Main World.
Summer, Year 30 of Konoha.
Another stopping place on the Rōran border.
This camp was smaller than the last. There were only two tents, one of which had already half collapsed, its canvas trailing on the ground, its edges buried in sand, as though no one had straightened it in a long time. The other still stood, but its canvas had seven or eight patches, sewn with uneven stitches.
A heap of extinguished ashes lay at the center of the camp. All its warmth had dissipated, leaving only a thin layer of white ash.
Six members of the Uzumaki Clan sat around the ashes. Their ages varied: the oldest looked to be in his fifties, while the youngest was barely in their early twenties. Their clothes were even older than those of the previous group, their cuffs worn white and their soles thin, but none of them were barefoot. A bag of dry rations lay before them. It had been left at the edge of camp the previous evening, its mouth tightly tied, and no one had touched it. Only after someone had seen with their own eyes that two people in gray had left the bag did they open it, but even then, they had not eaten much.
When Ryukōshi came down the side of the dune, all six looked up at once. His hands hung at his sides, and his pace was unhurried. He stopped at the edge of camp. He knew how quickly the previous group would spread the word, and he also knew that Rōran's Relief Station had already set up reception points nearby, so he did not hurry forward. Instead, he paused and waited for them to speak first.
After a moment, a young man spoke. His voice was a little hoarse, as