Asuma’s eyes were rimmed red.
Holding back a sob, he took the sandals and crouched down to put them on.
They fit perfectly.
The soft soles cradled his blistered feet, and the pain faded remarkably.
Asuma stood, glanced down at the dark patch on his pants, and braced himself to speak.
“By the way, Yoru… you wouldn’t happen to have any spare pants…”
Yoru glanced at him.
His eye twitched, once, uncontrollably.
He suppressed the urge to laugh hard enough to spray his dinner, and shook his head with finality.
“I really don’t.”
Then he shoved his hands into his pockets, turned, and strode out of the alley.
His departing figure was crisp and decisive.
Deeds done, glory left behind.
As he walked, Yoru casually stowed the red brick into his ninja tool pouch.
This thing was a genuine treasure.
Asuma leaned against the wall, face full of gratitude, watching Yoru’s back dissolve into the sunset.
He sniffled and sighed.
“What a good person.”
He drew a deep breath, steadied himself, and took a step toward home.
All he wanted was to get there, lock the door, and sleep.
He lifted his right foot and took the first step.
The instant it was about to land, the auto-slip mechanism triggered flawlessly.
The ankle straps of the brand-new sandals sprang loose.
The whole shoe seemed to sprout legs of its own, sliding clean off Asuma’s foot.
Asuma’s foot came down on empty air, his bare sole landing hard on the edge of the loose sandal.
At the same moment, some mysterious force reduced the friction between sole and ground to zero.
His foot shot out from under him.
His left foot promptly tripped over his right.
Thud!
With a dull sound, Asuma pitched forward.
His chin slammed square into the rough bluestone pavement, his mouth filling with the taste of dirt.
“Hsss!”
Asuma climbed up clutching his chin, utterly bewildered.
He looked back at the sandals lying innocently on the ground, rubbed his chin with a grimace, and stared down at his feet in confusion.
The ground was smooth.
No rocks, no potholes.
“…I must’ve run too hard earlier. My calves are badly cramped — that’s why I can’t walk straight.”
Asuma completed his self-critique with impressive speed.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he picked up the sandals and put them back on.
To be safe, he cinched the straps tight.
He walked on.
One step.
Two steps.
The straps popped open again, and the sandals went flying.
His foot slipped.
Thud!
Face-first again.
This time it was a sideways fall; he smacked into the ground like a dead fish, shoulder throbbing from the impact.
His front teeth split his lip, drawing blood.
“What the hell! Have my legs stopped working entirely?!”
Asuma lay on the ground, completely stunned.
Not once did he suspect the shoes.
After all, they were brand new — and Yoru had given them to him with such sincerity.
How could it possibly be the shoes’ fault?
It was all his own cramping muscles!
He could never have dreamed that the problem was precisely, exactly, the shoes on his feet.
The stretch of road that followed may well have been the most miserable journey home in the history of Konoha.
Every two or three steps, the sandals fell off.
When the sandals fell, he slipped; when he slipped, he fell.
Walk, lose the shoes, pick them up, fall down — on repeat, the whole way.
His body, already falling apart from the chase, was battered against the stone road again and again.
In the space of half a street, he fell no fewer than twenty times.
Knees scraped.
Palms bleeding.
Three large lumps swelling on his forehead, face bruised and puffy.
The dirt on his school uniform was thick enough to grow vegetables in, and the fabric hung in tatters.
Passing villagers glanced over.
“Isn’t that Lord Hokage’s son? Why’s he walking like he’s drunk?”
“So young, and already like this. Does Lord Hokage know?”
Asuma gritted his teeth, eyes red, and said nothing.
He fell again.
And again.
Finally, Asuma gave up on walking upright altogether.
On hands and knees, in the most humiliating posture imaginable, he crawled laboriously along the flagstones toward the public restroom at the end of the street.
Ten minutes later.
Asuma at last crawled up to the door of the Konoha public restroom.
He slumped against the sink, panting like an ox, preparing to drag himself in and splash some water on his face to clear his head.
Suddenly, from the innermost stall of the men’s room, came a weak, trembling voice with an unmistakable sob in it.
“Is that… Asuma out there?”
Asuma froze.
The voice sounded familiar.
“…Might Guy?”
Asuma pulled himself upright on the edge of the sink.
Two seconds of silence from the stall.
Then Guy’s faint, breathless plea.
“Asuma… could you… do me a favor?”
“What favor?”
“Could you… swap clothes with me?”
Guy’s voice was pure supplication, tinged with something almost humble.
Not a trace of his usual vigor remained.
Asuma frowned.
Swap clothes?
With that hideous green spandex bodysuit of yours?
How mortifying would it be to wear that thing?
Walking down the street like a mobile green glow stick.
His every instinct said refuse.
But then he looked down at his own pants.
If he went home in these and his father saw — the honorable young master of the Hokage, scared into wetting himself —
Hiruzen Sarutobi would string him from the rafters and beat him. New chapters come out on g.com first.
Of two evils, choose the lesser.
Compared to a beating, the green bodysuit suddenly didn’t seem so unacceptable.
It was getting dark anyway; he could sprint home and change.
“…Fine. Let’s swap.”
Asuma agreed through gritted teeth.
Soon, the stall door cracked open.
A green bodysuit, wadded into a ball, was passed out through the gap.
Asuma took it with a frown.
The moment it touched his hands, the fabric felt a bit heavier than expected — and carried an inexplicable warmth.
Come to think of it, it had dropped into his hands noticeably fast during the handoff.
But Asuma was desperate to get out of his wet pants and paid these details no mind at all.
He stripped off his jacket and pants, balled them up, and tossed them in through the window gap.
Then he shook out the green bodysuit, held his breath, and resigned himself to putting it on.
Legs into the pant legs.
Zipper up.
The very second the zipper reached the top —
Asuma petrified on the spot.
Something is wrong with this bodysuit.
From inside the stall, Might Guy — who had just pulled on Asuma’s pants — let out a horrified shriek.
Creak!
The stall door swung open.
Guy stepped out, gripping the door frame.
He wore Asuma’s long pants, bare from the waist up.
Asuma stood by the sink in the skin-tight green bodysuit.
In that eerie atmosphere, the two turned their heads.
Their gazes met in mid-air.
One look.
One look into the other’s hollow, despairing eyes — and Asuma and Guy each understood exactly what terrifying substance had soiled the other’s clothes.
BOOM!!!
Two worldviews collapsed on this day.
“AHHHHHHHH!!!”
Two tragic, inhuman wails erupted in unison, echoing long through the Konoha twilight.
Guy’s knees buckled; unable to bear his own weight, he dropped with a thud straight onto the water-stained tile floor of the public restroom.
Asuma’s legs shook, his feet slid — and that accursed pair of sandals discharged its duty one final time.
Splat!
He hit the ground hard.
This time, he didn’t even want to get up.
The two of them clutched their heads, staring up at the restroom ceiling, tears streaming.
Neither made a sound.
At the entrance to the Uchiha clan compound,
Yoru was strolling up the stone road home, mentally tallying today’s earnings and drafting tomorrow’s fleecing plan.
Two notification chimes rang out in his mind, one after the other.
Ding!
［Emotional Damage Points from Asuma Sarutobi, +999!!!］
Ding!
［Emotional Damage Points from Might Guy, +999!!!］
Yoru’s steps faltered, his face filling with question marks.
He rubbed his chin, turned in puzzlement to look at the empty street behind him, then off toward the commercial district.
“Those two… what on earth are they doing now?”