The air is thick with the scent of crushed earth and iron.

Scattered fragments of sand, bone, and torn fabric litter the forest glade where moments ago a brutal clash carved trenches into the earth itself. Now, all is still. A faint breeze carries with it the memory of battle cries long faded into silence.

At the edge of the clearing, half-shadowed beneath a canopy of withering leaves, Kimimaro stands.

Barely.

His breaths are shallow—controlled only by sheer will. Blood darkens the hem of his robes, dripping down from a hidden wound he refuses to acknowledge. His posture remains unnervingly upright, his back straight like a blade sheathed in dying flesh.

He does not tremble. He does not fall.

“My body still moves,” he murmurs to no one, voice barely above a whisper. “So I will walk until it doesn’t.”

His once-immaculate hair clings damp to his temples. The bone spear jutting from his wrist retracts with a sickening crunch. His eyes—half-lidded, faintly glowing with fever and quiet madness—sweep across the trees ahead.

He's not running from death. He's simply walking forward until it claims him.

A breath. A step. Another.

And then, stillness—again. As if waiting for something… or someone.