Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Something tickled his forehead.

He tried to swat it away, but his left hand wouldn't obey—something heavy pinned it down. The sensation continued, stubborn and relentless, teasing the edges of his skin. He wanted— needed —to scratch at it, yet every attempt to shift merely sent the irritation skittering to his ears, to his neck.

His throat was parched—so dry it felt as though it had fused shut.

"He's waking up," a voice remarked.

Deep. Gruff. Male.

Itachi didn't recognise it.

He attempted to open his eyes, but they refused to cooperate—sealed, heavy, as if glued shut. Why? Why was everything so clouded, so disjointed? He couldn't recall what had brought him here. Couldn't recall where here was. Couldn't recall— anything .

A deep unease rooted itself in his chest.

Something was wrong.

Not just the haziness. Not just the unfamiliar voices lingering nearby—one of which exhaled softly above him, another settling a hand onto his head.

"I think his fever's broken," came a lighter voice—softer, undoubtedly female.

"Yeah, well, I'd be worried if it hadn't."

"I'm relieved," the woman murmured. "Do you think he'll be hungry when he wakes?"

"Most likely," the man replied. "I'll see if I can hunt something."

"Don't go too far, Zabuza."

There— concern . Woven into the words.

Wife? Sister?

Itachi couldn't say.

But right now, it didn't matter.

Nothing did—except the nagging certainty that something wasn't right .

"When do I ever—" he paused abruptly, for reasons unknown. Silence stretched, thick and uncertain. " Yeah. Don't worry too much. "

The man departed, and Itachi felt the woman exhale—a soft, warm breath ghosting over his forehead, where fresh beads of sweat had begun to form. With measured care, she pressed a damp cloth to his skin, the cool relief melting into him.

There were things he needed to do—questions that clawed at his mind. Where am I? Who are these people? And yet, there was something else, a nagging instinct he couldn't grasp, some task lost in the fog of his broken memory.

But his body betrayed him.

Weakened, drained beyond reason, it dragged him into the depths of a dreamless sleep—one he was certain he did not deserve.

The next time consciousness found him, the tickling sensation was gone—replaced by a warm, steady breeze.

His limbs felt lighter, more at ease, but the moment he attempted to move his hand, sharp pain shot from his fingers straight to his skull. A groan slipped past his lips before he could stop it. He hadn't wanted to alert whoever owned this place—wherever this place was —to his awakening.

But the pain had robbed him of restraint.

He tried his eyes again.

This time, mercifully, they opened.

A breath of quiet relief passed his lips. If they hadn't... Well, he didn't know what he would have done. Surviving the fall had never been in his plan—but neither had losing his sight. That? That would have been unacceptable.

His gaze focused on the ceiling—a simple, plain white surface. It told him nothing.

He turned his neck, testing the movement.

Pain rippled through him, sharp and unforgiving.

A bad sleeping position, he thought grimly.

Still, he pressed through the discomfort and managed to shift his view left.

A doorway—though not a door .

A tattered hide of some unidentifiable animal hung in place, serving as the only barrier between this room and the unknown.

One certainty took root—he had never been here before.

And that meant two possibilities.

Either he had been captured by those fearsome, loathsome blue-eyed vampires—

Or he was in the house of someone desperately poor. Someone who, perhaps, was his saviour.

He dismissed the former almost immediately.

No blue-eyed vampire would ever reside in such a place—not with Elfim's standards. That city only housed luxury. It stood as the envy of every nation beyond Light City.

And this— this was a far cry from that.

Itachi detected movement beyond the curtain. Instinctively, he shut his eyes, feigning sleep, unwilling to reveal his awareness.

Someone entered.

With them came a scent— warm , rich, familiar yet elusive. Butter milk laced with spice. Not quite a fragrance one would associate with a woman, yet the voice belonged to the same person who had tended to him earlier.

Carefully, he dared a peek.

Just a fraction—one eye cracked open, barely a slit.

Blurred outlines met his gaze. He widened it slightly , shifting his focus towards the entryway.

A man stood before a fractured mirror, his fingers weaving through excessively long hair as he tied it back. He was small in stature, dressed in short briefs and a white shirt turned brown from wear.

The moment his body moved , Itachi shut his eyes immediately .

" Hey—are you awake? "

Itachi did not stir.

Still. Silent. His face slackened in perfect imitation of unconsciousness.

The man sighed. " You ought to wake up soon. How long are you planning to sleep? "

Itachi waited—held his breath—until the footsteps retreated, the scent fading with them.

So.

The person he had mistaken for a woman was, in fact, a man.

That was… less reassuring.

Painstakingly, he attempted to sit up. Mistake. Agony tore through his ribs, his head throbbing under its own weight. Sweat clung to him, breath shallow.

He wasn't sure he could make it out.

But he had to try.

No reason to trust that man. However kindly he had appeared .

Itachi staggered upright—only to nearly collapse. His hand grasped blindly, finding stability against the bed— straw , not wood. His breath hitched as white-hot pain blazed through his left leg.

A groan slipped past clenched teeth.

He exhaled quickly, hoping— willing —the ache to lessen.

Slowly, his gaze dropped.

Bandages.

Wrapped securely around his leg.

Broken?

Likely.

And how am I supposed to leave with a broken leg?

Even as he wrestled with that bitter thought, the noise had drawn attention.

The curtain shifted.

" Are you all right? What on earth are you doing up?! "

The alarm in the voice did little to help with the pain. Hands gripped beneath his arms, feebly attempting to lift him—but Itachi wasn't assisting, and the man lacked the strength.

He scarcely looks like a man at all.

Itachi tried to distract himself— anything to dull the agony. His gaze flickered over frantic brown eyes, a heart-shaped pale face—delicate features clashing with the struggle of hauling his weight.

" Zabuza! Quick, come and help me! "

Another figure stormed through the curtain.

This one— this one had the appearance of a thug. Broad, toughened in the way men who spent their lives brawling often were. Dark brown hair cropped short, a sleeveless shirt stained with wear, trousers frayed at the hem.

Itachi barely had time to react.

The man lifted him like a child —like he weighed nothing —and placed him back upon the bed.

Before unconsciousness claimed him, a fleeting thought drifted through his mind.

He isn't from Light City. He's too dark-skinned to be.

Then—nothing.

Once again, consciousness found him.

The pain had dulled to a whisper—nothing like the agony that had once consumed him. His eyes opened without resistance, adjusting to the darkness. There was no window in the room, yet even the curtain allowed no sliver of light to seep through.

Itachi lay still.

Unmoving.

A quiet hesitation settled in his bones—a reluctance to move, to test whether the pain had truly faded. He needed to, of course. But just for a while longer, he told himself. Just a little longer, and then I'll be ready.

How he wished he had slept longer.

Or perhaps— perhaps —he ought never to have woken at all.

Why had he survived?

The fall should have killed him. Had been meant to kill him. Yet, here he was.

Alive.

Pain had been the proof of his survival. Now what?

Escape?

And then what? Return to the village?

What would be waiting for him there?

Sasuke. His mother.

Were they—

Were they even alive?

Itachi shied away from the thought, unwilling— unable —to face it.

His father was already gone. Killed. Slaughtered by the blue-eyed.

If—if his mother and Sasuke had met the same fate…

No. No.

He wasn't sure he would be able to go on.

Sasuke was only eleven—soon to turn twelve in July. And his mother—ill, far too ill to outrun them .

There was no way they could have escaped.

Unless—

Itachi didn't dare to hope . But if— if —they hadn't been in the village when it happened, then—

No. Stop.

He did not want to know.

And yet, not knowing was eating him alive.

A flicker of warm light approached—the steady glow of a candle.

The man he had once mistaken for a woman entered the room.

For a long moment, he simply stared at Itachi. Then— a smile . Wide. Bright. Unmistakably pleased.

"You're awake!" His voice brimmed with genuine relief.

He strode forward, placing the candle down upon the only table in the room, its edges mottled with moss.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Itachi swallowed, attempting to respond—but the sound that emerged was dry, hoarse, a cracked whisper of what his voice should have been.

"Oh—wait, don't speak. I'll fetch some water."

Like a breeze, the small man vanished—then reappeared in the blink of an eye, a clean cup of water in hand.

His thin arms wrapped around Itachi's shoulders as he guided the cup to his lips.

The cool liquid slid down his throat, fresh, light—oddly sweet.

Itachi wondered absently what had been mixed in. That thought, strangely, consumed him more than questioning why it tasted so.

When the last drop was gone, the man eased him back onto the straw bedding, fingers brushing his fringe away from his face.

The gesture was simple.

Kind.

And yet, something raw flickered to life in Itachi's chest.

His mother used to do this—push his bangs aside whenever he was unwell, whenever she whispered soft reassurances before sleep.

It had been so long.

And yet—right now, it felt vivid.

Too vivid.

He turned his head away, hiding whatever emotion had momentarily escaped his hold.

"Better?" the man asked.

Itachi nodded, taking a slow breath—steadying himself. When he turned back, his expression had returned to its familiar unreadable façade.

"Thank you," he murmured. His voice, still hoarse, no longer felt as if it were fused shut.

"It's nothing," the man replied easily. "My name is Haku. Do you remember yours?"

Itachi hesitated for a fraction before answering. " Itachi. "

He paused—just briefly.

"Did you save me?" he asked, though the question barely seemed necessary. Even if gratitude wasn't entirely within his grasp, he wanted— needed —to acknowledge it.

Haku's smile warmed further.

Itachi struggled to think of him as a man when he looked like that—too beautiful, too gentle . There was something motherly about him.

"Yeah," Haku confirmed. "I saw you floating near the village, so I pulled you in. You were in a bad way."

Something in the way he said it made Itachi pause.

Did Haku know something?

Something about him ?

He wasn't sure if he should ask.

Instead, he settled for another question. "Where am I?"

"You're in Konoha. Not far from the Uchiha village."

Itachi studied him a moment longer, suspicion flickering at the edges of his mind.

Haku must know who he was.

"I see," he murmured. "Thank you—for saving me."

Haku's smile remained. "It's no trouble. I'm training to be a doctor anyway, and you're my first real patient."

Itachi observed him carefully.

Kind. Gentle. Not remotely threatening.

There was nothing inherently wrong with the man.

"How long have I been your patient?"

"Just over a week. You healed quickly—might have something to do with your hunters' aura. It's really strong."

Not strong enough , clearly—or he wouldn't be in this position.

To be so easily wounded by a mere fall down the hill. Pathetic.

Survival meant nothing. He should have died there.

"…Thank you," he muttered at last, leaving it at that.

Two mornings later, Itachi found he could walk—albeit with the aid of a stick.

He could only manage short distances, and never for too long, but it was enough.

Enough to ensure he didn't overstay his welcome .

The thug-like man—Zabuza, as he was called—had come often over the past two days. Though his rough exterior made him seem disagreeable, he made an effort to be civil.

Even still, Itachi had the distinct feeling he was seen as nothing more than a burden .

When he finally stepped outside, the contrast was stark.

Inside—silent, still.

Outside— alive.

Bustling streets. Conversations overlapping in a symphony of voices. Merchants calling out their wares, buyers haggling, sellers stacking their goods.

A shock, truly—so much movement, so much sound.

Small houses lined the roads, each fitted with half-tents to shelter their trade stalls. The one he had occupied had one, too, stacked neatly with dried herbs and milk bottles.

So that was it .

Haku's main trade.

It explained the scent that clung to him—warm, earthy, familiar.

Itachi lingered, taking it all in, uncertain yet strangely steady.

Itachi blinked away his discomfort, gripping the walking stick tightly as he took two tentative steps beyond the tent's threshold. He had barely found his footing when something crashed to the ground before him.

Then—hands.

Thin, familiar hands wrapped around him—thankfully so, for his instinct had already steeled itself to wield the stick as a weapon had it been anyone else .

" Where are you going? " came the familiar voice, urgent yet soft. " You can't walk on that foot yet. "

Itachi glanced down, his gaze settling on the long strands of hair that undoubtedly belonged to Haku. He had expected resistance, yes, but this —this was excessive. The man had never embraced him like this before, and though the closeness unsettled him, he endured it.

"I'm going home, Haku," Itachi murmured. "I told you yesterday."

"You said you would go home," Haku countered, a quiet plea in his tone. " But not that it would be today. You're not healed yet."

Itachi sighed almost imperceptibly.

Haku's wide brown eyes fixed on him, brimming with a kindness so profound it bordered on painful .

Slowly, Itachi lifted one hand, gently pulling Haku away, forcing a semblance of a smile.

"Haku," he said, his voice measured, calm. "I have to. I'm grateful for what you've done for me, but I can't stay here any longer."

It was the truth.

Whatever kindness Haku had shown—whatever patience, whatever warmth—itachi would never forget. But he refused to let himself become a burden .

"Why not?" Haku pressed. "No one is complaining. I don't mind taking care of you until you're fully recovered."

And again—Itachi knew it was the truth.

For all his cynicism, he had never truly believed that such a person existed. One who would wholeheartedly dedicate himself to the care of a stranger.

Yet here Haku was.

A rarity.

A miracle, even.

And because of that—because of that goodness—itachi had to leave before he became more than what he was.

Before he was a burden.

"I know," Itachi murmured. "But I must return home. There are things I must do."

Haku looked torn, his expression wavering between concern and quiet desperation. " But you're not healed yet—how would you even make it home by yourself? You don't have a horse. "

"I'd give him one, Haku," came Zabuza's voice, cutting smoothly through the air. "So you won't have to worry."

Itachi turned, finding Zabuza leaning casually against the tent, arms crossed, posture unwavering.

Haku shot him a glare.

Itachi couldn't help but smile.

He had spent the past two days trying to decipher their dynamic—two men bound by something deeper than mere acquaintanceship, yet they weren't brothers. Friends? Hardly. They argued far too much for that.

"No one asked you, Zabuza," Haku snapped.

"Hey—I'm offering. "

"I don't want him to go, okay?"

"Why? He clearly wants to."

Haku's gaze landed on Itachi once more, the silent plea evident in his eyes.

Itachi's smile softened—genuine, tinged with unexpected warmth. For all the hardships, for all the bloodshed, meeting this beautiful, fiercely kind man had been... something remarkable.

"I'll be fine," Itachi assured him. "I promise."

With that, he followed Zabuza toward the stables.

---

Apparently, Zabuza traded in horses. He was also the second-in-command of this village—an interesting detail that Itachi filed away as he walked.

His eyes flickered to the pistols strapped behind Zabuza's trousers, the energy pulsing off them unmistakable.

Curiosity pricked at him.

"Zabuza," he began, tone neutral but inquisitive. "I've wanted to ask, though I never thought it appropriate... Are those hunters' weapons?"

He had lost his sword after the battle with the Nines—an absence that had felt like losing a limb.

He would need a hunter's weapon if he had any hope of making it back to the Uchiha village.

Yet acquiring one in his current state? Impossible.

"Yes. Why?" Zabuza's response was sharp, almost defensive. "You think because I'm not a hunter, I don't get to own one?"

His hard, narrowed brown eyes turned on Itachi, scrutinising.

Itachi refused to flinch.

Instead, he held Zabuza's gaze, unwavering.

Not a single flicker. Not a single bat of his eyelashes.

"No, I only wished to know if they were hunters' weapons—and if so, where you acquired them."

Zabuza regarded him for a moment before turning away, setting about preparing the saddle for one of his horses. The creature was fine—lean, strong, built for speed. One of his best, undoubtedly.

"Yeah, well, I got them from Sorcerers' Mountain," he muttered. "That's all I'm telling you."

"That's plenty," Itachi replied, taking the reins.

Sorcerers' Mountain.

If that were true, then Zabuza must be from Fire City.

Itachi had long suspected as much—this merely confirmed it.

Mounting the horse proved a challenge, but he managed. Standing first with his right leg, he carefully swung his bandaged leg over the other side, settling into the saddle.

"Tell Haku I'm grateful," he said. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Zabuza."

A swift kick to the horse's flank sent it forward—

Only for it to halt abruptly .

Haku had stepped directly in its path—arms outstretched, blocking his way.

"Haku!" Zabuza barked, face twisting with exasperation. " What on earth do you think you're doing, you fool? That was dangerous! "

He moved quickly, hands firm as he attempted to drag Haku back.

"I'm going with you! " Haku declared.

Itachi's eyes widened.

" What?! " he and Zabuza exclaimed in perfect synchrony , the latter gripping Haku's arm in sheer disbelief.

Itachi struggled to comprehend the man's reasoning. Haku was peculiar at the best of times—but this was beyond absurd.

"Why?" Itachi asked, narrowing his gaze.

"Because you're my patient ," Haku said, tone unyielding. "And I know you're going to need me."

There was something in the way he said it—something that made Itachi pause.

A deeper meaning.

A certainty.

Itachi's eyes narrowed further, scrutinising him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, suspicion thick in his voice.

Haku shook off Zabuza's grip, stepping swiftly to the side of the horse. " You'll see. "

He extended a hand to Itachi.

Itachi hesitated.

Zabuza clearly wanted Haku to stay. And truthfully, Itachi was of the same mind. But the look in Haku's eyes—unyielding, stubborn—spoke volumes. If he wasn't permitted to mount the horse, he would take matters into his own hands. Drastic matters.

With a sigh, Itachi reached out, grasping Haku's hand and pulling him up onto the saddle.

Zabuza's expression twisted into sheer contempt. Itachi chose to look away.

"I'll be back, Zabuza," Haku said.

Without further delay, Itachi spurred the horse forward.

Two hours of relentless riding brought them to the outskirts of Uchiha village— or what was left of it .

Itachi barely spared a glance at the remains of the gate, now reduced to a heap of charred timber.

He had only one destination.

Home.

The horse sped through the deserted village streets, cutting towards the forked path where his house stood.

When they arrived, he very nearly leapt from the saddle—momentarily forgetting his injured leg—but Haku stopped him short.

Itachi barely acknowledged him.

His home—what remained of it—stood barely intact.

A single-storey structure. Its roof—gone. Scorched beyond recognition. The walls were badly burned, but brick had granted it resilience enough to remain standing.

Itachi wasted no time.

Pain be damned, he hurried inside .

He had expected it to be empty.

And yet— the blood.

There was so much blood .

Dried. Caked upon the floors, smeared across the walls.

So many had died here .

Vampires did not leave blood behind. Their bodies did not bleed upon death—they turned to dust, or light in the case of fullbloods.

So whose blood was this?

His mother's?

Sasuke's?

The thought seized him.

Then—

Something familiar.

His mother's scarf .

Knitted. Precious.

Stained with blood.

Itachi almost faltered.

But then— worse.

Two daggers.

Twin blades, smeared in dark, dried crimson.

Something inside him cracked.

His knees buckled.

His breath hitched— rapid, uneven —and his vision blurred, distorted beyond clarity.

He reached for them—shaking hands stretching toward the daggers—but found he couldn't .

He could not bring himself to touch them.

A groan tore from his throat.

" No… "

His head shook, violently, in denial.

The daggers lay there, so close.

Yet their presence—mere inches before him—was utterly crippling .

His heart shattered.

" No! " The cry tore from his throat, raw and unrestrained, echoing through the hollow remains of his home. It was loud— too loud—but he feared that if he didn't release it, he would shatter. Burn from the inside out.

They were dead.

The realization hit him like a blade to the chest, sharp and merciless. He hadn't known—hadn't truly known—how much hope he still carried until it was ripped away, leaving nothing but pain in its wake.

So much pain.

Tears spilled freely, unbidden, as broken sounds escaped him—sounds he couldn't control, couldn't suppress.

Then—arms.

Someone embraced him from behind, and he turned instinctively into the hold, seeking solace, seeking reprieve .

Sasuke.

Oh, Sasuke.

How could he have left them? How could he have abandoned his little brother—only eleven, soon to turn twelve in July?

Sasuke is dead.

So were their mother. Their father.

He had no one left.

The blue-eyed vampires had taken it all—destroyed everything.

How was he supposed to survive this? How could he possibly go on?

He couldn't.

He felt himself being rocked gently, side to side, as words—soft, soothing—were murmured into the air. He couldn't hear them, not fully, but they felt good. They eased the ache in his chest, if only slightly.

" You are not alone. "

The words reached him, faint yet clear.

He wanted to believe them. Desperately.

For what was he, if not a dead man walking, without that belief?

---

Hours passed, and an old woman came to speak with him. She led him to the burial site where she and the survivors had laid their dead to rest.

She pointed out his father's grave.

But Sasuke? His mother?

She wasn't sure which graves belonged to them.

The survivors had retrieved the bodies from the battlefield, but the identities of some remained uncertain.

Itachi fell to his knees before his father's grave, his gaze shifting to the one marked as his own .

Apparently, they had assumed he had died alongside the others.

He didn't correct them.

He might as well have.

He knelt there for hours, unmoving, until Haku came to drag him away.

He didn't resist.

The journey back to Konoha was steeped in silence.

Itachi said nothing—offered no words, no thoughts. His mind remained tangled in the battle on the hill, replaying it over and over, each moment etched into his senses.

Darkness had settled over them long before they reached the village, but Itachi had made his decision.

Once he arrived, he would leave.

To Elfim.

He didn't yet know what he would do once there—but he would find out soon enough.

"I'm leaving for Elfim tomorrow," he announced abruptly, cutting into whatever Haku had been saying.

Brown eyes met his own. "Going for revenge?" Haku asked.

Itachi hesitated.

Did he even know if that was his intent? Could revenge even exist , when faced with enemies that could not be killed?

"I hope you realise how futile that is," Haku continued. "Why don't you stay? Mourn properly. Think this through."

Itachi's response was swift.

"I'm going ."

Final. Unyielding.

Whether Haku sensed the firm resolution in his voice or merely chose to abandon the argument for another time, he did not press further.

It no longer mattered what he thought.

The decision had been made.

Nothing would change that.

As they neared Konoha, something felt off .

The roads—once lively, brimming with traders and villagers—were empty . Silent. The lamps that usually illuminated the streets had been snuffed out.

Haku spoke first, voicing what Itachi had already felt. " Something is wrong. "

His grip on the reins tightened, urging the horse forward.

Itachi sensed them then.

Normals.

" Haku ," he murmured, his voice stripped of emotion. " Get off the horse. Slowly. Hide. "

He could only hope Haku would listen—without question, without hesitation.

He did.

Silently, swiftly, Haku slipped from the saddle and disappeared into the shadows.

Itachi dismounted, eyes scanning the surroundings.

No hunters' weapon. No blade suited for battle.

But— something sharp .

His gaze landed on an axe, buried deep in a log.

Just as he started for it—the wind shifted .

And with it—

Two Normals leapt into view.

Hissing.

Fangs bared.

Monstrous.

Disgusting.

Itachi twisted his lips, launching himself toward the axe.

His fingers wrapped around the handle, and in one swift movement, he turned—just in time to bury the blade deep into the skull of the first Normal that lunged at him.

The body crumpled.

He ignored the protests of his injured leg—pushed through the pain, unrelenting.

In one seamless motion, he wrenched the axe free from the vampire's head, twisted his stance, and swung upwards —the blade tearing through the chin of the second Normal who had charged toward him.

Another fell.

But there were more .

He barely had time to register them before they began to gather—eyes sharp, fangs bared.

And yet—something shifted within him.

Despite the anguish. Despite the loss. Despite the insurmountable grief.

His body felt alive .

A hunger. A rage .

A thirst to strike down every vampire that roamed the earth .

These would be the first.

He counted fifteen—but the number was irrelevant.

" Come at me ," he thought, silent yet fervent. " Let me use you as a warning—to every vampire that breathes. Come. "

They obeyed.

And, oh , it felt good .

The axe ripped through flesh, tore through bone—the sound, the blood, the sheer savagery of it—euphoric.

By the time the last body fell, he was drenched in crimson.

Had it been fifteen? Twenty? He hadn't counted.

It hardly mattered.

Their bodies faded—dust swallowing the remains, blood disappearing with them.

Itachi's face was streaked with their remnants, darkened beyond recognition.

He flung the axe aside, turning toward Haku.

And others .

Witnesses.

Staring—horrified.

Perhaps it was the brutality, the way he had torn them limb from limb.

Perhaps they thought him mad .

Perhaps he was .

He had long had enough of vampires.

And then—

" Haku, Zabuza is… "

A whisper. Urgent. Dread-laced.

Itachi watched Haku's face go pale before he bolted , running without so much as a glance in Itachi's direction.

---

When Itachi reached the crowd, he noticed the way they stared .

Yet none stepped forward.

None dared approach.

It suited him just fine.

He had no desire to be touched.

As he neared, the crowd parted instinctively, granting him passage.

And then—he saw him.

Haku.

Kneeling.

Holding Zabuza .

Blood seeped from his neck.

Though there were cuts elsewhere—wounds lining his body—it was the throat that concerned Itachi most.

His eyes narrowed.

Had he been bitten ?

Itachi's eyes swept the ground in search of something sharp .

Then—he found them.

Zabuza's pistols.

Hunters' weapons.

Without hesitation, he strode forward, picking them up.

When he turned, he found Haku staring at him—wide-eyed, fearful .

Why would he fear me?

All Itachi wanted— all he intended—was to kill Zabuza before he turned.

It was the only option.

A bite from a Normal was irreversible.

He raised the gun, aiming it at Zabuza's shaking form—

But before he could fire, Haku moved.

Fast.

Blocking his path—arms outstretched, body taut with desperation.

" No! Don't kill him! "

Itachi's gaze remained fixed. His grip did not falter.

"I have to," he said coolly. "He'll turn soon. It's the only way to stop it."

Haku shook his head, vehement. " No. Please. "

Did he not understand?

Or was he simply choosing to be wilfully ignorant?

Itachi said nothing—merely held his position, unwavering.

He would not let another vampire live.

Not after them .

Not after the blue-eyed .

Not one of them.

Then—

" Kill the king, and they all die! "

Haku's voice shot through the air.

Itachi narrowed his eyes.

" What? "

He did not move his lips much—barely parting them as he spoke.

"You seek revenge, don't you?" Haku pressed. " If you kill the king of the blue-eyed vampires, every single one of them will die. "

Itachi scoffed internally.

A lie.

It was absurd.

He had read everything there was to read on the Nines—their history, their abilities, their rule.

Not once had he encountered such a claim.

" What are you talking about? "

"I heard it—from one of them ," Haku said hastily. " Their king is their life source. That's why they never let him out of the castle. It's far too risky. "

Itachi considered this.

Haku didn't seem to be lying.

Even if his plea had been fueled by saving Zabuza, there was an undeniable urgency in his words—an insistence that couldn't be ignored.

Just kill the king ?

Could it truly be that simple?

No.

Surely not.

And yet—it was worth investigating.

It was true, after all.

The King of Elfim was never seen beyond his palace walls.

Never once in history had he stepped outside.

But no one had ever considered why .

Exhaling sharply, Itachi lowered the gun.

" What will you do? " he asked.

Haku swallowed hard. " I'll take care of him. Please... just go to Elfim, as you said you would. "

His voice was quiet yet resolute.

Itachi looked away—away from those pleading brown eyes, glistening with unshed tears.

A part of him wondered if thank you would even matter now. If Haku would appreciate the words after what had just transpired.

He exhaled, fingers curling around the pistols.

"Tell him I'll be taking these," he said, holding them aloft. " They're of no use to him now anyway. "

Without another word, he turned, striding down the road.

For the briefest moment, he wanted to look back.

One last glance at the man who had comforted him in his darkest hour.

But he didn't.

Instead, he tucked the pistols into his inner coat, his mind already fixated on his route.

The Forest of Light .

It was the quickest path.

Four days—at most—on horseback.

He would be in Elfim soon.