Chapter 361: Before the Rise of the Crescent Moon
The island was small, uncharted, and—despite its sunlit serenity—carried an uneasy stillness that made the three Uemon Clan shinobi pause as soon as their feet touched sand. The boat creaked behind them, anchored in the shallow water, their hired men waiting aboard with hands near weapons. Ishidate had ordered them to remain on standby, though he doubted steel or numbers would make much difference if this meeting went sideways.
Kongō hopped down last, boots sinking deep into the sand. He sniffed once, brow furrowed. "Doesn't smell like a trap."
Karenbana clicked her tongue, hands on her hips, her long white wig shimmering in the sun like frost. "Traps aren't supposed to smell, you wall of meat. That's why they're traps."
Kongō glared at her from beneath heavy brows. "My nose works better than your illusions."
Karenbana pointed a lacquered fingernail at him. "Say that again, and I'll show you what illusions feel like when they involve a kunai."
Ishidate didn't bother turning around to look at either of them. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the treeline and the open beach. His voice, smooth and cold, cut through their bickering. "Enough. If this is a trap, arguing about noses and kunai will only make us die faster."
Both fell silent—reluctantly.
The money they'd been paid to attend this "interview" had been obscene. A sum so large that even Ishidate, normally above such blunt incentives, had paused at the weight of the coin-filled chests. Kongō had nearly hugged one. Karenbana had openly kissed another.
And yet, Ishidate still found something unsettling about it.
People who pay that much money do not pay for nothing. Someone wanted them here. Someone powerful enough to track them, confident enough to summon them, and wealthy enough to make refusal impossible.
And there was the seal. The letter. The signature was pure and unique, not like any chakra or unlike any jutsu they recognized—magic, they had been told. A growing rumor from the Land of Fire.
The name written with that glowing seal was one Ishidate had heard in scattered whispers across the world:
Malik.
They pushed past the first line of tropical trees, sunlight filtering through glossy leaves overhead. The air softened into a warm breeze as the forest opened into a clearing.
Kongō stopped mid-step.
"…Uh. Is that…?"
Karenbana blinked rapidly, then covered her mouth to hide a laugh that tried—and almost failed—to sound elegant. "You've got to be kidding me."
Even Ishidate's composure faltered as the scene took shape:
A massive wooden resort building, polished to a shine, stood like a misplaced jewel in the clearing. Hammocks swayed lazily between palm trees. A small freshwater pool glistened. Jasmine scent drifted in the warm air.
And in the center of it all, reclined in a luxurious beach chair angled toward the sun, lay a man dressed in an outfit that could only be described as outrageously expensive. Pink and gold patterns shimmered across silk that caught the light like liquid. His skin was smooth, radiantly brown, glowing even in the shade. His chest rose and fell gently.
He was asleep.
And snoring softly.
Karenbana whispered, "He's… sleeping? Sleeping? On a secret island meeting the three of us? Is this a joke? Is this—this whole thing a prank?"
Kongō squinted as if offended. "He looks small."
"Everything looks small to you," she snapped.
Ishidate pursed his lips, eyes narrowing at the man's posture. "If he is asleep, then he is either suicidally careless or impossibly confident."
Karenbana huffed. "Or drunk. He looks too comfortable. Too… soft."
"Soft?" Kongō scoffed. "He looks like a dessert."
"Exactly." She said it like an accusation.
Karenbana tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she studied Malik's lounging form. The silk shimmered like sugared glaze, the pink-and-gold patterns catching the sunlight in a way that made him look less like a person and more like something plated at a banquet. She sniffed once, then smirked.
"Soft," she repeated, voice dripping with something far from disdain. "Like custard. Look at him—skin smooth, clothes brighter than festival candy wrappers. He smells sweet too, you notice? Jasmine, vanilla, something warm. He's practically a pudding left out in the sun."
Kongō barked a laugh, low and rumbling. "Pudding? No. He's cake. Fancy cake. The kind nobles buy to show off. Layers of silk instead of frosting, colors stacked like fruit. You poke him, he'd jiggle."
Karenbana covered her mouth, pretending to hide her grin. "Cake? You think he's cake? He's too delicate for cake. He's sorbet. Melts if you look at him too hard. All that silk and shine—he's dressed like a parfait."
Kongō crossed his arms, glaring down at Malik's sleeping figure. "Parfait? Hah. Parfaits are tall. He's small. He's more like mochi. Soft outside, chewy inside. Probably sticky too."
Karenbana snorted. "Sticky? You're ridiculous. He's crème brûlée. Glossy on top, fragile underneath. One tap and he cracks."
Kongō jabbed a thick finger toward Malik's chest, where the silk shimmered like molten sugar. "No, no. Look at that glow. That's honey. He's dripping honey. You could smell him across the clearing. He's dessert walking."
Karenbana rolled her eyes, but her lips curved upward. "Dessert walking. That's what you're going with?"
Kongō shrugged, grin widening. "Better than pudding."
Karenbana leaned closer, whispering as if Malik might wake. "He's ridiculous. Who sleeps like that, dressed like a festival sweet? If he's bait, he's bait wrapped in sugar."
Kongō chuckled again, shaking his head. "If he's bait, then we're the fools. Because now I'm hungry."
Karenbana laughed outright, the sound sharp and bright against the uneasy silence of the clearing. "Hungry for dessert? Or hungry for trouble?"
Kongō's grin turned wolfish. "Both."
And Infront of them, Ishidate's eyes narrowed further, unimpressed by their banter. But even he couldn't deny it: Malik, asleep in his silken glow, looked less like a man and more like a confection placed in the middle of a battlefield. A dessert daring them to take a bite.
Ishidate took a step forward, gesturing for the others to follow. "Regardless of his state, show restraint. We were paid to be here, and we don't know the full extent of his abilities."
"Right," Karenbana muttered. "Fine. Let's wake the pretty man."
They approached as quietly as three very differently built shinobi could. Kongō's heavy steps betrayed him, crunching the sand loudly. Ishidate considered nudging him, but what was the point?
Karenbana cleared her throat delicately.
"Excuse me—Mr. Malik… sir?"
No response.
Kongō leaned down, poking Malik's shoulder with two fingers. "Hey. Wake up."
Karenbana gasped. "Don't poke him! That's not respectful—"
Malik's eyes snapped open.
His full body stretched upward in one fluid motion, arms rising above his head, spine arching gracefully, pink and gold fabric shimmering like sunrise. He let out a long, dramatic yawn.
When he finally opened his eyes fully, he smiled warmly—and spoke in rapid, cozy Spanish.
"Perdón, mis amigos… Me dormí sin querer. La brisa está deliciosa hoy."
The three stared blankly.
Kongō leaned toward Ishidate and whispered, "What did he say?"
"Do I look like I speak foreign island dialects?" Ishidate hissed.
Malik blinked at their confusion, then chuckled richly. "Ah—sorry. Wrong language." He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze sharpened, warm but unsettlingly knowing. "Ishidate. Kongō. Karenbana."
All three stiffened.
He gestured to each in turn.
"Ishidate of the Uemon Clan.
Kongō of the Uemon Clan.
Karenbana of the Uemon Clan."
Karenbana's eyes widened. "How… do you know—?"
Malik's smile softened, growing warmer, flirtatious, almost intoxicating. When he reached Karenbana, his tone dipped, velvet-sweet.
"And you… Miss Karenbana… you are even lovelier in person than the rumors suggest."
She blinked three times too fast, struggling to keep her composure, pink eyes darting away.
Ishidate cleared his throat. "You summoned us here. We came for business, not flattery."
"Yes," Malik said, nodding graciously. "And thank you for coming. I know the voyage was long—and the payment was generous." His smile sharpened knowingly. "But what I'm offering now… will require patience. A slow burn. A story that must unfold at just the right pace."
He snapped his fingers.
Three elegant chairs swirled into existence from curling ribbons of light, forming into polished wood and silk cushions before they hit the sand. Karenbana startled backward. Malik snapped again, and a tall chilled drink—pale peach-colored with sugared rim—materialized in his hand, which he offered to Karenbana first.
She accepted it reluctantly, stunned.
Malik continued, "In approximately four and a half months—give or take—you three will be hired by a man named Shabadaba. Minister to the King of the Land of the Moon. A man hungry for power."
Ishidate's eyes narrowed. "We have heard the name. He pays well."
"Oh, he pays very well." Malik nodded. "And he will pay you to kill the King."
Karenbana stiffened. Kongō let out a grunt. Ishidate said nothing—but his eyes glittered with calculation.
Malik continued, voice steady, calm, warm like a storyteller who already knew the ending.
"Take the job. Accept everything he offers. But inform the King first. Give him this."
A letter formed in Malik's hand in a column of soft golden light. The seal gleamed like molten moonlight. He handed it to Ishidate.
"Work with the King. Let him flee and hide. Let events unfold. Play your roles well."
Kongō scratched his chin. "We're… acting, then? Pretending?"
"To an extent," Malik said. "You will do what Shabadaba asks. You do not need to succeed. You only need to be convincing. The Moon Kingdom needs internal pressure—change." His gaze softened. "Most of the noble guard is corrupt. But not all."
Karenbana swirled her drink, voice cool. "And in return…?"
Malik leaned back, looking at them like a merchant revealing a treasure chest. "In return, you will earn a kingdom's curiosity. Then its respect. Then its trust. The Land of the Moon has no ninja clan. No shinobi village. Nowhere to turn when crisis arrives."
His smile widened.
"A perfect place for wandering shinobi to settle. To build resources. Influence. A future. A home."
Kongō's eyes widened slightly in awe.
Karenbana's breath caught—status and admiration danced in her imagination.
Ishidate exhaled slowly, fingers steepled. "You offer us something far more valuable than coin."
"Yes," Malik said gently. "Legacy."
He motioned toward the resort behind him. "This building is yours for now. For your people. I'll stay until tomorrow morning—my people want more time in the sun."
He folded his hands in his lap. "Before I go any further… do you have questions?"
The three Uemon shinobi exchanged looks.
Silent.
Concerned.
Tempted.
Karenbana set her drink down and cleared her throat. "We… need to talk privately."
Kongō nodded. "Yeah. We need to think."
Ishidate bowed his head stiffly. "We will confer. Do not leave."
Malik smiled. "I won't."
The three turned as one, moving down the path toward the treeline, their silhouettes growing smaller.
When they were finally out of sight, all three exhaled at once, tension spilling into the humid air.
They had much to discuss.
The moment the three Uemon shinobi stepped out of sight of the resort clearing, Ishidate lifted a hand to stop the others. Kongō halted with a grunt; Karenbana exhaled sharply, her eyes fixed on the treeline as if she expected Malik to appear behind them.
Ishidate turned his back to the resort, ensuring no sign of pink-gold light shone through the leaves. Only then did he speak.
"We must assess this without theatrics." His voice was crisp, even. "We were paid to come. He knows our names, our clan, our histories. And he speaks about the Moon Kingdom as if borders are suggestions."
Karenbana folded her arms. "You say 'without theatrics,' but he was lying there like a painting of a god on vacation. That's its own kind of performance."
Kongō scratched behind his ear. "He doesn't… feel like a ninja. Or a lord. Or a daimyo. Feels like… something else."
Ishidate's jaw tightened. That troubled him more than he liked to admit.
"He is confident," Ishidate said. "Too confident. As if nothing in this scenario can harm him."
Karenbana smirked. "Why would it? Did you see the man? He looks like he bathes in gold dust and compliments."
Kongō snorted. "You stared at him like he was dessert."
"Correction," she replied sweetly. "I stared at him like he was profitable dessert. There's a difference."
But Ishidate noticed the glimmer behind her eyes. Curiosity. Attraction. Calculations of her own.
He refocused her. "Karenbana, set aside your flirtations. What do you make of his proposal?"
She clicked her tongue. "Fine. The job is dangerous, but it's not the kind of danger that comes from us. It comes from politics—and we've danced around worse. We take the job from Shabadaba, warn the King, pretend to kill him, let the nobles implode on each other. It's not hard."
"It's not easy," Ishidate corrected sharply. "We will be playing two sides at once. The margin for error is thin."
Kongō frowned at the sand. "But… the reward. He said we could earn a home there. Real standing. No more running. No more working for whoever pays most."
His voice carried something Karenbana rarely heard from him: hope.
She softened, just slightly. "Kongō… you want a home?"
He shrugged, embarrassed. "Wouldn't mind one. I'm tired of boats."
Karenbana paused. "I've never lived in one place for more than six months. The idea sounds… suffocating."
"But also nice," Kongō added quietly.
She didn't deny it.
Ishidate, for all his cold logic, folded his arms and considered the notion. "A kingdom without its own shinobi force is a kingdom looking for one. Malik is giving us the chance to become the foundation of something larger. Not petty mercenaries. Not hired blades. But… an institution."
He hesitated—rare for him.
"And if this is manipulation?"
Karenbana shrugged. "Then we manipulate back. Honestly, Ishidate, you act like this is the first powerful man to offer us something impossible."
"This one can actually deliver," Kongō muttered.
They all knew it was true.
Karenbana leaned against a palm tree, arms folded under her chest, face thoughtful. "He has power. Money. Knowledge. Influence. And he knows how to speak to people. Even me."
She admitted it grudgingly.
Ishidate sighed. "So you're in?"
Karenbana raised a brow. "Why? You worried he'll like me more than you?"
"Absolutely not," Ishidate snapped.
Kongō grinned. "He definitely liked her."
Karenbana flicked Kongō's forehead. "Obviously. Did you see his smile? That was a 'I like what I'm seeing' smile."
Ishidate pinched the bridge of his nose. "We are discussing a political upheaval, not your romantic ambitions."
Karenbana smirked. "Who says I can't do both? I'm multitalented."
But beneath the teasing, Ishidate saw sincerity. Karenbana was interested—genuinely. Not just attracted, but intrigued. She had never met someone who looked at her without judgment, without condescension for her size, her wig, her perfume, her clan, or her temper.
Malik hadn't even blinked.
He'd smiled.
Ishidate inhaled deeply. "All right. Then our positions are clear. Kongō?"
Kongō cracked his knuckles. "I'm in. I like the idea. I like the money. And I like the man."
Karenbana placed a hand dramatically on her chest. "And I like everything."
Ishidate nodded once. A crisp, decisive gesture. "Then we proceed. But we remain cautious. Malik seems generous, but no one with that much power is harmless. Not even close."
They all agreed silently.
With that, the three shinobi stepped out of the treeline and returned across the sand toward Malik, who was still lounging but now sipping a drink that looked suspiciously like liquid rose gold.
Their Answer
Malik straightened as they approached, setting aside his drink with a soft chime. His expression brightened immediately.
"Back so soon? I was beginning to think you'd abandoned me."
Ishidate spoke first, ever the diplomat when necessary. "We have reached a decision."
Malik folded his hands. "I'm listening."
Kongō stepped forward. "We accept. The plan, the pay, the long-term opportunity—we're in."
Karenbana added, with a sly little tilt of her head, "All of it. Even the slow burn part."
Ishidate shot her a warning glance, which she ignored entirely.
Malik's smile widened, warm and genuine, eyes glowing like sunlight on water. "Excellent. I knew you three would see the potential here."
His praise was honeyed, and all three felt it—confidence, approval, recognition. Karenbana nearly melted on the spot.
Ishidate continued, tone formal. "We will perform the mission as instructed. Warn the king. Play the part Shabadaba expects. And report to you directly."
"Wonderful," Malik said. "The foundations are set. The rest will unfold naturally."
He snapped his fingers again—three scrolls appearing in front of him, hovering patiently.
"These contain secondary instructions. You'll receive more later."
Kongō reached for his, fascinated.
Karenbana reached for hers—
Then froze when Malik turned his full attention on her, leaning slightly closer.
"And now," he said softly, "business is concluded."
Karenbana's heart hit her ribs like a kunai strike.
She stepped closer, lips curling into a confident smirk. "So. About earlier. You said I was lovelier in person."
Malik's eyes gleamed. "I did. And I meant it."
Kongō elbowed Ishidate. "Uh oh."
Karenbana flicked her hair back. "Well then… you have very good taste. And I happen to like people who have very good taste." She placed a hand on her hip. "So I was wondering… what exactly do you look for in a relationship?"
Malik tilted his head thoughtfully. "Honesty. Curiosity. Passion. Someone who knows their worth—and isn't afraid to step closer when they want something."
Karenbana took that as an invitation and stepped closer. "Is that so…?"
"It is," Malik said smoothly. "And what about you? What do you want, Karenbana?"
She pretended to think, finger tracing her lower lip. "I want someone who sees me. Not just my size. Not just my face. Someone who knows I'm older than I look, sharper than I act, and better than people assume."
"I already know all of that," Malik said, low and warm.
Karenbana nearly combusted.
Behind them, Ishidate cleared his throat loudly. "Karenbana—"
She didn't look back. "Leave."
Kongō blinked. "What?"
"Leave," she repeated sweetly but murderously. "Go inside with the staff, take the tour, enjoy the luxury rooms. I'm having a private conversation."
"But—" Kongō tried.
"Leave," she said again, still smiling, her fingers glowing faintly with threat.
Ishidate exhaled, somewhere between annoyance and acceptance. "Come on, Kongō. Let's go."
"But Malik—"
"Kongō," Ishidate snapped, "if we stay, she'll poison one of us."
"That's fair," Kongō admitted.
Two resort staff—tall, elegant women dressed in flowing resort uniforms with golden embroidery—slid the doors open and bowed.
"Gentlemen," one said, "if you would follow us."
Kongō let himself be guided.
Ishidate followed, stiff and annoyed.
Karenbana watched them go, smirking triumphantly.
Then she turned to Malik.
Her smile softened—unexpectedly warm beneath all the attitude.
"So… where were we?"
Malik smiled back.
"Right here," he said. "On the beach."
Karenbana's cheeks darkened just slightly.
And she stepped closer still.