A Silent Village

I woke to the taste of salt in my mouth and the sound of a blade being sharpened.

Kisame sat on a flat stone near the pool's edge, Samehada resting at his side, silent for once. A whetstone hissed softly against the edge of a long tanto—not his usual blade, but another, more precise. The weapon looked ceremonial, but his hand moved like it was habit.

"You're late," he said without turning.

I blinked at the lanternlight filtering through the cavern's water-veined walls. "You didn't say when."

"I said you'd wake when your body knew it was ready." He gave the blade one last scrape and set it aside. "That was this morning."

I stood, shoulders stiff from sleep, muscles still aching from the last pressure drill. "Are we training?"

"No," he said. "We're going to the village."

The words hit with more weight than expected. Kiri. Kirigakure. The Bloody Mist. I'd trained in its shadows for weeks—months?—but never stepped foot into its streets. My only world had been stone, salt, and silence.

Kisame tossed a folded robe at me. It was dark gray with sea-green trim, lightweight but heavy enough to mark its purpose. On the shoulder: a blank patch where a symbol would go. Eventually.

"Put that on," he said. "You're not a prisoner anymore. You're a shinobi-in-training."

We moved through the underpass tunnels in silence, water dripping in steady rhythms from the stalactites above. The deeper corridors gave way to smoother stone, then brick, then manmade tile. It felt strange to see corners shaped by human hands again. And light—actual sunlight—streamed in through open slats near the top of a wide arch.

I stepped through and saw Kirigakure for the first time.

Mist rolled across the streets like a second skin. The buildings were tall and curved, like barnacles growing out of stone hulls. Everything was wet, gray, and faintly glowing with moisture. Walkways twisted like rivers around training yards and hidden corners.

And the people—shinobi, civilians, masked ANBU, vendors—moved like shadows in the fog.

Some looked at Kisame and bowed. Others averted their eyes.

When they looked at me, they paused longer. I was marked, not by a forehead protector, but by the company I kept. A student of Kisame Hoshigaki.

"Why now?" I asked quietly as we crossed a bridge over a wide stream cutting through the village.

He didn't answer until we turned down a narrow side street lined with stone lanterns.

"Because you've stopped drowning," he said. "Now it's time to learn how to fight."

The building he brought me to was smaller than expected—plain stone, no signs. But inside, it was alive with presence.

A long room stretched out, padded with thick mats, weapons arranged in racks along the far wall. Two men and one woman in flak jackets stood near the front. They looked up as we entered.

One of them—a man with braided gray hair and a tattooed jawline—stepped forward.

"This the kid?"

Kisame nodded.

"No forehead protector?" the woman asked.

"He doesn't need one yet," Kisame said.

"Not in the system?"

"He's mine. He doesn't go through the Academy."

That earned me a glance, then a longer look. I met the woman's gaze and didn't look away.

"Name?" the braided one asked me.

I gave the one I'd chosen. Simple. Easy to remember. The one Kisame first heard me mutter when I woke up. No last name. I had none here.

He grunted. "Good. We need eyes in the lower rings. Surveillance ops."

Kisame cut in. "He's not here for grunt work."

A pause.

Then the braided man nodded, just once. "Fine. He's yours. But if he steps out of line, he's ours."

"I wouldn't recommend trying," Kisame said with a smile that wasn't a smile.

By midday, I had a room. A small apartment carved into one of the lower levels of Kiri's northern district. From the window, I could see the ocean—not wide and open, but hemmed in by cliffs.

Still, it was enough. It reminded me that the deep was never far.

Kisame left me with a map, a meal, and one final instruction:

"Tomorrow, report to Training Hall Nine. No one knows what you are yet. Keep it that way."

----

The next morning, I found Hall Nine.

It was more brutalist than elegant—stone columns rising from thick fog, with paper seals fluttering along the walls. Inside, a handful of genin were already training under an older jōnin. Sparring, drilling, shouting.

I stood at the edge and watched. I didn't feel out of place. I felt apart.

When the instructor noticed me, he narrowed his eyes. "You with the Academy?"

"No," I said simply.

"Then why are you here?"

"Kisame."

That earned a grunt. "Figures. Get on the floor. No hand seals. Just show me what you can do."

I nodded and stepped forward.

My opponent was a lean, fast-moving boy with short black hair and wiry muscles. He smirked when I stepped onto the mat.

"Never seen you before," he said. "New meat?"

I didn't answer.

We bowed. The fight began.

He came fast—shuriken, followed by a burst of speed and a sweeping kick. But I wasn't thinking. I was feeling. The way Kisame had trained me. Pressure. Rhythm.

I moved through it.

I deflected the kick and stepped into his blind side. No flashy counters—just control. When I took him down, it was like the sea swallowing a stone.

The jōnin instructor raised an eyebrow.

"Not bad."

I said nothing.

Later, after drills ended, a girl from the group approached me.

"You really Kisame's student?" she asked.

I nodded.

"What's he like?"

I thought for a moment. "Sharp. Quiet."

She frowned. "That's not what I've heard."

I shrugged. "You asked me."

She stared at me a moment longer, then turned and left.

That night, back in my room, I wrote in my journal.

Kisame doesn't give orders. He gives weight. The kind you either carry or get crushed by.

I'm still breathing. Still sinking. But I know where the bottom is now.

And I know it's not the end.