Warmth returned to Yuuto in reluctant stages. First his fingers, then his palms, then the deeper ache in his joints that had settled in during the long trek through the mountains. He sat at the tavern counter with his shoulders slightly hunched, elbows resting against wood worn smooth by years of use. His puppet armor made him stand out like a sore thumb to say the least, their stares wouldn't stop him now. Furthermore they were lucky he left the makeshift puppet sled outside.
The heat inside the establishment was uneven, pockets of warmth pushing back against the cold that pressed stubbornly through stone and timber, but it was enough. Enough to still the shaking. Enough to remind him that he had not frozen to death in the white nothingness outside.
The cup in his hand was chipped and unremarkable. The drink burned going down, cheap and strong, the kind meant more for warmth than taste. He welcomed the sting.
For a time, Yuuto simply listened. The crackle of firewood behind him. The low murmur of conversation scattered throughout the room. Near the door, boots thudded against the floor as snow was knocked loose, leaving wet prints that slowly darkened the planks.
Life persisted here. Frayed. Weathered. But alive.
“Where’s Kirigakure?”
The question drew a pause from the barkeep. He looked up slowly, brow creasing.
“Kiriga… what?”
“The Hidden Mist,” Yuuto clarified, voice even.
The barkeep glanced toward a few nearby patrons before looking back at him. “You’re not from around here, are you?” He shook his head. “This is Tsukigakure. Moon Country. Mist’s a long way from here.”
A short laugh came from further down the bar. A bundled patron leaned back slightly, eyeing Yuuto’s light clothing and travel-worn state.
“Snow’ll scramble your head,” the man said with a grin. “Frostbit too, by the look of you. Lucky you even made it inside dressed like that.”
Yuuto did not respond. His gaze lingered on the cup for a moment longer than necessary.
“What year is it?”
The barkeep stilled mid-motion, cloth paused against the counter.
“…You serious?”
“Answer the question.”
The year was spoken plainly, without ceremony. A simple fact, delivered without thought.
It struck Yuuto all the same.
Sound dulled around him, the tavern’s noise sinking into a distant, hollow murmur. The crackle of the fire stretched thin. The number echoed once, then again, before dissolving into meaningless noise. Too many years. More than expected. More than he could reconcile.
His fingers tightened around the cup.
“You alright?” the barkeep asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
Yuuto nodded once, slow and deliberate. He lifted the cup and drank deeply, letting the burn drag him back into the present. The tavern returned piece by piece. Voices. Motion. Heat.
Time moved forward again.
Drink followed drink. Yuuto consumed them with measured restraint, never rushed, never careless. His expression remained closed off, eyes heavy-lidded, emotions kept carefully beneath the surface. Frustration simmered quietly, coiled and contained.
His thoughts circled despite himself.
“I suppose I wouldn’t reach out either,” he murmured under his breath. “Not if the summoner who got us injured came calling after all these years.”
The cup hovered briefly near his lips.
Something softer followed the bitterness. Not anger. Not regret. A subdued sadness settled in his chest, dull and resigned. He exhaled through his nose and finished the drink, pushing the feeling back down where it could not interfere.
The tavern door burst open.
Wind and snow tore inside as several figures stumbled through, bundled in heavy cloaks and furs now stiff with frost. The door slammed shut behind them, drawing sharp complaints as cold air rushed across the room. Breath steamed as they peeled away layers, hands trembling as they reached for the fire.
“This isn’t right,” one of them said, shaking his head. “Not this time of year.”
“We get snow,” another added, rubbing his arms. “But not like this. Not storms that come out of nowhere.”
“And not things moving in it,” a third muttered. “Saw something up on the mountain. Big. Didn’t stick around to see what it was.”
Yuuto’s attention sharpened, though he did not turn fully.
The barkeep let out a tired sigh as he poured more drinks. “Damn it,” he muttered. “Another one?”
“Another one?” Yuuto asked, finally turning toward him.
The barkeep leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Locals have been whispering about it. Man-eating beast, they say. Comes down from the mountains when the storms roll in. Doesn’t help that this weather’s wrong. Real wrong.”
Yuuto glanced toward the door, listening to the wind howl beyond it.
“If there were truth to that,” he said calmly, “shinobi would’ve dealt with it.”
The barkeep gave him a long look, then gestured around the tavern. The worn tables. The patched walls. The exhausted faces nursing cheap drinks.
“Shinobi don’t chase rumors,” he replied. “And they don’t work for free.”
Yuuto huffed quietly and lifted his cup again.
“Right,” he said. “Money. The great equalizer.”
He drained the cup as the storm continued to rage outside. Somewhere beyond the tavern walls, high in the mountains where the weather should not have been so cruel, something moved through the snow.
And Yuuto, warmed and grounded once more, sat quietly deciding whether he could afford to ignore it.
The heat inside the establishment was uneven, pockets of warmth pushing back against the cold that pressed stubbornly through stone and timber, but it was enough. Enough to still the shaking. Enough to remind him that he had not frozen to death in the white nothingness outside.
The cup in his hand was chipped and unremarkable. The drink burned going down, cheap and strong, the kind meant more for warmth than taste. He welcomed the sting.
For a time, Yuuto simply listened. The crackle of firewood behind him. The low murmur of conversation scattered throughout the room. Near the door, boots thudded against the floor as snow was knocked loose, leaving wet prints that slowly darkened the planks.
Life persisted here. Frayed. Weathered. But alive.
“Where’s Kirigakure?”
The question drew a pause from the barkeep. He looked up slowly, brow creasing.
“Kiriga… what?”
“The Hidden Mist,” Yuuto clarified, voice even.
The barkeep glanced toward a few nearby patrons before looking back at him. “You’re not from around here, are you?” He shook his head. “This is Tsukigakure. Moon Country. Mist’s a long way from here.”
A short laugh came from further down the bar. A bundled patron leaned back slightly, eyeing Yuuto’s light clothing and travel-worn state.
“Snow’ll scramble your head,” the man said with a grin. “Frostbit too, by the look of you. Lucky you even made it inside dressed like that.”
Yuuto did not respond. His gaze lingered on the cup for a moment longer than necessary.
“What year is it?”
The barkeep stilled mid-motion, cloth paused against the counter.
“…You serious?”
“Answer the question.”
The year was spoken plainly, without ceremony. A simple fact, delivered without thought.
It struck Yuuto all the same.
Sound dulled around him, the tavern’s noise sinking into a distant, hollow murmur. The crackle of the fire stretched thin. The number echoed once, then again, before dissolving into meaningless noise. Too many years. More than expected. More than he could reconcile.
His fingers tightened around the cup.
“You alright?” the barkeep asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
Yuuto nodded once, slow and deliberate. He lifted the cup and drank deeply, letting the burn drag him back into the present. The tavern returned piece by piece. Voices. Motion. Heat.
Time moved forward again.
Drink followed drink. Yuuto consumed them with measured restraint, never rushed, never careless. His expression remained closed off, eyes heavy-lidded, emotions kept carefully beneath the surface. Frustration simmered quietly, coiled and contained.
His thoughts circled despite himself.
“I suppose I wouldn’t reach out either,” he murmured under his breath. “Not if the summoner who got us injured came calling after all these years.”
The cup hovered briefly near his lips.
Something softer followed the bitterness. Not anger. Not regret. A subdued sadness settled in his chest, dull and resigned. He exhaled through his nose and finished the drink, pushing the feeling back down where it could not interfere.
The tavern door burst open.
Wind and snow tore inside as several figures stumbled through, bundled in heavy cloaks and furs now stiff with frost. The door slammed shut behind them, drawing sharp complaints as cold air rushed across the room. Breath steamed as they peeled away layers, hands trembling as they reached for the fire.
“This isn’t right,” one of them said, shaking his head. “Not this time of year.”
“We get snow,” another added, rubbing his arms. “But not like this. Not storms that come out of nowhere.”
“And not things moving in it,” a third muttered. “Saw something up on the mountain. Big. Didn’t stick around to see what it was.”
Yuuto’s attention sharpened, though he did not turn fully.
The barkeep let out a tired sigh as he poured more drinks. “Damn it,” he muttered. “Another one?”
“Another one?” Yuuto asked, finally turning toward him.
The barkeep leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Locals have been whispering about it. Man-eating beast, they say. Comes down from the mountains when the storms roll in. Doesn’t help that this weather’s wrong. Real wrong.”
Yuuto glanced toward the door, listening to the wind howl beyond it.
“If there were truth to that,” he said calmly, “shinobi would’ve dealt with it.”
The barkeep gave him a long look, then gestured around the tavern. The worn tables. The patched walls. The exhausted faces nursing cheap drinks.
“Shinobi don’t chase rumors,” he replied. “And they don’t work for free.”
Yuuto huffed quietly and lifted his cup again.
“Right,” he said. “Money. The great equalizer.”
He drained the cup as the storm continued to rage outside. Somewhere beyond the tavern walls, high in the mountains where the weather should not have been so cruel, something moved through the snow.
And Yuuto, warmed and grounded once more, sat quietly deciding whether he could afford to ignore it.
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