In Amegakure, deep within a dimly lit chamber, Hanzō the Salamander sat upon the main seat—a position of authority that seemed almost to radiate pressure. The air was heavy with the scent of damp stone and steel, the ever-present drizzle outside tapping softly against the narrow windowpanes.
Before him, an Amegakure ninja knelt on one knee, head bowed in deference.
"My lord," the man began, voice steady but cautious, "our spy embedded in the Land of Hot Water has sent word. The Daimyo's son has departed the capital, traveling toward the Land of Rain."
Hanzō's eyes narrowed, his tone carrying both irritation and cold amusement. "Hmph. So… our own Daimyo wishes to parade his authority before me. This is his way of reminding me that he still considers himself the ruler of the Land of Rain." His gaze hardened. "If killing a Daimyo were not a forbidden act, I would have ended his life long ago."
The kneeling ninja remained silent. He, too, understood the bitter truth behind those words. In the shinobi world, the position of Daimyo was treated as sacrosanct. To kill one was considered an act of ultimate defiance—tantamount to rebellion against the entire political order.
It wasn't because Daimyos were powerful warriors; in fact, most were pitifully weak compared to any seasoned ninja. Rather, it was because the ruling class clung fiercely to their authority. Should a Daimyo be slain by a shinobi—or worse, by the leader of a hidden village—other Daimyos would rally their political and military influence to crush the offender.
That was the only reason Hanzō had refrained from removing the Daimyo of the Land of Rain. A single stroke of his blade could trigger a war that would place Amegakure in the crosshairs of every major nation. And yet, despite this restraint, there was no denying the truth: the real power in the Land of Rain did not lie with its Daimyo, but with Hanzō himself.
After a moment's thought, Hanzō's expression shifted from cold irritation to calculated malice. "Send a full battalion—two hundred shinobi. Ten of them will be Jonin. Their orders are to annihilate everyone in the convoy… but capture the Daimyo's son alive. Once we have him, we can demand a fortune in ransom from the Daimyo of the Land of Hot Water. And in doing so, we'll also teach him exactly where he should—and should not—meddle."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone low and deliberate. "Tell them to be discreet. No headbands, no insignia. No one must know they are from Amegakure."
The kneeling ninja bowed deeper. "Yes, my lord."
In the next instant, his form dissolved into a swirl of white smoke—the telltale sign of the Body Flicker Technique—leaving the chamber empty save for Hanzō, who sat in silence, the soft rhythm of the rain a quiet counterpoint to the violence he had just set in motion.
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The envoy from the Land of Hot Water had travelled without incident so far, and there was a clear reason for this. To begin with, the caravan was massive—its line of carriages and mounted guards stretching far enough to be seen from a distance. Such a display of strength alone was enough to deter most opportunistic bandits.
Even on the rare occasion when overconfident brigands or wandering shinobi considered attacking, their courage was swiftly crushed—either by the overwhelming pressure of Guy's Demon Lord's Haki or by the suffocating force of Antares' Dragon Might. Both were invisible auras, yet their presence could shatter the will of lesser foes.
Because of this, those who had initially grumbled about the Daimyo's security arrangements—be they guards sceptical of their comrades or ordinary members of the envoy—soon found their complaints fading into silence. Dissatisfaction turned to respect, and in some cases, outright awe.
Inside one of the central carriages, the Daimyo's son slid open the window and glanced toward Benimaru, who rode alongside on horseback.
"We've crossed into the Land of Rain's territory," the young noble said. "No signs of Amegakure scouts or shinobi? Not even a probing team?"
Benimaru turned his head, answering evenly, "Your Highness, we've detected no such activity thus far. But rest assured—we remain alert for any sudden attack."
The Daimyo's son smiled, his shoulders easing. "That's a relief. With all of you here, I feel completely at ease."
The words had barely left his mouth when Erza's voice rang out from the very front of the column—sharp and commanding enough to cut through the rhythmic clatter of hooves.
"Alert! Enemy ahead!"
The Daimyo's son froze for a moment, then lightly slapped his own lips in frustration. "Crow's mouth… damn it." He truly regretted having spoken so soon.
Benimaru's eyes hardened, his tone suddenly crisp with authority.
"Your Highness," he said to the Daimyo's son, "close the window—and no matter what happens, do not step out of the carriage until we give the word."
The Daimyo's son obeyed immediately, sliding the window shut without protest.
Once the glass was sealed, Benimaru closed his own eyes and sank into focus. The physical world around him dissolved into darkness inside his mind's perception. The outlines of trees, road, and sky faded away, leaving only the distinct glows of chakra—shining motes of light scattered in the void.
He filtered out the familiar signatures of their own convoy, pushing his senses outward, layer by layer. Then, at roughly two hundred meters, he found them: hundreds of pale blue lights, their positions spread out in a wide arc. An ambush.
"About twelve Jonin leading the formation," Benimaru muttered under his breath, recognizing the stronger, brighter signatures among the rest.
Across the caravan, other Uzumaki siblings skilled in sensory techniques came to the same conclusion almost instantly. Without a single spoken signal, they all prepared for battle.
At the head of the column, Erza guided her horse toward the guard commander—a man with the strength of a special Jonin. Her voice was calm but resolute.
"We, the Uzumaki clan, will take point and break their formation head-on. You will halt the caravan a short distance back and form a tight defensive perimeter. Eliminate any enemy who slips through, but rest assured—no opponent beyond your strength will make it this far. That, I promise you."
The commander gave a firm nod. He did not question her plan; as the appointed leader of the caravan, her word was final. His duty was to follow, not to second-guess.
Erza turned in the saddle, her voice carrying like a whip crack.
"All Uzumaki—gather!"
Her nine siblings appeared in front of her almost instantly, their movements sharp and precise. She outlined her strategy quickly, each of them nodding in understanding.
Moments later, when the caravan was still fifty meters from the kill zone, Erza raised her hand. The convoy slowed to a halt, and the guards shifted into a disciplined formation, shields and weapons angled outward.
Then the Uzumaki siblings vanished in blurs of motion, their speed breaking the stillness as they shot forward—straight toward the hidden enemy.
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