Kapitel 94: Epilogue

Somewhere

Since the assault on Port Nagoya, Guren found herself seemingly idle. In a strange, macabre way, she found herself bored. The war was in full swing: Iwagakure doggedly pushed into the Land of Fire, goaded on by Sunagakure's increasing confidence in the south. Greed. To the north, Otogakure ran head-first to battle the behemoth that was the Leaf at the command of the snake sannin. Flanking the tiny village, Kumogakure and Takigakure, both much less avaricious and bloodthirsty, were more restrained in their actions, willing to wait and observe as the Leaf tired itself on its western fronts. Guren had proposed an operation to goad the reluctant villages into battle, but neither Lord Orochimaru nor the Uchiha patriarch seemed that enthused to interfere in the matter any more than they already have.

They didn't really care how this war ended, she realised. A means to an end, this war was. Something trivial, done merely for the sake of it.

Knowing this, some tiny, forgotten part of her mind was terrified, but the more logical parts of her mind snuffed out the budding concern. As Guren walked the empty halls, heeding her master's summons, she wondered mutedly how the difference in ability between shinobis could be so vast. Surely, she couldn't see herself condemning thousands to die in a war simply to achieve a tangential goal.

Right?

She might never know…

Not unlike the majority of the sannin's followers, Guren submitted to rule due to the allure of power. Correction, she served because she envied the sannin's power. She still, even now. More so than ever before. She was leery at first of staying close to such a dangerous individual; Orochimaru did single-handedly destroy her entire village.

But curiosity, that fickle thing, won out.

It worked out in the end, thankfully. She had gone from a shunned child in a village of fools to the lieutenant of one of the most powerful people alive today.

Knock, knock.

"Come in," drawled the sannin from within his chambers.

Carefully, Guren pushed open the barrier to see a beautiful, golden-eyed man seated at a table. The sannin face still bore its signature purple markings on his tear trough and fang-like teeth sat in his jaw, but his cheekbones were more pronounced. Androgynous. His hair, straight, waist-length, and black framed his face and shoulders. Had the lean, muscular set of his shoulders not been visible, it would have been easy to mistake the sannin for a woman.

Guren fell to her knees, bowing. "You summoned me, Lord Orochimaru?"

"Yes," the sannin said, not looking up from the scroll he was writing on, "You will be in charge of the security detail being prepared for Yakumo Kurama. I just received a letter from Sasuke demanding her presence in Nadeshiko."

Guren was confused. "Yakumo Kurama, my lord?" Surely, there were others who could attend the young heiress? Surely, the sannin would be served better if she continued to direct the war effort? Surely, Sasuke Uchiha did not deem this one girl more important than the success of the war?

Surely?

Orochimaru glanced briefly at Guren before turning his gaze back to the letter he was writing.

"No harm must befall the young heiress," he said. "She has been betrothed to Sasuke and would stay in Nadeshiko as his concubine for the foreseeable future. If all goes well, in another year or so, you will serve as guardian to one of Sasuke's sons. Now, go pack your things. You and Yūkimaru leave in the morning."

What?

***

The evening light had already begun to fade when Chiriku received the letter.

He wasn't expecting it. The sky outside his window stretched wide, a gradient of soft pinks and purples dissolving into the encroaching blue of night. A cool breeze carried the scent of the nearby cedar forests, a fleeting fragrance that brushed past him as he sat in quiet contemplation.

The monk glanced down at the folded paper resting in front of him. A simple seal. Nothing ornate, nothing outwardly significant. Yet the weight of it felt like a stone in his hands, its presence heavier than the ink and parchment could ever convey.

The Fire Daimyo had written to him.

He ran his thumb over the edge of the letter but didn't open it right away. There was no rush. After all, hadn't they already waited so long? The war had been moving steadily, like the undercurrents of a slow river, inching closer with each passing day. The invaders were all advancing, their influence spreading through the land, like rot beneath the skin. But here, in the Fire Temple, time always moved a little differently. Or at least, that was how it seemed.

Chiriku stared at the letter a little longer, wondering why it had come now. The Fire Daimyo hadn't contacted him in years. Their last conversation had been brief, nothing more than ceremonial pleasantries exchanged at a public gathering. And now, here it was—a request, unspoken but written in ink all the same.

He finally opened it.

The words inside were few. The Fire Daimyo had a way of saying everything without saying much at all. In the elegant curves of his calligraphy, the message was clear. Konoha, the village that had long protected the Land of Fire, was teetering on the edge of collapse. The pressure on the Leaf was mounting; invaders were leaking through the gaps. People were dying. Innocent people.

The Daimyo's request was simple: the Fire Temple must act. The monks could no longer remain in stillness.

Chiriku refolded the letter, setting it back down on the low table in front of him. The candle beside it flickered, casting shifting shadows across the paper, as though the words were dancing just outside of his vision, elusive and distant.

He leaned back, letting his body sink into the mat beneath him. The temple around him was quiet, as it often was at this time of day. The silence here wasn't oppressive or heavy—it simply was. Like air. Like breath. But tonight, it felt different. There was a tremor in the quiet, something barely perceptible, but there all the same.

Chiriku stood, his body moving before his mind could catch up. The Daimyo's letter had left something in him unsettled, like a pebble tossed into a still pond. He stepped outside, the night air sharp and cool against his skin. His fellow monks, his brothers, sat in meditation near the courtyard, the soft glow of the setting sun casting their figures in shadow. Their breaths were steady, rhythmic, like the pulse of the earth itself.

They had been waiting, too. Not for the Daimyo's letter, but for something else. Chiriku could sense it—the quiet understanding among them, the shared tension. There was a collective pause in their lives, as though the temple had been holding its breath for weeks, perhaps longer.

He walked toward them, his feet barely making a sound on the stone path. Ryushi, the eldest among them, slowly opened his eyes as Chiriku approached, his gaze calm and unhurried.

"It has come," Chiriku said, his voice softer than the wind rustling through the trees.

Ryushi didn't ask what he meant. He didn't need to. Instead, he merely nodded once, the lines on his face deepening.

The Fire Temple had never been just a sanctuary. The monks who lived here were warriors, protectors. They had trained for this, their bodies and minds honed over years of discipline and study. They weren't strangers to the battlefield, though they had long hoped to avoid it.

Chiriku sat beside Ryushi, the night growing darker around them.

Ryushi remained silent for a while, his gaze thoughtful. Finally, he spoke. "Do you think it will be enough?"

The question lingered between them. Chiriku didn't answer right away. He wasn't sure if there was an answer to give.

"It isn't about whether it will be enough," he said after a long moment. "It's about what we owe to those who can't defend themselves."

Ryushi nodded again, his eyes closing once more. The silence returned, but this time, it wasn't the same. There was a new current beneath it, a faint but undeniable shift. It was the kind of silence that came before a storm.

The other monks, still sitting in quiet meditation, began to stir. One by one, they stood, moving without hurry, their actions deliberate and measured. They didn't need instructions. They had known this day would come.

Chiriku rose as well, feeling the weight of his own movements, the way the air seemed heavier now. He didn't speak again. There was nothing more to say.

The moon had risen high by the time they were ready to depart. The monks moved silently through the temple, gathering their weapons and provisions. Chiriku led them, his staff in hand, his mind clear but troubled. He had never been one to question the path laid before him, but tonight, there was a small part of him that wondered if this was truly the right course.

But innocent lives were at stake. And that, in itself, was enough.

As they moved through the temple gates, the night stretched wide before them, dark and endless. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the distant sounds of war. Chiriku glanced back at the temple one last time, its silhouette faint against the horizon. He knew they might not return. But that was the nature of their calling. It wasn't about survival. It was about the duty they carried.

And so, in the stillness of the night, they began their journey toward Konoha, their footsteps silent, their hearts heavy with the knowledge that the world beyond their sanctuary had changed forever.

***

The cabin was small, tucked into the fold of a nameless forest, the timber walls stained dark by years of rain and the passing of seasons. Sasuke sat at the table, the light from the oil lamp flickering against the wood. His father sat across from him, his face impassive, though not in the hard way Sasuke remembered. Fugaku Uchiha's eyes had softened with the years, or maybe it was the quiet that did it, the peace of the place.

Mikoto stood at the stove, stirring a pot of miso soup, her movements slow and deliberate. The scent of the broth filled the room, mingling with the earthiness of the forest air that slipped in through the open window. Outside, the woods were still, darkening under the weight of dusk. There were no sounds but the quiet clatter of chopsticks and the low bubbling of the soup.

Fugaku sat across from him, the man's face lined but not harsh, his eyes holding none of the weight they once did. There was a peace in him now, a quietude that Sasuke had never known as a boy. The old man lifted his bowl and drank from it, setting it down again without a sound. His hands moved slowly, as if the world had afforded them the luxury of time. There was no need for hurry here.

Shizuka sat beside him, her hand resting on her belly. She smiled at him, a gentle, knowing smile. The baby would be here soon. His son.

Yuji.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth filling the small room. They ate in silence. The clatter of chopsticks against bowls, the quiet slurp of broth, the rustle of fabric as someone shifted slightly in their seat. Outside, the woods pressed close, the trees dark sentinels watching over the small cabin, their branches moving with the wind in soft, rhythmic whispers. The world was out there, somewhere, but it did not touch them here. It couldn't.

Didn't dare to.

This was a life. A new beginning, something untainted by the past. In this place, in this moment, there was no revenge, no bloodline war, no hatred. It was all gone, left behind in the wake of something softer, something better.

Mikoto stood to clear the dishes, but Sasuke rose, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. "I'll do it," he said, his voice quiet but firm. She smiled, her eyes warm, and sat back down. He gathered the bowls, the feel of the rough ceramic grounding him, pulling him back into the present.

As he moved to the sink, the sound of water filling the basin echoed softly in the room. He watched the steam rise as the warm water hit the cold dishes, his mind calm in a way it hadn't.

He was happy.