Homecoming

Shuo Ye was running.

His legs no longer belonged to him. His lungs were burning, and his throat was full of the taste of rust. Gravel had cut open the soles of his feet, leaving bloody footprints with every step, but he did not dare stop.

Dark red stains covered the roads of the clan compound. Under the moonlight, he could not tell whether they were blood or water. When he stepped through them, liquid splashed onto his calves—warm.

Blood.

How far had he run? It usually took fifteen minutes to walk from the training ground to home. How long had he been running now? Five minutes? Ten years?

There was nothing in his mind. Only one coordinate—the location of home.

He rounded the final corner.

And saw it.

The door stood half-open.

Warm yellow light spilled from inside. At this hour, his mother would usually be waiting for him beneath the lamp. His father would sit in the hallway with some scroll in hand, pretending to be busy when he was really waiting for him.

The door had not been shut properly.

Shuo Ye stopped at the entrance. His legs suddenly would not move.

The courtyard was quiet. There were no signs of a struggle. The white morning glories his mother had planted still stood in the corner by the wall, their vines covering the wooden trellis. The wind chime beneath the eaves gave a soft ring.

He stepped over the threshold.

The living room light was indeed on.

The first thing he saw was blood. So much blood. It spread from the center of the room, soaking through the tatami mats, flowing through the cracks in the wooden floor, all the way to his feet.

Then he saw his father.

Uchiha Takuma lay on his back on the floor. Blood was still seeping from the wound in his chest. His eyes were half-open, not Sharingan—just ordinary black pupils. There was no pain on his face. The corners of his mouth even held the faintest curve.

Shuo Ye did not know whether he walked or crawled over. The next second, he was already kneeling beside his father, both hands pressed against the wound, desperately trying to force the blood back in. Blood squeezed through his fingers, hot enough to scald.

His hands were too small.

"—Dad."

The sound was forced out from deep in his throat. He was not even sure it was his own voice.

"Dad!!"

Takuma's eyelids twitched.

He opened his eyes.

They were not the eyes of a fallen warrior. Not anger, not unwillingness, not pain. They were the eyes of someone who recognized the person before him.

"...Shuo Ye..."

His voice was so soft it was nearly inaudible. But his hand moved—a hand covered in blood, rising to grasp Shuo Ye's wrist. It gripped tightly, with all the strength he had left.

Shuo Ye trembled from head to toe.

"Don't talk—don't talk—I—I'll go find—"

He did not know who he was going to find. A medical ninja? An adult? Anyone? Were there even any adults left alive in this clan compound?

"No... need."

Takuma interrupted him. His voice was soft, with a long pause between every word.

Blood ran from the corner of his mouth. He coughed once, and all that came out was blood.

"Shuo Ye... I'm sorry..."

Shuo Ye shook his head. He shook it desperately. Tears fell onto his father's face. He could not remember when he had started crying.

"I'm sorry... Dad... couldn't..."

"Don't say it—" Shuo Ye's voice broke. "Don't apologize—"

Takuma's fingers tightened slightly. His eyes looked at Shuo Ye—there was no sorrow in them. Not even regret. Only guilt. A father's final guilt toward his child.

"Live."

His voice suddenly steadied. He used every last ounce of strength to say those two words clearly.

"Live, Shuo Ye."

The corner of his mouth curved upward a little. It was not a smile—smiling took strength. It was only, only that habitual curve. This was how he usually spoke to Shuo Ye. This was how he looked at Shuo Ye. He had always looked at him this way.

"You are our pride."

Shuo Ye froze.

"Not as an Uchiha—"

Takuma's voice grew softer and softer, but every word struck Shuo Ye's heart.

"—as yourself."

"You are you."

"That is enough."

Then his eyes were still looking at Shuo Ye. Still looking. The light in his pupils was like a candle snuffed out by the wind, dimming bit by bit. The fingers holding Shuo Ye's wrist loosened and fell gently into the pool of blood.

His eyes did not close. He was still looking at Shuo Ye.

Shuo Ye knelt there.

When the sound came from his throat, he did not know whether it was a sob or a scream. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was neither. His mouth hung open, making sounds that were not language. His body shook. His hands still pressed against the sword wound in his father's chest, but there was no more blood left to stop.

He wanted to say something. He had read so many novels and watched so many dramas in his previous life; there were always things to say at moments like this. Last words. Promises. Revenge.

But he could not get out a single word.

He could only kneel there, covered in blood, staring into his father's eyes that no longer held any light, feeling that for the rest of this life—this lifetime—he would never be whole again.

The living room was quiet. Warm light shone on the blood across the floor. The wind chime rang again.

He did not know how long he had knelt there. Maybe a second. Maybe ten thousand years.

Then he heard something.

Very soft. It came from deep in the hallway.

Not footsteps. Breathing. Faint, ragged, intermittent breathing.

Shuo Ye jerked his head up.

Mom.

When he stood, his legs could not support his body at all. He fell twice. The first time, he tripped over his father's corpse. The second time, his own feet refused to obey him. He scrambled back up like a wounded animal.

The hallway was long. Ten times longer than usual. As he ran through it, the walls on either side receded behind him—an illusion—but it no longer mattered.

He pushed open the bedroom door.

Then he saw his mother.