The quiet room had no windows, dim and dustless.
An old man with his right eye wrapped in bandages leaned back in a wooden chair. The wrinkles at the corners of his eye fanned outward like a folding fan, and the murderous aura that usually clung to his face had faded into a rare trace of fatigue.
A red candle on the table flickered unsteadily.
The wavering flame painted his profile in drifting light, only making his features look even darker, even more sinister.
"The Land of Lightning's southwestern border. Raiko Mountain."
Aburame Ryūma repeated the mission Danzo had given him. His voice was as cold as ever, like a machine built for nothing but obedience.
Danzo steadied himself with his cane, his left eye narrowed to a slit as he watched Ryūma, who stood with his head lowered.
"This mission is extremely important. Only if I put it in your hands can I be at ease."
Aburame Ryūma remained expressionless, head still lowered. Yet Danzo, sharp as a blade, caught a faint distraction in him.
"Has something happened recently?" Danzo asked.
With this subordinate, he rarely allowed any sign of concern.
From the day Root was founded, Aburame Ryūma had followed him. Over twenty years, through countless brushes with death, he had been Danzo's right hand, the one person he trusted most.
If Danzo had to name someone who would never betray him, it would be Aburame Ryūma. In all of Root, there was no second choice.
Ryūma looked at the candlelight jumping across Danzo's face. Behind his dark glasses, the usual emptiness in his gaze carried an unfamiliar hint of confusion.
"I… I can't remember something."
"What is it?"
"I don't know."
Ryūma shook his head slowly. "There's someone I know. Someone familiar. I can't recall his name, and I can't picture his face. I only know… he should be important to me."
The lines in Danzo's forehead deepened.
Root members were meant to sever all ties with the outside world. No past. No future. Personal will and emotion erased, existing only to complete assignments.
Ryūma's state did not align with Root's principles.
It did not align with Danzo's expectations.
If Ryūma continued like this, then for the sake of Root's operations, Danzo would have only one solution: find that person and eliminate him, along with anyone connected.
Danzo pressed the irritation down and studied Ryūma from beneath his hand.
"Where did you see him?"
"I saw him somewhere very familiar," Ryūma said. "A dark room where there was no light. It felt like… an underground base."
ANBU, or Root?
Danzo's mind produced a few possibilities.
"Any distinguishing traits?"
Ryūma didn't hear the killing intent buried in Danzo's tone. He stared at the candle flame, murmuring as if speaking to himself.
"He… smiled a lot. Bright. Like sunlight. And gentle…"
Not Root.
Danzo's killing intent sharpened.
In Root, the one who smiled most was probably Chihaya Tōru. But no matter how Danzo twisted it, he could not connect that manic grin to "sunlight" or "gentle."
Ryūma was his most capable subordinate. His former and only elite jōnin for years. A man who knew every one of Root's secrets.
Danzo would not allow a flaw in him.
And he would allow it even less if that flaw existed outside Root's walls, a fuse that might ignite at any time.
"Heh."
A false smile slid onto Danzo's face. He patted Ryūma on the shoulder.
"Maybe you've been too tired lately. When you return from this mission, I'll give you leave to rest. I'll also help you search for that familiar person."
Ryūma's body stiffened.
After serving Danzo for more than twenty years, how could he not recognize Danzo's nature?
He stared at the killing intent Danzo failed to fully conceal, fell silent for a moment, then shook his head with stubborn certainty.
"No need. He's probably not that important."
Danzo looked at him for a long, heavy breath. The smile on Danzo's lips slowly faded.
This was the first time Ryūma had refused him.
That meant one thing.
There truly was someone worth investigating.
"We'll talk about it after you return," Danzo said at last. "Go."
"Yes!"
Ryūma bowed hard, then turned and left the quiet room at a brisk pace.
Whoosh.
His cloak stirred a faint breeze, and the candle flame, already trembling at the edge of death, was snuffed out instantly.
In the darkened room, Danzo sat alone, gripping his cane.
A black statue in human form.
At the equipment division, the shinobi finished sorting their gear and stood silently by the door, waiting for Aburame Ryūma.
Uniform clothing, a mass of black. Under masks of different designs, the same indifferent eyes.
Just standing there filled the room with pressure.
For no clear reason, the atmosphere was taut.
"What's your name?"
The girl's crisp voice sounded slightly muffled beneath her mask, but it cut cleanly through the silence.
A woman, blank as a puppet, lifted her lifeless eyes. Heavy dark circles hung under them. She met the owl mask's eerie black gaze without flinching.
"If you're requesting tools, take what you need and report the count to me afterward."
She didn't answer Konome's question directly. She swept her hair behind her shoulders, picked up her pen, and treated it like pure paperwork.
A fully indoctrinated tool.
Konome withdrew her vision from the woman's dazzling chakra core and looked up at the space above her head.
There was still no emotional glow at all.
A lone wandering corpse.
"I wanted to ask if there are blank sealing scrolls," Konome said, rubbing her palms together. "How many can I take?"
She'd forgotten last time she came here.
Most tools didn't matter much to her, but sealing scrolls were different. If she ran into something valuable on a mission and didn't have extra scrolls prepared, it would be a waste.
The intel said the Land of Lightning mine was extremely important. Danzo had even sent Aburame Ryūma.
The ore had to be special.
Which meant this was the perfect chance to make a little profit.
"Third shelf, far right. Maximum three."
"Last time I registered, I didn't take any tools," Konome said. "This time too. Convert both allocations into scrolls."
The woman's breathing paused. She looked up and examined the girl in front of her.
"Scrolls are precious. Five at most."
"Thanks."
Konome moved quickly to the shelf and collected five scrolls.
Sealing scrolls were made from chakra-conductive wood. They were expensive, and Konoha's tool shops were often out of stock. The one she carried had been obtained by asking Hiruzen.
Now she could finally stock up properly.
Rustle.
She unrolled them one by one.
On the costly chakra paper, sealing formulas were etched in a continuous chain. Dense script, intricate as a web. Only the central circle was left blank, meaning nothing had been sealed inside.
After checking for damage, Konome chose two multi-use scrolls and three single-use scrolls.
The technique engraved into sealing scrolls was a classic Yin Release-based art. In essence, it converted physical items into a non-material projection by some unknown method.
But it was rigid.
Whatever volume you sealed at once, you had to retrieve at once.
So the scrolls were best sorted by flexibility.
A single-use scroll could instantly seal larger objects, but no matter how much space remained, it could only be used once.
A multi-use scroll was composed of multiple smaller seals. Usually narrower and longer. The ones in Konome's hand looked like ten-use scrolls, each with ten blank circles, allowing items to be sealed in categories over multiple uses.
Satisfied, she tucked them away.
The value of these five scrolls alone was comparable to completing a high-end B-rank mission.
She returned to the formation and waited with everyone else.
Not long after.
Clunk.
There had been no audible footsteps at all, yet the door opened and Aburame Ryūma walked in.
"Ryūma-sama!"
Root obedience was carved into bone. Everyone except Konome lowered their heads in greeting, showing respect for Danzo's most trusted operative.
Ryūma verified the headcount. When his gaze passed Konome, it paused slightly, then he gave her a small, almost friendly nod.
"Come."
Seeing Ryūma beckon her, Konome lifted her brows and walked over.
"Raise your head."
Snap.
More than a dozen masks turned at once toward the two of them.
Ryūma calmly swept his eyes across the group.
"The target of this operation is Raiko Mountain in the Land of Lightning. I am the captain. Yowatari is the vice-captain. If I am not present, you will execute her orders without exception."
"Yes."
Now promoted to vice-captain, Konome watched the emotions above their heads.
No resistance. No irritation. No hidden sparks.
Root was convenient in that way.
Its absolute obedience was so complete it was almost frightening.
For tools without personal will, a superior's command was law. Even if Ryūma ordered them to kill themselves on the spot, they likely wouldn't even frown.
Ryūma removed his dark glasses and put on a purple-black mask. Konome caught a glimpse of his eyes beneath.
His irises were a pale violet, nearly identical to the color of her own chakra.
"Move out!"
His muffled voice echoed through the room.
Seventeen chakra cores flared bright at once.
Deep in the forest.
Purple-red, humid miasma drifted thickly. Green mossy vines and branches stretched between the shrubs like venomous snakes coiled in cloud.
A frantic, ragged breathing tore through the rainforest's heavy silence.
A gaunt man in rough hemp clothing panted, swinging a steel blade as he hacked aside every vine and branch in his path.
Squish.
He yanked his boots from the rot-leaf mud, staggering as he sprinted deeper into the jungle.
Snap.
A branch snagged his clothing. The sharp tear ripped fabric and left fresh red lines across his brown-red skin.
He seemed numb to pain.
He only swung harder, severing everything in front of him, constantly snapping his head back. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he'd fallen into a bottomless pit of fear.
The stench of decay licked the back of his neck like a wet tongue.
He didn't care whether the miasma carried poison. He only gulped air, each inhale like dragging a heavy bellows.
The chakra core inside him flickered weakly.
He was almost dry.
If those two monsters caught him now…
Terror stabbed into his survival instinct, and his exhausted body forced out a last burst of strength.
Thud.
The ground softened beneath him, and one thigh sank abruptly into a pit of mud.
This is…
The man stared in horror at the rotting leaf pile swallowing his leg. Fetid sludge oozed up through the leaves, cold and sticky, as if countless invisible hands were pulling him down.
A hidden swamp.
He squeezed power out of muscles that had gone stiff as stone. Chakra wrapped around his fibers. He grabbed a vine and wrenched himself free in one desperate surge.
His remaining chakra thinned even further.
He glanced back toward the direction he'd fled from, then down at the hidden swamp.
Slash.
He cut vines on the right, then veered sharply left, sprinting.
Crack crack.
Branches fell in a messy trail of obvious breaks.
Then he doubled back.
He sucked in a breath, pinched his nose, and plunged headfirst into the swamp.
Splash.
Filthy mud mixed with rotting plant debris, the stench nearly making him vomit. It flooded his nose and throat.
The moment he entered the swamp, the forest abruptly went quiet.
That silence was more terrifying than pursuit.
He forced down the nausea and slowly sank, trying to bury his body in sludge. He moved with extreme care, terrified of making even the smallest sound.
Every step made bubbles rise with a wet gurgle, loud in the dead stillness.
Finally he slipped beneath the leaf layer and hid.
Only his eyes remained visible, bright points staring out from the rot.
The space under the leaves was cramped. His body curled tight, knees almost pressed to his chin. His coarse clothes were soaked and heavy with mud, clinging to him like a second skin.
He breathed swamp gas that burned his nostrils and throat, every inhale like swallowing live coals.
Crack.
A vine snapping made his heart seize. His limbs locked in the mud.
They're here.
The monsters.
He buried even his mouth under the sludge, his eyes like two stones lodged in filth. He stared upward at the purple-red haze above, and in the twisting miasma he thought he saw three points of light spinning.
"Did you ask properly, Itachi?"
In a dirt-yellow ravine, Hoshigaki Kisame, blue-skinned and shark-like, leaned against a tree. A bandage-wrapped greatsword rested on his back. His golden eyes looked bored.
"Shut up," Uchiha Itachi said.
Wearing a black cloak patterned with red clouds, deep lines carved beside his nose, Itachi crouched on the ground. His eyes turned, three tomoe spinning steadily.
The man who should have been hidden in the swamp was now sunk into hardened earth, only his head left exposed. His face was vacant, his gaze locked with Itachi's.
In his eyes, three tomoe glowed an eerie scarlet.
"The Land of Lightning… southwestern border… Raiko Mountain…"
"So the target is Raiko Mountain," Kisame said, rolling his stiff neck. His triangular teeth ground faintly. "No wonder we couldn't find it."
Raiko Mountain again?
Itachi's eyes narrowed, light flickering in them. He immediately sensed the issue.
"Why there? What's special about it?"
"Thunderstone… Thunderstone ore…"
Drool slid from the man's slack mouth as he repeated the words again and again, empty and obedient.
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