The sun hung low over Mizukusa, golden light brushing across the tiled rooftops. Inside the guest house where Team 8 had taken shelter, the mood was quiet but tense.
Hinata sat near the futon where Takama Gin lay, unconscious and breathing shallowly. His skin was pale, and sweat pooled at his temples. She dabbed his forehead gently with a cloth, glancing at him every few seconds as if afraid he might stop breathing.
Kiba leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "He hasn't said a word since we got back."
"He will," Hinata said softly.
And she was right.
That evening, just as the lanterns were being lit, Takama stirred.
Kurenai moved to his side quickly, kneeling down. "Takama Gin?"
His eyes fluttered open, unfocused. Then sharpened. "Kurenai… of Konoha."
"You remember me?" in Kurenai a hint of surprise could be heard.
"I remember your reputation." His voice was dry, weak. "You've… handled this well."
Hinata knelt beside her sensei. "We brought you back. You're safe now."
Takama slowly turned his gaze to her and nodded once. "You saved me." His gaze lingered—not on her face, but something behind it. As if he saw light she didn't know she carried.
"No," Hinata said, voice small. "You saved me first."
Kurenai leaned forward. "Who exactly are you, Takama-san?"
He exhaled a shallow breath. "Takama Gin. Head of my house, proud vassal to the Daimyō of the Land of Iron. My family has guarded its own legacy techniques for generations, this attempt was to steal them. I was here to negotiate resource trade agreements… under special conditions."
Shino, who had entered silently, tilted his head. "I heard of the death of three samurai from the land of iron, your attendants?"
Takama closed his eyes briefly. "So… they are gone. I feared as much."
Kiba looked at Kurenai. "Do we know what happened to them?"
She nodded grimly. "Poisoned. Their bodies were found this morning outside the merchant quarter. It's being investigated quietly."
Silence fell.
Hinata reached out and gently touched Takama's hand. "We won't let them get away with this."
Takama offered her a tired smile. "Your conviction is stronger than your voice, little Hyūga, in my current condition it does not seem prudent to pursue this problem to its origin."
Time continued its course, by midday, Takama's strength waned. His eyes opened only briefly, his words became fewer, slurred.
Kiba paced the length of the garden.
Akamaru was resting next to Kuro.
Shino remained still, ever observant.
Hinata sat quietly, then stood and approached Kurenai, hands clenched in front of her.
"Sensei," she said, "please… we have to take him to Konoha. Their hospital—maybe the medics can help. He was attacked in our land. It's our responsibility."
Kurenai looked at her carefully.
Hinata's eyes shone with quiet urgency. "He protected me. He stood up for me when no one else did. Just like…"
She didn't finish the sentence. But Kurenai remembered the story—of a little girl with blank eyes and bruised knees, defended once by a reckless boy with sunshine hair.
"That matters," Kurenai murmured.
She nodded.
"We leave at first light." Kurenai clarifies with certainty.
Later that night, Hinata stayed awake beside Takama. Kuro lay curled at her feet, sleeping deeply.
Takama stirred once, eyes opening halfway. "Thank you… Lady Hyūga."
Hinata shook her head. "Just Hinata."
He smiled faintly. "Then… thank you, Hinata."
And with that, he drifted into quiet sleep.
She didn't answer. But her hand stayed on his. She didn't need words—only presence.
And in that silence, something unspoken was passed between them.
Not a promise. Not hope. Just understanding.
<<<< o >>>>
Outside, the wind stirred the trees beyond the compound wall. Michel stood near the sliding doors, untouched and unseen as always.
He focused deeply.
The silver threads within Hinata were clean—but not whole.
Tiny wisps of corruption still clung to the spiritual channels that flowed between soul and body.
Michel saw it as one sees cracks in glass—not dangerous now, but waiting to split under the wrong pressure.
"That was close, luckily it's not over," Michel thought. "Not for her. Not for me."
He turned his gaze inward.
"Something's within me is changing," he admitted to himself. "But I don't know what."
He couldn't tell if it was the poison, the fusion of energies, or something deeper stirred by their bond.
But it was happening.
His own essence pulsed erratically. The Breath of the World still flowed through him, but with an uneven rhythm. More than a fifth of his soul had already been poured into Hinata—siphoned slowly over time to keep her alive through their connection, each day draining him further. The poison had damaged him deeply, corrupting his already weakened soul. And yet, the Breath of the World worked tirelessly, not just healing him but also him refining too. What remained of his spirit was denser, heavier with intent, evolving into something that had never existed before. Where once his soul had been seamless, now it was fractured—but hopefully transforming into something new.