The Land of Hot Water didn't smell like war. It didn't smell like politics, or chakra, or anxiety.
It smelled like rotten eggs and boiled potatoes.
The scent was thick enough to taste, coating the back of my throat with a gritty, yellow film of sulfur.
The "Port Town" wasn't really a port. It was a massive geothermal vent that someone had decided to build a tourist trap on top of. Steam hissed from iron grates in the cobblestone streets, curling around the ankles of pedestrians who were terrifyingly, suspiciously happy.
The steam condensed on my skin, leaving me feeling sticky and damp, while the air filled with the wet hisss of the earth venting pressure.
"I hate it," Anko-sensei muttered.
She was walking point, her hand resting casually on the hilt of a kunai that she definitely wasn't allowed to draw in a civilian zone. She scanned the crowd—shopkeepers bowing low, children chasing bubbles, old women selling potato croquettes with beatific smiles.
A wind chime tinkled nearby—cling-cling-cling—a sound so fragile and innocent it made my teeth ache.
"It's too quiet," Anko hissed, leaning back toward us. "No guards at the gate. No weapon checks. The chakra signature of this place is basically zero. It feels like a cult."
"It's called pacifism, Sensei," I whispered, adjusting my polarized glasses. The dark tint made the cheerful town look suitably gloomy. "They disbanded their military budget to focus on tourism and wellness retreats."
"It's unnatural," Sasuke commented from my left.
He was tense. His shoulders were up near his ears. To an Uchiha, a village without walls wasn't "peaceful." It was just a target waiting to be hit.
"Civilians shouldn't be this relaxed," Sasuke muttered, eyeing a man selling mineral water. "They have no survival instinct."
His hand hovered over his pouch, his fingers twitching in a silent, restless rhythm: kunai, wire, fire.
I looked at the smiling locals. I knew what this place was. This was Yugakure—the Village Hidden in Hot Water. A place that had decided to "retire" from the ninja world.
But I also knew what happened when you created a vacuum of violence. Eventually, something fills it.
I thought of the Jashinists who were likely already holding secret meetings in some damp basement beneath these happy streets, sharpening their scythes, driven mad by the suffocating boredom of absolute peace.
"It's the Village Hidden in Denial," I agreed quietly. "Let's just get to the ship before we accidentally join a potato-worshiping sect."
The docks were the only part of town that felt real.
The salt air cut through the sulfur stench, and the sound of seagulls drowned out the polite chatter.
Dominating the harbor was our ride. The ship didn't have a majestic name like The King of the Ocean. It was a retrofitted, steel-hulled monstrosity designed for one thing: smashing through frozen water.
The steel hull groaned against the dock—creeeaaak—a sound like a dying whale trapped in shallow water, vibrating through the wood of the pier.
Sandayū was currently having a stroke on the gangplank.
"Careful! CAREFUL!" the manager shrieked, waving a handkerchief at a team of stevedores hoisting a massive crate. "That creates contains the mirrors! If they break, the lighting continuity is ruined! And seven years of bad luck!"
Flap-flap.
His silk handkerchief snapped in the sea breeze, pathetic and frantic against the industrial backdrop.
Makino, the director, was standing on a bollard, watching the ocean with a look of existential dread.
"Look at it," Makino droned to no one in particular. "The ocean. It is vast and indifferent. It does not care about our movie. It waits to swallow us. It is a wet grave."
He stared at the dark, churning water, the waves slapping the pier with a wet, rhythmic thud... thud... thud.
I walked past him, dragging my duffle bag. "Uplifting, sir."
"Reality is not uplifting," Makino replied without looking at me. "It is wet."
Near the cargo hold, I spotted Yomu. The Suna lighting technician looked like he hadn't slept since the Chunin Exams. His pupils were dilated, making his eyes look huge and nocturnal. He was dragging a thick black power cable over his shoulder like a dead snake.
The heavy rubber insulation dragged over the metal ramp—thrum-thrum—vibrating like a heavy bassline under his feet.
He locked eyes with Neji for a second. Neither of them spoke. They just shared a brief nod of mutual exhaustion before Yomu vanished into the dark belly of the ship.
"Alright," Anko announced, checking her watch. "Kakashi and the logistics team are securing the perimeter. Load the gear. We cast off in two hours."
"Where's the Princess?" Naruto asked, looking around.
We all turned.
Yukiewasn't watching the loading. She wasn't standing with Sandayū.
She was drifting away from the docks, her expensive travel cloak trailing in the dust.
The expensive silk hem snagged on a rough cobblestone—rrrip—but she didn't even twitch or turn around to check the damage.
She wasn't running—she didn't have the energy for that. She was meandering, like a piece of driftwood caught in a slow current.
"She's escaping!" Naruto yelped, tensing his legs to sprint. "I'll tackle her!"
"Hold it," I said, grabbing the back of his collar. "Look at her feet, Naruto."
"Huh?"
"She's dragging them," I analyzed, watching the slump of her shoulders. "She's not looking at the exit gates. She's scanning the signs."
Yukie paused at a corner. She ignored the Medicinal Spring Water sign. She ignored the Famous Potato Stew sign.
She stopped in front of a narrow, rusted door with a blue noren curtain.
Seigetsu.House of the Moon.
It was a dive bar. The kind that didn't serve tourists.
"She's not running away," I sighed. "She's refueling."
A gust of air escaped the closing door, hitting us with the distinct, sour reek of stale yeast and tobacco—the perfume of giving up.
"Pathetic," Sasuke scoffed.
"She's scared," Naruto countered, though his voice lacked its usual fire. He looked at the bar door as it swung shut behind her. "She thinks she needs it."
"Let's go," I said, hitching my pack higher. "We can't drag her out kicking and screaming in front of the 'Nice Police.' We have to wait until she's done."
We walked through the terrifyingly pleasant streets, ignoring the smiles of the passersby, tracking our damsel to her distress.
We took up positions in the alleyway across from the bar. Anko leaned against a wall, eating a potato croquette she had mysteriously acquired.
Crunch.
The sound of deep-fried batter breaking was loud in the narrow alley, followed by the smell of hot grease.
Sasuke stood lookout.
Naruto stared at the door, rehearsing his speech. He thought he could talk her out of her trauma. He didn't realize that some demons couldn't be shouted down.
"Get ready," Anko mumbled, crumbs falling on her mesh shirt. "This is gonna be a long afternoon."