Ravens Requiem

The rain fell in relentless sheets, a cold, unyielding torrent that drowned the village in a symphony of despair. The cobblestone streets below glistened with the reflection of flickering lanterns, their light struggling to pierce through the oppressive darkness.

Thunder growled in the distance, a low, menacing rumble that seemed to echo the tension in the air. The village was silent, save for the rhythmic patter of rain and the occasional creak of wooden shutters swaying in the storm. Above it all, a shadow moved.

The figure darted across the rooftops with an unnatural grace, each step silent despite the slick tiles beneath their feet.

Their cloak billowed behind them, a tattered cascade of black and crimson that seemed to drink in the light. The fabric bore the unmistakable design of the Fourth Hokage's haori, but twisted—corrupted.

The once-pristine white was now a deep, ashen gray, the red flames at the hem jagged and uneven, as though they had been scorched by fire.

Over this, a hood was drawn low, its edges frayed and dripping with rain, reminiscent of the assassins of old. The mask was the most striking feature.

Black porcelain, polished to a mirror-like sheen, shaped into the visage of a raven. Its beak jutted forward, sharp and menacing, while the surface was etched with faint, intricate patterns that seemed to shift in the dim light.

The left side of the mask was marred by a jagged scar that ran from the temple to the jawline, a cruel mirror of the wound beneath. The left eye behind the mask was closed, the lid scarred and sunken, a testament to battles long past.

But the right eye—oh, the right eye—glowed faintly, a haunting silver light that pierced the darkness like a blade. At its center, a starburst pattern shimmered, intricate and otherworldly, as though the heavens themselves had been trapped within the iris.

The figure's movements were precise, calculated. Each leap and bound was executed with the efficiency of a predator stalking its prey. The katana strapped to their back gleamed faintly in the rain, its black sheath adorned with subtle engravings of ravens in flight.

The hilt, wrapped in dark leather, protruded just above their shoulder, ready to be drawn in an instant. The weapon seemed to hum with a quiet menace, as though it too was alive, thirsting for blood.

As the figure paused atop a slanted roof, their silhouette framed against a flash of lightning, the rain cascaded off their cloak in rivulets.

They stood motionless for a moment, a dark sentinel surveying the village below. The faint glow of their right eye cut through the gloom, scanning the streets with an intensity that spoke of purpose—of vengeance.

The storm raged on, but the figure remained undeterred. They were a shadow given form, a harbinger of violence and death. And as they vanished into the night, the village below remained blissfully unaware of the blood that was about to be spilled.

Down below, in the heart of the rain-soaked village, a group of twelve rogue ninjas strode through the empty streets, their laughter cutting through the storm like jagged glass.

They moved with the swagger of men who believed themselves untouchable, their voices loud and coarse as they reveled in their recent triumph.

At the center of the group, a hulking brute of a man carried a large, iron-bound chest over one shoulder as though it weighed nothing.

His muscles bulged beneath his soaked, sleeveless tunic, the fabric stretched taut over his massive frame. A jagged scar ran down the side of his face, disappearing into the thick, matted beard that framed his cruel grin.

The others were no less menacing. Their armor was mismatched and pieced together from the spoils of their victims—some wore battered flak jackets, others donned leather pauldrons or chainmail vests. Their clothing was dark and tattered, stained with mud and blood, and their weapons were a chaotic assortment of kunai, swords, and axes, all worn and well-used. Each of them bore a headband with the symbol of their former villages crudely slashed through, a mark of their betrayal.

One of the rogues, a wiry man with a long, rat-like face, cackled as he spoke.

"That damn priest didn't even see it coming. Begged like a dog before I slit his throat." His voice was high-pitched and grating, filled with sadistic glee.

Another, a woman with a cruel smile and a jagged blade strapped to her back, chimed in.

"And his daughter... she screamed so sweetly. Shame I had to kill her, but we've got bigger prizes now." She gestured to the chest, her eyes gleaming with greed.

The group erupted into laughter, their voices echoing off the walls of the narrow alleyways.

They were heading toward a bar at the edge of the village, a seedy establishment known as The Broken Fang.

The building was a squat, dilapidated structure with a sagging roof and cracked windows. A faded wooden sign hung above the entrance, the image of a wolf's broken fang barely visible beneath years of grime. The faint glow of lantern light spilled out from within, accompanied by the muffled sounds of drunken revelry.

As the rogues pushed open the heavy wooden door, the interior of The Broken Fang was revealed. The air was thick with the stench of alcohol and unwashed bodies, the dim light from a few flickering lanterns casting long, shifting shadows across the room. The walls were lined with warped wooden planks, stained dark with age and neglect.

A long, battered bar stretched along one side, its surface scarred with countless knife marks and cigarette burns. The patrons were a rough-looking crowd, their faces hard and their eyes wary, but they barely glanced up as the group entered.

The rogue ninjas made their way to a corner table, their laughter and crude jokes filling the room as they slammed the chest onto the table with a heavy thud. They ordered drinks, their voices loud and boisterous, completely unaware of the shadow that had been following them. Unaware that their lives were about to end.

The rogue ninjas laughed among themselves, their voices a cacophony of arrogance and cruelty.

They clinked their mugs together, oblivious to the shadow watching them from above. High in the rafters, the figure crouched, shrouded in darkness.

The faint glow of his right eye intensified, the silver light cutting through the gloom like a blade. The star pattern within his iris began to spin, slow at first, then faster, as if it were alive—dancing with a deadly purpose.

His hand moved to the hilt of his katana, the motion deliberate and silent. The weapon slid free from its sheath with a whisper, the sound lost beneath the din of the bar.

The blade was a masterpiece of death, its surface a deep, unrelenting black that seemed to absorb the light around it. Intricate carvings of raven wings adorned the steel, their edges sharp and precise, as though they might take flight at any moment. The katana bore a name whispered in fear by those who had seen it in action: Kurokarasu—The Black Raven.

The figure extended his left hand, his fingers splayed wide. A blood-red chakra began to pour from his palm, thick and viscous like molten fire. It twisted and coiled in the air, taking shape—a perfect ring, glowing with an ominous light.

The chakra pulsed with raw power, the edges of the ring shimmering like the surface of a blade. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the ring into the air. It ascended rapidly, spinning faster and faster until it detonated in a blinding explosion of crimson light. The bar erupted into chaos.

The rogue ninjas leapt to their feet, their chairs clattering to the floor.

"What the hell was that?!" one of them shouted, his hand already on the hilt of his blade.

"We're under attack! Spread out!" But it was too late.

The figure descended from the rafters like a shadow given form, landing in a crouch amidst the startled rogues. The moment his feet touched the ground, he moved.

Kurokarasu flashed through the air, the black blade carving a deadly arc. The first ninja barely had time to draw his weapon before his head separated from his shoulders, blood spraying in a crimson arc.

"Kill him!" one of the rogues roared, forming hand seals.

"Fire Style: Flame Bullet!" A torrent of fire erupted from his mouth, roaring toward the figure.

But he was faster.

He sidestepped the attack with inhuman speed, the flames licking harmlessly at the air where he had stood. In the same motion, he closed the distance, driving his katana through the man's chest. The rogue gasped, blood bubbling from his lips as the blade twisted, severing his heart.

Another ninja lunged from behind, his kunai aimed for the figure's spine. Without turning, the figure raised his left hand, catching the blade with his bare fingers.

The blood-red chakra flared around his hand, melting the kunai into molten slag. The rogue screamed in agony as the figure spun, slashing upward with Kurokarasu. The blade cleaved through the man's torso, splitting him from hip to shoulder.

"Earth Style: Mud Wall!" one of the rogues shouted, slamming his hands to the ground. A massive wall of earth erupted between the figure and the remaining ninjas.

"That'll buy us some time!" the rogue panted, but his relief was short-lived.

The figure's chakra flared again, and with a single swing of his katana, the wall shattered into a cloud of dust and debris.

The figure emerged from the dust like a demon, his glowing eye fixed on his prey. The remaining ninjas attacked in unison, their blades and jutsus converging on him from all sides. But he was untouchable.

He moved like water, flowing around their strikes with an almost supernatural grace. His katana sang as it met their weapons, each clash sending sparks flying.

He countered with precision, every strike of Kurokarasu finding flesh. Blood sprayed across the bar, staining the walls and pooling on the floor.

"Who the hell is this guy?!" one of the rogues screamed, his voice trembling with fear. "He's not fucking human!"

The figure said nothing. His silence was more terrifying than any words could have been. One by one, the rogues fell, their screams echoing through the bar until only silence remained.

The figure stood amidst the carnage, his cloak soaked in blood, his katana dripping crimson. He stepped over the bodies without a second glance, his glowing eye scanning the room.

His gaze fell on the chest, still sitting on the table where the rogues had left it. He sheathed Kurokarasu with a practiced motion and lifted the chest with ease.

Walking to the bar, he placed a small stack of ryo on the counter—a gesture of respect amidst the slaughter. Without a word, he turned and strode toward the door.

As he reached the threshold, his form shimmered, and in a flash of black and crimson light, he was gone.

The storm raged on outside, but inside The Broken Fang, only death remained.

The figure reappeared in a dimly lit bedroom, the faint glow of his right eye casting soft shadows on the walls.

The room was modest, its wooden floors creaking faintly beneath his boots. A single lantern flickered on a small table, its light illuminating the frail form of an elderly man lying in the bed.

His face was gaunt, his skin pale and lined with deep wrinkles that spoke of a life filled with hardship. A thin blanket covered his fragile frame, rising and falling with each labored breath. His eyes were closed, his expression one of peace, though his body betrayed the toll of illness.

To the right of the bed, a young woman sat in a worn wooden chair, her head resting on the edge of the mattress.

She was beautiful, with long, raven-black hair that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back, glistening faintly in the lantern light. Her features were delicate, her skin smooth and unblemished, though her eyes—closed in exhaustion—were framed by dark circles, evidence of sleepless nights spent at her father's side.

She wore a simple yet elegant kimono of deep blue, embroidered with silver patterns of cherry blossoms, the fabric clinging to her form as though it, too, shared in her sorrow.

The figure remained silent as he approached her, his movements slow and deliberate.

He knelt beside her and placed the chest gently on the floor, its iron bindings glinting faintly in the dim light.

For a moment, he simply watched her, his glowing eye softening as he reached out with his black-gloved hand. His fingers brushed through her hair in a comforting manner, the gesture tender and uncharacteristically gentle for someone who had just left a trail of blood in his wake.

The woman stirred slightly but did not wake, her breathing steady and calm. The figure withdrew his hand, rising to his full height.

He turned his gaze to the elderly man, his expression unreadable behind the raven mask.

For a moment, he stood there, as though committing the scene to memory. Then, without a word, he turned away. In a flash of black and crimson light, he was gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of rain and the quiet hum of the storm outside.