The fog came down like a curtain.
It swallowed trunks, softened edges, and turned sound into a dull, wet hush. Ren's breath steadied. The Sharingan's single tomoe spun, carving lines through the haze that normal eyes couldn't see. Footfalls. Wind shifts. The slow roll of a shoulder before a strike.
In the story I remember, this man dies on a bridge. Not here. Not now. And not mine.
Zabuza's voice slid through the mist, low and amused. "Rule one in my mist: if you hear me, you're already dead."
Steel whispered. Ren pivoted.
The Kubikiribōchō cleaved past his cheek and sheared a pine branch clean. Sap misted the air. The weight of the swing hummed through his bones; he stepped in—too close for a blade that big—kunai flashing up to bite Zabuza's wrist.
Metal rang. Zabuza rolled his forearm, let the cleaver's spine catch Ren's kunai, then shoved. Power rolled through Ren like a wave. He rode it back two steps, not fighting the tide. His feet slid. His eyes never left Zabuza's silhouette.
"Not bad," Zabuza grunted. "You don't panic."
"Not yet," Ren said.
"Keep it that way."
Fog thickened again. Zabuza sank into it like a stone slipping under water.
Off to the side, Gojo leaned against a tree the mist pretended not to touch. "Good footwork, Boss. Ten out of ten for not getting cut in half."
Ren tuned him out. Listening for the wrong sound got you killed.
A breath—right. A heel scraping bark—above—
He stepped forward, then left, then down. The cleaver sang where his head had been and smacked the ground, chewing dirt. Zabuza leaned on the embedded blade to lever back; Ren used the heartbeat before the pull—cursed energy wrapped his fist like a bandage and he drove a short hook into the ribs.
Solid. Ugly. Real.
Zabuza's grunt was more impressed than hurt. "You punch like you mean it."
"I do."
"Good."
The blade tore free with a snarl. Fog closed the wound in the air.
They circled, not by sight but by intent. Zabuza's killing intent pressed like a tide; Ren kept his mind tight around the present. No ghosts. No clan. No grand plan. Just the next angle. The next breath.
"So the Sharingan survived," Zabuza mused, closer now. "Thought the Leaf ground those eyes into dust."
"You're looking at proof they didn't."
"I am," Zabuza said, and the mist moved—behind, fast, no feint.
Tomoe flicked; the body followed. Kunai up, forearm braced with chakra, cursed energy buzzing along bone. The cleaver hit his guard, slid, kissed his shoulder hard enough to numb it. Ren shoved off, rolled under the return cut, and kicked Zabuza's shin. Not to hurt—just to break timing.
A second shadow rushed him—water-slick, knife bright.
Water clone.
Ren snapped a wire with his thumb and dragged it at ankle height. It sang. The clone clipped it, stumbled, and Ren's kunai split it into a collapsing splash.
"Traps," Zabuza said from the left. "Cute."
"Efficient."
"Annoying," Zabuza corrected—and the cleaver arrived again.
They traded in short, vicious bursts. Ren never met the full blade head-on twice in a row. He turned, redirected, stole angles, punished overcommit with jabs that sparked cursed energy. Every minute of Gojo's reinforcement drills paid dividends: wrists that didn't crack, shins that didn't splinter, ribs that flexed under glancing blows that would have folded another child.
He wasn't winning.
He wasn't losing.
That was enough.
A hiss—the knife, not the cleaver. Close. Bandages. Teeth. Ren slid aside, let the stab pass, trapped the wrist with his off hand, dumped cursed energy into the grip, twisted. Zabuza rolled—professional, brutal—and slashed one-handed.
Ren dropped. Steel cut air where his skull had been, and for a breath he stared up at a sword made to end stories. His palm lifted on reflex.
Chains flickered.
Not iron, not light, not fully real. But there—pale bands of will snapping from Ren's hand, wrapping the cleaver's spine and Zabuza's wrist for a heartbeat.
The blade stalled.
Zabuza's eyes widened over the bandages. "What—"
The chains shattered like sugar glass—gone as quick as they came.
Gojo's laugh cut the quiet. "Oho. Boss, showing your party trick already?"
Ren didn't answer. He used the stutter-step he'd bought—slid inside Zabuza's reach, drove a heel into the thigh. Not elegant. A statement.
Zabuza's gaze warmed with interest. "Interesting."
Fog drew in tight. "Water Style: Water Prison."
The lake wind answered. Moisture coalesced on Ren's skin, thin and cold, thickening fast—hungry to be a sphere. He snapped his arm back, spiked cursed energy, ruined its shape for a beat, and yanked free before it remembered.
"Slippery," Zabuza said.
"Annoying," Ren shot back.
"Now you sound like me."
Water hissed. The ground darkened. Somewhere beyond the fog, the sea leaned closer, listening.
"Water Style: Water Dragon—"
"Save the lake dragon for the bridge," Gojo called lazily. "You'll ruin the scenery."
Zabuza's chuckle rumbled. "What is he?"
"The Strongest," Ren said dryly.
"Hn."
No dragon. Instead: mean and personal. Blades in the dark, pressure from angles Ren didn't like, silence used like a garrote. Twice Zabuza vanished completely. Twice the tomoe caught wrongness—a crease in pressure where there should be none—and Ren slipped the throat-cut waiting for him.
"Your eyes," Zabuza murmured. "One tomoe, and you still read me. Dangerous."
"Efficient," Ren said again.
"You love that word."
"It keeps you alive."
A heavy breath—not fatigue; enjoyment. "I missed this."
The cleaver crashed down, shaking damp earth. Ren met it—not with brute force but layered timing. Chakra braced. Cursed energy laced his forearms. He stepped into the cut, stole its arc, nudged the edge with kunai, slipped his head to the safe side as Zabuza's elbow locked for a fraction.
"Black Flash," Gojo murmured like a prayer he wasn't sure Ren could hear yet.
The moment arrived—mind, body, cursed energy, intention aligning like stars. Ren's fist moved before thought. Cursed energy detonated at the exact instant of impact.
The world snapped.
Zabuza slid back two steps, boots digging furrows, breath leaving him in a bark of honest surprise. Bandages hid his mouth, but shock kindled in his eyes.
Ren's knuckles burned. He kept his shoulders square and his voice level. "That answer your question?"
Zabuza flexed his ribs as if counting. Then laughed—pleased, not cruel. "Finally," he said. "A bite."
The fog eased, as if the clearing itself exhaled.
"You're not Konoha," Zabuza went on. "Too clean with your cuts. Not ANBU. Too… human." He tipped his head toward Gojo's lazy silhouette. "He's a monster. You're not him. You're something else."
"Good," Ren said. "I don't want to be him."
"Smart." Zabuza spun the cleaver, slid back into stance. "Again."
They went again.
Less testing. More joy. The Demon of the Mist liked fights that spoke back. Ren obliged. He used every inch of clearing he'd mapped in the first minute: a slick root here, a shallow dip that forced a stance wide there, a low branch he could duck under that Zabuza had to angle around. He tossed a shuriken high-right so it would ping a stone three beats later and steal an eye for half a breath—then attacked low-left with a cursed-energy kick that made Zabuza's ankle snarl.
"Trickster," Zabuza approved.
"Tactician," Ren corrected.
"Same thing, said nice."
The cleaver's tip nicked Ren's sleeve and drew a hot line across his bicep. Blood slicked skin. He ignored it, ate pain the way Gojo taught: note it, bank it, spend it later.
Zabuza nodded at the blood. "You don't flinch."
"Neither do you."
"That's why this is fun, brat."
The fog thinned for a heartbeat. Enough. An opening—small, ugly, real. Zabuza's weight a touch too far forward on a narrow patch. Not a mistake for him—recoverable. But a window.
Ren raised his hand, palm out. He didn't blast cursed energy; he drew it like a line.
Chains flared—clearer, brighter, angrier.
Two latched the cleaver's spine. A third kissed Zabuza's wrist. Too weak to bind a demon. Strong enough to hitch a heartbeat—to whisper mine to a weapon for one breath.
Ren stepped into that breath.
His kunai slid under the cleaver's weight, caught the notch near the blade's hole, levered it. His foot stamped Zabuza's ankle into soft earth, shoulder checked the chest.
The cleaver left Zabuza's hand.
It didn't fly far. A fourth chain flicked and snagged the blade's hole like a hook. It didn't hold—didn't need to. It tugged the arc so the sword hit dirt point-first and stuck.
Zabuza stared at the embedded weapon for a beat.
Then laughed, low and delighted. "You disarmed me," he said, as if announcing weather.
Ren lifted his chin. "You can still kill me."
"I could," Zabuza agreed—and moved. Knife out, short and quick, a bandit's tool in a demon's grasp.
Ren didn't backpedal. He slid into the attack, caught the wrist with cursed-reinforced fingers, let a single chain tap the hilt. The knife stuttered a fraction. A kill line became a shallow burn across Ren's ribs.
Cold air touched hot skin. Gojo's hum sharpened, but he didn't move.
Ren's eyes—bright red in the fog—didn't blink. "I'll ask once," he said, steady. "Will you keep renting your reputation to men like Gato, or carve something that outlives coin?"
Zabuza held his gaze a long breath. Two. Teeth bared somewhere behind the cloth.
"You're a child," he said.
"Yes."
"You talk like a tyrant."
"I talk like a builder."
"You'll make enemies faster than friends."
"I'm not recruiting friends."
Silence pooled. Then Zabuza eased his wrist free—deliberate, not defiant. He didn't reach for the cleaver. He could have. He chose not to.
"What do you call it?" he asked.
"What?"
"This thing you're building."
Ren thought of the sky inside his head—chains between stars, a field where power didn't break the world but organized it. "Eclipse Order," he said. "For now, know this: we work from the shadows. We break tyrants. We own nothing and control everything."
Zabuza's chuckle rumbled like distant thunder. "Grand words, brat."
"They'll be truer tomorrow."
"You pay?"
"In coin when it matters," Ren said, practical. "In battles worth your blade. In enemies worth ending."
"And in honesty?"
"As much as war allows."
Zabuza's eyes crinkled. "Hn."
He stepped back. Bent. Wrapped bandaged fingers around the Kubikiribōchō's handle and wrenched it free. He didn't shoulder it—planted the tip, leaned both hands on the pommel, and bowed his head just enough to be heard even if unseen.
"Then let me be your fang," he said simply. "Point me. I'll cut where you say."
The fog seemed to listen.
Gojo clapped once, delighted. "There it is! Official and everything. Boss, you just hired a hurricane."
Ren exhaled. His ribs throbbed. His shoulder ached. The chains under his skin buzzed like a second pulse. He gave Zabuza a single nod.
"First order," he said. "Gato falls. Quietly. Coffers first. Lieutenants next. When it's right, he disappears. Wave never learns our name. They'll just think their chains rusted off overnight."
Zabuza's grin sharpened. "Ledgers are in a locked west-dock house. Two floors. Four guards at night. I've looked. Thought about ending him. Hated the leash more."
"Then we cut it," Ren said. "Tonight."
"Tonight," Zabuza agreed. He glanced at Gojo. "And the blindfold?"
Gojo waved. "Tourist. I'll keep the sky from falling while you boys do chores."
Zabuza weighed Ren one more time—measuring not just strength, but shape; how ambition fit his bones. He seemed to like the answer. He slung the cleaver to his shoulder. "One thing, brat."
"Ren," Gojo sang. "He has a name."
"Fine. Ren." Zabuza tasted it. "If you grow into those eyes, you'll make the world bleed."
Ren's mouth twitched. "Only until it heals right."
Zabuza huffed something like a laugh. "Let's work."
They turned out of the clearing together. The fog thinned ahead the way crowds part for men who've decided where they're going. Ren checked the cut on his ribs—shallow—and let it be. Gojo fell in at his shoulder, humming again.
"Boss," Gojo said lightly, "that Black Flash? Very stylish. Do it again sometime when I've got popcorn."
"It wasn't planned," Ren said.
"The best never are."
"So," Zabuza added, "Eclipse Order. I'll need a mask."
"No," Ren said. "Not yet. Masks make people look for a show. We're a rumor."
"A rumor with teeth," Zabuza said, satisfied.
They reached the treeline. The village below slept fitfully under fog and fear. Somewhere on the west docks, a ledger waited for the wrong hands to open it one last time.
Ren looked down at Wave—the bridge's shadow on the water, the alleys where boys ran, the square where fish bled into stone—and felt the future draw one line tighter. In canon, your death buys a lesson, Zabuza. In mine, your blade buys a world.
"Take his coin," he said. "Then his voice. Then his breath."
"Efficient," Zabuza said, approval like oiled steel.
"Merciful," Gojo said, and made it a joke and a threat at once.
They moved.
Behind them, the clearing emptied. No fog, no blood, no proof a demon had bent his head to a child with a red eye and a chain of light. But the forest remembered a sound—the bright snap of power lining up with will—and the island remembered, too.
By morning, Wave would have a new rumor: not a demon in the mist, but a pair of shadows and a boy whose eyes glowed red. Not saviors. Not saints. Something colder. Precise.
Something like an order drawing its first fang.