Tomoya's POV – Updated
Peace, as I had learned over centuries, was rarely permanent.
The days following All Might's visit brought no calm. If anything, the quiet I had once cherished became fleeting, replaced by the constant shuffle of hurried footsteps and pained voices barely muffled by the walls of my clinic. The steady rhythm of suffering had become my new lullaby, punctuated by the ragged breathing of those who had nowhere else to turn.
More heroes came.
Some limped in, battered and bruised beneath blood-stained armor, pride barely keeping their shoulders from sagging. Others were carried—unconscious, broken, barely clinging to life. There was desperation in the way their comrades looked at me, like I was their final hope in a world where the usual systems had failed. Their eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and reverence, told stories their lips couldn't form. The smell of copper and sweat filled my sanctuary, a harsh reminder of the violence that existed beyond these walls.
I never turned them away.
My hands worked without pause, guided by a knowledge forged over lifetimes and sharpened in darker eras. Beside me, the homunculi moved as they always did—silent, efficient, flawless. Each nurse I had crafted with care, shaped not only with magic but with memory. Their hands moved like dancers in a ritual older than this world. They required no instruction—only need. I watched them sometimes, these extensions of my will, and remembered the centuries it took to perfect their creation—the failures, the triumphs, the quiet nights spent molding flesh that would never truly live.
And need was abundant.
Word had spread—of course it had. This world revered power, but feared the unknown. And what we were doing here... defied their understanding. Injuries deemed fatal were mended. Poisons unraveled. Spirits calmed. Wounds that should have claimed lives sealed beneath my fingertips, leaving only the faintest traces of what might have been. The whispers grew with each hero who walked out of my clinic when they should have been carried to their graves.
I had offered healing.
They called it miraculous.
But miracles invite attention.
At first, it was praise. Gratitude. Quiet visits from heroes who bowed lower than necessary, whose eyes brimmed not with reverence, but with hope. I accepted it. Let them believe what they needed to. As long as they walked out stronger than they arrived, I asked for no more. Some brought gifts—rare herbs, ancient texts, artifacts they believed might please me. I accepted them with grace, though few understood that what I truly valued couldn't be held in mortal hands.
Then came the Commission.
They did not arrive in force. No threats. Just words.
Polished and polite.
A woman came first—elegant, poised, practiced. She spoke of society, of service, of efficiency. Her voice was honeyed, but her eyes were sharp—measuring everything with the same precision I used in surgery. Her fingers, though appearing delicate, bore the subtle calluses of someone who had ordered deaths from behind a desk. I recognized her kind immediately—power draped in civility.
"Think of what more you could do with our backing," she had said, cradling a porcelain teacup as if it made her less dangerous. "Resources. Support. Safety. All we ask in return is partnership." The steam from her untouched tea curled between us like the coils of a serpent, ready to strike.
A beautiful lie.
I knew what lay beneath it. I had seen empires hide control beneath kind words before. I had watched kingdoms fall and rise, all using the same tactics, the same promises of protection that inevitably became chains.
"I thank you for your generosity," I said, voice calm. "But the clinic must remain a sanctuary. My purpose is not bound by affiliation or politics." I poured more tea, the gentle splash of liquid the only sound in the room as she processed my refusal.
Her smile faltered—just for a heartbeat. Then it returned, polished and empty. "Of course. But the world is shifting, Tomoya-san. Those who remain unaffiliated may find themselves… unprotected." The threat hung in the air between us, delicate as spider silk but just as binding.
A threat.
Thinly veiled. Elegantly wrapped. But unmistakable.
She left with pleasantries, but the pressure didn't.
It never does.
In the days that followed, offers became numbers. Large enough to tempt anyone who hadn't already lost everything. I declined each with equal courtesy, watching as confusion turned to frustration behind careful smiles. Then came inspectors—uninvited, but never without a badge. They walked the halls of my clinic with polite disapproval, eyes sharp as scalpels. They asked questions masked as concern. Took notes on clipboards. Photographed equipment they couldn't possibly understand. Not one of them left without glancing over their shoulder, as if expecting to catch me in some forbidden act the moment their backs turned.
This place—our sanctuary—was being circled.
They called it regulation.
I called it surveillance.
I could feel the tide shifting beneath my feet. The Commission did not like independence. They feared what they could not control. Each day brought new "concerns," new suggestions that felt increasingly like demands. I watched them catalog my every movement, my every tool, searching for the source of power they couldn't comprehend.
And I… I was beginning to wonder how far they would go.
How much I would need to show them—to remind them—that not all power was born in the public eye. That I had lived through governments long buried and watched civilizations fall from pride disguised as policy. That the blood in my veins carried memories of times when those who thought themselves mighty learned the cost of arrogance.
I had stayed silent for Raiden's sake.
I had buried my true nature beneath the gentle hands of a healer, kept the darkness at bay for my son. For his future. For the life I wanted him to build in this strange new world. But as I felt the noose of "oversight" tightening, I found myself remembering older skills—darker arts that had nothing to do with healing.
But if they came for this place again—if they reached beyond words and into threats—I would act.
Not as a healer.
But as what I once was. The demon who had survived centuries, who had walked through battlefields and emerged unscathed. The being who had seen empires rise and fall like the tide. And if necessary, I would show them why, even in my former world, the name Uchiha was whispered with fear.
Iroh POV: Updated
Peace is a strange thing.
In my younger days—when flame answered every call and duty sharpened every instinct—I thought peace was something you seized through force or earned through hardship. But I've since learned that peace is often quiet. Unremarkable. Sometimes, it smells like jasmine tea and rain-damp cedar, and if you're not careful, you might miss it altogether. Like the gentle exhale after holding your breath too long, peace comes not with fanfare but with the subtle release of tension you didn't know you carried.
My tea shop was nestled in the heart of the estate, sharing a wall with the clinic. From the outside, it looked unassuming—a single paper lantern swaying gently above a cedar-framed entrance—but inside, it was its own world. Tatami mats worn smooth by countless footsteps, low rosewood tables that reflected soft amber light, and the melodic rhythm of a bamboo fountain in the corner created a space where even the most hardened heroes exhaled without realizing they had been holding their breath. The walls, adorned with faded calligraphy and modest paintings of mountains, seemed to absorb the worries that visitors brought with them.
Some days, I thought of this place as my own kind of battlefield—not one of blades and fire, but of patience and healing. Of listening rather than striking. Of steeping rather than boiling. My weapons were porcelain teapots and carefully selected leaves, my strategy the precise timing of each brew. The victories here were quieter than those I'd known as a general, but somehow more meaningful—a smile replacing a grimace, a relaxed posture where tension once lived.
Heroes found their way here after their wounds had been stitched shut but before their minds had mended. They came in limping, guarded, their spirits raw and edges jagged. And yet, over time, they began to relax—shoulders dropping, tempers softening, voices steadying. I didn't need to ask their stories. Tea has a way of coaxing confessions better than any interrogation. The ritual itself—the pouring, the waiting, the first sip—often unlocked what words could not.
That particular afternoon, the rain tapped lightly against the paper windows—a rhythm I had always found oddly reassuring. The air was heavy with moisture and the sweet, earthy scent of wet soil from the garden. Steam rose from kettles and cups, creating a misty veil that softened the edges of the world within these walls.
A young hero sat alone at the back corner of the shop, his posture coiled tight like a wound spring. His left arm was in a sling, and his eyes—too sharp for someone so young—held the familiar storm of shame and frustration. His fingers drummed restlessly against the table, betraying the inner turmoil his stoic face tried to hide.
"Tea won't fix this," he muttered when I approached, his voice low, almost lost to the falling rain. The bitterness in his tone reminded me of unripe persimmons—sharp and unready.
I offered him a cup anyway, the porcelain warm against my palms.
"It may not mend the bones," I said, placing the tray down with quiet precision, "but it can help the spirit. And often, that's where the real wounds hide. The body knows how to heal itself, given time. The heart requires more careful attention."
He scoffed but took the cup. Jasmine and oolong—my own blend. The first sip drew a flicker of surprise from his otherwise steeled features. That was always the opening, the tiny crack in the armor where light could begin to enter.
"What is this?" he asked, glancing down as though the cup had betrayed his expectations. His frown softened almost imperceptibly.
"A blend that favors clarity over bitterness," I answered. "Picked and prepared with patience. The jasmine was harvested just before sunrise, when the flowers hold their sweetest essence. The oolong—well, its leaves know the weight of mist and silence. They've been partially oxidized, caught between transformation states, much like many who find themselves in this shop."
He didn't reply, but he took another sip. That was enough. The tea was doing its work, warming him from the inside, carrying its subtle message of comfort through his veins.
I let the silence stretch before sliding a well-worn Pai Sho board onto the table. The box creaked faintly as I opened it, revealing carved tiles worn by decades of thoughtful games. Each piece bore the gentle patina of countless hands, countless stories, countless lessons learned.
"A game?" he asked warily, eyeing the circular board with suspicion.
"A mirror," I said. "One that reflects more than it reveals. Would you like to try? Sometimes the hands need occupation while the mind sorts itself out."
He hesitated, studying the intricate patterns on the tiles. Then: "I don't know how to play."
"Then I'll teach you," I said, arranging the pieces with practiced hands. "The beauty of Pai Sho is that it's never truly about winning. It's about the journey of each piece across the board, and how they interact with others."
That was how it began.
The first few moves were awkward, hesitant. His good hand hovered uncertainly before placing each tile. But slowly, his expression changed. His fingers, though limited by the sling, moved with increasing confidence. His brow furrowed—not with pain, but focus. I recognized the look. A mind shifting, recalibrating, finding new patterns where before there was only confusion.
A few other patrons wandered over, drawn by the sound of tiles clicking softly into place and the low hum of quiet concentration. They gathered like moths to a gentle flame—not to spectate, but to share in it. Some asked to learn. Others simply sat nearby, nursing cups and watching the pieces fall. An older woman with a cane leaned in to observe, nodding appreciatively at a particularly clever move.
The young hero's gaze sharpened as he made a move that split the board in half—simple but clever. The white lotus tile gleamed in the lantern light as he placed it.
"It's not just about one piece," he murmured, almost to himself. "It's about seeing the whole. How everything connects."
I smiled, feeling the warmth that comes not from fire, but from witnessing understanding bloom. "Exactly. Each move, each tile, each breath—it's all part of something greater. You've begun to see beyond the injury. Beyond the limitation to the possibility."
He looked up at me then, and for the first time, I saw light behind the clouds in his eyes. The tension in his jaw had eased, his breathing deeper and more regular than when he'd entered.
In moments like this, I didn't feel like a warrior, or even a guardian. Just a man pouring tea, guiding lost souls with stories, games, and warmth. Not so different from what I hoped to do for Raiden—to show him paths beyond the obvious, strength beyond the physical.
The tea shop is not a battlefield, I reminded myself. But it is still a place where wars are won. Internal battles fought not with swords but with patience, understanding, and the gentle wisdom that comes from accepting both victory and defeat as teachers.
One cup at a time. One game at a time. One breath at a time.
Iroh POV: Updated
The weight she carried wasn't always visible. It didn't manifest in cries for help or collapsing shoulders. No—Tomoya bore her burdens the same way she healed others: with calm hands, quiet resolve, and a silence that spoke volumes.
But I saw it.
I saw it in the way her violet eyes lingered too long on the horizon, as if searching for something she'd left behind in another life. I saw it in the way her fingers trembled just slightly after stitching torn flesh, and how she clutched her tea for warmth even when the room wasn't cold. The faint shadows beneath her eyes told stories of sleepless nights spent perfecting medical techniques or worrying about Raiden's future. Sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, her expression would shift—revealing a momentary glimpse of the centuries of memories she carried.
Tomoya had never been one to ask for protection. That, perhaps, was what made it feel all the more necessary.
The clinic had become a sanctuary to some, a threat to others. Heroes came with battered bodies and fraying spirits. They arrived at all hours—some limping through the front door, others carried in unconscious, their wounds testament to the dangers they faced. Tomoya received them all with the same gentle efficiency, her hands glowing with healing chakra as she mended what was broken. But where there is healing, there are always those who want to control it. The Hero Commission had grown... restless. They spoke in honeyed tones, but their gaze was hungry. Their representatives visited more frequently now, asking pointed questions about our methods, our resources, our patients.
And so I watched. And I waited.
Our ANBU homunculi moved like shadows cut from moonlight. Conceived by Tomoya's hand and trained under my eye, they were more than tools—they were protectors in the truest sense. Each one carefully crafted with chakra pathways that mimicked those of the finest shinobi I had known in my previous life. Elemental mastery flowed through their veins—water users who could pull moisture from the very air, fire specialists whose flames burned hot enough to melt steel. Chakra manipulation that allowed them to walk on walls, disguise themselves as ordinary objects, or vanish entirely from sight. Stealth that rivaled the most skilled assassins I had seen in my previous life.
On most days, they patrolled unseen—fox masks flickering through the darkened halls, their black armor catching glimmers of candlelight as they passed. The soft whisper of their ninjato blades shifting against their backs was often the only indication they were there at all. But even they could feel the shift in the air that night.
It started subtly—too subtly for an amateur to notice. A stillness in the wind. A note of tension in the silence. The birds in the garden had gone quiet too early, the insects fallen suddenly mute. My tea had just finished steeping, jasmine swirling in lazy spirals in the pot, when I felt it: that soft, barely perceptible tremor of intent brushing the edge of my senses. A disturbance in the chakra field surrounding our compound.
A whisper before the scream.
From the balcony, I saw the intruders breach the outer ward—a coordinated strike, sharp and efficient. They moved in pairs, communicating with hand signals that reminded me of military operations I'd seen in another lifetime. Tactical movement. Silent communication. Well-trained. Professionals. Their black tactical gear absorbed what little moonlight fell upon them, making them appear as moving voids in the night. And yet, they had no idea what they'd walked into.
The ANBU engaged immediately. No shouted orders, no chaos. Just movement—flawless, rehearsed, and deadly.
The fox captain led the charge, flickering through moonlit shadows like smoke. His porcelain mask gleamed briefly as he signaled to the others, fingers forming seals faster than most eyes could follow. At his signal, the cat-masked fire-bender launched into motion, her chakra igniting with a roar that was all precision and no waste. Flames curled around her fingers as she carved a corridor of heat between the enemies, her movements a deadly dance of Katon mastery. The fire didn't spread wildly—it obeyed her, flowing like water where she directed it, herding the intruders exactly where we wanted them.
She didn't need to defeat them—only shepherd them.
And the trap was waiting.
The moment the last mercenary stepped into position, the owl-masked earth-bender struck. A single stomp, his foot connecting with the ground in a precise application of Doton chakra. The ground rippled outward like a pond disturbed, and from it rose jagged stone arms that clamped around the intruders' legs and torsos, dragging them down into place with terrifying control. The earth itself seemed to swallow them to the waist, holding them fast despite their struggles.
Steel rang faintly in the distance—a flash of a blade in the dark. The hawk-mask moved unseen, pressure points struck with uncanny accuracy. His fingers glowed faintly blue with concentrated chakra as he disabled nervous systems and blocking their chie points. The mercenaries didn't even have time to scream. One by one, they slumped forward in their earthen prisons, consciousness fleeing them like startled birds.
It was over before the tea cooled.
I made my way to the courtyard, the sharp scent of scorched earth still clinging to the air. The grass was singed in perfect patterns—evidence of controlled Katon jutsu rather than wild flames. Twelve bodies lay bound—none dead, but all thoroughly defeated. Their gear was high-grade—thermal optics, sonic dampeners, anti-personnel charges. Military-issue communications devices were still crackling softly with static, voices on the other end growing increasingly concerned at the silence.
They hadn't come to scout. They'd come to extract. Or eliminate.
A dog-masked ANBU knelt before me, his posture crisp with practiced formality. The moonlight caught the red markings on his white mask—stylized fangs and whisker marks that somehow made the porcelain seem alive.
"The perimeter is secure, Lord Iroh. No contact with the mistress or the young master. Twelve intruders, all contained. We've disabled their communications and detected no secondary teams in the vicinity."
I nodded slowly, my gaze sweeping the fallen. "Good work. Strip them of their gear and wipe their memories. Hand them off to local authorities—but be subtle. Let the Commission believe they failed because they underestimated our security, not because we saw them coming." I picked up one of their communication devices, examining its construction. "And analyze their equipment. I want to know who supplied them."
The ANBU inclined his head, then vanished, his exit marked by nothing more than a faint displacement in the air. Even after all these years, their skill impressed me. The way they channeled chakra through their bodies to enhance their natural abilities, combining the shinobi arts I remembered with the unique powers Tomoya had woven into their creation.
But tonight... it also troubled me.
I walked the quiet halls with measured steps, each footfall echoing off polished wood and shoji screens. The compound was returning to its peaceful state, though now the ANBU patrols had doubled, their vigilance heightened. Outside, the moon watched from above—silent and impassive. Tomoya and Raiden were safe, unaware of how close danger had come. Raiden's room was nearest to mine, his sleeping form barely visible in the darkness, the steady rise and fall of his chest a reassurance I needed tonight.
But safety was never permanent. Not in a world like this.
I paused at Tomoya's door, placing my hand gently against the frame. I could feel her aura—calm, even in sleep. The unique signature of her chakra, tinged with that otherworldly quality that marked her demonic nature, yet somehow still radiating a healer's warmth. Raiden's was beside hers, small yet ancient, pulsing with a kind of promise that hadn't yet been named. The power of both Uchiha and Senju bloodlines lay dormant within him, waiting for the right moment to bloom.
Tomorrow, I would brew her the tea she liked—the blend with dried plum and chrysanthemum. I would serve it in the blue porcelain cups she favored, the ones with hand-painted cranes circling the rim. She wouldn't ask about the night's events, but she'd know. She always knew. The subtle changes in my demeanor, the increased ANBU presence—she missed nothing.
The Hero Commission would be back. That much was certain. Their hunger for power, for control over those with abilities, was insatiable. Next time they might send more men, better equipped, better informed.
But so would we.
And we would be ready. I had faced armies in my past life. Tomoya had survived centuries of hunters. Between us, we had knowledge and power few could match. And we had something worth protecting—something that made all our burdens lighter to bear.
I took one last look at the moon before returning to my chambers. The night was still young, and there was much to prepare.
Tomoya POV: Updated
The attacks had become a rhythm.
Not an unpredictable storm, but a pattern—measured, relentless, invasive. Like waves crashing upon a stubborn shore, testing the defenses we'd built with quiet desperation. They came cloaked in darkness and steel, some professional, others desperate, but none of them truly prepared for what awaited inside our estate. Each incursion more calculated than the last, probing for weaknesses in our sanctuary with increasing sophistication.
The homunculi met each one with eerie grace.
There was something haunting in the way they moved—neither joy in victory nor cruelty in execution. Just silence and precision. As if they were instruments, not warriors. Tools without malice. Blades that never hesitated. Their porcelain faces remained impassive as they dispatched intruders, their movements fluid like water yet unyielding as mountain stone. The fine craftsmanship of their forms—my craftsmanship—betrayed nothing of the complex array of seals and enchantments that powered them from within.
And though I had crafted them with that very purpose in mind, I found myself recoiling from the cold efficiency of their actions more often than I cared to admit. Sometimes I wondered what that said about me—the creator disturbed by her own creation. But such was the paradox of motherhood, I supposed. To build protections that one hopes never need be used.
Still, they kept us safe.
Kept him safe.
I sat in the eastern chamber that evening, the paper doors drawn just enough to let the moonlight spill in—silver ribbons tracing faint lines across the polished tatami floor. The scent of night-blooming jasmine drifted through the narrow opening, mingling with the lingering aroma of the herbal tea I'd prepared hours earlier. Raiden stirred in my arms, his small form pressed close to my chest, his warmth a fragile miracle I still hadn't fully come to believe. Even after these months, each breath he took seemed impossible—a gift I had no right to receive after centuries of blood and shadows.
The faint rustle of his breath should have soothed me. But even in his sleep, I could feel it—that quiet unrest beneath his skin. A tension not born of fear but of awareness. The slight furrow of his brow, the minute twitching of his fingers against my silk sleeve—subtle signs that most would miss, but to a mother's eyes, they spoke volumes.
He knew.
Perhaps not in the way adults did, with logic or reason. But something ancient lingered in my child, something that stirred when danger crept near. His tiny fists clenched in the folds of my kimono, and as I looked down, I saw it again—a glow.
Barely perceptible. A faint azure shimmer along his skin, soft and pulsing like moonlight rippling over still water. It traced the contours of his cheeks, illuminated the delicate veins in his eyelids, and pooled in the hollow of his throat where his pulse quickened.
My throat tightened, not in fear, but in reverence.
Power. Not wild or volatile, but waiting. Watching. The dormant legacy of bloodlines that should never have converged—Uchiha, Senju, Uzumaki—all flowing through his tiny frame, a confluence of potential that both terrified and awed me.
I pressed my lips to his temple and whispered the only thing I could.
"Hush now, little one. I'm here."
The lullaby came without thought—notes carried by memory, not will. It was a song I hadn't sung in centuries, a melody from a different life. A time before gods and monsters. Before I learned the art of mending others while silently unraveling myself. The words were in an ancient dialect, nearly forgotten even to scholars, yet they flowed from my lips as naturally as breathing—a song of mountains that cradle valleys, of rivers that remember the sea.
"You are safe," I murmured between lines of the forgotten tune, letting the warmth of the words wrap around us both like silk. "And I shall not allow harm to reach you. The night may gather its shadows, but they cannot touch you here." My fingers traced protective symbols against his back, old habits from times when I believed in simpler magics.
Raiden's breathing slowed, his glow receding into his skin until only moonlight remained. But before his lashes settled fully, his eyes opened just a fraction.
Those eyes.
Still new to the world, and yet… ancient.
As if the universe had left fingerprints in their depths. As if he understood, even now, the weight of the blood that ran through his veins. The blood I had sealed, guarded, and cursed myself for passing on. Eyes that would one day manifest powers beyond mortal comprehension—Sharingan, perhaps even the Rinnegan—legacies that had brought both glory and devastation wherever they appeared.
But there was no fear in his gaze.
Only acceptance.
The kind that belonged to warriors standing on battlefields. The kind I hadn't expected to see until he was grown. A calm recognition of what was to come, without judgment or resistance. It was the look of someone who had faced death before and found it familiar rather than frightening.
The moment passed.
He sighed, the softest sound in the quiet chamber, and drifted back into slumber. Peaceful. Trusting. His small body relaxed completely against mine, surrendering to dreams that I hoped were kinder than the reality that awaited him.
I held him close, letting the stillness return.
But I couldn't deny what I'd seen.
The world outside was growing darker. The Hero Commission's hands grew more desperate by the day. The balance between shadow and sanctuary was shifting. Raiden might not yet speak, but the forces that watched him had already begun to whisper. They sensed what I knew—that within this child lay power enough to reshape nations, to challenge gods, to rewrite the very order of our world.
And so I sat there, unmoving, while the moon slid higher into the night. My fingers brushed back his fine hair, my hum quieted into breath, and I waited—not in fear, but in resolve. My own demonic power simmered just beneath my skin, ready to be unleashed should any threat breach our final defenses.
Because I had lived too long and lost too much to let them take him.
Not now. Not ever. I would tear apart reality itself before I would let any harm come to this child—my son, my redemption, my reason for continuing this endless existence. The world had no idea what it was provoking by hunting the heir to such legacies. But they would learn, should they persist. They would learn what it meant to face a mother who had already died once and found it did not stop her.
Iroh POV: Updated
Persistence, when stripped of wisdom, becomes little more than obstinance.
That thought lingered in my mind as I stood beneath the shaded eaves of our estate, watching the two Commission agents fumble their way up the stone path like couriers delivering ill-conceived declarations to a battlefield they barely understood. Their uniforms were crisp, their expressions composed, but neither could fully mask the unease that clung to them like ill-fitting armor. Bureaucrats, after all, were not made for direct confrontation—they were crafted for boardrooms and paper wars, not for looking a former general in the eye and delivering thinly veiled threats.
They came with parchment and protocol, not steel—but the intent was no less pointed. The sunlight caught on their polished badges, sending sharp reflections dancing across the garden stones. A pair of sparrows scattered from a nearby cherry tree, their sudden flight mirroring my own internal wariness.
Tamayo had been too kind, too patient. Even after the failed assaults, after the late-night raids thinly veiled as inspections, after the whispered accusations that followed her through the marketplace, she still believed in reason. The gentle healer in her sought compromise where I saw only encroachment. I, however, had lived long enough—had commanded armies and buried a son—to recognize a different truth: when diplomacy is met with greed, one must learn to speak in a language the other party respects. The language of immovable certainty.
Still, civility costs nothing. My nephew Raiden had once asked why I bothered with pleasantries toward those who meant us harm. "A cup offered in peace," I had told him, "may be filled with tea or poison—but the offering itself reveals much about the giver."
"Gentlemen," I greeted as they arrived at the threshold of our estate, inclining my head in a bow that was both courteous and exactingly measured—deep enough to show respect, shallow enough to remind them that we were equals at best. "To what do we owe the pleasure on such a fine afternoon?"
Their eyes flicked between the homunculi that flanked the gate—unmoving sentinels in ornate masks with eyes that followed without blinking—and me, the man they clearly expected to be more ornamental than obstructive. An old man serving tea, not the Dragon of the West who had once brought kingdoms to their knees.
"We come on behalf of the Hero Public Safety Commission," the taller one began, his voice carefully modulated, polished with the confidence of someone used to others yielding. His partner clutched a leather portfolio so tightly his knuckles had gone white, betraying the rehearsed nature of their visit.
I reached for the iron teapot that had been warming over the small brazier beside me and poured tea into three cups with practiced precision, letting the steam rise between us like incense between old adversaries. The amber liquid caught the light, reminding me of sunset over battlefields long past.
"Then please, sit," I said calmly, gesturing to the small table in the garden's corner, where sunlight filtered through blooming plum branches and cicadas hummed the summer's slow dirge. "Tea cools quickly if not appreciated, much like opportunities for cordial discussion."
They didn't sit. Of course they didn't. Men with missions rarely pause to savor anything, least of all the moment before conflict.
The demands came, as I had expected—wrapped in citations and obscure medical bylaws, cloaked beneath concern for "public welfare." The words were sharp, but brittle. Like cracked porcelain pretending to be steel. Their voices grew more insistent as they spoke of regulations and compliance, of oversight and authority.
"Your sister-in-law is practicing unsanctioned medicine using undocumented techniques. We have reason to believe she poses a liability to the integrity of the hero system." The shorter one finally found his voice, though it wavered slightly when my gaze met his directly.
"Ah," I replied softly, cupping my tea between weathered palms that had once commanded fire itself. The warmth seeped into old joints that remembered too many winters. "So truth is now a liability. How fascinating that healing has become threatening simply because it cannot be controlled."
They faltered for the briefest moment. The taller one cleared his throat, a man suddenly unsure of solid ground.
"Our credentials," I continued, setting a thick folder on the table with quiet finality, the leather binding making a satisfying thump against the wood, "have been verified by no less than eight institutions, each notarized and cross-referenced with international hero and medical organizations. If you'd taken the liberty of checking your own records more thoroughly, you'd find our certifications are not only legal, but remarkably ahead of standard." I smiled, the expression reaching my eyes but carrying centuries of resolve behind it.
A pause.
A long one, filled only with the gentle percussion of bamboo water features and distant birdsong.
The younger of the two finally reached for the folder, thumbing through it with increasing agitation. Stamp after stamp. Signature after signature. Date after impeccable date. Impeccably forged? Perhaps. Miraculously prepared? Certainly. But real, nonetheless. Because the goddess plays a long game, and we were only now walking the path she had mapped ages ago—a path I had agreed to follow when I accepted this second chance at protecting a family.
"I suggest," I said gently, refilling my own cup with methodical grace, "that you report back to your superiors with this message: we are not a threat unless provoked. But if pushed, we are well within our rights to push back—with the full weight of law and legacy behind us." I gestured to the folder with my free hand. "And with allies in places your Commission may find... inconvenient to challenge."
I let the weight of that linger—not as a threat, but as a certainty. As immutable as stone. As inevitable as the tide. As ancient as the wisdom that had guided kingdoms long before bureaucracy had learned to crawl.
They left not long after, postures stiff with suppressed irritation. The taller one mumbled something about "further investigation," but I knew the game had turned. Their legal maneuver was their last gambit. A desperate one, born of fear rather than strategy. Fear of what they couldn't understand or control—Tamayo's healing, Raiden's potential, my own quiet influence.
As their silhouettes disappeared beyond the garden wall, I took a sip of my now-cooled tea and let out a slow breath that carried decades of battles fought and wisdom earned.
It tasted of iron and jasmine—resilience and patience, steeped together. The complex flavor of a life lived long enough to understand that true power rarely announces itself.
And though I felt no joy in besting them, I felt peace.
Because protecting Tamayo and Raiden was not a duty I performed out of obligation.
It was purpose.
And some purposes are worth facing entire systems for.
Even if it means reminding those who govern that not all power bows to titles.
Some power comes from tea, stillness… and the quiet certainty that you are exactly where you are meant to be, standing guard over those the Great Spirit herself has placed in your care.
Raiden POV: Updated
Even before I understood the shape of danger, I could feel it.
It lingered in the spaces between footfalls and silence. In the strained cadence of my mother's voice when she thought I couldn't hear. In the subtle way Uncle Iroh's hand would hover near the teapot a beat longer than necessary, as if grounding himself before speaking, his weathered fingers trembling almost imperceptibly. The world outside our walls may have been blurred and distant to me, but the unease that lived within them—within us—was sharp and unrelenting, a constant companion that shadowed every moment of peace we tried to create.
I was still small. Still learning how to hold a spoon without spilling, my chubby fingers awkwardly gripping the utensil as rice scattered across the low table. But fear does not care for age. It seeps through cracks in conversation, hides in the corners of quiet rooms, curls like smoke beneath your door. It finds you regardless of your understanding, wrapping cold fingers around even the most innocent hearts.
And every night, it came closer, creeping up the walls of our refuge like vines that threatened to choke what little security we had managed to build.
The homunculi were silent as ever—shadows with masks for faces and movement like falling leaves—but I knew their presence was not meant to comfort. Their blank porcelain features reflected nothing as they patrolled our perimeter, emotionless guardians that served as constant reminders of what lurked beyond. Each clash in the distance, each cry cut short before it could echo, reminded me that our peace was guarded, not granted. The sound of steel meeting steel would sometimes wake me, distant but distinct, followed by my mother's soft footsteps as she checked my room. And even in my bed, beneath layers of warmth, I could feel that truth press in on me like the weight of the moon, vast and inescapable.
One night, after my mother's voice dipped into something too hushed to ignore—her whispered conversation with Iroh carrying urgency that made my stomach tighten—after Iroh's usually steady cadence turned brittle, cracking around words like "perimeter" and "reinforcements"—I fell into sleep the way one falls into cold water: suddenly, completely, and not entirely by choice. My consciousness slipped away even as I fought to hear more, to understand what dangers were closing in around us.
The dream did not feel like a dream. It carried a weight and clarity that my childish mind recognized as something more.
I stood beneath a silver sky, where stars drifted lazily like lanterns on a windless lake, pulsing with a light that seemed alive and aware. The grass reached my knees and whispered against my skin, as if passing along a secret too old for words, each blade leaving cool trails against my bare legs. The air tasted of something ancient and sweet, like honey mixed with mountain snow. And then, she came—silent and bright, a shape made of moonlight and stillness, materializing between one heartbeat and the next.
The white fox.
She did not need to announce herself. She was not a creature to be introduced—she was remembered, as if my soul had always known her and was only now recalling the details. Her nine tails fanned behind her, each one seemingly woven from starlight and shadow, moving with a hypnotic rhythm that made time itself seem to slow.
Her eyes, golden and deep as still ponds, locked with mine. There was no judgment in them. Only recognition, as if she had been waiting for me across centuries, patient and certain.
"You are strong, little one," her voice rang inside me, not spoken but felt—like a bell struck in the center of my chest, resonating through every fiber of my being. "But strength alone is a storm without a compass. Listen to those who walk beside you. They carry the light for the roads you have not yet seen. Your mother's wisdom and your uncle's heart will guide you through shadows you cannot yet name."
I reached for her without hesitation. My fingers trembled, not with fear, but with something else—reverence, a bone-deep knowing that I stood before something divine and eternal. As my hand brushed her fur, it was like touching dawn. Warmth spiraled up my arm and spread through my chest. All the heaviness I had carried—uncertainty, worry, the strange guilt of being protected while others fought—melted away, replaced by something simpler, purer.
Belonging. Purpose. The first seedlings of destiny taking root.
The fox leaned into my touch, eyes never leaving mine, and I felt something ancient bloom inside me—like a door unlocking, like roots reaching down into something vast and unseen. A connection to power that had always been there, dormant, waiting for this moment of recognition.
And then I woke.
Morning light filtered through the paper shutters, soft and gold, painting warm rectangles across my blanket. The air was still, but not heavy. The usual tension had dissipated, replaced by a strange calm that seemed to emanate from within me. And for the first time in many mornings, I felt no dread clawing at the edges of my thoughts. My fingers, once clenched in my sleep, were relaxed, open as if still reaching for that otherworldly fur.
Mother noticed immediately. She tilted her head, observing me over a cup of tea as if trying to pinpoint what had changed, her perceptive eyes scanning my face with the careful attention she always gave to things of importance.
"You're quiet this morning," she said gently, brushing a lock of hair from my eyes, her touch lingering with maternal concern. "Peaceful. Did you sleep well?"
I only nodded. There were no words I could give her that would make sense. Not yet. How could I explain that I had touched divinity? That something ancient had reached across the veil to find me? The language for such things was beyond my childish grasp.
But deep within, I understood what had happened. The dream had not been a dream. The fox was not a symbol. She was a guardian. A whisper from something older than fear and stronger than fate. A connection to powers that flowed through my bloodline, dormant but awakening.
And while I didn't yet know the shape of my future, I knew this: I would not face it alone. The fox's presence lingered like a promise, a tether to mysteries I would someday unravel. For now, I would watch, and learn, and grow—storing away the lessons of those who protected me until the day came when I could stand beside them, no longer a child to be sheltered but a force to be reckoned with.