All to late now

Damon’s gaze swept across the boundless horizon of the sea. As a young boy growing up in Lightning, he had stood at the feet of some of the highest peaks on the continent, and yet never had nature awestruck him like now, basking before the ever-shifting azure of the ocean.

The silver-haired monk-to-be stood on the very waves. Just a few steps into the water, behind him a pebble-stone beach painted in all the tones of grey.

The water-walking technique was one he mastered even before his academy days. He'd never forget the soft expression of joy on his father's face as Damon effortlessly skipped over that pond in the back of temple garden.

Draped in a long black kimono and hakama pants, his hands calmly swaying by his side he sternly stared outwards onto the expanse.

It was mid-noon, and the sun was likewise plumply sitting in the cloudless sky, beaming down onto the bay-like shoreline where the fugitive was idling about.

He sought some silence and privacy from the recent ruckus. He and his crew of merchants had reached the small fishing village late in the afternoon of the previous day.

What a familiar and tribal return they were given…!

As some of the major providers of income to the settlement, each of the men was greeted by feverishly awaiting relatives and welcomed home with a lavish display of affection.

What envy he felt at first… what crooked jealousy…

Damon was introduced to a few of the local families, of which multiple immediately offered to take the young monk-pretend in and spoil him with their hospitality.

The boy was somewhere between amused and confounded by their naivety. These were the good, fine people—the type of character he wished more citizens of the world could be like. Yet it was exactly people like them who would fall prey to the kind of person he was. The kind of person he would no doubt need to be.

Why was it so?

The militant ways of their home country demanded that those who could fight, fight for the rulers of that very military, to keep at bay those pesky militant forces of their neighbours—a perpetual cycle of deterrence.

Yet it was those moments where that deterrence broke that all hell was set loose on the very citizens they were actually meant to protect in the first place.

The irony…

What an utterly foolish system, clearly constructed to keep those with power in power. During his first night, finally laying down in a stationary bed, Damon lingered on these troubling thoughts. Although they also continued to fester his own dreams and aspirations of justice and how he would go about bring them to life.

Early the next day, he sought out the sea. He wanted to be near it, his first time standing before the endless domain of waves. It was exhilarating how quickly the slight taste of salt on his tongue had become normal, nothing but a whiff that he only caught once it was just about to be forgotten.

He wanted to be alone, not just to ponder his recent journey or to overthink haikus he had read back in Kumo describing the beauty of the sea, but to find time to refresh his skills, calm his thoughts, and keep the overwhelming sensation of shame and regret at bay.

He wouldn’t fall to an inkling of failure.

He was on a mission; one that required no absolution, he couldn’t sway from his path. Even if he wanted to, he would now tread the road he had chosen.

No, instead he sought a private place to recall some of the basic jutsu he had been taught during his time at the ninja academy.

To create shadow clones, the ability to transform, and lastly a fire technique he frequented to inscribe verses of the holy scriptures onto walls at the Academy.

Every shinobi in training had to master the first two; they were the basics—simple but relevant techniques that mimicked the type of control over chakra any young shinobi needed in order to cast more complicated techniques down the line.

He hadn’t used any in quite some time and decided that he would have to simply become better by execution.

First, he trained with the clone technique. Assimilating chakra in such a way to maintain the shape of the illusion was the crux of the jutsu—not just channeling chakra within but shaping and holding the creation outside one's own body.

He held a single hand sign vehemently as he stood opposed to an almost perfectly identical copy of himself. He let his double take a few steps around him, clap its hands, and finally, the two high-fived before he let it erupt in a puff of smoke, fading into the shoreside breeze.

Next was the metamorphosis technique. This one was most likely going to become a pivotal jutsu he would rely on. A single hand seal was all that was needed, but Damon knew he had to pull this off fast, accurately, and to the best of his ability every time he would cast it. To him, the visualisation and control were the most important aspects of mastering the transformation jutsu.

Maintaining the seal, he watched as the pigment on his arm and hand changed to a darker hue, then slowly returned to its original pale color. Next, he held his fingers up to his face, only to make contact with a nose and mouth that were not his own. Simply holding the jutsu in place had him thinking of all the possibilities he would have to explore to make the best use of this skill.

And lastly, there was the jutsu that allowed him to mark his surroundings. This was an incredibly simple and staple technique, and one of the first he had learned from another classmate at the academy. Forming the seal of confrontation, a universal hand sign to symbolize antagonism, he could feel the tip of his index finger glow like combusting cinder. He only held it momentarily; he knew well enough how to use this technique.

Damon felt a growing surge of satisfaction from his mastery. It wasn't that he despised jutsu, truly much of the religion he wholeheartedly believed in was based on the energy that flows through every living thing, chakra. It was more the way that humans shackled and claimed it from their former spirit gods that upset him at times.

Right now though, his ego was soaring. He wanted to take things further, there was a certain jutsu. He remembered how his instructors explained that it was not without risk and should be learned carefully. Well, they clearly hadn't comprehended his potential.

Damon eyed the near end of the stone beach, it was a good twenty meters in the distance, near the bottom of a cliff. His eyes laser-focused on the point as he let his limbs fall limp ever so slightly, then he raised his hands to his chest and formed a single hand sign.

Ram.

The next moment, his silhouette disappeared, as if someone had used an eraser on the lone figure on the beach, and scrubbed him from the scenery.

Instead, he reappeared moments later at the rising stone wall. His stance was changed, he hadn't been prepared for the speed, his legs slid upwards and he came crashing down onto the ground.

He bounced back up, startled for mere seconds. He shrugged the dirt off his clothing and checked for injury, then he turned around and stared back at the place he had flickered away from.

He roared in laughter.

Well, maybe his form wasn't perfect, but he clearly could "use" the jutsu.

Satisfied with today's training and with a growling stomach, he decided to avert his eyes from the mesmerizing view of the endless blue and head back to the village.

Stepping out of his sandals and opting to carry them in his hands instead, he strolled along the pebble beach, feeling the crisp, warm but not too hot stones part and fall back into place with every step he took.

Like the ebb and flow of the very sea they were stranded on.

It was strange; he was so calm, wasn't it?

Amid all the commotion, all the emotion that had been stirred up in the last few days, one aspect he hadn't fully comprehended yet was his newfound freedom. For years, he had been perched within Kumogakure, in a compound littered with people who cared nothing for him. Before that, he had spent almost a year in the academy, where he felt abused and repressed by his instructors. Perched in with teens who seemingly wished for nothing more than to leave the sanctity of their own souls and spirits behind, embracing bloodshed and conflict in the name of some ruthless Kage. Who in turn was controlled by what Damon could only imagine to be an even more ruthless Daimyo.

Here on this beach, at one of the most western points of all of Lightning, he was free—truly free.

A slight smile curved his lips as he focused on the stretch he still had to walk to return to the village.

What was he to do with his newfound freedom next?

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Damon awoke, he had been comfortably accommodated in one of the larger estates of the small yet vibrant shore-side village of Namikari.

It was both unlike anything he had ever experienced before, and yet reminded him of the hustle and bustle of the many suburban settlements surrounding the valley around Kumogakure. The markets, with their different scents and odors, merchants peddling their wares to the common folk all trying to make a living, crowded streets with each person going about their day—some just trying to pass through while others made their full week's shopping.

Namikari Town incorporated aspects of the life he knew. It was small, but thanks to the harbor and its grand fishing economy, sailors from all over the west coast and the surrounding islands made their way into or through the town, bringing with them a sense of adventure and the unpredictable. And then, of course, there was the sea; it was by far the greatest difference from anything Damon had known before. The winds, the air, the smell, the sounds—its existence whisked an entirely different sense of being into the port town.

It had been a few days now that Damon had stayed at the estate. He had actually planned to leave right away to hurry further into the cliffside mountains rising to the south of town, where somewhere deep in its peaks he knew of a monastery that could take him in. Yet it was the charm, the goodness, and the wholehearted hospitality of the people accommodating the boy that made him want to remain and cherish what he had right here.

The bald merchant and main carriage rider had later introduced himself as Kazuo, the firstborn son of the local head family of the merchant guild. He was a respected figure in the village, cherished by the community. As such, he generously offered Damon a place in his household until he decided to move on towards the monastery and his supposed destination.

Kazuo quickly introduced him to his wife, Naoko, a steadfast and sincere woman who welcomed the young, pretended monk into their family with open arms. The couple had three children. Their eldest son, Hiroshi, was just about Damon's age, a bulky but generous lad who bore a genuine similarity to his father, though with thick, unkempt brown hair. Then there was their middle child, and only daughter, Akemi, a cheerful and intelligent young girl who immediately began bombarding Damon with questions about Kumogakure and his life there. Lastly, there was Takeshi, their youngest son, barely one and half years of age.

Never in his life had he witnessed so up close, so intimately, the love and the bond between a family as here. Within only the first two days of being with them, he was overwhelmed by their familiarity with one another, their kindness towards their family as a unit, and the normality that it meant for them. This contented blissfulness was their own. Despite the hardships of living in such a rural area, despite their lack of wealth and lavish gowns, they needed only each other to prosper and build a life for themselves.

Damon was taken aback at first, but immediately made himself useful—he had lived as a servant for almost five years. Naoko noticed quickly, and the two struck a bond of trust. Damon cooked, cleaned, and helped hang clothes. He was always patient, no matter the chaos or mess the children made, and all this help around the house allowed Naoko to give their youngest the attention he required. All the while, Kazuo was out selling their wares, handling cargo paperwork, logistics of trade routes, and other business matters, raking in an income.

The silver-haired boy was about a week into living this new and peaceful existence when he woke up just before dawn to begin making breakfast.

The bed on the second floor of the house was placed right next to the window, and as he opened his eyes and took his first conscious breath, he smiled, recognising the now almost natural scent of salt in the air. He promptly rose and got up from his sleeping mat, straightened and folded it before tucking it into a corner. He slipped into a kimono hanging by the door and into his zori, house slippers made of rice straw and cloth.

He carefully tiptoed down the wooden, creaking stairs, slid open a door, and entered the kitchen. He could almost sense the sun rising behind the large window and eagerly opened it to welcome in the first rays of dawn. With it, the cold began to fade, hiding in the shadows that were pushed back further and further into the corners and creaks of the traditional kitchen setup.

Looking at the ingredients from the day before, Damon decided to make some rice with seaweed wraps and see how he could chop together a large portion for Naoko and Kazou, whilst leaving enough over to scrape together two solid bento boxes for the oldest and middle child. Takeshi’s breakfast was left to his mother.

He stepped directly outside from the kitchen by sliding open the large door leading onto a walkway around the estate onto the main road of town. He grabbed a small bucket, tightened the inner strings of his kimono, and stepped onto the dirt path.

The village was slowly coming to life, fellow early birds greeted him by name as he made his way just down the block to the nearest well. He had always believed fresh water just gave cooked rice a better, more intense taste than that of a stale soup from the night before.

Coming up, there was a small line of others with a similar thought; five or so people stood before the stone structure, and a hassle was made by two of the mothers of households nearby in conflict over who was to attach their bucket to the mechanism from which they could fetch the water.

Damon’s expression settled on a smile so bright, it was as if he was blessed by the renewed strength of the rising sun itself. His pale but fair skin, deep brown eyes, and lightly red-toned cheeks flustered the two women simply by approaching.

“Good morning, aunties. What a serene morning we are graced with today. Let us offer gratitude to the divine spirits for this warm, clear spring day that will blossom like the most beautiful sakura, bringing peace and harmony to our hearts.”

Both women hung on every word out of the boy’s mouth. His soft-spokenness and sincere belief in each and every syllable shared were hard to take at anything but face value.

They ceased their argument on the spot, and Damon continued, “Dear neighbors, I wouldn’t want to impose on you. You have been nothing but the most graceful of hosts. It is only that young Takeshi will awaken soon, and I wanted to have his milk cooled down and ready to serve. May I draw from the well before you?”

Without another word, the two ladies and even some of the others standing before the well invited Damon to draw from it, which he quickly proceeded to do. Even in his movements, he appealed to them with his soft and effortless authenticity. Each pull on the rope, the way he cupped the keg, and lastly, even the slight bow he gave the villagers was certain but not firm, clearly directed but not mechanically repeated. They were all trapped by his allure and wished him a farewell and a good day as he made his way back to the household that harbored him.

Back in the kitchen, the sun now having risen above the waves and embracing the world in light and its rays, Damon was well on his way boiling rice while simultaneously cutting some leftovers. He had laid out some pickled vegetables; he didn’t think it was good manners to eat them out of the glass. Having them dry off a bit and then sprinkling some mustard flakes was a great way to give them a touch of spice with a more intense taste.

As he was chopping some tuna for Hiroshi’s bento box, Naoko entered the room carrying on her arm her youngest son, who seemed to be sliding in and out of slumber.

“Good morning, Damon. I see you’re already well into breakfast arrangements. Dear me, I don’t think I’ve ever met a man with such resolve when it comes to housework as you,” she whispered so as not to wake her son but couldn’t help herself from chuckling a bit.

“Good morning, Naoko-sama. I hope sleep has found you well, and that that the little one did not rob you of too much of it.”

She blushed. “Gee, Damon, drop the formality, will ya? Here in my kitchen, they have no place, pleaseee.”

She waved his words past her, indicating her protest.

“But yes, I did manage to find some sleep once he was finally asleep. You wouldn’t believe it, but that Kazuo can just snore right through all of it, all of it I tell ya.”

Now it was Damon who couldn’t keep himself from chuckling at her.

It was then that the man of the house stepped into the room, already fully dressed to face the day.

“Huh, did I hear my name just now?” His bald head perked up as he spoke.

“I am surprised you hear anything at all, to be honest, dear!”

The three of them did their best to giggle in silence. Damon reached over and handed him a small sack. “I prepared some onigiri with last night’s tuna. I hope they will keep your belly full and your mind on the task, Kazuo-d…” Before he could finish the sentence with the formality he would normally attribute to a man of Kazuo’s stature, his wife cut him off, shaking her finger at him.

“Nah ah ahhh.”

The bulky man gladly grabbed the pouch and attached it to his belt bearing his other tools and goods.

“Thank you, Damon. I am sure it will. Have a great day, you two. Give the kids my love.”

And with that, he left the house, hurrying to meet his fellow merchants.

With him gone, Naoko focused her attention on preparing, then waking her little boy and feeding him, who silently suckled on his bottle. After he was done, she alerted her guest, “Damon, can you take him while I go wake the kids?”

Without hesitation, the criminal perched over and took the child in his loving embrace, taking a seat and a break from wrapping rice in seaweed to rock the freshly fed baby to sleep.

“What a way you have with him. He cries the moment I hand him to almost anyone else, ya know.”

Damon’s answer was a beaming smile.

She left the room, but moments later the house exploded in noise, so much so that Damon had to deal with a slight revolt from Takeshi, who felt disturbed from his post-breakfast nap.

Then all hell broke loose when the three children stormed into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Damon!” “Uhh, what’s for breakfast?” “Oh wow, pickled cucumber, my favorite!” “What a sunny day, huh?” “Mom, can I go stay at Noto’s house later?” “Mom, did Dad already leave? When’s he back today?” “Hey Mom, you wouldn’t believe the dream I had.” “Damon, say, what did you dream tonight?”

Half an hour or so, Damon and Naoko spent pushing the kids from breakfast to getting dressed, to grabbing their lunches, to sending them out the door, and lastly falling back into the kitchen to clean up the mess it required to feed the whole group of people. Lastly, the two, with Takeshi well asleep, sat down and shared some leftovers for breakfast.

“You know, Damon, you have a gift, truly. I don’t know what it is about you, everyone loves ya, really everyone. Hahaha, what is it? Do you have some sort of divine beloved presence?”

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Today, Damon had been granted permission to sleep in. Permission? It was strange how, at times, he still thought of himself as a servant. He had served for almost five years, five years which he felt had been lost, five years he had suppressed his dreams, only the gods would know how much longer he would have remained in lowly service. Yet the cost of his escaping his fate would haunt him for a long time to come, but it had been his choose, his decision, and that was ultimately worth any price paid.

For today though it was not so much permission that had set him free form an early rise, it was an order to rest, commanded by the head honcho and woman of the house. Although it was coupled with the task of visiting the grand bazaar in the village center later in the day. This event, held every two months in the small fishing settlement, was considered a significant occasion. Booths and stalls were erected early in the morning, even before dawn, and were occupied by traders and shopkeepers from the surrounding countryside. They sold fresh vegetables, meats, and other food items, along with furs, jewellery, medicines, and just about anything else one might hope to find at a market.

The directive had come from Naoko, who had written a list of items and groceries she required for weekly cooking and cleaning. Since Damon would be going in her stead, she now had the opportunity to take the rest of the family on a day trip. And as such the silver-haired criminal had cheerfully agreed to relieve the mother of three of her shopping duties.

Kazou, the head of the household, Naoko’s husband, and leader of the merchant guild, was naturally far too busy organising today’s event to actively participate in any related errands. So Damon was more than happy to assist.

In truth, there was another reason Damon wanted to mingle among the large crowds that would fill the streets during the day’s event. On his journey to the settlement over a week ago, he had worked hard to learn the skill needed to actively suppress his chakra at will, a ability he hoped would aid him in remaining undetected on his travels. It was also a technique he intended to refine further. The truth was that completely feigning the absence of chakra could be considered, to some extent, just as suspicious as exerting large amounts of it.

Everything living had a chakra signature—from the resilient sunflower lifting its head toward the sky to the acorn falling from a tree at the dawn of winter. Each human, each animal, all life on this earth. This wasn’t just a natural phenomenon shared by all; it was a deeply ingrained belief of the Shinsei Seishin religion, which Damon fervently adhered to.

Thus, while suppressing one’s signature was undoubtedly useful in certain situations, it was surpassed by the ability to assume the chakra signature of someone or something else. Why hide in plain sight when you could *become* the plain sight itself?

After awakening to the tumultuous sounds of the crowds outside the estate’s main road, the silver-haired, pretend monk slowly rolled off his tatami mat. He neatly folded and stored it away, dressed, washed up, and then stepped outside into the blazing heat of the afternoon sun.

He was dressed in a plain black kimono, loosely tied at the waist, revealing a significant portion of his fair, pale skin from his collar down over his chest. The thin fabric hung over his waistline, allowing a breeze to flow through and cool him on this particularly hot end-of-spring day.

Damon stood before the large estate situated on the key avenue leading in and out of the village. He brushed the sweat from his forehead and ran his fingers through his freshly silver hair, slightly holding it in place, kept back by the stickiness of the dry afternoon sun.

The streets were quite crowded. It seemed people from all over the region had flooded into the village to partake in today’s event.

Wow, Naoko really planned this out, he thought, recalling how he had overheard her taking her kids to a local beach. Normally crowded, it was a popular attraction even among locals, but with everyone here, the beach would be all hers.

He smiled at the mental imagine of a giant devilish grin on the steadfast womans face as she set her basket, mats and sun parasol down in the middle of the heavenly patch of shoreline. Watching over he kids playing in the soft sands and rolling waves of the empty beach.

He hoped the would have the day the wished for, it was still quite alien to him just how much this family had sheltered and cared for him, he had never seen a intimidate bond like their so up close.

Either way Damon fell into motion and followed the crowd down the main road toward the heart of the village, just a block or two away. Before he knew it, he was in the midst of it. It was just like back home. The way so many people were able to pack into such a small space was quite the spectacle. Merchants shouted out prices for fresh cherries right next to a stand selling the last of their watermelon harvest. Whole or halved, they were going quickly, with demand surging from the onlookers passing by.

Just beyond that, a large vegetable vendor was peddling everything from tomatoes to onions and potatoes. The air was thick with the scent of baked fish and even Takoyaki. A nearby stall served fresh lemon tea to refresh visitors in the sweltering temperatures.

But there was more, so much more—a whole row of stands seemed to stretch from one end of the event to the other, peddling nothing but clothing: hand-sewn pieces, designer goods, and even refurbished wares were on display.

Damon’s eyes widened as he passed a vendor selling jewellery of all shapes and sizes, catching a glimpse of some spectacular silver bangles and bracelets.

As he pushed past another group of people, he began to realize that the secret to the market’s overwhelming atmosphere and success was its narrow corridors and tight avenues that forced visitors to squeeze through as they navigated between the various offerings.

And in the midst of all this was Damon. He had perched himself atop a cart, from which he towered above most other visitors, which were spread out evenly among the general head level.

Sitting on the wagon, staring out into the ocean of people, he began to slowly let his eyelids drop and concentrated on his breathing.

Up and down, in and out, up and down, in and out.

First he needed to reach a state from which he could sharpen his sensory ability. In order to do this he tried to gradually detach himself from his surroundings—the smells, the sounds, the crowds. He was an island of one, a place to himself.

It took time, a state of mind that needed to be achieved, not just simply summoned into existence. A mental exercise, that required both effort and yet a detacht effortlessness.

Albeit and with an ever calmer state of mind, there it was—a serenity that washed over him. A sense of control over himself by himself, even while remaining surrounded by swarms of people. It was from this level of heightened focus that he could best begin the process of using any other sensory technique like masking or suppression.

In itself a technique that intensified and sharpened all other sensory techniques that would come afterward.

Now, instead of turning this focus inward, instead of attempting to fold and compress his chakra into the smallest possible form that could be hidden, almost swallowed and ultimately disappearing, he turned his focus outward.

At first, it was just a faint glow, the reflection of light behind his closed eyelids, but something began to take shape. Like the brilliance of fireworks against a clear, starry night, it unfurled into a spectrum of colors, forming a rotating mandala.

He could sense them, feel them, even though he couldn’t see them. Not that this wasent possible, he had heard of such gifted eyes in his academy days—clans and bloodlines honed and revered for centuries in ninja villages, perhaps even in Kumogakure, that bore such eyes, eyes capable of truly seeing chakra.

No, he wasn’t blessed in that way. His gods had different plans for the young monk in disguise. Instead, he would make do with what he had, and right now, he had, at the very least, a keen awareness of the various chakra signatures surrounding him.

He could discern the chakra of both the watermelon and the vendor selling it. He could sense the presence of a group of young children eagerly gathered before a booth offering an array of sweets and candies, and he noticed the cat that had comfortably settled near him, basking in the sunlight without a care in the world.

These were signatures—mental imprints he needed to learn to trace and outline in his mind, so that he could summon them when needed. Instead of revealing a void where chakra should be, he could project the signature of any ordinary market-goer, animal of simple peasant, seamlessly passing as a humble monk going about his day to any intrigued hunter nin or other shinobi seeking him out.

And so he sat in perfect balance and silence, next to the cat purring beside him, breathing calmly while remaining vigilant to all the chakra flowing throughout the market. Some signatures he studied intently, as if examining them under a magnifying glass; others he merely brushed past, as one would in passing strangers on the street.

An hour passed, then another. Damon’s own signature shifted and morphed, like clay taking on one form after another, never fully settling before moving on.

At last, he was satisfied. He was confident that he could cast the jutsu when needed and even amplify the skill to elude detection by other chakra-wielding shinobi, or those naturally surpassing his abilities.

Yet a lingering thought troubled him—wasn’t it truly better to become someone else entirely? Shouldn’t he abandon who he was, and take on a new identity completely?

The life that Damon Kenzaku had led was over. Not only that, but Damon Kenzaku was a branded criminal, wanted for murder throughout the Land of Lightning.

Why would he want to remain this person if he had the chance to be someone else instead?

The idea unsettled him. What does it truly mean to leave your old self behind? Would it be enough to shed his name and adopt another? Could he bury his identity and leave these lands behind as a new person in name only?

Until this very moment, sitting atop the cart in the bustling market, his plan had been to live as a wandering monk, drifting from place to place, as free as the wind, whilst in pursuit of his truer nobler goals.

But that was Damon Kenzaku’s dream. What would be the dream of the person he would need to become to survive as a fugitive? What sacrifices would he have to make? What would he aspire to?

What he feared more than the consequences of change was the possibility of being forced into a decision by the circumstances a life on the run would inevitably bring. He had been particularly careful so far, planning every move, adapting when necessary, but always pursuing his goals with determination. What would happen if his plans were disrupted, and his choices taken from him?

Frustrated, Damon leaped off the cart. He needed to distract himself from his worries. He pulled out a small page from a scroll that Naoko had handed him.

I am here for a reason. One thing at a time. Nothing, absolutely nothing, will tear me from what I have dedicated my life to—my gods, my beliefs, and my mission to change the world. That is what I will do. But first... where do I start? Hmm, damn it, it says watermelons on the list. I hope they’re not sold out.

Damon hurried into the crowd and disappeared within it.

[EXIT]

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Damon Kenzaku wrote:

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Approved!