The rain battered Kawa Crossing relentlessly, drumming against the roof of Riverside Haven as Souta stood by the window, peering out into the gray haze.
The lantern's flickering light danced across the room, casting long shadows over Hinata, who sat propped against the wall on the bed. Her breathing was steadier now, the shadowroot antidote still dulling the poison's bite.
Souta clenched his jaw, the damp towel still in his hand. They were close—Kawa Crossing had the healer he'd heard about, an old war vet named Goro who'd patched up shinobi in the Second War. If anyone could cure her, it was him.
"Alright," Souta said, turning from the window and slinging his pack over his shoulder. "You stay here, rest up. I'll track down this Goro guy and drag him back if I have to. No point in you stumbling through the mud with me."
Hinata's pale eyes flicked to him, sharp despite the exhaustion weighing her down. "I should come," she said, her voice hoarse but firm. She shifted, trying to push herself up, but her arms trembled, and she sank back with a frustrated huff. "If he's a healer… he might need to see the poison."
"Nah," Souta cut in, stepping closer and pressing a hand to her shoulder, gentle but insistent. "You're barely standing. I'll bring him here—explain it myself. You just focus on not keeling over 'til I get back." He flashed a grin, trying to lighten the mood, but his eyes were serious, locked on hers.
She glared at him for a moment, then sighed, relenting. "Fine. But be quick. And… careful. This town's crawling with people who'd sell you out for a handful of ryo."
"Scrappy, remember?" he said, winking as he adjusted his cloak. "I'll be fine. Back before you know it." He grabbed the key, gave her a nod, and slipped out the door, the creak of the hinges swallowed by the rain's roar.
The streets of Kawa Crossing were a muddy mess, the downpour turning the dirt into a slick, sucking mire. Souta trudged through it, boots sinking with every step, his cloak plastered to his back.
The townsfolk moved fast under awnings and overhangs—traders barking prices, dockhands hauling crates, a kid splashing through puddles with a laugh.
He asked around, keeping it casual: "Old healer named Goro—know where he's at?" Most shrugged or pointed vaguely west, but a grizzled fishmonger finally grunted, "Edge of town, past the last dock. Shack with a red door. Good luck—he's a cranky bastard."
Souta found it after twenty minutes of slogging—a squat, weathered shack perched on a low rise, its red door faded to a dull crimson. Smoke curled from a crooked chimney, and the faint tang of herbs hit him as he approached.
He rapped on the door, hard, the sound muffled by the rain. No answer. He knocked again, louder, and a gruff voice barked from inside, "What d'you want? I ain't buying!"
"Not selling," Souta called back, leaning closer. "Need a healer. Heard you're the guy. My friend's sick—poisoned. Can you help?"
The door creaked open, revealing a wiry old man with a shock of white hair and a face like cracked leather. Goro's eyes—sharp, suspicious—raked over Souta, lingering on his soaked cloak and the knife at his hip. "Poisoned, huh?" he rasped, voice rough as gravel. "What kind? I don't do charity, kid. You got coin?"
"Enough," Souta said, patting his pocket. "Slow-acting, concealed stuff. Dark lines spreading from a cut. "
Goro's eyes narrowed, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. "Concealed, you say? Lines? Sounds like viper's kiss—nasty shit, brewed from cave viper venom. Old assassin trick, not tied to any village. Very rare." He scratched his stubbled chin, then stepped back, gesturing Souta inside. "Come in. Don't drip on my floor."
The shack was cramped, shelves sagging with jars of dried herbs, roots, and murky liquids. A fire crackled in a stone hearth, the heat cutting through the damp chill. Goro shuffled to a workbench, rummaging through a clutter of vials and scrolls. Souta stayed by the door, watching, his gut tight with hope. "You can fix it, then? do you have a antidote?"
"Maybe," Goro muttered, pulling a small jar of black powder from a shelf. "Viper's kiss needs a mix—shadowroot base, crushed moonbloom, and a drop of cave viper blood. I've got the first two. Blood's trickier—haven't seen a vial in years. Might take days to track down." He glanced at Souta, sizing him up. "Who's is this friend of yours? Shinobi? Mercenary?"
Souta hesitated, then shrugged. "Shinobi. Good one. Doesn't matter who—just needs help."
Goro snorted, setting the jar down. "Always matters with shinobi. Clan ties, village grudges—brings trouble. Leaf? Mist? Don't lie—I'll know."
"Leaf," he said finally. "That's all you need to know."
Goro froze, his hand hovering over a mortar. "Leaf, huh?" His tone shifted, colder now, and he turned fully to face Souta, eyes hard. "Show me the posion. I need to see it—confirm it's viper's kiss before I waste my time."
"She's back at the inn," Souta said, thumbing over his shoulder. "Riverside Haven. I'll bring you—"
"No," Goro snapped, cutting him off. "You bring her here. I don't traipse around in the rain for nobody. If she's too weak to walk, that's your problem."
Souta bristled, but he nodded. "Fine. Give me an hour." He turned to leave, but Goro's voice stopped him cold.
"And if she's Hyuga, I'm out. No deal."
Souta spun back, eyes narrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Goro crossed his arms, leaning against the workbench. "Means what it means. Hyuga clan's a headache—big name, big enemies. I patched up a few in the war, and it got me hunted by their rivals for years. Nearly cost me my head. I don't touch their messes anymore. Too much risk."
"She's just a person," Souta said, voice low. "Not a clan war. She's dying—doesn't that matter?"
"Not to me," Goro shot back. "I've got my own skin to worry about. Bring her if you want, but if those pale eyes look back at me, you're on your own. That's the deal."
Souta stared at him, fists clenching, then walked out without another word. The rain hit him like a slap, soaking through his cloak as he slogged back to the inn.
Back at Riverside Haven, the lobby was quiet, the innkeeper gone from her post. Souta took the stairs two at a time, bursting into their room. Hinata looked up from the bed, her towel draped over her lap, a faint flush of effort on her cheeks from trying to stand. "You're back," she said, relief softening her voice. "Did you find him?"
"Yeah," Souta said, dropping his pack and running a hand through his wet hair. "Old bastard named Goro. He knows the poison—viper's kiss. Cave viper venom, some assassin brew. Says he can maybe cure it, but he's got a catch."
Hinata's brow furrowed. "What catch?"
"He won't treat you if you're Hyuga," Souta said, spitting the words like they burned. "Some crap about clan trouble from the war. Says it's too risky for him."
Her face tightened, a flicker of anger breaking through her exhaustion. "That's… ridiculous. I'm not here as a Hyuga—I'm just me." She clenched the towel, knuckles whitening. "Did you tell him that?"
"Tried," Souta said, pacing the small room. "He's stubborn as hell. Wants you there to see the wound, but if he clocks those eyes, he's done. We could hide it—cover your face, say you're someone else—but he's sharp. Might not buy it."
Hinata shook her head, slow and deliberate. "No. I won't beg him. If he won't help, we'll find another way." Her voice was steel, even as her body sagged. "There's always someone else."