Investigation

"Hm?"

Shuoyue took an old book from the shelf in the room. He made out the words on its spine. "Every... day... Cooking... Encyclopedia?"

From then on, he helped his teacher in the kitchen whenever he had free time. Sometimes, when his teacher didn't make it back by mealtime, he tried out recipes from the book. To his surprise, he seemed to have a real knack for it. The cooking skills he'd honed from a young age would also save him a lot of effort later on. But that was for another time.

Some time had passed since the ambush that had nearly taken everything from them. On summer nights in the mountains, cool breezes swept away the day's heat and gently stirred the clearing around the little wooden cabin that had stubbornly put down roots there.

Inside, candlelight was the only source of illumination. It wasn't as bright as sunlight, but it made the cramped space feel especially warm. At the center of the rough wooden table sat a strangely shaped cake, slightly collapsed on one side. It had clearly been made by hand with great care—but limited skill—and seven thin candles, their flames flickering orange, stuck out at crooked angles. Beside it were several plates of rare treats: cooked meat prepared for more than just a full belly, and brightly colored wild fruit.

Today was Uchiha Sakuya's seventh birthday.

Lian's cheeks still bore a trace of the weakness left by his recent recovery, but his big eyes shone brighter than any star, brimming with pure excitement and anticipation. Rising onto his tiptoes, he carefully pushed the biggest, reddest piece of fruit toward his brother, then turned to their teacher, who sat in the shadows, looking nervous and hopeful.

Their teacher still wore his old dark robe and sat as silent as a rock. Yet a faint, unusual sweetness hung in the air, the scent of fermented fruit coming from the wooden cup before him, which had been polished fairly smooth.

Shuoyue gazed at the seven dancing flames, his heart swelling with a strange, unfamiliar warmth. His birthday? He'd almost forgotten the word. He could only vaguely remember his mother gently stroking his head long ago... He couldn't even figure out how their teacher had known the date.

"Big brother, come on, close your eyes and make a wish!" Lian urged him in an eager whisper, unable to hold back. His little hands clutched the hem of his shirt.

Shuoyue looked at his brother's sparkling eyes, then stole a glance at their teacher. In the candlelight, his silhouette seemed a little softer than usual. Then Shuoyue obediently closed his eyes. What did he wish for? He hoped... he hoped Lian would never get hurt again. He hoped... they could stay like this forever... Then he blew out all the candles with all his might.

The little cabin immediately rang with Lian's happy, earnest applause. It was bright and clear, yet lonely, and filled with sincere joy.

After a brief silence, their teacher picked up the wooden cup before him but didn't drink. His gaze settled on the candles, their flames extinguished and thin trails of white smoke rising from their wicks, as if he were waging a silent struggle. After a long while, he finally spoke in a tone that sounded much like his usual one, yet made the brothers hold their breath.

"You're seven now... Not quite little kids anymore."

Slowly, his left hand rose. With a solemnity that seemed almost frozen in place, he reached for the collar he always kept pulled high, covering his chin and mouth, and the mask he had never once removed.

Shuoyue and Lian's eyes instantly widened. Their mouths fell slightly open as they stared, stunned. Their teacher's face! It was the thing they were most curious about—and a forbidden subject they would never dare touch.

The collar slowly lowered. The mask came undone and was gently removed.

At last, the candlelight fell without restraint upon the face that had always been hidden in shadow.

A horrible mass of wrinkled scars covered half his face, twisted like centipedes, telling of a terrible past. Beyond the scars, his jaw was sharply defined, and his lips were thin, pressed together into a hard line. With his face uncovered, his whole presence seemed different—less shrouded in awe-inspiring mystery, more painfully real, marked by the passage of time and suffering in a way that was hard to describe.

Shuoyue and Lian held their breath. They weren't afraid of the scars—they were used to all kinds of wounds already—but they were shaken by this sudden, momentous act of showing himself. In their childish understanding, they sensed that this wasn't just a face. Their teacher had opened a heavy door that had never been opened before.

Their teacher didn't look at them, as though that simple gesture had taken all the strength he had. He lifted the wooden cup and drained the clear liquid in one go. His Adam's apple bobbed. The homemade liquor stung his throat, and he frowned slightly, the scars shifting with the movement.

Then he picked up the small liquor jug and, for once, poured some into the empty cup before Shuoyue—just the shallowest pour, barely enough to cover the bottom.

"Want to try?" he asked. His voice seemed lower and raspier than usual.

Shuoyue's heart pounded like a rabbit was trapped in his chest. He looked at the clear liquid pooled at the bottom of the cup, its sharp scent rising from it, then at their teacher's eyes. In the candlelight, they no longer seemed so unfathomably deep; instead, they reflected a few warm flames. Finally, he nodded hard, with the courage and curiosity of a little animal.

Imitating his teacher, he cupped the vessel in both hands, gathered his courage, and tipped that tiny amount of liquid into his mouth in one gulp.

In an instant, a scorching, fiery taste shot across his tongue and down his throat. He choked and started coughing violently, his little face turning bright red as tears welled up against his will.

Watching him in all his miserable, adorable disarray, their teacher's lips seemed to twitch upward, the movement on his usually stony, scarred face slight and stiff in the extreme.

It couldn't even be called a smile, just an almost imperceptible twitch of the muscles. But to Shuoyue and Lian, who were staring intently at him, it was like seeing the first crack appear across a frozen lake in the dead of winter. It struck them as unbelievable.

Their teacher... could make that kind of expression?

Lian was terribly curious. Leaning closer, he asked in a small voice, "Big brother, what does it taste like? Is it good?"

Shuoyue was too tongue-tied from the sting to answer. He could only shake his head vigorously, stick out his tongue, and fan his mouth with one hand, his cheeks as red as the wild fruit on the table.

Their teacher didn't pour him another drop. He simply poured himself a little more and drank slowly. The cabin fell quiet, but the silence no longer made them tense. Instead, a clumsy, warm stillness that belonged to the three of them alone slowly flowed through the room.

The candlelight flickered softly, gently bathing their three faces: a scarred man drinking in silence, a seven-year-old boy with teary eyes from the burn but a bright gaze, and a younger brother filled with curiosity and joy.

Outside the cabin lay the endless darkness of the mountains and the dangers lurking within. Inside, a brief but utterly real warmth held sway.

In that moment, there was no weight of the past and no uncertainty about the future. There was only a little cabin, where a teacher and his two pupils celebrated the seventh birthday of a child who had struggled just to live long enough to reach it.

That faint and precious warmth, like the light of the seven candles, burned itself deep into the young hearts of Shuoyue and Lian, becoming an important memory that would sustain them through the long years ahead. And that night, their teacher, too, seemed to set down some of his immeasurably heavy burdens for a little while, tasting a hint of something called "bonds"—bitter at first, yet sweet in the end.