The lone lamp in Masato's carpentry shed burned low, casting crooked shadows over sawdust-coated boards. Six men sat in a tight circle: Masato, still smelling of pine shavings; Koji, the white-bearded huntsman; Gendo, broad-shouldered tiller of fields; Shoji, a shepherd whose eyes never quite focused; Tatsuo, the woodcutter with bark still clinging to his sleeves; and Michio, the fletcher, fingers forever twitching as if pinching imaginary feathers.
Masato laid a hand flat on the scarred table. "The whole village is asking why the monster hasn't shown its snout in two weeks. If a Konoha clerk rides in tomorrow, what do we tell him?"
Koji's cane creaked as he shifted. "Same line we give our own, tracks lost in rain, beast likely wandered north. Keep it short and dull."
"These short answers won't satisfy bureaucrats," Tatsuo muttered, crossing his arms. "They'll want dates, distances, names of witnesses. And they'll count the men who fled that day."
A chill settled. Everyone in Kinsen knew at least three households had vanished overnight, packed carts rolling before dawn and their fields left with half-planted seeds.
Shoji's voice rasped. "Folks saw us drag Jiro back on a tarp. That image won't fade. They also know that no-one has been missing since and nothing's raided livestocks either. They're starting to wonder if there ever was a monster."
Gendo's fist closed around his mug. "They didn't see what we saw in that clearing. A monster so strong it defied logic and even worse were these masked shinobi stepping out of the mist, blades faster than we could think."
Michio's fingers drummed. "And we don't even know who these shinobi were. No clan crest, no village insignia. I've asked travelers, trappers, nothing. Either they're ghosts or someone wiped their trail clean."
Masato leaned forward, voice low. "The men who fled, if they start talking in the next town, we'll have Leaf officials on our doorstep faster than spring melts. We need one version, not six half-truths."
Tatsuo's boot heel thumped the floor. "Fine. We walked the prints north, lost them in fog. Jiro fell fighting. Monster vanished. End."
Shōji shook his head. "Villagers will ask why there are no blood trails, no new tracks. We could say heavy rain washed signs clean, but there hasn't been heavy rain."
Koji exhaled through his nose. "Then we add a detail, beast entered the river gorge. Water wipes prints, scent, everything. Done."
Gendo nodded once. "And the shinobi?"
"We don't mention them," Masato said. "Not until Leaf drags it from us, and even then we say they were strangers passing through."
Michio frowned. "Konoha will press. Shinobi don't just wander in masks. Some clerk will smell a lie."
"Let him." Masato's tone was flat. "It's not as if we could've done anything either way."
Koji's cane snapped down twice, the wooden echo filling every dusty corner of the shed. He leaned forward, white beard catching the lamplight, and let the silence stretch until every eye settled on him. "About Jiro," he began, voice low enough that the shadows seemed to lean in, "none of us can pretend his madness out there made the slightest sense. You know the man I'm talking about, the first to cool a temper, the last to gamble a life. I've hunted with him since the Hail Valley winter, remember that? When the river iced solid and he still wouldn't cross until he'd checked the thickness with an auger. Caution was sewn into his bones."
Koji's cane tapped again, softer this time. "Yet in that clearing he moved like something had snapped. No tremor in his hands, no stutter of fear, just a fixed glare, as if he'd spotted an enemy he'd rehearsed killing in his dreams. He shouted murderers at men he'd never met, bolted past our line, and flung himself at six blades. That wasn't panic, lads, panic makes you hesitate." A dry laugh scraped his throat. "I almost thought he meant to die. As if the sight of those masks unlocked a door inside him, and whatever came out wanted blood."
He swept the table with a hard gaze. "So the question stands: what did Jiro know that he carried to his grave, and why didn't he share it with any of us? Because until we can answer that, our tidy story is stitched with rotten thread."
The room held its breath, but Masato straightened, shoulders rigid beneath his work shirt. "We'll chase that riddle later," he said, voice weighing more than the words. "For now, we've another problem on the ledger: the villagers who fled and the questions Konoha's clerks will bring to our gate. Let's lock that down first."
Tatsuo's gaze flickered to the dim corners of the room. "So, monster gone, lost in the gorge. Jiro died a hunter's death. Stragglers who ran did so out of fear, not knowledge. That's our core."
Masato slid a notch stick across the table, drawing a thin line in sawdust. "We repeat it, word for word, at the meeting tomorrow."
Gendo rolled his shoulders. "And if a clerk shows next week?"
"Same story," Koji answered. "We walked the prints. Lost them. No beast since. Farm sleeps easier. End."
Shoji swallowed. "And if those shinobi return?"
Masato's eyes stayed cold. "Will figure something out. Until then, we shut our mouths and keep lanterns trimmed."
Tatsuo rose first, pushing in his stool with a dull scrape. The others followed, each collecting cloak or hat without haste, as though sudden movements might draw something unspoken from the rafters. Michio paused by the door, rubbing thumb and forefinger one last time before sliding into the night.
Masato doused the lamp, leaving only the faint gleam of coals in the stove. Outside, the lane lay empty, houses dark, no sign of monster, shinobi, or the truths they had just buried. He locked the shed and listened to the wind slide through the cedar tops, thin, cold, and utterly indifferent.
Behind him, sawdust settled over the table, soft as ash on a fresh grave.