An S-rank mission—that's what Tsunade's antidote development would entail.
Facing multiple jonin, perhaps even a Kage-level threat.
"Suna's poison specialists are... formidable," Kaede remarked as he sutured a wound.
Morino Isuke didn't look up from his work. "You don't want to fight them. Wind Country's the poorest of the Five Great Nations, but their toxins bridge the gap. Every new poison means dozens of our men dying before we crack it."
Developing antidotes required time and lives—
Lives to identify new toxins.
Lives to analyze their effects.
Lives to test preliminary cures.
Could Tsunade personally inspect every new poison on the frontline? Impossible. There was only one Tsunade.
Sacrifices like Tobitake Tonbo were necessary investments—expendable genin buying time for the Slug Princess to save more valuable shinobi.
"Then I'll begin."
Kaede's chakra seeped into Tonbo's dying brain. The light in his comrade's eyes flickered out like a snuffed candle.
Minutes later, the corpse's eyelids twitched.
A colleague recoiled. "The toxin stimulates nerves? I thought it was a paralytic!"
Isuke shot Kaede a sharp look. "No Dead Soul experiments. Not on this specimen."
"Residual nerve activity," Kaede lied smoothly, scalpel glinting. "Mercy... what a luxury in our line of work."
Under cold surgical lights, they dissected Tonbo with clinical precision:
Blackened blood eating through glassware.
Liver tissue dissolving metal forceps.
Lungs transformed into fibrous cocoons.
"Neurotoxin laced with mineral microcrystals," Kaede noted as he excised a necrotic heart valve. "Third Kazekage's work? Or Chiyo's?"
By dawn, their report reached Aburame Ryoma's desk—one puzzle piece in Tsunade's impending S-rank mission.
Ryoma's fingers traced the report absently, kikaichū skittering beneath his sleeves.
His true interest lay in Isuke's addendum:
"Subject Kaede demonstrates modified Shikon no Jutsu (Dead Soul Technique)—prolonged corpse control without chakra strings."
"So the orphan has some talent after all," Ryoma mused. Not that he regretted discarding Kaede years prior.
Even enhanced, Dead Soul remained a second-rate jutsu.
The door creaked open.
"Tsunade would never sanction this."
Yakushi Nonō emerged from shadows, glasses glinting. "The Will of Fire and Root's methods are incompatible."
"Welcome back, 'Nun'," Ryoma sneered as kikaichū swarmed toward her throat—
—only to freeze when Nonō produced a crimson vial.
"Neurotoxin tailored for your insects. Shall we negotiate?"
Ryoma's lips thinned. "Teaching orphans forbidden jutsu... unlike you."
Nonō recalled Kaede vaguely—a skeletal boy who'd left her orphanage early.
Letting Ryoma believe she'd trained him served her purposes.
"War orphans deserve protection," she deflected. "But not why I'm here. Your orphanage fund threats end today."
"We need every medic at the front," Ryoma countered. "Though... I could spare a few children. For a price."
He slid a mission scroll across the table.
"Chiyo's grandson—Sasori of the Red Sand. Extract his poison formulas. Or better yet... Suna's defense blueprints."
Nonō's fingers tightened around the scroll. Another child weaponized.
The mobilization order reached Kaede at midnight.
"Suna frontline. Effective immediately."
Isuke shut down the morgue without ceremony. "Pack light. We move in three hours."
At the memorial grounds, graves stirred.
Rain-nin zombies clawed through fresh earth, lurching toward Kaede.
"Only two jonin-grade specimens," he muttered, unfurling a storage scroll. "But enough for a genin's needs."
One by one, shambling corpses vanished into parchment marked with "CORPSE" seals.
By dawn, five "medics" departed—west toward Wind Country's killing fields.
Kaede's zombies served as macabre pack mules during the march, their bones cracking under strain.
"Never thought Dead Soul could be... utilitarian," Isuke remarked as another zombie collapsed. "The chakra cost should be prohibitive."
"My variant has... efficiencies," Kaede said, resealing the broken husk.
The frontline camp was a chorus of agony. Stretchers carried men with blackened veins, their screams punctuating the wind.
Eyes lit upon their medic insignias—then dimmed just as fast.
"They're waiting for Tsunade," a colleague whispered.
But Kaede's gaze snagged on child medics—orphanage teens barely older than 12, their hands trembling as they healed.
"If Nonō's here... where?"
His answer came in a hiss:
"Kaede! Behind—!"
A Suna-nin's blade flashed—
—as Kaede's scroll unfurled in a burst of rotting fury.
(To be continued...)