Imprint

White Wax Island had never been as quiet at night as it was tonight.

The upheaval at dinner had been like a stone crashing into water. After the ripples faded, all that remained was an even deeper, heavier silence.

No one spoke. No one asked questions. Even the dishes and chopsticks were silently put away.

Marcus sat on a wooden stool in the workshop, staring at his left palm.

The spot cut open by the sheet metal was now smooth as ever. Not even the faintest scar could be found.

He turned his hand over and over for a long time before finally going to bed.

On the second floor, the four children lay in their own beds.

Damian faced the ceiling, his hands behind his head, his eyes open.

He was thinking about what Barlow had said at dinner.

"The Navy protects order. Order and justice are not the same thing."

The words were like a tiny thorn lodged in his heart. It did not hurt, but he could not pull it out.

In the next room, Barlow lay on his side facing the wall. His breathing was steady, as though he were asleep, but his eyes were open.

His gaze rested on the grain of the wooden wall as that voice replayed over and over in his mind.

"Make Uchiha great again."

Barlow turned the three words Uchiha over and over in his mind, breaking them apart countless times before finally closing his eyes.

In the smallest room, Mila curled up beneath her blanket, with only her eyes exposed.

She never covered her head when she slept. It was too stuffy beneath the blanket.

But tonight, she had wrapped herself up tightly, as though that could shut out the strange sensation inside her body.

Her eyelids felt heavy, but she did not dare sleep.

She was afraid that the moment she closed her eyes, that burning sensation would surge back again.

Roy lay by the window. He was already asleep.

He had been the first of the four children to fall asleep.

The shock at dinner had drained the last of his strength. The moment his head touched the pillow, he sank into darkness.

His eyelids trembled lightly, his eyes moving rapidly beneath them.

He was dreaming.

A blood-red moon hung high in the sky, staining the entire world a dark crimson.

Roy found himself standing on land he had never seen before.

Beneath his feet was not the sandy soil of White Wax Island, but hard stone pavement.

Wooden houses surrounded him. Red lanterns hung beneath their eaves, each printed with a black-and-white pattern: a fan, red on top and white below.

He walked forward without any control over his body.

Then he saw that person.

A man stood in the middle of the street with his back to Roy.

Moonlight stretched his shadow long and far, all the way to Roy's feet.

The man wore dark clothes, with the same red-and-white fan emblem printed on his back.

His right hand held a short blade, its tip angled toward the ground, its surface reflecting the blood-colored moonlight.

People appeared at the other end of the street.

More than one. More than a dozen figures poured out from the rooftops, the alleys, and the far end of the street at once, carrying all kinds of weapons.

Their faces were blurred, as though deliberately hidden by something. Only faint, ghostly light shone where their eyes should have been.

The man moved.

He took one step forward.

Just one step.

Then the blade flashed.

Roy had never seen movements so fluid.

Like water cascading from above, like wind passing through leaves, like seawater slipping from reefs at low tide. Every movement flowed into the next, without a single wasted motion or moment of hesitation.

The short blade spun in the man's hand, knocking aside an incoming kunai. The flat of the blade struck the enemy's wrist, then its tip swept upward in a clean arc.

Blood sprayed out, its color impossible to distinguish beneath the red moonlight.

The man moved through the crowd.

His footsteps followed a fixed rhythm. Each step landed at exactly the right moment to evade the path of an attack.

The short blade was not a weapon in his hand. It was an extension of his arm, a projection of his will, a part of his body.

Roy stared in stunned silence.

Then the man sheathed his blade. His fingers overlapped, bent, and locked together in strange patterns before he raised his hands to his lips.

"Fire Release: Phoenix Sage Fire."

Six fireballs flew from his mouth, like six flowers blooming in the night sky.

The flames scattered through the air, each following a different trajectory toward the remaining enemies, as precise as though every one of them had its own eyes.

The instant they struck their targets, they exploded. Sparks flew everywhere, lighting the entire street as brightly as day.

Roy stood amid the firelight, sparks dancing across his pupils.

The man turned around.

Roy finally saw his face clearly.

But he could not remember it.

He had clearly seen it. Every detail of every feature had been perfectly clear before his eyes, yet the moment he tried to imprint that face into his mind, every detail slipped through his fingers like sand.

The only thing that remained was those eyes.

Within their scarlet pupils, three black Tomoe slowly, irresistibly turned.

Like three black moons orbiting a blood-red planet.

Those eyes looked at Roy.

They did not say a word.

But Roy heard that voice.

"Make Uchiha great again."

He suddenly opened his eyes.

Roy gasped for breath, sweat from his back soaking a large patch of the bedsheet.

He stared at the ceiling, his chest heaving violently. Images from the dream churned in his mind: the arc of the short blade, the six flames flying apart, and those scarlet eyes with three Tomoe.

Every detail was crystal clear.

Dreams were not like this.

Dreams faded quickly after waking.

But the images in his mind right now were more vivid than any real memory.

He could even remember the angle at which the man's wrist had turned when he sheathed the blade, the path each of the six fireballs had taken, and the direction in which the three Tomoe had rotated inside those eyes.

That had not been a dream. It had been something else.

Barlow sat up in bed. He had been awake for three minutes already.

For those three minutes, he had remained lying on his side, facing the wall, without moving, like someone truly asleep.

But his eyes were open, and tremors from the dream still lingered deep in his pupils.

He had dreamed it too.

The same blood moon, the same street, the same man, the same swordsmanship and flames.

The difference was that his eyes had remained fixed on the man's hands from beginning to end: the hand signs, the angle of his grip on the blade, the range of motion in his wrist when he struck.

Then he woke up.

Then he heard the gasping from next door. Roy was awake too.

Then he heard Damian sitting up in a more distant room, along with Mila's stifled, barely audible gasps.

Everyone was awake. Everyone had had the same dream.

Barlow threw back his blanket and stepped barefoot onto the floor. As he left his room, he ran straight into Damian coming out of the next room.

The brothers looked at each other in the hallway for one second. They did not need to speak. They saw the same thing in each other's eyes.

Then they both heard footsteps coming from the kitchen downstairs.

Barlow reacted a step faster than Damian.

He rushed down the stairs two at a time, using the railing for leverage and practically sliding down. Damian followed close behind.

Mila was in the kitchen. Her eyes were still red, and tear tracks remained on her face, but her gaze was completely different from how it had been at dinner.

The little girl who had screamed in fright and wrapped herself in a blanket was gone.

In her place stood a child biting her lip, with something like determination burning in her eyes.

"You all dreamed it too?" she asked.

Barlow nodded.

"Those eyes." Mila lowered her voice, but enunciated every word clearly. "Red, with three black dots inside them. Spinning."

"Tomoe," Barlow said.

"What?"

"The black dots were shaped like the pattern on the stone Father threw away."

Damian came up behind him and stopped in the middle of the kitchen.

"So it wasn't a dream," he said.

"It wasn't a dream." Barlow turned toward the back door. It was tightly shut, and beyond it lay the white wax forest, where silver-white leaves rustled beneath the moonlight.

"That thing is in the woods behind the mountain."

"I'll find it."

Mila made to head for the back door.

"Wait..." Damian reached out to stop her, but Mila had already slipped beneath his arm.

Barefoot, she ran to the back door, stood on tiptoe to undo the latch, and pushed it open.

Night wind rushed in, carrying the distinctive bitter scent of white wax leaves.

Barlow followed her.

He did not stop Mila. Instead, he walked slightly behind and to her side, keeping close enough not to lose her but far enough that he could pull her behind him at the first sign of danger.

His eyes swept across the edge of the forest in the darkness. His left hand unconsciously reached toward his waist, where he usually kept a small knife for scraping fish scales, but there was nothing there now.

Under the moonlight, the white wax forest looked like a silver sea.

A thick layer of fallen leaves carpeted the ground. They gave softly beneath their feet, rustling in fine whispers.

Mila walked in front, her steps without hesitation, as though she knew where that thing was.

In truth, she did not know. But there was an indescribable sensation within her, a faint pull like an invisible thread, one end tied to her chest and the other buried deep in the forest.

Barlow felt the same thing.

He walked half a step behind Mila, his footsteps light and his breathing steady.

But his right hand remained slightly open, all five fingers poised to clench at any moment.

It was the vigilance he had developed since childhood, etched into his bones.

Roy came running up from behind.

He was panting hard, his hair a mess, sleep still visible on his face.

But he ran fast, so fast that he passed Barlow and Mila and plunged headlong into the forest.

"Roy!" Damian called from behind.

Roy did not stop.

The pull inside him was the strongest.

The Tomoe had stayed in his pocket for an entire evening, from the beach to town, from the edge of town to their front door.

The dark-red crack in the Tomoe had grown faintly warm against his body heat, and that warmth had seeped through his skin and remained in his body.

That was why he could sense its location more clearly than anyone else.

He stopped beneath the largest white wax tree.

It was at least a hundred years old, its trunk so thick that two people could not wrap their arms around it. Its canopy blotted out the sky, layer upon layer of silver-white leaves allowing moonlight to leak through only in scattered beams, casting mottled, shifting specks of light on the ground.

Roy crouched down, plunged both hands into the pile of fallen leaves, and began digging.

By the time Mila reached him, Roy had already cleared away a large patch of the upper layer.

She did not hesitate. She crouched and dug with him, followed by Barlow, then Damian, who arrived last.

Four pairs of hands turned over fallen leaves beneath the moonlight.

Beneath the leaves lay older leaves. Leaves from last year, from the year before, soaked by rain and dried by sunlight, carrying the distinctive scent of humus.

They dug down layer by layer. Twigs cut their fingers, dirt and shredded leaves filled the gaps beneath their nails, but no one stopped.

Roy's fingers were the first to touch something.

Hard, smooth, and faintly warm.

He grabbed it.

That Tomoe.

The four gathered around, looking at the Tomoe in Roy's palm.

It was still the same piece of jade.

White jade, with a thin crack across its middle. A thread of dark red, as though frozen in place, was embedded within the crack.

The fan engraving on the back remained blurred, as though countless years had worn away its edges.

But something had changed.

At dinner, it had only been a stone. An unsettling stone of unknown origin. Now it lay in Roy's palm, faintly glowing as though it were breathing.

That pulling sensation vanished. In its place came a deeper, quieter connection.

"Let's go back." Damian's voice broke the silence.

They walked back. Mila walked beside Damian, Barlow brought up the rear, and Roy walked in the middle, clutching the Tomoe in his hand.

When they returned to the Household, the kitchen light was on, and Marcus sat beside the wooden table.

He said nothing. He only watched the four children enter through the back door, watched the Tomoe in Roy's hand, watched their mud-stained fingers and dew-damp trouser legs.

His gaze finally settled on Roy's palm.

The Tomoe lay quietly there, no longer glowing, like an ordinary piece of warm, lustrous white jade.

"Sit down," Marcus said.

The four children took their seats in turn. Damian sat at his father's right, Barlow at his left, while Roy and Mila sat opposite them.

The Tomoe was placed in the center of the table.

"One at a time." Marcus's gaze swept across the four children's faces. "What did you dream about?"

Silence hung for several seconds.

Damian spoke first.

"A man wearing dark clothes. There was a pattern on his back, the same as the one carved into this stone." He paused. "He used a short blade to defeat more than a dozen people by himself."

"And then?"

"Then he made several hand signs and spat six balls of fire from his mouth. Every one of them could fly on its own, like it was alive."

After Damian finished, his gaze fell to the tabletop, and his brow creased slightly.

His tone was steady, but the hand gripping the edge of the table had tightened hard. What he was thinking about was not the man's strength, but the way he fought—the way he swung his blade not simply to kill, but for something else.

He could not yet put that something into words, but he remembered it.

Barlow picked up the thread. "There were six fireballs from his mouth, each flying toward a different target. They exploded on impact."

His account was more precise than Damian's, like he was reciting a report. "I remember the order of the six hand signs."

He demonstrated the six seals one after another: the angles of his bent fingers, the order in which his hands overlapped, the direction of his wrists turning—every detail exact. When he finished, he lowered his hands.

"I remember the swordsmanship too. His footwork followed a fixed rhythm: the first three steps attacked, the fourth changed direction, and the fifth switched hands. When the blade moved from his right hand to his left, his body tilted half a shoulder to the left, leaving room for the next strike."

Barlow did not say, "I can learn it," but his eyes gleamed beneath the oil lamp.

Roy opened his mouth, then closed it again.

There was so much he wanted to say. He wanted to describe the man's eyes when he turned around, the immense, indescribable sorrow he had felt when the three Tomoe turned, the inexplicable ache rising in his chest as the words "Make Uchiha great again" echoed over and over in his mind.

But in the end, he said only one sentence.

"He had red eyes, and three Tomoe were turning inside them."

Mila spoke last.

Her voice was softer than usual, but every word was firm.

"Second Brother remembered six seals. I remember the seventh."

Barlow's brow twitched. He remembered clearly that there had only been six seals. Just as he was about to speak, Mila continued.

"After the fire came out, his right hand made one final movement. His index and middle fingers came together and swept outward from beside his mouth. It wasn't a hand sign. It controlled the direction the fireballs flew."

She looked at Barlow. "You watched his hands, so you didn't see the fireballs' paths through the air. I did. The six fireballs each flew in different directions, but their paths crossed in midair. Whenever they crossed, they switched positions, making it impossible for the enemies to predict where they would land."

After Mila finished, she lifted her chin slightly.

"You were all watching that man. I was watching his opponents. He fought thirteen people, not more than a dozen. Seven were in front, four were on the rooftops, and two were hiding in the alley. He knew where those two were before he drew his blade. Because his eyes had already seen them before he moved."

The kitchen fell silent for several seconds.

Marcus looked at Mila for a long time, so long that uncertainty began to flicker in her eyes and her chin lowered a little without her noticing.

Then Marcus shifted his gaze to the Tomoe.

"This thing." His voice was low, but heavy. "Everything it showed you, you remembered all of it."

None of the four children answered, but the answer was already written in every one of their eyes.

Those images, those movements, those hand signs—all of them had been branded clearly into their minds, like patterns carved into white wax wood with a knife. They would not fade. They would not blur.

Marcus was silent for a long time. The fingers of his left hand tapped softly against the tabletop, making a slow, rhythmic sound.

The white wax wood drying in the workshop would be sawn apart at dawn. The bottom of a fishing boat still waited for him to repair it. The wood shavings piled in the yard had to be swept clean tomorrow.

Those were the things he knew, the things he had done for most of his life.

But this Tomoe did not belong among those things.

At last, he said one sentence.

"This thing was thrown away by me, and picked up by you."

His gaze moved from Damian, looking at each of them in turn.

"So it's yours to deal with."

He stood and pushed the oil lamp closer to the center of the table, letting more light fall upon the Tomoe.

"Go to sleep."

He turned and left. His footsteps faded one stair at a time, followed by the soft sound of a door closing.

Only the four children remained in the kitchen, along with an oil lamp and the quiet white jade on the table.

Damian was the first to stand.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow."

He did not take the Tomoe. He turned and went upstairs.

Barlow remained seated a while longer. He stared at the Tomoe, silently tracing the sequence of those hand signs on the tabletop with his fingers.

And Mila's seventh movement, the final gesture that controlled the fire's path.

He assembled the entire sequence in his mind and ran through it from beginning to end. Then he stood and went upstairs.

Roy and Mila were the last to remain by the table.

Mila lay sprawled across it, her chin resting on her folded arms as she stared at the Tomoe.

"Third Brother."

"Yeah?"

"You saw that man's eyes too, didn't you?"

"...Yeah."

"When the three Tomoe were turning, what was he thinking?"

Roy did not answer.

He remembered those eyes, the scarlet pupils and the three black Tomoe slowly turning within them.

He remembered the expression on the man's face when he turned around. There had been only one thing in those eyes—something deep, deep, and impossible to describe.

He did not know what it was.

But he remembered it.

Mila picked up the Tomoe and turned it over in her palm. The fan-shaped engraving on its back was still blurred and indistinct beneath the oil lamp.

"Make Uchiha great again," she murmured.

It was the first time they had spoken those words aloud.

The sound fell into the silent kitchen, into the oil lamp's glow, onto the Tomoe.

The Tomoe did not shine.

But it warmed slightly.

Only Mila, who was holding it, felt it.

The night on White Wax Island was not yet over.

But something had already begun to change from that night onward, irreversibly.