The moment Goro's men charged, I made a tactical decision that would've gotten me court-martialed in any respectable army.
I stayed exactly where I was—thirty feet up in the trees.
Not out of laziness, mind you. I just wasn't about to interrupt what was shaping up to be a front-row seat to a masterclass in synchronized violence. Mikoto and Tsume had been training together for over a week now, and it showed.
From up here, it was like watching a ballet—if ballet included blood, snarling, and a lot more sharp objects. Mikoto went straight for the guy with the biggest sword—because of course she did—while Tsume zeroed in on the one who looked like he hadn't bathed since the village was founded.
Steel rang against steel as Mikoto made quick work of her opponent's overconfident swings. Meanwhile, Tsume was introducing her target to the wonderful world of close-quarters combat, Inuzuka style.
Nothing says "I'm having a bad day" like getting mauled by a girl and her dog.
Two more bandits learned that truth the hard way.
The bodyguards were holding their own—which mostly meant staying alive and occasionally jabbing someone with a sword when the opportunity looked safe enough. Matsumoto, bless his civilian instincts, had wedged himself behind the supply wagon and hadn't moved since.
That's when my lazy afternoon got interesting.
Goro wasn't fighting.
Oh, he was making all the right noises—shouting orders, waving his sword around like he meant business—but he wasn't actually engaging anyone. Instead, he was backing away from the fight, step by careful step, like a man looking for an exit.
Smart bandits ran when things went sideways. It was basic survival instinct.
But something about the way he moved didn't sit right with me.
Then, when he thought no one was watching, Goro bolted.
I spat out the leaf I'd been chewing and started after him, following at a distance. The sounds of combat faded behind us as we moved deeper into the forest, leaving my teammates to clean up what was left of his crew.
They'll be fine, probably won't even notice I'm gone until they're done beating them black and blue.
For the first few hundred meters, Goro moved exactly like you'd expect from a panicked bandit chief—stumbling through underbrush, crashing through branches, generally making enough noise to wake the dead. Classic civilian-in-the-woods behavior.
Then he stopped.
And jumped thirty feet straight up into the trees.
"Well," I muttered. "Someone's been holding out on their resume."
The lazy bandit chief was gone, replaced by someone who moved through the canopy like he'd been born there.
That wasn't a bandit.
That was a shinobi.
And not the washed-up, third-rate kind either. No, this one had a resume.
My brain started connecting dots I didn't like.
A bandit leader who could afford to keep a dozen men fed and armed. Who somehow always knew which routes were most profitable. Who'd managed to avoid capture despite having a bounty on his head.
And now, apparently, could tree-hop like a chunin on his morning jog.
"Son of a bitch isn't just a bandit," I muttered. "He's a shinobi cosplaying as one."
The real question wasn't how. It was why. Because if someone with that kind of training was out here playing small-time outlaw, either he'd screwed up badly—or he was running a game big enough to make the Daimyo blush.
I picked up my pace, abandoning stealth for speed. If this guy was what I thought he was, letting him get away would be a bad idea.
He must have sensed the pursuit, because suddenly his casual tree-hopping became a full sprint. Branches blurred past as we raced through the canopy, and I had to push myself to keep up.
Alright, fun's over.
I pulled a shuriken from my pouch and sent it flying straight at his back.
He twisted mid-air, faster than I expected, and batted it aside with a kunai that seemed to appear in his hand out of thin air. The clang of steel rang out through the trees, and my shuriken vanished into the underbrush like it knew it had embarrassed me.
"Running already?" I drew three more shuriken between my fingers. "And here I thought you were the big, scary bandit chief!"
He landed on the next branch and turned, casual as a cat, both hands now armed with kunai. The wide-eyed panic he'd been faking was gone—like someone had flicked off the idiot switch.
"Cute," he said, his voice carrying none of the rough bandit accent from before. "Little genin thinks he's clever."
"Maybe I am." I spun a shuriken on my finger, watching his stance shift. "So what's the deal? Missing-nin running a side hustle? Undercover op with a flair for the dramatic? Or are you just really into live-action roleplay?"
He didn't answer. Just smiled like I'd said something adorable and threw both kunai in the same breath.
The first sliced past my ear with a whisper of cold steel and bad intentions. I twisted out of its path.
The second came in lower. I met it with my own blade, redirecting the force just enough to send it tumbling off-course and thunking into a nearby trunk like it belonged there.
"Not bad," I said, fingers already moving through hand seals. "But let me show you a party trick I picked up recently."
Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!
The fireball that erupted from my lips wasn't huge, but it didn't need to be. It was aimed perfectly. Goro dove sideways off his branch—exactly like I'd hoped he would.
While he was still airborne, I snapped three shuriken into a tight spread and launched them after him. In the same breath, I triggered a basic Clone Jutsu—just smoke and mirrors, but enough to flood the air with a dozen fake projectiles trailing behind the real ones.
From Goro's point of view, it probably looked like I'd just emptied an entire armory at him.
Then I pulled one last shuriken from my pouch, drew a breath, and threw it faster than the rest—straight and silent, riding the chaos like a sniper shot behind the curtain.
Goro didn't hesitate. "Doton: Doryū Heki!"
A wall of earth burst from the forest floor, intercepting most of the projectiles. The clones winked out. Two shuriken bounced harmlessly off the wall. But one went wide. My final throw caught up with it mid-flight—clipping it, redirecting it. One embedded itself in a tree trunk. The other curved and flew low, slipping just past the edge of the wall—
—and hit.
I heard him grunt in pain. Good.
While the earth wall crumbled, I was already airborne, closing the distance fast. Tanto in hand, blade angled down at his spine, momentum behind me.
He rolled at the last second, clutching his bleeding shoulder as he dropped low.
My blade carved through empty space where his neck had been, slicing only leaves.
"Little bastard," he snarled, rising into a crouch, blood seeping through his shirt.
"Hey, I don't appreciate the name-calling."
We circled for a breath—half a second, maybe less—both of us looking for an opening.
He moved first. A lightning-quick kunai jab aimed straight for my throat.
I leaned back, felt the blade kiss the underside of my chin, and drove my knee up toward his exposed ribs.
He twisted, caught my leg against his hip, and hammered his elbow toward my trapped leg.
Bad news for my knee.
So I grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled myself up, driving my other knee straight into his face.
Crunch.
His nose exploded in a spray of blood and cartilage. He staggered back, eyes watering, but somehow managed to keep hold of my leg.
"My turn," he growled through the red dripping from his chin.
He yanked hard, trying to whip me into the dirt.
I didn't fight it.
I let the motion carry me, twisted in midair, and slammed my heel into his wounded shoulder on the way down.
He screamed—short and raw—and his grip finally snapped.
I hit the ground in a roll, came up fast, and threw a punch for his solar plexus. He got his arms up in time, but it still rocked him.
I didn't let the moment breathe.
An uppercut for the broken nose. An elbow meant for his temple.
He caught the first on his forearm. Slipped the second by a hair.
His counter came fast—a brutal backhand that would've sent my brain spinning if I hadn't ducked under it.
His knee came next, rocketing toward my ribs.
I twisted, let it glance off my hip, grabbed the leg mid-swing, and drove my shoulder into his chest like I was trying to spear him through the tree behind him.
Crack.
Something in his chest gave—ribs, probably. But he didn't fold.
He latched on instead, pulling me into a clinch like we were old lovers with trust issues. His elbow came swinging around in a tight, brutal arc, aiming right for my temple.
I had maybe half a second. Long enough to die if I got fancy.
So I didn't.
Time to test that thing.
I channeled chakra into my right hand. The familiar green glow of the medical jutsu sparked to life—unstable, flickering at the edges, but there.
Chakra scalpel.
Great for slicing muscle and tendon. Terrible for clean sparring. Not that this counted.
The glow shimmered, pulsing like a cheap lightbulb. Half-formed, twitchy, and a little embarrassing—but apparently still threatening enough.
Because the moment Goro saw it, his eyes went wide. "What the—"
He bailed on the elbow, fast. Threw himself backward like I'd pulled out a live explosive.
I blinked as he scrambled away like I'd suddenly sprouted fangs.
'Oh. Right. Glowing hand probably looks pretty threatening when you don't know what it does.'
Unlike the Hyuga's Gentle Fist which was practically invisible until your organs gave out—my medical chakra lit up like I was trying to perform surgery at a fireworks show. Subtle? Not even close.
But if it spooked him?
I'd take it.
I grinned and immediately started forming hand seals.
Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu
This time I didn't hold back. I poured chakra into it until the fireball blazed like an angry sun, lighting up the forest with searing heat. Goro's eyes widened as the massive sphere roared toward him.
"Doton: Doryū Heki!"
His earth wall erupted from the ground, bigger, thicker, and meaner than before. The two jutsu collided with a thunderous boom, fire slamming into stone—sending superheated debris flying in every direction. Smoke and dust exploded into the air, swallowing the battlefield in choking gray.
I moved the second the smoke thickened, circling wide through the haze while his ears were still ringing and his lungs were full of regret. Somewhere in the cloud, he coughed—a wet, hacking sound that gave him away.
Tanto in hand, I slipped through the fog.
Found him crouched behind the remains of his earth wall, kunai raised defensively as he tried to peer through the swirling gray mess. Blood was trickling from a cut on his forehead where a piece of heated stone had caught him.
He hadn't seen me.
He turned—too late.
My blade came in low, cutting toward his ribs. He dropped his arm to block.
I twisted at the last second, redirected mid-swing, and drove the tanto past his guard.
Steel should've met flesh.
Instead, it passed clean through—no resistance. No blood.
He popped like a soap bubble.
Clone.
'Of course.'
I felt the real Goro's presence behind me a split second before his kunai came whistling toward my spine.
Instead of dodging, I stiffened—let my shoulders jerk like I'd been caught off guard.
"Got you," he breathed, putting his full weight behind the strike.
I spun at the last moment. My hand clamped around his wrist as the blade skimmed past my ribs. His eyes flicked wide.
"No," I said, grinning. "I got you."
I wrenched his wrist down and twisted hard, forcing his forearm to turn and bare the soft underside. My tanto flashed up in my other hand, slicing deep.
Steel cut through flesh and tendon with a wet snap. He screamed as blood sprayed across the forest floor, and his arm went slack.
Severed tendons meant no more grip. His kunai hit the dirt.
"That's gonna need stitches," I muttered, already stepping in.
He staggered back, clutching the shredded limb to his chest. Blood streamed down his forearm, soaking his shirt in red.
"You little—"
I didn't let him finish.
My second strike came low and fast, cutting through the back of his knee. More tendons snapped with slick, rubbery pops—and just like that, his leg gave out.
He went down hard, face-first into the dirt. When he tried to push up with his good arm, I stepped on his wrist and drove it down until his palm ground into the forest floor.
"You know," I said conversationally, pressing down until I heard small bones crack, "this would've been a lot easier if you'd just stayed a regular bandit."
I knelt beside him and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. But instead of finishing him, I held my tanto just close enough for him to feel the cold steel against his skin.
"Now then," I said, settling into a more comfortable crouch. "Let's have a chat. What village are you actually from? Because let's be honest—you're a terrible liar, and an even worse bandit."
He spat blood and glared at me through pain-glazed eyes. "Go... to hell."
"Been there," I said. "Didn't like the weather."
I pressed the blade a little deeper, just enough to draw a thin red line down his neck.
"So here's the deal. You're bleeding out. One arm's useless, one leg's gone. And I'm the only person in this forest who might be persuaded to keep you breathing. So which is it—information, or do I sit here and watch you leak into the grass?"
His breathing hitched—blood loss, maybe pain—but the fire hadn't gone out yet. Stubborn bastard.
"What's your real mission?" I pressed. "Because playing bandit king out here in the sticks? Doesn't make sense. Someone sent you. Iwa? Kumo? Missing-nin trying to start their own fantasy village?"
He sneered through cracked lips. "Fuck... you."
I sighed.
"Your funeral."
The blade swept clean through his throat.
Blood surged from the cut in thick, pulsing bursts, splattering the leaves and soaking into the dirt. He gargled once, legs twitching, then went still as the light drained from his eyes.
I stood and wiped my blade on his shirt before sliding it back into its sheath.
Well, I thought, glancing down at the body. That was educational. Shame he wasn't in a sharing mood.
Actually, now that I was thinking about it, this was becoming a trend. Every shinobi I'd faced so far had opted for death over conversation. The Kumo spies in the forest. Those missing-nin in Yugakure. And now this guy.
Maybe I needed to work on my tone. Or grow a more trustworthy face.
Then again, these weren't cartoon villains who'd spill their evil plans the moment someone threatened them. These were professional shinobi who'd probably been trained to die before revealing sensitive information. My whole "maybe I'll spare you" routine was about as effective as threatening to take away their dessert privileges.
But the real question was why I kept running into enemy operatives in the first place. First Yugakure—where Konoha apparently had intelligence assets keeping an eye on things—and now here, a foreign shinobi playing dress-up as a bandit.
Add Jiraiya's sudden disappearance for some top-secret "sensitive mission"—right when I'd been ready to hand him Tsunade's message—and the pieces started forming a picture I didn't particularly like.
This whole northern land was crawling with spies and fake bandits. And if River Country was a powder keg, maybe it wasn't the only one waiting to blow.
Are the surrounding villages making moves on the northeastern frontier?
A distant shout snapped me from the thought.
The others were calling.
…
The walk back gave me just enough time to get my story straight.
Simple lies worked best. Stick close to the truth, leave out the inconvenient parts.
Like the one where I slit a guy's throat.
I found them clustered around the overturned wagon, efficiently stripping weapons and coin purses from the bodies. The merchant's hired guards were nursing various wounds but looked more relieved than anything else. Matsumoto himself was sitting on a rock, hands shaking as he stared at the carnage.
"There he is," Tsume called out, swiping a smear of blood from her cheek. "What happened to the boss man?"
"Got away," I said with a casual shrug, settling down beside Mikoto. "Bastard was faster than he looked. Lost him in the forest."
Mikoto's eyes flicked to mine for just a moment—long enough for me to catch the slight narrowing, the way her lips pressed together. Probably wondering why I'd let a civilian bandit escape when any of us could have run him down easily.
She glanced at the bodyguards, then back at me with that perfect Uchiha blankness. "Shame. Would've been nice to wrap this up clean."
"Yeah, well," I said, matching her casual tone. "Can't win 'em all."
The look she gave me said she had plenty more questions, but with Matsumoto and his guards listening, now wasn't the time to ask them.
One of the bodyguards limped over, clutching his ribs. "Doesn't matter now. We drove 'em off, got most of their gear. Should be enough to discourage them from trying this route again."
'If only you knew.'
Matsumoto stood up slowly, looking around at the bodies scattered across the path. "My wagon's damaged, but it'll hold together. We should... we should keep moving. Get away from here before they come back."
"Good thinking," I said, already moving to help right the overturned cart. "How much farther to the capital?"
"Six hours. Maybe less if we push it." He ran a hand through his graying hair. "Assuming we don't run into any more trouble."
The next few hours passed in relative quiet. We got the wagon moving again, loaded up the wounded, and kept a steady pace through the forest. The guards took turns riding and walking, eyes on the tree line in case the dead had left behind any angry friends.
Matsumoto kept to the front, reins in hand, muttering prayers under his breath like he was trying to buy spiritual insurance.
Which gave me plenty of time to work.
"Hell of a thing, bandit attacks," I said, falling into step beside the wagon. "I'm guessing this wasn't the kind of excitement you signed up for when you got into hauling goods."
Matsumoto let out a short, bitter laugh. "Excitement. Yeah. That's one word for it."
"Been doing this long?" I kept it light, just idle conversation.
"Fifteen years," he said. "Used to be a decent living. Buy low in one village, sell high in the next. Honest work. Simple. Now?"
He gestured vaguely at the busted crates and blood-streaked canvas. "This is the fourth attack in six months."
I raised my eyebrows. "That bad?"
"Worse. First two were just thugs. One group didn't even have weapons—picked up farm tools and thought they could play bandit. The last two, though?" He shook his head. "Organized. Trained. Like they knew where we'd be."
I made sympathetic sounds. "That's rough. Can't be good for business."
"Business." He laughed again, but there was no humor in it. "What business? Nobody wants to hire a merchant who can't deliver safely. Word gets around fast when your caravans keep getting hit."
"People blame you for getting robbed?"
"They blame me for everything." His knuckles went white where he gripped the reins. "Failed deliveries, damaged goods, late shipments. Doesn't matter that half of it's not my fault. All they see is the end result."
I nodded, chewing that over. "Sounds like more than just bad luck."
"That's what I keep thinking." Matsumoto cast a quick glance toward the guards, making sure no one was close enough to eavesdrop. Then he dropped his voice. "You want to know the truth? I'm starting to think someone's got it out for me."
"What makes you say that?" I asked, pulling a piece of dried fruit from my pack and taking a bite like we were just swapping travel stories.
"Little things. Cargo manifests that don't match what gets loaded. Supplies that spoil faster than they should. Contacts who suddenly don't want to do business anymore."
He paused. His eyes flicked to the road, the trees, the pale line of sky above. "Then there's the personal stuff."
"Personal stuff?"
He didn't answer right away. Just stared ahead for a long moment, watching the pass narrow between two worn cliffs.
"My wife left. Three months ago. Took our daughter and went back to her family in Wave."
"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it.
"She told me…" His throat worked as he swallowed. "She said she couldn't watch me fall apart anymore. That every job was more dangerous than the last. That I was gambling with our future."
I waited. Sometimes the best thing to say was nothing at all.
"The thing is, she wasn't wrong. Everything I touch turns to shit these days. But it's not... I'm not doing it on purpose. It's like someone's working against me. Sabotaging my routes, spreading rumors about my reliability."
"Sounds like you've given this a lot of thought," I said, tossing the fruit pit into the bushes.
"Too much thought, probably. My friends always said I was seeing conspiracies where there was just bad luck." His hands were shaking again. "But when you look at the details, the timing... it's hard to believe it's all coincidence. Could be competing merchants, maybe. Or someone who thinks I screwed them over on a deal. Hell, could be my own hired help, feeding information to bandits for pocket change."
"That's paranoid thinking," I said gently. "But it doesn't mean you're wrong."
"Right?" He turned to look at me with desperate eyes. "You get it. Everyone else thinks I'm losing my mind, making excuses for my failures. But the pattern's too consistent. Too organized."
"Must be frustrating." I kept my voice sympathetic. "Especially when it's your livelihood on the line."
For the next hour, as we made our way down the mountain path, Matsumoto laid out a story that painted a picture of systematic destruction. Shipments that went bad early. Business contacts who ghosted him without explanation. Routes that were suddenly—conveniently—overrun with bandits.
And then—
"The worst part," he said, voice rough and cracking, "is the accidents."
I turned my head slightly. "Accidents?"
"My daughter. Sweet girl. She's eight. Just turned. And in the past year?"
He held up a shaking hand.
"Three close calls. A roof tile that fell right where she was walking. A runaway cart that missed her by inches. A dog that went berserk and tried to maul her in our own street."
He wiped his face with his sleeve, like the words alone left a mark.
"I didn't think anything of it at first. Just freak things. But now? I don't know. Maybe I've gone crazy. But it's starting to feel like someone wants to hurt me. And they're willing to use my daughter to do it."
"That's..."
"Too much coincidence, right? My wife thought so too. That's when she decided we were leaving Yugakure. Said she didn't care if I came with her or not—she wasn't raising our daughter in a place where a falling roof tile might be a message."
"Smart woman."
"The smartest. And I was too stubborn to listen." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Now I'm here, hauling cargo for triple rates because I'm desperate enough to take risks nobody else will. And they're probably still out there, waiting for the next chance to make my life hell."
"They?"
"Has to be," he said. "This kind of coordination doesn't happen with one angry rival. Someone's feeding info, pulling strings. Maybe even with official backing. Someone with reach."
"You know what?" I said. "When we get back to Yugakure, I might ask around. See if anyone else has noticed similar problems."
Matsumoto's eyes lit up with something that might have been hope. "You'd do that?"
"Sure. Can't promise much, but if I've got time to kill, I might as well put it to good use." I let my gaze flick toward the bodyguards, then back to him. "That only works, though, if you and your men keep our real identities to yourselves. Far as anyone's concerned, you hired a few capable travelers for protection. No mention of us being shinobi. If someone is watching you, knowing who we really are might spook them into changing tactics."
The guards nodded in agreement. My eyes lingered for just a moment on the lean one with the scraggly beard.
Matsumoto also nodded quickly. "Of course, of course. Just fellow travelers who helped out."
"Good man."
"I... thank you. Really. Just knowing someone believes me—hell, that means more than you think."
The rest of the journey passed without incident. By late afternoon, we could see the sprawling outline of the Fire Country capital spread across the valley below—a massive city that made even Konoha look small by comparison. Matsumoto's mood improved considerably as we approached civilization.
"This is where we part ways," he said as we reached the outskirts. "My business is in the merchant quarter. You folks probably want the inn district."
"Probably," I agreed. "Thanks for the ride. And the conversation."
"Thank you for listening. And for... for what you said about looking into things. Even if nothing comes of it."
"Don't mention it."
We gathered our gear and said our goodbyes. The guards shook our hands with genuine gratitude—apparently having three shinobi along, even genin, made everyone feel safer. Matsumoto pressed a small bonus into my palm and made me promise to find him if I ever learned anything useful. I nodded, smiled, and shook his hand in return.
He never noticed the small, folded slip of paper I slid into his pocket.
Then we were on our own again, standing in the dusty street as the wagon disappeared into the crowd.
"So," Tsume said, shouldering her pack. "Ready to head home?"
"More than ready," Mikoto said, already looking toward the road that would take us back to Konoha.
Once we were well out of earshot, she slowed her pace and gave me a pointed look. "Alright, what really happened back there with the bandit boss?"
I glanced around to make sure we were alone, then shrugged. "Goro's dead. Left him bleeding out in the forest about two miles back."
"I knew it," Tsume muttered. "You don't come back from chasing someone looking that relaxed unless they're not coming back. But why lie about it?"
I shrugged. "Because word gets around, and that bounty's not worth the headache."
Mikoto nodded slowly, then frowned. "Do you think Goro was specifically sent to target Matsumoto? All those 'accidents' and sabotage he mentioned?"
"Doubt it," I said, kicking a loose stone down the path. "Goro was definitely more than just a bandit—guy moved like he was a chunin. But if someone wanted Matsumoto dead or ruined, they wouldn't need to hire missing-nin or active shinobi to do it." I paused. "Course, that's just my guess. Could be completely wrong."
"Makes sense though," Mikoto said with a shrug. "Why use a sledgehammer when a scalpel works better?"
"Yeah, and it's not like we'll ever know for sure anyway," Tsume added, already losing interest in the topic. "Dead bandit's a dead bandit, whatever his story was."
No one argued. We picked up the pace, falling into that old travel routine that didn't need words. Tsume ranged ahead with Kuromaru darting through the underbrush. Mikoto kept a steady stride just ahead of me. I trailed behind, quiet, doing my best not to think too long about the corpses cooling somewhere behind us.
The way home was familiar. A few hours through worn paths and whispering trees, past all the same trunks I'd memorized over the years. By the time the village gates came into view, I was sore, filthy, and ready to trade every single memory of this mission for a hot bath and enough sake to scrape the taste of blood off the back of my tongue.
"Home sweet home," Tsume said, grinning as we approached the gate.
"About damn time," I agreed.
The guards barely blinked, just the usual rundown—team number, destination, injuries. The kind of questions they could ask half-asleep, and probably did.
As we walked through the village streets, I couldn't help but notice the subtle changes. More shinobi patrols than usual. Conversations that seemed to stop when we passed. And something tense in the air that I couldn't quite put my finger on.
The old men were still arguing over shogi, but even they seemed more on edge than normal—like everyone was waiting for something to happen.
"Well," I said as we reached the point where our paths would diverge, "it's been real, ladies. Try not to get into too much trouble while I'm gone."
"Where are you going?" Mikoto asked.
"Home. Bath. Mission report." I grinned. "Meet me in front of the Hokage Tower in one hour. Time to officially close this thing out."
"An hour?" Tsume groaned. "Can't we just report tomorrow?"
"The sooner we debrief, the sooner we're officially done. Besides, I'd rather get it over with while everything's still fresh."
"Sounds like a plan," Mikoto said. "See you at the tower."
"See you there."
I watched them head off toward their respective clan compounds, then turned toward my own apartment.
…
An hour later, we reconvened in front of the Hokage Tower, all of us looking considerably more human after quick baths and fresh clothes. I'd managed to scribble together a mission report that hit all the important points while carefully omitting certain details—like throat-cutting, bounty collection, and other dubious stuff we'd done.
"Ready to make this official?" I asked, waving the scroll.
"Let's get it over with," Tsume said.
We headed inside and made our way to the mission administration office. The receptionist—a middle-aged woman with graying hair and the patient expression of someone who'd processed thousands of these reports—looked up as we approached.
"Mission report," I said, placing the scroll on her desk.
She unrolled it quickly, scanning the opening lines. Then her eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.
"C-rank escort mission... combat with enemy shinobi..." She looked up at us with new interest. "Border conflict with Suna operatives?"
"That's the short version," I said.
She rolled the scroll back up and stood. "Please wait here."
Then she disappeared through a door marked Administration and returned a few minutes later with a chunin wearing the expression of someone whose quiet afternoon had just been ruined.
"The Hokage wants to see you," he said. "Follow me."
The chunin led us up two more flights to the top floor of the tower, past two others who barely glanced at us, and stopped in front of a pair of heavy wooden doors.
"Wait here," he said, then disappeared inside.
A moment later, the doors opened again.
"The Hokage will see you now."
We stepped into the Hokage's office, and I knew something was wrong the moment the door closed behind us.
The room looked nothing like what I'd expected.
Papers were everywhere—stacked across the desk, fanned out on side tables, even arranged in neat rows across the floor like stepping stones. One entire wall had been taken over by maps, each marked with colored pins and lines of string webbing between key locations. It didn't look like an office anymore. It looked like a war room that someone had tried—and failed—to disguise as a place of work.
What the hell is going on?
Hiruzen glanced up from a thick bundle of mission reports, his ever-present pipe perched between two fingers. Smoke curled slowly above him, drifting past the ceiling beams in lazy ribbons.
Despite the late hour, he looked alert and focused, though I caught the slight tightness around his eyes.
"Team 7," he said, gesturing for us to approach. "I've just finished reading your mission report. Quite eventful for what was supposed to be a simple escort mission."
"Yes, hokage-sama," I said, taking a half step in. "The situation at the border turned out to be more complicated than the briefing suggested."
"So it seems." He set the scroll down and gave us a long look. "What I'm curious about is the delay. According to this timeline, you should've returned four days ago."
I gave him the most polite version of 'not my fault' I could manage—raised brows with just a hint of the weary look of a genin trying to survive his jonin's whims. "Tsunade-sensei had an additional task for us after the primary mission was complete. We had to make a detour."
"A detour?"
"To Yugakure. She needed us to deliver something." I shrugged slightly, playing up the long-suffering student angle.
Hiruzen's eyes narrowed slightly, and I could practically see him processing something. Tsunade sending messages by hand, during a border crisis, to Yugakure? Even I thought it sounded shady.
"I see," he said after a moment. "And this errand of hers—was it completed successfully?"
"Yes, Hokage-sama. No complications."
Another pause. More pipe smoke. I could feel Mikoto and Tsume standing silently behind me.
"Your mission is being reclassified as A-rank," Hiruzen said finally. "The engagement with enemy shinobi, the strategic intelligence gathered, and the successful protection of civilians in a war zone all warrant the upgrade. You'll receive compensation accordingly."
A-rank pay. That was a significant bump from what we'd expected.
"Thank you, Hokage-sama," we said together with a slight bow.
"You've earned it." He set his pipe down and leaned back in his chair. "Under normal circumstances, I would grant you extended leave after such a successful mission. You've more than proven yourselves, and you deserve time to rest and process what you've experienced."
I felt a 'but' coming.
"However, these are not normal circumstances. I'm not sure you've fully realized it yet, but as of a few days ago, the Hidden Leaf Village is officially at war."
Well. There it was. I'd been expecting this announcement for weeks, but it still felt weird hearing it made official. Behind me, Mikoto shifted slightly—probably not surprised, given what the clans had likely been discussing. Tsume just grunted softly.
He picked up another scroll and laid it across his desk. "Which means we're mobilizing all available personnel. I'll need to send you back out sooner than I'd like. Tell me—did you run into any bandit activity on your detour to Yugakure?"
I paused. "Yes, Hokage-sama. On the way back. We were ambushed by a group of bandits."
He nodded like he'd been expecting that answer. "You're not the only ones. We've received multiple reports of so-called 'bandit' attacks—disruptions targeting major trade routes between Fire Country and the neutral states.
He slid the scroll toward me. "These are the details. I want you to join an ongoing investigation. Another team is already working the case. You'll resupply and rendezvous with them immediately. I know this isn't ideal—but war doesn't wait for anyone."
"Understood," I said. "We'll move out as soon as we're ready."
"You're dismissed."
We bowed and turned toward the door. Just before stepping out, I stopped and glanced at the girls. "You two go ahead. I'll catch up."
Mikoto slowed, eyes narrowing slightly as they met mine. I gave her a quick smile.
"Let's meet later at the barbecue."
The door closed behind them with a muted thud.
Hiruzen didn't speak right away. He set his pipe aside, eyes lingering on the tangle of scrolls across his desk. Then he looked up and raised a brow. "Is there anything you need, genin Shinji?"
I smiled—just a little. A habit more than anything.
"Actually—"