48: Illusion

Shin woke to a clock on the wall reading past nine.

Cold dishes sat on the low table—someone had brought food while he was out. He’d slept through everything. The bone-deep fatigue was gone, at least. He dressed, ate what he could stomach cold, and stepped into the hallway.

The door to the next room opened at the same moment. Two young Sand shinobi—the boys from the border checkpoint—emerged into the corridor. The fan girl was already there, waiting.

The boys didn’t recognize him. At the gate, they hadn’t spared him a glance. The girl’s gaze passed over Shin once, flat and uncurious, before the three of them headed for the inn’s main hall.

They’re staying here too.

He tried Tsume’s door. No answer. Right—the caravan crew had invited her out to eat. They’d come for him too, but he’d been dead to the world. Still not back, apparently.

Nothing better to do. He wandered through the main hall, past travelers hunched over sake cups and low conversation, and out into the night.

……

The border town was alive.

Wide streets strung with colored lanterns, lined end to end with izakaya, restaurants, gambling dens, and entertainment halls. Laughter and the clatter of cups spilled from every doorway. The air smelled like grilled meat, sake, and something sweet he couldn’t place.

It was nothing like Konoha. In the Leaf, shops grew out of residential neighborhoods—organic, unhurried. Here, it was commerce from one end of the street to the other, a town built for people passing through, not for anyone who stayed.

It reminded him of cities from before. The sprawl, the noise, the gaudy excess. Intoxicating even when you knew better.

Too bad he was trapped in a child’s body. Couldn’t drink. Would get turned away at the door of half these places.

Street vendors had set up stalls along the curb, hawking snacks and cheap toys aimed at kids. Shin had no interest. He drifted, content to look.

Then he spotted them.

The Sand trio, clustered around a small stall up ahead. Daimaru was crouched in front of a shallow basin, paper net in hand.

Goldfish scooping. The sign read: 50 ryō — 3 tries.

“Come on! Why does it keep breaking?!”

The net tore again. Daimaru clutched his head.

“Because your hand won’t stop shaking,” his companion said, standing behind him with arms folded.

“You think it’s easy? You try.”

The other boy shrugged, knelt, took the net, and swept it toward a darting flash of orange.

Splash.

Rip.

The fish dropped through the hole and vanished back into the water.

“…”

“…”

“Ha!” Daimaru was doubled over. “You’re worse than me!”

“Shut up.” The boy’s ears went red.

“Temari, want a turn?” He looked up at the girl standing behind them.

“…Fine.” Temari stepped forward and knelt. She took the net in both hands—careful, deliberate—and lowered it toward the water.

“Just relax,” the boy said.

That made it worse. Her hands shook. The net touched a fish, scooped—and tore on contact.

“…”

“…”

“A-again.”

A flush crept up Temari’s neck.

“Pfft—”

“Daimaru. Laugh one more time.”

She tried again. Deep breath. The paper net hovered over the basin like a weapon poised to strike. The goldfish darted. She stabbed downward.

Rip.

“Again!”

“Take your time, miss.” The stall owner smiled. “A few more tries and you’ll have it.”

Rip.

Rip.

Rip.

Attempt after attempt. Not one success. Temari’s expression migrated from embarrassment to something approaching homicidal.

“Uh, Temari? Maybe that’s enou—”

“Maybe we should just—”

“Who says I can’t do it?!” Temari whipped around. The look she gave the lean boy could have stripped bark from a tree.

“N-nothing. Please. Continue.”

Temari turned back to the basin. Her hands blurred through a seal. Blue chakra flared along the paper net, reinforcing it from edge to edge, and she plunged it into the water.

This time, the fish thrashed and the net held. She lifted it clear, deposited the fish into a paper bowl, and held it up to the stall owner with a look of pure triumph.

“That one doesn’t count, I’m afraid.” The man pointed at a small placard beside the basin.

NO NINJUTSU.

Temari stared at the sign.

“Excuse me—I got one.”

A voice from beside her. Temari turned. A black-haired boy she vaguely recognized—the kid from the inn hallway—was crouching at the basin’s edge, paper bowl in hand. A single goldfish flicked its tail inside.

“Huh? When did he—” Daimaru and his companion leaned in, baffled.

“Oh! Well done!” The stall owner blinked, then recovered. “Congratulations—you can take that one as your prize.”

He produced a small glass bottle, filled it with water, and transferred the fish.

“I’ve still got two tries left,” Shin said.

He lowered the net. One smooth motion—scoop, lift, transfer. A second fish sat in a paper bowl. He reached for a fresh bowl, repeated the motion. Three for three.

The net was still intact.

Temari: “…”

Daimaru: “…”

His companion: “…”

The stall owner: “…”

“Could you bottle these?” Shin handed over the bowls.

“O-of course.” The man fumbled two more bottles out, filled them, and lined all three up in front of Shin.

Shin picked them up, turned—and found three faces staring at him with undisguised resentment.

He blinked. Then smiled.

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“Here. They’re yours.”

He held out the bottles. He had no intention of keeping them—any fish in his care would be dead inside two days.

“Well, I couldn’t possibly—” Daimaru was already taking one, scratching the back of his head with an easy grin. “Thanks, little buddy.”

His companion and Temari hesitated, then each accepted a bottle.

“You’re Sand shinobi, right?” Shin nodded at their forehead protectors. Temari still had the iron fan strapped to her back.

“Oh!” Daimaru puffed up immediately, one finger jabbing at the metal plate on his forehead. “You are looking at a genin of the Hidden Sand Village! The man they call the Red Sandstorm—Daimaru the Mighty!”

“…”

“Nobody calls you that,” the lean boy said.

Temari wore the expression of someone who had never met this person.

“If you ever come to the Sand, little buddy, just drop my name. Nobody will give you trouble.”

“Dropping your name is how you get trouble.”

“So—you from around here?” Daimaru threw an arm around Shin’s shoulders, his goodwill apparently purchased for the price of a single goldfish.

“No.” Shin slipped free with a practiced turn. Still smiling. “I’m from Konoha.”

“Konoha?”

The lean boy startled. Temari’s expression didn’t change.

Daimaru went cold.

The grin vanished. The arm dropped. The warmth drained out of him like water through a crack, and the person left behind bore no resemblance to the one who’d been laughing a moment ago.

Shin wasn’t surprised. He’d seen enough at the checkpoint to expect this.

“You a ninja?” Daimaru’s voice had gone flat. His eyes went to Shin’s bare forehead—no headband.

“Give me a couple years.”

“Tch. Take it back.” Daimaru shoved the bottle into Shin’s hands. His companion sighed and returned his too.

Shin accepted both, uncapped the bottles, and poured the fish back into the stall basin.

Temari hadn’t moved.

“Temari—you’re keeping something from a Leaf ninja?“

“He just said he isn’t one yet.” Temari’s voice was bored, her gaze withering. “Picking a fight with a kid half your size. Were you looking for more ways to embarrass yourself?”

She turned and walked away.

She would never admit the real reason was that she wanted the fish—and couldn’t catch one herself.

“Hey—Temari?!”

No answer.

“Dammit—you Leaf people are all the same!” Daimaru shot Shin one last venomous look and took off after her.

“Sorry about that.” The lean boy—Nora—lingered. He gave a small, awkward bow. “My friend… some things happened recently, and he has certain feelings toward your village. It’s a misunderstanding.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Shin shrugged.

He’d wanted to talk with them. First time meeting shinobi from another village—he’d been curious. But that door was closed.

Nora bowed again and jogged off after his teammates.

Shin watched their backs disappear into the crowd. He stood there a moment, then drifted on—wandering the market streets without destination until the noise lost its novelty. He headed back to the inn.

……

Light seeped from under Tsume’s door. He knocked. Let himself in. Tsume sat cross-legged at the low table, a cup in her hands. A faint flush colored her cheeks—she’d been drinking—but her eyes were clear and sharp. The cup was probably something to sober up on, not more sake. Kuromaru lay curled in the corner, one ear twitching at Shin’s entrance.

“Hey.” She glanced over. “Out exploring?”

“Mm. Walked around a bit.”