The rice paddy smelled of wet earth, standing water, and the heavy, sweet scent of ripening grain.
Inuzuka Makami knelt on the bamboo-slat porch of the farmhouse. The wood was old, grayed by centuries of rain, and cool against her shins. She held a lacquer bowl in her hands. Inside, the steam rose from a mound of sekihan—sticky red rice mixed with azuki beans.
It was an offering. Not to a shrine. Not to a stone god.
To the dark.
"The wind has shifted," Makami whispered.
Her hair, a shocking, luminescent white that defied the muddy tones of the earth, drifted across her face. It was the mark of the Alpha, a genetic anomaly her clan usually praised for its intimidation factor. But here, away from the pack, it was just moonlight caught in strands of keratin.
She placed the bowl at the edge of the porch.
Plac.
The sound of the lacquer hitting the wood was swallowed instantly by the drone of the cicadas.
The Inuzuka pack—her brothers, her sisters—were miles away in the forest. They were running. They were howling. They hunted for the joy of the chase, tearing through the undergrowth with their canine brothers, chaotic and loud.
Makami didn't run. She sat. She watched the hatake—the field.
"You're late," she said to the shadows.
There was no sound of footsteps. No rustle of grass.
But the cicadas stopped.
A figure detached itself from the gloom of the tree line. He moved on two legs, but his center of gravity was low, his shoulders rolling with a predatory fluidity that looked uncomfortable in a human shape.
Hatake Kari. The Reaping Wolf.
He had hair as black as a crow's wing, messy and spiked. He wore the roughspun indigo clothes of a farmer, but his eyes were the pale, flat gray of a winter sky.
He didn't carry a weapon. His hands were empty, fingers curled slightly inward.
"The boar was stubborn," Kari rasped. His voice sounded like gravel grinding together.
He stepped onto the porch. He didn't look at the rice. He looked at her throat. Then her eyes. Then the perimeter.
"Did you stumble?" Kari asked.
It was the question of the Okuri-okami—the Escort Wolf. If the human trips, the wolf eats them. If the human stands tall, the wolf protects them.
Makami smiled, showing teeth that were just a little too sharp to be polite.
"I never stumble, Kari."
Kari knelt beside her. He picked up the bowl of red rice. He ate with his hands, efficient and quick.
He wasn't an Inuzuka. He didn't bond with dogs. He found the idea of a "partner" insulting. Why share a soul when you could forge your own?
Sniff.
Kari froze.
The air shifted. The smell of the rice was overpowered by a sudden, musky stench. Rotting mulch. Bristle fur. And the metallic tang of aggression.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The ground vibrated. The water in the rice paddy rippled, concentric circles distorting the reflection of the moon.
"Raider," Kari whispered.
"Boar," Makami corrected. "A Great Boar."
From the forest edge, it emerged. It was the size of a carriage, a mountain of muscle and dark fur, tusks gleaming like curved scythes. It wasn't hungry for rice. It was hungry for destruction. It trampled the stalks, tearing the earth, ruining the harvest.
Kari felt the growl start in his chest. Not a vocalization, but a vibration of chakra.
The Inuzuka way was to surround. To bark. To coordinate.
The Hatake way was silence.
"It's ruining the crop," Makami said, standing up. She drew a kama (sickle) from her belt. "The field must be protected."
"Stay," Kari commanded.
He didn't weave signs. He didn't call a dog.
He dropped to all fours.
It wasn't a transformation jutsu. His bones didn't crack or reshape. He simply... shifted. His chakra coated his skin, creating a phantom outline of white energy—a spectral pelt.
His sense of smell spiked. The world exploded into a map of scents. He smelled the boar's sweat, the blood pumping in its jugular, the fear it didn't know it should feel yet.
Launch.
Kari moved faster than a human should. He was a black streak across the paddy water.
The boar squealed, lowering its massive head to gore him.
Kari didn't dodge. He went under.
He leaped, his hand forming a claw, his fingers charged with a raw, unrefined burst of white chakra—the precursor to the White Light Chakra Sabre.
SHIIIING.
The sound was wet and sharp.
Kari passed underneath the beast and landed in the mud on the other side. He didn't look back.
Behind him, the massive boar took one step. Then its front legs collapsed. A perfect, clean line opened across its throat.
Blood sprayed into the paddy water, fertilizing the crop.
Kari stood up, wiping the blood from his hand onto his pants. The phantom wolf chakra faded, leaving just a man in a muddy field.
Makami walked out to him. Her white hair glowed in the night. She looked at the dead beast, then at him.
"You didn't leave any for the pack," she noted.
"I am the pack," Kari grunted.
She reached out, touching his cheek. Her touch was warm.
"We protect the field," Makami whispered. "We do not run wild. We stand guard."
"We bite," Kari corrected.
"Yes," she agreed, leaning her forehead against his. "We bite."
The sun was bright, the village was loud, and Kakashi Hatake just wanted to buy his groceries in peace.
"Yo! Uncle Kakashi!"
Kakashi flinched. He sighed, letting his shoulders slump in a gesture of exaggerated fatigue. He turned around.
Kiba Inuzuka was leaning against a wall, Akamaru barking happily on his head. The boy grinned, showing off his canines.
"Smell anything good?" Kiba asked, wiggling his eyebrows.
"I am not your uncle," Kakashi deadpanned, shifting his grocery bag. "And you need to change your shampoo. You smell like wet dog and cheap cologne."
"He's totally your uncle, kid," a gruff voice spoke from the pouch on Kakashi's hip.
Pakkun poked his pug head out, sniffing the air. "Look at the hair. The white hair? That's pure Inuzuka Alpha stock. We've got records in the den."
Kiba pointed an accusing finger. "See! Pakkun knows! You're basically a closet Inuzuka! So why don't you use Man-Beast Style? Akamaru and I could teach you the Fang Over Fang!"
Kakashi stared at the loud, energetic boy. He thought about the history books he wasn't supposed to read. He thought about the ancestors—one who guarded the field, and one who became the wolf to kill the threats.
"I don't need Man-Beast Style, Kiba," Kakashi said softly.
"Why not?" Kiba challenged. "Is it too hard?"
Kakashi stepped closer. The air temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. He leaned down, his single visible eye curving into a "smile" that didn't reach the pupil.
"Because I bite harder, Kiba," Kakashi whispered.
He reached up and tugged gently at the hem of his mask, exposing just an inch of skin.
"You wanna see?"
Kiba froze. His instincts—the primal Inuzuka instincts that had kept his clan alive for centuries—screamed DANGER.
"Uh," Kiba stammered, backing up. "N-no. I'm good. Akamaru says we have to go. Bye!"
Kiba scrambled away, tripping over his own feet.
Kakashi readjusted his mask.
"That's what I thought," he muttered, turning back to the vegetable stand. "Now, where are the eggplants?"