War could bring death to shinobi—but it could also force them to grow at an abnormal speed.
Hagoromo aside, the other three members of this squad had been nothing more than ordinary students less than a year ago. Now, they were fully qualified killing machines.
During the graduation exam, Hagoromo had once been able to provoke Yūhi Kurenai with ease. That would never happen again—not because she was already mature, but because she was firmly on the path toward maturity.
Whether they trusted him personally or not, as long as they were part of this squad, they had to obey Hagoromo's orders.
Within this team, Hagoromo's words were neither suggestions nor opinions—they were commands.
There wasn't much conversation among the four. Aside from Asuma and Kurenai, both Hagoromo and Yamashiro Aoba were relatively quiet.
Aoba's silence came from his personality.
Hagoromo's silence came from the pressure of being squad leader—the responsibility of command.
When he was the one being commanded, he enjoyed a degree of freedom. As long as he completed the mission, nothing else really mattered. But now, as the one giving orders, every decision he made carried the weight of four lives—including his own.
That was why, in an environment where enemies could appear at any moment, he remained constantly alert, occasionally tense.
Reconnaissance squads like Team Hagoromo operated independently within their assigned areas.
Which meant: no reinforcements.
No matter what happened, they had to solve it themselves.
The mission was structured in fifteen-day cycles. Their job was to monitor Amegakure's movements within their sector and periodically relay intelligence back to command and the intelligence division.
After Hagoromo emphasized that the mission was about to begin, the other three quickly finished their food and began checking their equipment and ninja tools.
Their outfits were uniform—somewhat reminiscent of what the Akatsuki would later wear, though entirely black. The ostentatious red clouds were, of course, unthinkable for Konoha ninja. Each cloak also featured a hood.
This attire was chosen specifically for reconnaissance missions. Operating near the Land of Rain meant one thing above all else:
Their clothes had to be waterproof.
"Let's confirm today's mission."
As Hagoromo spoke, he spread a meticulously marked tactical map across the ground.
The other three immediately gathered around.
"We'll depart from Base B, move north, and avoid Amegakure's primary patrol zones and standard routes. After traveling thirty to fifty kilometers, we'll turn west at Landmark D and enter the Land of Rain without alerting the enemy."
"Once inside enemy territory, our objective is to observe the Rain Village's forward camp across from our reconnaissance zone and confirm any changes in their ninja numbers."
As he explained, Hagoromo's finger traced their planned route and highlighted each key location along the way.
For infiltration reconnaissance missions like this, caution was required—before moving, during movement, and at every moment in between.
"Any questions?" Hagoromo asked.
Yamashiro Aoba and Yūhi Kurenai shook their heads simultaneously.
In missions like this, questions were asked when necessary. Otherwise, no one wasted words.
Asuma, however, spoke up.
"One thing—what's our extraction plan after completing the mission?"
It was a good question. Extraction mattered. Completing reconnaissance only to die gloriously in enemy territory wasn't exactly ideal.
"There are three withdrawal plans," Hagoromo replied. "Plan A: if we aren't detected, we return along the original route. Plans B and C are for if we're discovered—depending on circumstances, we retreat either south or north, detouring through the Land of Rivers or the Land of Grass."
"The Land of Rivers is our ally, and Konoha ninja are permitted to operate there. As for the Land of Grass, they've been frequently invaded by Iwagakure and are currently aligned closer to us, so both routes offer a certain degree of safety."
That was the theory.
In reality, once discovered, any withdrawal would be difficult—regardless of the route chosen.
After finishing, Hagoromo folded the map and stowed it in his ninja pouch. He picked up a mask from nearby and fastened it over his face, then pulled the hood up over his head.
The other three followed suit.
The fire inside the tree hollow was extinguished. The four stood, exchanged brief nods, and prepared to move.
Hagoromo's voice emerged from behind the mask, slightly muffled.
"Mission start. Move out."
He lifted the camouflage and burst out of the tree hollow.
The other three followed close behind.
The movements of the four young ninja were swift and precise. Any sound they made was swallowed by the curtain of rain, nearly impossible to detect.
After more than seven days together, the others had formed a clear impression of their squad leader.
Above all else, Hagoromo's mind was always clear.
For a squad leader, a sharp mind was more important than raw strength.
At this stage, it might be too early to speak of complete trust—but there was already respect.
Just as Hagoromo had reviewed their profiles, Asuma and the others had previously received Hagoromo's file as well.
Hagoromo hadn't been active on the battlefield for long—but what he had done was far from insignificant. Some operations were only vaguely recorded, with critical details classified. Even so, what little was visible was enough to shock.
For instance, although Hagoromo had completed far fewer missions overall than the other three—
He had already taken part in two S-rank missions.
And Asuma, who had access to better intelligence, had certainly heard the name—
"White Fang."
And what that name represented.
The four moved in a single-file formation: Hagoromo in front, followed by Asuma, then Kurenai, with Aoba bringing up the rear.
At the head of the line, Hagoromo continuously scanned for signs of enemy activity. But in a storm like this, even if enemies had passed through, all traces would vanish within minutes.
They advanced smoothly along their planned route—
Until Hagoromo suddenly raised his arm.
Stop.
The heavy rain interfered with his sensory perception, drastically shortening his detection range.
He was just about to signal possible enemy presence—
When the attack came.
Shuriken!
Hagoromo tilted his head, narrowly dodging the strike.
They'd been discovered.
There was no need for coded signals now.
"Attack!"
In active war zones like this, encounters between enemy ninja meant only one thing—death.
There would be no conversation. No probing moves. Every strike was meant to kill.
Before the command had fully left his mouth, Hagoromo had already surged forward.
Asuma reacted just as fast, charging after him.
Lowering his posture as he moved, Asuma traced the trajectory of the shuriken and locked onto one enemy.
The opposing ninja didn't retreat—instead, he rushed to meet them head-on.
Fast.
That was Asuma's first impression.
But Hagoromo was faster.
At a distance of barely over ten meters, lightning chakra erupted across Hagoromo's body.
Electric arcs crackled wildly through the rain as his speed spiked in an instant.
This was the advantage of ninjutsu that required no hand seals—his tempo shifted abruptly, leaving the enemy no time to respond.
Hagoromo closed the gap in a blink.
His body dipped, then sprang upward, and his right leg—carrying terrifying momentum—smashed into the enemy's nape.
On the muddy, rain-soaked ground, the enemy's body was driven violently into the earth—
And then actually bounced back up.
The soil absorbed almost nothing of the impact.
A strike like thunder.
After that blow, whether the enemy was dead or alive no longer mattered—he was incapable of fighting back.
Hagoromo didn't even slow down.
Because Asuma was already right behind him.
Without Hagoromo's lightning-charged spectacle, Asuma's movements were even more ruthless.
While the enemy was still airborne from the rebound, Asuma arrived.
One kick to the head.
Then another.
Step. Step.
Step like fangs and claws.
Rain pounded.
Lightning crackled.
The ninja said nothing—
only the friction of feet against flesh,
again and again.
A devil's rhythm.
A devil's dance.
…
Three strikes between two men, completed in one seamless flow.
That ninja was dead beyond any doubt.
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