Chapter 20 — A Beautiful Dream Without Power to Sustain It
"Maybe…"
People don't truly hate beauty.
No matter what kind of person they've become — no matter how cruel, numb, or jaded — there are always fragments of their past where they once loved something pure.
Kakuzu could avert his gaze from Oda Nobunaga's radiance, but could he really escape the faint light flickering within his own heart?
The answer, of course, was no.
Narrowing his green eyes, he looked at Nobunaga again. For a fleeting instant, he saw in that boy the memory of his own betrayal — the moment when the elders of Takigakure had turned on him.
If someone like this had appeared before me back then, he thought, what would my life have become?
Beneath the Akatsuki robe, Kakuzu's body was a patchwork of black stitches — seams binding the fragments of a man who refused to die.
Though he possessed the undying life Orochimaru dreamed of, only Kakuzu knew how eternal life could feel like an eternal punishment.
He had watched his own era decay into history.
The faces he'd known had all faded to ghosts; the world he'd fought for, now a memory.
Did he really love money that much?
Perhaps. He always said that ryo never betrayed him — and in a way, it was true. But it wasn't just greed; money was his last fragile link to a world long gone.
The world could change.
People, ideals, nations — all were transient.
But money… money never changed.
"Hmph."
He scoffed, stubborn and gruff as ever — but deep down, he didn't despise Nobunaga's light.
Jūgo, too, found his thoughts wandering — back to the days before he met Kimimaro, to the endless solitude of madness.
And Kimimaro remembered the damp darkness of the Kaguya clan's prison — the cages that held their bloodline limit, their pride and their curse.
"If someone like him had existed back then…"
Jūgo muttered the thought aloud, then shook his head at his own words.
A man without power — what good were his fine-sounding ideals?
Beautiful words meant nothing if you couldn't protect anyone.
Even when he lost control and went berserk, could someone like that really stop him? Or would he simply die, crushed in an instant?
"Let's go."
For the first time, Jūgo voiced his own will rather than simply following Kimimaro's lead. He didn't want to linger here — not in the warmth of this hollow, fleeting dream.
But Kimimaro didn't reply.
His calm gaze shifted instead toward the distant treeline — toward the direction of the Grass Village.
Then, almost imperceptibly, came the sound of movement — light footsteps brushing through the grass, too faint for ordinary shinobi to catch.
Even Kakuzu's sharp eyes narrowed.
"Well, well… so it's the great daimyō of the Land of Fields himself."
Leaves rustled.
Dozens of Grass-nin appeared among the branches, crouched or leaning casually against the trees, looking down with smug, predatory confidence.
No matter their posture — relaxed, arrogant, poised — each radiated the self-assured air of a hunter who believed himself the stronger.
Their leader twirled a kunai idly between his fingers, his tone almost lazy as his gaze swept over Nobunaga and his entourage.
"Seems we've got a problem," he drawled. "A mother and daughter were taken from our village."
He tilted his chin toward the red-haired woman lying on the ground, then at the bespectacled girl standing near Nobunaga.
"There — those two. And since we're feeling generous, we won't blame you for wandering into our territory, Lord Daimyō."
He gave a thin, knowing smile.
"But don't think about hiding them from us. That'd be… unwise."
His words dripped with threat, and as they fell, chuckles and snickers rose from the trees — mocking, hungry.
In the eyes of these Grass-nin, a newly founded "Sound Village" was nothing but a joke.
To them, the Land of Fields was a backwater, a nameless speck on the map.
A soft target.
The Grass-nin leader spoke bluntly, his hand making the warning gesture as plainly as his words. As soon as he finished, ugly chuckles echoed from the trees. The other Grass-nin swarmed forward. A daimyō from the Land of Fields traveling to help restore the Snow Princess — of course he brought a retinue — but to these Grass-nin, a newly founded "Sound" village from some tiny backwater country was laughable. "Ha! Not worth our time."
One of the soldiers, his gaze greasy and greedy, licked his lips at the sight of Koyuki. His eyes roamed over her, and he half-hoped Nobunaga would be a coward and hand her over — then the man could have his fun.
"Oho." Nobunaga's low hum carried a strange calm. At the sound, even hardened men like Kimimaro, Jūgo or Kakuzu braced themselves; they all assumed their this so called daimyō might give in. Kakuzu even took an involuntary step back, shrinking his silhouette. Seeing Nobunaga seeming to yield under threat, Uzumaki Karin's expression faltered — and then, summoning all her courage, she stepped forward.
"I'll go with you," she said. "Please let my mother go."
"Kill them!"
Uzumaki Karin's plea and Nobunaga's counter-command rang out at the same instant. Karin spun to look at Nobunaga, eyes wide with disbelief — all she could see was him.
"What?"
She almost thought she'd misheard. The moment Nobunaga's order to strike left his lips, the Grass-nin leader's kunai nearly plunged into his own hand. The assailants were stunned — but Nobunaga's loyal retainers were not.
Left Horseman — already waiting for the order — roared and leapt forward first. "Whirlwind Slash!"
Since chakra appeared, the samurai era had faded, yet stubborn survivors of that age still clung to the blade — to the honor of cutting through fate itself. Left Horseman was no Hashirama, but he had honed his sword skill obsessively; his Whirlwind Slash was not something any braggart Grass-nin could simply shrug off.
"Kenjutsu?"
Factually speaking, for the Grass-nin leader to lead this raid, he must have some skill. Losing the initiative and then being ambushed by Left Horseman's sudden strike, he formed a substitution jutsu at once and dodged — but his companion behind him was not so lucky.
"Cut clean in two?"
The leader, who appeared a moment later somewhere else, saw his comrade split neatly in half by the blade. Rage flared; he cursed and howled. "Ingrates! Kill them all — leave only the daimyō!"
Even in the world of shinobi, a daimyō's status carried weight: while he burned with fury, the Grass-nin leader dared not strike Nobunaga himself. But he had no intention of sparing any of the others. If he couldn't kill the daimyō, at least he'd humiliate him.
Yet as the leader scanned the battlefield, his plan crumbled. This wasn't the rout he'd pictured. The Sound Village was newly formed and small; the Land of Fields itself was hardly a major power — but so was the Grass Village. Nobunaga had brought his finest. The Grass-nin leader had not. Compared side by side, Nobunaga's presence — commanding and unbowed — was the rallying point that made every one of his subordinates fight with howls of fervor. Blades and kunai were bound by flesh and bone limits; the Sound ninja's resolve was something else entirely.
"Damn it!"
Realization hit the Grass-nin leader like cold water. Aside from a few exceptional upper-level ninja he'd brought, most of his force were ordinary shinobi — cannon fodder against disciplined, inspired troops. Filled with fury and panic, his murderous gaze snapped to Nobunaga, who stood at the edge of the fight.