Frame-dragging
Sifting through over fifty years of memories to carefully build the perfect plan towards peace is by no means an easy task. It requires unfathomable amounts of patience and really pushes the boundaries of what counts as a calculated risk and what is really just a hopeless pipe dream.
The problem comes down to two very simple things: a lack of adequate information and the inability to control when and how events occur.
He stood witness to so many important incidents in the world that it becomes quite the undertaking for him to trace back each storm to the ripple that started it. It is similarly difficult for him to figure out where to cause artificial ripples for any storms he wishes to cause.
If all goes as Tobirama hopes, this most recent endeavour will be one that should allow him to reap quite the reward further down the line.
He went through great pains to establish a routine with the Uzumaki so they wouldn’t think twice about Tobirama leaving the island for his usual monthly trip to the capital, and it was all for this particular mission. He has had to plan his route out meticulously to cross through the territory he expects to find the person he is looking for in, and it is all based on conjecture and rumours he heard in his past life, which is too much uncertainty for Tobirama’s tastes, but he isn’t exactly swimming in options here.
So, he moulds sensory chakra and widens his range to cover the entirety of the marshlands he is picking his way through, carefully sifting through the few signatures that linger around the edges where civilians hunt and gather produce.
There are three potential shinobi signatures. One of them is flickering in the way chakra does when the body is starting to shut down.
Tobirama opens his eyes and immediately changes directions, taking to the trees and heading for the signature. He may have just found his target in the nick of time. The question now is whether he will make it fast enough to be able to save him.
Consciousness returns to Shikataro in waves—slowly at first, and then all at once.
He startles awake, struggling to clear the cobwebs off his thoughts and figure out where he is. Only a moment later, he is hit by a torrent of pain that nearly makes him blackout again, forcing him to lay still and grit his teeth as he tries to breathe through it.
Two fingers come to rest against his forehead, and he tenses, unable to do anything against the unrecognised touch or the chakra that pours into his system through the point of contact. For just a moment, he panics as the foreign chakra gently unfurls in his coils, bracing himself for the pain of rejection that he is sure will follow.
Except it doesn’t come. The chakra doesn’t even feel like anything, only leaving behind a vaguely cool and ticklish sensation as it spreads through him and scopes out his condition.
‘A diagnostic jutsu,’ his mind supplies belatedly.
“I would not recommend any abrupt movements,” a masculine voice comments lowly over him. The chakra withdraws. “If you tear your stitches, I will leave you to bleed out again.”
Shikataro slowly opens his eyes, blinking through the haze that clouds everything until his vision is restored. Immediately, his gaze is met by unusual crimson eyes. He cannot help but stiffen for an endless moment of fear as his mind jumps to the conclusion that he has been captured by an Uchiha shinobi.
Except that doesn’t make sense. The Uchiha have no reason to mess with him and risk the combined ire of the Ino-Shika-Cho alliance, especially when the Akimichi clan currently have more numbers and sway with the Daimyo than the Uchiha do.
Not to mention that the colour is wrong for a sharingan now that he is deigning to use his head. He has heard enough descriptions to know the sharingan invokes something almost supernatural with its scarlet glow and no pupil.
“You—” he tries, immediately faltering because his throat is drier than the deserts of Wind.
His captor swiftly hands him a cup of ice chips and methodically helps prop Shikataro’s head up with the lone pillow on the cot he is currently occupying. While Shikataro lets the ice melt in his mouth, he casts a quick look around the room he is in. It becomes obvious that they are in some sort of cabin, still in the unclaimed marshlands between Lands of Fire and Water that Shikatarou had passed out in on his way back home from a mission gone completely awry.
“I found you a few miles north-east of here,” his captor informs succinctly, arms crossed as he keeps a careful eye on the speed at which Shikataro rehydrates himself. “You had a laceration about thirteen inches long and three inches deep on your abdomen, a collapsed lung, as well as a fractured knee cap. The stitches you’d tried to give yourself were ripped when I found you, and septic shock had begun to set in. You are very fortunate that I managed to find you when I did.”
He refills Shikataro’s cup with more ice chips as he speaks, employing a jutsu without any hand seals or visible water source. Shikataro stares, mind blank.
“You’re a shinobi,” he states.
The healer raises a brow, face impassive at this observation. He does not look impressed.
Shikataro tries to sit up straight and promptly gives up on the cause when his entire body screams in protest. The healer clicks his tongue in disapproval and narrows his eyes into a judgemental glare.
“Are you daft?” the man asks. “I just told you the extent of your injuries. Are you trying to undo all my work to save your life?”
“You’re a shinobi,” Shikataro repeats, insistent.
At this, the healer openly rolls his eyes and drawls, “Yes, very astute. Well done. Would you like me to clap for you?”
But Shikataro isn’t offended or deterred. “Why would you save me?”
“Would you rather I let you die?”
“Stop deflecting.” Shikataro frowns. “What reason would you have to save some strange shinobi in the middle of fucking nowhere? What do you want from me?”
The healer pauses, regarding Shikataro with a clinical sort of consideration that sets his nerves on edge. Then, he shrugs noncommittally. “For now, I’d like for you to make a quick recovery so you do not waste my time and effort. As for why I saved you—it is simply because I could.”
Shikataro stares. “What—on some sort of whim?” he asks incredulously.
“If that is convenient for you to believe.” It’s a frustrating not-answer that kind of makes Shikataro want to scream a little bit.
He narrows his eyes. “Who are you?”
Once again, the healer looks at him as though he is somehow judging his worth. Then, he says, “You can call me Himitsu.”
“Himitsu,” Shikataro repeats slowly in disbelief, squinting and hoping the full brunt of his judgement is conveyed. “'Secret'. Seriously? You could at least try to be a little creative if you’re going to lie to my face like that.”
Himitsu’s lips twitch into the ghost of a smile at this. “Well, I figured it doesn’t matter so long as you don’t know the truth anyways. It is for the best if we remain anonymous to one another.”
Well, Shikataro can’t deny the logic of that, especially since they are both shinobi in neutral territory. If it turns out they have rivalling affiliations, they will indeed be better off having as little information on each other as possible.
“Shall I be Yami then?” he suggests sarcastically, mocking the theme his saviour has set.
Contrary to his expectations, however, Himitsu accepts immediately and neatly ignores the dry attempt at humour. “Very well. I shall start on some dinner. You should get some more rest in the meantime.”
“Wait,” Shikataro says, startled, “what? No. I was joking.”
“Too bad,” Himitsu tells him without any inflection or sincerity. “You’re stuck with that now.”
“Man, this is such a drag.”
“I can throw you back out to fend for yourself in the wild, you know.”
“How heartless, Himitsu-san.”
The next time Shikataro awakes, it is to the rhythmic sound of stone grinding against stone, the bitter earthy smell of herbs in the air, and a wave of immense discomfort. His injuries feel itchy and sore, and his muscles are stiff from days of stillness, though Shikataro has no way of knowing just how much time has passed.
The sounds of the stone come to a halt. “You are awake,” Himitsu notes from somewhere to Shikatarou’s right.
“How long was I out this time?” Shikataro rasps.
Himitsu approaches on silent feet and enters his field of view, hands gentle but clinical as they help Shikatarou sit up before running what is presumably a diagnostic jutsu over him. No handsigns are used and the chakra doesn’t feel like anything when it enters his system, which is unhelpful because Shikataro can’t pinpoint the technique or its possible origins. If Himitsu is using clan techniques, he is certainly doing a good job keeping them secret.
“Two nights,” Himitsu answers in response to his query. “You would have woken up earlier, but I thought it would be better to keep you under just until your bodily functions had become more stable.”
“You drugged me?” Shikataro asks, the fog clogging his head clearing up immediately in panic.
“To put you in a medically induced coma, yes,” Himitsu confirms plainly, inclining his head.
“Against my consent.”
At this, the healer openly rolls his eyes. “I’m afraid you were too busy bleeding out for me to do that.”
But Shikataro is not deterred. “I was awake briefly. You should have asked then.”
Himitsu doesn’t budge though, and he doesn’t look particularly repentant either. “You would have refused,” he states bluntly. “You are a shinobi, so you would have never accepted having your guard down around a stranger. However, your brain wasn’t getting enough blood naturally and your entire system was going into septic shock, so I decided to knock you out to prevent the possibility of a seizure or stroke that would only make it harder for me to save you. I already had to use chakra to keep your organs running artificially; I didn’t need to deal with you struggling on top of that.”
It makes an unfortunate amount of sense and Shikataro isn’t particularly a fan of that. He is a Nara. His clan is originally one of healers and apothecaries, and the practice has yet to be abandoned even though they have branched into functioning primarily as shinobi now. Nara medicines are treasured for their quality and effectiveness despite the recipes being clan secrets. Shikataro too has learned in preparation for the day when he leads his clan after his father. He knows enough about the body to know how delicate a process healing is, and to know that Himitsu took the best course of action available to him with limited supplies and the extent of Shikataro’s injuries.
Still, he finds himself disconcerted.
Due to the exclusive isolation his clan lives in, with their only allies being the Yamanaka and Akimichi, Shikataro isn’t really used to being forced into a state of such vulnerability around other people, let alone strange shinobi with unknown motives.
“What did you use?” he asks with narrowed eyes.
“Mandrake,” Himitsu says shortly. “It was the only thing potent enough that I could find in the forest.”
Not an unconventional anaesthetic, though a little outdated. Civilians avoid it due to superstitions and such, but plenty of healers will use it in a pinch. It tells Shikataro nothing useful about his saviour.
He wrinkles his nose. “How much longer are you going to keep me here?”
Himitsu’s crimson eyes narrow to slits at this. “Make no mistake, Yami-san; no one is keeping you here. You are free to leave whenever you’d like. Fact is, at the moment, you are simply incapable of doing so.”
Jaw clenching, Shikataro presses, “And what about you? Is this your cabin? What brought a shinobi who can use medical ninjutsu to a swamp on the borders?”
“You ask so many questions,” Himitsu sighs. “I am only passing through the area to visit my relatives. This cabin does not belong to me. I do not think it has an owner at all anymore. As soon as you are recovered enough, I will take my leave.”
Something about that surprises Shikataro. “But you will see this through,” he infers.
Himitsu raises a brow. “If I leave now, it is highly likely you will simply contract another infection. Your immune system is completely compromised, and your body is still trying to recover from the effects of the acute blood loss.” He shrugs, adding, “Ordinarily, that isn’t such a complicated fix if blood replenishing pills are on hand, but I don’t even have the ingredients to make those.”
‘Blood replenishing pills,’ Shikataro thinks, dumbstruck. What a concept. That must be some very advanced pharmaceutical skill. It is also an excellent clue. He will have to keep an ear out for if he ever hears of such a medicine again so he may try and track down the true identity of his mysterious healer. As much as he’d like to outright enquire about the ingredients and theory behind such a medicine however, he refrains. It is unlikely anyone would part with the knowledge of something so useful for free and Shikataro will not offer anything in return just yet either.
Instead, he points out, “You’re going through an awful lot of trouble for my sake, Himitsu-san.”
Himitsu considers him, face inscrutable. “Perhaps,” he agrees after a moment, “but I have set myself on this path now, Yami-san, and I always follow through with what I decide.”
Odd. Himitsu is an odd one. Despite himself, Shikataro can feel his own rising intrigue.
“I suppose I should thank fate that you found me then. It seems my luck has not abandoned me yet.”
For some reason, Himitsu seems to find this statement amusing because his lips twitch into a proper smile for the first time.
“Fate. Sure, let’s call it that.”
“I never imagined the temple’s meditation techniques could be so useful for chakra control,” Hashirama comments with a smile, gently blowing at the surface of his jasmine tea to cool it down.
Senju Ren hums, focusing on carefully peeling a pear and splitting it into equal quarters. “It is not so known because the civilians do not realise the effects, although they understand that it helps them connect with their souls somehow.” He offers the slices to Hashirama and gets to peeling another one for himself. “Your brother practices kyudo, yes?”
“Tobirama? Yes. My honourable stepmother taught us both when we were young, but only Tobirama has stuck to it. He practices at the shrine now.”
“Kyudo is a type of meditation as well,” Ren says. “From start to finish, it is about focusing on one’s breath and emptying the mind to allow for liberation and purification. The shrine practices the way of the bow and teaches it to all who care to learn in the same way that the temple preaches more traditional meditation.”
Hashirama blinks, eyebrows rising. “Do you think that is why my brother has such excellent control over his chakra?”
Ren’s lips twitch into a smile. “I believe that may be an innate talent of his, but I’m sure meditating from a young age helped him realise his potential so thoroughly.”
“It would be good if we could teach it to all the young ones,” Hashirama comments lightly. “Even if they decide they don’t want to be shinobi, exercising their tenketsu points and regulating their chakra will help them stay healthy.”
“We are always happy to teach our ways to anyone who asks it of us.”
Humming, Hashirama watches his grandfather carefully sip at his tea. “Ojii-san, I have been thinking lately,” he brings up cautiously, waiting till he has the monk’s full attention before continuing. “Would it not be a good thing for you to take back your seat on the council? You are my elder as well, after all. Your counsel would be most welcome.”
Ren’s guard rises visibly, his relaxed posture stiffening all at once as hesitance bleeds into his gaze. “Thank you for your regard, Hashirama-kun, but I am not so sure it is a good idea.”
His hesitance is understandable. The temple and shrine heads both had seats on the council up until Hashirama’s paternal grandfather was made clan head, at which point they were removed because neither was particularly approving of the increasingly violent decisions Senju Saitama was bent on making. The main family tamped down on their support for the Buddhist temple and Hachiman shrine, and their popularity with the clan has fallen over the years as a result.
Of course, the temple couldn’t protest since Saitama went against most expectations and wed his second son—Hashirama’s father—to the temple’s ward. On the surface, it was an act of generosity and devotion. In truth, Butsuma was only the spare heir at the time, and Hashirama’s mother had no sway in the temple as she was simply one of the orphans that they had taken in. The marriage wasn’t supposed to have any greater effect on the clan at all.
When Butsuma wound up becoming clan head, he didn’t even acknowledge his in-laws, going so far as to forbid Hashirama from maintaining anything more than a cordial relationship with the temple abbot who is, under the law of their clan, his grandfather.
It is easier to stay removed from the situation now than to rebuild the reputation of the temple as far as Ren is concerned. So long as they have somewhere to keep their records and practice their meditation, the monks will be content, regardless of their standing in the clan’s greater dynamics.
Hashirama, on the other hand, is not so easily pleased.
He leans forward and sets his cup down, catching Ren’s eye and holding it as he implores, “At least consider it, ojii-san. I do not wish to see our beautiful temple be neglected any longer. There is so much to learn here. Our people deserve to know just what they are missing out on. Is it not your way to guide lost ones to understand their purpose and escape the cycle of rebirth? How can you perform that duty if you stay hidden away here?”
Ren frowns, eyes downcast so he may avoid his grandson’s gleaming eyes. “I appreciate your intentions, truly, but I don’t understand why I must take a seat on the council.”
“Because I need your help,” Hashirama admits, linking his fingers together. He does not hide the weight on his shoulders or the worry that plagues him. “I…respect my predecessors, make no mistake, but—” He pauses, thinking over his words. “I have a different vision for our clan. To be quite honest, I dream of peace for my brethren. I wish for us to lay these resentments and conflicts with the Uchiha to rest so it may bring us no further hatred and ruin. Only then, I feel we will be able to pave a long, prosperous road for our successors.”
“It is admirable that you wish so, Hashirama-kun,” Ren says quietly. “Violence is but a product of greed. It only breeds hatred and delusion. I tried to tell your late father as much, but—” he cuts himself off, biting his lip and shaking his head.
“Chichi-ue never could see things any other way,” Hashirama says knowingly, smiling ruefully. “I know I am still lacking in many ways as a leader, but I really do think it will be good for us to move on from this endless feud that has cost us so many of our loved ones already.”
Ren purses his lips. “And you wish for me to join the council so you may have another voice in your support?”
Hashirama ducks his head. “I know it is not your way,” he says.
“You are correct. It is not for us to intervene in matters of governance.”
“But I would not ask this of you if I had any other choice, ojii-san.” The clan head shrugs helplessly. “I don’t want to force my views onto my people. That is not how I wish to foster peace. But I am alone on this endeavour, and I really need more voices to speak out in my support. You know the elders on the council; they will take too much time to budge from their own personal agendas and notions, and that wasted time is far too precious.”
The conflicted expression on Ren’s face says he understands Hashirama’s position, though he probably wishes he didn’t.
Just one more push. Hashirama straightens. “I will not force anything upon you, ojii-san. You are my mother’s only family, and I will support your teachings because I believe they will benefit our people, regardless of what you choose. However, know that I would be truly grateful if you choose to bestow your counsel upon me so I may become a leader my ancestors and descendants can be proud of.”
Ren sighs. “You have become rather adept at the art of persuasion, Hashirama-kun.”
Laughing sheepishly, Hashirama rubs the back of his head and waves his hand. “I am only relaying what my heart says to me.”
“Very well,” Ren relents after a moment. “I can only promise that I will consider your proposal sincerely and consult the other monks for their thoughts. You will have my decision in a week.”
It’s not certain yet, but even so, Hashirama feels like it has gotten a little bit easier to breather. Gratefully, he dips his head into a bow.
“Thank you.”
Shikataro quickly discovers that there isn’t much to do in an abandoned cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere when one is bedridden. Now that he can actually stay awake, he has to find ways to occupy himself but his options are pretty severely limited when he isn’t able to move around much just yet. Funnily enough, despite the lazy disposition his clan is famous for, he finds that when he is forced into it, his mind isn’t really fond of the stagnation.
With nothing else to do, he spends his morning observing Himitsu as the elusive healer goes about concocting Shikataro’s daily dose of tonics and salves. Once he has done that, the white-haired man prepares breakfast for them and dutifully ignores Shikataro’s attempts at conversation in favour of scribbling away in a little leather-bound journal that seems to appear and disappear as if by magic.
He manages to catch only the briefest of glances at the pages, but even that much is enough to pique Shikataro’s interest. The writing is encrypted using some unknown combination of numbers and letters in kanji, hiragana, the Phoenician script, and Devanagari. None of the codes that Shikataro knows yield any sort of answer, especially since the encrypting is so eccentric and convoluted.
It’s exciting. Even without being able to decrypt what Himitsu is writing, Shikataro has managed to figure out that the healer is paranoid and extremely well learned. To develop such a complicated code and use it on the fly without any visible reference is impressive enough on its own without considering that it also implies an admirable degree of fluency in scripts that most of the continent doesn’t use. To have that kind of education in this day and age is unusual. The only reason Shikataro even recognises the language system is because he is a Nara heir, and his clan makes it their business to hoard all sorts of knowledge.
So, how did Himitsu acquire such an education?
“You’re from Land of Fire, aren’t you?” he asks, when the healer has finished running his diagnostic jutsu.
Himitsu inclines his head. “What makes you think that?”
“Your accent.”
“Ah.” Himitsu blinks. “Well, yes. I am from Fire.”
“And you were on your way to visit relatives you said,” Shikataro says. “They must live by the sea.” When Himitsu raises a brow, Shikataro supplies, “The route I was on passes through coastlines only. Since you were apparently on the same path, I’m just extrapolating.”
A muscle in Himitsu’s face twitches. “Is there a point to all this?”
Shikataro shrugs. “Just making conversation.”
Snorting, Himitsu rises to his feet and returns to what Shikataro has dubbed as his side of the cabin, where a single futon and small rucksack are the only markers of any resident other than Shikataro himself. “You’re a nosy bastard.”
“I’ve been told it’s an occupational hazard.”
Himitsu levels him with a withering stare. “Find some other way to entertain yourself.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Shikataro rolls his eyes. “I don’t suppose you have a shogi board lying around somewhere?”
The healer looks contemplative for a moment as he clears away the herbs, mortal and pestle that he’d used to make Shikataro’s salve. Finally, he says simply, “I will be sente. Pawn to f4.”
Startled, Shikataro blinks and then immediately narrows his eyes. “Wait, why do you get to be sente?”
“Because I said so.”
“I’m the patient—I should get some priority here.”
“I’m the one who saved your life.”
Mouth clamping shut, Shikataro glares. Himitsu stares back expectantly. Finally, begrudgingly, the Nara mumbles, “Pawn to d8.”
It is a challenging match that follows. By the end, Shikataro manages to just about wrestle a win from behind Himitsu’s unrelenting attacks, and his headache is too much a price to pay for the victory. Still, he learns a bit more about his saviour if nothing else. Himitsu is decisive, aggressive, and very strategic.
Everything about him points to being a clan shinobi so far. His approach to warfare is too trained and polished for him to come from a civilian background. Himitsu has fought wars—has led them if his style of playing general in the match is anything to go by.
“Do you play often?” he finds himself asking.
Himitsu hums. “Not particularly. I prefer go.”
“You can’t be that good without playing fairly often.”
“Shogi is more popular in the capital,” Himitsu explains, shrugging noncommittally. “I play if a client or acquaintance requests it.”
Shikataro lazily runs his fingers through his dark hair, absently untangling the knots. “You must visit the capital often.”
“Lately, yes.”
“For missions?”
Himitsu shakes his head. “Sometimes, of course. But I have recently become acquainted with several scholars there. I have an…inclination towards research and development, and I am fortunate enough to have the time and opportunity the indulge my interests at the moment.”
“A man of science?” Shikataro nods to himself. “I’d wondered how you had such advanced medicinal techniques. Did you learn at the capital?”
“I created those techniques. Innovation is imperative for continued survival,” Himitsu states factually. “Stagnation leads to complacency, which breeds extinction.”
Shikataro whistles, eyebrows rising. “Pretty hardcore. I don’t think I’ve ever met a shinobi who thinks that way.”
“I don’t believe it’s that rare to think this way,” Himitsu disagrees quietly. “If shinobi didn’t see the need for adaptability, we might have developed an honour code like the samurai did. Ultimately, their refusal to change is what has led to the samurai’s age of decline. They do not know how to survive in a world where the Daimyo aren’t actively at war with one another anymore. On the other hand, shinobi simply branched out to doing other jobs in the time we aren’t serving as soldiers.”
“Huh,” Shikataro says thoughtfully. “You might be onto something with that. I don’t think I’ve ever given much credit to all the reinvention our profession has gone through.”
“Because the underlying philosophy of shinobi has remained unchanging—survival of the fittest. In a world that is never the same, the definition of strength must shift as well, and if we wish to remain strong then we must change with it. There is no purpose to a strength that lacks adaptability. Eventually, it will simply be replaced. The longest lasting species have always been ones most responsive to change.”
“Evolution is the greatest unifying theory in biology,” Shikataro agrees, reciting something his grandmother once said to him in a lesson. Of course, she was referring to the subject in a pathological sense, but the idea still applies here.
Himitsu nods. “Indeed. It requires that we find new paths to take once the old ways are rendered obsolete. The strongest shinobi clans today are the ones who have been unafraid to discard that which no longer benefits us even though it once did.”
Humming, Shikataro points out, “Not that it’s anywhere as easy as you make it sound.”
Mouth quirking up into a sardonic smile, the healer says, “Nothing ever is.”
“Power is addictive,” Shikataro comments, leaning his head against his hand. “Oftentimes, reinvention requires some degree of starting over. It isn’t easy to do so when the idea of simply weathering through in the hopes of things staying as they are is so much more appealing than taking the harder way. Besides, there’s no telling that the way we choose to change is going to be effective either. If things don’t work, we might just end up dying out anyways.”
“There is no reward where there is no risk.” Himitsu inclines his head. “Besides, sometimes the choice is to bend or to break.”
“Well, I suppose if something big enough happens, the choice will be clear. But things like that rarely happen, don’t they? Like the samurai, for example. They were the favoured warriors of the Daimyo for generations and the position was pretty secure. They could afford to raise the cost of their services, so they did. They could afford to hold personal grudges and seek retribution on their own terms, so they did. They were strong enough to wage wars amongst their community, so they did. Shinobi weren’t really seen as a viable replacement back then but we did take over their position in society over time. They just happened to not realise until it was too late.”
Himitsu’s crimson eyes are sharp as he narrows them in thought. “I disagree,” he says after a moment. “The true downfall of the samurai wasn’t when they lost their positions to shinobi replacements. It was when they chose to stay that way. When they didn’t realise the pitfalls of their conduct because they were so assured of their own superiority and strength. Had they instead adapted to their employers’ wants and chosen to bide their time, they might have regained some of their lost standing. The smartest thing to do would have been to band together as a community for joint profit since a divided foe is that much easier to control simply by turning against one another. Instead, they’re still fighting one another even though everyone knows it’s only a matter of time until they’re all but wiped out.”
“But the samurai wouldn’t be samurai if they abandoned their code,” Shikataro points out.
“Maybe,” Himitsu acknowledges, “but they would be alive.”
Lips twitching, the Nara heir acquiesces, “Fair enough.”
“Nothing can truly withstand the testament of time unless they flow along with it,” Himitsu says. “The samurai were no exceptions, and neither are the shinobi.”
‘How fun,’ Shikataro thinks as he leans forward. “Oh?”
“You said it yourself.” The white-haired man shrugs. “The samurai earned prestige and wealth, so they made their services more exclusive, and spent the time that decision gave them to pick fights with one another over grudges that they could afford to keep. You don’t see anything awfully familiar about that?”
Shikataro blinks, brows furrowing. “You think the shinobi are going down the same path.”
“History is known to repeat itself. I’m just making an observation.”
“And who would replace us?”
Himitsu makes a vague sort of noise. “Who knows? Perhaps the samurai will finally see sense and take over again when we aren’t paying attention. Or some foreign invaders will come to conquer us all. Or the Daimyo will decide they trust their alliances enough to size down their armies and cut off our primary livelihood. Anything is possible.”
It’s hard to imagine such a future when shinobi are so in demand, but then Shikataro figures that is exactly the point Himitsu is trying to make.
“So, what would you suggest we do to prevent such a future?”
For a long moment, Himitsu seems to consider him somehow, face unreadable. Finally, he says, “I suppose that, when the time comes, we will either bend or we will break.”