he would be back and a little less street away from learning how to exist.

His mind drifted back to the previous night's events as Yama left “Dark Side” behind. The bar fight had erupted in a flash of tempers and bruised egos, and walking through the streets of Tsukigakure brought him closer to “The Crescent Moon,” where it had happened. The morning’s light and the peace of a new day starkly contrasted with the chaos and anger he remembered. As he approached the bar, he saw it was as clean as a hospital floor. The windows sparkled as they caught the morning sun’s light, and there was no hint of the turmoil that surged through this place not long ago. And yet, as he stood there, staring at the artificial reality’s facade, all the night's emotions fell upon him – anger, frustration, and relentless, vigorous questioning of why he had done what he did. Yama stopped, thinking why he seemed to be so quick to anger. A lightning bolt of realization struck him – his life was a series of battles, small and big. Everything in his life was conflict, from fighting for a place in the rice farming family to the betrayal of Missing Nin. This hour has made him think deeper and contemplate the source of his temper. He realized it was not only a question of pride and fight for his status. It was also about protecting people he loved, and if protecting started to endanger them, his aggression knew no bounds. God, he thought, this realization was profound. The idea of a human duality had just got a lot less abstract.

With that in mind, Yama returned to the Crescent Moon. At this time, the place was relatively quiet, as the usual night crowd had gone home, and only a few of the more local patrons were present, either enjoying a single, quiet drink or a light breakfast. When he saw him, the bartender recognized him immediately; Yama could see this in the way he shifted, watching him with no small amount of caution but no open hostility either. Yama sat at the bar and ordered a cup of tea as he drank in the solitude. He thought about his journey, how each place he had lived and each struggle he had partaken in had left its mark on him, built upon the other, layering with every fight. In a place where his anger had once ruled him, he instead developed a desire that spread slowly like light breaking over the horizon. In his time at the empty “The Crescent Moon,” Yama didn’t know this would be the path he walked, but he was ready. When he left, he had decided on a quiet commitment to himself: to understand and seek to tame his anger until his readiness to fight was replaced with a readiness to listen, and the village streets looked just a bit brighter to him.

Having drafted an unsolicited reflection on his experience at “The Crescent Moon,” a bar, Yama could not resist the overwhelming urge to return to the training grounds at Shinoda Springs soon after his first visit. The memory of observing those young ninjas training across the fields felt peaceful, and he wished to re-experience it in hopes of simultaneously rediscovering greater peace within himself, possibly by passive observation of others hard at work facing the same struggles to obtain ways to redirect the energy he fuels into self-destruction more constructively. Walking towards the training grounds, he could immediately hear the cries of physical exhaustion in most areas and the loud, assertive instructions of the leadership. The whole place buzzed with ambition and energy, training ninjas of all ages, some demonstrating the old traditional techniques of Tsukigakure’s Shinobi forces and some constantly inventing new methods. Finding an excellent ground to sit on, he observed underage students practicing basic fire techniques. 

They performed well but still needed more fluid motion of more years within them. Their youth was evident in their frequent slip-ups, but their persistence and skills advanced for their level. Some were taking lessons on team combinations, which required more than just skill, trust, and understanding between team members. Witnessing this, Yama was reminded of how important community and support were, especially after recent events had utterly destroyed his perception of reality. An instructor walked among them, providing correctional guidance and demonstrations where necessary. Yama admired the discipline that drove this school, understanding that physical and mental nourishment wasn’t the only goal; they also built character, creating bonds that could survive hardships. 

Gazing towards his left, he saw a lonesome figure practicing fine manipulation of water – a young ninja with absolute control over the element. Her movements were organic and liberating, and her strength represented beauty. Her isolation mirrors what he felt within and without, a master of his actions with nobody to share them. His stay at Shinoda Springs was bound to his soul, a direct contradiction of the hell he felt the previous night, and it further cemented his decision to change his lifestyle wholly. By the time he left, Yama didn’t think these children of Tsukigakure would stop inspiring him; they would become his very life, and as he journeyed back to “the Crescent Moon,” the pain felt nothing more than a vague feeling of what he used to be.

Yama found solitude on the shore of a calm lake outside Tsukigakure. The lake was a still spot, away from the bustle of the city and the active but contained commotion of the training areas. The only sound was the calm ebbing of the water reaching the shore. Yama sat on the grass that led to the edge of the serene body of water. Just below the surface, he observed a school of fish swimming rapidly. The almost secret motion of their cooperative movement was calming. He felt his nerves suddenly tranquilize. Yama began to take off his sandals and slip his feet into the cool water. The chill initially shocked him, but it was followed by a refreshing stream that permeated through his soles and somehow grounded him. Yama looked at the calm lake and reflected on his time in Tsukigakure. 

The village was such a double-edged sword. Like it had calm and chaotic sides, Yama mirrors that sensation inside. As the water stilled, the fish calmly swam in a fierce little circle. His mind drifted to all the reasons he could settle down there. All he thought about was settling down with Akaime. He found it poetic that the fish swam in a pattern. Counterparts in stillness, much like the cancer warrior’s mind. He pondered the concept of home. Home for Yama was always a foreign term. Places were merely pit stops on his trek to survive and pass through temporary connections. Tsukigakure, its people, traditions, and peace in unexpected places could add some context. The home was not a place but a sense of community.

The prospect of making such a place his home seemed thrilling and terrifying. It was exciting because it meant accepting the assorted vulnerabilities and responsibilities he’d spent so long ignoring. But dreadful because, for the first time since departing from the old village, Yama felt a sense of connection to a place and its people that extended far beyond the superficial. Yama imagined spending his days here with Akaime, experiencing moments of genuine joy like watching the sun rise over his village or imparting wisdom about strength with morality to eager young ninjas. The serenity of the lake helped Yama think, and when he finally removed his feet from its cool embrace, he did so with a sense of clarity. 

Residing in Tsukigakure did not imply that fearing his dark emotions and learning to accept their wisdom were futile endeavors. Instead, it represented an opportunity to interweave those lessons into a more extraordinary tapestry of hope, shared living with Akaime and his unexpected village family. As he faced the village again, Yama knew precisely what to do. He’d acquire roots in this land, those that would tether him to more things than just a location but to a better sense of direction and definition for a meaningful life. He turned away from the lake, and each step carried him closer to Tsukigakure and success, feeling less heavy until he finally felt right at home.

Yama’s time of contemplation by the lake had not necessarily illuminated his future in Tsukigakure but had at least left him with a sense of resolution in his heart. Yet, he again found himself in a bar's silence in the evening. This time, he sought the comfort of a different one known for its quieter nature. He had chosen a place where he did not need to be for last night’s turmoil at “The Crescent Moon.” The bar was dimly lit for early evening, with lanterns filled with golden light, lighting up the wooden interior with a cozy, soft yellow. There was a smattering of people at the tables and the walls – some enjoying evenings with companions, some spending the time with their thoughts and drinks. It was the ideal place for Yama – the establishment where he could be left alone in the background of the village life’s steady beat. 

As he sat down at the corner of the bar, the bartender nodded at Yama almost respectfully and with a faint acknowledgment of his presence, pouring him a glass without saying a word. It was the kind of experience that neither man needed to speak about—they saw each other and understood one another in this simple exchange. The glass in hand, Yama’s eyes flickered around the room.

He sipped the drink slowly, the liquor feeling smooth and rich in his mouth, an excellent counterpoint to the crispness of the air, which suggested the close of day outside. His mind returned to the tranquil lake, the calm fish. His thoughts of getting hold of himself. With each little sip, Yama felt a growing, trusty resolve that healed the inner turmoil. Yama lingered at the bar as night fell further. The bar filled a bit more, but the mood was just the softer, more continuous ideological hum of minor dialects and brief laughter. Yama stayed there and observed everything that transpired. 

The alcohol warmed him, easing the tense muscle tension that held him tightly. He spent some time in the bar, lost in consideration. Staying in Tsukigakure felt better and much more substantial. It wasn’t a house he was contemplating or a job now. It was a community and a shared future, maybe family. The thought was attractive and scary, but Yama felt ready to accept it. By the time he realized he needed to go, Yama had drunk out and paid his bill. The Tsukigakure streets were now calm, deep in the night sky. Yama went back to his dwelling. His footsteps did not waver as he celebrated the move his heart took, and his spirit rejoiced at the prospect of a bright future.

As Yama left the bar, the calming effects of his contemplation and the evening's drinks were still evident in his relaxed demeanor. The streets of Tsukigakure were quiet, and most villagers were now tucked inside their homes or still enjoying the nightlife behind closed doors. The night was clear, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves along the path, accompanying Yama as he walked. Just as he crossed a dimly lit section of the street, Yama felt a slight tug at his pocket. His reflexes, honed through years of training and battles, instantly kicked in. He grabbed a man's wrist stealthily, trying to lift his wallet. The would-be thief, caught in the act, panicked and tried to pull away, but Yama’s grip was iron-clad.

At that moment, the tranquility that had settled over Yama began to crack. Memories of past betrayals and the constant fights for survival surged through his mind, reigniting the familiar spark of anger. With his other hand, he seized the pickpocket by the collar of his jacket, lifting him off his feet. The suddenness and severity of Yama's reaction starkly contrasted with the peace he had experienced moments before. Yama's temper flared as he looked at the man squirming in his grasp. The pickpocket was young, perhaps too young to engage in such acts out of desperation. Despite this, Yama's initial impulse was to mete out punishment and use the physical dominance he had always relied on to resolve conflicts.

He shook the man slightly, his anger manifesting in his tight grip and the low growl in his voice. But as he drew back his other hand, ready to deliver a punishing blow, a flicker of realization passed through Yama’s heated mind. This was not who he wanted to be—not anymore. The visions of a peaceful life in Tsukigakure, the introspection by the lake, and his resolve to change clashed violently with his instinctive response to aggression. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Yama lowered the man back to the ground, releasing his collar but keeping a firm hold on the wrist. His anger was still present, visible in his tense jaw and the complex set of his shoulders, but he controlled it, channeling it into words rather than violence.

“Why?” he asked the pickpocket, his voice steady but loaded with a restrained intensity. The simple question carried the weight of his struggles with right and wrong, trust and betrayal. The pickpocket mumbled an apology, fear evident in his eyes. Yama listened, his anger ebbing as the reality of the situation settled in—the man was driven by necessity, not malice. Yama released him with a final, stern warning about the consequences of such actions. He watched as the young man hurried away, then stood alone in the quiet street, feeling the heavy beat of his heart slow down.

As Yama continued his walk back to the inn, the incident renewed his awareness of his challenges, tempering his instincts with the wisdom he aspired to cultivate. It was a stark reminder that his journey of change was ongoing, with each decision and reaction a test of his resolve.

His steps grew heavier, and Yama continued returning to the inn. He had grown exhausted by the night’s events. Everywhere, there was an undertow of emotional turmoil. The confrontation with the pickpocket had weakened him and sapped more than just his strength. The effort of containing his anger and approaching the situation without violence had reopened old sores and reminded him of his doubts. Images flashed across his mind’s eye as he walked, and his surroundings grew hazy. The alley was blurred, and the corners of his vision darkened by fatigue and stress. Everything seemed to quiet down; the alley he passed through was more secluded than ever.

The shadows ate at night and consumed it without showing its existence. Here, in the hidden heart of the village, Yama’s strength finally gave. His legs folded beneath him, and he hugged the cool wall in a daze. His mind swam, and the tired light of a distant lamp became a star as he slid down the wall and onto the ground. In the end, Yama passed out cold on the pavement in a sleep of defeat. The alley had seemingly snuffed the life out of him. It was quiet, and the village’s sounds came from underwater. Solitude should have been a gift here, enabling Yama to rest unseen for however long he needed. Yet, simultaneously, someone passing by might not give him a second glance regardless of how he appeared.

Even in his unconsciousness, the whirlwind of his thoughts did not rest. Shadows of dreams filed through there: the visions of former skirmishing, specters of the lost and betrayed, and vanities turning in his mind, reaching a vacillating agreement on whether he had already found peace in himself. And kinds of pictures were also intertwined with a kinder one, permeated with echoes of the life he wanted to build in Tsukigakure – understanding, community, and love – love even if he allowed himself to be naive. Yama did not know how long he lay in the alley where the night died, giving way to the dawn. Consciousness returned to him when the first faint blue and pink strokes of light already smeared the lining of the sky. And with her, the sensations of the roughness of the earth and stickiness in her own body returned – its cold, cold, cold still fell from heaven on her forehead. 

He shook his head and groggily leaned back against the gray bricks of the wall on which he sat. The coolness of critical retrospection was what he needed – the wisdom of soberness that emerged from this unexpectedly intimate dose of a night alley. Recovering, recovering some strength, Yama pulled himself to his feet. Perhaps not the most comfortable workout – the walk to the inn upstairs would be long and difficult. But every step was already a recovery. This was the body’s method for restoring resilience and strength. And it was about his inner strength, returned to resilience, the power to boldly crash again – and again, and again. 

As Yama dragged his exhausted form back into the inn, the first soft brushes of sunlight began to paint the village in a shimmering gold and amber palette. Physically drained and mentally exhausted from the earlier confrontations and his unplanned meeting with the alley’s rough embrace, he sought solace in one place he knew he could find it – a quiet corner of a local bar. This time, he chose a small and lesser-known establishment just around the corner from the inn, where the soft, dim lighting and the low rumble of barely-awake morning conversations promised him relative privacy and peace. A nod of recognition from the bartender as he pulled the door open was enough for Yama to realize how familiar the bar’s staff had become with him during his stay in Tsukigakure. Yama settled into his usual spot at the far end of the bar, near the windows but away from the bar’s sparse early-morning patrons. 

He ordered a strong drink – something to warm and soothe the weariness and aches that clung stubbornly to his body. The bartender placed a glass before him, filled with a rich, amber fluid Yama recognized as the bar’s finest whiskey. Wrapping his large hands around the glass, he felt the warmth of the drink seeping into his palms. Slowly and with a sloppy move, he gazed into the depths of the drink for a moment, watching the light catch and dance before closing his eyes and taking the first sip. The harsh edge of his tiredness dulled with each swallow, replaced by a spreading warmth in his chest.

Yama sat as the ambient noise of the bar washed over him; the clink of glasses and murmur of the low conversations felt calming against his ragged state of mind. This is a place of relative tranquility, or at least a facsimile of one: a drink at the end of the day. Reflecting on the past few days, his time spent in Tsukigakure, the struggles, the zen at the lake, the violent confrontation with the thief, and his constant fight against his anger. It is all part of the same journey. A stumble through the dark, with a few steps taken backward, but a path regardless. His drink empties slowly, and each sip seems to take longer and longer, each break lasting more as the drink nears its end. As he sets the empty glass on the bar, a new voice can be felt and cuts through the bar's noise: a quiet resolve. Even in the face of his regression, he knew he was doing better. 

He was still too hasty to absolute true calm and slow to earn the right to feel joy, but he was getting there, slowly. On leaving the bar after dawn had bloomed, Tsukigakure came alive now that the everyday activities had begun. Yama felt at least slightly more grounded than he had in days. His steps as he moved towards the inn felt more confident, though he struggled not to break into a run—a testament to his will and drive to make this his home.

WC: 10,002
TWC: 10,002
EXIT

WC Claims:
+840 towards Pureblooded Shinobi (Complete) (Previous Progress)
+1125 towards Hiding with Camouflage [v7] (Complete)
+3750 towards Dustless Bewildering Cover [v7] (Complete)
+1875 towards Seven Heavens Breathing Technique (Complete)
+1500 towards Divine Breathing [v7.2] (Complete)
+912 towards Soft Wind Blowing (A Rank) (912/1875)

Approved