Evening in the Land of Rain wasn't a gradual dimming; it was a shutter slamming shut. The already gloomy sky plunged into a darkness so deep it felt like midnight. The only light ca from their small campfire, its flas dancing and casting long, shifting shadows. Wood crackled and spat embers into the damp air.
Leaning against the rough bark of the tree, Tsunade looked almost languid. A strand of her distinctive blonde hair had escaped its tie, hanging loose against her pale forehead. Her eyes followed Ragnar's movents as he expertly rotated the fish skewered on Yama over the flas.
"You know," she said, her voice still tired but laced with wry observation, "that blade of yours… it feels like a relic. A treasure. Using it as a cooking spit feels almost sacrilegious. If Hatake Sakumo saw this, he'd probably give you a three-hour lecture on proper sword stewardship."
Ragnar didn't look up. "A sword's purpose is to be used by its master," he stated, his voice calm in the firelight. "If it can't serve in all the ways I need—be it killing an enemy or cooking a al—then what good is it? It becos just a fancy piece of tal. Yama may be a legendary blade, but without a master to wield it, to make its na feared across battlefields, it's just another tool."
As if in response to his words, the demon sword in his hand gave a faint, almost petulant tremble. This master… so shaless, boasting about his own strength, the sentient weapon seed to grumble in its own way.
Tsunade blinked, taken aback by the pragmatic, almost irreverent philosophy. It was another piece of the puzzle that was this mysterious Rakshasa. He was… different.
Before she could pursue that thought, he held out one of the skewered fish. The skin was crisped to a perfect golden-brown, steam rising invitingly. "Eat. Regain your strength. We need to move for Konoha lines as soon as you're able."
She took it, the heat pleasant against her palms. Bringing it to her lips, she took a tentative bite. Flavor exploded on her tongue—rich, savory, perfectly seasoned by the woodsmoke and the fish's own oils. It was far better than anything she'd eaten in the Konoha ss halls. A second, larger bite followed. Then, forgetting all decorum, she dug in, devouring the flaky flesh and even crunching down on the crispy, edible bones.
From behind his mask, Ragnar allowed a small, unseen smile. Seeing the legendary Tsunade eat with such unbridled gusto was oddly endearing. He quickly ate his own share, ensuring she didn't polish off his portion as well.
Sated, Tsunade leaned back with a contented sigh, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The food had brought a flush of vitality back to her cheeks. Her curiosity, however, was far from satisfied.
"We've fought together. I owe you my life," she began, her tone more serious now. "Can't you tell who you are?"
"Konoha ANBU regulations strictly prohibit—"
"I know the regulations," she cut him off, a flicker of her imperious self returning. "But I also know Hatake Sakumo. The Third Hokage is my teacher. The Second was my granduncle. The First was my grandfather. I am, quite literally, the most 'connected' person in the entire village. I can offer you protection. Just tell ."
She patted her chest for emphasis, the gesture confident and a little reckless.
Ragnar looked at her for a long mont. The fire popped. The rules were clear… but Tsunade was more than just a superior officer. She was 'Sister Tsunade,' the one who had shown him kindness, gifted him her notes, and whose techniques had saved his life in training. She was family, in the ssy, found-sense of the shinobi world.
Slowly, almost ceremonially, he reached up. His fingers found the edges of the blood-red Rakshasa mask. He lifted it, pulling it away from his face, and let it hang at his side.
Tsunade watched, her breath held. She'd imagined a seasoned veteran's face, scarred and stern, or perhaps the cold, handso features of a tragic hero from a story. Her heart, traitorously, had hoped for the latter.
The firelight fell on the face revealed.
Tsunade's brain short-circuited.
First ca pure, stunned silence. Then, a cascading wave of disbelief that washed away all other thought. The features were older, sharper, matured by hardship and power—but the underlying structure, the eyes, the set of the jaw… they were unmistakable. If not for the fact he'd just slaughtered thirty Iwa-nin to save her, she would have suspected a flawless, enemy-planned impersonation.
"R-Ragnar?" The na left her lips on a disbelieving whisper.
The corner of his mouth—his mouth, the one she'd seen gritted in determination during training—quirked up in a faint, familiar smirk.
"I am Ragnar's elder brother, Ragnar the Second. I heard you helped my little brother a lot, teaching him that 'Strange Power.' My thanks."
That did it. The dry, ironic humor was the final, undeniable stamp. Her jaw, which had gone slack, snapped shut.
"It is you!"
All the pieces crashed together. The familiar chakra fluctuation of the Strength of a Hundred technique during his punch. The overwhelming sense of deja vu when he carried her. The absurd, world-bending talent that had blood from the quiet, survival-obsessed boy she'd t months ago.
A whirlwind of emotions swept through her. Gratitude warred with sheer shock. The thrilling, dangerous fantasy of the masked savior evaporated, replaced by the bewildering reality of the kid she'd unofficially adopted. A strange sense of maternal pride tangled with the jarring understanding that this 'kid' now possessed power that rivaled her own, perhaps even surpassed it.
She groaned, bringing a hand to her forehead. "You… you little brat." The words held no real heat, just profound exasperation. "You had fooled this whole ti."
Ragnar just shrugged, the gesture utterly familiar. He stepped closer, offering his arm for support again. "Can you bla ? You didn't recognize your own little brother."
Thump!
Despite her weakened state, Tsunade managed to deliver a light, sisterly knuckle-rapping to the top of his head. "Ow! Who's your 'little brother'? Call Sister Tsunade!"
The brief mont of normalcy, of their old dynamic reasserting itself, was shattered.
Rustle.
A faint, deliberate sound from the undergrowth twenty ters away. Not an animal. Too controlled.
In an instant, Ragnar's deanor shifted from relaxed to lethally alert. The mask was back on his face in a blur of motion. Without a word of explanation, he bent and swept Tsunade into his arms again, his body tensing for movent.
"Wait—!" she started to protest, but the warning in his sudden stillness silenced her.
(End of Chapter)
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