The Last Blood Graduation
The courtyard stank of copper and rain.
Mist coiled low over the stones, whispering against the skin like breath. Bodies floated where the water had pooled — children’s bodies — their pale fingers breaking the surface as if still reaching for something.
Ryūzan’s chest heaved. His clothes were soaked through, his knuckles split and raw. Yuna crouched beside him, blood streaking down her cheek, hands trembling over what was left of her paper talismans. Kaiyo stood a few steps away, eyes faintly glowing, scanning the mist for movement that wasn’t there.
They had stopped fighting. There was no one left to fight.
The fog pressed in thicker. Then a voice — low, steady, and merciless — rolled through it.
“Only one may leave.”
The proctor stepped forward, chunin flak jacket shredded, blood soaking the fabric. His chakra flared — bright, angry — the kind that made your teeth ache.
“You’ll kill each other,” he growled, “or you’ll die as failures.”
Ryūzan’s pulse thundered in his ears. His hands tightened around the hilt of his kunai until it bit into his palm.
“No,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”
The proctor sneered. “You think mercy makes you shinobi?”
He moved. Too fast for Yuna to react — but not for Ryūzan.
Ice formed under his feet, blooming like frost. His reflection split as the boy spun, blade carving a silver arc through the air. The proctor’s eyes went wide — and then he was falling, throat opened, his blood blooming through the mist like ink in water.
The sound that followed wasn’t human. A deep rumble, half laugh, half snarl — like the sea breaking against stone.
“Heh. Finally.”
The three of them turned.
A silhouette loomed at the edge of the courtyard, vast and solid, the Executioner’s Blade glinting in the dim light.
“You took long enough.”
Ryūzan froze. Even through the haze, he knew that voice. He’d heard it for ten years — barking orders, tearing apart training dummies, correcting his stance until his arms shook.
“…Father.”
Zabuza stepped out of the fog. The mist moved around him like it obeyed him — as if the air itself was afraid to touch him.
His single visible eye swept the courtyard, pausing only when it found the proctor’s body. A smile, sharp and proud, cut beneath the bandages.
“Good.”
Yuna straightened instinctively. Kaiyo dropped to one knee.
“You told us not to kill unless—”
“Unless it was necessary,” Zabuza interrupted. “And it was. You three made the choice that separates children from shinobi.”
He lifted the Executioner’s Blade, resting it on his shoulder. “Welcome to the Mist.”
Ryūzan looked at him — blood on his hands, fog in his lungs — and something inside him finally went still.
“You did well,” Zabuza said softly, low enough that only his son heard.
The words shouldn’t have mattered. But they did.
Yuna wiped her face with a shaking hand. “What happens now?”
Zabuza turned his back, already walking toward the far gate.
“Now,” he said, “You learn to survive it.”
The fog followed him, and the three new graduates stepped after him into the dark. Zabuza handed out three Kiri headbands, and they each took one. They had officially become Genin.
