Chapter 45: Mission Complete, Taking the Initiative to Cook
Beneath the tiled eaves, bathed in warm noon sunlight, the old man's eyelids grew heavy. A breeze passed lazily through the yard, rustling the bamboo wind chime. Just as he began to doze, a calm voice floated from inside the house.
"Grandpa… were you once a shinobi?"
The old man stirred, blinking slowly as he shook off his drowsiness. He sat upright in his wheelchair and answered with a raspy voice, "Ever heard of the Sango clan?"
But no sooner had the words escaped than his gaze wandered to the unkempt yard. A distant look overtook him. His voice dropped into a hollow, nostalgic murmur.
"Ah, no… you wouldn't have. There's no reason you would. I'm the last of them." He sighed deeply. "The Sango were once a prestigious samurai bloodline. When ninjutsu swept across the lands during the age of clans, we adapted—trading blades for jutsu, bushido for shinobi codes."
"But during the Warring States Era… the clan was wiped out. All that remained were a few scattered embers. By the time Shodaime-sama founded Konoha, I was the only one still alive."
His voice grew heavier.
"Then came the First Great Shinobi War. I was deployed. The battlefield took everything—my legs… my wife… my son."
War-torn memories choked the air into silence. But as often happens with the elderly, once the floodgates opened, they refused to shut. His voice had softened with age, but there was a hard edge beneath the years.
Back inside, Tonan's tone remained casual, curious.
"You must've been strong back then."
The old man's spine straightened slightly at the words. A spark lit in his eyes, if only briefly.
"Hmph! Of course. I wasn't just any shinobi. I led an ANBU squad back then. Completed more S-rank missions than I can count." He tapped his knee with a dry chuckle. "But the war… the war doesn't care how many you've killed or saved. I lost everything but my breath."
In the bedroom, Tonan finished stowing away the last of the clutter. Shafts of golden sunlight filtered through the window behind him, cloaking his figure in a halo that obscured his face. He rose silently, folded a kerchief, and made his way toward the washroom.
The house itself had been restored to near perfection. What remained now was the filth and stench of the restroom. But when Tonan opened the door—
His brow creased instantly.
Inside was a scene from a horror story: mildew smeared the walls, brownish water sat stagnant in the bowl, and the unmistakable sting of ammonia hit like a kunai to the sinuses.
The stench made his eyes water.
He didn't need to ask why the client resorted to hiring shinobi for this job, or why the pay had been so abysmal. The answer was fermenting right in front of him.
Behind him, the old man wheeled in, letting out a guilty cough.
"Ahem… You know, if you abandon a mission midway, it'll go on your permanent record."
Tonan turned back, giving him a faint smile, the light dancing in his eyes unreadable.
"Do you have a toilet plunger, grandpa?"
The old man scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Ah… no, I don't."
Tonan bowed respectfully. "Please wait here a moment."
He turned on his heel and strode out of the compound.
Not ten minutes later, he returned—plunger in hand.
Under the wary gaze of the old man, Tonan rolled up his sleeves and dove into the mess with quiet determination. No complaints, no hesitation. Just focus.
From behind, the old man watched, unease twisting in his gut. For the first time in years, he felt… guilty.
Once the restroom was scrubbed, rinsed, and deodorized to the level of a medic-nin's surgery room, Tonan began wiping down furniture with methodical precision. Every knickknack was cleaned with a tiny brush, every surface polished to a mirror shine.
It wasn't cleaning. It was craftsmanship.
By midday, Tonan had mopped the floor three separate times. He sprayed every corner with herbal fumigants to remove lingering odors, and finally approached the old man with a deep, formal bow.
"I've completed the cleaning, sir. Please inspect."
The old man looked at the boy's white shirt—creased, stained, completely unsalvageable—and felt a stab of remorse.
"You… did a remarkable job," he muttered.
Tonan offered the mission record and pen. "Then I kindly ask you to sign off."
The old man did so without hesitation.
Then, after a long pause—and a pained sigh—he fished into his pouch and pulled out the 2000 Ryo Kakashi had paid earlier. He pressed it into Tonan's hand.
"This is a tip. You've earned it. Now go."
Tonan smiled brightly. "You're very generous, grandpa. I'll thank you on Kakashi's behalf as well."
With that, he turned and left, heading toward the Hokage Residence to report mission completion.
Back inside, the old man rolled into his bedroom. He reached into his nightstand and retrieved a weathered photo—a young family, forever frozen in joy. His calloused fingers trembled as he ran them over the faded faces.
"If only Imaru hadn't died… I'd probably have great-grandchildren by now. Maybe one like that boy…"
He returned the photo, turned, and made his way into the kitchen. The fridge was nearly empty. Just two leftover onigiri, dry and cracked with age. It was all he had.
He sighed and took them out, setting them on the table. He hadn't had a proper meal in years. No one visited anymore. The neighbors had long since given up on the grumpy recluse. He couldn't blame them.
"I'll need to head out again later…" he murmured, reclining in his chair.
Outside, the village was quiet. The lunch hour brought silence, save for the cooing of doves perched on the rooftop tiles.
He drifted into sleep once again.
Knock, knock, knock…
He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but the sound roused him. He opened his eyes groggily.
"Who is it?" he called out, voice thick with sleep.
Knock, knock, knock…
Still no answer. He frowned, wheeling toward the door. Just as he grabbed the handle, the knocking stopped.
Cautiously, he pulled the door open.
Sunlight poured in—and standing there, holding two bags of groceries in each hand, was Tonan.
"I noticed your fridge was almost empty while I was cleaning," Tonan said with a bright smile. "I figured you don't get out much, so I brought some ingredients for you."
The old man was stunned. After a long pause, he cleared his throat. "Thank you, boy, but there's no need. My legs make cooking too much of a hassle. I usually just eat rice balls. If I want meat, I wrap them in bacon."
Tonan looked at the man's withered legs, then met his eyes. "It'd be a waste if the food spoiled. Besides… I'm the only one left in my family too. Why don't we eat together? That way, neither of us eats alone."
The old man's expression twitched. After a moment, he grunted, "Do as you please."
With a nod, Tonan stepped inside, took the sad onigiri from the old man's hands, and promptly tossed them into the trash.
"These have no nutrition," he said. "You shouldn't be eating this kind of thing."
Tonan made his way into the kitchen and tied an apron around his waist with smooth, practiced movements. He didn't hesitate—just got to work.
Fwoosh — the burner lit.
Sizzle — oil hit the pan.
Tock, tock, tock… — the clean, precise rhythm of a knife dicing vegetables echoed through the house.
The old man sat in his wheelchair, watching from the threshold.
For the first time in many, many years… he didn't feel quite so alone.