The fifth day began beneath a sky so pale it was almost white, as though the sun had never left and the night had only been an illusion. The air was heavy and unmoving, pressing into lungs with every breath like hot sand poured down the throat. The heat didn't even wait for midday, it was already here.
Isan's team hugged the base of a ridge, the sandstone wall casting a jagged edge of shadow along their path. Their own silhouettes were short and sharp in the morning glare, their movements measured to conserve strength. Each step sank into the powder-fine sand, the grains shifting treacherously, making the ground feel alive beneath their feet.
They had been walking for over an hour when it reached them, faint at first, just a muffled thud, then a sharper metallic ring. Moments later came shouting. Not the disciplined bark of training, but the panicked, ragged sound of people fighting to survive.
Isan's hand went up. A silent signal.
Shira froze mid-step, muscles already coiled like springs. Daiana slid into the shadow of a sandstone spur, one hand brushing over the mouth of her weapon pouch.
They climbed the ridge's slope in a low, deliberate crouch, boots whispering over stone and sand. At the crest, the scene unfolded below, chaos in the open basin. Three trainees, backs nearly touching, were being swarmed by nine men in mismatched desert leathers. No headbands and no insignia.
Their skin was baked dark by the sun, their clothes caked with dust, sweat, and old stains that looked like rust but smelled of blood. Curved blades caught the sunlight in short, vicious flashes.
One boy in the targeted team stumbled back, his sleeve soaked red from elbow to wrist. His teammate shifted to shield him, but the bandits pressed in like jackals scenting blood.
"Go.", Isan said, his voice low and flat, already weighing three kunai in his dominant hand, his right hand.
Shira went first, leaping from the ridge in a spray of sand, before hitting the ground running. Fury and intent rolled off him in waves.
Isan and Daiana followed a heartbeat later, even on the move, they didn't waste the chance to strike, Daiana broke wide to flank, while Isan's arm whipped forward.
Three kunai spun through the air, then jerked unnaturally mid-flight. The faint shimmer of chakra threads twisted their paths, burying them into flesh - one sank into a thigh, another into a ribcage, the last into the base of a neck.
The results were instant. One man dropped to his knees, clutching at his side before retching into the sand, the poison working fast. Another staggered, sword trembling as his grip weakened. The last collapsed face-first without a sound, blood darkening the pale grit beneath him.
Shira slammed into his target like a boulder loosed downhill, speed and momentum breaking the man's guard in a single shuddering impact. Sand flew as his relentless strikes drove the bandit back until his heels caught, sending him sprawling under Shira's next blow.
Daiana's shuriken and kunai sang through the air in an unbroken rhythm, each throw calculated not just to hit but to control space. A kunai that looked set to miss entirely would suddenly ping against another thrown weapon mid-flight, altering its course in a sudden, serpentine strike toward an exposed flank.
She didn't need chakra threads, she used the weapons themselves to manipulate each other's paths.
More than once, a bandit's eyes flicked toward her, and that heartbeat of distraction was all Shira or Isan needed. Isan was now beside Shira, kunai flashing in close combat, each movement compact and efficient, his footing never faltering in the shifting sand.
The tide shifted quickly. The ambushed trainees rallied, their desperation tempered by the sudden arrival of reinforcements. Their strikes grew sharper, their stances firmer, and the bandits, outnumbered and bleeding, began to give ground.
Moments later, it was over. Six of the original nine knelt in the sand, hands bound behind them, their breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat ran into their eyes, stinging, but they didn't dare to lower their heads.
The rescued trainees were still catching their breath, voices shaky as they offered thanks to Daiana and Shira. Meanwhile, Isan wasn't paying any attention to any of them.
He stopped before one of the kneeling bandits.
Steel flashed as a kunai pierced into the man's eye. The body jerked and folded to the ground like a sack of grain, blood mixing with the sand in a sluggish seep.
The silence that followed was taut, broken only by a young boy's voice, raw and incredulous.
"What the hell was that?"
Isan's gaze found him, flat and unblinking. "We don't have the food or water to keep them alive. Bringing them with us will just slows us down. And…", his voice was steady, not defensive, "... it's better this way. They won't get back up to hurt anyone else. Anymore"
Isan knew how hypocrite he was currently being, considering the fact of him trying to be a shinobi, which weren't exactly saints, and, additionally, taking his past life into consideration.
The next bandit tried to pull away, but the bindings held while Isan's hand didn't hesitate. Steel met flesh again, and another body went still. A faint shiver passed through the gathered trainees and bandits, at the act and at the cold efficiency behind it.
The remaining captives began to break. Some begged, others cursed, their voices rising in desperation as Isan walked the line with unhurried steps. By the time he reached the last two, both were pale and trembling. The stench of urine mingled with the hot, dusty air.
One of them, the youngest, with a jagged scar from ear to jaw, broke first. "I can take you to their camp! Show you where they keep the prisoners! They've got a lot of your classmates!", his words tumbled over each other, frantic, loud enough to drown the sound of Isan's slow approach. He was panicking more as he saw Isan dispaching another bandit.
Isan's shadow fell over him. "Are you telling the truth?", the voice was calm, cold enough to feel like a different kind of threat.
The boy swallowed hard.
"…I… am.", he forced himself to look up only to find the eyes of a ten-year-old staring back. Yet there was no mercy in them, only the steady, unnerving weight of someone who had already decided what needed to be done.