In service of the Golden Tempest

Mission Log:

Weeks had passed, some of the most grueling and frustrating days in Damons experience.

He had fought tooth and nail to escape the grasp of his servitude only to find himself in something entirely worse in an entirely different way.

All the struggles, all those lines he had crossed, only to trade one devil for another.

His freedom robbed, living under the tyranny of others, just the same.

Back on the fateful day of his capture, kneeling on the floor before two pirates swearing himself in to their cause, given the choice between selling himself to them or being sold to the highest bidder.

After his initiation, the men left the cell, noting that he would be cast into isolation to overthink his decision. "Let it sink in. See it as your first assignment or challenge, or whatever you like."

At first, he didn’t grasp the meaning of their words. He was left alone in the dark cell, god knows where on the island. But with time, that dreadful passage of time, he began to understand what they had challenged him with.

For it was there, in the cold, lonely, darkness that he was confronted with himself, by himself.

He lost track of time; he didn’t know how long it took, but it seemed to happen much faster than it should.

He was plagued by his failure to the point where he could barely hold a meditation for more than a few breaths before losing his focus.

He was a murderer, a wanted fugitive, a deserter, and now some sort of bandit. When all he wanted was to be left to follow his own will and forge his own fate. Pray to his own gods.

He went through moments of panic, regret, felt the fever of anger burning him hot, and cold showers of grief washing over him. For a while he was consumed by hate—for his father, that cowardly mans empty words, at his mother, her cold unloving eyes, the Shinobi that tried to stifle and discourage him, at the lords he was forced to serve, and now to these men beckonedhim into subjugation once again.

Hate lingered for too long, but eventually, even hate was laid to rest in that dark, gloomy cell.

Then he lay there crying, sobbing in the faint light, but that too passed. It seemed like this place was unraveling him, peeling him like an onion, one layer at a time, as his thoughts and feelings were torn from his flesh and made real.

All the passing year's emotions broke over him. Waves crashing into the cliffs, grinding the stone with every new surge.

Someone would slip food under the door, other times water. It was the last measure of time left to him now.

He slept and woke again, napped and shuffled about with waking nightmares.

At one point, he sat on his knees and prayed. Meditation hadn’t been working; nothing could distract him from what was in his head and heart. So he prayed and chanted as his old master had taught him.

The young silver-haired boy hummed and asked his gods, the mighty spirits of times past, to give him the strength to endure, the strength to rise again after every fall, and the strength to want to fight for a better day. He begged them for the salvation of his will.

They did not answer, not in his head and not out here. Still, he did not waver; he simply practiced his devotion.

And after a long time of feeling abandoned in the darkness, he found, to his own surprise, conviction—both in his unshaken belief and in himself. He was still here afterall. He would have to start again. So what? He was forced to bend to his will again? It had taken him years to escape his previous life, and it might cost him years again to escape this one, but by the gods, he would. He knew he deserved a better life, the life he wanted. All he needed to do was take it, just as he had taken it from his former masters; he would take it once more, and any time after that if it is what needed to be done.

When at last the iron door before him opened, his first thought was to thank his gods, but that thought was shattered like glass from the words spoken by his captors.

“Dammit, you’re right; he survived that little sucker. I was sure wed find him hanging. Ugh, fine, fine, you win. I'll grab my coins.”

Damon couldn’t even make out the shapes of the men standing in the doorway, so poorly was the light shining on their outlines.

But then he heard the familiar voice of Abu. “Alright, kid, I’ll ask you one more time. Will you serve the Golden Tempest?”

“I will.”

Damon hadn’t heard his own voice in what seemed like eternity, but it was oddly stern, oddly brash.

“Good. Follow me.”

Since then, a lot had happened. He discovered his isolation had lasted just a bit longer than a week. He was introduced to the fortress where the crew resided—a worn stone brick military outpost high in the mountains on one of the first islands of the Kaminari Kogane archipelago.

Abu assigned him a bunk bed, showed him the mess hall, tossed him some clothes, and introduced him to a few key figures he had seen on the deck of the Kami. He was made to understand how the pecking order among these bandits functioned. Abu was the captain of the Kami, but he and four other captains reported to Kante, who, in turn, was one of four ring leaders, all reporting to the man they called Abel, who ultimately led them all.

He was also clearly made to understand just how low he was in this hierarchy— the very bottom of the cast.

Damon was forced to beg and plead for his survival in the fort. Survival was the very next directive handed to him by Abu. “Peddle for some coin, live out here for the next few days, and we’ll talk.” Nothing, absolutely nothing, was free. Everything, except for the clothes he had worn on the day of his capture, had to be earned back by himself.

He spent his first hours at the gate, watching bandits, pirates, and criminals from all walks of life pass through.

He began to form a grasp of the horrors that were committed here. They smuggled, stole and looted. Even people were nothing but merchandise here.

These islands were the gateway to the west and thus relevant trading routes widely used by smugglers and criminals from Fire, Water, and Lightning.

Cleaning himself up as best he could, he found some cloth hanging from a window and used it to mimic a *kesa*—a monk's robe—that he carefully wrapped around himself and his shoulder. It was a last mental sanctuary, the linen pressed tightly against his chest.

Damon appealed to the onlookers with his gentle, boy-like nature, offering blessings for safe travels, good fortune, and protection from vile spirits. Very few of the men and women passing through the archway paid him any mind, and even fewer were willing to part with their coin. Some even mocked or threatened him for his religious exploits, but he paid them no attention. He quickly learned that most of those who barked didn’t bite—especially once they noticed the ninja headband tied around his waist, warning them of the threat he posed in combat. He managed to scrape together a few coins, but found more success in the following days, simply chanting the ancient rites of the Shinbutsu scribes. The hymns and sung verses seemed to calm even the hardest of criminals, even those who cared little for gods or mystics. Many more than in previous days offered to spare some change for the boy.

Damon adapted quickly, learning faster still. While many of his fellow outlaws spent their nights drinking at various inns or visiting pleasure halls buried in the fort’s bustling marketplace, Damon sat in silence on his bunk. In the late afternoons, he would scrounge together scraps of paper and string. With these materials, he meticulously crafted small tokens to ward off evil, each inscribed with a combination of kanji meant to protect the wearer.

And as he stood once again at the entrance to the cliffside fortress the next day, he not only attracted passersby with his hymns but also with the handmade wards he handed out. Most who received them repaid his kindness with some Ryo. Through this trade, Damon managed to earn enough to set aside savings for the days to come and afford himself ramen and meat at sunset.

His will, his mindset, his entire being was geared toward survival. He didn’t waste a thought on hope or what he would do next; he focused only on making it to the next day. He took care to cleanse himself in the ocean, washed his belongings regularly, remained kind to all he met, and slowly but surely, as the week progressed, he earned himself a degree of respect from his fellow criminals.

By the second week of his stay, he had come to recognize the faces of those who passed him, and he had received enough guidance to navigate life inside the castle. On more than one occasion, he was invited to sit with the men in the mess hall. Even the mighty leader of their squad, Kante, visited him, and together they discussed jutsu and shinobi arts. The seasoned veteran went as far as passing on a few techniques that were normally forbidden to be taught in the academies and villages.

By the end of the week, when Abu returned to check on the silver-haired boy, Damon was proud to show that he had managed to haggle, plead, sell, beg, and ultimately save a total of 500 Ryo. An amount that would easily allow him to feed, dress, and sustain himself comfortable within the ancient walls of the castle for at least a few good days to come.

“Alright, you’re more of a thug than I thought,” Abu remarked, his gaze sweeping over Damon with mock curiosity. “The boys told me you’ve been spreading your gospel all over…”

He paused before finally adding, “Listen, take this cash, get yourself some blades. You’ll need them sooner than you think. Stay fed. I’ll call on you soon.”

Thread Claims:

The boy was shaken awake long before the first breath of dawn. In the darkness of a moonless night, Abu hassled him into his gear, and soon after, the two strode down the winding hallways of the fort towards the main gate, which was well-guarded even at this ghastly hour.

The silver-haired missing-nin wore loosely fitted garments, over which he strapped a ragged brown hanten he had found among the rags in the washroom. The thick cloth would be enough to protect him from the harsh winds blowing up the cliffs from the stormy ocean below.

The black hakama pants and navy blue obi wrapped around them, were the only pieces of his ensemble that belonged to him, now the last remnants he clung to ever since his capture.

Cool late-night summer air slipped through the cracks in the massive timber entra, whilst Abu  instructed Damon on his first mission.

“Listen, kid, you’re going to escort one of our mules down into the village to a restaurant owned by an accomplice. You are to deliver her there and report to him. The contact’s name is Naro, got it?”

Damon, with deep shadows under his eyes, stared back into those cold orbs of the large dark-skinned man with a quiet resolve.

“Yes, Captain.”

There was a brief hint of hesitation in his commanders voice. He fumbled his words but a moment before finalising, “Your life’s at stake here, Damon. Make sure our merchandise reaches the location, do your job down there. Otherwise, you’re done here.”

Damon repeated firmly yet in flat tone, “Yes, Captain.”

Abu eyed him for a few more moments, his lips pressed tight and his pupils narrowed, showing a skeptical expression Damon hadn’t seen before.

In the dimly lit corridor, they could make out the shuffling of feet approaching slowly.

Abu turned his massive figure in the gangway, revealing behind him an elderly woman dressed in a formal, tightly-fitted, colorful kimono, with an elegant obi held in place by a wooden obijime. It was further more adorned with an obidome shaped like a sakura leaf. She was as refined a lady as Damon had ever seen one. Even her wooden geta were vibrantly coloured. She reminded the boy of the high-born nobles of Kumogakures elite that had periodically frequented his old masters estate.

Two pirates Damon didn’t recognize accompanied her, wordlessly handing him a large folded pouch.

“Guard this. They’re her belongings. She knows the way... It’s a restaurant in the heart of town. Lamplight’s the name, weve been in business for ages, but dont trust em more than you have too” Abu mentioned to his subordinate, whilst his staring remained on the frail old woman.

He then twisted his neck to gaze intensely down at his newest recruit one last time.

“Get going, Damon, and don’t disappoint the Tempest, kid.”

With that, the large wooden gate slowly arched open, creaking under its own weight. Damon slung the pouch over his back and took the first step onto the rough, uneven path leading down the cliffside road. He could already make out the village—nothing but a collection of distant lights. It was the largest settlement and harbour on this first island.

The grandmotherly figure now in his care stepped out beside him, wordlessly beginning to painstakingly, slowly trot forward into the night.

Damon sighed internally, careful not to show her—or the onlookers, whom he imagined were watching them with scrutinizing eyes—his true emotions. They would be under the pirates’ observation as long as they were visible on the cliffside.

Their journey downhill was muted and cold. Neither of them spoke a word to each other, Damon only occasionally glancing back over his shoulder to ensure the woman was keeping pace.

He didn’t expect any resistance. After all, it was the middle of the night, and the pirates were too well-connected on the island to face any serious scrutiny from the locals. The villagers knew all too well the fate of those who interfered with their notorious neighbors' dealings.

Slowly, the lights of the village grew closer, and the night itself became brighter as the darkness gave way to the illuminated road they were winding down.

Before long, they reached the first wooden huts, and then the settlement became denser, with lights strung up on lantern posts, and even the sound of the ocean washing in could be heard.

It wasn’t much longer before the gray-haired dame took charge, silently leading them through the streets and narrow passageways. The air smelled of salt, and the bustling nightlife eventually drowned out the roaring waves crashing on the shoreline. They were close to the harbour district now, where their final destination awaited.

Once inside the city, Damon grew more cautious. If they were to be ambushed, it would be here. Some sewage rat with a blade as all it took, a drunkard who dident know who he was messing with. But their silent pilgrimage came to an end as they came to stand before a tumultuous three story establishment. Sailors lingered around the entrance, mugs of beer and sake in hand, or puffing on pipes while chatting. From inside, the sound of laughter and conversation echoed out into the night, along with the occasional clinking of glasses and cutlery.

The large kanji on the wooden entrance was illuminated by a single bright flickering orb, revealing the pub’s name: The Lamplight.

Damon led them inside.

Thread Claims:

Inside the Lamplight, festivities were in full swing, an energy so vibrant it was seemed to want to spill out into the night outside and beyond.

True to its name, the place was bathed in a vibrant bright light, with lanterns and candles filling every corner, casting their warm glow into every nook and cranny. The entire space was packed to the brim with patrons, a collective buzz of chatter and gluttonous indulgences. A symphony of chaotic excitement.

Two middle-aged men sat at a elevated stage in the back their figures veiled in a haze of smoke, vigorously strumming acoustic guitars, accompanied by a younger trumpet player fiddling about alongside them.

Their music boomed loudly throughout, each verse riding the festivities higher and higher.

Fast-paced and upbeat, their tunes pumped into the crowd, the music itself the lifeblood pulsing through the patrons veins.

Damon’s eyes scanned the crowded room, quickly noting the variety of characters in attendance. Men in military uniforms gathered in small groups, each of them with rigid posture and serious expressions. Nearby, sailors and pirates drank together, decked in rugged outfits, faces, scarred by sea and sun revealing the hardiness of their life. Not far from them, a group of road-men, easily identifiable by their even rougher and utilitarian clothing, sat quietly, sipping their drinks, eyes ever watchful. In stark contrast to these hardened men, on the other side of the tavern sat well-dressed gentlemen in finely tailored suits, conversing with women draped in luxurious silks and decadent robes.

Alcohol flowed in astonishing quantities, the rich smell of beer and stronger spirits spilling into the room. Damon watched as a voluptuous waitress weaved through the crowd, expertly dodging between tables, balancing half a dozen jugs beer in each hand. Her movements quick and efficient, foretelling that she had long mastered the chaos that housed in the Lamplight.

Yet cups were emptied all around and those same mugs than went slamming down loudly on the thick wooden tables, its holders vehemently demanding refills from the busy staff.

Despite the wild, lively atmosphere that surrounded them, the mute and endearing aura of the elderly dame Damon was ordered to escort emanated woefully as she stood just a few feet away from him.

The missing-nin was contemplating his next move when, suddenly, a firm tap on his shoulder snapped him out of his thoughts. He turned to find a giant of a man towering over him. His imposing frame was encased in a tight black suit, his eyes hidden behind dark-tinted sunglasses, and his head freshly shaved in a sharp buzz cut. The sight of him sent a shiver down Damon’s spine; he looked like he could crush him with his bare hands.

"The Tempest sent you?" he asked, his voice deep and gruff, barely audible over the noise of the tavern.

Damon could do little more than nod, his throat tightening under the weight of the bouncers intimidating gaze.

"Naro’s expecting you. Take her…” he pointed at his escort as if he knew her “… upstairs—last room, end of the hallway. Got it?" The giants tone was direct, no-nonsense.

Damon nodded again, his voice still failing him, and without a word, he turned to the woman. She met his gesture with a silent acknowledgment, and together they made their way toward a narrow wooden staircase. The steps creaked beneath their weight as they ascended, the sounds of the bustling tavern below fading with each step.

The second floor of the Lamplight was just as spacious as the first but carried a vastly different atmosphere. The lively music and chatter from below were now reduced to faint murmurs. Here, the music was softer, jazzier, cool tunes played back from old sound boxes in the corners. They lacked the upbeat, carefree energy of downstairs, instead reduced to nothing more than background noise. The air was thick with a different kind of tension—the kind that comes with risk and high stakes.

The guests on this floor were engrossed in gambling. Men and women sat or stood around tables covered in cards, dice, and chips. Bets were placed and winnings declared as stacks of money exchanged hands. Every roll of the dice and every flip of a card carrying with it the weight of the gambler's hopes and dreams. Here, it seemed, anything could happen—and the Lamplight would provide for whatever its patrons desired.

A smaller man approached them once they entered, dressed similarly to the bouncer from below but much less imposing in stature. He gave the due a subtle nod, pointing them toward a door at the far end of the room. It was clear where they needed to go.

Damon moved forward, averting his eyes from the spectacle of sins committed before him, his escort following closely behind, silent as ever. When they neared the door, it swung open on its own,  seemingly awaiting their arrival.

This next room was dimly lit, the shadows long and the air heavy. Two worn chairs were placed besides a massive steel door, which loomed ominously at the room’s far end. More goons, like the ones they had encountered earlier, approached.

The men searched them thoroughly, quickly but meticulously. They even rummaged through the pouch Damon was caring for his escorted, given to him back at the Tempest fort, though until now, he hadn’t given much thought to its contents or its significance. The weight of responsibility that came with this mission, this woman, had kept him from dwelling on such details. He wanted nothing more than to get this over with.

The young shinobi had made a decision, not to think too hard about the morality of these actions.

He was already a sinner; dwelling on it would only chip away at what little conscience he had left.

Once the search was complete, the men silently moved toward the steel door. After what seemed like a series of complicated manoeuvres involving locks and mechanisms, the portal creaked open, and they were waved through once more. Another narrow staircase awaited them, leading further up into the building.

As they reached the top of the stairs, the dim light of the previous room gave way to a brighter, almost ethereal glow. Damon blinked, his eyes adjusting to the sudden shift, and when his vision cleared, he was awestruck by the sight before him.

The room wasent as expansive as any of the previous floors. But in the center sat a half-circular orb of stone, giving of a faint shimmering from its otherwise perfectly smooth surface.  A group of white robed figures sat around it, cross-legged and deep in concentration. Each of them had placed one hand on the daunting orb, their touch forming some sort of seal on it. It seemed they were maintaining a chakra connection with the object.

Behind the group, a grand wooden desk stood as the focal point of the room. Its two large slaps of marble legs supported a long, polished wooden beam, and seated behind it was a man in a pristine white suit. Flanked by two more security guards, he exuded an air of smug confidence. The bodyguards, identical in appearance to the others Damon had encountered, stood stoically at attention, their eyes scanning the duo that had just entered for any sign of trouble.

The man at the desk grinned broadly as he rose to greet them and, with a theatrical flourish, called out, "Karin, darling! There you are! It’s been far too long! I thought we might get into some real trouble this time, didn’t I, Eric? Didn’t I say that?"

One of the two suited guards nodded in agreement, adding, "He really did."

To Damon’s utter shock, the woman he had been escorting shifted her posture completely, her demeanour transforming as she addressed the man with a playful smirk.

"Naro, you know the Tempest would never let anything happen to you. You're our favorite little slumlord," she said, her voice now dripping with the same confidence that Naro exuded.

The two embraced warmly, and as they did, Damon’s face paled. Right before his eyes, the dame he had been escorting shed her skin like a snake, revealing a much younger, sleek, blonde appearance beneath. Her eyes, now sharp and azure, carried a snakelike quality that sent thhe second chill of the night down his spine.

Naro, noticing Damon’s confusion, turned to him with a sly grin. One of his perfectly manicured digits pointed right at him.

"And who’s this cute little fellow you’ve brought along? New help?"

"Ah, yes. Naro, meet Damon. I thought you’d appreciate some extra hands around here. The kid’s got potential—especially with his sensory skills. But first, let’s get to the kitchen. Time’s ticking, and we’ve got work to do."

The young man in the white suit cast a brief, calculating look at Damon—a glance that was difficult to interpret. It could have been curiosity or utter indifference. Either way, Damon felt the weight of being observed, but remained silent.

"Yes, yes, we really do need to get some new batches cooking," Naro said, waving his hands toward his two guards. "I’ll make preparations." The duo of Lamplight underlings exited the room promptly. Meanwhile, Karin stepped up next to Damon, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

"So far, so good, kid. Don’t take the precautions personally. We’re on a mission. Get used to deception and trickery—they might keep you alive a few days longer than otherwise. Keep your mouth shut, and follow orders."

Damon nodded silently, already resigned to his fate. Whatever was required of him, he would do. He had decided before they ever left the fort, to make it back alive and well, what ever the cost.

"Good," she replied with a small nod. "Keep at it. Now, you might not think it a common errand in a high-class place like this, but the most valuable currency here isn’t the food or the casino—it's the secrets that flow through this place. The whispers and deals, that’s what this place thrives on. Sit down and let one of the boys explain it to you. Start paying attention—you’ll learn quickly."

Still somewhat bewildered, Damon watched as Karin and Naro left the room, off to engage in something undoubtedly more nefarious than his task.

"Hey, get over here! Come on!"

A voice from the back of the room called out to him rudely. Damon turned, heading toward the massive, pearl-like orb at the center of the room. As he approached, he could make out the strange blue, smoke-like veil that enveloped it, shimmering like the inside of a living pearl.

"Sit down, hold the sign for ‘Tiger,’ and place your hand on it. Listen, newbie—this isn’t a joke. This is expensive equipment, real high-tech stuff. It’s used to boost and focus your sensory abilities. It’s directly connected to certain spots all over the building through seals—those seals capture audio and visuals. Your job is to observe and meticulously gather any relevant information. Got it? Everything matters—prices changing on goods traded at the harbor, the hiring of mercenaries, bribes, secret meetings with concubines. Trust me, there’s plenty of it to collect."

The brown-haired man speaking to Damon rattled off the instructions rapidly, bombarding him with more information than he could but barely process all at once. He had a thousand questions but chose instead to simply nod, mumbling, "Sure, I can do that."

"Good. Now sit down and get started. Here’s a scroll—write down the date, time, and a short summary of what you observe. We than rewatch it for the details later."

What happened next was beyond anything Damon had anticipated. He carefully went through the instructed hand sign before placing one hand on the strange stone, which felt unnaturally cold, emitting a faint but unsettling hum.

The moment his skin touched the stone, his senses were yanked from him.

The room around him dissolved into a stormy fog, and his vision was replaced by the image of a small, dimly lit private room. It was as if he were seeing through a veil of semi-transparent cloth. The sound he heard—voices, conversations—was clear but muffled, like it came from a distant place. The sensation was disorienting. Damon had never experienced anything remotely like this before.

The seals connected to this orb created a surveillance network, a war relic of military-grade technology that had been repurposed for something sinister. The Tempest had turned this once-powerful system into a private surveillance and intelligence-gathering apparatus, monitoring the entire establishment.

As Damon continued, he quickly learned how to "switch" between different locations within the Lamplight where the seals had been placed. His focus shifted to tables and lounges accessible only to VIPs—places where high-profile guests exchanged secrets and information, unaware that their every word was being recorded, studied, and exploited for profit. The Lamplight, it turned out, was less a restaurant and more a hub for trading secrets, all of it for sale to the highest bidder—or worse, leveraged by the Tempest syndicate for their own gain.

During his shift, Damon overheard stories that pushed him to the very edge of the crumbling cliffs that he once called his moral. He witnessed conversation between local government administrates, openly discussing methods to keep the poor oppressed and maintain their grip on power. Others traded in illicit goods, and Damon even listened in as two military officials and a pirate conspired to allow a skull and bones waving warship to slip through deeper into the borders of Lightning Country unnoticed.

His senses became attuned to this new way of observing, allowing him to focus more clearly on the conversations happening within the shadows. And as his senses became clearer, the intentions he noted down darker. After nearly five hours of constant surveillance, Damon felt a tap on his shoulder. His shift was over. Someone else would come to take his place. He wondered where the Lamplight had recruited these charka wielding employees from.  

It was a strange sensation, being "unplugged" from the machine. The moment Damon withdrew his hand from the cold stone, the room returned to normal, and his own senses reasserted themselves. He passed the scroll with his findings on but the shock of the transition was almost too much to bear—his stomach turned violently as the clarity of his mind flooded attempted to settle in.

Stumbling to his feet, Damon felt sick, barely able to stand as his vision blurred. The man who had instructed him earlier grimaced at the sight of Damon’s pale face.

"Down that corridor over, to the outside staircase. Don’t you dare puke anywhere else, you hear me!"

But Damon didn’t listen to the rest. He was already racing down the hallway, he practically popped out of the doorway. The cold night air hit him immediately, a small relief from the nauseating experience. He reached the railing of the third-floor balcony and leaned over, emptying his stomach into the dark alley below.

He had done it. As insane as it was, Damon had completed the most bizarre and morally questionable errand he could have ever imagined. He had proven his worth to the criminal syndicate, and although the cost weighed heavily on him, he was glad to have made it through.

As he wiped his mouth and turned back, he was startled to see the looming gaze of a scruffy teen, only a few years older than himself, standing just a few feet away.

"Hey... hey, listen," the boy stammered. "This doesn’t need to be a big deal. I’ll get out of here right away, okay? Look, I can even pay you."

Thread Claims:

“You’re new, right? I... I overheard them, I mean. A thousand Ryo, I’ve got it right here. It’s yours. You’re a missing-nin, right? No need for this to turn ugly, okay? Come on, man... I’m just a guy on a job…”

There it was—that dreaded weight of a decision Damon had been so fearful of.

This demanded more from him than he'd ever want to consider giving. Here right now he would have to cross the line himself once again, just as this had all begun back in that fateful chamber high in the peaks of Kumogakure. These were the expectations of the path he’d chosen, and this was what was necessary to ensure his survival.

The odds didn’t favor the young man standing before him. He must have slipped in unnoticed, bypassing the guards—or perhaps subdued them in some way, though that seemed doubtful given how desperate he was to avoid conflict.

Or was this just another ruse?

Damon’s mind flashed back to Karins lessons about deception. but a moment he weighed the possibilities. Was the boy playing him, or was he genuinely frightened?

He let him ramble on a moment, whilst inhaling the cool night air deeply, it dident actually matter what he said. Between them and the stairs, there was only so small a gap, if anything that would be his escape route. The intruder would need to cross that space—and Damon had already calculated the likelihood of that happening successfully. Judging by this kids demeanor and lack of experience, it was clear he wouldn’t make it, even fooling about or trickery wasent going to cut it.

In truth, Damon had already made his choice, though he wasn’t sure when. Perhaps he had decided the moment this boy appeared. He would never sacrifice his future, his opportunities, for the life of some random stranger. No, survival demanded more than that.

He couldn’t let the boy leave. He had seen too much. This could come back to haunt him.

“Show me the Ryo...” Damon growled, his voice low and menacing.

His eyes flicked over the boy’s attire—an all-black robe draped over a fitted top, with forearms bound in tight wraps. His pants were similarly tied off at the ankles, giving the impression of a thief, or perhaps a rogue. Damon couldn’t make out the rest of his face in the darkness of the night, especially with the hood pulled low over his head, but the terror in the boy’s wide eyes was all he needed to see.

That was enough.

If this was an act, it was a damn good one. But as he fumbled through the pouch at his side, Damon knew it didn’t matter. The outcome was already sealed.

With steady, deliberate movements, Damon began weaving hand seals. His fingers moved with calm precision, his expression unchanged. It wasn’t until the boy finally pulled out a stack of rolled-up papers that he noticed Damon’s hands.

“Here—it’s my loot from... wait, no—”

The boy’s words trailed off into a panicked stammer, his wide eyes betraying his rising dread. But it was too late.

Kanashibari no Jutsu had already taken hold.

The paralysis seized him in place, rendering him completely immobile as Damon’s chakra constricted him, locking his limbs in place like a snake coiling around its prey. Upright but frozen mid-action held by invisible threads.

Damon maintained the hand seals, ensuring the paralysis had fully sunk in before releasing his focus.

I am a demon.

You would kill him, wouldn’t you?

If you had to...

You would.

You’d do whatever it takes... whatever it takes to survive…

I am a demon.

The dark mantra repeated in his mind as he grabbed the now helpless boy, dragging him back into the operations room where Damon had been working earlier, but not before pocketing the Ryo.

I am a demon.

The boy’s feet dragged along the ground, lifelessly thumping against the stone floor as they moved.

The operatives stationed at the marble surveillance orb barely acknowledged his presence. They were too engrossed in their duties, eyes locked on the massive chakra-powered device monitoring every corner of the Lamplight. The security staff stationed near the walls watched idly, their expressions bored, awaiting the end of their shifts.

“I caught this intruder outside,” Damon announced in a flat, emotionless tone. His speech underlined by lingering woefulness.

A suited guard, sitting near a console and lazily smoking a cigarette, turned to glance at Damon. His eyes flickered to the motionless boy.

“Ah, damn... call Jun, now. I’ll take care of it,” the guard muttered, crushing the cigarette into an ashtray beside the control panel. He rose swiftly from his seat, the lax body language dissipating as he approached Damon. At the same time, another guard ran a update to command through a communication seal.

Damon released his grasp over his victim. The moment the boy was free from the jutsu’s grip, the security staff moved in, detaining him with practiced ease. As they dragged him away, Damon watched the fear etched into his face. The boy’s wide eyes darted frantically around the room, his breaths shallow and panicked.

Damon understood that feeling well—the cold sweat, the rising heat, the way fear takes hold of the mind like a fever.

But he did nothing to intervene. He simply observed as the intruder was hauled down the hallway, into one of the chambers locked thus far. What ever came next would be a far more painful ordeal for him, Damon felt it in his guts, these goons were not to be trifled with.

“Wait here,” were his last instructions, and Damon obeyed without a word. He leaned against the wall, allowing his gaze to wander across the massive orb that powered the Lamplight’s surveillance network. Only now did the weight of such technology fully dawn on him—a machine capable of monitoring, recording, and controlling the flow of information in and out of the building.

It was terrifyingly efficient.

Moments passed before a tall, imposing figure approached him. The man was bald, his face hardened, a deep vertical scar that ran down his forehead, slicing through one of his steely eyes. Dressed like most security personal here he was adorned in a sleek black suit, his hands gloved in leather yet adorned with a set of rings on each finger, their metallic gleam catching the faint light.

This was undoubtedly the head of security, Jun.

“You Damon?” the man asked, his voice stern and commanding.

Damon nodded once, silently.

“You caught the guy outside?” the man continued, his tone sharp.

Another nod.

“Come with me.”

Without further discussion, they moved toward the same door through which the boy had been taken just minutes earlier. Inside, the store room was refurnished to set the stage for an interrogation. Damon was greeted by a grim sight.

The boy—no more than 19 or 20—was bound to a wooden chair in the center of the chambers, his wrists tied behind his back, secured to the frame of the chair. His face was already swollen and bruised, streaks of blood running down from his nose and lips. The guard, who had dragged him off, stood nearby, his arms folded and his eyes cold.

“Anything yet?” the head of security barked, addressing his subordinate.

“Not much, boss. Just roughed him up a bit for you,” the guard replied with a twisted grin. “He’s real sorry now.”

Jun grunted, stepping forward. “Alright, I’ll handle this.”

He approached the bound invader, towering over him with calculated menace. Their victims breath quickened once again, his eyes filled with desperation as he sobbed, his body trembling in the chair.

“Listen closely,” the security chief began, his voice eerily calm. “There’s a slim chance you walk out of here tonight. But with every breath you take, that chance gets smaller.”

A faint sob escaped the boy’s lips, and he nodded weakly, his eyes wide with terror.

“You’ll answer every single question I ask you, fully and truthfully,” the man continued. To emphasize his point, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, sharp flip knife. The blade glinted ominously in the dim glow.

“For every lie, for every half-truth, I’ll carve you up.” His tone remained chillingly calm, though his words carried a terrible malice.

The boy, shaking violently, nodded in rapid agreement, more sobs escaping as he tried to catch his breath.

“Let’s start simple. Who are you?”

The bound chap coughed, blood spilling onto the floor. His voice cracked as he managed to rasp out a few words.

“Nori... Nori Hatanake…”

“Alright, Nori,” his interrogator said, eyes narrowing. “And what were you doing here tonight?”

Nori’s breathing became frantic. He gurgled and sobbed again before answering, “I was... hired... hired to find a way to infiltrate the Lamplight.”

Interest crossed the bald mans face, his posture stiffening. “Do you know why were you hired to break in?”

“Please... I... I don’t know why! I swear! He just paid me to... I’m just a street urchin! I’ve done a few robberies... but this guy... he wanted to get back at you guys… he hired some mercenaries … thats all I know… AHH!”

The knife plunged into Nori’s thigh, and his scream echoed through the room. Grabbing the boy’s hair, the interrogator pulled his head up, forcing him to meet his cold, unyielding gaze.

“Who hired you?”

“A rich guy! He lives out of town, Kanabe something... I had a broker for the job... I mean that guy wanted to stay anonymous... but my broker told me his name after a few drinks!” The words cascaded from Nori’s mouth in a desperate, panicked frenzy.

“Did you get that?” the head of security asked, glancing at the other suited man in the room, who had been quietly watching.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I know who he means,” the goon replied. “That guy’s been a patron before. Haven’t seen him in a while, but I’ll check the footage. He’s tied to some shipping operations on the mainland.”

“Good,” Jun muttered. “Now we can go inform Naro.”

He turned to leave, but before he took another step, his hand shot up. The blade sliced across Nori’s neck in one fluid motion, leaving a horizontal red line across it. The boy let out, gut wrenching burble before blood spurted from the wound, spilling onto the floor.

Damon lowered his head, sparing himself the sight of the burglars demise. Yet, even as he exited the room, the sound of his last gurgled breaths haunted him until the door closed behind them.

“Dump the body,” he ordered coldly. “I want it to be found. This is about sending a message.”

Thread Claims:

The boy’s dying breathers echoed in Damon’s mind as the night wore on. That death—*his* death—was as much Damon’s doing as the man who slid his throat.

What value did a life even hold for the criminal syndicate like this? Murders like these were a distant, impersonal act to them, a tedious chore, completed without any further consideration. To the Tempest, a life was measured only by its impact on their profit margins and the potential sway it held over future prospects.

But how does one even begin to quantify the worth of a single life?

Damon’s own religious beliefs held many answers to such questions. His faith taught him that all chakra was part of our cosmos, eternal energy binding every living being together in a universal thread. It was the very essence that shaped the gods he worshipped. No chakra was ever truly lost—this was the natural cycle of life, not just in this world, but across the stars scattered throughout the night sky, and even those worlds beyond.

So in someway, that boy wasn’t truly dead. His chakra was simply on a journey from one ethereal form to another. If he had lived a life aligned with the values of the powers that governed this flow, perhaps he had returned to the bountiful embrace of the eldritch spirits. If not, reincarnation was inevitable. Nori would once again be given a chance to achieve enlightenment.

I should pray for him... Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll pray for safe passage through those lands beyond...

Damon’s psyche was under a strain it hadn’t ever been before. His escape from Kumogakure had been meticulously planned, every detail etched into his mind, every obstacle accounted for. That murder, his murder, had been played out in his head a hundred times before it ever came to pass. It was an execution of his own will—necessary for his freedom, his future.

But this... this was different. Everything about it was out of his control. Here, even a decisions to protect himself came at the expense of another. A life snuffed out in an instant.

The grotesque sound of blood filling the boy’s lungs continued to linger on—the last, desperate gasps for air as the thief drowned in his own crimson.

I’ll pray for him…

Now, Damon stood guard outside a back office on the second floor of the Lamplight. After the interrogation—and subsequent execution—of the intruder, Jun, the head of security, had swiftly summoned Naro, the owner of the establishment. They had been behind closed doors ever since.

Damon’s only instruction had been to remain stationed at his post.

Where is Karin?

From what he could piece together, they had managed to identify the mastermind behind the failed infiltration. The kid had been careless, spilling everything he knew under the threat of inevitable death. Now, the question wasn’t who, but how. How would they retaliate?

As a rogue ninja from Kumogakure, Damon had no clear sense of how an organisation as the Tempest would go about conducting their revenge, but based on what he had already seen, it was bound to be an act of brutality.

The wooden door behind him creaked open, and Jun, still dressed in his sleek black suit, stepped out. His tie was loosened, the stress of the night weighing on him.

“Walk with me,” he ordered curtly. Damon fell into step behind him.

“Listen up, and I’ll teach you one of the most important lessons in this business,” Jun muttered as they moved toward the gambling hall. He pulled a cigarette from a cartridge  in his jacket pocket, and fumbled with a lighter as they walked. “You don’t slaughter your cash cow until it’s got nothing left to give. No... you got to milk it harder.” He paused, finally managing to light it, breathing in, his shoulders dropping in relief. “So far, no real harm done. Just a bad opening play. But now, we’ve got to inject a little momentum in this proxy war. Do it right, and it’s just another casual Thursday.”

After a few puffs of his smoke, Jun seemed throughly relax, his earlier tension easing as he turned to Damon. His finger, still curled around the cigarette, pointed toward the silver-haired rogue.

“You know what ninja lives are really worth? Their prices are known, selling their skills and lives to the people with the deepest pockets—whether it’s a Kage or a gang leader, it shouldn’t matter to guys like you. It’s all the same game.”

They had made their way back onto the main hall of the second floor, weaving through crowds of well-dressed patrons. Men and women adorned in fine garments scattered across various tables enticed in their gambling. A thick smoke from cigars hung in the air along with the scent of strong liquor and the smooth hum of jazz.

Jun leaned against the polished dark oak bar. “Ben, get me a glass of whiskey. No ice. And... grab my blade, yeah?”

The bartender nodded silently, fixing Jun’s drink before disappearing into a back room.

Jun sighed, taking a long sip of his whiskey before speaking again. “Here’s what we’re gonna do now.” He exhaled deeply, setting the half empty glass down. “We’re gonna rob this guy, rough him up a bit, make him understand the error of his ways. Then, being the gracious businessmen that we are, we’ll invite him back—offer him free drinks, and all the companionship he could wish for—so he never thinks about spending his money anywhere else ever gain.”

Damon stared back at Jun, dumbfounded by the simplicity and audacity of the plan. The sheer dissonance between the violence and the hospitality left him momentarily speechless.

Jun rolled his eyes, clearly irritated. “Ugh, I forget how much of a fish out of water you are. Just do what I tell you. I don’t need you for your brains, kid—I need you for your fireballs and whatever else it is you can jutsu up.”

Without another word, Jun raised his glass to his lips, draining the remaining amber liquid in one swift gulp. A crimson coloured sheathed katana thudded onto the table, derived by Ben the barkeeper. The bald gang leader with one had still on his drink picked the weapon and seamlessly swung it over his back.

“Alright,” he said, setting the glass down with a thud. “Let’s get this done. We’ve only got a couple hours of moonlight left.”

Thread Claims:

Soon after, they found themselves on the outskirts of the city. Jun knew every alley and corner of the coastal town, and they had managed to cover much ground quickly.

The two figures hid in the shadows just before a stone-paved walkway leading to a magnificent manor.

The building stood as a weathered reminder of what the colonial settlers had accomplished decades ago when it must have first been constructed.

A large, dark brick house, with crude stone chiseled from the very cliffs into which this noble district was built. Lavishly decorated with a newly crafted wooden exterior, framing its high-rise windows, panels, and the balconies that jutted from various rooms on the second floor.

Like a massive hat, it wore the traditional roof often seen in the Land of Lightning—sloped with steep gables curling upwards at each corner, lined with dark brown tiles.

A grand patio led up to a mighty entrance archway with a massive wooden door. It was clear they weren’t just going to walk in.

"Pretty sure the place is guarded," Jun squinted, his eyes focused on the dimly lit mansion, only faintly illuminated by a nearby streetlamp and a lantern on the porch.

"Looks like our guy’s already asleep. He’s gonna have quite the rude awakening," he chuckled slightly at his own joke.

"Come on, we’re moving around back. Tread lightly."

The duo slipped into the darkness, carefully sticking to the shadows as they circled the building, crossing the meticulously cut lawn.

Suddenly, Damon felt the cold sheath of Jun’s blade press against his chest as the older man stopped him from taking another step.

The head of Lamplight’s security lifted his index finger to his lips, signalling silence. He then pointed at a window on the second floor—it was wide open, almost inviting them inside.

The swordsman crouched down until his head was level with the younger Damon’s.

He whispered, "Jump in, open up the back. Do it now."

Damon’s stomach churned at the command. The thought of trespassing so blatantly into someone’s home filled him with panic.

A cold moist sweat forms on his palms, his heart rate spiking.

After a dry, failed attempt to swallow, he remained frozen in place, his eyes locked with those of the security chief.

Jun grabbed him by the back of the neck and tilted his head while maintaining their stare. Damon could feel the grip tighten, disgusted by the forceful display. He ducked under Jun’s grasp, finally acting as instructed.

He didn’t bother to look back at Jun’s expression. Instead, Damon lowered his stance, channeling a surge of chakra from his core down into his feet.

With a burst of speed, he launched himself upward. Managing to dive right through the large, two-fold open entry, tucking his legs close to his body, his arms out in front to balance his momentum. He landed with a soft, silent thud inside the mansion.

For some reason, his panic subsided the moment he hit the floor. His senses sharpened; his actions became clear.

Damon quickly scanned his surroundings. The interior was just as opulent as the exterior, the room an expansive study with high ceilings. Ornate tapestries, marble statues, and expensive art filled the space.

A large, dark wooden desk stood near a pact bookshelf, perhaps mahogany or oak, either way a mighty piece in both design and the material from which it was crafted.

But he didn’t linger. Crouching slightly, he snuck over to the door, cracking it open to reveal a dimly lit hallway leading deeper into the estate.

Navigating through the darkness, he avoided bumping into the grand furniture scattered throughout. His footsteps light as he descended the staircase, one step at a time, thankful that the old wooden steps didn’t creak.

Once on the ground level he moved to a window. Pulling aside some extraordinarily heavy drapes, he found the glass panes facing outward in the direction he had entered from. Carefully, he slid it open, creating just enough space for Jun to slip through.

Without needing to signal, Jun followed. With a louder thud, the man was inside.

In the absence of light, Damon couldn’t make out Jun’s expression, but he imagined the same stern look that had plagued him since they met.

Without exchanging a word, the two of them snuck back upstairs.

For a brief moment, Damon wondered how Jun would navigate toward their target efficiently, enough to momentarily forget the adrenaline surging through him from their illegal infiltration.

That’s when he began to hear it—the unmistakable sound Jun must have picked up on previously.

Lord Kanabe, their target, was apparently afflicted with rather tumultuous snoring.

Within moments of creeping through the hallway, they identified the door to his quarters.

The two stood before it, Jun slowly drawing his katana from its sheath, the sound slicing through the silence.

He whispered, "I’ll slip in first. If any guards come this way, Damon—and I mean this—take... them... out. Whatever you have to do."

The weight of those words made Damon’s shoulders sink. This man was asking him to kill if necessary.

He nodded softly, resigned to his fate. At this point, he was no more than a highwayman, bound to the Tempest Syndicate. Could he even claim the luxury of a conscience anymore?

Jun disappeared into the room, and time seemed to stretch. Damon’s senses heightened, every second crawling by as if the hands of a clock slowed with each tick across the dial.

Suddenly, a light flicked on inside, startling Damon so much he had to stop himself from gasping aloud.

Then voices erupted—angry voices.

He tried to make sense of them, but the blood pounded in his head so loud it was difficult to concentrate. The thumbing organ in his chest skipped a beat when he heard his name.

He was being summoned inside.

Without hesitation, Damon burst through the door, stepping into Lord Kanabe’s master bedroom.

His eyes adjusted to the light, revealing a pompous, half-naked man sitting upright in bed. His pale, ghostly face was flushed with fear as he stared back at Damon.

Kanabe looked to be in his late forties, with thick bushy eyebrows and a almost toupée like haircut and a graying stubble beard covering his chin.

Next to his throat, ominously close, hovered Jun’s clean, polished steel blade. Not a single tremor or twitch in his grip—the sword rested exactly where he intended, pressed against the nobleman’s neck.

"The good Lord Kanabe has just informed me that there are no other guards on-site," Jun said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Apparently, our lordship here can’t currently afford such security measures at the moment. See, the reason our dear noble made such a foolish decision to bother the Lamplight is because, on his most recent visit, he lost a very, very sizable sum during some rather vigorous gambling. And, well, he thought it would soothe his sorrows if he exacted some revenge."

For a moment, whilst explaining Jun swung the blade dangerously close to Kanabe’s face.

"And that’s how we find ourselves in this... precarious situation, isn’t that right?"

The question was clearly directed at Kanabe.

"I... I... yes... it was terribly foolish... I see that now... I... ahaha... I’m terribly sorry to have offended the Lamplight," Kanabe stammered.

"Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head, Lord Kanabe," Jun sneered. "That mercenary you hired? We’ve taken care of him. The guards will find his corpse in the gutter by morning."

Damon swallowed hard, still unable to force down the growing lump in his throat. The thought of the dying boy’s gurgling last breaths nearly made him sick again.

"Now, my lord, we have a little matter to settle," Jun continued, his voice taking on a more businesslike tone. "You see, our intrusion here comes with a request directly from the owner. We’ll be needing some reparations for all the commotion your actions caused tonight. All the guards put on alert, this missing-nin we hired to clean up your mess, our efforts spent dropping by like this... well, you know the saying. Time is money. And we know you’ve got time, but where’s the money?"

Kanabe, already pale, seemed to turn a shade whiter, his veins bulging a faint blue under his skin.

"Now, now, Jun, I... I really don’t... I mean... please, Jun..."

"You know, Lord Kanabe, I figured that we might need to trigger a little inspiration on your part."

Jun’s head turned as he glanced over his shoulder at Damon.

"Kid, come here," he gestured. "Lord Kanabe, have you ever been under the influence of a genjutsu?"

The nobleman’s eyes widened in horror.

"Damon, why don’t you show him one of those parlour tricks the boys from the Tempest taught you?"

Damon knew exactly what Jun was referring to. During his first few days in the syndicate, Kante had demonstrated some of the favorite techniques criminals liked to employe.

For a brief moment, Damon hesitated. A memory flashed—warmer days spent in the monastery, surrounded by the love of his peers, the chants echoing in the air, his hands fiddling with prayer beads as he gazed up at the towering bronze statues of various deities. In those days, he had dreamed of being as mighty and free as the spirits they worshipped.

But that life was so endlessly far behind him now.

With a deep breath, Damon set the required hand signs into motion, his eyes narrowing as he locked onto Kanabe’s wide, terrified gaze.

Demonic Illusion: Hell Viewing Technique.

The lord began squealing out of terror, screaming violently as he began thrashing in his bed, his arms and legs flailing wildly.

Jun held him down.

Damon maintained the genjutsu for only a few minutes, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, dripping from his chin as he struggled to sustain the illusion.

When Jun finally gave the signal, Damon released the technique. Lord Kanabe flopped onto the bed, drenched in tears.

Before Jun even had to ask, the lord vehemently babbled, "There’s a coffer full of Ryo behind the bookcase in the study. Please, Jun, just take it."

"I appreciate that, Lord Kanabe," Jun replied smoothly, "Your cooperation is the first step in our new business relationship. And just so you know, the Lamplight will graciously relieve you of the entire sum you owe from your last visit. We truly look forward to seeing you again—and to entice your lordship we offer to cover all drinks and female company you might want to delight in, everythings on us."

Jun sheathed his blade with impressive speed. "Now, have a good start to your day, Lord Kanabe. I’m sure our next encounter will be much more pleasant."

With that, Jun shoved Damon out of the room, and they swiftly retrieved the money before exiting the manor through the front door. As they stepped outside, the first rays of sunlight pierced the horizon, engulfing the cliffs and the buildings perched atop them in golden light.

"What did I tell you, Damon? Just a regular Thursday for the Golden Tempest. Let’s head back, shall we?"

EXIT

Jutsu Used:

Thread Claims:

Damon Kenzaku wrote:

Final Thread Claims:

Approved!