The night after Renzō's departure was the first in many months that Hoshigakure did not feel like prey. The villagers slept more soundly, the boy with the rusted kunai holding his weapon not out of fear, but out of resolve. And yet, deep in the forests beyond the valley, shadows stirred.
Renzō walked in silence. The trees swayed in unison with his movements, their leaves trembling not from wind, but from the sheer presence of his chakra. It was not something he controlled consciously—it was simply the nature of what he had become. His power was an ocean with no shore, flowing in infinite directions.
But not all feared it.
Ahead, waiting beneath the twisted roots of an ancient tree, stood a man clad in crimson robes. His face was concealed by an iron mask, his arms crossed as if unimpressed. He did not shiver beneath Renzō's overwhelming aura, nor did he flinch as the sage approached.
"So it is true," the masked man said, his voice dry as old parchment. "The wandering sage still walks the earth."
Renzō stopped, his golden eyes meeting the void behind the mask. He did not speak, did not ask why this man had sought him out. He simply waited.
The stranger exhaled, shaking his head. "You should have taken that village," he mused. "Ruled it. Trained its people. Turned it into something more."
"They are already more," Renzō replied.
The masked man chuckled. "A sage's wisdom, always wrapped in riddles. You do not change, Renzō."
Renzō studied him. "You speak as if we have met before."
The man reached for his mask, slowly lifting it away. Beneath it was a face Renzō had not seen in decades—scarred, yet sharp, aged but not broken. His eyes, once filled with ambition, now carried the burden of too many battles.
Renzō recognized him.
"Kenpachi," he said, the name leaving his lips like an old memory.
The former shinobi of the Land of Iron nodded. "It has been a long time, old friend."
Once, they had fought side by side. Two warriors seeking something beyond war, beyond power. But where Renzō had let go of his worldly desires, Kenpachi had clung to them—his hunger for change, for strength, had never waned.
Kenpachi's fingers traced the hilt of the massive blade strapped to his back. "Tell me," he said, his voice quieter now, "do you ever wonder what we could have accomplished if you hadn't walked away?"
Renzō closed his eyes briefly. There had been a time when he did wonder. When he questioned whether his path had been the right one. But wisdom was not found in regrets.
"There is nothing to wonder," Renzō said. "The past is stone. The future is water. Only the present can be shaped."
Kenpachi smirked. "Still the philosopher."
There was a beat of silence between them. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Kenpachi drew his blade. The sound of steel rang through the night, and the air around them grew heavy with intent.
"I have walked a different path," Kenpachi said. "And I would see which of us was right."
Renzō did not move. He simply stood there, watching, waiting. The wind carried the weight of the moment, and for the first time in years, the world held its breath.
Then, Kenpachi struck.