The road stretched before them, winding through the rugged terrain beyond Iwagakure. The morning sun cast long shadows against the rocky path, illuminating the two figures walking side by side. One, a towering enigma, his presence as vast as the sky above. The other, a young traveler, burdened with curiosity and questions.
Taji stole a glance at the man beside him. Renzō walked with effortless grace, his movements neither hurried nor sluggish, as if the very act of walking was simply an extension of his existence. His golden eyes were half-lidded, gazing at the world not with disinterest, but with a quiet understanding.
It had been mere days since Taji had impulsively decided to follow Renzō on his journey. The man had neither invited him nor turned him away. He had simply looked at Taji, nodded once, and continued walking. And so, Taji followed.
The silence between them was not uncomfortable, but it was vast. A silence filled with unspoken lessons, unasked questions. Taji had spent much of his life training as a shinobi, honing his skills, learning to fight, to survive. But walking beside this man—this so-called sage—he felt as if he had learned nothing at all.
"Where are we going?" Taji finally asked, his voice breaking the stillness.
Renzō did not stop walking. "Does it matter?"
Taji frowned. "Of course, it does. How can you walk without knowing where you'll end up?"
Renzō glanced at him, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. "Because the destination has never been the point."
Taji mulled over those words, feeling the weight behind them. He had always believed that a shinobi needed purpose, a mission, a reason to act. But Renzō moved without such constraints, untethered from duty or obligation.
"Back in Iwagakure," Taji said, hesitating slightly, "you knew they were watching you. The Tsuchikage himself was wary of you. You could have fought them. You could have… done something."
Renzō's expression did not change. "Why?"
"Because they feared you," Taji pressed. "Doesn't that mean something?"
Renzō finally stopped walking, turning to face him fully. The golden gaze that met Taji's was not piercing, not harsh, but vast—like staring into a sky that stretched far beyond what the eye could see.
"There is no honor in proving strength to those who do not understand it," Renzō said. "And there is no wisdom in fighting battles that need not be fought."
Taji swallowed. The words felt heavy, like they were meant to uproot something deep within him.
"Then what do you believe in?" he asked, his voice quieter now.
Renzō tilted his head slightly. "In letting go."
Taji had no response to that. Because for all the years he had trained, for all the battles he had prepared for, he had never once considered that letting go could be its own kind of strength.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of distant earth and the whisper of unseen lands ahead.
Renzō turned and resumed walking.
And, without fully understanding why, Taji followed.