WebNovels

Chapter 582 - 581-If only you were not a Konoha shinobi

The air in the deep, hidden cave was as cold and still as a tomb. Water dripped from jagged stalactites with a slow, rhythmic sound that echoed in the oppressive silence, each drop a tiny detonation in the tension-thick atmosphere.

"Plink… plink… plink…"

The three men standing in a loose triangle did not look at the damp, glistening walls or the pools of black water at their feet. Their attention was reserved solely for each other, a silent, mutual assessment taking place in the flickering light of a single glow-stake driven into the cave floor.

They were a living testament to the war's strange, unholy alliances. On one side stood Ogata of Kumogakure. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his physique a testament to the rigorous training of the Cloud village. He wore a long, practical grey top that cinched tightly at his waist over matching pants, but his most defining feature was the distinctive white, one-strapped flak jacket of a Kumo jonin, its stark colour a declaration of his allegiance.

Opposite him was Toma of Sunagakure, whose attire was built for the harsh realities of the desert. Black, form-fitting undersuits were covered by beige-toned flak jackets equipped with sturdy shoulder guards. A dark head-wrap was secured around his forehead and the lower half of his face, protecting against sand and preserving moisture, leaving only a pair of sharp, calculating eyes visible.

Completing the triad was Hiro of Iwagakure, a man built like the bedrock of his village. His outfit was a study in asymmetrical, layered durability—a red base layer peeked out from beneath a sturdy brown flak jacket. His expression was perpetually set in a grimace of grudging endurance.

That these three men were in the same room without trying to kill each other was a minor miracle. Their villages were allies of convenience, not friends. Beyond their shared profession as shinobi, their lives were a study in opposition.

They were rivals in ideology and practice and a certain shinobi craft, often clashing on joint operations, each viewing the other's methods with a mixture of contempt and professional respect.

What had forced this truce was a single, identical scroll delivered from each of their Kages. A mission of utmost priority.

"So," Ogata's voice broke the silence, "Is everyone in agreement?"

Toma gave a single, sharp nod, as his eyes, cold and focused, remained locked on Ogata.

Hiro, however, shifted his weight, "Are we really sure we need to go to these lengths for him?" he grumbled, "It seems… excessive."

Ogata sighed, "This boy survived a direct confrontation with the Third Raikage. That is not a 'boy.' That is a cataclysm waiting to happen."

Toma's voice, muffled by his mask, was dry and precise. "The Kazekage's orders are clear. He is a variable that cannot be allowed to mature. He must be pruned. Now."

Hiro looked between them, the pragmatist forced to accept the paranoid calculus of his temporary allies. Finally, he relented with a grunt. "Fine. Then all that's left is for each of us to pass the instructions to our units."

"Remember," Ogata said, "the objective is singular. We get rid of him. By any means necessary. Everything else is secondary."

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk was evident in Toma's eyes. "Ever since I made my first seal," he stated, "I decided that life would only be perfect if I died doing what I loved."

Before the ominous weight of his words could fully settle, an Iwa shinobi appeared before Hiro. "The target's unit has entered the Valley of the End. They are taking their position now."

Ogata's eyes gleamed in the dim light. "Then it's time." He turned to Hiro. "Your team's sensory suppression is crucial. We need to be ghosts until the moment we strike. Konoha's sensors cannot get even a whisper of us."

Hiro nodded, "They won't. My men have already woven the net. They'll be deaf and blind."

=====

"Captain… there are… hundreds of them." Arata's voice was a horrified whisper, barely audible over the waterfall, yet it echoed in the hearts of every Konoha shinobi present.

The thirty members of Renjiro's unit stood back-to-back, a small island of green flak jackets in a suddenly hostile world. From the tree line they had just exited, from the opposite cliff face, from the riverbanks below—figures emerged. They did not rush. They simply appeared, step by deliberate step, a silent, closing noose of grey of Kumo, beige of Suna, and brown of Iwa. Three hundred and thirty. The math was not just unfavourable; it was a death sentence.

Arata's mind reeled. He had expected pressure, skirmishes, perhaps a company-sized force from Kumo. But this? A combined battalion from three Great Nations, moving with a coordination that spoke of meticulous, high-level planning? It was overbearing.

It was a statement.

It was terror designed to break their spirit before a single blow was landed. His hand trembled on the hilt of his tantō, not from fear of death, but from the sheer, hopeless scale of the trap.

"Isn't this a bit too much?" Renjiro's voice was calm, almost conversational, a stark contrast to the panic gripping his men.

His eyes snapped open, the familiar crimson of the Sharingan already whirling to life, its tomoe tracing the movements of the encroaching army, analysing, calculating.

High on the cliff opposite, the three jonin commanders watched their prey. "Such a young child," Hiro muttered, a flicker of something almost like pity in his hard eyes.

"If only you were not a Konoha shinobi."

"Enough useless talk," Ogata snapped, his voice all business. "Now."

In unison, the three commanders flickered from their perch.

Down on the valley floor, Renjiro's voice was a low, urgent command meant only for Arata.

"Don't do anything. Wait for my signal."

Before Arata could even process the order, Renjiro's hand planted firmly on his lower back. With a powerful shove enhanced by a precise burst of chakra, he sent Arata flying backwards through the air. Arata tumbled, landing hard but safely a few hundred meters away, skidding to a halt on the rocky ground.

In the space Arata had vacated, the ground rumbled and Hiro of Iwa materialised, his fist slamming into the empty ground where Arata's chest had been a microsecond before.

"CRUNCH"

Hiro looked up at Renjiro, a smirk playing on his lips. "Ha, you really are—" he began, a taunt on his tongue.

But he never finished.

Renjiro didn't waste a breath on him. His hands had already flown through a single, fluid sign.

"Katon: Gōryūka no Jutsu!" he roared.

A colossal, roaring dragon of pure fire erupted from his mouth, lighting up the night with its incandescent fury. It screamed across the short distance, its maw wide open to consume the Iwa jonin. The heat was so intense it vaporised the mist in a wide cone, and the roar of the flames momentarily challenged the thunder of the waterfall.

Arata, pushing himself to his feet, saw the brilliant conflagration and a surge of hope shot through him. His captain was fighting back! But that hope curdled into confusion almost instantly.

Something was… off. The light… the colours…

He blinked, his own sensory abilities kicking into overdrive. And then he saw it.

The world was off-kilter. He wasn't seeing the battle directly. He was seeing it through a filter, a faint, shimmering, red-coloured lens that encompassed the entire area where Renjiro stood. The majestic fire dragon, Renjiro himself, the smirking Iwa jonin—they were all inside a massive, translucent, purple pentagon that had erupted from the ground the moment Hiro had landed.

The five points of the pentagon glowed with intense, malevolent energy, and at each point stood one of the three shinobi, their hands pressed together in concentration. A barrier seal. They hadn't just surrounded them with soldiers. They had surrounded Renjiro with a cage, and he had walked right into it.

More Chapters