Chapter 4: Beggars at the Gate
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They stumbled into the village just before dusk — a cluster of sagging wooden houses ringed by a crumbling stone wall.
Renjiro had never seen a place so full of people and yet so empty of warmth.
Merchants packed up their stalls, their eyes darting suspiciously at strangers.
Mothers yanked their children away at the sight of Renjiro and Miyo, as if poverty itself were contagious.
Nobody smiled.
Nobody welcomed them.
The world had ended, and these people had decided that kindness would be the first thing to die.
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Miyo sagged against him, burning with fever.
Her breaths came shallow and slow, each one a struggle.
"Hold on, Miyo," he whispered fiercely. "Hold on. We're almost safe."
Safe.
The word felt like a curse now.
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They asked for help — at first politely, then desperately.
Renjiro went from door to door, bowing, pleading.
"Please — my sister is sick. We just need a little food. A place to rest."
Doors slammed shut in his face.
Some villagers didn't even bother to speak — just looked through him, as if he were a ghost already.
One old man spat near his feet.
"Plenty of corpses on the road, boy," he sneered. "Yours can join 'em."
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By nightfall, Renjiro realized: no one would help them.
They were alone.
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The village doctor's house stood near the center square — a crooked old building with faded red curtains.
The doctor himself was a wiry man with small, mean eyes.
He wrinkled his nose at the sight of them, as if their suffering offended him.
"I don't work for free," he said bluntly, before Renjiro even opened his mouth.
Renjiro swallowed his pride — and the last bit of hope he carried — and pulled out the small cloth pouch.
Inside were the final coins their mother had given them.
Meant for a fresh start.
For safety.
For Konoha.
He held it out with shaking hands.
The doctor snatched it, weighing it in his palm.
A slow, greedy smile crossed his face.
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He examined Miyo quickly, barely more than a glance — pulling her eyelids open, checking her fevered pulse.
When he finished, he wiped his hands on his robes, grimacing.
"She's sick," he said, as if they didn't already know.
"Probably pneumonia. Could survive. Could not."
Renjiro's heart twisted.
"Please," he said hoarsely. "Tell me what to do."
The doctor shrugged.
"Rest. Warmth. Food. Medicine. Luck."
He tossed a small bundle of wrapped herbs into Renjiro's hands.
"Mix that in water. Twice a day. Might help, might not."
And with that, he turned back inside, counting the coins one by one — not sparing them another glance.
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That night, Renjiro found shelter under an abandoned market stall.
The air was cold; the boards above them leaked.
He cradled Miyo in his lap, wrapping her as tightly as he could in their thin blanket.
He brewed the medicine with stolen rainwater, forcing it between her cracked lips.
Miyo whimpered, her small body shivering violently.
She tried to speak, voice a dry whisper.
"Renji...ro... it... hurts..."
"I know," he said, blinking back tears. "I know. It'll get better. I promise."
Another lie.
He was drowning in them now.
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The next morning, he begged.
He bowed in the muddy streets, scraping his knees raw.
He went from market to market, hands outstretched.
Some people ignored him.
Others jeered.
A merchant threw spoiled fruit at his feet and laughed when he lunged for it.
"You think anyone cares about brats like you?" the man said, spitting near him. "World's dying, boy. Learn to die with it."
Renjiro said nothing.
He just bowed again, swallowing his rage like broken glass.
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When he returned to Miyo, she was worse.
Her cheeks were sunken.
Her lips cracked and dry.
She opened her eyes sluggishly, smiling at him with heartbreaking trust.
"You're back," she breathed. "Did you... find Uncle?"
Renjiro froze.
"No," he whispered.
"Not yet."
She nodded, eyes slipping shut again.
Still believing.
Still hoping.
Even when there was no hope left.
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That night, Renjiro sat awake, watching her.
He thought about the villagers — fat merchants, sneering doctors, cold-eyed mothers.
People who turned their backs on two dying children without a second thought.
He thought about the Sand ninja, and the Leaf shinobi who hadn't come in time.
About the world that had forgotten them.
Was this the Will of Fire everyone spoke of?
Was this what shinobi fought to protect?
He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms.
If there was a god, it was a cruel one.
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Miyo stirred weakly in her sleep, mumbling nonsense — memories of home, of mother, of laughter.
Tears slipped down Renjiro's cheeks, unnoticed.
He pressed his forehead against her thin shoulder, making a silent promise he didn't know how to keep.
"I won't let you die," he whispered.
"I won't."
Even if the whole world turned against them.
Even if he had to burn it down himself.
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To be continued...
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