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**Chapter 01: Gabimaru**
In a secluded valley cradled by the jagged mountains of rural Japan, the dojo lay in serene isolation, sheltered by towering pines and encircled by wisps of morning mist. The air was crisp, tinged with the faint scent of moss and the cool breath of dawn. This dojo, a sacred training ground for shinobi, was a place where skill and silence intertwined, broken only by the distant sound of water trickling from an unseen stream and the sharp, rhythmic *thwack* of fists striking wooden dummies.
Within the spacious courtyard, shadows of students moved with an intense focus, each one honing techniques passed down through generations. Their bodies twisted in calculated arcs as they launched shuriken at targets across the yard, each one hitting its mark with precision. To the side, a group of trainees practiced ninjutsu, weaving signs with their hands as their brows furrowed with concentration. Their clothing—dark, durable fabrics bound tightly to their forms—enabled ease of movement, blending them seamlessly into the rugged landscape. In navy blues and ashen grays, the uniforms bore minimal markings, save for small insignias stitched on the upper sleeves, symbols of discipline and dedication to their hidden craft.
Amidst the quiet discipline of this setting, an old man moved along a stone path bordering the courtyard, his steps slow and contemplative. A sturdy wooden cane aided his walk, tapping lightly against the stones as he passed, his gaze observant beneath a straw hat that shielded his lined face from the early light. His robe, woven in shades of earthy brown and loose at the shoulders, swayed around him with each step, revealing a hint of worn cloth wrapped tightly around his ankles. His eyes, sharp and weathered, took in every detail of the trainees around him, as if measuring the worth of each movement, each strike, with the gravity of a lifetime's knowledge.
As the old man, Falco, continued down the path, his eyes settled on a figure perched atop a wooden post at the edge of the training yard. The figure sat unmoving, cross-legged and balanced with an eerie steadiness, like a hawk poised in stillness before a strike. This young man, clad in the same dark navy attire as the other shinobi, wore his headband tied tightly, the cloth frayed from years of use. His hair, an unmistakable shock of white, caught the morning light, contrasting starkly with his attire and the landscape around him. His skin, taut and weathered, bore the subtle roughness of someone who had spent countless hours under sun and strain—a resilience forged from rigorous training. His hands, fingers pressed together in a symmetrical pose, rested in front of him as he breathed slowly, deeply, the practiced calm of meditation.
"Gabimaru," the old man's voice called, a note of authority softening the quiet of the morning.
Gabimaru's golden eyes opened, gleaming with an intensity that seemed almost out of place in the serene quiet. Without a word, he shifted his weight, leaping gracefully down from the post and landing soundlessly before the old man. Straightening, he regarded Falco with a calm gaze that revealed little of the thoughts stirring within him.
"Do you need something?" Gabimaru asked, his tone measured, as if weighing each word before speaking.
Falco nodded, tapping his cane thoughtfully. "A long mission has come our way, one requiring skill—and trust. I wouldn't place it in anyone else's hands, Gabimaru."
Gabimaru raised a brow, a slight smirk flickering across his lips. "Again? You've been relying on me a lot lately, old man."
Falco chuckled, but his expression softened. "You're the only one I trust to handle such tasks. When I send you on a mission, I know it'll be done—without fail."
Gabimaru sighed, running a hand through his white hair, and glanced toward the sky as if searching for answers among the clouds. "Alright," he said with reluctant amusement. "What's this mission?"
"I'll explain everything inside," Falco replied, gesturing towards the dojo. The two of them fell into step, following the worn path towards the wooden structure. Gabimaru's gaze drifted upward, where a lone bird cut across the sky, its wings spreading wide against the pale morning light. His golden eyes caught the sunlight, gleaming with an intensity that softened his usual guarded expression, capturing a rare moment of tranquility as he observed the bird's flight.
When they reached the dojo's entrance, Gabimaru's attention returned to the familiar space. Inside, the air held a calm that was both reverent and foreboding, like stepping into the heart of a silent storm. On one wall hung the mission board—a large, aged wooden surface littered with slips of parchment. Two shinobi stood before it, scanning the tasks with care, each slip representing secrets too sensitive for heroes or law enforcement. Here, missions were assigned for those in need of discretion, confidentiality, or simply tasks the public eye couldn't witness. The rewards offered on these papers were incentives for every shinobi here, but each one came at a cost.
As they entered the office, Falco lowered himself into a seat behind a worn desk. He reached into a drawer, producing a single slip of paper, and handed it to Gabimaru. "This one is special," he said, his voice hinting at the gravity of the task. "It's yours."
Gabimaru took the paper, eyes narrowing as he read the details aloud. "Infiltrate UA High School. Locate and eliminate the illegitimate heir of Japan's wealthiest corporation." He looked up, his gaze sharp. "You want me to kill someone because they were born… illegitimate?"
Falco's eyes hardened, a seriousness settling into his voice. "Since when did emptiness have feelings, Gabimaru? Have you forgotten the lives you've claimed? This is a client's request, and the reward is beyond anything we've seen. It would be wise to keep your streak going and not disappoint me."
Falco's hand moved, summoning another shinobi to discuss their own mission, his tone casual as he dismissed Gabimaru's concern. "This is a good one—a simple delivery in North Tokyo…"
Gabimaru stared at the slip in his hand, the edges rough beneath his fingers. Without another word, he turned and left the dojo, the weight of his thoughts pressing upon him like a heavy shroud. His footsteps fell in rhythm with the silent chant repeating in his mind.
"Just an empty shell, am I?" He frowned, his grip tightening on the paper as he disappeared into the mist-cloaked mountains.
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