[Check Out My P4treon For +20 Extra Chapters On All My Fanfics!! And get chapters before publishing them here for free on my p4treon][https://p4treon.com/ThePlotHoleRefuge]
===
She gazed at the sky above, gasping for air, every breath tasting of blood.
Her whole body ached, hurting so much that she could no longer tell where the pain was coming from.
The sky had already turned dark.
The moon emerged from behind the clouds, shining down on the scene of devastation.
The remnants of stone pillars gleamed with a pale, sickly light in the moonlight, the holes corroded into them looking like so many eyes.
The surrounding ground was uneven and pitted, filled with craters blasted out by Water Release and scorch marks left by Yōton.
Kisame lay not far away.
Kisame Hoshigaki was more heavily injured than Mei Terumī:
There was a wound on his face, blood smearing half of it. The front of his chest was burned through by Boiling Release, revealing the charred flesh beneath.
One leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, as if broken. Yet he still kept his eyes open, staring at the moon, and grinned.
That smile was strange. It wasn't a cold sneer, nor was it mocking; it was a kind of... indescribable smile.
"You brat..."
His voice was so hoarse it was almost unintelligible, accompanied by ragged breaths.
"You can really fight."
Mei Terumī propped herself up into a sitting position.
This action took her a long time.
Her arms were trembling, and she couldn't muster any strength in her core; every exertion tugged at wounds she couldn't identify, the pain making her vision go black.
She gritted her teeth, pushing herself up bit by bit, until she finally leaned against a half-broken stone pillar, gasping for air.
She gasped for a long time.
Long enough for the moon to climb a little higher, long enough for her to hear the call of an owl in the distance.
Those sounds passed through the mist, through the ruins, and fell into her ears, muffled and indistinct.
Only then did she regain the strength to speak.
"You..."
Her voice was so hoarse it was barely audible. She cleared her throat and tried again.
"Are you coming?"
Kisame turned his head to look at her.
The movement was very slow. His head was resting on the rubble, and as he turned, the moonlight shone on his face, revealing the wound that ran from his temple to his cheek, the blood already congealed into a dark red.
He looked at her, and the light in his eyes was strange. It wasn't anger, nor was it surprise; it was something she had seen in her own eyes.
"You're here to recruit me?"
His voice was even hoarser than hers. His throat sounded as if it had been scorched by fire, every word carrying a ragged, tearing undertone.
"...Yes."
"On what grounds?"
Mei Terumī did not answer immediately.
She lowered her head and looked at her own hands.
That hand was gripping a ninja sword; she didn't know when she had grasped it, nor did she know how long she had been holding it.
The webbing between her thumb and index finger was covered in blood, which flowed down the hilt and dripped onto the ground. Her hand was shaking.
Not because of fear.
It was because her Chakra was completely exhausted.
Her body felt empty, like a dried-up well.
Her body was trembling, shaking uncontrollably. It was the natural reaction after reaching one's limit; she was all too familiar with it.
She did not say, "I am stronger."
Because today's battle had told Mei Terumī something.
She was indeed not much stronger than Kisame. Both sides had suffered; it was a draw, nothing more.
If one had to say who stood for a moment longer, perhaps it was her. But that difference was too small to be worth mentioning.
She did not say, "Follow me and you can become stronger."
Because she herself did not know where following her would lead.
She did not say, "To change the Hidden Mist."
Because saying such words sounded too much like a joke.
She remained silent for a long time.
Long enough for Kisame to withdraw his gaze and look up at the moon.
Long enough for her to think the conversation had ended just like that.
Then she spoke.
She just looked into Kisame's eyes.
Those eyes appeared exceptionally deep in the moonlight, as deep as two bottomless wells.
There were many things inside: fatigue, pain, and that thing she had seen countless times—the thing she also possessed.
That thing had no name, but if one had to name it, it would probably be called "having lived too long."
She said one sentence.
Her voice was very soft. So soft that it seemed as if she were afraid of disturbing something.
But every word fell clearly into the night wind, into the mist, and into Kisame's ears.
"I cannot guarantee I can change things."
"But I promise not to run."
Kisame remained silent for a long time.
The moon emerged completely from behind the clouds, shining down on the scene of devastation.
Shining on the broken stone pillars, on the pitted ground, and on his blood-covered face.
The moonlight made the wound on his face exceptionally clear.
That wound running from his temple to his cheek, the blood already congealed into a dark red, looked like a snake coiled on his face.
Something flashed through his eyes.
Very quickly. So fast it was almost imperceptible. So fast that if one hadn't been staring at him the whole time, it would have been impossible to catch.
It was a light that no one could decipher.
Then he sheathed Samehada back onto his back.
The movement was very slow. He braced himself against the ground, pushing himself up bit by bit; covered in wounds, every movement made his brow furrow.
But he did not make a sound. He simply gritted his teeth, braced against the ground, and stood up.
He stood straight.
The moonlight shone on him, outlining his tall silhouette with a silver edge.
With Samehada on his back, the bandage-wrapped blade glinted with a faint, cold light in the moonlight.
He looked at her.
She also looked at him.
"Interesting."
He said.
His voice was still just as hoarse, just as deep, like sandpaper grinding against stone.
But those three words fell into her ears, into this expanse of ruins, and into this eternally gray night.
"Then let's try it."
...
The sun rose from the east and set in the west.
The mist dispersed and gathered, gathered and dispersed.
Birds flew overhead, then flew back, landing on the rock next to Shinji, cocking their heads to look at him, before flying away again.
Shinji had been standing there the whole time.
Until twilight descended once more, until those two Chakra signatures finally calmed down.
Then he saw two people walk out of the mist.
Covered in wounds, limping, but walking side by side.
The corner of Shinji's mouth twitched.
The movement was very slight, so slight it was almost imperceptible.
He turned around and walked into the mist.
Two months later.
Zabuza.
That name had been circulating within the Hidden Mist Anbu for a long time.
Attempting to assassinate the Fourth Mizukage, failing, getting captured, and being locked in a deep underground water prison, waiting for execution.
It was said that when he attempted the assassination, he was only three steps away from Yagura; if that blade had been just a little faster, the entire history of the Hidden Mist would have been rewritten.
When he was captured, he had killed seven Anbu who were hunting him, still laughing despite being covered in wounds.
Shinji stood at the entrance of the dungeon, waiting.
The night was deep. The moon was obscured by mist, leaving only a faint, blurry light.
From the depths of the dungeon came the sound of dripping water, drip by drip, hollow and monotonous.
...
Mei Terumī walked for a long time through the dimly lit corridor.
The path in the dungeon was longer and more winding than she had imagined.
Torches were set in the walls, their flames flickering from a wind that came from nowhere, stretching her shadow back and forth.
The sound of dripping water came from the depths, drip by drip, hollow and monotonous.
The air was filled with the smell of dampness and rot, along with a faint, lingering scent of blood.
She walked for a long time before she found the cell.
Through the iron bars, she saw a person sitting in the middle of the water.
It was a large water prison, the water quite shallow, reaching only to the waist.
But he sat inside, perched on the stone slab at the bottom of the water, leaning against the wall, his posture as casual as if he were in his own courtyard.
He was wearing prison clothes, tattered and stained with blood.
There were injuries on his face, new wounds layered over old ones, and it was impossible to tell which were left from the assassination attempt and which were from the beating after he was captured.
His eyes were closed, as if he were resting.
Zabuza.
===
Note: So far this story is published up to chapter 45 on my patreon, go check it out
exclusive 18+ character images, and early chapters, please visit my Patreon. Thanks for your support!
p4treon.com/ThePlotHoleRefuge
if you want more updates == supports with power stones
Every 10 Power Stones == Bonus Chapter
every three 5-star reviews == Bonus Chapter