The soft glow of twilight bathed the modest village in hues of amber and rose. Slanted rays of the setting sun filtered through the half-closed shutters, casting warm golden lines across the wooden floorboards of a small hut nestled at the edge of the village. The sound of cicadas hummed faintly outside, a sleepy lullaby from the forest beyond. Inside, the quiet crackle of a hearth fire echoed through the room, its gentle warmth still clinging to the fading day.
Within the cosy dwelling, a mother gently fluffed a thin straw-stuffed pillow, careful not to disturb her two children already nestled beneath a worn but lovingly patched blanket. The scent of freshly laundered linen—sun-dried and stiff—mingled with the earthy aroma of the thatched roof above and the faint fragrance of boiling herbs from the kitchen pot.
"Alright, time for bed, little ones. It's going to be a warm night today," said Hiromi softly, her voice smooth and comforting like a lullaby. She was in her late twenties, her face youthful but lined with subtle hints of hardship. Her black hair, loosely tied into a low bun, shimmered faintly in the firelight.
"But Mama," whined the elder child, Mirio, a boy of seven with messy black hair and wide, curious eyes that glimmered with mischief and stubbornness.
"Just one story, please?" piped in Emiko, his younger sister, only five but always eager to match her brother in volume and excitement. Her cheeks were flushed, her small hands gripping the edge of the blanket with uncontainable energy.
Hiromi gave a dramatic sigh and placed a hand on her hip. "A story, is it? After I already told you one last night?"
Both children nodded quickly, grinning with innocent defiance.
She leaned down between them, brushing a strand of hair from Emiko's face. "Which one, then?"
"The one about Hashi... Hashi... Hashibama!" Mirio exclaimed, stumbling over the name like it was a great foe.
Hiromi laughed, a full, musical sound that filled the small home with warmth. "Hashirama," she corrected with a smile, "the First Hokage. Protector of Konoha and the Land of Fire. Very well."
She sat on the edge of the bed, letting her body sink slightly into the straw mattress. The firelight danced in her eyes as she looked between her two children. Their faces, wide and unguarded, filled her with both joy and sorrow—a quiet fear that such peaceful nights were fleeting in times like these.
"Long ago," she began, her voice taking on the rhythmic cadence of oral tradition, "in the era of warring states, when shinobi clans fought endlessly and the rivers ran red with the blood of men, there lived two boys—"
A sudden twitch in her nose stopped her mid-sentence.
"Do you smell that?" she murmured.
Both children blinked, confused. Mirio sniffed the air. "It smells like... burnt rice?"
Hiromi stood up slowly, her expression tightening as the scent deepened. It wasn't burnt rice. It was thicker, smokier, laced with a dangerous acrid edge. Her maternal instincts surged with sudden dread.
"Stay here," she said firmly, brushing the hair from Emiko's forehead one last time.
As she walked briskly into the main room, the scent became overwhelming. Her gaze immediately darted to the thin line of smoke curling from beneath the wooden door. Her stomach dropped. The thatched roof above her crackled once, then again—this time louder.
Her eyes widened in horror. "No..."
She dashed back to the bedroom.
"Get up! Now!" she cried, her voice urgent.
"What's wrong, Mama?" Emiko's voice quivered as she sat up.
"The roof is on fire!" Hiromi shouted, scooping her daughter into one arm while grabbing Mirio's hand with the other. "We have to go—now!"
Smoke began to billow into the room, pouring in like a living thing, tendrils of grey curling across the ceiling. The children coughed violently, their small lungs unable to handle the growing thickness of the air.
They reached the front door. Hiromi dropped Emiko down and reached for the wooden handle. She twisted and pulled. Nothing.
Her breath caught. She pulled harder. The door creaked but didn't move. Her palms slipped against the wood.
"No, no, no—!" she hissed, throwing her shoulder against it. The door didn't budge. A beam outside must have fallen against it, or worse—someone had barred it.
"Mama?" Mirio's voice was small now, panicked, frightened. "Why won't the door open?"
"I—" Hiromi paused, her voice trembling, "It's stuck, but—stay close. I'll figure something out."
But even she didn't believe her own words. Smoke had completely filled the room now, choking the space. The only light came from the flames licking the edges of the window frames, casting distorted, dancing shadows against the wall. Sparks began to fall from the ceiling, landing near the children's feet.
Hiromi pulled both of them into her arms and knelt in the farthest corner, shielding their bodies with her own. Her back pressed against the cool earth of the floor, her lips murmuring a silent prayer to the gods, to the Hokage, to anyone.
Outside, the village had become a scene of nightmares.
Flames rose high into the darkened sky, a furious inferno devouring everything in its path. Thatched roofs collapsed one after the other. Screams echoed across the fields—some shrill and human, others guttural and monstrous. Animals broke free from pens, stampeding into the darkness. Ash rained like black snowflakes.
And not far from the burning village, upon a hill overlooking the chaos, two figures stood in silence. Their dark skin was nearly indistinguishable from the shadows, but the gleam of their eyes betrayed them.
"Konoha's patrol won't arrive in time," one of them said.
The other nodded. "They shouldn't. Not yet."
They vanished in a flicker of motion, silent as ghosts.
And across the Land of Fire, it was the same. Small, undefended civilian villages burned under the cover of night—strategic, coordinated, brutal. None of them near major roads.
Hours later and miles away, the air in a clearing smelled of blood and ash. The remnants of a Konoha supply camp lay scattered and broken. Crates smashed, tents torn apart. The corpses of chuunin and genin lay strewn across the ground, some with kunai still embedded in their spines, others burnt beyond recognition.
The trees that had once offered shelter now bore scorch marks and embedded shuriken. The ground was muddy with blood.
Amid the carnage, a dozen Kumo shinobi combed the site with cold precision. They moved in practised silence, flipping bodies, searching the ruins.
"Take the scrolls," barked a tall Jonin with braided silver hair. His face was lined with age, but his golden eyes were sharp. "Burn the rest."
They worked quickly, gathering what intelligence they could. The rest—food, blankets, weapons—was set aflame.
At the far edge of the wreckage, half-hidden by a collapsed tent, a teenage shinobi stood still, unmoving. His flak jacket was stained with soot, and his right sleeve was torn at the shoulder. His expression was distant, his eyes unfocused.
"They will pay..." he whispered to himself, the words more emotion than speech. "They will all pay for what they did to my father..."
"Dodai!"
The voice snapped through the air like a whip.
Dodai flinched. He turned quickly as the jonin stomped toward him.
"You deaf, boy?" the jonin growled. "You were given orders."
Dodai straightened. "Yes, sir. Apologies."
The jonin stared at him for a moment longer, then spat on the ground. "Grieve later. Right now, we move. This is war. Not a funeral."
Dodai nodded silently, but his fingers clenched tightly into fists. Deep inside, the fire that consumed the village had already taken root in his heart.
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