As I'd learned, my immortality wasn't much different from what I knew about Hidan, except without his blood curse ritual. Basically a cut-rate, "budget" immortality. Like the old man in the lab coat explained, it wasn't Jashin's blessing at all, more like a curse. And I agreed.
First, the pain. I wasn't like Hidan, getting sick pleasure from it. I hated pain with every fibre of my immortal soul. Even after six months of daily torture, cutting, burns, electric shocks, starvation, I still couldn't get used to it. And the worst… the worst was the pain of healing.
Second, chakra. Technically, I'd learned to use it back in the underground complex. My body could generate it and direct it, but with insane effort, barely. The amount was pathetic. The only upside: my immortal cells seemed to produce chakra endlessly, even if only in microscopic doses. Drop by drop, and eventually even a bucket fills. If I have the time.
But what mattered now was this: my body was only seven years old, and I was thrilled to learn immortality didn't stop me from growing.
So I'll get older, my bones and muscles will strengthen, and yeah, "little Max" will become something real. More than that, I can still get stronger through training. I'm like damn Deadpool, only better.
While I was thinking, trying to distract myself from the burn in my chest and the slow crawl of knitting flesh, chaotic footsteps splashed through puddles up ahead, clipped commands snapping back and forth. Several voices.
"Stay sharp!" a low, hard voice barked from the alley entrance. "The explosion happened right here! Search everything! Could be saboteurs!"
A faint rustle somewhere deeper made me tense.
There they are… alongside my usual companions: pain and hunger.
By the dim, wavering light of the lanterns the Amegakure shinobi carried, I made out seven dark silhouettes. Some of them immediately melted into the night as if they'd never been there.
Pros. Moving carefully, expecting an ambush. Who knew what hid in this wet darkness?
At the front walked a tall, absurdly broad-shouldered shinobi in a flaring cloak. His face was hidden behind a breathing mask that made him look even more ominous.
Even in the dark, I saw the thick, ugly scar on the exposed part of his face. It ran from forehead to cheekbone, ruining features that weren't pretty to begin with. I instinctively hunched, my palm sliding over my chest like I was checking…
Yeah. The terrifying wound had finally closed. As long as nobody decided to carve my chest open, nobody would suspect a thing.
Good. My immortality stayed secret for now. All that was left was to play the naïve, slightly stupid kid. Half a year in Jashin's cult taught me how to act.
With that steadying thought, I hid the kunai under my shirt, braced a hand on the cold, rough wall, and forced myself upright through the weakness.
And then, sharp pressure, a cold blade kissing my throat.
"Don't move," a harsh voice snapped right behind me.
I froze. Slowly, very slowly, I raised both hands, showing complete surrender.
"All right. I won't. But hey, mister," I tried to slip in a little lightness, "watch where you point that kunai, yeah? I'm not a big fan of sharp thrills… or pain."
Even though I spoke quietly, almost a whisper, my voice instantly pulled the leader's attention, that scarred freak. Shielding his lantern from the rain with his palm, he took a few heavy steps forward and stopped right in front of me. His piercing, predatory stare raked over my face, then down my body, searching for weakness, threat, anything.
"Who are you? Why are you in this alley on a night like this?"
I just smirked, keeping it casual.
"My name's Wasabi Sushimi. And I'm an orphan," I said fast and without a flicker of doubt.
I'd been planning a name for a while, and since hunger in the cult made me think of nothing but food, I'd settled on Japanese cuisine. And I sure as hell wasn't giving these Amegakure shinobi my real name. What if they found a scroll on that corpse, Hayashi, with my data? If so, the chance of ending up back in a cage, or on a research table, was way too high. Way too high.
And right on cue, one of the shinobi searching Hayashi's body felt something under his lifeless arm. A scroll with a small seal marked by a strange, unfamiliar symbol. The shinobi didn't blink. He dipped a finger in the still-warm blood and traced it across the seal.
Poof.
Thick white smoke scattered almost instantly, and in his hands was a huge, tightly rolled scroll. I watched it from the corner of my eye, but I answered the scarred guy calmly, with a hint of tiredness.
"As for why I'm here… simple. Those fanatics, the True Jashin cultists, caught me, but I managed to escape. Figured mighty, unbeatable Amegakure would be safer, so I headed here. But they caught up anyway." I nodded towards Hayashi's corpse. "And… well. That's it."
"Did you kill him?" the scarred one asked again, his voice even harder.
I just nodded. Lying now was pointless. Any shinobi, even a mediocre one, could read the fresh fight all over this alley.
"How?" he blurted, and the word held both disbelief and irritation.
"Uh…" I put on a show of being shy, like I was trying to remember. "Substitution technique, explosive tags… and a little kunai trick. Used a couple things. Nothing special."
The scarred man's lips twitched slightly under his mask. His gaze slid from me to Hayashi's body and back again, open contempt plain as day.
Oh, he didn't respect my "cheap tricks", and probably respected Hayashi even less for getting killed by some seven-year-old punk.
Right then, the shinobi reading the scroll hurried to his commander, covered his mouth with his hand, and whispered quietly but clearly enough for me to hear:
"Kandachi-sama. The dead man is none other than Hayashi, the Divine Messenger of the True Jashin cult. There's a bounty on his head."
At that, Kandachi, now I had his name, threw Hayashi's corpse a look so full of disgust it raised gooseflesh. Then, softly, like a snake, he asked:
"How did he die? Specifically."
"Looks like the boy got trapped under an earth technique first, then the cultist approached him. After that, the boy used the Substitution Technique, and the explosive tag went off right as it triggered. The timing was… perfect. Lucky kid. Then the boy finished the crippled cultist with a kunai."
Kandachi looked at me with faint, but noticeable surprise, and something like real interest flashed in his cold eyes.
"Remind me what this trash goes for these days," he said with feigned indifference.
"Fifteen million ryo, Kandachi-sama," the subordinate answered crisply, quiet.
The corners of Kandachi's mouth twitched, now with a hint of something predatory, calculating.
"Take the boy into custody. And the corpse…" He waved at Hayashi with open disgust. "The face isn't recognisable. Dump it in the river, let the local fish finish it. And be careful."
He gave his subordinate the barest wink, almost playful, but I saw it. The man, clearly used to Kandachi, understood at once. He nodded with exaggerated seriousness and rushed off to carry out the order.
My hands were already tied tight behind my back with a thick rope, but I wasn't panicking at all. The whisper and that glint in Kandachi's eyes, greedy and sharp, I caught it clean.
He's going to claim my work.
I didn't care. Hayashi was nothing to me now, used-up scrap. Even good, heavy training weights would be more useful. Besides, the soul in this seven-year-old body belonged to a grown man with experience.
And the biggest difference between adults and kids is that adults know exactly when to play obedient. Another advantage: I looked like the most harmless, pathetic child imaginable. No value. Just another mouth. A burden. But this guy, Kandachi… he'd just stolen my fifteen million ryo.
Oh, I'll remember that debt. I'll write it down in a notebook in extra ominous handwriting. Once I master the Eight Gates, I'll crush him with one kick. For sure.
Etching his face into my memory down to the smallest detail, I put on a helpless, utterly defenceless expression and, head bowed, followed the Amegakure shinobi out of the dark alley.