One day, the Tenth Boss of the illustrous Vongola family decides to go for a walk. The weather was good that morning - promised to be good all week. It was perfect for a restorative constitutional.
So the Tenth put on a pair of sturdy shoes and he walked out the front door. He walked through the front lawn, passed the main gates, and down the very long, gravel driveway that lead to the estate. In a half an hour, he reached the edge of the Vongola's property, then he kept on walking.
Now, this was not so strange. The Boss had been stuck behind the desk for the better part of a fortnight. He was trying to iron out a deal with the Insolenza, fiesty famiglia in Monopoli. They had tripled their numbers in under a decade, making good money off "waste management". Their wealth of success went straight to their heads (the ones in their pants), because it takes a pair of brass balls to challenge the Vongola family. They figured if anyone was gonna make a stand - they would have to do it now, in the Tenth's first year as boss, before he got too comfy with his power.
They weren't the only ones thinking so because a bunch of smaller famiglias allied with them. Up and down the coast of Apulia, from Barletta to Bari, capos began congregating. They were easy pickings alone but spite - oh spite could be a powerful, powerful motivator. Who does this foreigner think he is? Huh? Waltzing in like he owns the place? Well, he was about to get a taste of Italy's heel.
All eyes were on the Tenth. At 24 years old, he looked half his age, without any Roman machismo to call his own. He was as hairless as a babe, not even a stray whisker on his lip. And he kept sending foot soldiers, then capos, then finally an underboss to try and reason with the Insolenza and their associates. Each and every one was run out of town in a rain of bullets - but not blood. Not yet. Soon, they promise as each shot gets closer and closer to finding its mark.
The Tenth had to do something.
So he goes for a walk, straight off his property, and into the picturesque town of Rieti. Now, the Vongola have their proper headquarters in Sicily like any self-respecting, old blood famiglia. But a few days ago, the Tenth moved from the Iron Fort into this quaint, little place just east of Rome. People began to speculate that this was the first move - that the Tenth was beginning to shift his forces and launch an all out attack from the mainland. But Monday passed into Wednesday, and as far as anyone could tell, the Tenth was just in his office, doing paperwork same as usual. Sometimes, he goes out to town and buys himself a pastry.
As such, when the Tenth leaves the property, no one bats an eye. He's probably gonna grab himself an expresso and a biscotti before hiking back to the house. Except, he walks right past his favored cafe, and crosses the city lines.
That... That gets everyone's attention.
Of course, the first to react is the Tenth's inner circle. Gokudera Hayato hops on a bike and blazes down the road. He catches up with his boss in no time. From afar, a curious staff watches as the Tenth never once stops walking, cheerfully taking step after step as he talks to his Right Hand. Whatever he says to the Storm Guardian, they will never know, but it's enough for him to clench his jaw, nod, and then back away. No other Guardians reach out after that.
For hours and hours, the Tenth walks, heading down south. By then, all the other famiglias have sat up and tuned in, sending spies to watch his progress. When the sun sets and he reaches Bussi Officine, they all witness as he begins to shift his trajectory, heading east, towards the coast. It doesn't take a genius to figure out where he was going from there. But surely, they think, that can't be right. He can't seriously be going to the Apulia Coast, on foot, not even flying as people say he could. Yet, as the sun fully sinks and the moon rises high and this guy continues to walk eastwards, everyone had no choice but to believe it.
The Insolenza were at a loss. Half of them were laughing their asses off. The other half were plotting, scheming, trying to figure out the hidden plan that the Tenth must surely have. The Vongola Alliance was equally at a loss. Don Cavallone and Don Cozarto reached out to the Tenth's inner circle but his Right Hand offers no explanation.
"Trust in the Tenth," he tells them.
When dawn arrives, the young boss meets another of his men on the road. Xanxus di Vongola has both guns out, incandescent with rage. The Tenth doesn’t even twitch and stares straight at him. Keeping his brow in the line of fire, he continues forward, one foot in front of another until his skull nearly kisses the gun barrels. But by then, Xanxus must have found whatever answer he was searching for because he sheathes his guns, walking alongside his boss. They walk together for two - three hours in complete silence.
On the fourth hour, Xanxus speaks up, but far too quietly for any of the mics to catch. In response, the Tenth laughs - a heavy, throaty chuckle.
“Let them come,” he says.
At that, Xanxus stops walking. For a full thirty seconds, he watches his boss pass him by, going ever onward. Then he spins on his heels and flies away. The drones were able to capture his expression right before he left. It was a sight that prompted many to panic. Xanxus di Vongola rarely has any cause to smile but when he does, people rarely seek the cause.
Observers tracked Xanxus flying back to the Iron Fort. This destroys any claims of the Vongola launching a ground assault or really, any kind of assault. If they were going to wage a war, they would have summoned their prized warhounds.
By now, it’s been forty hours since the Tenth started walking. He has neither eaten or slept. And, as day becomes night, the assassins attack. To the surprise of most, they were not sent by the Insolenza. The Vongola has earned plenty of grudges in their long and disastrous history. There’s plenty of enemies willing and eager to take potshots at an unprotected boss.
Some send a few freelancers seeking glory. Others spend a small fortune hiring Named hitmen. And the rest are known to the Tenth, throwing hands just to keep him company. Those seem to find this whole endeavor hilarious.
The fights are short and sweet but numerous, enough to continue into the morning and through the afternoon. Not a single one, neither friend nor foe, could break the Tenth’s stride. As a result, he leaves a long trail of bodies behind him, all alive if not awake.
This attracts the attention of civilians. Now despite the notorious corruption of local law enforcement, a pair of polizia pull up to the Tenth. They frown and they yell and they light up their sirens. He smiles at them, speaking softly. Before the last words leave his mouth, they rush back to their car, without a bribe in their pockets and with a hefty shit in their pants. The Tenth never once misses a step.
He reaches the coast around the witching hour of the third night. After all that walking, his hair is wilder than a bird’s nest and his skin is several shades darker. A thick layer of grime and dirt cover his bespoke Armani suit and his polished, leather loafers. Yet the Tenth himself remains fair of face and strong of limb. The Insolenza are no longer laughing.
Taking a deep breath of that salty sea air, the Tenth turns south. He walks at a leisurely pace, even taking the time to wave at a few bystanders. The clueless ones wrinkle their noses, possibly mistaking him for some homeless vagabond. This brings a smile to his face and a spike of adrenaline to everyone else. At this time, no more assassins come for the Tenth as everyone shifts their focus onto the Insolenza.
They have set up a blockade. Concrete barriers sit on the road, in front of armored tanks and enough artillery to pulverize a mountain. The fourth day begins with a firestorm. They aim, and they fire, and they keep firing - bullet after bullet, shell after shell, missile after missile. The Italian countryside is transformed into a warzone within the span of five minutes, as deep craters pockmark the earth and dust blankets the air.
It was by the grace of powerful, powerful Mists that such a ruckus was largely ignored. Of course, a couple stray eyes bore witness but they knew better than to speak of it. Aside from the shroud of secrecy, no one else intervenes on behalf of either party. This was now a battle between the Insolenza and the Tenth. Enemies and allies watch on the edge of their seats as the dust swirls and twists.
The Insolenza run out of ammo and a hush falls over everyone. They don’t blink. They don’t breathe. From the lowest footsoldier to the high-handed capos, they could only watch, with ears ringing and pulse racing, as the dust settles.
The idiots are ready to rejoice, and they could be excused for they just unleashed a payload that could shame the United States. But the smarter ones expected retribution - for a wave of that infamous Vongola fire to sweep through the ranks. They get neither.
At first, they barely hear it. But steadily, the sound grows louder as the footsteps come closer. Striding forward, as if on a relaxing stroll, is young Sawada Tsunayoshi, Tenth boss of the Vongola famiglia. Except unlike before, his bloodline is now proudly on display. On his thin shoulders rests a heavy mantle - blacker than the purest ash, as a crown of Flame sits thick and hot on his brow. He looks at the gathered men before him with eyes the color of a molten metal. The Insolenza reel back as if burned.
The Tenth does not stop walking.
To their credit, the Insolenza do not back down. The first to gather his wits throws a grenade at the Tenth. He bats it away with an easy backhand, flashing the engine-red of his gauntlet-covered fists. The others are not deterred, grinding down and summoning either stupidity or bravery to face the young boss. The day proceeds accordingly.
They throw everything they had left. There is a mountain of over the top violence, swearing, and unnecessary shouting. They flash him the goods, the greats, and the even betters. The Tenth keeps going, never straying from his chosen path, never changing his placid pace. When he reaches the tanks on the road, he lays his burning hands on the chromium armor and without even hesitating, melts his through.
The tank operators had the wisdom to evacuate before he could reach them but that’s the lone wisdom they had. One runs at the Tenth with a steel knife! Steel! They just watched him disrespect the strongest alloy known to man! The Tenth immediately drops that guy without a thought, his ass making a satisfying crunch.
When the Tenth makes it through the blockade, battalions of footsoldiers await him on the other side. There’s an echoing cry as they all charge in a single, furious mass. Their guns lay on the ground, completely empty clips scattered all over. They only had their fists to rely on. By then, pure desperation fuels them. There’s a primal need to mark the Tenth, to reach him in any way. Or else… Or else…
They don’t know. They don’t know! They don’t want to know! The reality they understood would be forfeited entirely. They would have to live with the knowledge that beings far greater - that power they cannot comprehend - that giants walk the earth. Death would be preferred - an act of mercy - in the face of that.
As the footsoldiers charge, the Tenth takes a step. Where his foot touches the ground, ice sweeps out - encasing everything for acres around him. Men are frozen where they stand, locked in mid-step with fists cocked and mouths half open. They don’t get anywhere near the Tenth. The fourth night passes peacefully.
He crosses into Barletta some time after daybreak, with only a spare hundred kilometers separating him from Monopoli, where the Insolenza are located. His clothes sit beneath a gritty, bitter layer of dirt, soot, and oil. But there’s not a single tear to be found in the fabric. Now his shoes have given up, which makes sense given all the walking. Only strips of barely stitched together leather are left on his feet. The civilian citizens of the city scuttle away from him, as if he was diseased and not like he was a Capo di tutti Capi. Their Flame blind eyes fail to notice the burning glow radiating from him.
It’s nearing 120 hours, a grand total of five days, and the Tenth still has not slept or eaten. Even more incredibly, he has maintained a state of Hyper Dying Will for thirty hours and counting. Any average Joe would have collapsed long before now, and even the above average Moe would have looked tired at least. Not this guy. He’s just going and going, breathing evenly, and moving fluidly.
When he leaves the more urban areas into proper enemy controlled territory, he encounters a couple more Insolenza men. But these were the assholes that ran from the battle once they realized the futility of the fight. They weren’t about to grow a spine now that the enemy was literally at their doorstep. So… They just follow him. They shadow his steps for the last stretch of the road as the unyielding and unstoppable boss heads for their headquarters. By the time Monopoli is in their sights, there’s a good three dozen of them just ambling behind him. He pays them little mind, taking it all in stride.
As the Tenth hits the city limits, an obscenely slick Porsche rolls up at his side. His new groupies back all the way up as a tall man steps out, pristine and sinful in his tailored suit. He doesn’t interrupt the Tenth’s walk, but keeps up as he circles around him. Without even zooming in, those watching know the newcomer as none other than the famed Reborn, former Sun Arcobaleno but still the world’s greatest hitman. He doesn’t say a word to his once student but his hands move quickly over him.
Taking a total of ten seconds, he completely redresses the Tenth in a new suit - white and clean as freshly fallen snow. He manages to tame the Tenth’s hair, removing all the twigs and leaves and trash that got trapped in there. With a wet towel, he wipes off the accumulated filth on the Tenth’s face, snapping his teeth when the Tenth lets out an annoyed whine. Finally, he sets down a pair of steel toed, wing tipped shoes for the Tenth to step into. All this was done as the Tenth continued his walk. It would have put any quick change Vegas act to shame.
The Tenth arrives at the gates of the Insolenza compound, perfectly coiffed and properly looking like a Mafia Boss. For the past five days, the head family’s bodyguards were inundated with news of the Tenth’s easy progress towards them. So when they finally laid their eyes on him… There was little they could do beyond standing aside, parting before him like the Red Sea did for Moses. The Tenth nods agreeably and invites himself right in.
Vittorio Alessandro Romano di Insolenza stood waiting at the steps to his front door. He sees the Tenth coming and he meets him halfway, holding out a sheaf of papers in his trembling hand. It’s the treaty that the Tenth sent to him awhile back, the first Vongola men visited. Of course, the Insolenza had torn up every single one. It was just this morning, when Romano sent a screaming call to his underbosses and demanded they find him a copy, that they got one in tact. (The truth is that a wiser underling sent a sheepish email requesting a copy from a bemused Hana Kurokawa, the head of the Vongola legal department.)
“Here, just take it. Take it already. And leave. Leave, damn you!” The Insolenza boss spits out, pulling in short, shallow breaths.
“Of course, but I should sign the treaty first, right?” The Tenth smiles, smooth and gentle as silk.
His former enemy jerks his head forward in an attempt to nod. It looks more like he’s having a seizure. Not that anything he does really matters at this point. It’s all just formalities. That doesn’t keep the Tenth from relishing every second. He takes his time patting his pockets, looking for a pen, before a bodyguard shyly offers one. Then, he spends even more time reading through the document as if the Insolenza boss had any audacity left to change something on the sly. But once five excruciating minutes pass, the Tenth signs the treaty with fancy flourish added to his name.
“There. That should do it,” he announces.
A veritable tsunami of relief washes over the gathered crowd.
“Please leave,” the Insolenza boss murmurs, just a heartbeat away from collapsing on the ground.
The Tenth gives him an arch look. “You know… Your men are impressive, I’ll grant you that. I look forward to working with you.”
The Insolenza boss straight up stares - jaw hanging loose - at the young boss who single handedly terrorized and demoralized his men. Tsunayoshi Sawada di Vongola had just won a war without shedding a single drop of blood, yet at the same time bleeding his enemies of all resources and any will to fight. He won a war by barely striking back, only lifting his hands to move something physically out of his way. He won a war by letting everyone take a good, long, hard look at what exactly he’s capable of.
To hear a compliment - earnest and sincere - from someone like that, well… Romano thinks it wouldn’t be so hard to work with him.
“But you gotta stop dumping radioactive waste in the water.”
The Tenth chuckles - a raspy, rattling sound. “You should come to dinner. We’ll iron out the details. And you’re welcome to take a car or even fly over. Not everyone loves a good hike like me.”
Romano chokes on his spit as something warm trickles down his legs. It’s piss. He just pissed himself. Merda.
Without waiting for a response, the Tenth spins on his heel, tucking the treaty into his suit jacket, and walks out the front gates. The newly allied Insolenza family can only watch as he makes his way down the path at an even, unhurried pace.
Half an hour later finds Tsuna far from the Insolenza manor, strolling into downtown Monopoli. He swings by a nearby cafe, where a plate of biscotti and a fresh cup of espresso sit on the counter in a takeout bag.
“Oh good, you got my order!” He says brightly.
The barista gives him a funny look. “Zio, the app says that you ordered this from Rieti?”
“Yep, I just came down here to pick it up. Thanks!” With that, Tsuna grabs his food and walks away.
He takes maybe ten steps from the cafe before that same black Porsche parks itself in front of him. The door opens automatically and Tsuna climbs right in, careful not to spill his drink.
Reborn looks him over, lifting a slim, single brow. “Dame-Tsuna, we have espresso at home.”
“Sure. But I heard good things about this place.” Tsuna grins, sharp and cheeky and boundless with joy.
They laugh the whole way home.
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