Chapter 343 – Hands of Light, Hearts of Work
The winter sun rose over the Hidden Leaf with the softness of pale gold through frosted glass. Its rays glinted off the slate roofs of the village hospital complex, the largest of which bore a newly carved wooden sign that read:
"Division Five – Long-Term Shinobi Care & Regenerative Research."
Inside, the air smelled faintly of antiseptic, ink, and steam from warm humidifiers. The corridor lights were dimmed to keep the comatose patients calm. Every so often a chakra monitor gave a gentle ping, like a heartbeat echoing through the hall.
A stir of whispering followed Malik as he entered.
He wore no medical coat—just his flowing healer's robes, soft white edged with pink and gold runes that pulsed faintly with his magic. Around him, the air hummed with that unmistakable signature of magic: clean, fragrant, and tinged with a warmth that felt like spring.
Beside him walked Shizune Katō—his fiancée, his minder, his translator whenever bureaucracy tried to tangle him.
Her black kimono swayed with each step, and her clipboard was tucked neatly under one arm. She looked every inch the professional medic… except for the faint blush that colored her cheeks whenever Malik glanced her way.
Two junior med-ninja whispered as the pair passed.
"That's him—the foreign sorcerer Tsunade-sama sponsors."
"He can regrow limbs… with light."
"They say he brought a man back from the edge of death last month."
"They also say the Daimyō's council doesn't like him staying here."
Malik heard every word—every whisper, every half-myth, every reverent exaggeration—and it made him smile. Not the smug kind, not the "I'm famous and I know it" kind. No, this was the quiet, amused smile of someone who had long since made peace with being a walking contradiction.
He found it funny, really. After all this time, people still talked about him like he was some cryptic legend stitched together from temple scrolls and tavern gossip. A foreign sorcerer. A miracle worker. A political inconvenience. A man who could regrow limbs with light and charm a goddess into giving him her blessing.
"They say…" was always the start of something ridiculous.
He leaned slightly toward Shizune, voice low and teasing. "You hear that? I'm apparently a forbidden spell wiver wrapped in a scandalous robe."
Shizune didn't look up from her clipboard, but her blush deepened. "You are wearing pink and gold again."
"Exactly. Nothing says 'dangerous enigma' like pastel embroidery."
The truth was, Malik didn't mind the mystery. He was secretive by nature—yes. He kept his magic layered, his past folded like origami, and his intentions wrapped in silk. But he wasn't closed off. Not really. Anyone who asked him a direct question usually got a direct answer. He'd talk about his magic, his travels, his ridiculous cooking habits, his love life (with dramatic flair, of course). He'd even explain the mechanics of his healing magic if someone had the patience to listen.
But people rarely asked.
They preferred the myth.
And Malik had learned to let them.
He knew some of his closest allies— especially Tsunade, Danzō, Shisui, Sakura (more or less, but she honestly didn't care to answer any questions people asked about him), even Haku—had occasionally "curated" the information about him. Not out of malice, but out of protection. Out of love. Out of the understanding that sometimes, mystery was armor. And sometimes, it was leverage.
Still, he was an open book with a gilded cover. If you cracked the spine, you'd find pages full of jokes, recipes, and half-finished love letters.
He glanced at the junior med-nin whispering behind a chakra monitor and gave them a wink.
They froze.
One dropped a clipboard.
Malik kept walking, his robes trailing warmth and springtime behind him.
Let them whisper.
He had work to do.
The Wards of the Lost
The first room was lined with cots, each occupied by a shinobi whose life had been carved away by war: missing arms, legs, eyes—some missing hope itself.
Malik stopped by a young woman whose bandaged stump trembled as she tried to sit up. The woman looked barely twenty. "Kunoichi from the Lightning ambush," Shizune murmured quietly beside him, scanning the chart. "Left arm completely gone. Chakra network stable."
Malik knelt, voice warm. "You gave your limb for the village. Let me give it back."
He placed a hand over the gauze. Golden-pink light flooded from his palm, spilling across the wound in spiraling patterns. The energy wasn't chakra but something else—it shimmered with sigils foreign to anyone born in the Elemental Nations or any Nation from this world. The smell of ozone filled the air; threads of light wove sinew, nerve, and muscle together.
The girl gasped as fingers bloomed from nothing, trembling, flexing, alive.
Tears ran down her cheeks. "I—It's real…?"
Malik smiled. "Of course it's real. I don't do illusions before lunch."
Shizune rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too. "Try to move slowly. He's serious about that last part."
They moved bed to bed. Malik dispelled curses that twisted flesh and chakra alike, soothed minds trapped in nightmare comas, and even pulled one kunoichi back from the gray threshold of death. Each time he worked, the same pattern followed: a surge of golden-rose light, a hush, then a collective breath of awe.
When a young nurse whispered thank you, Malik bowed lightly.
"You fought. I just fix what was broken."
In the Halls Between Miracles
As they walked to the next ward, Malik's smile dimmed slightly. "You can feel it too, can't you?" he asked softly.
Shizune looked up. "The way the air changes when we pass?"
He nodded. "Gratitude and fear. They love what I can do—but I'm not one of them. Every miracle I give them makes me a little less human in their eyes."
"You're helping people who thought they'd never walk again," she reminded him gently. "If some nobles or council members can't handle that, it's their problem."
He gave her a sidelong grin. "That rational tone—soothing and dangerous. I see why Tsunade keeps you close."
Shizune snorted. "Flattery won't make me forget to drag you to your meeting in an hour."
Malik feigned horror. "An hour? With her?"
"Yes, with her," she said firmly. "You've postponed three times. Tsunade won't let you vanish behind paperwork again."
He pressed a dramatic hand to his forehead. "Ah, cruel fate! To save lives with one hand and be nagged to death by a beautiful woman with the other!"
She sighed but smiled, tapping his chest with her clipboard. "Back to work, miracle man."
The Room of Deep Sleepers
They entered the coma ward next—rows of shinobi suspended between life and death. Chakra lines glowed dimly around each bed.
Malik's expression softened. "This is the hardest part. Healing flesh is easy; waking hearts takes patience."
He touched one woman's wrist and whispered a short incantation. The glow deepened to crimson for an instant, then faded. "She'll wake within the week," he said quietly. "She's dreaming of coming home now."
The med-ninja around them murmured admiration. One older healer bowed deeply. "You honor us, sir."
Malik returned the bow. "You honor me by trusting a stranger with your people. Thank you."
That humility—rare for a man of his gifts—won him as many allies as his power did.
Five Minutes of Foolishness
By the time they reached the last patient, Malik's shoulders sagged. Healing this many people always drained him; the magic he used didn't draw on mana reserves alone—it demanded something deeper, something of his spirit.
Shizune noticed instantly. "You're pale. Sit before you fall over."
He grinned faintly. "I prefer a more dramatic exit."
"Malik—"
Too late. He swayed—and collapsed forward straight into her.
"Eep!" Shizune stumbled back a step, catching him awkwardly as his head landed squarely between her breasts.
"Softest landing ever," he mumbled, eyes half-closed. "Maybe the gods reward healers after all."
Her face went scarlet. "M-Malik! People are watching!"
He peeked up through his lashes. "Then let them learn the art of proper recovery positioning."
She glared—but her arms tightened slightly around him all the same. "You really are hopeless," she muttered, brushing his hair from his face. "Now get up before Tsunade hears you fainted again."
"Does this mean I still have to go to the meeting?" he asked, voice muffled against her kimono.
"Yes."
"Can I pretend to be dead until it's over?"
"No."
He sighed deeply, the sound lost against her heartbeat. "Cruel woman."
"Loving woman," she corrected, steadying him back onto his feet. "Now finish your rounds. The Hokage waits, and I'm not explaining to her why my fiancé hid in the laundry chute again."
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck as the nurses giggled behind their masks. "Fine, fine. But when she starts yelling about budgets, you're standing between us."
Shizune's smile was soft now, her professional mask slipping for just a heartbeat. "Always."
The Quiet After the Light
By the time Malik finished, the wards hummed with soft gratitude.
Patients bowed from their beds, nurses whispered blessings, and the air felt lighter—less haunted.
He looked around once more, exhaustion softened by pride. "This," he murmured, "is why I stay."
Shizune heard him, her expression gentle. "And this," she said, linking her arm through his, "is why I make sure you eat, sleep, and actually show up to meetings."
He chuckled, letting her guide him down the hallway. "You're a saint."
"I'm a nurse."
"Same thing, really."
As they passed through the automatic doors into the snowy courtyard, Malik's eyes drifted briefly toward the Hokage's tower rising in the distance. The thought of the coming Daimyō Summit hung heavy on his mind—questions of loyalty, foreign power, and whether his place in this land had an expiration date.
But Shizune's hand in his pulled him back to the present.
"Come on," she said, smiling. "Tsunade's waiting."
"Wonderful," he said dryly. "Let's go make her day worse."
And together they stepped into the snow, the faint shimmer of golden light trailing behind them like a promise.
===== A solid walk later into The Hokage's Office: With, Budget Sheets, Betting Slips, and Bad Tempers ===
Tsunade's voice hit him before the door finished sliding open.
"—and I swear on every ledger in this damned tower, Malik, if one more of your establishments refuses to comp my tab like it always has—"
Malik stepped inside with Shizune at his shoulder and shut the door with two fingers. "Always has? You mean the decades' worth of 'temporary forgiveness' that turned into a religion? Morning to you, too, Princess of Perpetual Debt."
They met in the middle of the room like thunderheads colliding.
The Hokage's office looked like a cartography shop had exploded inside a sake brewery. Mission scrolls, map overlays, requisition slips, medical budgets, and a very incriminating bundle of pastel betting stubs sat in a tidy stack that was definitely not tidy a moment ago. Outside the frosted windows, winter sun gleamed on the Monument; inside, heat rose from Tsunade's temper.
"Don't call me Princess," she said, too-sweet, palms flat on the desk.
"Then stop sending terrified floor managers to my door with IOUs signed 'Her Unfortunate Unlucky Majesty.'" Malik folded his arms, pink-and-gold robes settling like curtains. "Do you know how sad it is when my pit bosses—stone-hearted ex-ANBU who once interrogated spies and risked their lives daily—quiver while whispering, 'She's here again'?"
Tsunade's pupils thinned in warning. "Careful."
Shizune slid to the side wall, sat in the chair she always claimed for Treaty Talks between these two, and set her clipboard on her knees like a funerary tablet. Her expression said: They're going to do this, and I will not stop them.
Malik pressed on, unruffled. "Odds! You want to talk odds? You have the worst luck I've ever recorded—and I own the tables. Probability curves bend around your aura like starving, broke, genin around a free dumpling cart."
Tsunade's mouth curved in a smile that meant someone was about to be hospitalized. "Bold of you to lecture me about luck when you hide behind a safety net of conjured credit."
"Hiding? Conjured Credit!" Malik pointed, all theatrical indignation. "My accountants have a whole color in the ledger named after you. We call it Tsunade Pink. That's not a compliment—it's under the 'I paid this so the village didn't implode' column."
She flicked the stack of betting slips. "I could end you with a flick of my finger."
Malik mirrored her tone exactly, high and mocking, "I could end you with a flick of my finger." Pointing at her, "That's what you sound like," Then he dropped back to his normal voice. "And I could end your administrative peace with one note to my wife. Hi, yes, Head of ROOT? The Fifth Hokage just threatened her husband again. Enjoy that paperwork."
"Ah," Tsunade purred, "so we're hiding behind our wife today."
"We're respecting a powerful woman's jurisdiction," he corrected, hand to heart. "But please, tell Shisui you'd 'flick' me. Her Susanoo hasn't had enrichment time this week."
Shizune pinched the bridge of her nose without looking up. "This is the part where I pretend I don't hear anything for legal reasons."
They glared a few more seconds—two stubborn, terrifyingly competent adults stuck in a ritual they both pretended to hate.
Then, as always, the storm broke.
Tsunade blew out a sharp breath and dropped into her chair. "Fine. You paid down the worst of it. Again. I'll keep my… extracurriculars… outside your properties for a while."
"Much obliged," Malik said, instantly milder. He plucked a ledger off a teetering pile, signed the bottom, and slid it back. "And I'll quietly fund Division Five's humidifier replacements and the new chakra monitors you asked for but didn't request on paper because budget, Law, and legal reasons we don't need to talk about."
Her gaze softened a hair. "You read that far into the drafts?"
"I always read your drafts," he said simply.
Shizune's eyes flicked between them; the faintest smile tugged at her mouth. Best friends who'd rather set each other on fire than say it out loud. Fine. If they wouldn't admit it, she would keep knowing it for them.
Mission Gravity
"Alright," Tsunade said, voice settling into the register that meant Hokage now. "Land of the Sea. Anko leads. Three genin—Naruto, Ino, Shino. Your project adds a fourth: Mizuki."
"My project," Malik echoed, not bristling at all. "The Second Chance Program exists because our... your rosters were gutted, and our/your people are tired. We rebuild strength, restore honor, and we don't waste useful lives to fear."
Her fingers tapped the desk once. "I approved it provisionally. I still don't like him."
"You're not supposed to like him," Malik said. "You're supposed to like his results."
Tsunade's jaw worked. "He betrayed the village."
"He's paying it back—with interest," Malik said evenly. "He's trained, he's stabilized, and he won't break under Orochimaru-adjacent pressure. He's already lived there."
The name hung in the room like a slow knife.
Tsunade's eyes went distant for a breath; the memories in her chest were older than most buildings in Konoha. Malik didn't push. He had his own knot of stories bound up with the same woman—stories he rarely voiced, edged with a spice he never served in public.
He set a teacup—when had he conjured that?—on her desk. "We have an obligation," he said quietly. "To cauterize every wound she left open. To retrieve every hostage memory. To pull every knife she hid in our borders."
Tsunade took the cup without comment. "And you're sending Mizuki as the hand that pulls."
"And Anko as the eye that watches," he said. "Do you trust her?"
"With my village, she might be a little strange at times," Tsunade answered instantly.
"Then trust her to kick him off the team mid-bridge if he slips, he won't but . ." Malik's tone didn't soften. "I told her as much myself. She agreed."
Shizune cleared her throat, sliding a mission slate over. "Report lines are set. Anko to Kakashi—backup chain if contact is lost. Secondary channel direct to you, Hokage. Malik gets non-tactical health pings and seal telemetry only."
Tsunade's head snapped. "Seal telemetry?"
Malik didn't blink. "I'm not sending him out without a way to tell if that curse pattern spikes. I won't be listening to their campfire gossip. I'm watching for organ failure."
A long silence.
Then Tsunade nodded, grudging. "Fine."
He took that win with the same grace he used on stubborn sutures—delicate and unshowy. "You hate agreeing with me," he said, almost kindly.
She scowled. "I hate that you're right most of the time."
"Correction," Malik said, holding up a finger. "I'm right exactly as often as you are, but I have better hair, so people remember it."
Shizune choked on a laugh and turned it into a cough. Tsunade reached for a paperweight as if it were throwable; Malik slid it two centimeters out of reach with a flick of pink light without looking at it.
They sat in the comfortable part of the argument then—numbers, schedules, lines of retreat. Malik promised extra rations for the boat team and a sealed case of warming talismans for Shino's bugs if she needed it for the cold weather. Tsunade promised to keep the Council from sniffing around the mission brief like bored dogs. Shizune promised to keep both of them hydrated and to hide the sake until dinner.
The Unsaid
When the documents thinned and only the air remained, Tsunade leaned back and studied him over steepled fingers. "You're leaving soon."
"Back and forth," Malik said. "Snow Country, then home, then back again. I stack my life like lacquer."
She snorted. "And yet you keep showing up here when the ugly work needs hands."
He shrugged. "Maybe I like the people."
"Mm." She let that sit. Then, softer, "Watch your back, Malik."
He met her gaze. "Always."
"And keep my pet project alive."
"I keep all your people alive," he said. "Even the ones who wake me up after midnight with more tasks and requests. Or the people I wake up for reasons."
A beat. Tsunade's mouth quirked. "The idiot?"
"He's going to be Hokage," Malik said, like a weather report. "Sooner than people think."
"Mm." She didn't disagree.
He moved to go. She stopped him with a last, almost casual: "And Malik?"
He looked over his shoulder. "Yes, Prince?"
"Try to stay out of trouble in my village."
He bowed. "Then stay out of my casinos and thier ledgers."
They shared the smallest, fiercest grin—the kind you give a sparring partner you'd die for. Malik turned, robes whispering, and Shizune rose to fall into step beside him.
In the doorway she paused, glanced back at her teacher. Tsunade waved her off with the air of a lioness pretending she hadn't just softened. Shizune smiled and slipped into the hall.
"Did we make her day worse?" Malik asked under his breath.
Shizune threaded her arm through his. "Immeasurably."
"Excellent," he said. "Let's go feed the long-term ward. And then," he added, eyes brightening with a familiar, dangerous warmth, "we send Anko into the sea with a sinner who's learning to pray."
Shizune squeezed his hand. "And we keep a village breathing while they're gone."
Outside, snowflakes began again—quiet, relentless, purifying.
Inside, three stubborn hearts kept doing the work: argue, mend, and move.