The Snow That Was No Longer Cold

The snow on Mount Iga had never felt this cold before.

Across the white expanse, now stained deep red, Hattori Zen knelt on one knee, his breath coming in ragged, heavy gasps. Warm blood flowed from the wounds covering his body, melting the snow all around him. Thin puffs of steam rose from his lips every time he exhaled.

Before him stood a dozen shinobi from his own clan, frozen in place. Faces he had once known as brothers-in-arms were now set and empty, their eyes cold and hollow—like blades sharpened for a single purpose alone.

There were no shouts. No curses. Not even a prayer of farewell.

“In the end… I was just a tool…” Hattori Zen whispered softly.

His voice was almost swallowed by the wind and the crunch of snow underfoot. His lips trembled—not from fear, but because his body was rapidly losing its warmth. The words caught in his throat as a flash of silver light streaked across his vision.

“This is because you knew too much… Hattori.”

ZING—!

The strike was fast, clean, cold, and utterly without hesitation.

In that moment, the world seemed to turn upside down. He felt no pain—none of the agony he had always imagined. All he felt was a vast, empty void, as if every meaning his life had ever held had been torn away in a single breath.

His vision slowly faded, carrying with it the sharp metallic scent of his own blood and the biting chill of winter.

He closed his eyes.

Ready to surrender to eternal darkness.

Everything grew darker, until nothing remained but absolute blackness.

But that darkness did not last.

NGIIIING—!

Suddenly, a sharp, piercing sound rang out—like a thousand crickets screaming in unison, slamming into his consciousness.

Hattori gasped. The biting cold of the snow vanished instantly, replaced by thick, heavy air that clung to his skin and burned his lungs.

‘What is happening?’ he screamed inside his mind.

He tried to breathe in, but instead of the crisp winter air he knew so well, he drew in hot air mixed with the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves.

A sharp, stabbing pain instantly shot through his ribs.

“Ghh—!”

He coughed violently, his chest feeling as though it had been struck by a massive stone. Slowly, with his consciousness still blurred and hazy, he opened his eyes.

Above him, the sky was no longer the gray winter haze of Iga, but a vast green canopy of ancient trees that towered high above. Broad leaves overlapped one another, filtering the harsh sunlight so that it fell only as scattered patches of light onto the muddy ground below.

The air around him was humid, hot, and sticky against his skin—so different from the dry, biting cold he had known all his life. Hattori reached up to touch his neck; there was no blood, and his neck felt smaller, more slender than before.

“Oi, you little runt! Don’t play dead on us!”

A kick landed hard in his stomach. All the breath was knocked out of him in an instant.

His old reflexes took over automatically; he tried to perform Ukemi—the art of rolling to soften an impact and create distance. But his body did not respond the way he expected.

Instead of rolling smoothly and fluidly, he tumbled clumsily onto the ground. Mud smeared across his face and chest.

‘What is really going on?’ he thought, still confused and disoriented. His body felt wrong. Frail. Too light. His bones felt small, and his muscles seemed to hold no strength at all. ‘Why am I still alive? Where am I?’

Hattori struggled to get into a crouch, but froze when he saw his legs—thin, scrawny, little more than skin and bone.

“Look at his eyes!” someone jeered.

It was a burly, rough-looking youth named Balun, his skin dark and weathered, a simple cloth sarong tied around his waist. “He looks like he just saw the Siampa or something! Hahaha!”

Laughter erupted all around him.

Hattori coughed again. He wiped blood from his lip and stared down at his own hands. They were rough from hard labor, covered in calluses, his fingers thin and trembling.

These were not his hands. Certainly not the hands of a Jonin, a master ninja capable of slicing through the very wind with a single strike.

When he tried to speak, the voice that came out was foreign to him—like the voice of another person trapped inside his own throat.

“I… I…”

Strangely enough, he understood every word being spoken, even though the language was not Japanese. The meaning came naturally, instinctively, as if it had been etched into his mind for a very long time.

“Trying to act tough, are you? How dare you run away!” Balun stepped closer, a cruel smirk spreading across his face. “Fine then. I’ll just break your arms. That way you’ll have a good reason not to work tomorrow!”

His massive fist swung forward.

This time, Hattori did not think. His body moved purely on instinct—instinct honed over decades of training. He shifted his head just one inch to the side; a movement so minimal, so efficient, it was almost invisible.

Whoosh—!

The fist missed entirely.

In the space of a single breath, Hattori grabbed Balun’s wrist. He used no brute strength, only technique. His fingers pressed into specific nerve points, and he twisted the angle of Balun’s arm with ruthless precision.

CRACK—!

“AAAAARGH!”

Balun’s scream echoed through the trees. The burly youth dropped to his knees, his face turning pale as ash. The pain spread through his arm like a thousand stinging wasps, leaving it completely numb and useless.

“Balun!” two of his friends shouted in unison. “Sena! How dare you do this!”

Hattori looked up at them, his gaze sharp and unwavering.

It was not the look of Sena—the boy who was usually terrified and bowed his head in submission. Instead, it was the cold, predatory gaze of a man who had died and been brought back to life.

The sight of it sent shivers down their spines.

“Get lost,” he said simply, his voice flat and calm.

There was no excessive threat. No shouting.

But it was enough to completely shatter their courage.

The two youths scrambled to help Balun stand, then retreated in a panic.

“I told you… Sena is possessed by the Siampa,” Jagu whispered fearfully to Danta and Balun. They backed away quickly, looking terrified, then turned and ran as fast as they could, vanishing into the forest.

They were not afraid of Sena. They were afraid of the Siampa—a mythical, ghostly creature covered in black fur, said to drag people deep into the woods at twilight.

Hattori let out a long breath. His body felt weak and unsteady. That one simple movement had almost drained him completely.

He crawled toward the nearest stream and looked at his reflection in the clear, flowing water.

Staring back was not the face of Hattori Zen, but that of a teenager—thin, gaunt, and dirty, with eyes that looked far too old for his age. He touched his chest. His heart was beating fast and hard.

Hattori did not know which god was playing this cruel game with him. But one thing was certain: he was in a strange land, inside a fragile young body, living under the rule of a kingdom called Singasari.

He sat cross-legged, his eyes scanning the towering meranti trees surrounding him. Damp, mossy soil clung to the soles of his bare feet. This was not the land of spring, nor the land of winter. This was a land that knew no snow.

Ngiiing…

“Arghhhh…” Hattori cried out in pain. The ringing in his ears returned.

Suddenly, his head felt as though it had been pierced by dozens of needles. Memories began to force their way into his mind—memories that did not belong to him. Memories belonging to the original owner of this body: Sena.

He forced himself to climb slowly up a small hill, panting heavily as he went. Fragments of Sena’s life flashed through his mind, one after another, too fast to grasp:

Smoke from burning straw…

The crack of a whip striking an old man’s back…

The arrogant laughter of soldiers…

A woman lying weak and frail, until she breathed her last breath…

And finally… the memory of Sena falling from a cliff to his death.

‘Sena? These memories…’ Hattori curled up on the ground, clutching his head. ‘So this is it… My soul… is inside this boy’s body… Ahh—!’ Saliva dripped from his mouth as he fought desperately to take control of his new form.

‘This body is far too weak…’

He sat up straight, forcing himself into the disciplined Seiza posture. His fingers formed the intricate patterns of Kuji-in—the Nine Hand Seals.

“SHA,” he whispered, his hands trembling as he wove the signs and pressed against the nerve points on his arms and hands. Slowly, the heaviness and pain in his head began to fade.

“ZEN,” he whispered again, changing the formation of his fingers to target different pressure points. Gradually, his tensed muscles relaxed, his emotions came under control, and his breathing steadied. Sena’s memories continued to flow into him, but they no longer caused him such agony.

Hattori synchronized his breath with his heartbeat. He appeared calm and composed now, though he still coughed now and then.

He released the hand seals and slowly opened his eyes, breathing in the cool night air. He had been meditating for quite some time; he hadn’t even noticed when the sun had set and darkness had fallen.

He stood up, his legs still shaky. Blood trickled from his nose; he wiped it away with the back of his hand. ‘I only used a fraction of my usual focus, and yet it takes this much of a toll…’ he thought.

He went back to examining his new body, but a bitter smile touched his lips when he felt a familiar object hanging around his neck.

He stared for a long time at the necklace—an item he knew all too well. “So that’s it… No wonder I could never find it again after I returned to the docks all those years ago,” he murmured. It had been twenty-two years since he lost the family heirloom of the Zen clan. Who would have guessed this small trinket would end up here, around the neck of Sena, having crossed an entire ocean.

Hattori had been given a second chance at life—reborn exactly at the moment Sena had drawn his last breath.

He sat at the edge of a cliff, wondering how far this place was from Iga. What he knew for certain was that this land only knew two seasons: the dry season and the rainy season. He was in the far western reaches of the Kingdom of Dharmapuri. And the place where he now stood was called the Harau Valley.

He sighed deeply, his gaze drifting toward the stars above. It still felt impossible to believe that his soul had survived, living on in a different body.

Standing at the cliff’s edge, he closed his eyes. The memory of Sena’s father being whipped to death flashed through his mind again. “Jeliteng…, Purwa…” he whispered, a low growl rising in his throat.

“Rest well in the afterlife, Sena… I will borrow your body and your name for this new life. And I swear… I will avenge you,” he said, as if asking permission from the soul of the boy who had once lived here.

He opened his eyes. The wind of Harau Valley brushed gently against his face, as if Sena’s spirit had given its blessing, accepting Hattori as its new inhabitant.

“Hattori Zen died in the snow of Iga,” he vowed silently, as if swearing an oath before the billions of stars above.

“From now on… I am Sena Sanjaya.” He clenched his trembling fists tight. “And Sena… will never be a tool for anyone ever again.”

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