Team 7's Oath

Only three people remained in the hallway.

Naruto spoke first, his voice low but unable to suppress its agitation. "The Sand ninja are going to attack Konoha?!"

Ringo leaned against the wall without saying a word. Back in the Hokage's office, the Third had asked them to recount the intelligence once more. Kakashi and Jiraiya had heard everything. The Third remained silent for so long that even Naruto did not dare urge him. Jiraiya stood by the window, his usual carefree expression completely gone. He tapped the windowsill three times with his fingers, then turned and left. Before Kakashi followed him out, he looked back at them once, said nothing, and closed the door behind him.

Sasuke stood by the window with his back to the moonlight. His shadow stretched long, all the way to Ringo's feet.

"Orochimaru—I saw him." Sasuke's voice squeezed through clenched teeth. "The way he looked at me. He wasn't looking at an enemy—he was looking at prey."

Naruto turned to him. "What prey?"

"Me." Sasuke pressed his fingers against the curse mark through his collar, his nails digging into the fabric. "Orochimaru said I needed power, that I should go find him. He gave me this—not as a gift, but as a mark. He thinks I belong to him. I don't want that. The curse mark won't disappear just because I don't want it to. He'll be at the exam arena the day after tomorrow. I might—"

"You won't."

Ringo cut him off. When Sasuke said "I might," he pressed too hard against the curse mark, his nails digging into his skin as if he wanted to tear the thing out.

"You won't go looking for Orochimaru. Not because the curse mark doesn't hurt—but because your fingers never left it while you were talking. You're afraid of it. Afraid it'll control you. Someone who's afraid won't go to him. Someone who's afraid will fight back. You can't even beat me, so what makes Orochimaru so special?"

Sasuke's mouth twitched. It was not a smile—it was the expression of someone who had been hit where it hurt and had nothing to say.

"When have you ever beaten me?"

"On match day," Ringo said. "If you draw me."

Naruto cut in, his fists clenching and loosening, then clenching again. "Hey, the draws aren't even out yet! Maybe I'll draw Sasuke, and then—"

"You?" Sasuke raised a brow.

"Yeah, me!" Naruto thumped his chest. "I've trained with the Pervy Sage for a month. You think I'm still that dead last?"

"Yeah," Ringo said.

"You—"

"But being dead last doesn't mean you'll lose." Ringo looked at him. "Neji is a genius, the kind the Hyuga clan sees once in a century. If you draw him, you might not win."

Naruto froze. Ringo rarely said things like that. He either said, "You can win," or, "You can't beat him." He never said, "You might not."

"You're worried about me?" Naruto grinned.

"Not worried," Ringo said. "I just don't want you losing and disgracing Team 7."

Naruto laughed loudly, but the sound did not travel far through the hallway before the night swallowed it. He stopped laughing and grew serious.

"The day after tomorrow, no matter who we draw, no matter who runs into the Sand ninja first—Team 7 won't fall."

He held out his fist.

"Because there are still two people behind us."

Sasuke glanced at Naruto's hand, then at Ringo. Ringo placed his hand on top. After two seconds of silence, Sasuke put his hand over theirs.

Three fists stacked together. Moonlight spilled through a gap in the clouds and fell across them—one wrapped in bandages, one marked by a curse seal, and one covered in calluses. Naruto's fist was warm, Sasuke's was cool, and Ringo's was between them. Neither warm nor cool, but steady.

"See you the day after tomorrow," Naruto said.

"See you the day after tomorrow," Sasuke said.

Ringo said nothing. Then a voice sounded in his mind—not Naruto's, not Sasuke's, but the system's.

Emotional bond detected. Automatically storing "Important Memory: Team 7's Oath"—new function unlocked: Memory Storage. Host may replay stored key memories at any time.

Ringo paused. The system had never spoken on its own before. This was the first time. A new tab had appeared in the corner of the card slots. It was not a card, but a memory. Its icon was round rather than square. The system did not merely drop fragments from chakra, nor did it merely record conversations—it could store memories born from emotion. Not data, but memories. Not for synthesis, but for remembering.

He lowered his head and looked at the three stacked fists, then said, "See you the day after tomorrow."

The three of them separated and went their own ways.

Naruto headed toward Jiraiya's residence, walking quickly. Halfway there, he stopped and looked back at the hallway. Sasuke was already gone, and Ringo had left as well. Naruto clenched his fist and said to the empty air, "The day after tomorrow, I'll show them."

Sasuke walked back toward his apartment, a kunai clenched in his hand. As he passed the training ground, he saw the wooden posts covered in burn marks left by Chidori. Kakashi was not there, but Sasuke knew he would come tomorrow. He touched the curse mark on his neck and kept walking.

Ringo left a little later. He walked to the dirt slope beside the training ground and sat down. The moonlight shrank his shadow into a small lump, like a cat crouching by his feet. He opened the system panel. The card slots were arranged like a deck of playing cards: twelve white cards, eight purple cards, six gold cards, and one orange card. Thirty chapters of accumulation, all here.

Every card had a history. The first white card had been picked up in the rain in the Land of Waves. Back then, he had not known what synthesis was. He only knew that if he threw things into the card slots, the system would spit out something better. The first purple card had been a fragment dropped from Orochimaru's shed snakeskin in the Forest of Death. His hand had trembled when he picked it up, not because he was afraid of Orochimaru—but because he was afraid Sasuke would see. The first gold card had come from Jiraiya, a senjutsu fragment. The old man had said, "If you believe, take the gamble. If you don't, change the recipe." As for that orange card, he still did not dare synthesize it.

But tomorrow, he had to synthesize it. It was no longer a question of whether he dared—the war the day after tomorrow would not wait for him to be ready.

He closed the panel and shut his eyes. All he could see was the scene from earlier—three fists stacked together. Naruto's fist was warm, Sasuke's was cool, and his was between them. Neither warm nor cool, but steady. A triangle was the most stable shape; every side supported the other two.

They were not merely a team assigned together.

They were comrades willing to risk their lives for each other.

He rose and headed home. His fist was clenched, not in anger—but as if he were holding onto something he did not want to let escape. The finals were the day after tomorrow. But the finals were no longer the most important thing. The most important thing was—

He stopped and looked back at Konoha's lights.

Beneath those lights were Ichiraku Ramen, Iruka's classroom, and Hinata's window. There was the vegetable vendor auntie's stall, birds perched on utility poles, and the sound of ninja stepping across roof tiles during their morning runs.

Would those sounds, those lights, those people still be there after tomorrow?

He had to protect them.

Not alone. The three of them would.

Naruto would stand at the front and use the Nine-Tails' chakra to block the biggest wave. Sasuke would strike from the side and use Chidori to cut through the hardest shell. He would stand in the middle and use steam to fill every gap. It was not a tactic—it was the way the three of them lived. Naruto's path was to charge forward, Sasuke's was to walk into the darkness, and his was to bind the two of them together.

A triangle was the most stable shape.

He looked down at his hand. Three burn marks crossed his palm, pale red beneath the moonlight. After tomorrow, would those three marks become four, five, or stop increasing altogether? That did not depend on whether his steam was stable. It depended on whether he could make his opponent lose control before his steam did.

He clenched his fist and kept walking. His home was a tiny courtyard behind the orphanage. Morning glories climbed over the courtyard wall, blooming in a great swath of purple every morning. He had planted them himself—from seeds picked up by the roadside and planted in a broken clay pot. Later, they had covered the entire wall.

Would the flowers bloom tomorrow?

He did not know. But he knew that as long as the wall remained, the flowers could bloom.