The few days granted to us for a semblance of recovery vanished like a single, blurred frame of film. The infirmary at Node-4 was hardly a sanctuary for the soul; it offered only the relentless hum of ventilation, the grinding of stone against stone, and the suffocating weight of enclosed spaces. My hands were mending with agonizing slowness, yet even that glacial progress felt like a small mercy.
And then, we were standing before the Jonin once more. Tokuma Hyuga sat behind his massive desk, the rhythmic, measured tapping of his finger against the wood the only sound in the room.
"So, what is to be done with you?" he mused, never once lifting his gaze.
Guy, Genma, Tsubaki, Mizuki, and I—we were a sorry sight. We wore our exhaustion like heavy cloaks, marked by soiled bandages, sallow skin, and eyes that had seen far too much.
"The truth is, this post is perpetually understaffed," Tokuma said, finally raising his milky-white eyes to scan us. "I require constant reinforcements, but Konoha's attention is diverted elsewhere. They are sending no one."
He paused, allowing a heavy, expectant silence to settle over the office.
"So, I've been thinking... you are already here. And since you are here, you shall remain. For a few months, at least, until the border stabilizes and your wounds have fully knit."
What?! The word nearly tore itself from my lips.
A whirlwind of indignation swirled in my mind. We had just returned from the front lines, survived the exams, and now—straight back into the fray? But the protest died in my throat. Tokuma was a superior officer, a Jonin, and under martial law, his word was absolute. Arguing with a Hyuga was as futile as throwing oneself against the very bedrock this base was carved from.
"We understand, Tokuma-sama," Genma replied hollowly, his senbon clenched between his teeth. Like me, he knew there was no door left open for us.
"Excellent," Tokuma nodded, as if the matter were trivial. "You will receive your assignments. Guy, Genma—you are on outer perimeter patrol. Tsubaki, you will assist in the medical ward. Mizuki, logistics."
His gaze shifted to me. "And you, Hagane... since your hand is temporarily useless, you will assist at the sensory post and stand guard at the entrance. Dismissed."
We filed out into the cramped corridor. Guy was uncharacteristically subdued, while Mizuki's eyes were narrowed in suspicion, clearly loathing the prospect of being buried in paperwork and supplies.
"Two months in this hole," Tsubaki whispered. "Kotetsu, how are you? Your hand..."
I looked down at my bandages. In truth, this arrangement offered something Konoha couldn't: isolation. Here, I was left to my own devices. Yet, the flip side was bleak. Back home, I would have had proper equipment, fresh medicine, and an escape from this cursed dampness. The air here was so saturated that moisture would bead on your skin within hours.
Fine. It can't be helped. I have to squeeze every advantage I can out of this situation, I thought as we navigated the base toward the main mess hall.
The tunnels were narrow, hewn directly into the living rock. The echoes of our footsteps mingled with the rhythmic drip of water hidden somewhere deep within the ventilation shafts. We needed to find the duty officer to formalize our tasks and receive our rotations.
We entered the canteen, a space that doubled as a briefing hall. It was a cacophony of noise; a dozen shinobi in grey flak jackets sat huddled over long tables. In the corner, near the serving hatch, stood a burly man with a buzz cut—the base quartermaster.
"You're the new lot, aren't you? Well, congratulations on your new posting. Two months... enjoy the stay."
How did he already know? The thought nagged at me. It all felt a little too convenient.