A newly bought Polaroid camera sat quietly on the table.
Logan took a deep breath and summoned his Stand.
"Hermit Purple!"
Purple vines burst forth from his arm, wrapping around it tightly. With a decisive motion, Logan slammed his palm down on the camera. A golden ripple flickered as the Polaroid was crushed beneath his hand.
And yet, despite the destruction, the broken camera still ejected a piece of photo paper, slowly developing in the dim light.
Logan picked it up and gently shook the sheet. Bit by bit, a face came into focus.
A face he recognized.
Amber, the bear-like man.
Tall and broad-shouldered with a piercing gaze, Amber had once stood before Logan and thanked him on behalf of the survivors. He had led more than 160 people to build Hope Village from scratch.
But the man in this photo was almost unrecognizable. One of his eyes was missing, and his entire body was covered in wounds wrapped in dirty bandages. He was hunched over, carrying a barrel larger than himself. His expression twisted in pain as he struggled with the weight.
Logan narrowed his eyes.
"Star Platinum."
His Stand shifted forms. With one hand, Star Platinum held the photo, and with the other, it picked up a pen from the table. In perfect silence, it began sketching the details invisible to the naked eye—refining the photo into something clearer.
Soon, Logan spotted something small but critical.
A thumb-sized metal plate embedded in the wooden barrel. Etched into it were the words: "Matsumoto Wine Industry."
Matsumoto Winery?
Why would Amber be working at a winery? From the photo alone, he looked like he needed rest far more than labor.
Logan shared the image with the others in the room. Instantly, a shared conclusion formed in their minds:
After the massacre at Hope Village, the survivors had been captured and sold into forced labor at the winery.
No one needed to say it aloud. The truth was too heavy to ignore.
They split up immediately and went into the city to investigate.
Logan expected the search to take time, but to his surprise, he found Amber that very evening.
The Matsumoto Winery was a local business, not hard to locate. Logan spotted Amber in the workers' dining area, sitting among a group of porters and laborers, chewing quietly on his food.
While the others around him had trays full of rice, fish, and even eggs, Amber's plate held only a single cracked corn cob.
Despite the meager meal, he ate with focus and discipline.
When Amber looked up and saw Logan, he froze.
His remaining eye went wide. Then, almost instantly, it filled with tears.
He rose to his feet, staggering slightly. He started to kneel, but hesitated, remembering that Logan disliked people bowing to him. So instead, he bowed deeply and said, voice trembling,
"M-My Lord, I…"
He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. So much had happened, and there was too much to explain at once.
Logan gently patted his shoulder, sending a warm ripple through Amber's body. Wounds closed, pain faded.
"No rush," Logan said calmly. "Take your time."
Xiao Tao stepped forward and handed Amber an orange. "Uncle, eat this."
Amber accepted the orange and nodded gratefully.
As he peeled the fruit, he slowly began to recount what had happened.
Much of it confirmed Logan's suspicions.
The massacre at Hope Village had been unplanned.
But what Logan hadn't anticipated was this:
> "The killer wasn't a ninja… or not entirely. He seemed like a madman, muttering nonsense to himself. He could transform into monsters… terrifying ones. He destroyed everything like he was venting—like he couldn't stop himself."
Amber paused, his voice tight.
> "I tried to stop him. I charged him head-on… but I was no match. He knocked me out cold. When I woke up, the entire village was drenched in blood. The survivors… we were down to less than fifty people. Most were badly injured."
Fearing the madman might return, Amber gathered the wounded and led them to the nearest town. Using what little savings the village had, he rented a small warehouse and bought basic medicine.
But it wasn't enough.
To support the others, Amber and a few able-bodied survivors started working wherever they could—manual labor, odd jobs—just to afford doctors and food.
"…Some gave up," he admitted, lowering his voice. "They couldn't take it. The pain, the loss… they left quietly in the night."
Logan nodded slowly.
It wasn't hard to understand. After enduring trauma upon trauma, many people lose the will to care for others. Survival alone becomes a struggle. That was human nature.
Which made people like Amber—those who stayed, who endured—all the more precious.
"How many of you are left?" Logan asked.
"Thirty-four," Amber said. "Including me. Only five of us are healthy enough to work. The rest are still recovering in the warehouse."
Logan looked up.
From over 160 survivors… to just thirty-four.
He stared at the clear blue sky, the sun shining down with warmth that didn't reach his skin. The world felt colder than ever. An endless machine grinding up the weak—chewing them alive beneath the rhythm of sun and moon.
Five men supporting twenty-nine wounded.
No wonder Amber was eating only corn.
He was saving every cent to care for the others.
Logan's voice hardened. "Do you have any more information about that madman?"
Amber thought for a moment.
"I'm… not very educated. But the authorities said it better than I ever could. There's a wanted poster from the Fire Nation. It describes him perfectly."
Logan's expression darkened.
The attacker was a repeat offender.
Apparently, he had started in the northern regions of the Fire Country and slaughtered six villages before Hope Village. The government had issued a bounty and sent alerts to Konoha and surrounding towns.
"There should be ninja investigating already," Amber added.
"Take us to the poster," Logan said.
"Right away!"
Amber led the group out of the winery. On the way, they passed a foreman who glanced at Logan and his companions with suspicion.
"Who are these people?" the foreman asked.
Amber hesitated. He wasn't sure what to call Logan.
But before he could speak, Logan said plainly, "We're his friends."
"Friends? That's great to hear. You've no idea how hard Amber works. He's injured, but still out here every day. I was starting to worry he might collapse on the job."
The foreman walked off, shaking his head.
Amber lowered his gaze. "I'm sorry, Master Logan…"
"Why are you apologizing?"
"I don't know… maybe because I feel ashamed. You're strong, noble… and I'm just…"
Logan cut him off.
"Don't ever say that again."
He stepped closer, eyes firm.
"Listen to me. Anyone who eats cracked corn and hauls barrels just to pay for medicine for people he doesn't even owe anything to—that man is worth more than a hundred nobles."
Amber was stunned into silence.
Logan gave him a light pat on the back. "Now let's go."
As Logan turned away, Amber stared after him, his vision blurring. His heart swelled with warmth. A fire had ignited in his chest—one he hadn't felt in a long time.
He clenched his fists and followed.
They reached the main commercial street of the city.
The wanted poster was nailed to a board surrounded by crowds. Logan stepped forward without hesitation, brushing past the staring civilians. He reached for the poster.
Just as his fingers brushed it—
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
A rough, deep voice echoed from behind.
Logan paused and slowly turned.
A man was standing a few steps away. He had long, wild white hair, red lines running from his eyes to his chin, and a forehead protector etched with the kanji for "oil." He wore a large red cloak and wooden sandals. His presence exuded strength and something more—an aura of experience, of wisdom wrapped in mischief.
"Who are you?" Logan asked.
The man grinned.
"I've gone by many names," he said. "But most people who know me… call me the Toad Sage."
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