The first, cruellest light of dawn bled across the eastern sky, painting the jagged peaks surrounding Iwagakure in hues of bruised purple and bloody orange. It illuminated a figure staggering through the barren, rocky foothills leading to the village, a dark smudge against the grey scree. This wasn't a shinobi returning triumphant; this was a broken vessel leaking life onto the unforgiving stone.
It was Jiro, or what remained of him.
Every breath was a ragged, wet sawing in his chest, each inhalation scraping against shattered ribs. Agony was a constant, white-hot hum beneath the deeper, chilling numbness threatening to pull him under.
His left arm hung useless, a ruin of torn muscle and splintered bone, bound crudely with strips of his own flak jacket that were now saturated black-red. Blood, thick and dark, seeped from a dozen wounds: a deep gash across his thigh that left a glistening trail on the rocks, punctures in his side that bubbled faintly with each exhale, countless lacerations mapping a brutal journey across his torso and legs.
His standard Iwa fatigues were no longer brown and olive, but a stiff, crackling carapace of dried and drying crimson, plastered to his skin with sweat, grime, and his own vital fluids.
The once-proud Iwagakure forehead protector, strapped firmly to his brow despite everything, was a grim tapestry – crusted brown with ancient soil, smeared with fresh, glistening red, and slick with the sweat of unimaginable effort.
You could barely make out the stylised village symbol beneath the grime, but the shape, the allegiance, was unmistakable. An Iwa shinobi, brought to the brink. His vision swam, tunnelling at the edges, the world tilting precariously.
He focused on the rhythm: Step. Drag. Grunt. Step.
The cool morning air, usually refreshing, felt like knives in his ravaged lungs. He'd been moving like this for hours, fueled only by raw will, chakra reserves long since scraped bone-dry, the phantom memory of yellow light and silent death propelling him forward. He'd chewed bitter soldier pills until his gums bled, pushed his body beyond limits he didn't know it had, driven by the single, searing imperative;
'Warn Iwa.'
And then, through the haze of pain and encroaching darkness, he saw them.
The village gates.
Massive, imposing structures carved from the living mountain itself, towering sentinels guarding the entrance to the Village Hidden in the Stones. Bathed in the nascent dawn light, they looked like the jaws of salvation. A choked sob, half-relief, half-agony, tore from Jiro's throat. 'Almost… there…'
The sight ignited the last dregs of his fading strength. He straightened, or tried to, a spasm of pain ripping through his side making him gasp, "Hssssk!"
But he pushed. He ran. Or rather, he achieved a lurching, staggering parody of a run. His good leg pistoned forward with desperate force, with the wounded one barely following, scraping across the stone.
Each jarring impact sent fresh waves of agony through his broken frame, his vision flashing red and black. Blood pulsed hotter from his wounds.
The gates loomed larger, details resolving: the intricate stonework, the guard posts carved high into the rock face. He could see movement atop the walls now.
He crossed the final hundred yards in a blur of torment, collapsing just ten paces from the massive, closed gates. He didn't fall so much as crumple, like a puppet with its strings severed.
"THWUMP."
He hit the hard-packed earth leading to the gate, a cloud of dust puffing up around him. The world narrowed to the cold stone beneath his cheek, the coppery taste flooding his mouth, and the overwhelming, seductive pull of oblivion.
"HEY! DOWN THERE!"
A sharp cry echoed from the battlements. "CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!" An alarm bell began to toll, its harsh, metallic voice shattering the dawn quiet.
"Open the inspection port! NOW!"
"SCREEEECH… THUD."
A smaller, heavy door within the massive gate groaned open. Two Iwa chuunin guards burst out, hands on kunai pouches, eyes scanning the perimeter before locking onto the crumpled figure.
"By the Stone…" one breathed, his voice tight with horror as he took in the sheer amount of blood, the ruined arm, the unnatural stillness broken only by those terrible, wet breaths.
"Jiro-san? Jiro-san! Kami, what happened?" The guard's hands hovered, unsure where to touch without causing more harm. Jiro's face was a mask of pain and exhaustion, etched deep with lines of suffering, pale beneath the blood and dirt. His eyes fluttered open, pupils dilated, struggling to focus.
"Medical-nin!" the other guard yelled back towards the gate.
"WE NEED A MEDICAL-NIN NOW!"
Jiro's lips moved, forming silent words. The senior guard leaned closer, "Jiro-san? Hold on! Help's coming!"
Jiro's hand, trembling violently, moved feebly towards his chest, towards a sealed pouch strapped beneath his ruined flak jacket. It was sticky with blood.
He managed to pull out a scroll case. It wasn't pristine; it was dented, scorched in one corner, and utterly saturated with blood – Jiro's blood.
He thrust it weakly towards the guard.
"T-take…" he rasped, the sound barely audible, a death rattle forming in his chest.
"Jiro-san, forget that! We need to get you inside!" The guard tried to push the scroll away, reaching instead to lift him.
Jiro's eyes snapped open wider, a sudden, fierce intensity burning through the haze of pain and approaching death. With a surge of desperate strength, he grabbed the guard's wrist with his good hand.
The grip was surprisingly strong, cold, and sticky with blood.
"No!"
The word was a guttural croak, but laced with undeniable command. "Scroll… Tsuchikage… Directly…" He shoved the blood-slicked cylinder harder against the guard's chest.
"NOW!"
His strength vanished as quickly as it came. He sagged back, his breathing becoming even shallower, more rapid. The guard stared at the scroll pressed against his vest, then back at Jiro's rapidly fading eyes. He understood the weight of this.
"Okay, Jiro-san. Okay. Tsuchikage. Directly."
Jiro's gaze seemed to drift towards the brightening sky above the stone gates.
"…Yellow… Flash…" The whisper was faint, chilling. "…Konoha…" A final, shallow breath escaped his lips, carrying the name like a curse into the dawn air.
"Huuuhhh…" Then, nothing.
=====
High in the Tsuchikage's austere audience chamber, Onoki of the Two Scales stood before a stone bier. Dawn light filtered through high, narrow windows, casting long, sharp shadows. Onoki himself was a study in contained fury.
In his hand, held with distaste between thumb and forefinger, was the scroll. He had unsealed it. The parchment inside was stained a deep, ugly brown with Jiro's dried blood, obscuring some characters, but the message was horrifyingly clear.
Words leapt out: 'Minato Namikaze… Annihilated Suna forward camp… Witnessed… Attacked our outpost Sigma… Daiki dead… All dead… Sole survivor… Yellow Flash framed conflict… Used Wind Jutsu on our camp… Earth on Suna's… False battle… Konoha deception… Warn…'
Onoki's knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the bier. The air around him grew heavy, thick with the pressure of his barely leashed chakra.
"That… BASTARD!" The curse ripped from him, raw and venomous, echoing off the stone walls. He wasn't cursing Minato in that moment. His fury was directed at the man he perceived as pulling the strings. "Hiruzen Sarutobi! You deceitful FOX!"
He forced himself to take a deep, shuddering breath, the sound harsh in the silent room.
"KNOCK-KNOCK!"
Just then, a sharp rap on the heavy stone door.
"Enter," Onoki grated.
A nervous-looking chunin messenger slipped inside, bowing low. "Tsuchikage-sama, urgent word has arrived."
Onoki didn't turn, his gaze still fixed on Jiro's shrouded form. "Which word?" he asked, his tone icy.
"From Sunagakure, sir. The messenger hawk arrived moments ago."
"Very well. Bring it to the cypher room immediately. I will be there shortly."
He finally turned away from the bier, the movement stiff. He gestured to a stone-faced attendant who had been standing silently near the door. "See to Jiro. Full honours. Compensate his family… generously. He died delivering vital intelligence. Iwagakure owes him its vigilance."
The attendant bowed deeply. "Hai, Tsuchikage-sama."
Onoki didn't linger. The scroll from Suna demanded immediate attention. He strode towards the door, the bloodied report about Minato clutched tightly in his hand. He pushed open the heavy stone door, stepping out into the cooler, dimmer corridor beyond.
He managed three steps.
"KRA-KOOOOOOOM!!!!"
An explosion occurred.