In a forest clearing, moonlight split the ground in two. One half was white, the other black. Kimimaro stood in the white; Ringo stood in the black.
Kimimaro stood in the center of the clearing, his white hair hanging to his shoulders, his skin so pale it was bloodless. It was not illness—it was bone. Bone wriggled beneath his skin, not alive, but a weapon. He raised his right hand and spread his five fingers. Finger bones grew out from his fingertips—not growing, but firing. Five bones shot out at once like five bullets, trailing white streaks through the moonlight as they flew toward Ringo.
Ringo twisted aside. Steam blasted from beneath his feet, sliding his body two meters sideways. The first bone grazed his left shoulder—not grazed, but scraped. A layer of cloth was stripped from his shoulder, leaving a red mark on his skin. The second bone buried itself deep in the tree trunk behind him, its tail still vibrating. The third, fourth, and fifth followed close behind, pinning themselves to either side and sealing off Ringo's retreat. This was not an attack—it was a measurement. Kimimaro was testing his evasive speed.
"You're faster than the previous five." Kimimaro's voice was flat, as though he were reading a report. "The previous five were pinned by the third bone. You evaded until the fifth, which means your steam isn't acceleration—it's prediction. Before I moved, you had already seen the bones' trajectories."
Ringo did not answer. Steam rose from his right hand, not gold, but pale green. Root steam, gleaming with the faint light unique to plants beneath the moon. He spread the steam before himself, not as a shield, but as a wall. A translucent wall of steam flowed across its surface, not still, but alive, like a breathing