Dawn broke through the canopy, painting the forest in shades of gold and green. The birds were already gossiping about whatever birds gossip about—probably trading scandalous feather preening tips or complaining about the late worms. I stretched, feeling various joints pop as I extracted myself from my sleeping bag.
Mikoto was still curled up by the remnants of our campfire. If you looked really closely, you might spot the faintest trace of ink on her cheek—maybe 0.1% of Tsume's artistic revenge still clinging on.
Poor girl had taken the worst watch shift—that awkward 3 AM to dawn slot where everything's either dead quiet or suspiciously active. I figured she deserved an extra twenty minutes of sleep.
I grabbed my canteen and splashed some water on my face, the cold shock finishing what the birds had started. Nothing like freezing mountain water to remind you that yes, you are indeed awake and no, this isn't a particularly realistic dream about camping.
'Maybe I should've packed coffee,' I thought, then immediately dismissed it. Coffee on a mission was asking for bathroom breaks at the worst possible moments.
Tsume was already up, naturally. Her ninken puppy—who she'd imaginatively named Kuromaru—was bouncing around her feet like a furry ping-pong ball.
"Morning," I said, keeping my voice low. "Want to help me gather some of that stuff we found yesterday?"
She glared at me, which was basically her version of good morning. "Why would I help you?"
"Because I'm about to make breakfast that'll make you forget all about those ration bars in your pack."
Her stomach chose that moment to growl. Kuromaru yipped in what I assumed was canine solidarity.
"Fine," she grumbled. "But this better be worth it."
We moved quietly through the underbrush, the forest still heavy with morning dew. Fire Country's forests were basically nature's grocery store if you knew where to look. Yesterday's foraging had turned up some interesting finds—wood ear mushrooms growing on a fallen log, tender fern shoots, and a handful of pine nuts I'd spotted while pretending to scout.
Tsume proved useful, helping to locate a patch of wild herbs I'd missed. Kuromaru earned his keep too, sniffing out some edible roots near a stream.
"How do you even know all this stuff is safe to eat?" Tsume asked, watching me carefully wrap the mushrooms in broad leaves.
"Trial and error," I said, then grinned at her horrified expression. "Kidding. Mostly. I had a very boring childhood with lots of books."
Back at camp, I cleared a spot by the fire pit and started building my cooking setup. Grabbed some flat stones from the riverbank, stacked them over the coals. Pulled out a couple kunai—they'd work as knives. Found some broad leaves for plates.
I got to work on the mushrooms, cutting them down to thin slices. Drizzled oil from my pack, crushed some wild garlic between my fingers. The hot stone sizzled when I dropped the mushrooms on—that sharp hiss and the smell hitting me right away.
"What are you—" Tsume started to ask, then stopped as the smell hit her. "Oh."
The forest gradually quieted as the aroma spread. Even the birds seemed to pause their morning concert. Kuromaru had gone from bouncing to sitting very still, his tail creating a small dust storm as it wagged.
I moved like I was back in my kitchen, except with more rocks and fewer actual utensils. The fern shoots went into a makeshift steamer made from folded leaves, the pine nuts got a quick toast, and the roots Kuromaru had found turned into a simple mash seasoned with a precious bit of miso paste from my supplies.
"You're actually good at this," Tsume said, and she sounded personally offended by the revelation.
"Don't sound so surprised," I said, flipping the mushrooms with the tip of a kunai. "Some of us have skills beyond punching things."
"I don't just punch things," she protested. "I also kick them."
Kuromaru barked what was clearly agreement. Or hunger. Hard to tell with dogs.
The leaves made decent wrapping for the fern shoots, creating little packets that steamed from the inside out. I'd learned that trick from an old cookbook, though the author probably hadn't intended it for field cooking.
"What's that smell?" Tsunade's voice came from behind us.
I didn't jump. Much.
"Breakfast," I said, not turning around. "There's enough for four if you're interested."
She wandered closer, stopped just outside the smoke line. Crossed her arms, head tilted as she took in my stone-and-leaf setup.
"Field cooking?" Her eyebrow went up. "Been a while since I've seen someone actually bother with real food out here."
"Better than ration bars." I said, carefully plating—or rather, leafing—the mushrooms. "Arguably."
She made a noncommittal sound. "Tsume, wake Mikoto. She'll want to eat before we move out."
Tsume grumbled but headed off, Kuromaru trailing behind her with obvious reluctance. The puppy kept looking back at the food like I might make it disappear.
Tsunade then turned to me. "About those medical ninjutsu lessons—we'll start once we're back in the village. Should give you time to prepare."
"Whoa, hold up," I raised my hand. "Let's not go raising death flags by talking about 'when we get back.' That's like saying 'just one more day until retirement' or 'after this mission, I'm finally going to confess to my childhood sweetheart.'"
She blinked. "Death flags?"
"You know, jinxing it. Next thing you know, we're ambushed by missing-nin or attacked by a suspiciously intelligent bear."
She snorted. "Superstitious much?"
"It's not superstition if it's based on pattern recognition," I countered. "How many missions have gone sideways right after someone said 'what could possibly go wrong?'"
"Point taken," she admitted. "Though I think we'll be fine."
"And now you've done it again!"
Mikoto stumbled into camp looking like she'd fought her sleeping bag and lost. If you squinted really hard in just the right light, you might imagine the ghost of an ink smudge on her cheek.
"Food?" The word came out slurred, eyes still half-closed. Then she caught sight of the hot stones, the sizzling mushrooms. Her eyes snapped open. "Oh. Actual food!"
She went from comatose to caffeinated without the coffee. Sleepy Mikoto became Alert Mikoto in about two seconds flat. Even Tsume looked impressed.
I served up the meal on broad leaves—mushrooms with their crispy edges, tender fern shoots, roasted pine nuts, and the root mash that had turned out surprisingly well. Not restaurant quality, but for a forest floor kitchen, I'd take it.
"This is amazing," Mikoto said around a mouthful of mushrooms. Table manners apparently died when camping.
Tsume grunted, already on her third serving. No complaints this time. Just steady chewing. Kuromaru had claimed his own leaf-plate, nose-deep in mushrooms, tail going like crazy.
Even Tsunade looked satisfied, though she ate with more dignity than the rest of us. "You're on cooking duty from now on," she announced. "Official team assignment."
"Do I get hazard pay?" I asked.
"You get to not eat ration bars. That's payment enough."
"Fair point."
We finished breakfast in comfortable silence, the morning sun now fully illuminating our small campsite. For a moment, it felt less like a mission and more like... well, like what I imagined normal teams did. Bonding over food instead of near-death experiences.
"Alright," Tsunade said eventually, setting down her leaf-plate. "We've got at least two more hours before we reach the village. Pack up, but..." She glanced at my cooking setup. "Maybe keep some of those supplies handy for lunch."
I grinned. "Already planning the menu."
Tsume rolled her eyes, but I caught her sneaking some extra mushrooms into her pack. Kuromaru wagged his approval.
As we broke camp, Mikoto bumped my shoulder. "Thanks for letting me sleep in."
"You needed it," I said. "Besides, Tsume was surprisingly helpful with the foraging."
"I heard that!" Tsume called from across the camp.
"You were meant to!"
Sometimes, the best missions were the ones where nothing tried to kill you before breakfast.
…
Tree hopping never got old. There was something fundamentally satisfying about defying gravity, bouncing from branch to branch like the world's most athletic squirrel. The morning air whipped past as Team 7 moved in formation—Tsume and Kuromaru taking point, Mikoto and I on the flanks, and Tsunade bringing up the rear.
The forest gradually thinned as we traveled, tall oaks giving way to scattered birches. Two hours of tree hopping later, the village finally came into view. It was smaller than I'd expected—maybe thirty buildings clustered around a central square, surrounded by rice paddies and vegetable gardens. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone and gossip traveled faster than train.
The village chief met us at the entrance, a weathered man in his sixties with the kind of deep tan that came from decades of field work. "Konoha-nin! Thank Kami you're here. I'm Chief Yamada."
"Tsunade Senju," our sensei introduced herself. "This is my team."
His eyes lingered on her, probably recognizing the name, before turning businesslike. "Please, rest at my home while I gather everyone. It shouldn't take more than an hour."
His house was the largest in the village, which meant it had two stories instead of one. We were shown to a sitting room with worn but clean cushions and a low table that had seen better decades.
"Don't touch anything," Tsunade warned, settling onto a cushion. "And that means you, Shinji."
"I'm wounded by your lack of trust," I said, already eyeing a decorative vase.
"You were literally reaching for it."
"I was admiring. From a distance. With my hands."
Thirty minutes later, I was ready to start juggling the pottery just for entertainment. Mikoto was meditating, Tsume was playing with Kuromaru, and Tsunade appeared to be napping while sitting up—a skill I deeply envied.
"I'm going for a walk," I announced.
"Don't get lost," Tsunade said without opening her eyes.
"It's a village with one main street."
"You'd find a way."
Fair point, but I left anyway.
The village square was busier than I'd expected. People were gathering with bundles, carts, and nervous expressions. What hit me hardest were the kids—ranging from toddlers to pre-teens, all clutching their parents' hands.
'Right,' I thought, watching a girl who couldn't be older than six carefully fold a worn blanket. 'This is what "moving to another settlements" really means.'
It wasn't a peaceful relocation. It was moving civilians to increasingly dangerous regions. When chunin and jonin were dying regularly, what chance did farmers have?
"Heavy thoughts?"
I didn't jump. Much. Again.
"Sensei, you really need to wear a bell or something."
Tsunade appeared beside me, arms crossed as she watched the gathering crowd. "What's on your mind?"
"Just wondering," I said carefully, "where this mission came from. Konoha or the Daimyo?"
Her eyebrows rose. "That's an interesting question for a genin."
"I'm an interesting genin."
"Modest too." She smiled, but it had an edge. "Care to guess?"
"Daimyo," I said without hesitation. "Moving farmers and loggers to new territories? That's economic expansion, not military strategy."
She smacked my back hard enough to make me stumble. "So you get it. Why ask?"
"Curious about the puppet strings," I said, rubbing my spine. "We dance, they pull."
"Cynical view."
"Realistic," I corrected. "Konoha needs the Daimyo's funding. Food, supplies, infrastructure—we don't exactly have thriving rice paddies between the training grounds. And the Daimyo needs us because the Land of Fire's regular military is about as threatening as those kids over there."
I paused, watching a group of children playing ninja in the dirt. "Unlike the Land of Iron, where they've got samurai, we've got angry farmers with pitchforks—maybe some ashigaru if we're lucky. Without shinobi, the Land of Fire would be carved up like a holiday ham."
"Colorful metaphor."
"I'm a colorful guy."
"So you understand the game," Tsunade said, her amber eyes studying me with that too-perceptive gaze she'd been using since day one. "But understanding the board and knowing how to play are different things."
She grabbed a stick and started drawing in the dirt - two circles connected by lines. "Village and Daimyo. Symbiotic, like you said. But here's what most genin don't get—"
"Most genin don't think about it at all," I interrupted.
"Exactly." She tapped the village circle. "We're weapons. High-quality, specialized weapons. But a weapon that thinks too much about why it's being swung—"
"Might hesitate at the wrong moment."
"Or worse," she continued, adding smaller circles around the main ones. "Starts believing it knows better than the hand holding it. History's full of villages that forgot their place in the ecosystem. Know what happened to them?"
"They're not on maps anymore."
"Smart boy." She erased part of the drawing with her foot. "My grandfather used to say something—the First Hokage. Not that I mention that to show off."
"Of course not."
"He said the strongest tree isn't the one that stands rigid against the storm. It's the one that bends without breaking. Knows when to flex, when to hold firm." She glanced at me sideways. "You strike me as someone who gets that."
"I do yoga sometimes."
She snorted. "Cute. But I'm talking about adaptability. In this world, the most effective shinobi aren't always the ones with the biggest jutsu arsenal. Sometimes they're the ones who know when to push and when to yield."
"Sounds very philosophical for a morning walk."
"Everything's philosophical if you think about it long enough." She started walking again, forcing me to match her pace. "Here's the thing about being a shinobi in a hidden village—we serve multiple masters. The Hokage, the Daimyo, our clans, our teammates. The trick is knowing which loyalty matters when."
"And if they conflict?"
"They always conflict." Her laugh was short. "That's when you learn what kind of person you really are. My teammate once said that a shinobi's true nature is revealed in the spaces between orders."
"Cheerful guy."
"You have no idea." She chuckled, but it sounded tired. "Point is, this job—this life—it's full of contradictions. We protect peace through violence. We serve stability through deception. We—"
She paused, looking at the civilians we were protecting. A kid had fallen and skinned his knee. His mother was fussing over him while his father tried to look stoic.
"We do ugly things for beautiful reasons," she finished. "Or tell ourselves we do."
"Getting heavy for a C-rank mission."
"Every mission's heavy if you're paying attention." She pointed ahead where Mikoto and Tsume were starting to bicker about something. "See those two? They think this is about escort duty. Following orders. Getting paid."
"It's not?"
"It's never just about the mission." She turned to face me fully. "It's about the bonds you forge while sweating in the dirt. The trust you build when things go sideways. The people who'll have your back when the pretty philosophies meet ugly reality."
I studied her face. "Speaking from experience?"
"Always. That's what senseis do—we hand down our scars wrapped in wisdom, hoping our students won't need to earn the same ones."
"No guarantees though."
"Never." She smiled, but it was sad. "In this world, strength isn't just about jutsu or tactics. It's about knowing who you can count on when everything goes to hell. Your team matters. Trust matters. Even when—especially when—the mission parameters don't make sense."
"Trust is a luxury in this business."
"No," she corrected firmly. "Trust is a necessity. The shinobi who try to do everything alone, who think they can handle every burden solo—those are the ones who break. Or worse, become something they never meant to be."
The way she said it made me wonder who she was thinking about.
"The First Hokage never would have built this village without his brother," she continued. "For all their differences—and trust me, they had plenty—they knew that some things are too heavy for one person to carry."
"Even Hokage?"
"Especially the Hokage." She pointed ahead, where our teammates were now caught in the middle of villagers arguing among themselves about wagon placement. "Now go sort that out before they actually start throwing punches. And, Shinji?"
I stopped mid-step. "Yeah?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. "Forget it."
"Sure..." I raised an eyebrow at her odd behavior but jogged over to break up the brewing fight.
Before long we watched as more families arrived, their entire lives packed into carts and bundles. The children tried to make it an adventure, but their parents' faces told the real story.
'The question is,' I thought, the humor draining away, 'when will it go wrong?'
Because it would. With border conflicts escalating, every mission carried risk. If not this one, then the next. Or the one after. The math was simple—the more missions you took, the higher the chances of hitting that statistical landmine.
'And if the worst happens...'
I sighed deeply. If I were going to die on some random C-rank-turned-A-rank disaster, at least I shouldn't die a virgin. That would be adding insult to my epic ending. Talk about an embarrassing afterlife conversation.
My gaze drifted sideways, unconsciously landing on certain gravitational anomalies of my sensei's anatomy. Those legendary—
"WHAT are you staring at?"
The second head-smack of the day sent me sprawling.
"Nothing!" I protested from the ground. "I was thinking about mortality!"
"While ogling my chest?"
"They're very... life-affirming?"
"Little perv." But she was fighting a smile. "Get up. The chief's coming back."
I pulled myself up, pressing fingers against the fresh lump on my skull. "You know, repetitive head trauma can't be good for my development."
"Consider it practical training," she said. "For all the times you'll get hit for being an idiot."
"That's surprisingly thoughtful."
"I'm a thoughtful teacher."
Chief Yamada came into view, villagers packed tight around him. Must've been half the village—kids clutching parents' hands, old folks leaning on walking sticks, everyone carrying whatever they could manage.
…
The morning sun cast long shadows as people gathered at the village entrance. What struck me wasn't the number of people leaving—twelve adults with their carts and bundles—but the crowd that had come to see them off.
The village entrance had turned into a scene from one of those tragic plays Mom used to drag me to. Except this was real, and nobody was getting paid to cry.
An elderly woman pressed a small wooden charm into her son's weathered hands. "For protection," she whispered, her voice cracking like old leather. "Your father carved it before... before he passed."
The man—probably forty, built like someone who'd spent his life behind a plow—just nodded. His eyes stayed dry, but his hands shook as he tucked the charm into his shirt.
"I'll visit, Mother. When things settle—"
"Of course you will." She patted his cheek.
Similar scenes played out across the square. A young couple clung to each other until the last possible second. Kids promised to write letters they probably couldn't afford to send. An old man handed his grandson a rusty knife, "just in case."
"Volunteers, my ass," I thought, watching a woman being dragged away from the waiting carts by her teenage daughter. "Nobody volunteers to leave everything they know for another settlement."
"Focus up," Tsunade said quietly, appearing at my shoulder. "Time to move."
She didn't sound angry, just... understanding. Like she'd seen this scene too many times before.
The farewells intensified as we started organizing the departure. Twelve adults, two carts piled high with everything they owned. Two oxen that looked about as enthusiastic as their owners. A few chickens in crates, because apparently no relocation was complete without poultry.
Then they started moving. The older folks climbed onto cart beds, gripping the sides. Younger ones heaved packs onto shoulders, adjusting straps. Someone's cooking pot clanged against a water barrel.
The whole mass lurched forward. Wheels groaned in the ruts. Feet kicked up dust. We spread out along the sides, matching their crawl. After racing through trees all morning, this felt like standing still.
"This is going to take forever," Tsume muttered, just loud enough for our team to hear.
"They're civilians," Mikoto reminded her softly. "They can't maintain shinobi pace."
"I know that," Tsume kicked at a loose stone. It bounced into the underbrush. "It's just... we could make this journey in a day. Maybe two. Not... whatever this is."
I watched an older man struggle with his cart's wheel, already showing signs of fatigue despite barely leaving the village. 'Yeah, this is going to be a long mission.'
…
The Fire Country countryside stretched before us—rolling hills dotted with forests, the occasional rice paddy reflecting the morning sky. Beautiful country, if you ignored the fact that these people were being forced to leave it.
Tsunade had us maintaining the same formation as before, but adapted for ground travel. I took point, scanning for threats that probably wouldn't come this close to the village. The real danger would be at the border, where territorial lines blurred and bandits found easy pickings.
"Shinji," Tsunade called. "Rotate back. Let Tsume take point for a while."
As I fell back, I caught her watching each of us carefully. Testing how we'd handle the tedium, how we'd interact with civilians, whether we could adapt our expectations.
Well, better to learn our limits now than in a crisis.
Up ahead, a woman stumbled, nearly dropping her bundle. Mikoto was there instantly, steadying her with a gentle hand.
"Thank you, shinobi-san," the woman breathed.
"Just Mikoto is fine," she replied, helping readjust the load. "Here, let me—"
"I can manage." The woman yanked the load back against her chest. Squared her shoulders. "Been carrying my own weight for forty years."
Mikoto's hands dropped to her sides. "Of course."
Three hours in, we stopped for the first rest. The civilians collapsed gratefully, some already looking as though they regretted this journey. Those who had started the trip with a bit of spark were now whining about sore feet and empty stomachs.
"We're making good time," Tsunade announced, though her definition of "good" was clearly generous.
I distributed some of my leftover mushrooms from breakfast, earning grateful looks from tired villagers. Small gestures, but they helped morale.
"How many days to the village?" one man asked.
"At this pace? Four, maybe five," Tsunade replied.
The collective groan said everything about civilian opinions on their journey.
We started to move again, and I moved back to point position, scanning the peaceful countryside. Trees. Road. More trees. Occasional bird. My job was basically professional paranoia – checking every shadow, every rustling bush, every suspicious-looking squirrel. So far, the most dangerous thing we'd encountered was a particularly aggressive butterfly that seemed determined to land on Tsume's nose.
Speaking of Tsume, her puppy had discovered the joys of cart-riding. The little furball was currently perched between sacks of grain, tongue lolling out, living his best life while actual ninja did the walking.
"Must be nice," I muttered, watching him.
'Maybe I should get a ninken,' I thought. 'Train it to carry my stuff. Call it... Sake.'
The farmers seemed to be relaxing more as they used to the journey. One of the men had started humming some old folk tune. Pretty soon, a couple others joined in. Before I knew it, half the convoy was singing about rice fields and mountain streams.
It was actually kind of nice. Peaceful. The exact opposite of what you'd expect from a ninja mission.
Which, naturally, was when the universe decided to mess with me.
"SHINJI!" Tsume's voice broke into the singing. "GET BACK HERE!"
I spun around to see her pointing at the grain cart. The one her puppy had been riding in. The one that was now... moving. Without anyone pulling it.
The cart was rolling backward down the slight incline we'd just climbed, picking up speed. The puppy was still on top, barking happily like this was the best game ever.
"Oh, come on—"
I sprinted back, calculating angles and momentum. The farmers scattered as the runaway cart barreled through our formation. Tsume was already moving to intercept from the left, Mikoto from the right.
"I got it!" I shouted, pushing harder.
My legs burned as I poured on more speed. The cart bounced over a rock. The puppy yelped—still having the time of its life. Kuromaru, barely weaned from his mother, mistook my leap for playtime. I leaped, aiming to land on the cart and grab the brake lever. What I hadn't calculated was the puppy's excitement.
The little furball saw me coming and decided this was DEFINITELY a game now. He jumped – right at my face – just as I was landing.
Twenty pounds of enthusiastic puppy hit me square in the face. The cart kept going. And somehow, in the chaos, I ended up with my legs sprawled across the cart bed while my upper half dangled off the back—one hand tangled in the rope netting, the other flailing helplessly as the puppy treated my upside-down face like an all-you-can-lick buffet.
"This is not—" lick "—how I imagined—" lick "—my morning going!"
Mikoto appeared beside the cart, running to keep pace. "Having fun down there?"
"Living the dream!" I managed between face-washes.
Tsunade's voice come from somewhere behind us. "Quit playing around."
The cart stopped. Not slowed down – stopped. Like it hit an invisible wall. I looked up to see her standing there, one hand on her hip, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
The puppy, oblivious to the sudden halt, continued his assault on my dignity.
"Shinji," Tsunade said, her eye twitching dangerously, "this is a mission, not an Academy. Would you care to explain why you're currently being used as a chew toy?"
I considered several responses. Settled on the truth.
"I was trying to be a responsible genin. The puppy had other plans."
"Of course you were." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Because nothing says 'responsible genin' like getting outsmarted by a dog that still has its baby teeth."
The farmers burst out laughing. Even Tsume cracked a smile as she scooped up her wayward companion.
"Sorry about that," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "Guess they forgot to tie the brake lever."
I untangled myself from the rope, standing up with as much dignity as a saliva-covered ninja could manage. "No problem. I needed a wash anyway."
Tsunade shook her head, but I caught the ghost of a smile. "Back in formation. And someone secure that cart properly this time."
As we reorganized, the grandfather patted my shoulder. "Good reflexes, young man. Even if the landing needs work."
"Story of my life."
The convoy started moving again. This time, I made sure to check every cart's brake before taking point. Behind me, I could hear Mikoto telling anyone who'd listen about my "heroic puppy wrestling technique."
At least the farmers were entertained. Mission successful?
The puppy was now back on its cart, tail wagging, completely unrepentant. It caught my eye and barked once, as if it were saying, "Same time tomorrow?"
"Not a chance, furball."
But honestly? As morning disasters went, it wasn't the worst way to break the ice with a convoy of nervous civilians. They were all chatting now, the tension from leaving their homeland completely gone.
Maybe getting face-planted by an overeager puppy was exactly what this mission needed.
Either way, we had a long road ahead. And if this morning was any indication, it was going to be anything but boring.
…
Mosquitoes buzzed through the humid air as four Konoha chunin picked their way through the undergrowth. Another routine border patrol, another day of checking the same clearings and streams that hadn't changed in weeks.
"I swear these bugs get bigger every summer," Sato complained, slapping at his neck.
"Quit whining," Yamamoto replied, though he'd been thinking the same thing. Fifteen days of border patrols had shown him that boredom was the real enemy out here.
The attack came without warning. A ribbon of water sliced through the air from their left. Tanaka's throat opened in a spray of red before anyone could react. He dropped to his knees, hands clutching uselessly at the wound as blood poured between his fingers.
"Contact!" Yamamoto shouted, kunai already in hand.
Three figures burst from the treeline wearing Rivers gear—the familiar blue-gray uniforms marking them as shinobi from their neighbor nation. Dark stains marred the fabric, and one attacker's sleeve hung too long over his hands. Another's vest gaped oddly at the shoulders, as if sized for someone broader.
Sato dodged the second attack, a water spear that gouged bark from the tree behind him. The follow-up strike—a knee that crashed into his ribs—sent him tumbling. Bones cracked on impact.
The lead attacker moved fast, too fast. His heel caught Kimura's temple with a wet crunch. The chunin's body went limp before it hit the ground, head twisted at an angle that meant he wouldn't be getting up.
"Rivers shinobi?" Yamamoto gasped between parried strikes. "What the hell are you doing? We're neutral!"
No answer came. The masked fighter flowed from one attack to the next—palm to the gut, knee to the ribs, elbow to the base of the skull. Yamamoto crashed face-first into the dirt.
Sato tried to stand, tasting blood. Broken ribs, maybe punctured lung. He blocked the first strike aimed at his throat but couldn't stop the leg sweep that followed. The ground rushed up to meet him.
Fingers found his shoulder joint and twisted. The pop of dislocation mixed with his scream.
The leader planted a boot on Yamamoto's back. "Nothing personal," he said, voice strangely flat for a Rivers accent.
The tanto punched through Yamamoto's throat. Hot blood sprayed across dead leaves. Yamamoto's mouth worked—no sound but a wet rasp. The world dimmed at the edges. He forced out one final breath. "Sato... run! Get to the village!"
The dying man's order cut through Sato's pain. Training kicked in. He rolled away from a descending blade, feeling it slice across his face. Blood streamed down as he stumbled to his feet.
"Stop him!" someone shouted.
A water whip caught his arm, cutting deep. Sato bit back a scream and kept moving, crashing through the underbrush. Behind him, the attackers gave chase, their strikes deliberately missing by inches.
Sato's shoulder was on fire. Every step sent lightning up his arm. Blood ran hot down his sleeve, spattering the leaves as he stumbled forward. The world narrowed to the next tree, the next breath, the next second of staying alive.
Time meant nothing now. Minutes, hours—Sato couldn't tell how long he'd been running. Voices drifted through the trees—impossible sound in this nightmare. Sato oriented toward them, desperate. People meant help. People meant survival.
He burst through a cluster of ferns, leaving red smears on the leaves. The laughter grew louder, mixing with kids voices. A caravan?
Sato pushed toward the sounds, unaware that the pursuers had already stopped their pursuit a long time ago.
…
The forest grew quiet again, save for the drip of blood from leaves and the buzz of flies already gathering around the corpses. The three Rivers shinobi stood motionless for thirty seconds, listening to confirm Sato's retreat. Without a word, the three shinobi vanished into the trees, moving swiftly through the underbrush.
They ran for forty minutes straight, putting distance between themselves and the massacre. No words, no backward glances—just silent movement through increasingly dense forest until they reached a small ravine carved by spring floods.
The leader raised a fist. They dropped into the dried creek bed, pressing against earthen walls.
"Clear," the leader finally said, reaching for his collar.
Without another word, they began stripping off the blue-gray uniforms. Dark fabric appeared underneath—not Rivers gear at all. Black, unmarked, the kind of clothing that suggested operations better left unmentioned.
The second figure pulled off a mask, revealing features that belonged to no Rivers village. "These clothes stink. What did they wash them with, river mud?"
"Who knows," the leader replied, tossing his 'borrowed' headband onto a pile. "Burn it all."
The third operative's fingers moved through quick hand seals, and controlled flames spilled from his lips onto the clothing. As he finished, he ran his tongue across his lips, clearing away the taste of ash. A dark seal mark was briefly visible on the pink flesh before he closed his mouth.
Soon the stolen uniforms were ablaze, along with any evidence of who had really worn them.
"Time to go. Make sure to leave no tracks on the ground."
They disappeared into the forest, like ghosts at dawn. By tonight, they'd report success. By tomorrow, that wounded chunin's story would reach all the right ears.
And soon enough, the River Valley would run red with more than water.
...
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