Act I: Attack on Kumo
Night was falling. The foxes’ chasing of hares and squirrels had traded places with parliaments of owls, echoing through the evening, calling for judgment until dawn made its return. The usually rainy microclimate of the western plateaus of Friopa was in full effect, the downpour well-cushioned by the rare copses of willow trees under which each squadron had taken refuge. Truth was, there weren’t many left: trees and squadrons. Conflict had come into a bit of a halt in No Man’s Land, where divisions of the Kumogakure and Kirigakure militias had square off for the umpteenth time in an equivalent number of years, some hundreds of kilometers off the shore of Friopa. The lack of civilization guarding the land’s riches - covered by lichen, permafrost, and defenseless aboriginals - had been incentive enough for daimyos to wage war as they had seen fit, disposing of shinobi of varying ranks and levels of seniority.
The 18th Kumogakure Platoon and its members knew how ephemeral this peace was. “Fleeting,” as Izumo described it. Both Kiri and Kumo shinobi had been transported to Friopa via ships who would not have them back unless positive news was to be brought back to the village. “Do or die, that’s the name of the game,” he repeated to his genin. Naturally, as an experienced joûnin with years of experience under his belt, he was familiar with the obligations of war. Sacrifice, mortality, the commodification of human livelihood under the pretense that, as shinobi, they were disposable. It was a reality he was willing to face, for the very premise of depending the mother country’s interests. “It’s my sixth time being deployed here. Every new mission feels grimmer than the past. Not for the lives I’ve taken, but for the destruction we’ve caused.”
“But, that’s what we do, right? If it’s orders, it has to be done.” His genin were trusting. Never anxious. Nightly exchanges like these were important. It had been four nights since they first stepped foot on that island. for some of them, it was a first at sea. “Hm. Right.” Izumo nodded in agreement, perhaps a bit too dismissively, as if it was a reflex rather than a well thought-out conclusion to this exchange. The lack of stimulants and nutrients also took on a toll on his body, despite the experience of having seen and fought in this biome in the past.
"SCATTER!"
Paper bombs. Typical. Low-budget weaponry for a low-budget operation; and they dared say you can’t price a life? It wasn’t quite an ambush, but they were clearly outnumbered by the Kiri ninja at that point in time. The bombs exploded and rustled a few leaves, but the genin had to be thankful for Izumo’s clairvoyance, for they had not expected this sort of attack during a peace-making based on code of honour. Foolish, really. Honour had no place in war, especially in a battlefield like this where the phrase “morally onerous humans” was an oxymoron of the highest order. The scene was set for another showdown.
“This is different,” Izumo muffled, under his breath. His genin had split off separately, and he found himself a few dozen meters away from them. Then, the paper bombs became the least of their worries. Bone flourished from under the permafrost, flurries of thick senbon were sent flying from what seemed like every direction but one. Izumo had jumped on a lone branch but even at his altitude, he was far from safe. A few hand seals later, cloaked in dark lightning, he set off to find the opponent. “I can feel five of them!” One of the genin shouted, the sensory one. Were they all Kaguyas? Whoever they were, they had to show their face eventually. “Oh! Over th-.“
“This won’t be necessary, son.” The tall, lean Kiri-nin pierced his heart ruthlessly, twisting her bone around the genin’s wounds with no signs of empathy or guilt making their way through her eyes. “Aoki!” the other genin screamed in agony, witnessing the ember in their comrade’s eyes die out, caught under the spell of the Kaguya’s kekkei genkai. Izumo was in no hurry to panic, and quickly rushed to face off the Kiri-nin who had just appeared before his eyes. Instants after bearing witness to the fight’s first casualty, he found himself in front of the foe shinobi, trading blows with extreme accuracy and yet, bearing more damage than his victim. The bone was immune to Raiton’s shocking property, despite his clear control over the disruptive properties of black lightning. The genin, in an attempt to provide support, knew to focus on their own fish.
They knew their weapons, and used them well. Between the medical-nin’s versatility and the other two’s advanced ninjutsu, they handled a severe defeat to the four ninja opposed to them. But they knew there was no winning this unless Izumo fulfilled his part of the bargain. Only, they had been dragged aside for too long. It wasn’t long before they found their way back to the initial conflict point, and bore witness to yet another casualty. As if the first one wasn’t sufficient. This one, though, was different. What they witnessed was a ritual, the likes of which they had never seen. The great Izumo was not simply killed, or disposed of. His body had been cut up, disassembled, and his head was held with pride by the Kiri-nin they had just seen. A monster with no compassion: not for his comrades, not for human life. I will spare some of the details.
And so they fleed, under the waterworks and cold, icicle-like rain. For one of them, this was the first of many, the beginning of a life of fleeing and running away. 8 years on, this young genin called himself fortunate enough to share these memories with his son, Kaoru.