Then, footsteps approached.
Shinji walked to her side. He did not walk fast; every step he took on the gravel made a faint, crisp sound.
He was also covered in blood; the wound on his chest was still seeping, staining half his clothes red.
There was also blood on his face, flowing down from his temple, having already dried into dark red, thin lines.
Mei Terumī turned her head to look at him.
Sunlight fell from the cracks in the sky, shining between the two of them.
The light made her face look pale and her eyes shine bright.
She stood there, covered in blood, breathing heavily, looking at him.
"...We won."
Her voice was very soft, so soft it was as if she were confirming something.
"Mm."
"Have you been protecting me all along?"
"Always."
She didn't speak again. She just looked at him.
Sunlight fell upon those eyes of hers that never shed tears.
Everyone present saw it.
That woman who never cried, her eyes were red.
...
Before the ceremony for succeeding as Mizukage, Mei Terumī went to the Northern Territory alone.
That place was at the northernmost edge of the Hidden Mist Village. One had to cross three blockade lines and climb over two mountains to see that land covered in snow all year round.
When she left, it was still dark. She only brought a water skin, a little dry food, and a scroll of paper. No one saw her off, and she hadn't told anyone.
The Northern Territory was barren. Snow pressed down from the mountains, pressing down for centuries, crushing everything into white.
There were no trees, no grass, only rocks and snow, and those simple wooden huts chiseled into the crevices of the stones.
Yagura's remnants retreated here, surviving by hunting and digging up roots from the snow.
The leader was said to be an old Ninja whose left eye had been gouged out during interrogation, leaving only hatred in his right eye.
Mei Terumī went alone.
She brought no guards; the others didn't know, and neither did Shinji. If those who followed her knew, none of them would have let her come.
She brought no weapons. The kubikiribōchō was too heavy, the Hiramekarei was too conspicuous, and Kunai were useless in such a place. She only brought a scroll of paper.
A letter of surrender. Ao had written it for her, using the most official tone, stamped with the seal of the temporary Mizukage.
But before she came, she had taken the paper out and read it once, feeling that those words were useless.
So she rolled up the letter of surrender, tucked it into her bosom, and walked through the snow, thinking about what to say when she met that person.
The remnants' camp was at the foot of the snowy mountain.
When she walked in, everyone looked at her. Those wooden huts were very simple, the wood bleached white by the wind and snow, with hay stuffed into the cracks.
The wooden huts formed a circle, with a bonfire burning in the middle, the flames swaying unsteadily in the wind.
Those people stood at the doors of the wooden huts, by the bonfire, and on both sides of every step she took.
In those eyes, there was hatred.
Hatred so thick it could not be dissolved.
Hatred for the Hidden Mist, hatred for the Mizukage, hatred for those who purged their clans, hatred for everything about this Village.
There was also vigilance. A strange woman had suddenly appeared here, unarmed, but everyone knew that someone who could walk in from the outside was not simple.
There was also fear, hidden very deep, buried at the very bottom of their eyes. Fear that she would bring more slaughter, fear that this last refuge would also be bloodbathed.
The old Ninja walked out of the largest wooden hut.
He walked very slowly; one leg was injured, dragging as he walked, carving a groove in the snow.
He indeed only had one eye; the other eye socket was empty, like a dry well, the surrounding skin shriveled, leaving traces of the torture from back then.
He looked at her, and there was no emotion in that single eye: "Are you here to kill me?"
His voice was hoarse, so hoarse it was as if he hadn't spoken in a long time.
Mei Terumī did not answer. She walked to the bonfire, took out the scroll of paper from her bosom, and placed it on a wooden stump.
That wooden stump had been scorched black by the fire, its surface uneven and pitted, and the paper made a faint friction sound when placed on it.
Then she looked up at him: "I have come to ask you, have you fought enough?"
The old Ninja did not speak.
The wind blew from the mountain pass. The wind was very cold, cold as a knife, scraping painfully against the face.
The bonfire flickered in the wind, the flames swaying, almost extinguished, then struggling to reignite.
Mei Terumī stood there, waiting.
She was not anxious; she knew what this silence meant.
It meant he was thinking, thinking about why she came, thinking about what her words meant, thinking about how he should answer.
"Your son died at the hands of the Anbu."
Her voice was very calm, as calm as if she were talking about something that happened a long time ago.
Something moved in the old Ninja's single eye. Very lightly, very quickly, but Mei Terumī saw it.
"Your daughter defected and her whereabouts are still unknown."
Her voice remained that calm, "You hate the Hidden Mist, and rightly so."
She paused for a moment. The bonfire crackled, sparks splattered, landing in the snow, and extinguished with a hiss.
"But what happens after the hatred ends?"
The old Ninja was silent. He just stood there, at the door of that dilapidated wooden hut, in the wind and snow.
That single eye looked at her, yet it seemed as if it wasn't looking at her. It seemed to be looking at a place very, very far away, looking at those days that would never return.
"The day you finish hating, this Village will still be here."
Mei Terumī said: "You won't be here, and the people you hate won't be here either. What about the people left behind? Continue to hate?"
She pushed the letter of surrender forward an inch.
The movement was very light, but the sound of the paper sliding on the wooden stump was exceptionally clear in the silent camp.
"I cannot change what my father's generation did."
She looked into his eyes, "But I want to stop it."
The old Ninja lowered his head. He looked at the scroll of paper, the pages slightly lifted by the wind, revealing the seal stamped underneath—the seal of the Mizukage.
But that seal was not hers yet; she was still just "temporary," just "acting," just the one "most likely" in everyone's eyes.
He looked for a long time. The bonfire burned down a section, and the firewood that had been burning turned into ashes.
The ashes were blown up by the wind, landing on the white scroll of paper like grey flowers.
Then he reached out his hand.
That hand was very old, covered in wrinkles, scars left by frostbite, and traces carved by time.
When it reached out, it paused in the air for a moment.
As if hesitating, as if making a final struggle.
Then it grasped the scroll of paper.
Picked it up.
Three days later, the Northern Territory remnants surrendered unconditionally. There was no bloodshed.
After hearing about this, Ao was silent for a long time. He sat in the office, looking at the sky of the Hidden Mist outside the window.
There was no expression on that old face, only his eyes slightly narrowed, as if looking at a place very, very far away.
The tea cup in his hand had already gone cold, but he didn't notice.
"Lord Mizukage."
He spoke, his voice a bit hoarse.
Mei Terumī sat behind the desk, reviewing documents.
She looked up at him.
Ao said: "You have become stronger."
That sentence was without head or tail, but Mei Terumī understood what he meant.
It wasn't the strength of Chakra and combat power. It was something else.
It was the kind of strength that could walk into the enemy's camp alone, face eyes full of hatred, make people who had hated for a lifetime lay down their hatred, and bring back peace.
She did not respond, just looked out the window.
Sunlight fell on her profile, outlining her silhouette with a thin gold rim.
Outside, there were the houses being rebuilt and the pedestrians gradually increasing on the streets.