Those small moments

Mission:

In hindsight, it’s always the smallest moments, those that just pass you by—the most seamless situations—that have the power to shift the paradigm of your existence. The ones that are just a breeze in the wind, yet bring the mountain to a fall.

But how could I have known that?

It was a lazy sunset, one that seemed to last for hours. At first, the sharp red edges creeping against the cloudless blue sky captivate you. But as the flaming orb descends into the ocean, you move on, hardly noticing it anymore. And so darkness slowly encroached while Damon peacefully treaded back to his home.

Home... the fugitive who had somehow submerged himself in the family of the local head of the merchants' guild. Playing with and caring for his three children, aiding and supporting his hardworking wife—Damon, standing in the midst of this loving, devoted family, was a creature who had never experienced any of that warmth. Nor did he feel as if he deserved it.

He was supposed to be deep in the mountains by now, but he hadn’t been able to tear himself away from the luxury of the peaceful life in the seaside village of Namikari.

The wanted criminal, and pretend monk-in-training, was dressed in a plain, greying kimono and hakama pants that fell just over his ankles. Over it, he wore a kesa that marked him as a man of God. On his feet were tabi socks and crudely strung zori, kicking up visible particles of dust on the dirt road before him as he walked back to the estate.

He yawned.

One of the shops on the side of the road caught his attention.

But how could I have known?

He had just strayed off the main road—a straight, half-paved avenue that ran in a direct line from the port to the village gates—and now found himself in a side alley filled with smaller bars and penny shops offering random spoils that the various sailors had brought back from their adventures across the western shores of the Land of Lightning.

What caught his attention was a whole arsenal of sealed scrolls, their covers adorned with kanji indicating that they hid within secrets of jutsu.

It was a small, run-down booth with an elderly man who had barely any hair on his head but a long, curled goatee hanging from his sharp chin.

Damon’s path curved as he sauntered towards the man in his red mantle, who was closing down the dusty stall.

“Good day, dear uncle. I pray only peace finds your soul after a hard day’s work, yes?”

The man shrugged at him passively, but once he turned to face the bright, soft smile of the silver-haired boy, his lips twitched into something resembling a grin, at least.

“What do you want, boy? I’m not giving to the monasteries these days! Gotta take care of my own, you know!”

“Bless you, Uncle. Don’t burden yourself with the sins of the coin. But before you retire your service, may I admire your collection? It’s rare to see such vast treasures for a young monk like me.”

Damon had chosen his words well—it was clear he had played to the man’s ego. It was true; the merchant considered his belongings treasures in their own right. Each and every item had been carefully curated over the years with the limited resources he had, bargaining and pleading to make a profit.

“Sure thing, kid. Take a look, I’ll fill a pipe. Let me know if anything catches your interest...” The old man seemed embarrassed for a moment, trying to entice a spiritualist with the sin of possessions.

But Damon simply skipped into the shop, heading straight for the cupboard where the scrolls were displayed.

“Ahh, those are some jutsu scrolls from a sunken library. A couple of sailors from the islands brought them to me a few months ago. All kinds of stuff in there. Ever heard of Ventriloquism? They told me of shinobi in the deep west, so far the oceans turn to sand where shinobi wield puppets in battle... what nonsense, hehe.” The man coughed and chuckled at the same time.

Damon’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. He had never heard of the customs and techniques of people living so seemingly infinitely far away.

A desert... he couldn’t help but imagine a beach without water, stretching into the horizon.

“May I, Uncle, may I?” he pleaded, begging the man to let him view the contents of the documents.

“Haha, be my guest, boy. Take a look.”

Damon eagerly but carefully unwrapped the scroll and leaned against the wall, holding the items in place as he skimmed the paper. It revealed hand signs, descriptions, situations, and histories of various techniques he had never encountered before. He was mesmerized by the find.

But darkness stretched, and the shop owner nudged Damon. “Oi, oi, boy, come back tomorrow if you want to keep reading, aye? My old bones need to rest.”

Damon apologized with a deep bow and consoled the elderly man as best he could, ensuring him that he would be there at first light when the man opened his doors the next day.

The silver-haired fugitive bounced on his way home, his eyes gleaming with newfound curiosity for these foreign techniques.

That night, he lay in bed, silence enveloping him but for the distant chirping of crickets and the soothing sound of waves crashing in the distance.

His thoughts lingered on the foreign shinobi and their techniques. How would these people differ from the militant ninja he was affiliated with in his own country? Was there a chance that they could be better? Could they possibly even be devoted to beliefs of ancient spirits as he was? Or perhaps to gods unlike those he knew and loved? The possibilities of the unknown kept him awake until the early hours, when he finally found rest.

And just as announced, as the grumpy, pipe-smoking merchant pulled back the curtains of his shop fron just after dawn, the boy, dressed in similar attire, sporting his signature silver hair, stood waving before him.

He even offered the man an onigiri he had prepared for him, which he gladly accepted, happily nibbling on it while the boy was engrossed with the various scrolls and the histories they detailed.

Damon was so deeply absorbed in the words written on the paper in his hands that he entirely missed the arrival of another group a few hours later.

By this point, the young missing-nin sat cross-legged on the floor, unwrapped scrolls lying in his lap as he hungrily absorbed as much knowledge as he could.

The sound of footsteps made him peer up, startled by the newcomers.

His heart sank into his stomach at the sight, his hands tightening around the fabric in his hands, sweat beading on his forehead.

Three Lightning shinobi had just walked into the merchant’s stall, the reflective, shiny plates of metal on their foreheads clearly identifying them as ninjas of the capital.

A squad of three? Out here?

A large, bulky male stepped into the same aisle and noticed Damon sitting on the ground beside him.

A smaller, lankier girl and the other boy, who seemed to be their leader, were not far behind, talking to the shopkeeper about some sort of mission they were currently on.

Damon wanted to listen, wanted to take in any relevant information that could help him navigate his way out of this situation, but instead, he fumbled and simply stared back at the increasingly suspicious eyes gazing at him.

The tension between the two was almost palpable, a thread strung to its limit.

The armored shinobi finally spoke, “Hey, kid, you a shinobi?”

Damon couldn’t help but shake his head.

“Those are jutsu scrolls, aren’t they?”

Damon nodded, sweat curling down the hair at the back of his head.

The man turned back to his allies, and Damon already knew what would transpire next.

Adrenaline began accelerating his thoughts, his heartbeat thudding against the inside of his chest, his fingers trembling.

This is it, isn’t it?

“Guys, I think I’ve found that missing-nin who was ransacking the neighboring village. Just like they said—the port attracts all kinds of criminals here.”

“I... I’m not a thief!” Damon finally found his voice and loudly proclaimed his innocence.

The armored shinobi stared him down. “Listen, small fry, just step outside with us, and we can talk about this, yeah? If you’re innocent, you’ll have the chance to prove it. But c’mon, you know what you’re doing with those scrolls. You match the description—the silver hair. Let’s go out and talk.”

Damon already suspected as much, even with his declaration.

Incredible, he was going down for a crime he hadn’t even committed. But the moment they investigated him further, they would sooner or later discover the actual crime he had. With no papers and no family here, it was just a matter of time. He was already marked as suspicious, and for some dark, twisted reason, the real thief they were looking for shared his hair color.

I can’t believe it...

Fate was truly a cruel thing.

The other two moved closer to their ally.

A strange clarity washed over the boy. He remembered the feeling—the last time he had sensed it so clearly, so overwhelmingly, he had a tanto in his hand and the blood of a young lord dripping from its blade.

He had prepared for this. He had known this moment might come.

He couldn’t let it end here. He had a dream, a goal.

Damon spun into the air, scrolls and paper flying as he executed a single hand sign. With a puff of smoke, the bulkiest of the trio found himself charged by the young troublemaker.

With a grin on his face, the large Genin pulled a hammer from a satchel on his belt and swung

it down onto the silver-haired criminal. By now, it was clear they had bagged the right target. But the moment his weapon connected, there was no resistance.

“Damn it!” he yelled out as Damon’s clone imploded into a white smoke cloud that evaporated into the room.

Damon was on the street. The tumultuous exit had distracted the trio assaulting him for just a few seconds.

It would have to do. He could see how the Kumogakure patrol would hurry outside. Damon stood at the junction leading into the main road of Namikari.

It was a long, straight, currently sparsely populated avenue.

He didn’t give his attackers another glance. Instead, he had prepared himself, his body going slightly limp, his eyes fixed on the far end of the road, over 120 meters away at the far side of the port.

Ram!

He fizzled out of his attackers' sight, vanishing like his clone but without the smoke—into nothingness.

This time, he was ready for his landing, and instead of his previous failure, he immediately launched into a sprint.

The body flicker had bought him a solid 100 meters, but he needed to leverage it as best as possible.

He threw his kesa to the side of the road and scrambled up the sleeves of his kimono before turning the corner, staring down the long, winding staircase leading to the port section of town.

Dog-Rat-Horse.

His breathing was controlled, each hand seal a clearly woven part of this technique. He needed to become someone else, and quickly.

The chakra mask would take him off the radar of his pursuers—next was his appearance.

He stared down into the harbor, frantically scanning for departing vessels, and by the gods’ good grace, he found one. A large, single-sailer seemed to be making the final preparations to set out.

He didn’t give it a second thought. He could feel the chakra drain—he had never expended so much of it at once. But he was so close now, so darn close.

The boy that had leapt down the top of the stairs never arrived at the bottom. Instead, a silver cat gracefully bounced from the stone steps onto the concrete ground, then transitioned onto the wooden walkway. The feline weaved between sailors’ feet until its slit eyes locked onto the now even larger vessel he had chosen for his escape. The creature crept onto the side of the ship, and with nothing more than his belief in his gods and the hope that fate wouldn’t let him down, the cat sprung onto the anchor chains being pulled into the depths of the ship, taking along with it the silver feline.

Jutsu Used:

Mid-Thread Claims:

Damon Kenzaku wrote:

Jutsu Used:

Mid-Thread Claims:

Approved!

Damon awoke with a terribly salty taste in his mouth.

His first half-conscious thought was dedicated to one thing: *water, I need water*.

He lay limp, stretched out on a damp wooden floor, surrounded by darkness.

The boat!

His mind began to focus on the recent events. He had escaped his pursuers by boarding an unknown vessel.

Good God, I'm on a ship.

Another first in his life was playing out in real time as he realized what he had done. He had left them all behind, just disappeared. His belongings were back home in the estate. Kazuo and Naoko must be worried sick about him.

What time is it anyway?

He had no sense of direction, but his sense of balance was off bigger concern. The boat was moving—he could feel the giant vessel cutting through the endless waves he had only ever stared out at, wondering, but never ridden like this.

His breath was accelerating, his eyes adjusting to the lack of light in the underbelly of the ship.

He got up carefully, moving slowly, calmly, and silently.

He needed to assess, plan, and execute. This wasn’t as intense as it seemed; he shouldn’t be as shaken as he was.

First things first.

His hand wandered up and down the padded kimono he was dressed in. The dark grey cloth and undergarments had little pockets. His tabi were fine, if a bit wet, but his zori sandals were ripped and tattered from the chase.

He pulled from within the pockets of his garments the only object on his person—a piece of metal attached to a headband. It was the last remaining item in his possession, it seemed.

His Kumogakure headband. He realized this was the kimono he had escaped the capital with about a month back now.

The irony…

Darn it… damn… God forgive me…

His hand reached to massage the pressure point atop his nose, right between his eyes.

He was alive, but that was about it.

He had no idea where he was, nor where he was heading.

He didn’t know who was on the ship, nor how they would react to his boarding it.

He didn’t know the time, or how long he had been out.

And he had essentially nothing on his person.

He had left everything behind.

A single tear rolled down his cheek. He had lived a lie, and he had lived it well, knowing it would end. Now the worst had happened that could have; his decisions were taken from him, and he had been forced to react rather than make his own choices.

The consequences were known to none but his gods now.

He felt incredibly destroyed.

A few short, fast breaths accelerated him towards panic, but he managed to stand up and calm his nerves again.

He only had one way to go, and that was forward.

There was light at the end of the cargo room he found himself in. There was a large grating from which sunlight flooded the far end. He tugged his kimono into his hakama pants, took a deep breath, focused on his steps, and slowly approached in that direction.

Once he reached the opening, he heard voices too. Above him, a mighty white sail hung from the central mast of the great vessel. They must have hit a particularly large wave at that very moment, and the short resistance threw Damon off balance, causing him to fall backward, his arms flailing to catch himself. He managed, but not without making a ruckus.

He had accidentally slammed against a small wooden crate that, in turn, stood on a much larger barrel which he had held onto. The box, however, slid backward and fell off the edge, bursting open on the ground moments later.

Damon winced, knowing he had caused irreversible damage, possibly giving away his position.

His gaze shot back up to the only source of light he had access to, and his mouth slowly fell open when his eyes met those of a tall, black-haired man wearing a bandana with a mean look on his face.

"Hey boys, you won’t believe what I found in the cargo bay! Hahaha!"

Damon swallowed in anticipation, his gut telling him he was in trouble here.

The head disappeared from sight, and the silver-haired boy frantically sought to find some other opening, somewhere someone could enter from, but the crates, barrels, and boxes stacked around blocked his view.

His ears perked up as he clearly recognized the sound of a gate or door being thrown open.

A voice called out from close to where he had awoken on the other side of the room.

"Oi, oi, oi, little critter, get over here! Don’t make me come get you, ya hear me!"

Damon’s pulse was racing. He should play along; he was at their mercy anyway.

Slowly, with raised hands, he walked back towards where he had started, cramming past all the stacked cargo. With the light at his back, he managed to make out the large shape of a man in a doorway.

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry, my name is Da—" was all he could mutter before the daunting figure before him lashed out with a blow to his gut, throwing Damon off his feet.

A strong hand wrapped around the back of his neck, and he couldn’t resist as the attacker dragged him out of the room. Everything was happening so quickly, and the pain from the previous blow was still shaking his system. He felt like he had swallowed a rock that was now sitting in his stomach, weighing on his organs. Light flooded his eyes as they emerged from a set of stairs onto the open deck of the now seemingly gigantic vessel.

He was suddenly lifted into the air and thrown forward, hitting the damp wooden ground hard and rolling over. He tried to get up quickly, but just as he managed to get on one knee, he felt another, much harder blow directly to his face. It was a kick, and it sent Damon sliding along the ground, blood now seeping from his injured nose and busted lip.

"Please… I’m… just… a monk," he muttered before he was once again lifted into the air by a strong hand.

He managed to finally have a clear enough vision to notice the group of men that had gathered before him. Eight in total, each a menacing presence on their own. These weren’t just sailors; they looked like bandits, all equipped with daggers or blades, scars on their arms, legs, shoulders, and even their faces. A few of them sported an eye patch, others a bandana. One man stood out with only one arm, the other seemingly a steel prosthesis; another had a wooden leg.

Their leader, or so Damon assumed, stepped forward. He was a lanky man with long pants and no shirt, burns and old scars littered his tanned and incredibly muscular build. He had short black hair and an iron gaze.

"What in the hell are you doing on my ship?" he hissed at Damon.

"Please… I just… needed to… I—"

What he assumed to be the other hand of the giant lifting him into the air flew forward and slapped him across the face.

Damon couldn’t muster a single coherent thought.

"I… needed to escape… to get away…"

The man before him answered with no hesitation. "Search him."

He was released from the grip, and gravity took over as Damon once again hit the deck of the vessel. Then he felt hands tugging and pulling on him and his attire, his kimono loosening and one sock pulled from his feet. But they found it—the only object still on his person.

The assumed leader held his ninja headband in hand. "Aha… now this is interesting… you’re a Kumogakure shinobi… no… wait, let me guess… oh my, you’re a Kumogakure Missing-Nin."

Damon simply nodded—it was all he felt he could do.

The man let slip a short snicker before announcing to the large group assembled on deck.

"Men, we have a scoundrel on board! This kid is a shinobi, like Marin or Kante, a deserter, a criminal. Let’s give him a warm welcome, won’t we?"

The group erupted in laughter and cheering.

Damon looked up into the stern expression of the tanned man looking down on him.

"Welcome to the Kami. You’re in luck, you know. We’re about as much a bunch of scoundrels as you are."

"Tie him up. Watch out for his hands, and don’t look into his eyes. Then bring him over to the helm," he walked off without another word as the rest of the gang began following his orders.

A few minutes later, with an ever-sicker feeling in his gut and the taste of blood in his mouth, Damon found himself tied down right next to the giant wooden steering wheel. The man commanding the crew was casually leaning against it, his eyes pinning Damon down.

"You can use jutsu?"

Damon nodded.

"What elements?"

"Fire," he whispered.

"You from some fancy clan or anything?"

Damon shook his head.

"Hmm…" The man remained in thought. "You ever been out on the archipelago before?"

"No… archipelago?"

"Oh kid, you really got yourself into something, let me tell ya," he sighed with a quirky smirk.

"We’ll be there in a few hours."

Thread Tracker:

Darkness loomed over Damon. Searing pain wracked his joints and abdomen from the brutal beating he had endured. Nausea coursed up his throat, a remnant of the horizon sickness that had plagued him since the moment he set foot on deck of the ship. The plummeting prospect of his safety was too much to bear, his mind teetering on the brink of despair.

His head slumped forward against his chest, and he passed out, his senses slipping into blackness.

From there, he experienced sporadic moments of consciousness. He felt himself being lifted at some point, but his feet dragged lifelessly across the ground as they moved him somewhere. In another fleeting moment of clarity, he thought he heard voices, perhaps even his name being spoken. Strange, unfamiliar smells washed over him. And lastly, he felt a muffled pain as his body was thrown onto cold, unforgiving concrete.

He lay there, dazed, his world spinning in a void of nothingness.

Slowly, his thoughts began to take shape, colors and images returning to his mind. He saw his bloodstained hands, gripping a tanto, its blade deeply embedded in the chest of the tyrant boy who had made his life a living hell for years. The expressionless face of his mother, indifferent to his suffering, flashed before him. He remembered the countless hours he spent staring out over Kumogakure, praying for a better life, for favour from the gods that never came. And then, he saw the morning on that hill, where he had finally decided to no longer allow his life to be controlled —godly or otherwise.

The beaten, silver-haired boy rolled onto his back, a wave of searing pain flooding through him as he regained consciousness. He slowly sat up, wincing at the discomfort. The room he found himself in was dimly lit, with a faint light source filtering in through a small, caged window in the iron door at one end. The cell was barren, save for a crude hole in the opposite corner that Damon assumed served as a toilet. Beneath him was a ragged straw mat, offering little comfort against the hard floor.

Damon scanned his body. His hands were still bound together, preventing him from forming hand seals. His once-pristine dark grey kimono was torn and soiled with dirt, a result of being dragged throughout. His hakama pants were in a similarly disheveled state, and his sandals were gone, leaving him with only a single dusty sock on his right foot.

Panic began to set in. His self-assessment revealed a dire state, one far worse than anything he had ever imagined. Pirates? Bandits? Missing-nin? It dawned on him just how many enemies he had amassed against him now without the protection of his village.

His gods wouldn’t help him here. He had no friends, no allies.

All he had was the will to survive and the determination to control his destiny.

Suddenly, a strange surge of energy coursed through him, darker and more ominous than anything he had ever felt before. Sitting there on the cold concrete floor of the dimly lit cell, it wasn’t Damon’s prayers that were heard—it was his curses against the world. Emotion that took  shape, a power soaring to life within, a control through the loss of control.

Than without warning, the thick iron door was thrown open with a etching creak. For a moment, light flooded into the dark cell, forcing Damon to shield his eyes with his bound hands.

He heard footsteps approaching, but before he had a chance to react, a blow struck him squarely in the chest, a powerful kick that sent him crashing into the stone wall at the back of the room. He slid down to the floor, coming to a halt in a sitting position, barely able to lift his head to face his assailants.

“This is the guy I told you about, Kante. He’s a felon from Kumogakure.”

It was the darkly tanned man from earlier, now sporting a jacket, though still shirtless underneath. His iron gaze remained as cold and stern as before. The second man who entered sent a flush of fear down Damon’s spine. He looked like a grotesque hybrid of a mummy and a pirate, his body wrapped in bandages from head to toe, save for a cloth belt and shorts that exposed more of the wrappings underneath, on his feet and calf. Around his neck hung a long piece of cloth that draped into a cloak. On his belt, he carried three blades. But the most fearsome part of his appearance was his face: deeply sunken eyes, large shadows beneath them, a hard jawline with tightly stretched skin, and a single, ominous red eye gleaming forth, his other socket covered by a dark eyepatch.

Damon guessed that this was the one who had attacked him. The mummy-like figure seemed to be the superior, yet it was the tanned man who raised his voice again.

“Kid, tell us your name.”

Damon tried to speak, but his mouth was dry, the dream of water still lingering in his mind.

“Arghhh…” he rasped, his voice barely audible. But then, with a forced confidence, he managed to speak clearly.

“I am Damon Kenzaku of Kumogakure, a Bodhisattva in the making of the Shinsei no Seishin Kyō.”

The mummy-like man’s expression twisted into a grotesque grin before he let out a laugh that sounded eerily like a crow’s call. “Hrehrehe!”

His counterpart remained unfazed, his expression stern and unchanging. “I am Abu, and this is Kante. He is one of the four captains of the Golden Tempest Pirates. We rule this archipelago, and you, Damon, have fallen into our hands, which makes you our property.”

Abu paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. There was no emotion in his tone, his expression as stale as his voice whilst he continued.

“It’s rare to see a shinobi this far out. After a short deliberation, we’ve decided to give you a chance. Dedicate yourself to us, and we will spare your life in exchange for your service. Refuse, and you will be made a slave—sold, worked, or killed.”

With that, he reached into his pocket and tossed two items at Damon’s feet. One was Damon’s headband, which the crew had confiscated from him earlier; the other was a rusted kunai.

Kante finally spoke, his voice like the grinding of metal. “I once hailed from Kumogakure, but I deserted those mindless fools long ago. I wear that choice with pride.”

He pointed to his belt, and Damon noticed that the buckle was a steel plate displaying the cloud-like symbol representing the Lightning Country’s capital. A large scar-like tear ran through the metal—a ritual Damon had heard of before, one that Missing-nin carried out to show their severance from their homeland.

“Kill your connection to those grunts. Take up arms for us, or accept your fate like all the other tools on the mainland.”

Damon slowly climbed to his knees, his shackled arms reaching for the kunai before him. He was distraught, the weight of his choices pressing heavily on his mind. If he considered his religious heraldry, the vow he had taken as a shinobi, the morals of good and evil that society upheld, all of them would demand he lay down his arms, accept his fate, and pay the price for the sins he commited that had led him to this prison cell.

But he didn’t.

For Damon, the opportunity to part ways with all of it was the very reason he had deserted in the first place. He desperately sought out his own fate, his own justice. He sought the freedom to abide by his own rules, to serve his gods the way he wished. No more doctrines, no more rules, no more service to powers he had never chosen.

His position was unfavorable, that much was obvious. But he would fight, claw, and kill to become a power capable of determining his own fate.

Without another word, he rammed the kunai into his headband, carving a deep horizontal slash across its surface, baptizing himself as a Missing-nin once and for all.

He looked up at the two men, defiance burning in his eyes.

“What now?”

[EXIT]

Thread Tracker:

Damon Kenzaku wrote:

Final-Thread Claims:

Approved!