Mei Terumī looked at the application.
It was an ordinary piece of paper, with ordinary words written in an ordinary pen. But she stared at it for a long time.
She was silent for a moment.
"Why do you want to teach this?"
Kisame leaned against the doorframe.
His expression was indifferent, so indifferent that it was as if he were talking about something that had nothing to do with him.
"Because no one ever taught me."
She didn't ask again.
She approved it.
That evening, by the training ground.
The setting sun dyed everything in a dusky yellow hue.
The last rays of light from the horizon fell onto the sandy ground of the training field, onto the wooden practice stakes, and onto the fence.
Kisame leaned against the fence, smoking.
The red glow of his cigarette flickered in the twilight. He squinted, watching the woman in the center of the field.
She was instructing a few children on how to hold a blade.
The children were very young, the oldest eleven or twelve, the youngest seven or eight, all of them the "talentless" kind.
With insufficient Chakra, average taijutsu aptitude, they sat in the back row of the Ninja Academy and were never given a second glance by the instructors.
She crouched beside one child, correcting his grip on the blade hand-in-hand. The child was gripping it too tightly, his knuckles turning white.
She gently pried his fingers open, repositioned them, and said something while she adjusted his grip.
Her voice wasn't loud, but the children could hear her clearly. They surrounded her, looking up with a certain light in their eyes.
It wasn't the light of being "instructed."
It was the light of... being seen.
Kisame exhaled a puff of smoke.
The smoke slowly dispersed in the twilight, blown away by the wind, vanishing into the darkening sky.
Zabuza had arrived at some point as well.
He leaned against the wall on the other side, arms crossed, saying nothing.
His eyes were also fixed in that direction, watching the woman, watching the children.
Neither of them spoke.
They just watched.
For a long time.
Kisame spoke.
"...Did that person teach her?"
It was abrupt.
But Zabuza understood.
He didn't answer, just gave a grunt of affirmation.
Kisame stubbed out his cigarette.
He looked at that figure in the setting sun, at the children surrounding her, at the woman who had once been isolated, gossiped about, and treated as someone who "should not exist."
"A good lesson."
Zabuza didn't speak.
But both knew who "that person" they were talking about was.
The person who always stood in the distance, never walking into the center of the crowd.
The person who taught her how to judge people, how to speak, and how to make someone suddenly lift their head after a long silence.
Shinji.
The sun set, and twilight crept in.
In the distance, the woman was still instructing the children, her voice drifting over faintly, scattered by the wind.
...
Another year passed.
Shinji leaned against the railing at the edge of the Anbu base rooftop, looking down.
From here, he could see the entrance to the base.
That rusty iron gate, the path always shrouded in mist, and the figures coming and going.
He saw Kisame Hoshigaki carrying Samehada back from outside, a fresh wound on his shoulder, blood still dripping down.
But he didn't go to the infirmary; instead, he headed straight toward the training ground. A few children were waiting for him there.
Those children judged to be "talentless," those children who sat in the back row of the Ninja Academy.
He saw Zabuza walking over from the direction of the water prison, his pace steady, that same icy expression on his face.
But he was holding a stack of papers in his hand, a new training plan. He wanted to simplify the Anbu sword style so that more people could learn it.
He saw Ao returning from the Elders' mansion, holding thick scrolls in his arms.
Those were the archives of the Elder Council, which he had been going through recently, saying he wanted to investigate those who had died in the purges over the years and give them justice.
He saw Chōjūrō running in from outside, drenched in sweat, the Hiramekarei on his back swinging to and fro.
He had just completed a B-rank mission and was rushing back to report. Passing by the training ground, he paused and glanced inside.
The group of children were practicing with their blades, with Kisame standing to the side, occasionally saying something. Chōjūrō watched for a moment, then continued running.
One, two, three, four...
Shinji counted. It wasn't just them.
There were also many Ninjas without clan backgrounds, outcasts with Kekkei Genkai, and old faces who had been silent in the Anbu for years.
They started appearing here one by one, appearing by her side.
No one organized them, no one called for them; just one day, they suddenly stood there, waiting for her to assign missions.
Shinji withdrew his gaze and looked into the distance.
The eternally gray sky of Hidden Mist.
But at this moment, the mist seemed to have thinned a little.
Sunlight leaked down from behind the clouds, in wisps, falling upon the people coming and going.
"It's different, truly different."
Shinji remembered the first time he saw Mei Terumī.
Nine years old, small, standing at the edge of the crowd, head lowered, like an abandoned little animal.
Later, she was pressed to the ground, her knees scraped, blood streaming down her legs, but she didn't cry.
She just bit her lip, waiting for the next fist to fall.
Back then, he wondered, would this girl eventually become that savior of the Hidden Mist village?
Now he knew.
That little pug he had once patted on the face had now grown into the leader of the pride.
That evening, by the training ground.
Shinji pondered for a long time.
His heart was hesitant, wavering.
Fifteen years of companionship were not fake, and he wasn't quite sure what kind of feelings he held for Mei Terumī now.
Because in his heart, he was genuinely very happy and proud of the achievements the young woman had made today.
But on the other hand, he had his own mission.
Eventually, in the dead of night, he snuck into the border of the Land of Fire.
The moonlight was obscured by clouds, and the woods were pitch black. He leaned against a tree trunk, waiting for the contact.
Footsteps came from the east. They were very light, so light they were almost inaudible. But Shinji's ears twitched, and his body tensed slightly.
The person walked out from the shadows of the trees. Golden hair, blue eyes, white Hokage cloak shimmering in the night.
Minato Namikaze. He was already the Fourth Hokage.
Shinji's pupils constricted slightly. He didn't move, just watched as the young Hokage walked closer step by step, stopping three zhang away.
"A guest from the Hidden Mist."
Minato Namikaze spoke, his voice gentle, but his eyes were very bright, bright enough to seem to see through everything:
"The Anbu sent word that someone wanted to retrieve something."
Shinji didn't answer immediately. He sized up the man before him.
The greatest nightmare of the Hidden Mist during the Third Ninja World War.
In the battle at Kannabi Bridge, if not for the AB duo of Kumogakure holding him back, neither Mei Terumī nor he would have been able to return alive.
"Sandaime asked you to bring it to me," Shinji said.
Minato Namikaze looked at him, that gentle smile still on his face.
He took a scroll from his robes, holding it in his hand, but didn't hand it over: "Before that, there is something I need to confirm."
Shinji didn't speak.
"Sandaime said that the person coming to retrieve this item left Konoha many years ago."
Minato Namikaze's eyes were very bright: "He said that person would carry a token."
Shinji was silent for a moment.
Then he raised his hand and pulled a thin chain from his neckline.
At the end of the chain hung a tiny leaf.
A fragment of a Konoha forehead protector, worn very thin, with smooth edges, obviously having been carried close to someone's body for a very, very long time.
The moonlight leaked down from behind the clouds, shining on that leaf, revealing the faintly discernible marks on it.