Chapter 16: Vanished
Dawn broke over the war-torn landscape with the reluctant warmth of a hesitant friend. The orphan camp stirred slowly, as if the cold air weighed heavier than usual. Ren rubbed his arms and blinked away the sleep, sitting up in his cot with a yawn that went unfinished.
Something felt off.
Taro's snoring was absent. Aki was awake, already pulling on his worn sandals. But it wasn't either of them that set off the unease curling in Ren's chest.
It was the empty bedroll across the tent.
"Kota's gone," Aki said without looking up.
Ren followed his gaze. The spot where the quiet, wiry boy usually lay was bare—blanket folded, bag missing.
Taro peeked in a second later, rubbing his eyes. "Where's Kota?"
"That's what we were just saying," Ren replied. "He's not here."
Taro scoffed. "Probably ran off. Always looked like he wanted to."
But his voice lacked bite. A pause hung between them.
"Should we tell Juro-sensei?" Aki asked.
Taro shrugged. "Why bother? He'll just say we're wasting his time."
Ren wasn't so sure.
---
The morning training began with the usual harsh rhythm: running laps, holding stances, and sparring until their limbs felt like lead. But the camp was different today. Quieter. Less banter. Eyes darted more often toward the treeline.
Juro-sensei was, if possible, even grimmer than usual.
"Stand straight, not like dried seaweed!" he barked, smacking a wooden staff near one kid's feet. "You expect to survive by wobbling? Maybe you'll trip your enemies with pity."
No one dared laugh.
Ren tried to focus, but his gaze kept flicking toward the path that led out of the camp. Maybe Kota had just… gotten tired of it all. Maybe he was hiding somewhere, waiting for nightfall.
Still, that didn't explain the blanket being folded.
Or the silence.
---
By midday, whispers filled the air. A few kids had noticed. One girl cried softly when someone said they saw footprints near the edge of the woods.
"Maybe he was taken," someone muttered.
"By who?" another hissed. "The enemy? Why him? Why not one of us?"
Ren didn't have an answer. He ate his lunch slowly, chewing through stale bread and thin broth. Each bite tasted like sand.
When a brave kid finally asked Juro-sensei if anyone had gone missing, he didn't even look up.
"Focus on training," he said. "Worrying won't bring anyone back."
---
That evening, the camp was subdued. The usual bickering had faded, replaced with quiet glances and half-whispered theories.
Ren sat by the fire with Aki and Taro. The flames cracked and hissed as someone added another piece of scavenged wood.
Taro poked the fire with a stick. "He wasn't even strong. Could barely land a punch."
"Neither could I a few weeks ago," Ren said.
Taro didn't respond.
Aki, quieter than usual, mumbled, "Do you think it was enemy shinobi?"
Ren shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe he ran. I don't know."
The truth was, anything felt possible in a world where the sky could darken with kunai at any moment.
He tried to meditate later that night. Sat cross-legged in his corner of the tent, back straight, hands resting on his knees. Breath in. Breath out. Focus.
But the stillness wouldn't come.
Instead of flowing chakra and a clear mind, he found himself imagining Kota's face. The way he chewed nervously on the ends of his sleeves. How he always avoided sparring unless forced.
Was he alive? Was he scared?
Or was he already…?
Ren's eyes opened. The tent was dark. The quiet was too loud.
---
Morning came, but Kota didn't.
Juro-sensei didn't mention it. No one did.
But everyone knew.
The training continued as usual, but something had shifted. No one laughed. No one mocked. Even Taro was quieter.
They climbed the logs again, practiced their stances, repeated their drills. Ren's body moved automatically, muscles aching, sweat blurring his vision. But his mind was somewhere else.
A few kids started keeping their gear closer at night. Hiding snacks. Rolling up blankets tighter.
That night, Ren sat with his notebook, trying to copy down kanji by the light of a candle. He stopped halfway through a character and stared at the page.
If he vanished tomorrow, would anyone remember he was here?
---
Later, as he stared at the fire outside, Ren whispered to Aki, "If you had to run, where would you go?"
Aki blinked. "I wouldn't run."
"Yeah, but if you had to."
Aki thought about it. "I dunno. Maybe the river? Follow it downstream?"
Ren nodded slowly. "I was thinking the same."
Taro sat a few feet away, pretending not to listen.
"Why?" Aki asked. "You thinking of running?"
Ren shook his head. "No. Just… wondering."
Because wondering was safer than hoping. And safer than trusting too much.
---
Juro-sensei dismissed them early that evening. Said something about an incoming supply caravan. Ren doubted it.
He lingered behind after the others left, pretending to stretch.
Juro finally looked at him. "Speak."
"You knew Kota wouldn't come back," Ren said.
Juro's eyes narrowed slightly. "I knew he was scared. I knew he had no stamina. And I knew this camp isn't a cage. Anyone can leave."
Ren's hands curled into fists. "So that's it?"
"No," Juro said. "That's not it. But if I told everyone to cry when someone disappeared, how many would survive?"
Ren didn't reply. He just nodded once—and walked away.
---
That night, Ren meditated again.
He tried to let the chakra flow. He imagined it as light—like he had before—but tonight it was harder. The weight of absence pressed against him.
Still, he tried.
Chakra moved through his legs, his arms, his fingertips.
Tiny flickers.
He felt cold—but not alone.
---
Kota never came back.
Maybe he had run.
Maybe he'd been taken.
Maybe the war had simply claimed him, like it would claim others.
But Ren remained.
And every day, he trained. Every night, he meditated. Every breath, he fought not to forget.
Not because he was strong.
But because someone had to remember.
---
And in the flickering shadows of the orphan camp, a boy with quiet eyes and a stubborn heart took another small step—forward.
Even if the footprints beside him had begun to fade.