After a brief exchange of blows, without any hindrance, Chen Xing drove a massive kunai strike forward—its force piercing clean through the thick trunk of a nearby tree. A moment earlier, a kunai without a sharpened tip had instead embedded itself deep into his opponent's left thigh, sending blood spraying in an arc.
"Ah!" Green Gratoma staggered back, clutching his injured leg. His face twisted in pain, veins bulging, while above in the trees, Chen Xing—known to many in the underground as the Peacock King—looked down coldly, anger simmering behind his eyes.
"You… you're the Peacock King!" Green Gratoma's pupils shrank. Despite Chen Xing's youthful, almost delicate frame, recognition hit him instantly. Beads of cold sweat trickled down his temple.
Over the last two months, tales of the Peacock King had spread like wildfire through the shinobi underworld. At first, Gratoma had dismissed the rumors, certain they were exaggerated. But now, faced with the real man, he recalled the string of corpses left in this figure's wake—many of them elite-level shinobi. His heart began to race.
The ease with which Chen Xing had landed a hit told Gratoma the rumors weren't false. Even without any special tricks, he himself was confident in dodging most attacks—but that last strike… it had been too fast, too precise, and the kunai had carried a dangerous chakra coating that allowed it to puncture muscle and bone as if nothing were there.
"So, you've heard of me." Chen Xing dropped from the branch without a sound, landing lightly on the trail. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was fixed on the injured shinobi before him.
"Wait! Peacock King, I know you're doing this mission for money. I can pay you—enough to buy my life!" Green Gratoma pressed a hand to his bleeding leg, trying to stem the flow. His right hand tightened around the hilt of his prized weapon—the Sword of Thunder—as he silently resolved to strike if Chen Xing made a move.
Chen Xing had heard such offers before. It wasn't unusual for his targets to beg, offering money or secrets in exchange for their lives. None had succeeded.
He crouched slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Oh? And what can you give me?"
"Two million ryō… no, three million!" Gratoma's voice trembled slightly. "It's yours—just let me walk away."
But both men knew the truth. Even with the Sword of Thunder, Gratoma's skill was barely chūnin-level. Against someone who had slain jōnin-level shinobi, his chances were nonexistent.
Chen Xing's eyes shifted to the sword. "Give me the Sword of Thunder."
The words hit like a kunai to the chest. That blade wasn't just a weapon—it was Gratoma's pride, a rare masterpiece from the Land of Craftsmen, infused with lightning chakra to amplify cutting power. Without it, he was nothing.
"The Sword of Thunder? That's your goal?" Gratoma's shock turned to suspicion. "You came all the way here for this?"
Chen Xing's tone hardened. "I won't say it again." Lightning flickered in his right hand, Chidori's high-pitched chirping filling the air. Blue-white light illuminated his face, giving him the look of a god of retribution staring down at an ant.
"No! This sword is my life! No one will take it!" Gratoma's fear twisted into desperation.
Lightning chakra surged along his blade as he charged forward like a rabbit breaking cover, his sword's tip aimed for Chen Xing's throat. The speed and killing intent were real—but against the Peacock King, it wasn't enough.
"Fool."
Chen Xing stepped forward, his Chidori flashing. In an instant, the lightning blade pierced Gratoma's chest, stopping his momentum cold. His body crumpled, the Sword of Thunder clattering to the dirt.
Chen Xing stooped, lifting the sword. He gave the corpse one last glance before turning away, examining his new trophy as faint arcs of electricity danced along its edge.
"…Not bad. Not bad at all."
The Land of Craftsmen was wealthier than the Land of Waves, known for its legendary weapon smiths. Countless famous blades had been forged here, some said to rival even the Treacherous Blade: Samehada or the Kusanagi Sword. Though much of its glory had faded after the death of its founder, the Land still supplied high-grade weapons to shinobi across the nations.
Chen Xing hadn't stayed in the Land of Tea long after killing Gratoma. His next destination was the Land of Craftsmen—partly for the rich flow of rare weapon materials, and partly because he knew the Sword of Thunder could be reforged into something even greater.
Within days, the underground intelligence network delivered him information about the so-called "Four Guardians" of the Craftsmen's Country—former retainers of a feudal lord who had fallen from power. One of them, his next target, was rumored to possess another rare weapon.
Arriving in a bustling trade city, Chen Xing noted the abundance of weapon shops—nearly a quarter of the storefronts were smithies or armories, all thriving. The streets rang with the rhythmic clang of hammers on steel, merchants shouting over the noise.
He began his inquiries, casually asking innkeepers and shop owners about a place called "Smallist Village." As expected, most locals had never heard of it—its location was too remote, its existence known only to a select few.
Finally, a passing merchant offered a lead. "If anyone knows about such a village, it'd be a master smith or the city lord himself."
Following the trail, Chen Xing found himself at the shop of a well-known craftsman named Master Xiaoyan. Slipping a few hundred ryō to the shop's attendant, he was soon led into the back, where a rough-looking middle-aged man awaited.
"What do you want?" the man asked, eyes narrowing.
"I want information," Chen Xing replied evenly. "If I'm satisfied, this is yours."
He pulled a thick stack of bills from his pouch—ten thousand ryō—placing it on the table between them. The glint in the man's eyes said he was interested.
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