The people nearby didn't respond; they just kept their heads down or stared blankly at the flames. A thin piece of firewood popped open with a "crack," sending up a few sparks before quickly going out.
The scarred man—everyone called him " Scarface "—unconsciously poked the ground with the stick he was using to stir the fire, and muttered, "In this world, we're all living on the edge, risking our lives. Today we're buried Marutetsu, tomorrow it could be someone else. Our lives are as worthless as grass."
" Scarface, tell me... we work so hard, but we can't even save a few cents all year round. What's the point?" A young man who looked no more than seventeen or eighteen years old, with a somewhat childish face, hugged his knees, his voice muffled and filled with confusion.
"What's the point?" Scarface smirked, the hideous scar twitching as if in a smile, or perhaps just a muscle twitch.
"I want to go back to that drafty room, where the kang (heated brick bed) is still a little warm. I want to be able to pull out a piece of candy from my pocket when the little brat calls 'Dad,' instead of being empty-handed. I want... just a memory, hey, Kakuzō, why are you asking this?"
He called out the young man's name, "What else can we do? The land in the village is becoming increasingly barren, and water is becoming scarcer. Staying anywhere is just a matter of enduring hardship."
Old Man Vulture coughed twice more, his voice slow and drawn-out, as if carrying decades of wind and sand. "Back in the day... when my grandfather was still alive, he said there was a small puddle not far outside the village, where you could collect some water in the summer and wash your face with it. But then... war after war, the puddle dried up long ago, and the ground became as hard as stone. If we didn't come out and had to take this road, what would the whole family eat?"
Shira listened quietly to the side, her dried meat in her mouth, forgotten to chew. These names— Vulture, Scarface, Marutetsu, Kakuzō —sounded strange yet fitting, like the ordinary people in Sunagakure who had no surnames, only nicknames or simple names.
Their words were fragmented and lacked any profound meaning; they were just ordinary complaints, grumbling, and vague memories of the past.
But as I listened, the chill and turmoil in my heart brought on by the killing seemed to be pushed aside a little by something else.
He looked at the rough outlines of these faces, etched by the Kakkō, at the thick calluses on their hands, the marks of wind, sand, and time on their faces, and at the light in their eyes that had been somewhat clouded by life, yet had not been completely extinguished.
Are they afraid of death? Just now in the canyon, some people were so frightened they collapsed to the ground. But they still had to keep going, year after year, Earth Flow the trade route; if they didn't, they wouldn't survive. What about themselves?
He kills to live, for his teammates, for the mission. But these ordinary people, they fight desperately, seemingly just for... to survive. A very simple, yet very burdensome way of living.
"Hey, Ninja Bro." Scarface suddenly turned his head and looked at Shira. Shira was stunned for a moment before realizing that he was being called.
"You ninjas... it must be tough being in this line of work, right? I see you're quite young, but you're really efficient. Are your families at ease?" He meant no harm, just pure curiosity, perhaps with a touch of empathy for those who "risk their lives."
Shira opened his mouth, unsure of what to say. Home... The hesitant look in his mother Rira's eyes when she saw him off on his mission, the silent yet worried look in his father Shiya's eyes... "It's... it's alright." He finally only managed a vague reply, feeling that anything he said would seem insignificant.
"Sigh, it's not easy for anyone." Old Man Vulture sighed again, as if talking to himself, but also as if addressing everyone. "You ninjas, you're skilled, but you're risking your lives. We errand runners, all we have left is a bunch of stupid strength and a gamble on whether God will be on our side."
He paused, his cloudy eyes looking in the direction where Shira and the other ninjas were resting. His voice was lowered, but very serious, "This time, we really owe you all a debt. Otherwise... we would probably all have perished in that man-eating rocky ditch."
Scarface and the other porters nodded silently, their gazes towards Shira and the others filled with genuine gratitude for surviving such a close call, but also mixed with a subtle hint of estrangement.
That's the instinctive, complex sense of distance ordinary people feel towards ninjas who wield extraordinary power and are accustomed to life and death. Gratitude is genuine, but true closeness is difficult to achieve.
Shira felt a little uncomfortable under that gaze, lowered his eyes, and shook his head. He wanted to say, "This is a mission," but the words felt too stiff, so he swallowed them back.
He wanted to say something, like, "I'm sorry about Marutetsu," but the apology sounded insincere and weak. In the end, he just pursed his lips.
Beside them, the two brothers, Sada Sasori, had moved closer, probably listening as well. Sasori pursed his lips and muttered in a voice only the two brothers could hear, "What's there to thank? They took the money, so it's a mutually beneficial arrangement, isn't it?"
Sada nudged him lightly with his elbow, said nothing, and just stared at the fire, his face expressionless, but his eyes were more somber than usual.
Captain Reppu sat in the shadows a little further away, leaning against the cliff wall, his eyes closed as if he were asleep.
But Shira knew that the captain had excellent hearing; he hadn't missed a single word they were saying.
Old Man Vulture looked at everyone, and the deep wrinkles on his face seemed to smooth out a little.
He clutched his worn-out leather bag, and took a small, precious sip of the spicy liquid inside. This time he didn't cough much, but just squinted at the flickering flames, lost in thought.