(Iwa Genin's POV)
The moon hung high, half-veiled behind drifting clouds, its pale light casting a ghostly sheen over the landscape. The air was heavy with humidity, thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint sweetness of wildflowers clinging to the night. Every sound was magnified in the stillness—the crackle of the campfire, the soft murmur of our client's samurai and assistants chatting nearby, and the rhythmic clatter of pots as the servant prepared their meal. Even the rustle of tall grass beyond the fire's reach made my heartbeat spike.
I adjusted my grip on the kunai resting in my lap, knuckles whitening. Focus, Hiro. That's what Ryouhei-sensei always said. Focus.
Across the fire, Ryouhei-sensei sat motionless, legs crossed, posture rigid and upright. His dark, unwavering eyes scanned the shadows beyond the camp, never blinking. His brown hair, streaked with gray at the temples, framed a face carved by time and battle. Faint scars etched into his skin told silent stories of survival, of battles fought and endured. He didn't speak much, but his presence was like stone—solid, commanding, immovable. A veteran of the Third Great Ninja War, he had seen more bloodshed than I could imagine.
To his right, Takumi leaned against a tree, arms loosely crossed, his eyes flicking across the clearing with quiet alertness. Though technically our superior, the chūnin carried himself with a casual air, almost too relaxed for someone in enemy territory. He had the kind of presence that disarmed tension—until he moved. Then he was all precision and control, quick and lethal. The type who could chat with you one moment and disable a threat the next without missing a beat.
And then there was me—Hiro, the Genin. The rookie. Barely more than a kid with the bare minimum of training. I had a handful of jutsu, just enough to scrape by the academy's requirements and earn my headband. That was it.
Thanks to two devastating massacres, Iwagakure had been forced to send even eight-year-olds like me on missions outside the village. There simply weren't enough shinobi left.
The first massacre came at the hands of the Fourth Hokage, Minato Namikaze—a flash of yellow death who tore through our forces like a storm. The second was even more horrifying. The Third Raikage had cornered nearly 10,000 of our troops and killed over half of them alone.
I still remember Ryouhei-sensei's words about that battle, spoken in a low, distant tone, his eyes blank with the weight of memory:
"That man was a monster... The only reason any of us made it back was because he finally ran out of chakra after three straight days of fighting. Three. Days."
Why didn't Lord Onoki help? Because someone had assassinated the daimyo of the Land of Earth, plunging the capital into a brutal power struggle. Onoki had no choice—he had to step in personally to stop the bloodshed.
Those two disasters had gutted our shinobi ranks. And the fallout was simple: send the children. Let the young carry the burden of the war's aftermath.
This mission was supposed to be simple—just Takumi, me, and another genin. But because the client turned out to be a close relative of the new daimyo, a jōnin had to be assigned to ensure extra protection. That's how we ended up with Ryouhei-sensei.
Our client, Mitsuchi, was a large man—easily six feet tall with broad shoulders that hinted at a life once more rugged than refined. From the idle gossip exchanged between his assistants and the accompanying samurai, I pieced together a rough picture of his past. Once a ruthless merchant, he had clawed his way into power. His ascent truly began when his sister was chosen as one of the Daimyo's concubines. Through carefully played favors and calculated alliances, Mitsuchi secured a seat in the Daimyo's inner circle and eventually became a key figure on the royal council.
He rarely emerged from his ornate horse-drawn carriage, but when he did, his eyes were sharp and calculating—always watching, always weighing. He spoke to Ryouhei-sensei and occasionally addressed us Genin, but only when something warranted concern: a shift in the terrain, a flicker of suspicion, or assistance required for the mission. Mitsuchi struck me as the kind of man who understood the unspoken rules of survival—especially the importance of staying on good terms with the shinobi assigned to guard his life.
"Hiro. Focus."
The sharp, steady voice of Ryouhei-sensei cut through my thoughts like a blade.
"Hai!" I responded, sitting up straighter.
"Takumi—you and Hiro will take the first watch tonight. I'll relieve you in three hours. Report the moment anything seems off."
With that, he stood and walked off toward the tent we'd pitched earlier.
""Hai, sensei!"" we echoed together.
"How long do you think it'll take to reach the Grass Country's capital, senpai?" I asked, watching as Takumi lazily twirled a kunai between his fingers, the blade catching the firelight with each spin.
"Hmm…" he mused, not bothering to look up. "We should get there by noon tomorrow. We've already crossed into Grass territory. And don't even think about dozing off tonight. I covered for you during yesterday's watch."
"Hai, senpai!" I replied a little too quickly, straightening up in reflex.
Another long, drowsy night lay ahead—one filled with stiff muscles, heavy eyelids, and Takumi's casual but constant scoldings.
—
(Kurenai's POV)
It's been over two hours since Genma went out to scout the local bar, hoping to gather intel on our target—Mitsuchi.
'Genma…'
He's changed so much over the past year. He's always been strong and dependable, a reliable comrade and friend. But lately, he's felt like… something more.
Back in our academy days, we were close. Our fathers were friends, and we often had family dinners together. Genma used to be the cheerful, mischievous type—always grinning, always trying to get a laugh, usually at my expense. I had a bit of a crush on him back then, though I never said anything. That side of him vanished after his father died during the last war. After that, he grew distant—cynical, even. The light in his eyes dimmed, and somewhere along the way, we drifted apart.
By the time we graduated, I had grown close to Asuma, while Genma became the guy everyone knew about, but no one truly knew. He was always on the radar because of his skills, but never close enough to touch.
After the academy, I heard he started to come out of his shell again—became friends with Gai and Ebisu during their Genin days. Then he was promoted to Chūnin and caught the attention of the Fourth Hokage. That changed everything. Becoming one of the Fourth's personal guards shifted his path, and we stopped crossing paths entirely. The next I heard of him, he had earned a reputation as a fūinjutsu specialist and had been promoted to Special Jōnin. That part surprised me—Genma always had the mind of a fox, clever, but I never pegged him for sealing arts.
After the Fourth's death, he withdrew again—more isolated than before. But something changed after that border mission near Iwa. Whatever happened during that mission… it changed him.
He changed his style: no bandana, no senbon in his mouth. No lazy, cynical talk, always.
It was like something inside him cracked open, and the old Genma—witty, daring, and warm—began to shine through again. He started showing up at gatherings and even smiled more often. He started to resemble the Genma of the old when we were kids, only more handsome and strong.
His strength had grown tremendously over the past year—far beyond what I ever expected. At this rate, he'd be promoted to jōnin within the next few months, once the upcoming trials were held—
Knock knock.
"Honey, it's me," came Genma's voice from outside the door of our hotel room.
I rolled my eyes. He's really grown attached to this whole 'pretend couple' act. And the teasing. A small sigh escaped me.
"Hmph." I called out sweetly, "Right there, honey!" and made my way to the door.
As soon as I opened it, I asked, "So? How did it go? Any new information?" My curiosity was piqued—he'd been gone for nearly two hours.
"Yeah," he said, stepping in and tossing his flak jacket onto a chair. "The hotel Mitsuchi and his entourage are staying at? It's been entirely booked for a week starting tomorrow. They're the only ones occupying it."
I raised an eyebrow. "And how exactly did you manage to get this information?"
"I met a blonde hotel attendant at the bar," he said with an easy grin. "Couple of drinks, some conversation, and she ended up giving me a little tour of the place. The hotel's small—ten guest rooms, two for staff."
I crossed my arms, narrowing my eyes slightly. "Sounds like the two of you got real friendly."
He chuckled at the hint of irritation in my voice, clearly amused. I wasn't even sure why it bothered me—but it did.
"Well, anyway," he continued, sliding into mission mode, "now that we know the layout, we can start crafting a backup plan. If things go south and we can't isolate the target quietly, we take the hotel down."
I blinked. "You want to destroy the entire hotel?"
"Only if necessary," he said, voice serious now. "You handle the staff—use a genjutsu to lead them out. Meanwhile, I'll place a series of exploding tags beneath the foundation. If we need to, we level the place. Mitsuchi goes down with it. Clean, decisive, and deniable."
I stared at him for a long moment, then exhaled.
"Risky," I murmured.
He gave a small smirk. "You know I like a little risk. It's the backup plan anyway."
I couldn't help the way my lips curved. "Yeah… I know."
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