Kagerō woke to whispers and the sound of feet, the beating rhythm of the rain on the ward's tin roof a perpetual accompaniment in the background. His frame was refreshed, his muddled mind clearer than yesterday. He was quite more lively for a fresh baby.
He blinked drowsily, his tiny frame hardly reacting, but his vision keenly noting.
The room had changed. It was emptier.
Mothers cradled their infants, fathers let out sighs of relief, their whispers soft but tinged with something odd. Not happiness, not grief.
Relief.
Kagerō's eyes wandered to the group of people growing near the doors. He couldn't move his head a lot, but he heard them.
"Thank the gods… Our baby wasn't selected."
"He's normal."
"He didn't pass the test. We can return home now."
A mother cried, her tears dampening the bundle in her arms. But her tone was one of thanksgiving, not sorrow.
"My little boy is safe… he doesn't need to become one of them."
Kagerō was confused. What were they rejoicing? What had their children lost?
Then he noticed.
The babies being led home had no scars on their skin.
No salamander branded on their necks.
His head spun, fitting the pieces together. This ward was not a unit for babies. It was a sorting ground.
This was where potential shinobi were selected. The newborns scanned for talent even before they met their parents.
But unlike the other villages where clans prepared their future leaders for greatness, here, in Amegakure, being selected was not an honor.
It was a curse.
The parents were not rejoicing at the survival of their children. They were rejoicing at their escape.
The infants disappeared one by one, taken away into the grateful arms of families, their futures secure.
But not Kagerō's.
By nightfall, only six cribs were still filled. Six children, left behind, waiting for their destiny.
The door groaned open.
A woman walked in. Her robes were wet from the rain, her face etched with fatigue.
A nun, one of the caretakers of the orphaned children of Amegakure. Her eyes scanned the room, sweeping in the other infants. But when her eyes hit Kagerō, her face altered.
She scowled.
Her lips curled into a thin line as if she had wished not to see him here.
A soft sigh slipped from her mouth before she turned to the doctor, her voice laced with unspoken annoyance.
"Why did this one get marked so early?"
The doctor hardly glanced up from his pad. "He activated his chakra."
The nun's shoulders tensed.
"What?"
The physician put down his clipboard, massaging his temple. "He awakened his chakra; it led to poisoning because it was unfocused and tearing wildly through his body. Hanzo-sama pushed chakra through his tenketsu, releasing it all. It almost killed him. As a reward for that clemency, he was branded for the shinobi program."
The nun looked at Kagerō for a very long time.
"He's just a baby," she whispered.
The doctor tried to offer comfort, his voice weak. "He will be raised well. Respected. Cared for under Hanzo-sama's guidance."
The nun's eyes fluttered shut, shaking her head.
"We both know the truth," she stated.
The doctor said nothing.
"Amegakure has no future," she whispered, shaking her head. "A civilian would suffer, but a shinobi… a shinobi of Ame is sure to die."
A lone tear slid down her cheek.
"No difference between the two," she went on, hollow-voiced. "Merely survival, or death. The salamander's jaws, or the battlefield."
She turned and moved away with heavy steps.
Again the door was flung open, and another contingent of dark-clad nuns came in, their expressions grim.
Still not a word spoken, the last of the orphans was carefully lifted out of the crib by the next wave of dark figures.
There were no singing cradles.
No comforts.
Only whispered submission.
He was no baby anymore.
He was a distinctive shinobi of Amegakure.
The Village hidden in Rain.
Kagerō was carried through the cold, dark hallways of the hospital, wrapped in thin cloth, his small frame against the shoulder of the nun. The fabric was wet, the heat hardly enough to protect him from the cold that permeated the very air of Amegakure.
And then, the doors opened.
For the first time, he saw the world outside.
It was nothing like he had envisioned.
The anime had given glimpses of Amegakure. A city of metal spires, rain that seemed to fall forever, and the tyranny of a tyrant, but even those moments had not encapsulated the gravity of this place.
The rain poured down in unyielding sheets, not gentle or tranquil, but bitter and suffocating. It pounded against the rooftops, spilling down rusty pipes and bursting over gutters, creating black puddles in the uneven streets below. The scent of wet metal, rust, and something faintly chemical, such as industrial fumes blended with stagnant water, filled the air.
Giant monoliths of steel and concrete towered above, reaching towards the storm-filled sky. They were not the beautiful, carved structures of Konoha, with tiled roofs and wooden supports. No, Amegakure was a city constructed out of need, not aesthetics. The structures were tall, brutal, and featureless, their sides patched with makeshift repairs, bulging pipes, and knotted wires that writhed like veins through the city.
Heavy walkways and bridges spanned the buildings across several levels, casting profound shadows over the roadways below. Some were shrouded by flickering lights of neon hue, their pale glow extinguished by the falling rain, whereas others loomed in pure obscurity, the reason behind being unclear.
Away in the horizon, he gazed at the largest building among them. Hanzo's Tower stabbed up into the clouds like an iron needle, the top hiding under the thick vapors in the sky.
This location… it was not a village.
It was a fortress.
A prison where the sky was perpetually grey.
And unlike Konoha, with its warmth, its blue skies, and its serene streets, Amegakure was drowning.
The citizens were a reflection of their city. Silent, furtive forms scurried through the streets below, their heads bent beneath hoods or improvised umbrellas, their footsteps swift, their shoulders bent as if anticipating some unseen danger at any given moment.
No children playing in the streets, no vendors loudly hawking their wares, no laughter.
Just the relentless rain.
Kagerō shivered ever so slightly as a cold drop of water trickled down his cheek. The nun carrying him didn't flinch. She walked with determination, her expression set in tired resignation as if she had long since given up trying to battle the city's perpetual gloom.
They moved past a row of buildings, where rusty pipes ejaculated water, forming murky streams that mingled with the muck in the alleys. In one of these, Kagerō's hazy vision picked up a man huddled under a shabby cloak, his body half-immersed in a puddle. He didn't stir.
Nobody checked to see if he was alive.
Amegakure was a cemetery where the dead were not buried.
This was home now.
A universe of cold rain, steel, and silence.
Kagerō allowed his small fingers to weakly clutch the material of the nun's robes, his baby brain still not able to fully comprehend everything.
But one idea planted itself deep within his soul.
If he was to survive in this city, he could never be weak