Aren dropped from the tree with an easy twist of his body, landing without a sound.
He had planned to head out directly, but his bedding was still in the guest room at the dojo. He could not very well spend the night on a branch in the cold wind.
As he crossed the courtyard, the tearoom's door was half open. Warm yellow light spilled out, laying a soft patch of brightness across the wooden corridor.
Before Aren could slip past in the shadows, a heavily made-up face squeezed out from the doorway and blocked his path.
"Shiha! So this is the brat who made Koushirou hand over his family heirloom?"
Emporio Ivankov's huge, painted eyes almost pressed against Aren's nose. The suffocating perfume mixed with the steam and warmth from the tearoom made him feel like he was about to choke.
Aren instinctively leaned back, brows knitting together.
That reaction had nothing to do with strength. It was purely because the face in front of him made him uncomfortable on a visceral level.
"Excuse me."
He did not gather chakra, nor did he take any sort of guard. He simply raised his palm, planted it on that big face, and pushed it aside with a small shove.
The touch was oily and thick. The foundation felt like it was layered three coats deep.
Ivankov clearly had not expected that kind of response from the boy. Aren was not scared, there was only undisguised dislike in his eyes.
Caught completely off guard, Ivankov actually stumbled a step sideways under that push, his exaggerated false lashes fluttering twice as he stared, stunned.
Aren ignored him. His gaze slid past and briefly met the eyes of the other two men deeper inside the tearoom.
Koushirou was still smiling with that familiar squint, hands wrapped around his teacup. In his eyes, however, there was a gentle look filled with deeper meaning.
Opposite him, the man in the dark green cloak watched Aren in silence. His gaze was deep, utterly calm, simply observing.
It was the look of one predator measuring another.
Aren calmly withdrew his eyes, without a nod or greeting. He lifted the empty wine flask at his waist and walked straight down the corridor, his footsteps tapping a steady rhythm on the wooden boards until they faded around the corner toward the guest rooms.
Behind him, the tearoom door slid shut again with a soft sound.
Through that thin paper door and the short stretch of corridor, Aren could faintly hear Koushirou's voice. Compared to usual, there was a touch more gravity in his tone.
"... you ask me if he is worth it? Dragon, sometimes trusting intuition is more important than trusting information. That child carries in his body a possibility even I cannot fully see through."
"Possibility, hm..."
The rest of the conversation was cut off as Aren closed his room's door.
He threw himself down on the bed, laced his fingers behind his head, and stared up at the dark ceiling.
Possibility or not, all he felt right now was hungry.
That cheap village brew he had drunk earlier burned his stomach and did nothing to fill it.
...
The next morning, mist still hung over Shimotsuki Village.
Aren slid his door open and stretched. He had barely drawn a lungful of cold, damp air when the sound of wind rushing at his back exploded behind him.
The surprise attack carried no killing intent, just the raw recklessness of a hotheaded kid.
Aren twisted his body loosely, slipping half a step to the left as his toes hooked back behind him.
Thud.
A green-haired figure pitched headfirst into the grass, bamboo swords clattering all over the ground.
"Morning, moss head," Aren said around a yawn, looking at Zoro sprawled on the ground. "I appreciate your persistence, but if you do not hide your presence when you try to ambush someone, it is no different from yelling 'I am about to cut you' at the top of your lungs."
Zoro spat out a mouthful of grass and slammed his palm into the ground, springing back to his feet. The fighting spirit in his eyes was even stronger than yesterday. There was not a trace of discouragement on his face.
"Shut up. As long as I can still stand, the fight is not over."
He grabbed his bamboo swords and was about to charge again when a broad hand settled on his shoulder.
Koushirou had appeared in the corridor without anyone noticing. Dressed in a faded gi, he looked no different from any middle-aged man out for morning exercises in the village.
"Zoro, add another two thousand swings to today's practice," Koushirou said with his usual squinting smile. "If your heart is not calm, your sword will not be steady. Go to the back mountain."
Zoro's body stiffened. He shot Aren a resentful look, then clenched his teeth, slung his bamboo swords over his shoulder, and stormed off toward the back mountain.
"This child has caused you trouble," Koushirou said, turning and dipping his head slightly to Aren.
"He is lively, that is all."
Aren waved it off.
He adjusted his sleeves and tied last night's empty wine flask at his waist.
"Since I am enjoying your hospitality, I should not eat and drink for nothing. I will take a walk in the back mountain, be back before dinner."
Koushirou glanced once at his empty hands.
"You do not need to bring a sword?"
"I am only catching a few rabbits. I do not need that."
With that, Aren tapped his toes against the floor. His whole body rose lightly and cleared the courtyard wall in one smooth motion, vanishing into the misty forest beyond.
Koushirou remained where he was, looking at the wall where almost no trace of the landing remained.
...
For Aren, hunting was both livelihood and training.
The beasts in the hills behind Shimotsuki Village were not particularly fierce, but they were quick and nimble.
He did not use large-scale ninjutsu, nor did he even bother with shuriken. Relying purely on the body reinforced by chakra and the senses sharpened by Observation Haki, he moved through the dense forest like a ghost.
This kind of seemingly pointless running let him feel the rhythm of his muscles and the flow of the wind in ever finer detail.
By the time the sun was sliding westward, Aren was walking back toward the dojo with two hefty boar haunches slung over his shoulders.
He handed the meat to the cook auntie in the back and traded it for a very generous lunch. After that, he found himself with nothing much to do again.
In this era without phones or the internet, there was really only one place suitable for killing time.
...
Toward evening, Aren once more arrived at the little tavern at the edge of the village.
This time the door was open, and the place was lively.
Greasy wooden tables were crowded with bare-chested fishermen and idle layabouts. The air was thick with the smell of tobacco, sour sweat, and cheap alcohol.
The moment Aren pushed the door open, the noisy room fell briefly quiet.
A boy of ten or eleven, dressed in clean but plain gray cloth, with an obvious empty wine flask hanging from his belt, looked completely out of place in this rough scene.
"Hey, which kid ran off from home, still on milk?"
A scar-faced man near the door reeked of alcohol as he eyed Aren sideways, drawing a burst of laughter from the men around him.
"Probably here for sugar water!" someone else bellowed, banging his cup on the table. "Hey, boss, pour the kid a glass of milk, put it on my tab!"