Fifteen minutes, one very angry boar, and several close calls later, we were dragging our prize back to camp. I had a dirtied elbow, and Tsume sported a new tear in her pants, but we were both pumped with the satisfaction of a successful hunt.
"You didn't completely suck back there," Tsume said, which from her was practically a marriage proposal.
"High praise." I adjusted my grip on the boar's hind legs. "You weren't terrible yourself."
"Kuromaru did most of the work." The puppy trotted ahead of us, occasionally looking back as if making sure we were still following with his trophy.
"He's going to be a monster when he grows up," I said. "In the best way."
That earned me a genuine smile. "Yes, he is."
The camp came into view, still divided but now with more people moving around. Word of fresh meat travels fast.
"Shinji, you're back," Mikoto smiled as we approached the perimeter. Her eyes widened at the sight of our haul. "Wow. You weren't kidding about hunting."
I let the boar drop with a satisfying thud. "Tell the good people dinner will be served in about two hours."
The news spread quickly. Whatever their feelings about continuing the journey, nobody was turning down fresh meat after days of travel rations. Several villagers drifted over, eyeing our catch with undisguised hunger.
"Need any help with that?" One of the older women—the same one who'd appreciated my knowledge of forest plants earlier—stepped forward.
"Actually, yes." I began laying out our haul. "Anyone here know how to clean a boar?"
Two of the loggers volunteered immediately. The older woman and her friend offered to help with the vegetables. Even some of the turn-back faction wandered over, curious despite themselves.
"I need a good fire going," I said to Mikoto. "Think you can manage that, even with all this wet wood?"
She smirked. "Please. Who do you think you're talking to? Just tell me where you want it."
We set up under the largest tarp, where the ground was relatively dry. The loggers expertly butchered the boar while I organized the rest of our ingredients. The old woman—Kaori, she told me—turned out to be quite skilled with a knife and dicing wild onions.
"My mother taught me to cook," she said, watching me sort through our foraged plants. "She always said a good meal can solve most of life's troubles."
"Smart woman."
"She would have liked you." Kaori's eyes crinkled. "Always had a soft spot for boys who knew their way around a kitchen."
People continued to gather, drawn by activity and purpose as much as the promise of food. I sent some to collect water, others to find more firewood that Mikoto could dry with her carefully controlled fire jutsu. The camp that had been divided an hour earlier was suddenly working together toward a common goal.
"What are you making?" A younger woman asked, peering into the makeshift pot we'd rigged over Mikoto's fire.
"Wild game stew with forest vegetables." I added the last of the herbs I'd collected. "Nothing fancy, but it'll beat the hell out of those ration packs."
"Can I help?" She looked about twenty, with callused hands that spoke of farm work.
"Absolutely. I need someone to stir while I start on these rabbits."
More villagers drifted over as delicious smells began wafting through the camp. I kept everyone busy—stirring, chopping, fetching water. The simple act of preparing food together broke down barriers that hours of debate couldn't touch.
Tsume came back from the stream, her sleeves damp and Kuromaru trotting at her heels. The puppy made a beeline for the fire, settling just close enough to be noticed, his eyes wide and pitiful in a calculated display of hunger.
"Don't even think about it," I warned him. "You'll get your share when it's ready."
He whined dramatically, causing several villagers to laugh.
"He's milking it," Tsume grumbled, but there was fondness in her voice. "Manipulative little furball."
"Smart, though," I said, handing her a bowl to stir. "He's playing the long game."
Little by little, even the most guarded villagers relaxed. Smiles started to replace furrowed brows. The sound of quiet conversation and the occasional burst of laughter filled the air, blending with the crackle of the fire.
By the time night settled in, the camp was wrapped in the rich scent of stew, roasted rabbit, and wild herbs. We handed out food using whatever people could spare—wooden bowls, chipped mugs, even a few helmets that the loggers had scrubbed clean. No one minded. The aroma alone had them hovering with wide eyes and grumbling stomachs.
The first bites triggered a silence that only truly good food could create—the kind that swept through the crowd as everyone paused, too busy chewing to speak.
"Holy—" one of the loggers started, then caught himself with a sheepish grin. "This is incredible."
That broke the dam. Compliments started flowing, loud and unfiltered, as bowls were emptied and people went back for seconds. I kept my head down, pretending not to notice as members from both sides began sitting closer together, passing ladles and offering seconds like old neighbors.
Mikoto stepped up beside me, carrying two steaming bowls. "You should eat too, chef."
"Thanks." I took one, the warmth seeping into my fingers. Only then did I realize how empty my stomach was. The smell had been teasing me for over an hour.
"Where's Tsume?" I asked between bites.
"Over there." Mikoto tilted her head toward the edge of the firelight. Tsume was crouched beside a small group of farmers, Kuromaru happily munching on his own bowl of hand-picked scraps.
"She's actually talking to people," Mikoto added, sounding faintly amazed. "Like, voluntarily."
I smiled as I watched her gesture with her chopsticks, laughing at something one of the farmers said. Kuromaru sneezed and shoved his snout back into his bowl.
"Good for her," I murmured.
We found a relatively dry patch near the edge of the firelight and sat down, bowls in hand. I took another bite, savoring the rich, earthy flavor. Even with limited ingredients, the stew had come out better than I expected.
I let out a quiet sigh. "Nothing brings people together like a looming crisis and a hot meal."
"And It's working." Mikoto said, "They've almost forgotten they were ready to mutiny a few hours ago."
"Amazing what a decent meal can do, huh?"
"It's not just the food," she said, voice softer now. "It's you."
I blinked. "Me?"
"The way you got everyone involved. Gave them something to do besides worry." She studied me with thoughtful eyes. "You're good with people when you want to be."
"Don't go spreading rumors about me. I have a reputation to uphold."
She laughed, almost spilling her stew. "Your secret's safe with me."
Movement caught my eye as Tsunade finally emerged from the medical tent. She looked exhausted but made her way toward the cooking area, where Kaori immediately handed her a bowl.
"She's been working nonstop," Mikoto observed. "Not only with the chunin but also with some of the villagers who caught chills from the rain."
"Medic's work is never done," I agreed.
Tsunade spotted us and walked over, settling down with her bowl. "He woke up," she said without preamble. "Briefly."
"Our mystery patient has a name yet?" I asked.
She nodded. "Sato. Chunin from the eastern patrol unit. He managed to fill in a few details before passing out again."
"And?"
"It's as bad as I feared. River shinobi launched a coordinated attack on their patrol. Four dead, Sato barely escaped." She took a bite of stew, eyes closing briefly. "This is really good, by the way."
"Thanks. So what does this mean for us?"
"It means we maintain our current course, but with increased vigilance." Her expression was grim. "Sato was lucid enough to confirm they weren't just random attackers. They were targeting border patrols specifically."
"Testing our defenses," Mikoto suggested.
Or trying to spark a retaliation, I thought.
Tsunade didn't argue. Instead, she looked at both of us and said, "Eat while you can. We'll need the energy tomorrow."
We ate in a comfortable, if subdued silence. Around us, the camp had shifted. People were still chatting, still eating together. The rain had stopped at last, and faint stars now peeked through cracks in the cloud cover.
The air felt lighter somehow—like the worst had passed, or maybe just been put on hold.
For the first time that day, hope didn't feel so far away.
"Good call on the hunting trip," Tsunade said quietly. "This was exactly what they needed."
I shrugged. "Food fixes most problems."
"Temporarily, at least."
"That's the thing about temporary solutions," I said, watching as a farmer shared a flask with one of the loggers who'd been arguing fiercely against him hours earlier. "Sometimes they give you enough breathing room to find permanent ones."
Tsunade studied me over her bowl. "Sometimes I wonder what goes on in that head of yours."
"Mostly thoughts about food and naps."
"Somehow I doubt that." There was a knowing look in her eyes that made me slightly uncomfortable. Before she could continue, Kaori approached with a fresh bowl.
"For the doctor," the woman said, offering the bundle to Tsunade. "Our thanks for tending to the wounded and the sick. That fever remedy you made for old Koji worked like a charm."
Tsunade accepted it with a nod, her voice softening. "Thank you. But I'm just doing what needs to be done."
"As are we all." The older woman looked around at the now-unified camp. "But some people do their jobs in ways that remind the rest of us we're still human, even when everything feels like it's falling apart."
Her eyes lingered on me for a moment before she turned and walked back to the others.
"High praise," Tsunade murmured.
"She's just full and grateful for real food."
"Maybe," she said, taking a bite of her portion. "But what you did tonight... it helped more than you think."
"Because I can cook?"
She gave me a look. "Because you know how to bring people together. You saw what the camp needed and gave it to them. That matters."
She motioned toward the campfire.
I followed her gaze, watching as former opponents in the turn-back debate now passed a flask between them, laughing at some shared joke. Men and women who had been frightened and sullen hours ago were now helping serve the last of the stew, proud to be contributing.
"It's just dinner," I said quietly.
But we both knew it wasn't. It was something stronger than a strategy meeting or an inspiring speech. A reminder that under the uniforms and arguments, we were still people. Still a village, even out here in the wilds. And sometimes, a good meal was all it took to bring that back.
As the camp eased into the soft rhythm of after-dinner conversation, I leaned back against a tree, full and warm, letting the firelight and fading tension wash over me. My thoughts had already started drifting toward tomorrow—what decisions would need to be made, what dangers might come next. But for now, this brief calm felt like a victory all its own.
Mikoto had dozed off nearby, her empty bowl still clutched in her hands. Tsume was explaining something about ninken care to a circle of attentive listeners, looking more relaxed than I'd ever seen her. And Tsunade sat a short distance away, quietly watching the fire. Every so often, her gaze flicked to the medical tent where our wounded ally still rested. She didn't say a word, but the way she held her bowl—forgotten in her lap—said enough.
I tilted my head back and looked up. The last of the clouds were slipping away, revealing a clear night sky freckled with stars.
We'll be okay, I thought. At least until breakfast.
…
Something wet and slimy dragged across my face, which was either a bad dream or a really aggressive kiss.
"Ugh—what the hell?"
I cracked one eye open to find Kuromaru staring down at me with pure ninken enthusiasm, tail wagging and tongue ready for Round 2. His breath smelled like leftover boar stew and crimes against hygiene.
"Bro. Boundaries," I mumbled, weakly pushing his snout away.
"Your watch," Tsume's voice called out from somewhere above my misery.
I squinted up. She was crouched nearby, arms draped over her knees, smirking like she'd just caught me drooling in class. Which, to be fair, she technically had.
"You let him do that instead of just tapping me?" I asked.
She shrugged. "He was closer."
"Remind me to put chili powder on my face next time."
I rubbed my eyes, trying to convince my body that yes, it was time to move. Except... my left arm wasn't moving. Or, more accurately, it was moving, but only because something warm and soft was using it as a pillow.
I turned my head and froze.
Mikoto. Sleeping. Face turned toward mine. Her breath slow, lashes fluttering slightly. She had that unfair Uchiha peaceful-sleeping-face thing going on, the kind that makes it very hard to focus on escaping without feeling like a cartoon villain.
'Of course. Of course it's her.'
I gently, gently slid my arm out from under her, bracing myself for the instant snap-awake reflex I'd seen her pull in every spar. But no—she shifted slightly, curled up, and stayed asleep. Huh. Progress?
I pulled off my jacket and tucked it over her like I'd totally planned that from the start. Casual. Thoughtful. Not at all sentimental. Definitely not admiring the way her hair had fallen across her cheek like that.
"Smooth," Tsume muttered, clearly watching the whole thing.
"Shut up," I muttered back, standing up and rolling my shoulder like it hadn't just hosted a princess nap.
The sky was that weird pre-dawn blue, right before the birds start their daily insult chorus. Mist clung low to the ground, turning the camp into a quiet watercolor. Everything was damp. The tents, the grass, even my mood.
I reached up and untied my forehead protector (Hitae-ate), the metal plate cold and a little grimy from yesterday's hunting. My forehead had that itchy, indent-mark feeling like I'd slept with a book on my face. I tied it around my left elbow instead—felt less like a badge and more like a choice there.
Then I grabbed a bucket near the medical tent, poured some cold water over my face, and immediately regretted all my life choices. The cold slapped me awake harder than Kushina on a bad hair day.
Kuromaru trotted after me as I started doing a slow lap of the camp perimeter. His paws made squishy little sounds in the mud, like wet sponges having a conversation.
Most of the camp was still asleep. I passed a few villagers curled under tarps, huddled close for warmth. Someone had improvised a windbreak out of broken carts and old cloaks. It wasn't pretty, but it worked.
The air smelled clean after the rain, like wet bark and turned earth. Peaceful, if you didn't count the vague paranoia crawling at the back of my neck. One of those "everything's too quiet" feelings. Shinobi sixth sense or just sleep deprivation? Who's to say?
I passed the dying embers of the main firepit, kicked some damp wood back into place, and let out a slow breath.
This was the part they didn't show in the Academy scrolls. The long, quiet stretches between chaos. No enemy to punch. No mission to shout about. Just cold toes and heavy thoughts and the sound of your ninken yawning like a miniature bear.
My thoughts drifted to Sato—the chunin in the tent. He'd looked bad when they brought him in, but Tsunade worked fast, and last night he'd actually stirred. Color was returning to his face. Maybe not ready to sprint a lap yet, but improving. Breathing steady. No fever. It was the kind of progress that gave people hope—especially the kind sleeping just a few feet away from him.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" I said aloud, mostly to myself.
Kuromaru whined.
"Yeah. Me neither."
I spotted Tsume settling into the spot I'd just left, curling up like a big jungle cat with zero shame. She looked over her shoulder and yawned.
"Wake me if something actually happens," she said.
"Sure. I'll just scream loud enough to wake the dead."
She gave me a lazy thumbs up and immediately passed out. Like, immediately. Must be nice.
I made my way toward the far end of the camp, where the trees closed in tighter and the morning mist clung thickest. The kind of place you'd expect a horror movie jump scare, or at least a squirrel with an attitude problem.
Instead, it was just quiet. Wet leaves. The distant drip of water from branches. A squirrel did look at me, though. Total jerk.
I climbed up on a low boulder for a better view. From here, I could see the full sprawl of our ragtag refugee setup. Tents in various stages of collapse. Cookpots left soaking in buckets. People curled up in clusters like puppies.
I wandered past the medical tent but didn't stop. The soft flicker of lantern light spilled through the canvas, quiet and steady. I kept moving, eyes scanning the dark edges of the camp, hoping to spot Tsunade. But she was nowhere to be seen. Not sitting by the tent. Not near the fire pit. Not leaning against a tree with that perpetual 'I'm watching all of you' look on her face. She was a jonin, after all—one of the best. If she didn't want to be found, she wouldn't be.
Made sense. She'd probably slipped away before dawn to scout or check the surrounding terrain. Or maybe she just needed to be alone with her thoughts. Either way, I wasn't about to go snooping around for her. If Tsunade wanted to talk, she'd find me. Probably by smacking me upside the head.
I walked back along the ridge, this time slower, letting the dampness seep into my sandals. My hair hung in wet, soft strands, clinging to my face. I looked like a washed-out idol from one of those brooding boy bands everyone pretends not to like.
Eventually, I looped back toward the fire pit and sat down near the embers, tucking my knees in.
A new day was creeping in.
Behind me, someone groaned. Mikoto, maybe. Or Tsume. Or some poor farmer waking up with a hangover and regrets.
"Just five more minutes," I muttered, speaking for everyone.
Kuromaru curled up beside me, warm and twitchy.
I let the mist roll over us like a second blanket and closed my eyes for just a moment. Just one.
Not to nap.
To think.
And maybe plan what the hell we were going to do next.
Because I had a feeling the morning wasn't going to stay quiet for long.
…
I was in the middle of having a deep, philosophical moment with Kuromaru—something about mud and the impermanence of clean socks—when a hand clapped down on my shoulder.
I flinched.
Hard.
Reflex kicked in, and I was halfway through grabbing a kunai before my brain caught up with my body.
Tsunade.
"Easy," she said, like she hadn't just activated every survival instinct I had.
"You know, normal people announce themselves with words," I muttered, sliding the kunai back into my pouch. "Not surprise shoulder grabs at five in the morning."
"Where's the fun in that?" she said, eyes faintly amused.
She didn't wait for a response—just tilted her head toward her tent and walked off, her blond hair swishing behind her like it had places to be.
Kuromaru glanced up at me, then immediately rolled over and went back to sleep. Real supportive, that one.
I followed.
Inside the tent, it was quiet. Smelled like antiseptic, damp canvas, and something faintly herbal. A dim lantern glowed on the table, casting just enough light to make the place feel like a secret meeting room instead of a cramped medical workspace.
Tsunade didn't sit. Just stood near the center, arms crossed, looking at me like I was the only item on her to-do list she actually cared about today.
"I changed my mind," she said.
"About what?"
"About waiting to teach you."
I blinked. "You mean medical ninjutsu?"
She nodded. "With the way this mission is escalating, we don't know how long we'll even be in the field. If you're as good at chakra control as I think you are, there's no point in waiting."
I rubbed the back of my neck. "Not that I'm complaining, but isn't this the part where you dramatically reveal some secret scroll or toss me a cryptic test first?"
"Nope," she said, stepping closer with that calm, no-nonsense look she wore when she was about to drill something into someone's head until it stuck. "This is the part where I make you focus."
'Great. Nothing gets me going like a woman saying she's about to make me focus.'
She faced me, her tone shifting to teacher-mode. "We're starting with the basics. Finger focus," she said. "This isn't just a warm-up. It's the foundation. When you can control your chakra down to the smallest point and keep it steady—no flicker, no drift—that's when we can talk about actual healing."
She tapped her own index finger. "Think of it like filling a cup. Too much and it overflows. Too little and it's useless. You're aiming for a thread. Thin, steady, and absolutely controlled. Hold it steady. No leakage. No fluctuations. Nothing more than a slow, perfect stream."
I raised a brow. "That's it?"
"That's everything," she said, suddenly serious. "You can't heal anything if your chakra output is shaky. Even the tiniest misalignment can make a wound worse. You don't get second chances when someone's bleeding out in front of you."
That quiet weight behind her words hit me harder than I expected.
I nodded.
Held out my hand, fingers loose, focus tightening toward my index tip.
"Start slow," she instructed. "Push chakra down your arm, just to the fingertip. Don't force it—let it collect there."
I nodded, channeling chakra as instructed. It was shaky at first, uneven.
"Now stabilize," she said. "You want a stream, not a pulse. Picture it like a thread unspooling, not a burst."
I tried. Dialed it back. Too much. Pulled back again.
"Good. Don't rush it. Keep your breathing steady. Match the pace of your chakra to that."
Focused—first by imagining the chakra like a thin thread. Then trying to feel the tension, dialing it back every time it surged or dipped. watching everything.
"Don't clench your fingers," she added. "Stay loose. It's control, not pressure."
I adjusted. It wasn't instant. Took a few more corrections. But once I stopped overthinking it and let my chakra settle, it clicked.
It shimmered like a blue flame around my finger, flickering when it should've been still—but getting closer. Almost there.
Tsunade watched with the blank expression of a poker champion.
"Try again," she said.
And I did.
For the next five minutes, the world narrowed to one fingertip and one goal: perfect stability. And honestly? It was easier than I expected. Holding it steady came naturally—like my chakra had just been waiting for a challenge that actually mattered. My finger barely wobbled by the end.
The shimmer steadied.
Tsunade stepped closer and inspected the output.
"Not bad," she said. "You've got good control. But that's only the first step."
"I figured," I muttered, dropping my arm and casually rolling my wrist.
She nodded toward the cot behind her. "Sit."
I obeyed, confused but obedient. That always bodes well.
Then she sat beside me, turned toward me, and extended her hand. "Now we train chakra resonance."
"I knew this was a trap."
She ignored me. "Healing someone requires aligning your chakra with theirs. Feeling their system, reading their flow. You can't brute-force it. You have to listen."
I hesitated. "So… handholding?"
"Would you rather I punch you?"
"…Handholding sounds lovely."
I took her hand, and it was warm. Steady. The grip of someone who's held lives together with nothing but willpower and guts.
"Close your eyes," she said. "Match your chakra to mine. Don't force it. Just feel. Adjust. Respond."
I exhaled, slow and quiet.
Then I reached out—not with my hand, but with my chakra.
It was like tuning into a frequency I didn't know existed. Her chakra was smooth and powerful, like an underground current—deep and controlled, but alive. Mine brushed against it, then bounced off, like a kid running into a locked door.
"Too fast," she murmured. "You're pushing. Don't push. Follow."
I tried again.
Slower this time. Less pressure, more awareness. I let my chakra drift, then shift, adjusting little by little until—
There.
It clicked.
Our chakra patterns touched, aligned, then hummed in sync like two strings vibrating at the same pitch. My entire arm tingled from the contact.
I opened my eyes.
Tsunade was watching me—not stern, not amused, just... curious. And maybe a little impressed.
"You felt it," she said, not a question.
I nodded, voice low. "Yeah."
"That's resonance. That's step two. When you can do it instantly, with anyone, then we move on to real healing."
I looked down at our joined hands, then back up at her.
"You do this with all your students, or am I just special?"
She smirked. "You're not that special."
She stood up and let go of my hand.
"Lesson's over for now. Go walk it off before you get cocky."
I stood too, stretching my back. "So we doing this again tomorrow?"
"No," she said. Then paused. "We're doing it again in four hours."
'Yay,' I thought, dead inside.
But weirdly… I was looking forward to it.
...