Mizukusa, the city of aquatic grass, stood at the uncertain border between lands—where the low hills of Kusa gave way to the wetlands fed by the rivers of the Land of Waterfall. Built atop waterways and stone bridges, its quiet beauty concealed a latent tension, like a thread stretched too tightly.
The caravan passed through the eastern gate just before dusk. One by one, paper lanterns flickered to life, casting golden light over the water. Team 8 walked beside the cart, alert but calm.
Michel hovered close to Hinata, invisible, ever-present.
"Something's wrong here," he thought. "The threads of this place... they tremble."
Hinata didn't need to see them to feel it. Her steps slowed. Kuro's ears flattened; her fur bristled.
Kiba wrinkled his nose. "Smells like moss... and smoke."
"The city's old," Shino added. "Moisture carries more than scent."
Gensai brought the cart to a stop in front of a modest merchant house, built with weathered wood and dark-tiled curved roofs. His wife, Ayame, stepped down with an approving nod.
"You've brought us here safely. I'll handle the payment," Gensai said.
"You've all done well," Ayame added, her gaze lingering on Hinata and Kuro. "Especially your companion. She doesn't miss a thing."
Kuro gave a low growl—not hostile, just acknowledging the compliment.
Later, as the team set up camp in the small rear garden of the house, Kurenai gathered them.
"No wandering alone. Tensions between border merchants and local enforcers are high. We leave at first light."
Kiba groaned. "Not even a bowl of ramen?"
"Think of it as a mission debrief," said Shino flatly.
Hinata sat near the garden pond, quietly polishing her staff. Kuro rested at her feet.
Michel watched the rhythm of her aura—steady, focused. Until he felt it. A tremor.
"That wasn't the wind…"
Hinata sensed it too. She approached Kurenai and murmured"I'd like to walk by the canals for a bit."
Kurenai studied her closely. "Kuro goes with you."
Hinata nodded and slipped away quietly. The streets were sinking into thicker fog. Water whispered through stone channels. The voices of merchants closing shop echoed faintly.
Michel followed silently. "She feels it too."
Her path led her to a narrow alley where an old warehouse leaned to one side. Its doors were half-open, flickering light escaping from within.
Kuro whined, uneasy. Hinata approached cautiously. And then she saw him.
A tall man with silver hair and a worn hakama. His presence didn't shout power—it radiated it. Like the stillness before a storm.
He looked at her, calm but alert. "You shouldn't be here, child."
Hinata bowed slightly. "I'm sorry… I just—"
"You feel it, don't you?" he murmured, eyes narrowing.
Hinata nodded. "Something's wrong."
"I thought so too," he said.
Kuro's growl deepened. The man—Takama Gin—tensed, hand already resting on the hilt of his katana.
"Step back." Takama stood in front of her and the noise.
The air split with a sharp hiss.
Small black bombs rolled across the cobblestones and exploded in clouds of thick smoke.
"Cover your eyes!" Michel shouted, though she couldn't hear him.
Hinata's instinct responded and she tried—dodging the smoke, covering her face.
But this was no ordinary smoke. It burned beyond chakra, beyond thought. It reached the soul.
Michel felt it too—like a blade tearing through his essence.
It wasn't physical. It didn't need to be. It was spiritual poison, refined—like the corruption Shikashi had once embedded in Hinata, but perfected... weaponized.
Kuro barked furiously and darted into the shadows.
"Hinata!" Michel cried out, rushing toward her.
Takama moved like lightning. His blade cut through the fog, slashing two attackers across the ribs.
"You dare—!"
But the poison had already taken hold. His knees buckled. He growled, forcing himself upright.
A third assailant slipped past his fading defense and struck him with a chakra disruptor to the back.
Takama fell to one knee.
"Still resisting?" one of them mocked.
Takama turned, bleeding but composed. "You'll need more than smoke and cheap tricks."
He swung again, injuring a fourth enemy. But he stumbled.
Another bomb hissed. Then another.
Takama's sword slipped from his hands. His fingers trembled. He could no longer feel his feet. Nor his hands. Nor the edge of his blade in his spirit.
Hinata couldn't breathe. Her body wouldn't move. She clung to Kuro's scent... remembering the warmth at her side.
Her vision blurred.
Voices echoed through the smoke. "She's still awake?" the first spoke.
"Not for long. This venom's too pure." the second answered
"This will prove it. If she survives, she's worth more than the samurai." the first greed apparent in his voice.
Michel fought from within. His threads burned silver-gold as he tried to purge the poison.
"She's slipping. Her soul… it's tearing."
He wrapped the last of his threads around Hinata's core. "No. Not like this."
He pulled. He cleansed. He resisted. His own essence burst into light and pain.
The agony was like being torn apart by memory—but it worked.
Hinata's soul dimmed but didn't collapse. Michel remained. Barely. His glow was fading. His edges, frayed. And yet, in that wound… something changed.
The venom hadn't just scarred them. It had forged them. A bloodline and a soul, resisting. Together.
A ninja kicked Takama's limp body. "He's still breathing. Tie them up. We're leaving before reinforcements show up."
"They won't find them. By the time anyone notices, the old man will be ash. We're taking them to the refuge. We'll extract the knowledge Jiren-sama wants from him. Hopefully the poison won't kill the old samurai before we give him the antidote."
Michel was dragged along with Hinata—his spiritual form tethered to hers by silver threads, strained and unraveling.
He couldn't scream. Couldn't stabilize himself.
All his strength focused on purging the venom… and resisting the pull drawing him deeper into Hinata's soul.
<<<< o >>>>
Kuro ran.
Blood dripped from her shoulder. One eye blurred. She darted through alleys, past startled cats and sleeping merchants.
She didn't stop until she reached the edge of the merchant compound.
And howled.
A sharp, trembling cry that shattered the night—like a promise of fury and rescue.