Chapter: The Warehouse of Steel
Rain hadn't ceased from dawn.
Manju, the jounin, hurried ahead, pulling Kagerō along by the wrist with the practiced nonchalance of one who'd led dozens of orphans down this same path before. Gravel path underfoot gave way to steel-plated floor as they went past the orphanage gates.
Kagerō looked back.
The orphanage stood behind them, a crumbling, large structure of concrete and rusted roofs. It didn't impress from the outside, but now, from afar, Kagerō realized what it was: a fortress of survival. A reminder of the war economy. Its broad campus was bounded by industrial warehouses, like tired siblings too apathetic to care.
Not small at all.
Not fragile.
Just. forgotten.
The wind whistled through the alleys as they walked past the fenced-in lots and broken-down carts. Kagerō's eyes narrowed as he absorbed it all. Every corner, every door. The land would one day count.
Manju came to rest at last in a warehouse with corrugated steel walls and swinging iron doors. The soft hum of chakra vibrated from within like static. Kagerō's breath misted in the chill as Manji ripped the door open with a scream.
Inside there were children.
A dozen of them, at least.
Some were bundled in threadbare training gear. Others still wore patched civilian clothing. Most looked around four years old. Older than Kagerō by a solid year or two. Some were clearly orphans like him, wide-eyed, underfed, cautious. Others held the relaxed poise of shinobi-raised kids, eyes sharp, bodies already disciplined.
He stepped inside, quietly.
No welcome stares.
Manju released him with a grunt. "Wait here. You'll be assigned soon."
Then he disappeared into one of the side passageways, leaving Kagerō to stand alone under the unforgiving glare of overhead lights.
Kagerō maintained a blank face.
He didn't talk. He didn't cower.
He just watched.
He saw the older children argue in hushed tones, eyes flicking to each newcomer like predators sizing up competitors. Others rehearsed kunai forms in slow, jerky movements, clumsy, but intent.
This was it.
The shinobi ward.
Where children ceased to be children.
He could sense the eyes upon him, some inquisitive, others taunting. A little two-year-old pulled into the lion's den. The youngest in the room, hands down.
But Kagerō didn't experience fear.
He experienced concentration.
This was unavoidable.
He'd considered concealment of power before, mimicking frailty, playing the long game. It wouldn't be feasible here, however. Not in Amegakure. Not in a country of steel, rain, and survival.
This wasn't Konoha.
There was no easy academy.
No safety net.
There was only war, and the long shadow it cast on everything that breathed.
War would come, and it would take.
Resources.
Homes.
Mera.
Kagerō clenched his fists.
No. That couldn't be allowed.
If power was the only thing that protected, then he would gather it, cultivate it, and wield it without mercy.
He didn't need a kekkei genkai.
He didn't need a tailed beast.
Not really.
He thought of legends, shinobi whose names echoed louder than bloodlines.
Minato Namikaze, who ripped through enemy ranks like lightning, his speed unmatchable, his accuracy impeccable.
Tobirama Senju, the master of innovation, whose jutsu continued to influence modern warfare.
Hiruzen Sarutobi, the Professor, who warped every element to his command through sheer study and mastery.
These weren't monsters born, they were forces created.
Kagerō could tread that path.
That would be sufficient.
He simply needed to hone it. To shape it. To endure the heat of this crucible.
Movement at the other end caught his attention.
A trio of older boys laughed while pushing aside a smaller child during sparring practice. One sported a branded shoulder, most likely clan-born, the way he swaggered. The smaller boy whined but didn't strike back.
Kagerō remained still.
Not yet.
He wouldn't attract notice today. But he noted it.
One of the boys finally approached him, seduced by his silence or his height.
"You lost, pipsqueak?" the older boy sneered.
Kagerō gazed back unblinking.
The boy's smirk collapsed. Then he snorted and strolled away.
Kagerō let out a slow breath.
He was beneath notice, for the moment. But that would change.
And when they finally noticed him, they would never look away again.
He sat down against the wall, legs crossed under him. Rain drummed on the high metal roof.
Out of nothing, he thought,
Legends are born.
The lights soon faded
Then the side gates swung open—
—and Hanzo walked in.
_________________________________________
He had his mask on.
The black, ribbed rebreather hissed with each breath he drew. It warped the air around him, made him seem more substantial, ill. His armor was dulled grey and reflected the warehouse lights, streaked with rusted orange where the joints were. A tiny red salamander attached itself to his shoulder, eyes shining like coals in the fog.
Hanzo did not say anything at first.
He strode down the middle aisle with a step like judgment, measured, quiet, unstoppable. The instructors bowed. The children dipped their heads. Even the hardest-looking shinobi stiffened as he went by.
He came to a stop in front of the children.
He did not glance at them.
He gazed through them.
And then, in that low mechanical growl, he started.
"You stand here today not as children…"
"But as candidates for war."
"This country, your country, will not protect you."
"The Land of Rain is not a cradle. It is a crucible."
"We are a nation drowned between giants. Konoha, Iwa, Suna… They tower over us, and they crush us beneath their boots when it suits them."
"They have their beasts. Their bloodlines. Their legacies."
"We have none of that."
"We have only me."
"Hanzo—the Salamander. I alone stand the line. I alone hold this village back from being swept away."
"That is not arrogance. It is truth."
"You live because I am feared."
"You live because I killed enough to make them hesitate."
"But I am one man."
"And I age."
"Which is why you are here."
"You were marked not for pity—but for use."
"Each of you will be honed, tempered, tried."
"Not to become shinobi."
"To become weapons."
"A sword does not ask its master."
"It cuts."
"And if it will not cut…"
"It is thrown away."
"Rain does not forgive."
"Rain does not wait."
"You will train. You will fight. You will kill."
"Or you will rust beneath the rest."
He stopped there.
The warehouse was so silent, even the storm fell silent.
Kagerō gazed at the man.
The demon.
The symbol.
The self-styled protector of a fractured nation.
There was no cheering. No nods of approval. No motivational speeches regarding bonds or courage.
Only command.
And then Hanzo wheeled, his breathing rattling like a dying engine, and disappeared back into the shadows from which he emerged. The salamander spat once, and they disappeared into the tempest