The battlefield reeked of death.
The scent was thick—metallic blood, burning flesh, the sickly-sweet rot of fresh corpses. The earth itself was soaked in crimson, a grotesque mosaic of bodies and shattered steel.
Distant embers smoldered in the ruins, their dying glow flickering like the remnants of lost souls. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the wreckage, twisted and jagged, as if the land itself had been scarred.
And in the heart of it all, she stood.
Higanbana.
Small. Delicate. A lone figure amidst carnage. A flower blooming in blood.
She had not moved since the battle ended.
Her long black hair barely stirred in the wind. Her hands, still tainted with the warmth of life she had extinguished, were pressed together. Praying.
The sounds of chaos had begun to die. The screams of the newly freed prisoners—once wild and desperate—had dulled into incoherent murmurs. The last of the enemies had either fled or perished under Ryojin's merciless assault.
All that remained was this moment.
Amatsu watched. He did not approach.
Her crimson eyes, usually deep pools of silent warmth, gleamed under the pale moonlight. Not empty. Not broken.
Sadnes.
Praying for the men she had killed. Praying for herself.
It was useless.
But still, she prayed.
The weak sought comfort in meaningless rituals. Yet Higanbana's prayer… it unsettled him.
Not because of sentimentality. Not because of foolish guilt.
But because she was changing.
It was subtle. Almost imperceptible. No normal shinobi would notice.
But Amatsu was not normal.
Her skin—porcelain, impossibly smooth—had lost the faint imperfections of mortality. Her hair—raven-dark, silkier than before—moved differently, as if the very air bent to accommodate it. Even the way the light touched her… something was wrong.
She was growing more beautiful.
More refined.
More inhuman.
His gaze flickered to the battlefield around her, where crimson flowers had begun to bloom.
Higanbana. The death-lilies.
Petals swayed gently, drinking in the blood of the fallen. They pulsed—faintly, almost imperceptibly—as if they were alive.
And she was part of them.
His mind worked quickly, analyzing the implications.
Was this the price of her power?
Or its reward?
Even Higanbana herself likely had not realized it.
But Amatsu did.
And he would not ignore it.
The silence stretched, the air thick with something unspoken. Then, finally, Higanbana lowered her hands from prayer, her expression unreadable. She turned toward him.
Her crimson eyes shimmered under the dim torchlight.
Higanbana's voice was soft, fragile against the weight of the dead.
"Brother Amatsu," she whispered. "Was this the right thing to do?"
A naive question. A meaningless one.
Amatsu did not answer immediately. He let the silence stretch, let the cold wind whisper through the ruins. The flames flickered, casting fleeting shadows upon corpses that no longer cared for morality.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Right and wrong are ornaments for those who do not wield power."
His voice was calm, distant, as if speaking of the rain.
"The wind does not ask if it should howl. The fire does not question if it should burn. They simply are."
He turned slightly, dark eyes settling on her.
"We are the same."
A pause. A quiet so vast it swallowed the night.
"There is no righteousness in survival." His words were like steel wrapped in silk. "No sin in necessity."
"There is only what is done."
He stepped past her.
"And what remains."
Higanbana lowered her gaze. Her fingers tightened slightly, a small, barely noticeable motion.
She did not argue.
She accepted it.
Even if it hurt her.
She trust him.
That, at least, was enough.
The night air was cold against his skin. Behind him, the battlefield still smoldered, bodies strewn like discarded remnants of a forgotten war.
Higanbana's change was inevitable.
But whether she would embrace it…
Or be consumed by it…
That remained to be seen.
Amatsu's gaze swept across the field of corpses.
Blood pooled in the uneven cracks of the stone floor, seeping into the earth like an offering to some forgotten deity. The bodies of fallen shinobi lay scattered in grotesque angles, their final expressions frozen in terror or defiance. Their weapons, armor, pouches—spoils of war, abandoned in death's embrace.
Valuable.
But there were too many. Stripping them one by one would be inefficient.
Amatsu's mind turned. He could not afford to waste time. Resources were crucial, but lingering was dangerous.
"Tsk." A low chuckle came from behind.
Ryojin stepped forward, golden eyes glinting with amusement as he stretched his shoulders, his chains lazily retracting into his wrists. "What, planning to haul all of them on your back?"
Amatsu did not answer. He simply waited.
Ryojin smirked. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he pulled out a small parchment from his sleeve. A scroll.
"You really don't know? Storage scrolls." He spun it between his fingers before tossing it toward Amatsu. "It's basic ninja shit."
Amatsu caught it effortlessly, his sharp gaze inspecting the markings along the surface. He had read about such things but had never used one himself.
Ryojin crouched beside a corpse, unfurling his own scroll. He pressed his palm against the paper and muttered a simple release command.
Fwoosh.
In an instant, the body vanished, leaving behind only a faint, smoky residue. The inked patterns on the scroll pulsed briefly before fading.
"Seals the body inside. Neat, huh?" Ryojin grinned, rising to his feet. "You can fit a whole battlefield in one if you're good at sealing. Ofcourse, I doubt you've got the time to learn, so just do it the basic way."
Amatsu's fingers tightened around the scroll. A useful tool.
Without another word, he moved.
One by one, the corpses disappeared, their remains stored away like objects, stripped of dignity, reduced to nothing but resources. Amatsu worked efficiently, methodically, ensuring nothing was left behind. Weapons, armor, stolen jutsu scrolls—anything of value was gathered in an instant.
Higanbana stood nearby, silent, watching. She did not speak, nor did she interfere.
Amatsu did not look at her, but he was aware of her presence.
When the last body was sealed, he took the scroll and tossed it to her.
She caught it reflexively, her crimson eyes flickering in the dim torchlight.
"Keep it." His tone was indifferent. "For now."
There was more to do.
And time was running short.
Amatsu turned, his sharp gaze flickering between Ryojin, Higanbana, and the remaining survivors. The six orphans who had endured the slaughter stood in a loose formation—wounded, exhausted, but alive. Out of thirty-seven, only six remained.
A predictable outcome.
Amatsu wasted no words mourning the dead. The weak had perished. The strong remained. That was the only truth that mattered.
Ryojin cracked his neck, his usual smirk curling at the edges of his lips. "So, what's next, 'boss'?" His tone was mocking, but there was no defiance in it—only amusement, anticipation.
Amatsu's voice was quiet, yet it cut through the silence like a blade.
"We are not done." His dark eyes swept over the prison gates, the cold steel doors looming in the distance. "The base is still intact. The cells are still locked."
Ryojin's grin widened. "Ah… I see." His golden eyes gleamed with excitement. "You want to open the gates?"
Amatsu's gaze was calm, yet beneath the stillness, calculations churned. "Chaos is not an obstacle. It is a blade." His voice was quiet, but absolute. "The more disorder we create, the harder it will be for anyone to regain control."
He turned toward the looming steel gates, his dark eyes reflecting nothing but cold pragmatism. "A battlefield ruled by order is predictable. A battlefield swallowed by chaos? That is an opportunity. While others struggle to make sense of the madness, we will already be gone."
He looked at the others, his tone unchanging. "We are not escaping. We are dissolving into the storm itself."
The enemy was routed, but their reinforcements were inevitable. If they left quietly, the base might be reclaimed and fortified again. But if they shattered its structure from within, it would become nothing more than a tomb of madness, impossible to control.
A wasteland of violence.
Higanbana's voice was soft, uncertain. "The prisoners… some of them are just like us. But many are…"
"Murderers. Traitors. The worst kind of shinobi," Amatsu finished coldly. "It does not matter."
Higanbana lowered her gaze. She did not argue.
Ryojin laughed, the sound raw and eager. "You're a ruthless bastard. I like it."
Amatsu turned his attention to the six surviving orphans. Their eyes were hollow, their bodies weak, but they were listening. Their loyalty had already been carved into their bones by the massacre they had survived.
"You have two choices," Amatsu said, his voice quiet but absolute. "You can run now, disappear into the world, and hope you survive on your own." His gaze sharpened. "Or you can follow me."
A heavy silence fell over them. The choice was an illusion. They had nothing left. No home. No protection. Only Amatsu had given them the chance to fight, to survive.
One by one, they nodded.
Amatsu turned back toward the steel gates, his fingers brushing against the cool metal. Behind these doors, hundreds-or thousand of prisoners waited—some broken, some hungry, some filled with rage.
Soon, all of them would be set loose.
No more order.
No more control.
Only chaos.
With a final glance at Ryojin, Amatsu gave the command.
"Open the gates."
And the world behind them descended into madness.