Chương 180: 180
The man who stood behind the tall walls of his secluded estate had once been a proud shinobi, but that was years ago. Now, Hisato Mura, a genjutsu specialist, was a shell of his former self. He was in his early sixties, though the ravages of time and battle had aged him beyond his years. His once jet-black hair had turned mostly silver, though patches of black still stubbornly remained, giving his hair a mottled, disheveled look. His hair fell just below his ears, unkempt, and always looking like it hadn't seen a comb in days.
The right side of Hisato's face was a twisted mass of scar tissue, a grotesque reminder of the explosion that had taken not only his leg but his appearance as well. His right eye was gone, replaced with a milky, blank stare, while his left eye, still sharp and dark brown, glinted with a mixture of bitterness and weariness. His skin, once fair, was now leathery and weathered, deeply lined with the weight of his losses and years spent in isolation. His nose was crooked, slightly bent to one side, another battle wound from years gone by.
His build, once lean and athletic, had withered over the years. His broad shoulders had hunched slightly, and his frame, though tall, seemed to sag with the weight of his past. He hobbled on a crude wooden crutch, his right leg amputated just below the knee. He could've opted for a prosthetic, of course, but Hisato's stubbornness had made him reject such comforts. The crutch, to him, was a badge of defiance—against the ninja world that had taken everything from him and against the modern conveniences he no longer cared for. He often wore dark, loose-fitting robes, simple and utilitarian, with no trace of the once-esteemed shinobi he had been.
Hisato's wife had died of illness years ago, and after her death, his sons had both followed in his footsteps as shinobi. Neither had survived. Both had been killed on dangerous missions, extinguishing what was left of his heart. Hisato had cut himself off from the world after their deaths, retreating behind the tall stone walls of his estate. The world outside had no use for him, and he had no use for it. He wasn't interested in the affairs of the village, the missions, or even the Hokage's requests. He spent his days in the empty halls of his home, tending to the overgrown garden his wife had loved, or staring at old, faded photographs of a life that no longer existed.
His estate, once the pride of his family, was now in disrepair. The stone walls were moss-covered, and the once well-tended grounds were overgrown with weeds. The Mura family name had all but disappeared from memory, with no legacy left to protect or pass on. Hisato had no visitors, no companions, and he preferred it that way. Letters from the Hokage went unanswered, and the occasional well-wisher who knocked on his gate was sent away with a gruff shout or the sound of his crutch clacking angrily on the stone.
That was, until Sakumo Hatake knocked on his gate.
The old man grunted, his scarred face twisting into an ugly scowl as he hobbled toward the entrance. What the hell did the White Fang want? The faint sound of knocking echoed again through the courtyard, cutting through the stillness that had become Hisato's constant companion. His crutch tapped against the stone, the noise somehow both sharp and weary, as he made his way to the gate, his one good eye narrowing in irritation.
When he reached the gate, Hisato wrenched it open with a surprising amount of force for a man his age. His lips curled into a sneer as his good eye focused on Sakumo. "What do you want, White Pup?" His voice was rough, as though unused to conversation. "Haven't you taken enough from the world already?"
Sakumo, standing tall and composed, met the old man's glare with calm determination. "Hisato," he began respectfully, "I've come to ask for your help."
Hisato snorted, the sound harsh and unkind. "Help? You come to me for help? You know damn well I don't do that anymore." His tone was bitter, laden with the weight of his grief and anger.
But Sakumo didn't back down. "There's someone I need you to train. A student of mine. He shows immense promise, and your techniques—your genjutsu—could take him to the next level."
Hisato's scowl deepened, the scar tissue on his face pulling tight as he glared at Sakumo with his one good eye. "The hell it could. You think I'm just going to train some brat? You know how dangerous those techniques are, Sakumo. They killed my sons!" His voice cracked, years of bottled-up pain spilling out. "The concentration required for my genjutsu… I don't care how talented this chunin or jonin of yours is. The answer is no."
Sakumo grimaced slightly but remained composed. "He's not a chunin or a jonin. He's a genin."
For a moment, there was silence. Hisato's good eye widened in disbelief. "A genin?" he echoed, his voice incredulous. Then, slowly, his face contorted into something resembling amusement, though it was tinged with bitterness.
Suddenly, the old man burst into laughter—a harsh, grating sound that filled the air. Hisato doubled over, leaning heavily on his crutch, wheezing as though the very idea was absurd. "A genin?! You want me to teach a genin techniques that could kill a jonin?" Hisato's laughter turned into a rough cackle as he began to hobble back toward his house, still chuckling darkly. "This is madness, White Pup! Madness!"
Sakumo sighed inwardly, watching Hisato's retreat. He knew this was going to be a long and difficult process, but he wasn't about to give up. Haruto needed this training, and if anyone could help, it was Hisato Mura. Convincing the bitter old man, however, would be no easy task.
As the gate slammed shut behind Hisato, Sakumo stood there for a moment, rubbing his temples in frustration. This was going to be a pain, but for the sake of his student, he was prepared to go through hell to make it happen.
Sakumo turned and began walking away, already planning his next move. Hisato might have retreated from the world, but he was still a shinobi. And somewhere beneath that hard exterior was a man who had once cared about passing on his knowledge. Sakumo just had to find a way to get through to him.
As he walked, Sakumo couldn't help but wonder how he would convince Hisato. But one thing was certain: he wasn't giving up just yet.
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