Menma finally reached the edge of the ship's deck, panting heavily, every inch of his body drenched in cold rain. Snow, soaked to her little bones, trembled like a leaf on his shoulder. Both of them were at their limits—one more push and they might just collapse where they stood.
Peeking over the deck's edge, Menma watched the chaos unfold above. Dozens of sailors ran back and forth under the stormy sky, tightening ropes, checking cargo, pumping out water, yelling at each other as the rain and seawater mixed into one merciless mess. A symphony of panic played on the deck, loud and confusing.
Carefully scanning the surroundings, Menma spotted a cluster of barrels tightly strapped together near the side. Just enough of a shadow, just dry enough to hide in. That would do.
He waited patiently, watching the sky. The moment a bolt of lightning tore the sky open, lighting the entire deck in a flash of silver, he used the sound of thunder and the cover of rain to hoist himself over the railing and drop silently behind the barrels.
Rumble!
Plush!
The sound of thunder crashing and a wet thud blended perfectly—masking his entry. Menma slumped against the barrels, breathing hard, his arms falling limp at his sides, but his grip on his kunai remained tight, even unconscious of it.
Snow, still trembling from the cold, nudged his cheek with her nose and licked him gently. Menma gave her a crooked smile and managed to lift one hand to pat her soaked head. Then, with shaking fingers, he gently pulled her from his shoulder and tucked her inside his shirt.
He didn't have the energy to circulate chakra to warm them both, so he did the next best thing—share his body heat, no matter how little it was.
Snow pushed her head up through the collar of his shirt, peeking out like a tiny fuzzy scout. Even half-drenched and cold, she still looked painfully cute. Menma sighed. They couldn't stay here. They needed somewhere drier, warmer, and far better hidden.
Gathering his breath, he peeked cautiously from behind the barrels.
The deck was plain, rough-hewn, and old—just like a fishing boat should be. Wooden planks ran from bow to stern, stained and cracked by age and weather. Crates and old fishing nets were scattered like forgotten dreams barely not being washed away by the storm.
Toward the stern was a battered wheelhouse—small, square, and unimpressive. Its rusted metal roof pinged endlessly under the falling rain, and a grumpy man stood in front of it barking orders, completely drenched yet commanding.
Through a momentary gap in the swinging door, Menma glimpsed inside. There was barely enough space for a map, a rusted wheel, a flickering old radio, and a few strange items he couldn't identify.
Seeing the man's head turn briefly toward his direction, Menma ducked back behind the barrels. His heart thudded in his chest.
He couldn't go that way.
Instead, he turned his attention across the deck and spotted something clever—near the center, a trapdoor. It was disguised perfectly to look like any other wooden plank, but the placement of the sandbags to keep water from seeping in gave it away. A secret entrance to the cargo hold, perhaps? One, only someone familiar with the ship would ever notice.
Above, thin ropes and pulleys hung limply from a short mast. They looked more decorative than useful. None of the crew spared them a glance, and the sails were tightly bound—likely waiting for calmer waters to be used again.
Everything seemed old, cheap, and deliberately unimpressive—but something about it was... off. Too deliberate. Too plain. And more importantly, far too many chakra signatures were coming from the deck below.
The whole setup screamed trap.
But Menma didn't care. He needed to get out of the rain. And quickly.
His eyes kept looking around and finally locked onto a small side door on the far end of the deck—opposite the wheelhouse. It was shielded from wind and rain, and more importantly, empty of chakra, even though it was straight opposite the captain. That was his goal.
Moving silently, Menma returned his kunai to his pouch and opened his senses to maximum sharpness, catching the tiniest movements, the faintest footsteps.
He couldn't be seen—not even a shadow. Not even a whisper.
He counted down from ten.
Just as a sailor approached his side to check the barrels, Menma moved to the other side—low, quick, silent.
The sailor glanced around, saw nothing but tightened barrels, and moved to the next group of barrels to check.
Menma crawled across the deck, sliding from one patch of shadow to another. With the grace of a cat and the nerves of a star-nosed mole, the fastest one on earth. He dodged another man by circling the barrels before hitting him face to face and moved silently around behind him but...
Crack!
The ship groaned and rocked violently under a wave, and Menma lost his balance for a moment, bumping into a barrel with a dull thud.
Damn it.
The nearby sailor heard it and turned, heading in his direction.
Splash.
Splash.
The heavy boots squelched on the soaked wood. Menma held his breath. His muscles tensed, preparing to pounce, fists ready to knock the man out with a single hit. He'd tie him up later, leaving him unconscious behind the barrels. A classic ninja work.
But just as he was about to strike...
"HEY! ROPE'S SNAPPED ON THIS SIDE! COME AND HELP ME!"
Another shout rang out from the other side of the deck.
The sailor cursed under his breath and turned away, hurrying to help.
Menma let out a sigh, tension melting from his shoulders, taking him a step closer to passing out from exhaustion. That was too close. He slid forward again, creeping toward his destination.
A few more dashes, a few more shadows, and he was finally at the last hiding spot before the door.
Now comes the hardest level of this stealth operation—the final stage of a mission worthy of legends.
Menma crouched in silence, his eyes locked on the last obstacle between him and shelter: a small, unassuming door on the far side of the ship. But just standing directly opposite to it with the door in its line of sight was the ship's leader, the soaked and shouting captain, his eyes sharp, his presence an immovable ship leader and a door gaurd.
There was no cover. No shadow. No bluffing to get past him.
But Menma didn't panic as he already had a plan in mind.
Instead, he waited.
Just like an acrobat on a wire, poised on the edge of a rooftop, waiting for the wind to be just right before his leap, he timed his breath with the rhythm of the storm. He would only have a few moments to move, during the chance he was waiting for. An incident that would rock the ship hard enough to draw attentions away or blind everyone for short moment.
He was soaked, shivering, sore from the climb and all other actions he had taken from finding the ship till this very moment but his mind was razor-sharp, just like how he climbed out of mud and pain that night, fighting an impossible battle to the very end. He exposed his tongue and licked the rain water flowing his cheeks and tip of his nose, easing his thirst a little and wetting his dry throat.
This was going to be it. A perfect move, at the best time. One shot. One blink. One breath. A dance so exciting that no person would forget.
He crouched lower, invisible in the dark.
He waited... and waited...
-----
Murakami was shouting orders across the deck, doing everything in his power to steer the ship away from the storm they'd spotted too late to escape from cleanly. It was the kind of misfortune no captain ever wanted to face, one of those days the other nature reminded you who was still in the charge.
His lookout had been snorting lazily up in the mast, basking in the last stretch of sunshine, and by the time he finally noticed the storm, they were already within its approaching range. Worse still, their ship was caught right in the path the storm was raging through.
Murakami made a mental note to deal with that lazy scout later. For now, all hands had to be where they belonged, doing their jobs if they wanted to survive this. Inside that doom of furry and lightning, only death was waiting for everything, for the crew, for the ship, and for the precious cargo below and for him!
He had the engines pushed to full power and passed the helm to his most trusted lieutenant, then moved outside by himself to rally the rest of the crew through the storm. Before the storm fully swallowed them, he even climbed up the mast to scan the storm line and calculate the route.
Once he confirmed their path, he jumped down and continued issuing orders, his soaked coat slapping against his legs as the rain battered him.
Things weren't great, but they weren't hopeless yet. They were slowly pulling out of the most dangerous zone. But then...
He felt it.
A prickle on the back of his neck. His instincts, honed by years at sea, flared all at once.
Something was watching. Something dangerous. Something wrong.
He turned around immediately, scanning the deck to find the source of that spine-chilling sensation. But there was nothing; just a flash, a flicker at the edge of his vision. And then it was gone.
That didn't calm him down. No, that made things worse.
His sixth sense, the one that always whispered warnings before storms or ambushes, was screaming now. The danger was still here, and it was hiding.
He immediately freed up a few sailors and ordered them to sweep the deck, to check every barrel, every rope, every shadow. He stood still, watching. Waiting for bad reports like a missing man or a shout of discovery.
But nothing came. Only a few broken ropes and loose barrels tossed around by the waves.
Murakami narrowed his eyes. His gut was still burning, and he never ignored his gut.
Then a thunderclap ripped through the sky, close enough to shake the bones. The whole ship lit up with white light, blinding him for half a second. As he turned to check if they'd been struck, he caught it, just in the corner of his eye.
Movement.
The door to the crew's quarters that was closed tight, it moved. It was supposed to be locked. Sealed tight during storms to keep seawater out. But now...
Now it has been opened.
Without saying a word, Murakami motioned to the nearest sailors to keep steady and grabbed his blade from a hook on the wall inside the wheelhouse and strode toward the door.
He opened it slowly.
Inside, a narrow hallway stretched into darkness without any signs of life. The smell of damp wood and salt clung to the walls. There were no visible signs of life. But on the floor...
Water stains.
And footprints. Wet ones.
Small. Light. Fresh.
Someone, or something, was walking around on his ship.
Murakami stepped through the threshold and shut the door behind him, silent as a ghost. His grip tightened around the blade.
Whatever it was... he would find it and deal with it the way he should.
----
Menma closed the door tightly behind him.
He had made it, just within that crucial second when the lightning lit up the world and the thunder roared loud enough to deafen the crew. It had masked him completely. His breath caught in his throat as he leaned back against the door, taking in the silence of the corridor ahead.
He exhaled slowly, then looked down at Snow's tiny head poking out of his shirt collar. She sniffed the air curiously, only to scrunch her little face and immediately press her nose back into his soaked chest, trying to escape the stench of sweat, seawater, and the sour smell of rotting wood.
Menma chuckled softly, lips curved into a tired smile. He patted her damp, fuzzy head gently, the weight of her presence grounding him.
Then he pushed himself forward, his legs trembling with fatigue. His steps were small, unsteady, and left behind a clear trail of seawater across the creaking floor. He was too tired to care.
His vision blurred at the edges, eyelids heavy like anchors. His chakra had gone still, quiet as if sleeping and he didn't even have the strength to expand his senses. All he could do was move toward the far end of the narrow hallway, hoping to find a dark corner where no one would see him.
A place to sleep.
A place to breathe.
A place to disappear.
But just as he neared the final bend, a sharp, cold pressure kissed his neck.
Steel. Ice-cold. Unmistakable.
A blade.
Its tip pressed dangerously close to his artery, chilling his skin and snapping his foggy mind into sudden clarity. Every instinct in his body surged. His heart pounded. Adrenaline exploded through him like a thunderclap. His fingers twitched, chakra stirred at the edge of his limbs. If he needed to fight, he would.
Even in this state. Even like this.
But before he could act, a voice met him. Quiet. Clear. Cold.
And calm.
"Who are you," it said, "and why are you up here?"
---