By midday, the clearing was alive with noise.
Chinoike shinobi cut timber with swift strikes. Children carried smaller branches in neat bundles.
By late afternoon, the first walls of the longhouse stood. A simple wooden frame, lashed with rope, packed with clay. Primitive, but solid.
Reika walked the perimeter, arms behind her back.
"Crude. But it will hold."
Zassō dropped onto a log, wiping sweat.
"Ayy. Ain't gotta be pretty. Just gotta keep the rain off your neck and the wolves off your ass."
One of the Chinoike women frowned. "You have wolves here?"
Zassō puffed smoke. "Not yet. But I like to stay optimistic."
(One year later, Smokebush Hollow)
Smoke drifted from the clay chimneys, blurring with the natural fog. Morning light barely reached the basin, filtered through canopy and mist. The houses that had been stumps and moss huts a year ago now stood sturdier, timber walls sealed with mud, bark-shingled roofs, stone foundations sunk into the damp soil. The air smelled of wet earth, woodsmoke, and boiled mushrooms.
Children's voices rang across the second circle of homes.
"Faster, faster! If you can't climb the root, you'll fall in battle!"
Chinoike children scrambled up a thick, arching tree root, their bare feet slipping on moss. At the top, one of the older kid barked instructions. His tone was sharp, military, his posture rigid. Just beyond him, three Rootless children crouched, watching in awe. One mimicked the hand seals with exaggerated gestures, whispering, "Finger dance, finger dance," until his friends collapsed in giggles.
Reika stood near the training ground, arms folded. Her eye followed each child as though weighing them. She didn't smile, but when a boy reached the root's peak and threw his arms up in triumph, she gave a slow clap.
"Morning drills again," a voice drawled behind her.
Zassō wandered up, pipe hanging loose from his lips, half-burned embers glowing faint. His robe was patched in places, and his hair was tied back with a strip of bark cloth. He looked, as always, more wanderer than leader.
Reika didn't turn. "Structure keeps them sharp."
"Sharp, huh?" He puffed smoke in a lazy spiral. "They're kids, Reika. You know, small humans with too much blood and not enough brain. You try sharpening a kid too much, you just end up with a bloody stump."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "And what would you suggest instead?"
Zassō grinned. "Mud wrestling. Food-eating contests. Maybe a class on the hundred rules."
Reika exhaled slowly through her nose. "Half of those 'rules' contradict themselves. Rule twelve says no whistling at night, Rule sixth eight says whistle if the fog feels lonely. Which is it?"
"Both," Zassō said, shrugging. "Depends if the fog's in a mood. That's the magic, or chakra?."
She shook her head. "The children need order. Discipline. They've already lost their home, their kin. They won't survive the next storm by relying on moods."
Zassō tapped ash into the soil. "Maybe not. But they'll survive by belonging here. Don't confuse surviving with living. You need both, or else-" He snapped his fingers. "-poof. Nothing but ghosts marching through fog."
Before Reika could respond, Pebble's voice rang out from the Commons.
"Breakfast's ready! And if anyone takes the last sweetroot before me, I'll paint their face with frog blood!"
The children scattered at once, discipline dissolving into a stampede of hungry feet. Reika sighed. Zassō chuckled, puffing his pipe.
.
The Barkface Commons smelled of steam, wood, and food. It was the largest building in the Hollow, part bathhouse, part dining hall, part courtroom, depending on the hour. Steam drifted from clay pipes that carried heat from natural springs, and fog clung stubbornly to the rafters.
Dozens of Chinoike and Rootless gathered at low tables. Clay bowls of mushroom stew and roasted tubers circulated. Children gnawed roots, shinobi ate in silence, and Rootless told rambling jokes no one quite understood.
Pebble stood at the front, holding a painted stone. She banged it against the table until the chatter dimmed.
"Rule reading!" she announced.
Groans echoed across the hall.
Pebble squinted at her stone. "Rule One: No killing unless the forest says it's okay. Rule Two: Everyone works. Rule Three: If you lie, the Hollow finds out. Rule Four: Don't run, float. Rule Five: Listen to the willow. Rule Six: "If you find a mushroom bigger than your head-."
Some Rootless murmured approval. The Chinoike kept eating.
"Rule Seven," Pebble went on. "Y-
A young Chinoike boy whispered to his sister, "Do frogs really talk here?"
The girl shrugged. "Depends who you ask."
From the back, Tenga muttered, "Depends how much mushroom tea they drank."
A few chuckles scattered. Pebble ignored him and rattled off another ten rules before losing interest and sitting down.
Zassō clapped. "Well done!."
Dew, seated cross-legged with a bowl in his lap, shook he's head. "Civilization doesn't sprout from rules. It sprouts from roots."
Reika asked dryly, "And where are those roots, exactly?"
Dew smiled, moss tangled in his hair. "All around you. You're standing in them.
Later that day, the Hollow rang with the sound of stone against stone. Along the outer circle, Chinoike shinobi and Rootless together worked on the clay pipelines feeding the bathhouse
"Careful with the join," one shinobi instructed. "If the seam leaks, the whole line collapses."
Beside him, a Rootless man cheerfully hummed, pressing moss into the crack with his bare hands. "Leaks are just the Hollow telling you it's thirsty."
The shinobi pinched the bridge of his nose. "No. Leaks mean wasted water."
Zassō wandered through the site, hands in his sleeves, pipe dangling. "Both true. See, water gets where it wants eventually. You're just arguing about the scenic route."
"Lord Zassō," one of the Chinoike called, half mocking. "You don't lift a finger, but you sure talk plenty."
"Leadership is ninety percent talking, ten percent napping," Zassō said smoothly. "And sometimes the nap part overlaps with the talking."
Some workers chuckled, though Reika scowled. She was helping mix clay, sweat dampening her forehead, her posture rigid.
When the line finally connected to the bathhouse, a hiss of steam burst from the pipe. Rootless cheered. Chinoike tested the seal with cautious satisfaction.
"Hot water," someone declared solemnly, "is victory."
---
Evening Rituals
As dusk settled, fog thickened. Drums sounded from the Commons, low, steady beats echoing off the ridges. Children ran with lanterns, their lights bobbing in the mist.
Inside, Rootless sang long, meandering songs about fog spirits and dream rivers. Chinoike sat in clusters, eating quietly but listening. Some joined the drumming, their rhythms sharper, martial. The mix of beats clashed at first, then merged into something strange but not unpleasant.
Hana sat apart, near the Commons wall. Her gaze drifted upward as though following invisible currents. She whispered now and then, words only she seemed to hear. A Rootless child plopped beside her.
"Who're you talking to?"
"The Hollow," Hana murmured.
The child blinked. "Does it answer?"
Hana tilted her head, listening to the fog-filled silence. "…Sometimes."
The child grinned. "Cool." Then scampered off, leaving Hana alone with her whispers.
At the far end of the hall, Reika approached Zassō.
"You joke, you drift, you act as though none of this matters," she said quietly. "But they follow you. Even my kin are beginning to bend to your ways."
Zassō leaned back, pipe smoke curling. "That scare you?"
"It worries me," she said. "Because if this is to last, it needs more than fog and rules. It needs strength."
Zassō tapped his pipe against the table, ash scattering. "Strength comes in different flavors. You lot only ever tasted iron and blood. Maybe try smoke and moss for once. You might like the aftertaste."
Reika frowned but said nothing.
The drums slowed. Fog pressed closer to the Commons. Pebble rose, stone in hand, and declared.
"Rule 101: If the Hollow gives you shelter, don't question why. Just take it."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Population
185 Chinoike survivors:
45 strong shinobi. (Tokubetsu Jonin - Jonin - elite jonin)
70 mid-level shinobi (chunin-genin) (wounded, retired, or less trained).
50 children.
20 elders.
The Rootless population has grown (~6 at the time) to about 110–115 total, thanks to drifters, orphans, deserters, and wanderers drawn in by the fog. Combined with the 185 Chinoike, Smokebush Hollow is now a community of ~300+ souls.
Mid-level shinobi & elders - builders, teachers, artisans.
Rootless - spiritualists, mushroom-tenders, keepers of fog lore, dream interpreters.
After one year, a few Chinoike begin incorporating Rootless techniques: breathing exercises, fog navigation, even smoke illusions.
Some Rootless children, however, copy Chinoike drills in playful ways, inventing strange hybrids of martial arts and dance.
The Hollow itself is teaching them to fight differently with confusion and misdirection.
40–15 Years Before Konoha's Founding.
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Hey everyone, the author here!
I want to be up front about the update schedule. I can't promise a set release date for chapters, as my writing time depends on my work and personal life. I'll be posting new chapters whenever I can, mostly when I have some free time. Thanks so much for your patience and for giving this story a read!
With that said, about what's coming next. Spoiler alert: The Iburi Clan is about to make their debut.