Life always had a funny way of making things come full circle. Who would've thought that even hundreds of years later, someone would have the nerve to call Iori something as petty as a grave robber. Back then, it was some farmer boy barely composed of skin and bones and now it was by some punk in the middle of nowhere. If there wasn't such a heavy sheen of nostalgia present, then maybe he would've felt the need to discipline this youngster with some of the nearby branches begging to be used.
'Definitely his blood.'
Despite many generations passing, this child was almost an exact copy of one of his dear disciples. Tall and muscled in a way that practically acted as a magnet for anyone insecure enough. With tanned skin and a shock of blonde hair, it turned him exactly to the stereotype that no sane man would leave alone with his friend, lover, or female family members...for some, maybe not even the male members would be safe.
But other than his appearance, that's where all similarities went right out the window. Fuji had a real dark history with alcohol and would outright refuse to be in the presence of anyone in the middle of drinking. And if they were drunk or stunk as badly as his descendant did, he wouldn't agree to interact with them for a few days. He hated the smell, the way it looked in a porcelain cup but most of all, he detested how prevalent its use was despite the repeated tragedies it brought about.
Life hadn't been kind to the child, having witnessed more things than even an adult could handle at an age where he couldn't even begin to understand the world. Alongside alcohol, he hated bandits and Devils the most. Nothing else was needed to paint the picture of his past. How else could farmer's boy find himself alone in an abandoned settlement?
Iori was sure that if Fuji ever saw how low his descendants has fallen, then maybe he would even turn his fists on them to smash out the disappointment.
'Maybe it's for the best you can't see what has become of your family.'
His eyes flickered down to the simply pile of rocks long since overgrown by moss, a strand of awareness seeping deep into the ground. Deeper and deeper, past the decoy, past the layers of long since dead Ki formations until a small room bloomed in his inner eye. Skimming over the stacks of Ki enchanted weapons and scrolls filled to the brim with 'ancient' knowledge. But finally, he found exactly what he'd come here for.
There, on a lightly raised pedestal laid a stone casket. It's surface scrawled with characters barely holding onto mere flickers of ambient energy. It was like a tiny flame, a single breathe was all that was required to blow away this fragment of the past. Past the surface, the sight caused a sad smile t stretch across his face.
His disciple looked so much older than he did from all those years ago, still larger than he had any right to be but instead of those rippling muscles he'd been so proud of now only a fragile shell was in it's place. Long gray hair running all the way down from the top of his head down to his feet and a square jaw that had broken quite a few young lady's hearts. That face was severe, but if anything that was normal for Fuji. He'd always been a bit of a hard ass and it seems not even death would change that.
The body was in perfect condition, a common factor for all that practiced Ancient Senjutsu. Their bodies would not decay for a thousand years after death, residual Ki slowly leaking out of their spirit was more than enough to remained frozen, looking as though they were nearly asleep and only required a shake to wake. But Iori knew different, no matter how much he shook those shoulders, his disciple was long gone. Submerged under the endless pursuit of time.
"Takemoto Fuji." His senses grazed upon the simple words etched in stone just above the head of someone so dear to him. "Senjutsu Master, Commander Loved By All, Loyal Solider, Caring Father, Loving Husband, Son of a Farmer and Disciple of the Heavenly Demon."
It made him closed his eyes, tracking that tendril of awareness away as grief slammed against him. Memories of a tanned boy trying in vein to appear intimidating with that gap tooth snarl, a teen growing into himself as he hammered his fists into stone, a man throwing himself into a wandering band of Devil's portraying themselves to be gods and finally the image of a corpse matching that exact same appearance.
Like icicles, each memory pierced into his very spirit. Trying to drag him down into the wide open pit of despair. He'd been afraid of this, many masters of old had simply collapsed in on themselves when they had to bury their own disciples and most of them had never truly recovered. Drowning themselves in vices to push back the ghost of someone that was once like a child to them. It was a cruel fate. For parents to bury their children and for teachers to bury their students.
He could see it, that swirling mass of ink unraveling from his core. It nipped at him, fangs sharp and jagged. There had been some techniques in the past that would make you un-moving to the rest of the world, uncaring of the connections and unfeeling to tragedy. They'd tote around with an air of arrogance about them as they tossed away something as poultry as emotions, believing themselves to have cut out a weakness.
Fools.
A dead-path leading to damnation. To toss away emotions was the same as tossing away a piece of yourself, to consider some part of yourself as flawed or useless. To consider it a mistake to be undone. A road that lead to tossing everything that makes you, you away.
Humans were meant to feel. To feel with their hearts. To laugh, to love, to cry, to wail, to curse, to hate, to despair.
Like stepping out from a heavy rainfall, he allowed himself to feel. To mourn for a child unrelated to him by blood but was more like a son than anything else. To feel that pulsating anger and sadness at seeing all his disciples tear at each other's throats the moment he left the picture. To feel the shame of his own failures.
A failure, he wouldn't soon repeat.
Snapping his eyes open, that black miasma threatening to consume him whole blasted away under the weight of his acceptance. His awareness locking in on the visibly reddening child that hadn't ceased waving around that gardening tool as a weapon. Chains of karma so large and faded pulsated back to their golden hue, small bits of energy interlocking with each fragment.
These chains might've broken but they were still present, that token almost burned under his perception of the world.
It seemed Fuji, through the boundaries of time and space, truly wanted him to to preform one final favor. And Iori would be damned if he didn't spoil his disciple one last time.