Chapitre 118: Funeral
Hey everyone,
I just wanted to take a moment to share something with you all. As some of you might have noticed, the frequency of our weekly chapters has gone down a bit recently. I'm navigating through some challenging times right now, and it's been impacting my ability to maintain our usual pace.
I really appreciate your understanding and continued support during this period. Your patience and encouragement mean a lot to me. I'm committed to keeping the story alive and will do my best to deliver quality content, even if it's a bit less frequent for now.
Thanks for sticking around and for being such an awesome community!
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Ryomaru, with an air of fresh responsibility clinging to his young frame, stepped through the village gates, his stride steady and deliberate. Uncle B's gaze softened at the sight, a smile briefly displacing the shadows on his face.
"How's Yugito? I heard she had it rough," Ryomaru inquired, his voice steady and a touch beyond his years.
B's chest expanded with a proud puff. "That kid's tough. My training, you know," he said with a gruff chuckle. "She scorched those scoundrels good."
"That's good to hear," Ryomaru said, nodding in approval. His ice-blue eyes held a deeper question now. "Any opportunists?"
The question was a heavy one, laden with implications of political strife and potential threats. B read the undercurrents well. With the Raikage's passing, the village's stability was a veneer that could crack under external pressures or internal ambitions.
B shook his head firmly. "I'm still the only Perfect Jinchuriki left. They'd be fools to try anything."
Ryomaru couldn't help but be astonished. The fact that both A and B had managed to survive the onslaught by ten Akatsuki members and even succeeded in defeating one of them was truly remarkable. Drawing from Haku's memories, Ryomaru understood that within the Akatsuki, there were individuals whose prowess was so formidable that they could single-handedly challenge an entire village. However, these reflections would have to wait for another time.
As they moved through the village, Ryomaru and his mother were greeted by the somber faces of villagers and shinobi alike, each bowing their heads in respect or whispering condolences. Ryomaru acknowledged each with a nod or a soft word, his bearing natural, not put upon, reflecting the charm and confidence that made him a beloved figure among his peers.
Miori, walking beside her son offered silent support. She had her reservations about the village and its leaders, her presence in Kumogakure borne out of coercion, not choice. But she was here for Ryomaru, and that was all that mattered.
When they arrived at the Raikage's office, a building Ryomaru had only visited out of necessity, he felt the weight of expectation settle upon him. The room was still, the air expectant as if waiting for him to take a seat behind the grand desk that had once belonged to his father. Instead, he stood beside it, hands clasped behind his back.
Samui and Mabui entered, their expressions grave. As Jounin and Ryomaru's former senseis, they had a new role to play in this time of transition.
"Preparations have been made for the funeral," Samui informed him, her voice crisp. Mabui added, "Security has been tightened. We're ready for any contingencies."
Ryomaru simply nodded. It was time to bury the bad memories.
In the quietude of their home, separate from the Raikage's official residence, Ryomaru knelt before Miori, his head resting gently on her lap. The room was filled with a hushed reverence, the early morning light casting a soft glow over their somber forms. "You don't need to come," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Miori's hand moved tenderly through his black hair, each stroke an unspoken word of comfort. "I have to. What will people say if I don't appear?" she replied, her voice laced with a sorrow that went beyond the upcoming funeral rites.
Ryomaru lifted his head, his ice-blue eyes locking with hers, shimmering with a resolve that belied his tender age. "I don't care. You don't need to be there," he insisted, his voice firm, protective.
Tears welled in Miori's eyes as she gazed at the somber scene before her. The memory of her forced abduction to Cloud due to her unique bloodline had haunted her for years. It was a dark chapter in her life, and A, the one responsible for her suffering, had always been a painful reminder of hardship and injustice. Miori's heart ached for her son, Ryomaru, whom she loved more than anything in the world. Ryomaru was her sole shining beacon. Her presence at the funeral was a formality, one that could cast shadows on her son's new role. "Ryo—" she began, only to be cut off by his gentle but insistent tone.
"Mum, the most important thing in this world is you. Everything else is secondary. I don't care what people say; I don't care what people think. You don't have to be there," Ryomaru said, each word underpinned by an earnest plea for her well-being.
Miori's heart clenched, the depth of her son's love for her creating a warmth that pushed back the chill of her own troubled thoughts. She nodded, a silent concession to his wishes.
As they joined the funeral procession later that day, whispers flitted through the crowd like unwelcome winter winds. Eyes darted in their direction, some filled with sympathy, others masked poorly hidden curiosity at Miori's absence.
As the somber procession wound its way through the village, the soft murmur of gossip followed close behind, like a shadow that clung to their footsteps. Ryomaru walked with an unspoken strength, a young figure of stoicism amongst a cadre of notable shinobi – Samui, his watchful guard and jounin sensei, and Mabui, her presence as reassuring as it was stern. Beside him strode B, his uncle's presence a towering comfort, and Darui, always the quiet sentinel. Fugaku, Itachi, Sasuke, and Mikoto Uchiha - the survivors of their clan's massacre, now transplanted into Cloud Village - bore their own silent grief, an unspoken kinship with Ryomaru's own sense of loss.
The whispers were like icy pricks against Ryomaru's consciousness, but he held his head high, his ice-blue eyes forward, mirroring the resilience of his mother. "Still acting like she's foreign," an undertone hissed from a cluster of villagers, not far from earshot.
"Rejects her own identity, she does," another voice chimed, tinged with scorn.
Ryomaru's pace never faltered, even as the words struck like venom. "Is her son really one of us then?" The question hung heavy, a verbal stone lobbed carelessly into the air.
"If she's still so attached to the Yuki Clan, she should go back to the Mist Village, and die with her clan—"
The sentence hung, incomplete, as Ryomaru felt a hand upon his shoulder. B's gesture was subtle but firm, a silent message to ignore the malignant whispers.
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone