Chương 182: 182
Hisato Mura sat in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames as they flickered and danced, casting long shadows on the walls of his empty home. The night was still, save for the quiet crackle of burning wood. His crutch rested against the arm of his chair, and his stump ached, as it always did at this hour—a dull, constant reminder of what he had lost. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the ache in his heart.
Kanna. Her name floated to the surface of his mind, as it often did during these quiet, lonely nights. Hisato had loved her more than anything. She had been the heart of their family, her quiet kindness and gentle strength bringing warmth to even the coldest days of his life. She had always seen past the scars—both literal and figurative—that he carried from his years as a shinobi, and she had a way of making him feel whole. When she passed away, taken by illness, it felt as if the world had grown a little darker.
But at least she hadn't had to bear the curse of burying their sons.
Jiro and Ren. Hisato's heart ached as he thought of them, his pride and joy. Jiro, the eldest, had been serious and driven, always focused on mastering his craft and proving himself as a shinobi. Ren, on the other hand, had been light-hearted and full of energy, his laughter infectious and his charm undeniable. Hisato had trained them personally, guiding them through the intricacies of genjutsu, teaching them everything he knew.
Jiro had died first. Hisato still remembered the day the news had reached him. A dangerous mission, one where Jiro had led his team into a trap. Despite his skill, despite everything he had learned, Jiro hadn't made it out alive. Hisato had felt the crushing weight of guilt, wondering if he had pushed his son too hard, taught him too much of a dangerous art without the necessary caution. But at least with Jiro, he knew what had happened. There had been a report, details, closure—if one could even call it that.
Ren, however, had vanished on a redacted ANBU mission. Hisato still had no idea what had happened. No one in the village could tell him anything. They simply said that the mission was classified, the details sealed. Hisato had tried to push for answers, but every door he knocked on had remained firmly shut. The lack of closure had eaten away at him, leaving a gnawing hole in his heart that never fully healed.
Jiro's death had broken him, but Ren's disappearance had left him lost. Kanna had been gone by then, and with Ren's mysterious fate still unresolved, Hisato had retreated into himself, shutting out the world that had taken everything from him.
As the fire crackled in front of him, Hisato clenched his fists, the scars on his hands pulling taut with the tension. His mind wandered to his time as a shinobi, back when he had earned the respect and fear of his enemies with his mastery of genjutsu. He had taken the standard B-rank Genjutsu: False Surroundings Technique and transformed it into something far more dangerous—an S-rank jutsu of his own design.
The complexity of the jutsu had been overwhelming, even for him. It required immense focus and control, not only because it could affect multiple targets at once but because it could be tailored to attack a single individual with devastating precision. With this genjutsu, Hisato had been able to alter entire battlefields, making his enemies see what wasn't there, feel what wasn't real, and fall into traps they couldn't comprehend until it was too late. The technique had confused and disoriented entire squads, opening the way for attacks that turned the tide of many battles.
But that power had come at a cost. The jutsu demanded everything from the user—complete focus and unparalleled concentration. Even a momentary lapse could cause the illusion to break, and the strain it put on the mind was immense. Hisato had honed it to perfection, but it had taken a toll on him physically and mentally.
And it had taken a toll on his sons as well.
As he sat by the fire, his thoughts swirling between memories of his family and his career as a shinobi, Hisato felt the weight of it all bearing down on him. The world outside his walled estate seemed so far away now, and yet, just that afternoon, Sakumo Hatake had knocked on his gate, asking him to train a genin in his deadly technique.
"A genin," Hisato muttered to himself, shaking his head. He had laughed at Sakumo's request, but deep down, he knew there was more to it. Sakumo wouldn't have asked if he didn't believe in this boy—this Haruto. Hisato didn't want to admit it, but the thought of training someone again, of passing on what he knew, tugged at a part of him he had long buried. A part of him that still longed to teach, to guide.
But could he really do it? Could he bring himself to train someone again, knowing what it had cost him before?
The flames flickered, casting shadows on the walls, and Hisato stared into the fire, lost in the memories of his wife, his sons, and the life he had once known. The pain in his leg was a constant reminder of the battles he had fought and the loved ones he had lost. But as he sat there, the thought of Sakumo's request lingered, a seed of possibility slowly taking root in his mind.
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