Falling off the cliff

The captain's cold gaze swept across the cliff edge, like a north wind in winter, and his cruel words echoed across the blood-stained land, "Target dead. Retreat."

Without hesitation, the members of the Anbu exchanged tacit glances, their figures moving swiftly and silently, disappearing into the vast darkness in a few breaths, leaving behind only a lifeless emptiness.

A lone leaf sways in the wind, drifting slowly, as if painting a sorrowful melody in the air, a low lament for this cruel massacre.

Like a shooting star streaking across the night sky, Scorpion and the puppet plummeted off the cliff and plunged into the river.

A deafening splash followed, the water spraying out like the roar of Dotō.

The white Utakata was instantly swallowed up by the dark river water as soon as it appeared.

The river churned, like a horde of demons dancing wildly, already submerging more than half of the scorpion's body, its merciless force attempting to drag him into the bottomless abyss of darkness.

After a long silence, the scorpion gradually regained consciousness amidst the crashing river water, coughing violently and spitting out blood as if it were vomiting out its very soul.

The blood stained the river surface with a glaring crimson, creating a stark contrast with the dark water.

The river water, already somber and oppressive, was now as black as coal, filled with the aura of death, just like the scorpion's heart, which had almost stopped beating.

Although the spring sunshine brought some warmth, the river had lost its gentleness of early spring.

As blood is lost, the scorpion's body temperature drops sharply, the cold feeling like countless fine needles piercing its bone marrow.

In the icy river, Scorpion felt as if he were on a glacier; every touch made him tremble involuntarily, his consciousness wavering between cold and pain.

Scorpion struggled desperately in the water, the pain in his chest like being struck by a giant hammer, but he ignored the pain, his eyes fixed on the riverbank, and with his last bit of strength, he swam toward the shore.

On the brink of life and death, the idea of using puppets to resist the raging torrent flashed through his mind, but that would have consumed a large amount of his Chakra.

His mind was clear as a star; he knew that if this action came to pass, his Chakra might be exhausted before he even reached the shore.

At that time, he will become a plaything of the river even faster, a sacrifice to this dark abyss.

There was nowhere to retreat, only my hands to lean on.

These hands became his only salvation at this moment, perhaps allowing him to grasp a sliver of hope.

So he went against the current, like a lone boat battling a raging storm.

The waves surged and crashed towards him like a stampede of ten thousand horses. He fought back with all his might, each stroke a desperate struggle.

Amidst the surging waves, he forged ahead, and with each passing second, the distance between him and death slowly increased.

The outline of the riverbank gradually became clear in his hazy vision, and the lighthouse that guided him on his path to survival was the entire meaning of his life.

This place is a desolate land forgotten by the world, where the surrounding silence is chilling, with only the river flowing endlessly, emitting a monotonous and continuous melody.

However, along the riverbank, cherry trees stretched endlessly, their delicate pink blossoms clinging tightly together, as if announcing their existence to this vast world, unwilling to bloom in solitude.

Night fell, completely covering this land.

But even in the deep darkness of night, those cherry blossoms were not completely swallowed up by the darkness.

Against the backdrop of night, their colors miraculously transform into a dreamlike purple, so enchanting and surreal that it's hard to distinguish reality from illusion.

A gentle breeze blows, and the cherry blossom trees sway and dance gracefully, their movements as delicate as a young girl's elegant dance.

Gazing at the purple flower shadows in the distance, a strange warmth wells up in my heart, as if an invisible force is gently caressing my soul, and the pain is lessened at this moment.

He didn't know when, but he was pushed to the riverbank by the current.

His body was riddled with wounds, and crimson blood seeped out along the wounds, creating a heart-wrenching scene on the pebble-paved shore.

With his battered and bruised body, he slowly crawled along the uneven shore, like a wounded wild beast.

Each pebble relentlessly pierced his wounds, but his resolve remained firm, and he never wavered in the slightest.

A sharp weapon, as thick as a child's arm, cruelly pierced his chest, its ends exposed in a horrifying sight.

Therefore, he could not lie flat on the ground and could only rely on the strength of his arms to barely prop up his upper body and move forward slowly.

Every struggle felt like a challenge to the limits of the body, with waves of excruciating pain crashing down on me.

Finally, he reached the cherry blossom tree, stopped wearily, his chest heaving, his heavy breathing particularly clear at that moment. He rested there for a while, the cherry blossom petals dancing in the wind around him, falling on his shoulders and cheeks, as if gently comforting the wounded boy.

After resting for a while, he slowly switched to supporting his body with his other hand. The arm that had been bearing the weight was now aching and trembling uncontrollably.

Then, he slowly reached into the soaked ninja tool bag with his other hand, his fingertips groping inside, and finally took out some items to stop the bleeding wound.

After completing all this, Scorpion sighed deeply, realizing that such emergency treatment was merely a stopgap measure, like drinking poison to quench thirst.

He was acutely aware that without timely and effective treatment, the shadow of death would linger, and he would eventually remain in this desolate place, as a wisp of a ghost, accompanying the silence beneath these cherry blossom trees.