Funeral

The sky was gray.

It was not overcast—the clouds were simply too thick, too thick for the sun to pierce. No one smiled on Konoha's streets, and no one spoke loudly. Every shop was closed, white paper pasted over the windows. Wind blew down from Hokage Rock, over the streets, past the utility poles, and across Ichiraku Ramen's sign. The sign was dark—the lights were off.

Beneath Hokage Rock, everyone wore black mourning clothes.

In the first row stood the Hokage's direct subordinates: Kakashi, Might Guy, Asuma, Kurenai, and Iruka. Kakashi's Sharingan was closed, not to save chakra—he simply did not want anyone to see him crying. Tears hung on Might Guy's face, unwashed away. He was not afraid of being seen crying. Asuma lowered his head, the cigarette between his lips unlit. It was not because he had forgotten—he just felt that the air should not smell of smoke today.

The second row consisted of the major clans: the Hyuga, Nara, Akimichi, Yamanaka, Aburame, and Inuzuka clans. The clan heads stood in front, with their clansmen behind them, arranged by seniority. The Hyuga clan occupied the third column. Hiashi Hyuga stood at the front, with Hinata behind him, her expression unreadable through her Byakugan.

The third row was made up of ordinary shinobi, the fourth of villagers, and the fifth of merchants. Ringo stood at the very end. He was an orphan—he had no clan position, no jōnin sponsor, no direct unit. He could only stand in the last row, alongside vegetable-selling aunties, mail carriers, and old men who swept the streets.

Hinata stepped out from the second row. Hiashi Hyuga turned to look at her, but she did not look back. She passed through the third row, the fourth, then the fifth, and stopped beside Ringo. Not in front of him—beside him, their shoulders separated by ten centimeters. It was not a distance—it was a position. She stood where he could reach her.

"You're not alone." Hinata's voice was so soft that only Ringo could hear it.

Ringo said nothing. He lowered his head and looked at his hands. Dirt still clung to them, pressed in when he had knelt in the woods yesterday. The gaps beneath his fingernails were black, impossible to wash clean. It was not that he did not want to wash them—he had not had the time. After returning from the woods, he had stayed at the training ground, striking wooden posts all night. Fresh scalding marks from steam covered the posts.

Hinata reached out and touched the back of his hand with her fingers. Just once, then she pulled back. It was not a handshake—it was confirmation. Confirmation that he was still alive, that he was still here. Her hand was cold, not from the weather, but from nerves. She did not know how to comfort someone either. All she could do was stand beside him and let him know he was not alone.

Jiraiya stepped onto the platform.

The platform had been built before the Third Hokage's grave. The tombstone was new, its stone white, with Hiruzen Sarutobi's name carved into it. Beneath the name was the emblem of the Land of Fire, and beneath that, two words: "Hokage." Jiraiya stood on the platform without notes, without looking at anyone. He looked only at the tombstone.

"The old man was an idiot." Jiraiya spoke, his voice two tones lower than usual. It was not grief—it was seriousness. "When I was his student, I peeked at girls bathing, stole his forbidden technique scrolls, and stole his liquor. Every time, he'd say, 'Jiraiya, what kind of person do you intend to become?' He said it for twenty years. I turned into twenty different kinds of people, and he still kept saying it. He wasn't talking about me. He was talking about himself. What kind of person did he want to become? He kept changing, but there was one line he never crossed."

Jiraiya paused, swallowed, and a gurgling sound came from his throat.

"He never gave up on anyone. When Orochimaru defected, he chased him to the border alone. He caught up, but he didn't strike. Not because he couldn't win—because he couldn't bring himself to do it. Orochimaru was his student. He taught him for three years, watched over him for three years, and believed Orochimaru would come back. He never got to see that day. He waited until death. But before he died, he looked beyond the examination grounds. Outside stood all his students, all his shinobi, all his Konoha. He knew they would keep waiting for him."

Jiraiya took out a flask, removed the cap, and poured a cup over the tombstone. The liquor ran across the stone and seeped in, leaving dark marks.

"Old man, you turned the Hokage from 'the strongest' into 'the warmest.' Not because you were strong—but because you were warm. You warmed all of Konoha, warmed everyone. Now the fire has gone out. But the embers remain. In the hands of every shinobi you left behind. In Naruto's hands, in Sasuke's hands, in Ringo's hands. Not in the Hokage's hands—in the hands of genin. A genin's flame may be smaller than a Hokage's, but small does not mean extinguished. Small means many."

Jiraiya placed the flask on the tombstone, turned, and stepped down from the platform. As he passed Ringo, he put a hand on Ringo's shoulder for a moment. He said nothing and kept walking.

Ringo lowered his head and looked at the card slot. The Will of Fire Fragment glowed within it, its light multicolored. It was not the red of flames—it was the warmth of sunlight. The light passed through the card slot interface and shone in his vision. It was not bright—it was warm. The fragment was resonating, not synthesizing, but merging. The Third Hokage's will merged with his synthesis system through the fragment. It did not change the rules of synthesis—it changed what synthesis meant. Before, synthesis had been for becoming stronger. Now, it was for protection. Not to win—but to let those who should live, live.

He raised his head and looked at the tombstone. The Third Hokage's name was white beneath the gray sky. White was not emptiness—it was fullness. So full it could not be contained, so full it overflowed into the hearts of everyone standing here.

The funeral ended. People left one by one. Some cried, some kept their heads lowered, and some stared at the sky. Kakashi was the last to leave. Before he did, he placed his copy of Make-Out Paradise on the tombstone. It was not an offering—it was a loan. A loan for the Third to read over there.

Ringo remained where he was. Hinata did not leave either. She stood beside him without speaking or touching him. It was not that she did not want to leave—she knew he still had something to say.

Once everyone had gone, only two people remained beneath Hokage Rock. Ringo took three steps forward and stopped before the tombstone. He reached out and touched the carved letters with his fingers. The stone was cool, not cold—cool. Cool to the bone, cool to the heart.

"Third Hokage, a month ago, you asked if I could fight. I said I could. Not for the Hokage, but for the people who lived with me in Konoha. Today, I want to tell you that I can still fight. Not because steam is strong—not because I have more synthesis options—but because I know some things are worth guarding with my life. Not because I'm a shinobi—but because I'm Ringo. Because you taught me that even someone who isn't the Hokage can still carry fire."

He withdrew his hand. Steam rose from his palm, golden and glowing beneath the gray sky. It was not a weapon—it was a lamp. A small lamp that still shone after the greatest fire had gone out.

Hinata came up from behind and stood beside him. She reached out, not to touch his hand, but the steam. The steam was hot, but not scalding—warm. Her fingers curled within it, as though catching something invisible.

"Ringo-kun, the Third Grandpa's lamp has gone out, but yours is still shining. It is not a replacement—it is a continuation."

Ringo looked at the steam. It churned in his palm, with a thread of multicolored light amid the gold—the Will of Fire Fragment glowing within the steam. It was not a fragment—it was a seed. The Third had divided the spark into three portions: one in Naruto's hands, one in Sasuke's hands, and one in his. Not everyone would become Hokage—everyone would become fire.

"Let's go."

He drew back the steam and turned around. Hinata walked beside him as they left the shadow of Hokage Rock together and stepped beneath the gray sky. A crack opened in that gray sky, and the sun leaked through it. A beam of light fell upon the Third Hokage's tombstone.