SIXTY YEARS LATER

  Breathe, he reminded himself. Breathe.

  Hiro crept through the shadows. His small, wiry frame, clad in a dark, oversized haori draped over rough, ill-fitting trousers, blended seamlessly with the night. His heart pounded in his chest, but with slow and deliberate movements, he took a cautious step forward. Then another.

  The target stood only several shaku away, completely unaware of the looming danger. In his grip, Hiro felt the reassuring weight of his knife—his most important, most prized possession, without which he wouldn’t survive even a week. He couldn't even remember where he'd swiped it—probably near the ancient shrine. The old monks there didn’t guard their belongings too carefully, even though they lived just as miserably as he did. He shrugged. He hoped his ancestors would forgive him for the theft.

  Focus, Hiro! he scolded himself silently. His target was still alone, pacing just beside the wall. One wrong move, and he would go hungry again tonight.

  Dropping to all fours, Hiro lunged, knife ready, aiming at the head.

  The duck didn’t even have time to flinch—not even enough for a last quack. The blade found the weak spot on its neck, severing the spinal cord. Hiro knew his craft well—years of practice and studying anatomy had paid off. At least the orphanage had taught him to read and write. Not perfectly, but well enough. After that, finding those ancient books in the monastery—filled with history, geography, medicine—had been a blessing from the gods. He devoured them every evening. Why not? he thought. Not like I have anything better to do.

  "Education is the most important thing I want to give you," Hiro remembered his father saying. He didn’t remember much else.

  The warm, sticky blood on his hands snapped Hiro back to reality. He didn’t like stealing, and he hated killing even more, but it had been over a week since he’d had any meat. Survival demanded tough choices. Without a word, he slipped the duck’s lifeless body into his tattered cloth sack. Then he bent down and tried wiping his hands on a patch of grass. The blood only smeared, leaving his skin far from clean—but at least it felt a little less dishonorable than letting it dry.

  The surroundings remained quiet. No one from the Kageyama main house had noticed him—at least, not yet.

  Hiro glanced over the walls toward Takiyamura, his home, lying just beneath him. The wooden buildings blended right into the mountain, stacked on different levels, with bridges arching over gentle streams and winding paths weaving through the surrounding forest. It was as if the gods themselves had chiseled the structures from the mountain stone, suspending them in a way that defied human capability.

  The Kageyama family estate loomed at the top, near an ancient tree—a momiji rumored to be thousands of years old. From the base of the tree, a narrow stream known as Hero Water meandered toward the cliff’s edge, where it cascaded into a waterfall. It was fitting for their status—a grand compound with five houses for the clan and three for the servants, all guarded by over thirty men, day and night. Hiro had spent days scouting this place, learning about every building, every passage, before making his move.

  I’d be better off going hungry for a few more days than ending up dead.

  The gentle murmur of the Hero Water’s stream added to the calm of the night, creating an illusion of peace. It was said that every hundred years or so, the Hero Water could amplify someone’s chakra a hundredfold—if they possessed a pure heart and a genuine desire to protect someone. But Hiro didn’t believe in fairytales. He had been through too much to cling to such fantasies.

  The Kageyama family held immense power, maintaining control over the five main clans and the council of elders, effectively shaping the village’s fate for generations. The current clan head, Kageyama Tatsuya, was known for his ruthless tactics. Cruel and relentless, he’d do anything to keep his clan on top. His younger brother, Akira, was more reasonable but had little sway over his oniisan. Since the death of their father, Kageyama Ryo, a few years earlier, Tatsuya had only tightened his grip, cementing his authority and silencing dissent within the clan and beyond.

  Stealing from such a family was risky—but it was a risk Hiro needed to take. Most of the village was starving, just like him. The streets were filled with beggars, their numbers growing with each passing year, while anyone who dared to oppose the Kageyamas ended up in jail—or worse.

  It’s not just what you steal, Hiro thought. It’s how you do it.

  One duck, maybe some chickens—or even a cat—an estate this big wouldn’t notice a thing. Now, after the first kill, he felt his confidence grow, along with his hunger. Saliva already gathered in his mouth. There will be more stuff worth “borrowing” in a place like this.

  The night air carried the scent of damp wood from the nearby barn and the lingering smoke from extinguished cooking fires. First, some scouting. Just for security.

  Hiro leaped onto the window frame of a building, then up to the roof with ease. He scanned for guards—none had returned yet. Perfect. Time to see what he could take.

  Exhaling, Hiro slid down the side of the structure and landed softly in front of the doors. His fingers moved deftly over the lock, and after a few seconds, a faint click rewarded his efforts. Light feet and skillful hands were a thief’s best friends.

  Inside, the kitchen-storage area was silent, shadows stretching across the room from the faint moonlight shining through the gaps in the wooden shutters. The thick smell of dried fish and rice from pots and sacks tickled Hiro’s nose. There’s food in there—Bingo! He moved like he’d done this a thousand times, opening heavy lids, selecting items, and stuffing them into his bag. A bag of rice, some dried fruit, a small bundle of herbs—each item a treasure in his world.

  But a persistent unease gnawed at him, something he couldn’t quite place. Following his gut instinct, he looked beneath one of the food pots. Hiro had learned to trust that feeling—a subtle warning from some deeper, animalistic part of his brain. Sure enough, hidden from plain sight, he found a false bottom. Lifting it cautiously, he revealed a cache of artifacts and scrolls, marked with intricate seals and waterfall symbols. Even at a glance, it was clear these weren’t ordinary—they practically hummed with forbidden knowledge, the kind of secrets tied to powerful jutsu.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Beside the scrolls lay ornate masks, pieces of armor, and ancient weapons, each bearing the Takiyamura waterfall crest. A beautifully decorated tantō inlaid with emeralds drew Hiro’s eye. The objects seemed to radiate a faint, almost unearthly energy, as if they were drawing him in.

  Hiro’s pulse quickened. He had to be careful—but the gravity of the objects was too strong. He took one scroll from the top of the pile. This one bore the distinctive rocky pattern of Sekikure, the Stone Village’s traditional garb. A map—marking routes between Takiyamura and Sekikure. Clearly, these items were meant for a secret delivery to the Stone Village. Sekikure wasn’t exactly loved around here. What did Aoki ojisan always call them? A bunch of “stone heads” and “mud dwellers”? That sounded about right. Hiro was certain the villagers would be outraged if they knew their secrets were being sent there.

  In that moment, he made up his mind. He eyed the loot and decided he’d take back a piece of his village—no matter how small. But with his sack already stuffed with food, he could only grab one item. His gaze was inexplicably drawn to one scroll in particular. It seemed to pulse with a quiet power, as if it were calling out to him. Bound with a deep red ribbon, its white parchment was aged and worn. Intricate black symbols adorned the bottom, resembling double arrows crossed by deliberate strokes. Hesitating for a moment, Hiro felt an unusual pull, a connection he couldn't explain. His fingers tingled as he carefully lifted the scroll and tucked it into his bag.

  Just as he was tying the sack closed, a sound outside made his heart jump. It was barely audible—but unmistakable to someone with his experience.

  Footsteps—two sets—moving purposefully toward the warehouse. The guards.

  Hiro’s pulse quickened, his senses on high alert. They were still supposed to be patrolling the compound perimeter, not checking the warehouses. Had someone spotted him?

  Panic threatened to take hold, but Hiro forced it down. He had faced danger before and lived to tell the tale. That’s why you always check for escape routes the moment you step in, he reminded himself. Right now, the small window at the back was his only option. It would be a tight squeeze, but Hiro was wiry and nimble. He moved fast, his breath steady and controlled, as the warehouse doors creaked open and loud voices filled the space behind him.

  “Hey, stop right there!” one of the guards shouted, already taking aim.

  But Hiro didn’t stop—he was already at the window. As he scrambled through it, a sharp pain shot through his side. Aaargh! He stifled a cry, feeling cold metal slice into his flesh—a shuriken had lodged itself in his right side, dangerously close to his kidney. Others thudded harmlessly into the window frame.

  Landing outside on the gravel, Hiro gritted his teeth against the pain. Blood trickled down, soaking his clothes and dripping onto the ground. He pressed a hand to the wound, feeling the sticky warmth. No vital organs hit, he thought. I’m still in the game. But it was enough to slow him down. And he couldn’t afford that—not now.

  Hiro glided through the Kageyama compound, staying low and keeping to the shadows, avoiding open courtyards and main walkways where patrols might spot him. Each step sent a sharp jolt through his side, but he kept moving, his face contorted in pain.

  The shuriken could wait. Pulling it out now would only worsen the bleeding. First, get home. Then, deal with the wound.

  He had mapped the compound in his mind long ago, memorizing every alley and hiding spot—a skill that had saved his life more times than he could count.

  Close to the outer wall of the estate, Hiro paused to catch his breath. He leaned against a tree, feeling the rough bark dig into his back. The throbbing in his side was relentless. Closing his eyes, he tried to steady his breathing. The night seemed quiet, the buildings behind him still and asleep—but Hiro knew better. The pursuers wouldn’t be far behind. So, he continued.

  The rough stone wall came into view, dotted with climbing ivy. Hiro reached for the vines, using them to pull himself up. His fingers gripped them tightly, his feet finding holds in the crevices. He scaled the wall with fluid, confident movements, despite the ache gnawing at his side.

  Reaching the top, Hiro paused just long enough to scan the grounds below, making sure no one had spotted him. The guards had just arrived around the corner, looking for him. Satisfied, he vaulted over the wall, landing softly on the other side. Wasting no time, he dashed across the outer courtyard and disappeared into the cover of the trees.

  The woods immediately enveloped him in darkness, each step taking him deeper into the safety of the forest. Distant shouts echoed through the trees—muffled, frantic voices searching in the wrong direction. Hiro allowed himself a smile before pressing on.

  Before long, he reached his hiding place—a cave hidden behind a waterfall. The gentle roar of the water was a comforting, familiar sound as he entered and set down his sack of stolen goods.

  Inside, the cave was modest but sufficient. A small, makeshift bed of layered straw and cloth sat tucked against one wall, with a few scattered supplies—a rusty lantern, an old tin cup, and a pile of dry firewood.

  He winced, still feeling the pain in his side. First things first, he thought. Gritting his teeth, he reached behind him and gripped the shuriken lodged in his back. With a deep breath, he yanked it out in one swift motion, biting back a groan as blood oozed from the wound. He tore a strip of cloth from his tunic and pressed it against the injury to slow the bleeding. That’s gonna sting for a couple of days.

  After setting everything down, he gathered some wood and lit a small fire, the warm glow illuminating the cave. From his bag, he pulled out the freshly caught duck, rice, and a few vegetables, laying them out with care before getting to work on his meal. Soon, the aroma of cooked meat filled the cave. As he touched the crisp, charred skin of the duck to check if it was done, a small tear slipped down his cheek, uninvited. It had been too long since he’d had a proper meal.

  At last, everything was ready. Hiro sat cross-legged by the fire, his chopsticks in hand, the steaming food spread before him.

  “Itadakimasu!” he shouted to no one in particular, clapping the chopsticks together in a moment of gratitude.

  But just as he reached for his first bite, a movement behind him made him freeze. His body tensed as he spun around.

  “Don’t scare me like that, Kitsune,” he sighed with relief as the fox entered. The animal had silently crept into the cave and now sat across from him, its sharp eyes fixed on Hiro—and his food.

  “I hope your day was better,” Hiro muttered, pressing a hand against his bandaged side. He felt better already—like always, he healed quickly. Must be my good karma, he thought.

  Tearing off a piece of duck leg, he tossed it to Kitsune. “Here you go,” he said. The fox caught it mid-air, devouring it with enthusiasm, its tail flicking in satisfaction. Hiro watched for a moment, shaking his head. “Guess you’ve got good karma too.”

  As Hiro chewed his food loudly, curiosity began to creep in. He reached into his sack for the scroll he had taken from the Kageyama estate, holding it up to the firelight for a closer look. Running his fingers along the edges, he noticed something—a faint impression on the seal. Leaning closer, he squinted at the delicate kanji inscribed into the wax: 水 — mizu, the character for "water."

  Intrigue pulsed through him. He turned the scroll over in his hands, feeling its weight.

  “What’s the worst thing that could happen, eh, Kitsune?” he muttered, glancing at the fox, who now lay curled near the fire, lazily flicking its tail.

  Cautiously, Hiro peeled off the seal, setting it to the side. The red ribbon came next, its knot loosening under his trembling fingers. Slowly, he unrolled the scroll. He noticed that a piece of it was missing—torn, apparently.

  But when he saw its contents, his eyes widened in disbelief. Holding the scroll closer to the firelight, he turned it this way and that, searching for hidden markings or text.

  The scroll he stole was completely empty.

  GLOSSARY

  chakra – spiritual energy used in martial arts and traditional medicine

  haori – traditional Japanese hip- or thigh-length jacket

  itadakimasu – phrase said before eating; means "I humbly receive"

  jutsu – technique or skill, often in martial arts or ninja context

  kanji – Chinese characters used in Japanese writing

  Kageyama – Shadow mountain

  Kitsune – fox, often mythical in Japanese folklore

  momiji – Japanese maple tree

  mizu (水) – water

  ojisan – uncle / old man (can be affectionate)

  oniisan – older brother (respectful)

  Sekikure – Stone Village

  shaku – unit of length (approximately 30.3 cm or about 1 foot)

  shuriken – ninja throwing star

  Takiyamura – The Waterfall and Mountain village

  tantō – short traditional Japanese blade or dagger