On a calm ocean, under the faint light of the thinning moon, a black ship slowly sailed forward.
The ship was slightly battered, its mast cracked, seaweed clinging to its hull and barrels. Some barrels rolled lazily across the deck, others half-dangled over the edge, stopped only by a lone rope.
Sailors were scattered across the deck, lying listlessly in the damp, their clothes soaked through, dripping water in steady rhythm. All of them were exhausted. They had been running back and forth non-stop, just to steer the ship clear of the storm, and now that they were finally safe, not a single one wanted to stand again.
Murakami sat on the steps in front of the wheelhouse, leaning on the railings to the side. His head drooped slightly, his posture relaxed, but not entirely. A subtle drop of unease and tension still lingered in his eyes.
He had guided the ship through the storm, once again, without losing a sailor or an important piece of cargo. He had already punished the lookout by assigning him the worst job on the vessel, being the last to leave the deck and personally cleaning and securing everything. A punishment that would last well into the next day. But Murakami's orders were not to be taken lightly.
Now, however, two different concerns occupied his thoughts.
First was that lingering sensation, the sense of danger. A strange, heavy feeling that hadn't left him since before the storm. It was like being watched, or stalked, by something hidden just out of sight. He had found nothing. No trace. And that was far more terrifying.
The second concern was about the boy... and Sarah.
He hated being used by others, especially when it came to the black market. He hadn't seen the boy once during the past two weeks and had no idea how he'd even gotten on the ship. Was he hidden in a barrel? Smuggled in with the cargo? He needed to interrogate him. And the boy himself was a puzzle, far heavier than he looked, yet also frail and close to collapse.
"His hair... was it red?"
Murakami whispered aloud. Then, as if struck by a bolt of realization, he sprang to his feet.
"No way. That clan was wiped out years ago. There's no way a stray from that bloodline just wandered onto my ship... I need to make sure!"
Without hesitation, he strode to the middle of the deck, throwing every worry and concern out if his mind as he saw mountain of gold's in front of him. The crew watched him with tired but curious eyes as he opened the trap door once again.
He snatched a lamp from a nearby sailor and descended into the hold, the hidden heart of the ship that housed his most valuable cargo. Below, the air was thick and still. No voices, no motion, just the soft thuds of his boots on wood planks.
He moved through crates and cages until he reached the one holding the two children.
When he raised the lamp to look inside, what he saw surprised him more than he cared to admit.
The boy lay half-naked, wearing only a pair of shorts, while being held tightly by Sarah, both trembling from cold wind that he brought with himself.
Snow, having sensed the trap door open earlier, had already vanished into the darkness, so Murakami never caught a glimpse of the small white guardian nearby.
But Sarah's protective hold on the boy caught him off guard.
He had bought Sarah from her stepfather, a monster of a man who'd tried to sell her to cover his gambling debts.
Murakami, afraid of trouble, had done a background check, discovering that she belonged to a now-faded old ninja clan. A minor one, but she had inherited a rare talent, the ability to hide her presence to such an extreme that even when standing in front of someone, they might not notice her.
It wasn't a flashy power, but it had a lot of value in black market. He'd already contacted a longtime client who bought children with bloodline abilities, and the negotiations had been so fruitful that Sarah alone was worth almost half his cargo.
Because of that, he had tolerated her rebellious nature far more than he normally would. From the moment the ship sailed, she had made troubles, refusing orders, trying to escape, even nearly launching one of the emergency boats silently into the sea. If he hadn't rigged an alarm to detect such actions, she would've gotten away long ago.
And now, his prized asset was clinging to a boy who might be even more valuable than her.
Murakami narrowed his eyes and studied the boy.
The face was pale, strikingly beautiful, with three strange lines across his cheeks but instead of making him ugly, they enhanced his features, giving him an intense, rugged charm.
A face like that could fetch a fortune in both underground and noble markets. Red hair splayed across the hay, vibrant and radiant, more vivid than any he'd ever seen, even among the rarest goods in the market.
Murakami nodded to himself and examined the boy's bare torso. Well-defined muscles, even in such a small frame. This boy wasn't normal.
But if he had such a strong body, why was he so weak? Was it dehydration? Starvation? Yes… that had to be it.
Which meant he could be tamed and controlled simply by managing his food and water. Perfect.
After one last look, Murakami turned and left the cargo hold, closing the trap door behind him.
Long after the footsteps faded, a small white shadow stepped silently out of the darkness. Snow, She padded softly over to the other side of Menma and curled up beside him again.
The protector had returned to her post.
---
"Huh..." A soft sound of breathing out.
The smell of rotten wood and wet fabric.
The scent of hay mixed with something unfamiliar... and Snow's familiar fur.
Something prickly poking at his back and legs. Hard and soft textures brushing against him, some damp, some warm.
A strange numbness in one arm, and the weight of something warm pressing against it.
Cool, damp air clung to his skin, only to be pushed back by the heat of his chakra, now quietly flowing through his body once more.
A mild headache, and that deep, gnawing ache of an empty stomach.
Faint cracking above, deep murmurs in the air, scattered voices shouting in the distance.
And close by... soft, steady breathing, right next to his face.
Dozens of sensations. Small ones, big ones, clashing together, dragging Menma out of the depths of unconsciousness.
His brows furrowed.
His eyelids twitched.
And then, slowly, like a boy being called back from the edge of a dream, Menma opened his eyes.
For a moment, they were glassy and confused, catching only the dim shapes and shadows of the cargo hold.
Where was he?
He blinked again, trying to piece it together.
Storm.
Swimming.
Drowning.
Exhaustion.
The chaos on the deck.
The cold blade at his neck.
A voice.
The fall.
Pain.
It all came flooding back.
His eyes cleared.
He tried to sit up, but something was keeping him down. A weight... several, actually. Something warm and soft. And something prickly at his side.
He glanced downward.
And froze.
It was the girl from earlier. The one who had confronted him. She was sleeping beside him, her face just inches from his. Her expression was peaceful in sleep, though faint traces of tear marks still clung to her pale cheeks.
White lashes. Snow-white eyebrows. An oval face with the round softness of early adolescence. She was... young, but lovely. Her skin was pale with a few adolescent red rashes across her cheek.
It might have been a perfect portrait of innocence. If not for the vivid bruise discoloring one side of her face.
Menma stared, entranced, before blinking in confusion.
Why... was her face so close to his?
His eyes traveled down. Bare shoulder. The delicate curve of a collarbone.
And then, her arm. Draped across his chest.
No... her hand was gripping him, firmly, tightly, like she was afraid he'd vanish.
Wait... HIS chest?!
Menma's eyes widened. He looked down.
He was shirtless.
Why was he shirtless?!
A jolt of heat ran straight to his face.
Oh no!
No no no no no!
His entire body turned scarlet. His body temperature spiked. Steam practically began to rise from his skull.
His heart was pounding.
Was he... in some sort of scandalous situation?!
But just before he could faint from sheer embarrassment...
Lick.
Purr.
A soft, wet nudge to his cheek snapped him out of his rising panic.
Menma blinked, then turned to see Snow, sitting at his side. Her ears twitched as she observed him with quiet concern.
She pawed at his cheek again.
You okay, big cat?
Relieved and still a bit dazed, Menma chuckled faintly and reached out, patting Snow gently between her ears.
"Thanks, girl... I'm happy that you're alive and well, too."
Despite everything, he felt a deep, grounded sense of calm return. He was alive. Snow was here. The storm had passed.
He wasn't worried about anything now. The people on this ship were ordinary, just sailors, not Shinobies. Now that he had regained his strength and would have a proper meal soon, none of them would be a problem.
He exhaled slowly and laid his head gently against the girl's forehead again.
He let himself drift back into the warmth, the comfort, the unfamiliar but cherished feeling of being held.
It had been so long.
Too long.
Too many years, across two lives, without this.
Without care. Without affection. Without love.
Even if this was just a moment... even if it was accidental... Even if it was without true emotions.... he didn't want to let it go.
He felt a little guilty. Maybe it was selfish and would hurt the girl. Maybe he was being rude.
But for once... he wanted to be selfish.
To enjoy being close to someone. To feel warmth.
His breath slowed. His heartbeat steadied. And slowly, softly.
He slipped back into sleep.
Not to recover from fatigue.
But to heal something much deeper.
To sleep... and dream of love.
---
Pop!
Tuck!
Step! Step! Creak!
Menma was jolted awake by the sharp noise of the trapdoor being flung open and heavy footsteps creaking down the wooden steps.
Turning his head groggily, he saw that the girl had already woken up. She leaned quietly against the side of the cage, hugging her knees, farthest from the entrance, staring at the door of the cage with her damp shirt back on.
Menma sat up slowly, and as if feeling his arms numbness, he shook his still-numb arm to try and get blood flowing inside again. The faint light spilling in from the open trapdoor helped him spot his damp clothes beside the gate door.
A bit embarrassed by the fact he still wore nothing but his shorts, he quickly pulled his clothes and put his shirt on and began wriggling into his pants while crouching, as there wasn't enough space to stand up fully inside the cage.
Just as he was half finishing, still fighting with the pants legs, the footsteps from earlier stopped at the cage's door.
He looked up and locked eyes with a sailor, standing there holding a saber in one hand and wearing a creepy grin across his face.
The sailor opened the cage with a creak and gave a lazy motion of his blade, signaling them to step out.
Menma, now dressed but barefoot, grabbed his worn sandals and cautiously crawled out. His body was on edge, every nerve alert, watching every move and muscle, in case the man tried something reckless.
He stood up and threw his sandals down but as he bent over to slip them on, the sailor raised his blade in his face threateningly and making a hand wave.
Menma paused and then, obediently stepped back, expression blank. The sailor smirked and yanked the sandals toward himself, holding them like trashes ready to be thrown into the sea while waiting for Sarah to crawl out.
As the sailor waited, Menma glanced around, trying to fully understand where and what kind of ship exactly they were.
The hold was filled with sealed crates and packages, and scattered among them were cages. Each cage was positioned strategically, not facing one another, nor close enough to communicate. A smart but imperfect setup, Menma thought to himself.
He opened his senses and swept the entire cargo finding 63 captives, excluding himself and Sarah.
He checked for any other children but, thankfully, there were none. All prisoners were strong adult males with high vitality, clearly a high-end slave shipment aimed at labor sales.
Menma's stomach twisted. Slavery. He hadn't expected it or had read about the fact that it exist in this world. Another reason, he decided, to burn this corrupt system down one day.
As Sarah crawled out and stood up, moving beside him, Menma caught a clearer glimpse of her in the dim light.
Even in her ragged clothes, she was enchanting.
She was tall for her age, almost 160 centimeters, with a thin but not unhealthy build. Long legs, delicate shoulders, and wild white hair that tumbled messily to her waist, uncombed and windblown, having pieces of hay stacking here and there. That wildness gave her an untamed beauty that reminded Menma faintly of Kakashi, if Kakashi had been a silver-haired princess.
He quickly averted his gaze when his eyes reached her bare feet. Best not to let his thoughts wander too far. His body was still too young, and his will was too fragile.
The sailor locked the cage again and turned toward them, his grin widening.
"Now, let's go. We're going to have exciting games up there on the deck. Hehehe..."
Hearing his greasy voice, Menma instantly remembered the bastard from the day before. Rage flashed in his chest, his chakra itching to ignite. His senses surged out, sweeping the entire ship.
He planned to kill this man in an instant. Free the other captives. Take the ship by a sudden coup d'etat. It wouldn't even take much chakra or troubles.
But his senses and more importantly, the emotions he picked up from the bastered in front of him told him the sailor was bluffing. Lying. And even afraid of them.
Menma turned away, not forgetting to mutter:
"Boring."
The sailor flinched slightly.
As they walked, Menma analyzed his findings. There were thirty active sailors aboard, including the one behind them. Some were resting in cramped cabins, others working above but one sat alone outside on the deck, eating alone, with two empty chairs arranged before him.
An interrogation. That was easy to guess.
Menma immediately began crafting a backstory, along with layered lies and backup countermeasures in case things became tricky.
Sarah, uncharacteristically silent, followed behind. Usually, each time she was asked to walk out of the cage, she would kick up a storm. But not today. Not when hope walked ahead of her, barefoot and half-starved. She had been watching the boy from earlier. And now, she was sure that the boy wasn't scared at all knowing that he was on a smuggling ship. That speaks volumes.
She was no longer a helpless sparrow fluttering in the dark. Now she was a Spearow flying toward the light, imagining how she would leave after scaping from this ship.
When they stepped onto the deck, the sun hit Menma hard. The sudden brightness forced Menma to raise an arm over his eyes, trying to reduce the impact and let his eyes get used to sudden light.
But before they could adjust, he was shoved forward by a push from behind.
He staggered forward and fell flat on the deck, playing flawlessly following the role of a weak, starving boy who hadn't eaten or drunken enough in days.
And from the sneers of the crew and the concern emotions coming from Sarah, it was clear that his performance was above the standard.
Feeling confident, Menma added a little more flavor to it, sending trembles to his limbs as he tried and pushed himself up, swaying slightly with perfect control.
If Guy-sensei had seen his amazing control and perfect actings, he'd be weeping tears of joy and shouting, "That's my boy!"
Sarah tried to rush to him, but the sailor behind her grabbed her by the back of the shirt, yanking her still, letting the boy struggle to stand up.
At the far end of the deck, Murakami sat at a table, watching with interest as he chewed slowly on a slice of grilled tuna, made from the best meat they had in the store. The aroma floated on the breeze, salty, rich, and teasing, making many sailors gulped as they watched their captain, eat.
He'd arranged two more chairs in front of himself. And he had plans.
Murakami thinking about the setups he had in his mind, observed everything, the way the boy fell, the way he stood. Shaky. Hesitant. Weak. Just as planned.
He motioned to one of his men to bring the children over.
As Menma neared, Murakami sliced another piece of tuna with delicate ease, chewing thoughtfully. He was watching Menma like a merchant appraising fine silk, except silk didn't breathe, sweat, or potentially earn him a mountain of gold.
When he heard the boy's stomach rumble faintly, he smiled.
"Hehehe…"
Come on, Uzumaki boy… Let's have a good and slow conversation.
Murakami thought, barely able to contain his greedy eyes and hands. A red-haired treasure had drifted into his ship, completely free.
Like a golden treasure rising from the depth of the sea! It was a jackpot.