Even as the words left her mouth, Tsunade felt a twinge of regret.
Letting Hii Kōri rest in her room felt rather like "a lamb entering the tiger's mouth"—like walking right into a trap. It made her seem like some cheap, easy woman.
She probably knew this man's predatory tendencies better than his two lovers did.
But even so, she stubbornly held her ground, pretending not to care, her bravado hiding her unease. Her flustered defiance was so obvious it amused Hii Kōri.
In the days that followed, however, he didn't do anything as "extreme" as she subconsciously feared.
If Hii Kōri had known her concerns, he would have spread his hands and said it was all a stereotype.
Leaving aside the fact that she was carrying his child—a shift in their relationship naturally brought a shift in attitude—at this point, he had neither the inclination nor the need to do such things.
He wasn't some starving ghost of lust, forced to act despicably at a time when what he needed was to nurture a relationship.
Of course, where that stereotype came from… better not to ask.
Aside from teaching Shizune and handling daily chores, Hii Kōri spent most of his time holed up in Tsunade's room.
The spot by the window had the best light, so he had taken over her desk, spending his days—and nights, without rest—sketching design after design, calculating parameters, fine-tuning materials of unknown origin.
But because Tsunade was around, his usual strongly stimulating incense was banned, replaced by the more soothing scents of fragrant ink and paper.
Back when she had been imprisoned in his basement, Hii Kōri had indeed come to her at all hours to extract information, collect data, or experiment on her body.
But even then, she had only noticed that his sleep schedule was abnormal, that he adjusted quickly. Even when he mentioned this time that he "utilized unnecessary sleep hours," she hadn't truly grasped that he simply never slept—only occasionally falling into quiet meditation.
But for Tsunade, a top-tier medical ninja well aware of the limits of human physiology, the fact that Hii Kōri remained so vigorous despite his severe lack of rest was a shock to her worldview.
Time quietly passed in this delicate balance—two months.
During this period, Tsunade gradually grew accustomed to having another person in her room. His daily, ordinary actions slowly wore down her resistance.
It began with him using the excuse of combing her hair to style it in all sorts of ways, making her so annoyed she couldn't help losing her temper.
Then, during his rest periods, he stopped meditating and shamelessly edged onto her bed—first the edge, then further in, eventually wrapping his arms around her swollen belly.
Even when her pregnancy made movement difficult, he helped her bathe.
Looking back now, Hii Kōri's actions had been so aggressive. But the closeness—like a frog being boiled alive—had been impossible for Tsunade to resist.
Now in her third trimester, her lethargy had returned. She woke each day in a daze, head spinning, and easily grew drowsy in the afternoons.
At such times, Hii Kōri loved to hold her in the rocking chair by the window, now padded with thick blankets and cushions, lazily soaking up the sun.
His arms were steady and warm, one hand always resting gently on her belly, feeling the baby's movements within.
The winter sunlight streamed through the glass, warm and comforting. The rocking chair swayed gently. In her ears were his steady heartbeat and rhythmic breathing, occasionally interrupted by his sudden, murmured ideas—inspirations that struck without warning.
He wanted to build a villa large enough for all those close to him. Better yet, a glass sunroom that could bloom with flowers even in winter.
Tsunade often drifted off without realizing it in such moments.
She found herself growing less and less resistant to his intimate touches. At first she would struggle or lash out with sharp words, but now she instinctively nestled against him, seeking a more comfortable position.
It was dependence.
It was hard not to see this as a carefully cultivated effect. This natural, steady, mundane routine was exactly what Tsunade craved most, what she found most irresistible.
Harmless—yet utterly toxic.
Tsunade suspected as much, but she was too tired to fight it anymore. Exhausted in body and mind, she had no energy left to struggle.
For Shizune. For the child. For… herself. She willingly used these excuses as anesthesia, indulging in this poison to quench her thirst.
This was fine. It was good enough.
Even after Hii Kōri had custom-ordered his own workbench and fixtures and set up his workshop in the attic that had been used for storage, Tsunade didn't ask him to move out.
Nearly nine months pregnant, Tsunade could no longer go out easily.
She had used to go out for fresh air, to stretch her legs, to buy supplies, to take Shizune out to play. Now that responsibility fell entirely on Hii Kōri.
Late winter—the coldest days had passed, but it was still far from warm.
Hii Kōri held Shizune's hand, a large bag of supplies in his other hand. Shizune wore a new coat he had bought her, her little face rosy.
As they walked down a quiet, empty alley, she suddenly looked up, her big, clear eyes fixed on Hii Kōri. "Uncle Kōri… are you the one who killed my uncle?"
Hii Kōri didn't stop walking. He glanced down at her, his face showing no surprise. Even his tone was as casual as when he teased her: "Yes. That was me."
"But how did you figure it out?"
"Mm..."
Shizune lowered her head, looking at her little boots in the snow, her voice even softer: "Aunt Tsunade… the way she looks at you is really complicated sometimes. I don't really understand, but when she's drunk, she talks about seeing your shadow or something…"
"Ha… drunk, huh. That does sound like her."
Hii Kōri shook his head with a wry smile. "And what about you, Shizune? Now that you know this… what do you think?"
"…I don't know."
The black-haired girl blinked, then shook her head, her little face full of confusion.
She let go of Hii Kōri's hand, kicked a pebble listlessly, then crouched down, poking at the dirt on her boots.
"My uncle was always busy. I don't remember much, but I think he was good to me. He always brought candy when he came home."
"But Uncle Kōri takes care of me too. You make good food, teach me things, play with me…"
Shizune's words were halting, as children's often are, but her meaning was clear enough. Her parents had died in the war when she was very young; Dan Katō had taken her in before she could form clear memories.
But as a jōnin, Dan had been constantly busy. By the time Hii Kōri killed him on the battlefield, Shizune had probably only seen him a few times—not enough to leave a deep impression.
After all, she was now not yet five; when the war began, she had been barely three.
Compared to Hii Kōri's former self, she was far too young.
"I think... Aunt Tsunade should hate you more."
The girl faltered a moment before tilting her head and giving this answer. For her, "like" and "dislike" were easier to grasp than "love" and "hate."
"But now, even though Aunt Tsunade yells at you a lot, you never really fight…"
"I… I don't get it…"
"Ah... that is a complicated question."
Hii Kōri crouched down in front of Shizune, patting her head as he explained slowly: "Of course Tsunade hates me. But with you here, she can't really push me away. And… after losing everyone she could rely on, our child is the only family she has left. To put it bluntly… after playing with her body, now I'm playing with her heart."
"Did Uncle Kōri do something really bad? Does that mean you're a bad person?"
Shizune blinked, only half understanding.
"I don't think I was wrong. But for her… yes, it was very wrong."
He pinched her cheek—the baby fat she had gained over the past two months. The feeling reminded him of Karura when she was young. His voice, already gentle with children, grew softer: "You're still young. It's normal not to understand such complicated feelings."
"The opposite of love isn't necessarily hate. Trust isn't always the opposite of disgust. Reliance, obligation, compromise, self-deception… all these things tangled together—even adults, even the one who made this tangled mess, have trouble sorting it out."
"So don't force yourself to understand everything now. Just take your time, slowly, and one day you'll find your own answer."
And hopefully… under my influence.
Adding this rather sinister thought silently, Hii Kōri's expression remained unchanged.
Innocence was a child's strength. Growing up was a process of change. Taking on colors, absorbing impurities, becoming mottled, becoming clouded.
Shizune lowered her head, thinking for a long time before nodding slightly, murmuring a soft "Mm." She stood up, her small hand unconsciously gripping Hii Kōri's fingers tighter as she followed him out of the alley.
And then, on the road leading home, they saw a tall figure in a Konoha flak jacket, darting around like a headless fly, grabbing passersby to ask questions.
Hii Kōri tilted his head, not particularly surprised.
Unexpected, yet entirely expected.
He had stayed in this coastal town for so long. The fact that Konoha had remained silent meant that Pakura and Karura had likely returned to Sunagakure safely.
But with a number of shinobi failing to return from missions, completely losing contact, Konoha would have noticed by now.
While casualties or disappearances on individual missions weren't uncommon, a sudden spike in frequency with no trace of the missing was a genuine anomaly.
Everyone knew that completing a mission required three things: ability, funding, and time.
In intelligence work, Shimura Danzō's abilities were top-notch. But Konoha was still recovering from the Second Shinobi World War, facing postwar reconstruction and compensation costs. Their finances were stretched thin.
Danzō had only formally taken over the intelligence department less than a year ago; many of his plans were still in their early stages. He was short on both personnel and resources.
The Root he had requested after losing to Hiruzen Sarutobi for the Hokage seat was nowhere in sight yet. And Orochimaru—who was competing with him for funding—was completely unapologetic. The First Hokage cell research project had been approved by Orochimaru and Hiruzen together; it had even driven Tsunade out of the village. They couldn't just abandon it.
Go hide in your precious Root base whenever you want. My cell cultures don't have that kind of time!
Procurement! I told you to get the new lab equipment from Red Hot Sand—are you an idiot or what?!
To be fair, Danzō probably felt Orochimaru was a bit of a curse to him.
Not in terms of ninjutsu or strength,but in terms of blood pressure.
In any case, with severe shortages of both funds and time, though Danzō had gotten the intelligence network running again after taking over, it was inevitably lagging behind.
Moreover, when Hii Kōri and his group had acted, their targets were clear and their actions swift. They had left almost no clear clues. Now that the incidents were only being compiled and analyzed after such a delay, finding any valuable leads was like searching for a needle in a haystack.
Even if, in theory, the Land of Wind group—still within the Land of Fire at the time—was the most suspicious, Hii Kōri's seemingly redundant action of registering at Konoha as "Araya Shūren" and requesting Konoha shinobi as escorts had, to some extent, muddied the waters and reduced their suspicion.
And regardless of whether Danzō currently had the ability to extract memories from Konoha's own shinobi, the two whose personalities had been overwritten were completely safe.
When it came to personality, thought, and memory, Hii Kōri was the expert.
Besides, even in his previous world's Japan,let alone the current ninja world security cameras were practically nonexistent. Add to that the official documents issued by the Land of Wind's government, and Konoha couldn't simply confront them without solid evidence.
Information from the Temple of Fire also confirmed that the monk "Araya Shūren" had genuine Buddhist knowledge and was not an imposter.
Under these circumstances, even with lingering doubts, Konoha had no choice but to hold back for now. On one hand, they intensified internal investigations. On the other, they resorted to the most basic, most primitive method: sending reliable personnel to conduct a thorough search of the general area where the disappearances had occurred, hoping to find overlooked clues.
Usually, such thankless tasks were done half-heartedly at best. But in this case, there was one man in Konoha whose "motives were not pure"—a man more than happy to take on this time-consuming, nearly hopeless mission.
"Ah… nice to meet you. One of the 'Legendary Sannin,' Jiraiya-san."
***
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