Whispers of the Fall [O] [Event]

Potential Poltergeist: A Spirit’s Plea:

Potential Poltergeist: Rescue and Release:

Potential Poltergeist: The Final Showdown:

The streets of the City Square pulsed with lantern light and murmured laughter. Hollow’s Eve he had enveloped the village in shadows and revelry, the air thick with the scent of spiced cider, roasted chestnuts, and fallen leaves. Ayato, the Hogokage, moved through the bustling crowd, a quiet figure among the revelers. His cool detachment masked a more profound warmth as his gaze wandered over stalls brimming with charms and trinkets—baubles promising fortune or, if the vendors were to be believed, a hint of darker mischief. 

Ayato stood amidst the crowd, his cloak draped in quiet shades of sand and oak, colors that held the warmth of autumn without flourish. His long, black hair was tied back, framing a clean-shaven face with an air of calm readiness. Unique to his clan, his eyes' pale, lavender tint held a steady, unblinking focus. The Hyuuga clan's emblem on the breast pocket of his robe, stitched in quiet white, was a single, understated flame.

Amidst the festival wares, something unusual caught Ayato’s attention: an old lantern, its surface dulled by time and carved with intricate patterns that hinted at forgotten artistry. The vendor held it reverently, though a flicker of unease crossed his eyes as they met Ayato’s. Then again, those pale, lavender-white eyes of his bloodline unsettled even the bold.

“Hogokage-sama,” the old man rasped, his voice low and brittle. "This one here bears a curse. They say it has a will of its own.”

A flicker of a smile crept onto Ayato’s face, cold as autumn’s first frost. “Then it may be the only spirit I indulge tonight,” he replied, voice sharp with amusement. But he found himself reaching for the lantern, some instinctual curiosity compelling his hand forward. Coins were exchanged between them, though Ayato barely felt their weight, and soon, the lantern’s grip was his.

As the twilight deepened and laughter softened into murmurs, Ayato withdrew from the bustle to see if the old man’s claims held any truth. With a calm, deliberate motion, he struck a match and set the lantern alight. The flame flared to life, its glow strange, casting shadows that twisted and danced as if stirred by some unseen force. And there, deep within the flame, Ayato saw it: the faint outline of a figure seated in the fire’s heart, its form flickering with the movement of the light.

“A rather confining prison,” he mused aloud, studying the shadowed form with sharp interest.

The figure stirred, shifting in its fiery cage, and a low, weary voice echoed from within. It was a man's voice long confined, rough as an ancient stone, and heavy with the weight of forgotten years. The spirit spoke of how it had been bound to the lantern, its soul condemned to feed the flame for eternity. If it were to be freed, Ayato would have to seek its former dwelling—a place abandoned and, as the spirit whispered, likely inhabited by secrets darker than memory. Clues, it promised, were waiting along with what little Ryo the spirit had left behind. "A form of payment," it rasped, “to ease the debt I owe.”

Ayato narrowed his eyes, mulling over the spirit’s plight. He raised the lantern to eye level, his gaze piercing as he looked into the fire. “Then consider your debt paid,” he said, his tone a quiet blade, edged with amusement. The spirit chuckled faintly, echoing like the whisper of distant thunder. But its warning remained: it could not say for sure what—or who—might now dwell within the ruined halls of its old life.

As Ayato’s expression shifted, the amusement slipping from his gaze to reveal something colder and sharper, a subtle thrill lit his eyes. His words cut through the festival’s dwindling hum, a voice smooth and commanding. “It appears our night has taken a darker turn,” he said, barely louder than a whisper, yet it held the weight of an unspoken oath. “Stay vigilant. Our guest’s home has fallen into ruin, and one can never know what stirs in shadows left to decay.”

At his words, figures gathered around him, emerging one by one from the fringes of light, moving with quiet, purposeful steps. They drifted into the lantern’s dim glow-like shades themselves, each drawn by his words as if the promise of shadowed danger were a bond that held them all. Silent, watchful, their faces hidden in darkness, they fell in beside him, the weight of their presence a silent vow to follow the Hogokage into whatever mystery awaited.

Without another word, Ayato turned and began to walk, leaving the warmth of the festival’s lights and laughter behind. The ghostly glow of the lantern cast warped, twisting shadows across his face as he strode into the night, his companions falling into step around him. A chill seeped through his robes as the village sounds faded, the autumn air thick with the feeling of secrets waiting to be unearthed. It was as if Hollow’s Eve itself watched in silent anticipation, waiting to see if the Hogokage would unravel the curse—or stumble into darkness even he had not foreseen.

[WC: 850]

Yamato moved quietly through the streets, his gaze fixed on Ayato’s figure weaving through the scattered revelers, their masks and garish costumes dancing in the lantern light. Hallow’s Eve in Hoshigakure was a night of wild spirits and mischievous glances, but for Yamato, it was something else entirely—a call to the past, to a time when his blade had not dulled, and his resolve had known no cracks. Now, he was a relic, one of the last of the Terumi—a clan nearly swallowed whole by war and spoken of in low voices in tales of the last great battle. He had stood with Ayato and Akabayashi then, steel gleaming under the stars, tearing open an opportunity to bring down Ibari of the Sand—a name still spoken with a certain reverence.

That victory had once brought him pride. Now, it sat uneasily, a memory rather than a triumph, too distant to inspire the man he’d become. Lately, he felt his shinobi path crumbling beneath his feet, the years catching up to him, his sword arm slower than it once was. Perhaps tonight was his chance to reclaim that old fire and feel the weight of purpose again.

The Terumi’s uniform was black with deep red trim and long, fitted sleeves sturdy beneath a cloak that fell to his knees. White hair framed a vivid scar slashing across his cheek—a stark reminder of past battles. He carried himself with quiet strength, his gaze steady and intense, a katana resting at his hip.

A striking sigil lay on the back of his cloak: a swirling spiral, evoking a rising flame and a crashing wave—an emblem of the Terumi clan’s mastery over fire and water. It was the mark of Worr Terumi, Yamato’s father, though few remained who would recognize either the symbol or the man behind it.

Ayato was ahead, the familiar lines of his friend’s posture sparking something old in him, some deep instinct to follow, to watch his back. It had been this way since their early days as graduates from Astral Point, back in the heady dawn of camaraderie and ambition. Where Ayato had climbed, Yamato had found himself wading through the fog, his vision blurred, his purpose dulled. That was why tonight, when Ayato had sought out that wisp of a spirit in the lantern, Yamato had followed without question. If Ayato had found purpose, perhaps he could find it, too.

The festivities continued around them, laughter and snatches of song filling the air. But his eyes stayed on Ayato’s steady pace, on how his old comrade moved with the same assurance that had once inspired Yamato to stand at his side. His hand stayed close to his hilt, an old habit. “I understand,” he said, his voice gruff but carrying the hint of their old camaraderie.

And he did. He understood more than Ayato might have guessed. The feeling of being adrift, of watching oneself fade while others rose, was one he knew well. But tonight… tonight was the time of spirits, legends, and whispered promises when the past stirred in the living. If there was ever a night to awaken his sword arm, to reclaim the edge he had lost, it was this one.

The glow from Ayato’s lantern painted his face in shades of amber and gold, reminding Yamato that purpose could come in the quietest ways, like a lantern’s steady light. He stepped beside his Kage, ready to seize whatever the night might hold for them both.


WC:582

Sephora had been walking around amongst the people and the crisp autumn air. She loved this time of the year! The sights, the sounds, the people, and this was her second year in Hoshigakure! A very festive village indeed! Among the people, she had caught a glimpse of a familiar face, that of Ayato Hyuuga, and she began to follow him. Someone else also started to follow him; she probably knew the person, but instead of focusing on that, she noticed Ayato had picked up quite an interesting spooky item! The shadows the thing cast were creepy and eerie. Sephora looked at the shadows on the wall and swore there was something more to this item…this lantern!

“What the…” Sephora whispered as she looked at the shadows and wondered why it kept her attention as it did; she had a very odd feeling about this item. She finally saw the other person with Ayato, a Shinobi she had seen around the area.

Sephora had seen many things in her time as a missing ninja, so things didn't tend to affect her, but this seemed to be unnerving her!

As the other person approached Ayato, she began to as well. He had a different look on his face. The light from the lantern caused weird patterns as it shined on him!

“What's up with this thing?” She finally asked out loud. “It's quite unique, but something feels different about it!” She said as she got a closer look at it. It looked almost like it had a secret all its own! It spooked her, yet it intrigued her. This was the time of year for spirits to come out, and she felt like this item had a spirit all its own.
She stood beside Ayato as she looked at the item. Maybe the eerie glow it was casting was because it was trying to catch someone's attention! As she looked at it, she noticed many weird things about it, but the real curious part was how the hell it was staying lit. And why was the flame such an odd color?

Sephora was wearing a Purple shirt, black jeans, and a black sweater, and the light reflecting across her clothes was creating a strange, unexplainable color! She continued to look it over, and then she saw it—there was a spirit in the lantern! She could suddenly see it and feel its strong presence. Sephora almost felt a pang of sorrow for the spirit.

“I know it's the time of year when spirits can come through easier because the veil is thinner, but this is the first one I believe I have ever encountered!” Sephora said, rather surprised.

(WC:458)

A pleasantly crisp fall night had made its way into the Land of Stars. The air was cool, the atmosphere in the city square was alive, and the leaves of the land had begun to turn all their fall colors. Joro had found himself out that night, Stout had been away for most of the day seemingly running off on an adventure. Joro wasn't worried though. He figured that the Stoat would find his way home in due time. 

Joro was fitted in a wide colorful sweater, adorned with oranges, reds, and browns. A hooded cloak over top set on top of the young man's shoulder, and a pair of baggy tan pants complimented the fall colors. The young shinobi could be found strutting out of his home on the west side of the village. The cool breeze hit his face as he turned and headed into the city. As he walked along he noticed the streets filled with small children with masks of every creature, big and small. Though he may have been just on a calm night stroll it looked like it might get a little chaotic for the young Nova hopeful. He had met the "man in the market" a few days prior. That interaction gave him a glimpse of the presence and control that a more seasoned shinobi displayed and with that interaction had now been set on a new path. One of further patience, and one focused not only on himself and his well-being but also on protecting others. Joro had always been fond of helping others, but now his new dedication extended to protecting them and looking out for the great people of Hoshigakure. 

After their brief interaction in the city square two days prior, Joro had been training even harder than before. And he made sure to sharpen his situational awareness after that powerful lesson in knowing that he wasn't just protecting himself, but also those less fortunate. He had lost sight of that after his parents had died He had been left alone to his own devices and that had led him to be more self-centered regarding well-being than he had previously thought. He hoped that given time, he could soon become a more thoughtful shinobi. 

As he made his way into the streets the children made their way through the streets cheering and scaring each other in good fun. Joro couldn't help but wonder when he would meet the man again. They had planned to train at the Dojo Yard within the proceeding weeks so the man could teach him a few techniques. But he hadn't been able to because of some early morning missions. But, he hoped that he could soon so he could learn even more from the man. Specifically at his mention of a jutsu or two that he could learn that might fit his arsenal. 

Joro walked along coming from the West in the village and found himself in the city square, again. And lo and behold the man from the market was also there. And so was another man, now who was this? The man was about average height and had shoulder-length white hair. Intriguing. All of these shinobi with white hair he seemed to meet. Joro wondered if it was a bloodline or just happenstance. He knew Youta and Sephora were not of the same clan. But Z and Sephora were. He placed the thought for another time, right now he needed to figure out more about this new mysterious man. Considering Joro was to the left of both men he could see the scar present on the new man’s face. A warrior? Or a victim? Possibly both. It was a nasty scar though. He seemed to be more of a warrior though, given the lean muscular frame. As he walked a few steps further he was now in front of the man from the market. Just to the man’s left. Joro looked at the man with that usual flicker of joy, and a smile glinting in his features. And also cast a smile on the new man. He then noticed his friend, Sephora. Intriguingly, she seemed close to the man from the market. At that point, he then noticed the lantern and its strange nature. He took a breath as all three of them seemed to follow the man with the lantern. Joro briefly introduced himself to the group, “Hello, quite the evening. The lanterns have painted quite the setting for a wonderful night in the Land Under the Stars.”


WC: 756

The quiet of the forest settled around them as Ayato led the way, his gaze flicking occasionally to the eerie glow of the lantern in his hand. With its strange, wavering flame, the light seemed almost alive, tugging him and his companions deeper into the woods. The air was damp and cool, filled with the earthy scent of fallen leaves, and the sounds of the festival had faded into a distant murmur. It was a night when the world felt fragile, with the border between past and present thinning. Beneath twisted branches and scattered moonlight, Ayato found his thoughts drifting to Yamato, following in his shadow.

Miyamoto, no—Yamato Terumi. The man’s white hair gleamed faintly in the dim light, and his scar—cut across his cheek in a reminder of old battles—gave his face a severe cast. He looked as he always had, quiet yet present, a fixture in Ayato’s life since their days at Astral Point. Lately, though, it was as though a gulf had opened between them as if Yamato had drifted from the life they once shared.

Ayato couldn’t help but recall Yamato’s moment in the war. Back then, he wasn’t the kind of shinobi who drew attention. Even amid battles where he fought alongside famed warriors, most regarded Yamato as steady, if unremarkable—a face in the ranks, a soldier doing his duty. But Ayato knew better. He remembered the flash of Yamato’s technique, the Peacock Spearing Blessing, and the bright, fierce determination that had come with it.

At that final moment, Yamato had struck with his katana and Sacred Spear, a technique he’d honed tirelessly. Ibari of the Sand—a warrior of near-legend—had fallen not to a celebrated champion but to Yamato, an “ordinary” soldier. Some might call it irony, but Ayato saw it differently: a moment of quiet justice. An ordinary man, a dedicated shinobi, had been the one to bring down the feared warrior.

It was true that Ayato and Akabayashi had opened the path, drawing Ibari’s attention, but Yamato had landed the decisive strike. It felt almost as if fate had conspired to give him his due, if only for a heartbeat.

Now, that same man walked behind Ayato at a haunted distance. The fire that had propelled him through the war seemed to have waned as if that moment had taken more than it had given. Ayato couldn’t tell if the years or that last battle had drained Yamato’s spirit, but he knew something in his friend had dulled. Perhaps that was why he was here tonight. With its wild spirits and quiet mysteries, this festival night might offer Yamato the renewal he needed.

Ayato glanced over his shoulder, catching the gleam of Yamato’s eyes in the lantern’s ghostly light. He raised the lantern slightly, casting a warm flicker across Yamato’s face and nodding as they pressed on through the thickening trees. Whatever awaited them at the shrine, Ayato hoped it might rekindle the quiet fire in his old friend.

The faint light from the lantern flickered over Sephora Hyuuga as she walked beside him, her pale eyes reflecting the glow with an almost ethereal calm. Although she shared Ayato’s last name and bloodline, Sephora belonged to a different branch of the clan—one that had nearly vanished over the years. She was no relative of his, yet her presence forged an undeniable connection to his heritage, a living link to those rare Hyuuga who had survived the wars and clan rivalries. Ayato felt a quiet sense of pride watching her venture out like this, joining the strange festivities of Hallow’s Eve. Sephora rarely sought gatherings; she was known for keeping company with her siblings. Yet here she was, stepping outside her comfort zone to embrace something larger. Ayato couldn’t help but feel gratified to see her taking part, even in an occasion as peculiar as this.

Just a few paces behind walked Joro, his orange hair catching the lantern’s glow and casting him in warm light. The last time Ayato had crossed paths with him, the young Nova hopeful’s boldness had nearly incited an uproar in the City Square. Joro had squared off defiantly against a squad of Yomiyama samurai, his stance bold enough to prompt them to reach for their blades. Only Ayato’s firm intervention prevented tensions from spilling into open conflict, reminding Joro and the samurai of the importance of tempering steel. However, tonight, Ayato sensed something different in him—a quiet eagerness, perhaps a growing awareness of what it truly meant to stand among the shinobi of Hoshigakure. It was heartening to see him here, and Ayato hoped this would be a chance for Joro to demonstrate how far he had come since that encounter.

The mossy pillar at the shrine’s entrance bore a faint, weathered inscription, barely legible through creeping green layers. The characters read, "Welcome to Shizuka-no-Kibō"—Hope of Silence.

Ayato and his companions stepped into the clearing, the lantern’s faint glow casting the abandoned shrine in pale relief. Moonlight filtered through the dense canopy, illuminating what remained of the shrine’s once-proud structure. It was a place of haunting beauty, reclaimed by nature; moss clung thickly to crumbling stone pillars, and vines coiled around rafters like silent, creeping fingers. Once polished and robust, the wooden beams now sagged and splintered, barely hinting at the sanctuary they once formed. The forest had woven itself into every crevice, telling its tale of the shrine's abandonment.

The air felt heavy, steeped in memories of old offerings and whispered prayers. Samurai once came here for guidance and blessings when swords ruled, and faith stood as steadfast as steel. The shrine had likely been left to decay before the Warring States period, falling into ruin amidst conflicts with the Western Knights.

Stepping forward, Ayato set the haunted lantern on the main altar, the glass rattling faintly. As it stilled, the glow brightened, and then, as if rising from the mist, a spirit emerged. Gaunt yet calm, the spirit inclined its head in gratitude.

"Thank you for coming,” it murmured, its voice barely more than a whisper. “I am not alone—three more souls remain bound to this place. But each of you may only have one free one. Seek them out, speak with them, and release them."

Ayato inclined his head, studying the spirit with a hint of curiosity. He wondered, fleetingly, if this apparition was some ancient chakra manifestation—an echo from a shinobi who’d lingered here long past their mortal life or perhaps something even older.

"Thank you for guiding us here and entrusting us with your story," Ayato said, his voice light yet resolute, a glint of humor softening his profound gaze.“ Not every day is one called upon to lend a hand to the otherworldly. But rest assured,” he added, his smile wry, “We’ve come prepared to lighten your burdens, spirit or not.”

The spirit nodded faintly, shadows flickering in the soft glow of the lantern. “The night is no longer young, and time slips from our grasp,” it murmured, its voice like the rustle of autumn leaves. “Three other souls remain bound, each awaiting release, and you must hurry.”

Ayato glanced back at his companions, a small smile touching his lips. “Then I’m fortunate to have my comrades by my side tonight. We won’t let them linger here longer than they must.”

Ayato turned to his companions, his gaze steady. "It appears I’ll need each of you for what lies ahead,” he said, his tone respectful yet resolute. “Let’s see that every soul bound here finds peace tonight.”

The spirit described three locations around the shrine, and Ayato gestured to each.

To the right lay an overgrown pavilion, its stone floors darkened by the remnants of an ancient fire. Graceful carvings, barely visible beneath layers of grime, hinted at a place once meant for quiet meditation, now marred by the signs of violence.

Directly ahead stretched a small courtyard where leafless trees stood gnarled, branches arching over the shrine’s roof. Fallen leaves from countless autumns carpeted the ground, and beneath one twisted tree sat a cracked stone bench bearing the marks of careful, long-ago craftsmanship.

At the far edge of the clearing, a stone well choked with lichen stood solemnly amid jagged rocks. Its water had dried up, and vines draped over the crumbling stones like faded curtains. Samurai had likely drawn water here, purifying themselves before entering the shrine.

Ayato nodded at his companions, his voice soft yet resolute. “Each of you has a part to play—Joro, Sephora, and Yamato. Seek out your spirit, speak with them, and set them free. We’ll gather back here when the task is done.”

[WC: 1,437]

As Yamato walked through the forest, the sense of time seemed to blur, space narrowing as he neared the chosen paths of the others. He could feel their energies, faint, like traces lingering in the air, though he didn’t reach out. It wasn’t his way to pull others forward, even now. Watching others move, adjusting his step in response, was how he’d always navigated, katana by his side, biding his strength until the precise moment called.

Ayato’s mission was why he had chosen to act in the first place: to repay debts, settle things left undone, and fulfill what his family had once sought. Memories often resurfaced in pieces, challenging to piece together, yet striking forward into the unknown was always easier than turning back to the past. Today, however, he sensed that Ayato was working toward something larger, something layered and unfolding. He could see a path in Ayato’s intent, and with that clarity, he’d decided to step from the margins.

As the amber lantern light washed over him, Yamato moved into its beam, unhidden, revealing who he was. He lingered just within reach of Ayato, silent but resolute. People always assumed he was waiting, doing nothing. They rarely saw the subtle shifts beneath the surface, the way he weighed each step.

Soon, Sephora joined their path, her movements careful and deliberate. She cast a curious look, her expression mildly surprised but respectful. He returned her glance without a word, acknowledging her presence with a subtle nod. Behind her, Joro came forward, his demeanor that of someone new to these traditions, eager to prove himself.

He listened as Ayato presented the task. The old memories surfaced then, and images of past battles and missions were silently shared. Even after it faded, the spirit's voice lingered in his mind. Everything the ghost had revealed, the lingering curse, the unfulfilled ties, felt eerily familiar, as though these ancient spirits had pulled back a curtain on some hidden, unspoken purpose.

Yamato broke the silence, inclining his head toward Ayato. "Hogokage-sama," he said, with a faint smirk, "I’ll take the pavilion. Seems it suits my… skill set." His tone was dry but edged with a purpose the others would recognize. Turning to the others, he added, "What do you two feel drawn toward?" He would wait for a response and then proceed.

Yamato felt the damp air settle as he left Ayato’s side and approached the overgrown pavilion. A thick carpet of leaves muffled each step, deepening the silence around him. As he approached the pavilion’s darkened stones, the air held an ancient heaviness. It seemed once a place of meditation, now overtaken by vines and scorched by an old fire. It felt like the past had soaked into these stones, waiting to rise and speak.

Just as he reached the heart of the pavilion, a thin mist gathered before him, condensing into the form of a warrior clad in the simple armor of an era long past. The samurai’s face was stern, and his strong yet relaxed posture spoke of a life spent at war. The ghost tilted his head, studying Yamato with curiosity and pride as though weighing his worth.

"A stranger comes to free an old spirit, eh?" the ghost’s voice was rough, his words colored by the dialect of the warring states. "And here I was thinkin’ I’d been long forgotten."

Yamato inclined his head respectfully, letting a rare smile touch his lips. “The forgotten deserve peace as much as the rest,” he replied, his voice quiet and steady. He recognized the weight of the samurai’s presence, a warrior bound by old pride and unspent resolve who had likely given his life for ideals long dissolved.

The samurai chuckled, a sound that resonated like steel upon stone. "Wise words for one so young. Ye’ve fought, though, haven’t ye? I can tell by the way ye hold yourself—like a man who’s seen too much, perhaps."

"Enough to understand," Yamato replied, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his katana. “Fought, and lost, and lived. But we all carry what we’ve learned, one way or another."

The samurai's spectral face softened. "Aye, that we do. Though I can’t claim much of life left in me, I can still feel the thrill of it... the draw of the sword, the rush of steel. One last clash is all I ask.”

Yamato felt the thrill of a familiar challenge course through him—a ghost’s final request. This was no ordinary spirit; there was honor in granting him his wish. He met the samurai’s gaze, nodding solemnly. “Then let’s settle it. One last duel for the warrior’s road.”

The two bowed, moving into their respective stances. The ghost’s blade glinted with a strange, otherworldly light as Yamato drew his own katana. They stood there, still as statues, until the moment broke with the whisper of movement, and the duel was joined.

The samurai struck first, a powerful yet graceful arc that cut through the air, his spectral form surprisingly swift. Yamato parried, feeling the weight of his own years in his stance but drawing on experience rather than pure strength. He sidestepped, turned, then struck with a clean, decisive slash through the ghost’s form. The samurai staggered, then laughed, a deep, resonant laugh that seemed to lift the pall of the pavilion’s silence.

“Well struck,” he murmured, voice softening. His form began to fade, mist unraveling in the faint light. “Ye’ve done me proud, stranger. There’s honor in ye still.”

Yamato sheathed his blade as the last remnants of the samurai drifted away, dissolving into the night. His heart beat with quiet pride, a reminder that though he was not the warrior he once was, he still carried the essence of his strength.

Wc: 962

Sephora noticed Ayato glancing at her, and a faint blush crept across her cheeks. Even under the eerie glow of the lantern light, his face remained strikingly handsome. As they walked toward the area the spirit had directed them to, a chill in the autumn air sent a shiver up her spine. Was it the cold or the unsettling nature of their task? The scene around them felt like something out of a horror movie, the entire area was ancient and decaying.

When Ayato instructed them to find a spirit, she immediately set off. A soft sound of crying reached her ears, drifting from somewhere inside the dilapidated structure. She approached a worn set of stairs, her footsteps echoing softly.

“Hello…” Sephora called out, following the sorrowful noise that grew louder as she ascended. It sounded unmistakably like a child's cry—a haunting, heart-wrenching wail. As she moved down the dim hallway, she realized the sound was coming from the far end. Her heart ached for the unseen child, and she quickened her pace, determined to help.

At the end of the hallway, she entered a room and saw the glowing form of a spirit, a young girl, tattered and bruised, curled on the floor.

“Hey, sweetheart, what’s wrong? I’m here to help you,” Sephora said gently, kneeling beside the spectral child. The spirit looked up at her with sunken, sorrowful eyes.

“I was killed, and no one ever knew the truth,” the girl said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t fall out of the window; I was pushed. I died when I hit the ground. I just wanted someone to know.”

Sephora’s heart ached at the sight of the child's tears, which seemed so natural. “Who pushed you, love?” she asked softly, holding the ghostly hand. As their touch connected, Sephora was suddenly transported back in time. She watched as the girl's older brother, consumed by jealousy, pushed her out of the window. The vision ended, and Sephora was back in the present, the girl’s spectral form still before her.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “It’s okay now. I know the truth. You can cross over. You no longer have to feel pain.”

Tears welled in Sephora’s eyes as the little ghost hugged her. Then, in a gentle flash of light, the spirit vanished, and the oppressive weight of the room lifted. With a deep sigh, Sephora made her way back downstairs.

(404)

The forest began to settle around them as the group of four began to follow the spirit and the man from the market specifically. The glow from the lantern showed the spirit's power and strength, as it was bright for such a small thing. Joro wondered how long its life had been if it had lived only decades or generations. He said this wondering as he was nearing two decades coming up next summer, which was a long way off, but he still found himself perplexed by the idea of a long life.

He turned to see the new man across from the man in the market. He looked to be of a similar age as Joro and battle-hardened. He carried himself with a similar nonchalant but attentive approach. He seemed to be decisive, a great quality for a Shinobi, while also aware of his skill. Joro could sense the man was above him in power just through the sense of his chakra. He couldn't say the same for Sephora. It seemed that he had outgrown her since their last meeting. He had always been a little quicker than her, but his training seemed to pay off as he was closer to the man from the market and the new man with white hair. Then Sephora was to him. He found it peculiar though as they were all of similar age, Sephora being the oldest of them he believed from their previous conversations. Joro marched on, taking in the man from the market. As the group walked through the forest, Joro could feel the bright glow of the lantern catch his face as he squinted his eyes in preparation. Hoping that the brightness of the spirit didn't blind him from such things. As he walked along he could feel the subtle sway of his sweater drifting in the cool fall breeze. The chill on his face invited him into the forest and eventually the shrine filled with its mossy green pillars. The moss climbed high and filled with ages upon ages of green. The pillars have been there for at least a century. Maybe longer.

On the mossy old pillar wrote a barely legible declaration, "Welcome to Shizuka-no-Kibō" or Hope of Silence. An interesting name Joro thought. Was it that the dead hoped to be left in silence, or that if it was silent because of cursed hollow grounds? Joro wasn't one for religion or the like. But the spirit of everything was something he believed in. He was developing the skill of Nature Chakra while practicing within the Water Gardens and the forests surrounding the land of Hoshigakure. The blend of chakra produced by himself and the chakra surrounding him from the earth, the living, and the animals around him. He had heard of a summoning contract but hadn't yet explored that ability of Shinobi. But he wondered one day if it would be beneficial to him if he could access that additional power. He was excited for the opportunity to access the additional power that the man from the market seemed to control and was willing to bestow on him. He wondered what sort of shinobi he was. Joro was mainly a coordinated attacker, focused on long-range Ninjutsu and Jikujutsu techniques. While relying on his abilities with Fuinjutsu as a deterrent from the counter of his strategy of other long-range based techniques. Joro hoped that he could soon work on his short-range abilities as he realized if someone got close enough he could easily be overpowered by shinobi stronger or faster than him. Joro felt around at the seals he had placed on himself a week or two ago. The ink from the tattoo on his back was still fresh. He was excited to try his new technique on it allowing for a more versatile application. But the ink had not fully set and it was not the perfect time yet.

As the four of them stepped into the clearing, the sound of crickets in the night air sent an ominous mood over the shrine.  The shrine of the clearing was one of once proud structures. Having been used for years upon years you could tell that it was once the height of craft within the region but due to years of neglect, it had fallen into almost disrepair. Even in the eyes of the most skilled craftsmen or stone workers. In the night though, Joro saw the subtle beauty of it all. The moss intertwined with the creation of man. Both nature and creation meshed together to create something different. Even if it was not perfectly sculpted as it once was. It was now time for them to follow through on their mission it seemed. The spirit leads them to the main altar.  The glass surrounding the altar seemed to rattle faintly from the wind over the structure itself. As the man from the market stepped forward, Joro noted the change in the alter. It seemed to mirror or float. Almost as if a portal was opening. A portal from the spirit realm perhaps. It was indeed time for a strange night within this season. As the spirit slowly emerged from the main altar it spoke a welcome to the four of them. Its voice barely above a whisper. Joro listened attentively as it suggested that there were three more spirits within the shrine that needed to be sought out. Found and then spoken to. While eventually releasing them from this unhallowed ground.

Joro watched as the man from the market communicated to the spirit that the team's goal was to lighten the burdens that the spirits held. Whatever that exactly meant, it seemed he had a better understanding of what was going on compared to Joro. But he still followed and could sense he was doing something worthwhile. The spirit then had a softer conversation with Ayato and he then revealed that there were three options. Three separate spirits from which to save and release from their hold amongst this ground. Joro wondered if his ability with the sealing arts especially breaking them would allow for him to break them out of this hold. As the man from the market nodded to the three of them his voice soft as he spoke addressing them each by name. Yamato, that was the white-haired man's name. Interesting name. He wondered what it meant in its meaning or old tongue.

Joro replied to the man from the market stating, "I shall, it'll be done swiftly and accurately as time seems to be of the essence." he said this kneeling, taking in the energy from the grounds. He sensed which direction he was being pulled. He finally decided to go towards the small courtyard as that seemed to draw him in the most. He relayed this back to the man from the market. The man's black hair tied behind his face, some of it flowing in the wind. Joro focused his mind on the new task.

Looking to the man he now learned was Yamato as he was the first to speak after the man from the market. He didn't hear the first few words as he began to focus on the task but realized he had picked the pavilions. The man ended his statement, waiting for a response which Joro readily gave him as he could feel the pull to the courtyard grow as time began to pass from their initial interaction with the spirit from the main altar. Joro turned to Yamato addressing him now as a matter of respect.

"The courtyard calls to me. I shall find the spirit within and release it from the clutches of this once great sanctuary," he said, his voice gentle, yet smooth. The words flowed off his tongue and through the brisk air.

Joro looked over to Sephora, he nodded at her showing that she had the stone well. Joro then took several strides to remove himself from the group. He turned right, looking for the small courtyard the man from the market had described earlier. As he entered the courtyard, Joro could see a great many leaves surrounding the ground, grass, and pathways in it. Fallen leaves of gold, auburn, and brown, some were even green but very few. In the middle of the courtyard sat an old oak. Its bark was strong and hardy. The color was of a soft tan, softer than the color Joro wore on his pants. But above him stretched a tree even taller than the once giant golem the young man could make before he lost that skill and adopted another. Joro still needed to take some time on how he kept losing these affinities and picking up new ones. He went from Purple Lightning Release to Wood Release, and now he carried no advanced elements. Although, he was able to gather Nature Chakra far better than any of his peers. No one even came close to the young man's skill and his attunement with nature. It was another reason he had called his new Tattoo and technique to go alongside it. Attunement. For now, he needed to focus again on his task. Below the great oak tree in the middle of this courtyard sat a stone bench. One made of solid granite. The stone is pure and sculpted by only the best craftsman. Joro could only imagine the scene that would have been set years ago with couples under the tree. The moment of one's love shown in the courtyard could bring the young shinobi to tears. But for now, he needed to focus. He felt his sweater ripple in the wind as he made his way towards the bench. As he came to the front of the bench he noticed how the bench was cracked right down the middle.

The cracked bench sat within the field, glistening in the moonlight. Joro walked as his reddish blonde hair glimmered in the moonlight. He could sense the shift in energy as he drew closer to the spirit's home or resting place. Either or. He could feel the energy rise up. Joro unfurled his hands from underneath his sweater. The fall colors swayed as he sat crisscrossed before the stone bench. He closed his eyes, first taking a deep sigh as he sat down. Then focusing on controlling his breathing as he sought a greater understanding of the energy around him. He felt himself wanting to form signs to manipulate the chakra within the air. At that moment Joro could not see anything. He could only feel the chakra surrounding him and as he reached further out, he sensed the spirit. It was a spirit of relatively large chakra compared to the one that the man from the market had. Being relatively two to three times larger. Joro reached out with his chakra, sending out his arms that he usually had access to during his True Sage Transformation, the color of his chakra now moving to a slight greenish blue. As he reached out he felt the chakra of the spirit lash out at him. The spirit began to send curses towards Joro.

"Stay back. These hallowed grounds are not for the faint of heart such as yourself," the spirit lashed out in response to his attack on Joro's chakra.

Joro responded, trying to maintain a defensive posture with his chakra. "I may be faint of heart, but I still share my own burdens, great spirit."

The spirit resembled that of a hawk. One that was proud and true. But the wings of the hawk looked tattered as if the spirit itself was in decline or had grown old.

Joro attempted to reach out again, this time more slowly and in a direct sense. And this time instead of entering the domain of the spirit through the air. He sent the energy through the ground. First through the ground and then the roots of the great oak. He approached the spirit in a soft, slow, somber sense. Hoping that it would be receptive to his peace offering. The spirit hesitated, first shielding itself up with its wings. And sending out strands of chakra to interact with Joro's. As the chakra touched, the hawks a more orange-brown color compared to Joro's greenish blue.

"Hello again, great spirit," he voiced out, softly. This time actually aloud, realizing the spirit was able to perceive physical manifestations.

"Hello, young Shinobi of Hoshigakure. What business do you have here in the courtyard of the Hope of Silence?" it asked, wondering why a young shinobi would venture to this part of the village. Especially seeking out a spirit no less, during this season.

"I have been tasked with freeing you from this confinement. To help deliver you up from your placement and do a freer space. I hope that you will cooperate with me as I can not perform the unsealing without the permission of the spirit within. As it would cause quite the problem in freeing you properly," Joro finished his proclamation to the spirit hoping they would understand and let him take them out from these old grounds.

"I see. And you have the ability to release me from my confinement then?" the spirit asked, his tone questioning, and yet hopeful.

"I do indeed, my friend. And best of all, it's almost pain-free. As long as you allow it."

"Okay. Do what you must. I want out of this plane of existence."

"Alrighty, well let's do this then."

Joro began to form hand seals for the art of Fuinjutsu breaking. Imbuing his chakra into the great oak and stone bench. Once the hand seals had been formed, Joro took a deep breath and asked the great spirit a question.

"Are you ready my friend?"

"Do it. Rid me of this burden!"

Joro could feel the rush of energy through his body as he unsealed the spirit from his old domain. There was a burst of energy that shot above them causing Joro to open his eyes as the spirit rushed out of the ground from between the great oak and the stone bench. Joro looked up into the sky as the spirit shot out and gathered its chakra as it settled again on the ground. It had since transformed into a glowing sprite almost. It looked like an old fae almost. Joro took in the sight wondering how something so majestic could be trapped in such an impoverished environment.

"Well, hello, great spirit!"

"Hello, oh do forgive me. I never asked your name?" the spirit asked, in a soft, concerned questioning tone.

"Joro, the name is Joro. How about you?"

"Kodama. I'm a nature spirit. I'm tied to the trees and have been bound to this one since it was merely a sapling."

Joro looked up real hard, taking in the size of the great oak. Realizing the age of the spirit and the age of the tree before him. "So, you've been here for a long, long time. Yes?"

"Yes, a long time. Years upon years. Before you, your parents, grandparents, maybe even your great grandparents birth."

"Crazy, but super cool. Maybe after all this, you could impart some wisdom to me?"

"Possibly, I might have a trick or two for you."

"Bet, well I think the idea is we get all the four spirits of the shrine together. Not entirely sure why. But it's what the boss man said."

Joro then stood, the energy in him released a little as he loosened up and started to walk with the spirit beside him. He wondered what Kodama would do to move with him. And he soon found out. The spirit began to float at almost waist level and walk alongside him. As they walked along, Joro felt a sense of maturity handling a task as simple as this seemed, it was also immensely cautious as what if the spirit was easily disturbed and didn't allow him to release him.

Joro was glad for this personal development, as the man from the market had challenged him to be better. And so far, he was delivering he was thinking more tactfully and patiently. Thus allowing him to carry out missions that require more than just raw ability or intuition. He had to use prior knowledge and pace within himself. Joro and the great spirit left the courtyard and headed down the passageway together. The both of them take in the sights around them. Then turning left to head back to the inail sport where Joro could see the man from the market yet again. The man standing tall and resolute as ever. With the other spirit beside him as they waited patiently for the others to return. Joro seemed to be the first to arrive back with the spirit he was tasked with retrieving with both Yamato and Sephora still tracking theirs down it seemed. Joro took a few measured strides as he made his way over to the man from the market. Coming up beside him with the spirit not far behind. Almost at his hip the entire way. Eager to see what was next for the mission and wondered what role he had to play in it for its success. He believed that they had one task at this point and they would soon find it drawing to an end. That is if they were successful in this quest.

“Hey! I’m back, and I brought a friend. Welcome Kodama. He’s a nature spirit of the trees,” he said, his voice loud enough to carry but not abrupt enough to rouse suspicion.

Joro stood next to the man from the market waiting. As he waited he took one of his beaded bracelets off and began to shift it around. Counting each singular bead. 2. 4. 6. 8. 10. 12. 14. 16. 18. 20. 22. 24. 24 Beads. Joro wasn't one to particularly enjoy a quiet desolate night in a shrine. Especially in the time of year that it was. Joro couldn’t help but feel a tad anxious.

WC: 3008
TWC: 3764
TMWC: 8457/12000

Ayato stood at the heart of the shrine, his Byakugan flaring with a soft glow, veins pulsing beneath his skin. In an instant, the world expanded—every leaf’s edge sharpened, every fragment of dust suspended midair visible in its drift. He saw far beyond the shrine’s grounds—the intertwining roots beneath the earth, the threads of energy binding this place, and his companions splintering off to face their trials.

He tracked Yamato, moving solemnly toward the overgrown pavilion. The damp autumn air pressed close, muffling the crunch of leaves beneath Yamato’s deliberate steps. Ayato sensed the burden in each movement—the weight of history and fate colliding. His Byakugan traced the faint chakra trails clinging to scorched stones and curling vines. The air shimmered, heavy with something restless and ancient.

As Yamato reached the center, Ayato’s sight revealed a spectral form taking shape from mist and memory—a warrior adorned in simple, aged armor. The spirit’s chakra signature thrummed with a vibrant force, hinting at honor and strength that defied the passage of time. Even from afar, Ayato perceived the spirit’s shifting expression—curiosity, pride, a flicker of defiance. This was no aimless ghost but a soul anchored by purpose.

Their exchange unfolded in the quiet of the pavilion. Ayato couldn’t hear the words but felt the weight of each. The spirit spoke with the cadence of a blood-stained era; Yamato’s replies were measured, his voice carrying the gravity of a man who had walked through fire and emerged scarred yet steadfast. Ayato’s chest tightened with pride; Yamato had come far and strengthened his scars.

The duel began, a clash of present and memory. The spirit’s sword moved with blinding speed, arcs of energy slicing through Ayato’s vision. Yamato met each strike with precision, his movements a blend of weary resolve and unyielding will. Ayato’s Byakugan captured every parry, every flash of steel—a dance that wove past and present together.

The final strike came—a precise blow that parted the spectral form. The spirit’s light dimmed, but with it came a release, a peace earned over centuries. Ayato watched as its chakra scattered like mist under the first rays of sunlight. Yamato stood motionless. The pavilion’s heaviness momentarily eased. With a deep breath, Ayato shifted his Byakugan, knowing this was one step closer, yet burdened by what lay ahead.

Nearby, his gaze shifted to Sephora. In Byakugan’s sight, the walls of the crumbling house were little more than veils, revealing her movements with unsettling clarity. He watched as she ascended creaking stairs, each step vibrating through weakened wood. Her chakra burned with a mix of resolve and empathy—a light against the dark memories clinging to the air. Before Sephora entered the room, Ayato sensed the oppressive sorrow—raw energy trapped in the ruins.

Ayato’s gaze fell on the spectral form of a child—fragile, bruised, tethered to an unfulfilled tragedy. His heart clenched. Sephora knelt, her silent words radiating compassion. He saw her chakra threads reaching out—a delicate offer of trust and understanding. As the child’s memories surged, Ayato traced the flickers and twists of its chakra. Pain transformed into memory, and Sephora’s energy flared, merging empathy with resolve.

The child’s hand touched hers—a connection Ayato felt even from afar. It was a profound exchange, two souls—one living, one dead—bound by a shared moment of truth. As the child’s chakra faded, Ayato saw its spirit dissolve, leaving serenity in its wake. The weight over the house lifted. Sephora descended, her steps lighter but her aura reflective. Ayato met her gaze when she emerged, a silent exchange of respect. She had accomplished her task not with force but grace.

His attention turned to Joro, venturing into the leaf-laden courtyard. Ayato’s Byakugan revealed every detail—the layers of fallen gold and auburn leaves, the towering oak rooted deep in time. His vision extended beyond sight, following Joro’s greenish-blue chakra tendrils as they threaded through the ground and into the oak’s roots. The spirit took shape—an aged hawk with tattered wings radiating old energy. It recoiled at Joro’s approach, wary.

Patiently, Joro’s chakra moved—slow, deliberate, an offering of peace. The hawk’s aura clashed, an orange glow meeting greenish-blue tendrils, testing and retreating. Ayato admired Joro’s calm. Even as tension flared, Joro spoke softly, and Ayato saw the spirit’s form sharpen. The hawk extended its wings, testing strength it had forgotten. For a breathless moment, the air shimmered—the spirit’s pride and Joro’s resolve balanced on a knife’s edge.

Joro wove hand seals, his chakra weaving through roots and stone, an intricate web binding energy to purpose. Ayato’s Byakugan traced the pulse of ancient energy as it surged, the oak shuddering with life. When the spirit shot skyward, translucent orange light flaring, Ayato’s gaze followed, sensing the ripple through earth and air—a brief but powerful release.

Joro returned, and the spirit’s energy softened, floating beside him like an ancient guardian. Ayato lowered his gaze as they rejoined the others. His Byakugan deactivated, leaving him with the solid forms of the world, but the weight of their journey pressed on him. This was no simple gathering of lost spirits; it was a dance of the past and present entwined. With allies like these, he would see it through.

The silence hung thick around them, and Ayato drew a steadying breath, his eyes back to normal, feeling the moment's weight settle in his chest. His voice, calm yet commanding, broke the stillness. “You’ve each faced spirits whose pasts have left scars on this place. You freed them. You gave them peace. But they are not the source of this shrine’s unrest. There is something deeper here. A wound that has never healed.”

His eyes swept over them, meeting each gaze in turn. Yamato’s eyes were steely, filled with an intensity that matched the darkness in his heart. Sephora’s gaze was soft yet firm, burning with compassion like the flickering embers of a dying fire. Joro’s resolve gleamed beside the ethereal hawk, calm yet unwavering. Ayato felt a brief surge of pride for them and the weight of leadership pressing against him. This mission was no longer just a task—it had grown into something far greater, something none of them had anticipated. “We need to go further,” he continued. “The spirits spoke of a covenant—a pact made and broken. That is where we will find the heart of this curse. That is where we will end it.”

A gust of wind swept across the grounds, rustling the fallen leaves and causing the ancient stones to groan softly. Ayato closed his eyes, centering himself. When he opened them again, his Byakugan flared to life, veins throbbing at his temples as his perception sharpened. The world around him sharpened with it—chakra flowed like threads beneath the earth, through the trees and air, layering the shrine in a complex web of energy. The shrine seemed to pulse in response, listening to their every breath and word.

“The source,” he murmured under his breath, his eyes sweeping the surroundings, his heightened senses reaching out.

The creature that appeared was a grotesque figure of raw, unnatural power—its features a twisted amalgamation of man and beast, yet something far older and more evil. Its body was armored in ancient, tattered robes of a style long lost to history, the fabric stained and shredded by the ravages of time. A crown of jagged horns arced over its head, the tips gleaming like shards of bone, each a relic of death that had once seen empires crumble under its gaze. Its eyes, glowing a faint, ghostly red, burned with centuries of resentment, their depths reflecting the horrors of a world long past.

Its form flickered between solidity and ethereality, chakra swirling around it in erratic patterns, feeding from the lingering spirits Ayato had helped free. The demon’s presence was suffocating, its very being a reminder of an age when warriors fought for power, not peace.

It stood before them now, towering over the group, its gaze landing on Ayato with cold, calculating malice. “So, the children of this age have come,” it rumbled its voice, a low, gravelly echo that seemed to vibrate in Ayato’s chest. “You, shinobi and kunoichi, who have grown fat on the blood of the land and the energy of the dead, thinking you can fix what your ancestors left broken. How quaint.”

Ayato stood tall, eyes narrowing beneath his white pupils as he met the creature’s gaze, feeling the weight of its ancient, festering power. The demon’s form swirled in a distortion of air and chakra, its energy draining from the released spirits, but Ayato could sense the threads of its suffering. It had fed off the spirits' energy for centuries, growing stronger as the years passed, festering here in isolation while the world beyond had flourished.

“You watched as they all grew,” the demon continued, its voice thick with disdain, “watched as villages flourished, as empires rose and fell. You saw them, their laughter, their children, their monuments, all while you rot here, forgotten and forsaken. Do you think you can stop me, child? Do you think you can cleanse what has festered for so long?”

Ayato’s grip on his chakra tightened. His eyes, still locked onto the demon, seemed to pierce through its very being. “I am no child,” he replied coolly, his voice steady despite the overwhelming pressure of the demon’s aura. “Your time is over. This land will be free.”

The demon let out a low, rumbling laugh, the sound reverberating through the very stones of the shrine. “The bloodline of Hyuuga,” it sneered. “A noble name, yes, but what does it mean now? What matters when your power is a pale imitation of what came before?”

Before Ayato could respond, the demon raised a clawed hand, its chakra surging violently as it unleashed a wave of dark, suffocating energy. Unlike anything Ayato had encountered, it was a curse—an ancient force that consumed chakra, draining the life from everything it touched.

The energy surged toward him, seeking to crush and deplete him. But with a steady breath, Ayato pressed his palms together, awakening his Ninshu. A warm and ancient pulse of radiant, ancestral light surged through his veins, flowing like an endless wellspring. As the dark energy tried to invade, it collided with his ancestors' pure, radiant chakra. The curse began to unravel, shadows retreating with each steady beat of Ayato’s heart.

His voice was a calm whisper, carrying quiet authority. "This curse is unlike anything I've seen in this era. It comes from ages past, before the cataclysm. Yet, it holds no power over us today." he said, eyes narrowing. "I am as much of Yomiyama as I am of the Hyuuga, and I am no stranger to the art of Ninshu."

With one final surge of energy, Ayato purified the dark chakra completely, the demon’s attack dissipating like smoke in the wind. The air cleared, the oppressive weight lifting as the demon’s form flickered, its frustration palpable.

The creature’s eyes flashed with fury. "Impossible..." it hissed, venom dripping from its words. "You cleanse what has been mine for centuries? You cannot!"

Ayato sensed the demon's vulnerability for a fleeting moment—its ancient power faltering, its hold on this world weakening. It was exposed, ripe for the strike.

A subtle shift in the air caught his attention, and his gaze darted to the side. The time had come to draw his blade. Yamato remained silent and persistent, the moment's weight hanging heavy in the stillness before the storm.

In this mission, Ayato had led with strength, Joro with wisdom, Sephora with compassion, and Yamato with unwavering action.

The Hogokage’s heart steadied, each breath calm and deliberate as he surveyed his comrades. Together, they would end this.

[WC: 1950]

Yamato stood hidden in the shadows of the shrine, feeling like he knew this was where he needed to be.  His sharp gaze fixed on Ayato, which was not how it used to be with a nature of hate or to get better. He was a true warrior who gave his true strength for the place of his life. The flickering, the way it made his hair stand, and ultimately, the pale glow of his Byakugan caught him off guard even though it shouldn’t have. He had seen that eye years ago- when they were mere teammates under Kyosuke Snow. Back then, Ayato had not yet awakened the full potential of his Byakugan in Astral Point. But now, it was active, with his veins pulsing beneath his skin in such a sight. Now, the world through his teammate’s eyes seemed to stretch and twist into infinite dimensions.  This was quite a change to see out here in this extraordinarily significant way of the world…or that was how it seemed.

"Say, Ayato..." Yamato began, but the words coming to finish just slipped out before he stopped himself. Seeing Ayato’s Byakugan now, with its full power unleashed, brought a rush of memories—of simpler times when everything seemed more certain. It was strange how the time made its move.  Years had passed like days; so much had indeed changed, but how little had changed in some ways. Time, Yamato thought, had a way of slipping through one’s fingers as if it were mere writing to…

Family, friends, and society that needed it.

However, before he could finish his thought, the air shifted, signaling Sephora and Joro’s return. His attention snapped toward them for but a single assessment. He could feel it—Joro’s chakra, heavy with the aura of Nature energy, pulsing in the air. It was unmistakable for sure. Joro had bonded with a spirit of Nature. Yamato instantly recognized the same power that ran through his blood, his berserker’s bloodline. Kyosuke had passed that legacy on to him before he died, which was another thought. Seeing Joro’s connection to it, Yamato smiled momentarily before knowing exactly how it would move further. The power was wild, untamed—but it also echoed a yearning for control, a longing for purpose in a chaotic world.

He then shifted his focus back to Ayato as the moment proceeded. His teammate’s calm voice cut through the tension. He spoke of more to come, of the weight of the battle ahead. Yamato could feel the storm building and the evil spirit's ominous presence surrounding them like a suffocating fog. The demon, an amalgamation of malice and darkness, shifted restlessly, but Ayato remained unfazed, as his calm was unbroken by the demon’s fury.

Yamato’s stomach tightened as the demon’s form solidified, grotesque, and twisted with an immense push to what they fought before, or at least he and Ayato did. What would happen if one saw the same outside of the current area? It was a twisted blend of man and beast. Its aura pressed against him like a physical force, heavy and cold. And yet, despite the fear that stirred in his chest like when they were overwhelmed not once but twice.  Yet Ayato remained unflinching, and his presence somehow began to draw the demon’s focus. There was an odd stillness to him as if the demon didn’t know whether to devour Ayato or fear him.

Yamato's gaze flickered toward Sephora, noting the subtle hum of power in her chakra. There was a connection there too—a force the demon would undoubtedly be drawn to. And Joro, with the spirit infused with Nature energy, would not escape its attention either. At that moment, Yamato knew what the demon would seek to feast on them all. It would be drawn to their power, desperate to feed.  Just as a malignant piece of life would seek to continue its piece of “living”.

Yamato’s eyes narrowed, his mind calculating the best moment to strike. He wouldn’t be caught off guard. He would not allow this beast to overwhelm them.  He would not be a runner from a fight like this again.

When Ayato unleashed Ninshu to unravel the curse, Yamato was momentarily taken aback. Few still practiced the ever-powerful and dangerous ancient art at the heart of the Celestial Era. The demon recoiled as Ayato’s chakra surged effortlessly, cleansing the curse. The power was almost tangible, ancient, and radiant, unraveling the essence of the demon’s hold.

The demon’s eyes burned with fury, anger, and consternation. “Impossible…” it hissed, its voice thick with sadistic venom. You cleanse what has been mine for centuries? You cannot!”

But in that instant, the demon’s focus wavered rather ferociously. It had locked onto Ayato, its attention fully consumed by him and the others, leaving Yamato unnoticed. He moved swiftly, silently positioning himself in the shadows, every muscle in his body coiled and ready to strike, this was to push a moment he needed.

A flash of memory gripped him, a brief, sharp recollection of the Nova Exams when Tsuna had bested him in the final round. That defeat still stung, but in a way, it had been a blessing. The humbling experience forced him to reassess his path to return to his roots.  A thing he had let go of, a time when he was away from Hoshigakure where the remainder was killed. He had once dreamed of being a great hero, like his father, Worr Terumi. But that dream had faded, replaced by a more practical, grounded truth. He was no legend. No savior. But a man, a shinobi who had learned the value of perseverance and humility.

People often underestimate those who weren’t born into greatness—men like him. And demons, it seemed, now made the same mistake. He had learned that lesson the hard way, and now, it was time for this demon to learn it.

Yamato drew his blade, his movement smooth and practiced as if he was fully prepared no matter what came next. His chakra surged in response, the power of his berserker bloodline filling him and heating his veins in a way that showed his teeth as if he was fully angered. His sword then glowed with an intensity that matched his intent, his rage, and his familiar molten energy that fueled the fury of his will.

Now, with a single, precise motion, Yamato swung the blade, a sweeping arc of searing light. The strike landed true, it truly showed his training, anger, and desire to become a name amongst those now truly.  The strike moved quickly, cutting through the demon’s spectral body like a force of nature that was fielded most disastrously. The demon screeched in agony as the blade of light sliced through its twisted form, unraveling its essence, which gave Yamato a look into an actual step he could finally put forth.

The spirit, infused with Nature's energy, began to disintegrate, its form crumbling into nothingness as the light of Yamato’s blade consumed it.

Yamato stood over the wounded demon, his breath steady, his body a conduit of controlled energy. His gaze was cold and calculating, focused on the battle yet to come. Though far from over, they had delivered the demon a strike it would not soon forget—a reminder that Yamato was no longer a man shackled by his past.

In that moment, Yamato realized he had grown to embrace the thrill of battle, much like his father before him. This fight, this purpose, was why he had come with Ayato, to find clarity within the chaos. As steam escaped his mouth, his features took on a fierce, almost feral edge. This was a fight he was prepared to see through to the end. The ghosts of the past—whether demons or painful memories—had no claim to the living world. And this demon, in its twisted form, had no place here. Not tonight. Its trembling form, when struck, stirred something primal in Yamato, a grim satisfaction.

He exhaled, restraining the urge to rush headlong into battle once more. Ayato's command had been clear; this was their moment to act. To inspire those around him, Yamato recalled what it meant to lead a team. “Don’t hold back,” he called out, his voice firm and resolute as the demon's gaze fixed on him with evil intent. “Show your true spirit.”

With his blade glowing brighter, molten red light emanating, Yamato surged forward again. He recognized Ayato's intent—to give him this opening, to remind him of his strength. Yamato’s strike embodied the fury of lava, the fluidity of water, and the sharpness of wind—elements converging to banish the darkness before them. This was his stand, alongside Ayato, as he had once been, not as the man he had become.

Inside, a burning resolve surged. "For Ayato and Hoshigakure," he whispered, channeling his last reserves into the attack as if it were his final act. Ayato, sensing his resolve, knew the stakes. Yamato's movements were precise, his form an embodiment of speed and savagery, urging the others to unleash their full power. Together, they would end this.

“For Kyosuke, for Shohei, for Azusa,” he declared, each name burning like a fiery oath—a tribute to his fallen classmates and mentor. In his heart, he whispered a silent prayer for two more lost to the past: Haegon’s sons, who had perished beside their father in the Hoshimura Rebellion.

Hoshimura Masaru and Hoshimura Takumi. Twins, now lingering as shadows of memory and flame.

As the demon crumbled under their combined assault, Yamato saw visions of samurai spirits nodding in approval, their souls departing the battlefield. He stepped before Ayato and, with a gesture of respect and renewed allegiance, signaled that he was ready to stand by his comrade once more, changed but not defeated.

With the demon’s remnants fading into the shadows and silence settling over the battlefield, Yamato sheathed his glowing blade, a glimmer of humor returning to his eyes. He turned to his allies, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

“Well, if this is what team bonding looks like, next time, drinks are on me.”

(WC: 1657)
(Total mission Wordcount: 12073/12000)