A month had gone by since the Chinoike set foot in Smokebush Hollow, and the place still felt… wrong.
The air was too heavy. Damp, sticky, sweet like wet moss. Every morning the mist rolled across the ground like it had a mind of its own, curling into shapes that looked suspiciously like hands or faces before fading out again. Some said it was just tricks of the light. Others weren't so sure.
Either way, the Chinoike had started living with it.
The destruction of there home wasn't on their heels anymore. The Uchiha hadn't shown. No scouts, no shadows. Their wounds had closed. Their food was better. All things that should've been blessings.
But the stillness was heavier than the march had ever been.
Reika stood at the ridge of the Hollow, arms folded, eyes narrowed as she scanned the fog between the trunks. Same sight as every other day. Nothing.
No enemy movement. No whispers in the dark. She should've felt relief. Instead her jaw locked tighter.
Behind her, the sound of children's laughter rose actual laughter. Chinoike children, playing like they hadn't been raised on drills and bloodline exercises. They climbed roots, rolled on moss, chased each other like they didn't know what running for their lives meant.
Reika didn't smile. She just listened. It was… strange.
"Still at it, huh?"
The voice was lazy, drawn-out, like someone half-asleep.
Reika didn't turn, but she knew it. Zassō.
He leaned against a crooked tree a few paces back, pipe in his mouth, weight shifted onto one hip, posture loose as if tension had never once touched his body. Smoke curled lazily around his grin.
"You stand there like the mist's gonna shift just 'cause you glare at it harder," he said, squinting against the smoke. "Ain't no army hidin' out there. If there was, the fog would've spat 'em right back out. Hollow don't play with bad vibes."
Reika finally cut her eyes toward him, sharp as kunai. "The world doesn't run on 'vibes.'"
Zassō exhaled slowly through his nose, smoke trailing upward. He raised his eyebrows, lips quirking. "Say what you want, lady. I been breathin' this fog since before my beard came in." He stroked his chin as if to prove it. "This place has moods. You'll see."
Reika turned and started walking back toward camp. "We survive because of order. Logic. Not fog moods."
Zassō grinned at her back. "Order's just chaos that learned how to dance."
She didn't answer.
Camp life had become a pattern, though not one the Chinoike were used to.
They still ran patrols. Guards perched on roots, scouts circled the perimeter. But their watch felt pointless. The Hollow didn't let anything in unless it wanted to. No animals. No shinobi. Just fog and trees.
Meals were another adjustment. Mushrooms with ridiculous names (Pebble swore one was literally called "Sleepy Nip"), boiled roots, vine tea brewed in cracked gourds. Chinoike warriors eyed every dish like it was laced with poison.
One muttered after a sip, "Food should be tested first."
Dew, sitting cross-legged across from him. "that tea tested you. Passed too. Still breathing's, aren't you?"
A single, gruff laugh escapes them. "True," the warrior rumbles, the awkward smile widening into something more genuine, but still a little forced. "Still breathing."
Evenings were the strangest. The Rootless gathered to drum, hum, sometimes just breathe in unison until the fog seemed to sway with them. The Chinoike, used to sparring and war councils, stood stiff at the edges, not sure if they were watching ritual or madness.
Except Hana.
Every night, she slipped closer to the Rootless circle. Never joined. Just..watched. Wide eyes fixed on the rhythm, the glow of lanterns. Sometimes the fog coiled tighter around her ankles than anyone else's. More than one person swore they saw shapes linger near her when she stayed still too long.
Reika noticed.
One afternoon, Zassō strolled into the cluster of Chinoike shelters little more than tarps strung between roots and cloth stretched over moss. He clapped his hands once, pipe still clenched in his teeth, and grinned as heads turned.
"A'ight, family. We gotta talk livin' conditions."
Dozens of Chinoike looked up from whatever they were doing, unimpressed.
"You're sleepin' in damp socks, eatin' on logs, pissin' behind bushes." He gestured broadly, almost theatrical. "That's temporary vibes. We need infrastructure."
"Infrastructure?" one shinobi repeated, arms crossed.
"Yeah." Zassō gestured with the stem of his pipe like it was a lecture stick. "Means houses. Means water pipes. Means bathhouse so we stop smellin' like wet kunai all day. Hollow deserves better."
The shinobi scoffed. "We are warriors. Not builders."
Zassō's grin widened. "Warriors gotta wash too, man. Ain't nobody trainin' proper with swamp-ass."
That made Pebble laugh, even though she was in an unknown place. The Chinoike remained stone-faced.
Reika finally stepped forward, her voice cutting through. "If we remain here, we build. Stone and wood do not dishonor a shinobi."
The protesting shinobi lowered his head, chastened.
Zassō pointed his pipe at her like it was a victory fanfare. "See? Logic lady agrees. Fog and function together. That's harmony. Now grab some clay. We makin' history."
And so, the Chinoike killers, interrogators, survivors of Uchiha slaughter found themselves shaping wet clay pipes under the direction of a barefoot Rootless who talked to trees.
Absurd. Necessary.
That night, Reika sat beside the half-finished tubing, fingertips brushing the surface. Still damp an fragile. Her thoughts drifted back to En, to the clan head her husband, to the rigid tradition that had once ruled the chinoike.
None of that mattered here. Here, their future was being shaped out by someone else.
"Shouldn't you be asleep?" she asked when Hana appeared silently at her side.
"I wasn't tired." The girl's voice was calm, eyes fixed on the fog beyond camp.
Reika followed her gaze. Nothing but mist. "What are you looking at?"
"It whispers," Hana said softly.
"…What whispers?"
"The Hollow." Her pupils glimmered faint red. "It remembers us."
Reika's chest tightened.
Before she could speak, Zassō strolled by with a bundle of moss under his arm. He chuckled. "See? Kid gets it. Fog's got memory like an elephant, except fog never forgets anything."
Reika shot him a sharp look. "Stop filling her head with nonsense."
"Nonsense?" Zassō nudged the clay pipe with his heel. "Lady, nonsense just built your first bathtub."
He winked at Hana as he passed. She didn't smile, but she didn't look away either.
Reika exhaled slowly. One month without pursuit. One month of stillness.
The Hollow woke to the sound of pounding stone.
A hollow thock-thock-thock echoed across the mist as Chinoike shinobi drove sharpened rocks into thick clay, carving chunks loose from a vein that bubbled near the river's bend. The fog hung low, muffling every strike, turning industry into a dreamlike drumbeat.
"Alright, alright, steady with it!"
Zassō's voice carried lazily through the mist, pipe dangling from his lips as he waved a stick like it was a commander's baton. He sat cross-legged on a mossy stump, supervising a half-dozen warriors who had no business shaping clay.
"You wanna scoop clean, not jagged. Treat it like you're cuttin' tofu, yeah? Ain't no honor in crack pipes."
One shinobi stopped mid-swing and shot him a glare. "We are not masons. This is a waste of strength."
Zassō clapped once, smoke puffing out of his mouth. "Naw, brother. This here's the most dangerous jutsu you ever gon' learn: Indoor Plumbing no Jutsu. Real forbidden art. Makes your descendants worship you forever."
The shinobi grunted, unimpressed, and went back to carving.