The caravan didn't break into chaos.
It shuddered.
Horses stamped nervously, breath puffing out in harsh clouds while handlers murmured to them in low, steady voices. Wagon wheels creaked as weight shifted. A few civilians clung to the cart sides like they expected the forest itself to lunge again.
Some people hugged.
Some checked inventory with shaking hands.
Others just stared at the treeline, eyes wide, waiting for the next thud that never came.
But when the counting finished—when crates were opened, seals checked, harnesses tightened—one truth became clear.
Nothing was missing.
No wagons damaged beyond superficial scrapes.
No cargo spilled.
No blood.
Just fear.
The kind that lingered in the chest long after danger passed.
Team Eleven didn't celebrate.
They moved.
Reina snapped back into command first, voice sharp and steady as she called positions. Samui shifted to the rear, scanning behind them with practiced calm, already recalculating distances and fallback routes. Raizen vaulted down from the wagon roof and swept the perimeter, webs flicking out in short, controlled bursts—nothing wide enough to expose him, just enough to confirm they weren't being followed.
Only when the immediate area was secured did the civilians approach.
One by one at first.
Then in a rush.
"Thank you—"
"I thought we were done for—"
"That thing was enormous—"
Gratitude spilled out raw and unpolished. Hands clasped shoulders. Bows were given too deeply, too earnestly. Someone pressed a waterskin into Samui's hands before she could refuse. Another tried to shove a small pouch of ryō toward Reina, who shut it down with a look sharp enough to cut steel.
Raizen felt the praise wash over him—and let it pass.
Compliments didn't mean the danger was gone. They meant people felt safe enough to stop paying attention.
And that was when things usually went wrong.
Genzo moved through the caravan like a steady current.
He didn't bark orders. He didn't panic. He simply was there—checking straps, speaking softly to the younger traders, crouching beside a shaken guard and reminding him to breathe.
"You did well," Genzo told one rookie with wet eyes. "You held your position. That matters."
To another: "It's over. Look—see? Wagons are intact. We're still moving."
Raizen watched him quietly.
Genzo didn't need to do this himself. He could've delegated. Could've stayed back and let others handle reassurance.
But he didn't.
This caravan wasn't just his business.
It was his responsibility.
And it showed.
By the time Genzo returned to the front, fear had dulled into something manageable. Horses calmed. Civilians steadied. The road ahead no longer felt like it was closing in.
Reina gave a short nod to Samui.
Samui signaled Raizen.
Formation reset.
"Alright," Genzo called, raising his voice just enough to be heard. "We move. Slow and steady. Stay close."
The caravan began to roll again.
Wheels turned. Hooves stepped forward. The forest swallowed the sounds of what had almost become a disaster.
Team Eleven walked with them—alert, quiet, and very aware of one uncomfortable truth:
If something like that had shown up once…
It could happen again.
And next time, it might not be alone.
⸻
The next four days passed like wind through tall grass.
By the end of the first night after the boar, the caravan members had started to breathe again. By the second, they were laughing—careful at first, like laughter might tempt fate, then louder as the road stayed quiet and the sky stayed clear. Someone started telling bad jokes over dinner. Someone else began humming while they walked. The horses stopped shying at every snapped twig.
Fear, for civilians, was a storm.
It hit hard—then it moved on.
But for shinobi?
Fear was a weight.
And Team Eleven carried it like armor they couldn't take off.
They stayed tight in formation. Too tight.
Every time a bird burst from a branch, Reina's hand twitched toward her sword. Every time wind moved through brush, Samui's gaze snapped to the sound like she was measuring distance to a kill zone. Raizen kept catching himself staring too long into the treeline, breath shallow, Full Body Circulation humming steady under his ribs like a warning bell.
They were doing their job.
They were doing it too hard.
It started showing on day three.
A trader—one of the younger men—lagged behind after a steep stretch, boots slipping in loose dirt. Not injured. Just tired. He shifted a crate on his shoulder, trying to keep up with wagon pace.
Reina turned.
Her voice cracked like a whip.
"Pick it up."
The trader blinked. "I— I'm trying—"
"This isn't a stroll," Reina snapped, stepping closer. "If you slow the line, you slow all of us. You want another beast to find us because you couldn't move your legs?"
The kid flinched like she'd slapped him.
The whole caravan went quiet for a heartbeat—the laughter fading, the mood collapsing into something uncomfortable.
Raizen felt it immediately.
That sharp, invisible drop when clients stopped seeing you as protection… and started seeing you as danger.
He stepped in fast.
"Reina," he said quietly—not arguing, just grounding her.
Then he looked at the trader and softened his tone.
"Two minutes," Raizen said. "Drink. Adjust your load. Then you move with the wagon. You're fine."
The trader nodded fast, eyes down. "Yes, sir."
Reina's jaw worked like she wanted to say more.
But Genzo arrived before it could spread.
He didn't scold Reina. He didn't apologize for her either.
He simply walked up to the trader, put a hand on his shoulder, and spoke low enough that it felt private.
"You're doing fine," Genzo said. "But you listen to her anyway. She's right about one thing."
The trader glanced up, confused.
Genzo's eyes flicked down the road—calm, steady, adult.
"The longer we're out here," he said, "the more we invite trouble. We move as one. If you need help carrying something, you ask. Pride won't keep you alive."
Then—like he wanted the message to land in everyone's bones—Genzo reached down, took the crate from the trader's hands, and shifted it onto his own shoulder.
The caravan murmured.
Raizen stared.
Genzo carried it for the next half mile like it weighed nothing.
Not because he had to.
Because he wanted the lesson to stick.
When the line was steady again, Raizen walked beside him and murmured, "Sorry about her."
Genzo waved it off without even looking offended.
"She's protecting us," he said simply. "It's ugly sometimes. That's fine. I'd rather ugly protection than pretty funerals."
Raizen blinked.
Accountable. Clear-eyed. No ego.
He's rich… but he's not soft.
And the tension didn't stop with Reina.
It started leaking out of Samui too.
She became a quiet machine—always counting, always calculating. Every rest stop she was sketching routes in the dirt with the end of a stick—alternate paths, fallback points, nearest water sources.
And her eyes kept checking the rear.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Like the boar hadn't been an accident.
Like it had been a warning.
Raizen wasn't any better.
Whenever the caravan stopped, he laced short threads into the dirt, trees, wagon axles—miniature webs that gave him little pulses of information. Not full Web-Sense—he couldn't afford to anchor deep while moving—but enough to feel vibrations in a tight radius.
Enough to not be surprised again.
By day four, the caravan members had started watching the genin the way people watched storm clouds.
Still grateful.
But nervous.
Their laughter was back, but quieter. Their jokes were careful. Like they were trying not to disturb the shinobi who looked ready to snap at shadows.
Even the horses seemed to feel it—restless, unsettled, picking up on anxiety like scent.
That was when Raitaro decided he'd seen enough.
Morning of day five, right after camp broke, the sun barely above the tree line—
"Team Eleven," Raitaro called. "To me. Now."
The three genin moved instantly and stopped in a tight line.
Raitaro's eyes swept over them.
Samui's too-still posture.
Reina's clenched jaw.
Raizen's steady breathing that didn't match the tension in his shoulders.
For a moment, he didn't smile.
His gaze was sharp—violent in that quiet way it got when he was measuring something important.
Then he stepped forward and wrapped an arm around all three of them at once, pulling them into a hug like they were little kids.
Reina went rigid. "Sensei—what the hell—"
"Shh," Raitaro murmured, squeezing once, like he was resetting their bones. "You're fine."
Raizen blinked.
Samui froze for half a second—then exhaled, the tension in her shoulders cracking like ice.
The caravan members whispered. A few smiled like it was the cutest thing they'd seen all trip.
Reina looked like she wanted to vanish into the dirt.
Raitaro didn't care.
He held them there just long enough for their bodies to remember what calm felt like.
Then he leaned his head slightly, voice low.
"You're doing an amazing job," he said. "But you're leaking."
Reina bristled. "We're watching for threats."
"I know," Raitaro said. "That's the problem."
He pulled back just enough to look them in the eyes one at a time.
"Clients don't need to see your fear," he said. "They need to see your confidence. Even if you have to fake it. Especially if you have to fake it."
Samui's eyes narrowed. "What if we relax and something happens?"
Raitaro's smile returned—small, sharp.
"Then you react," he said. "Not before. When."
His gaze slid to Raizen.
"And if you spend every mile expecting the next attack, you'll be tired when it actually comes. Your chakra will be frayed. Your hands will shake. Your judgement will shorten."
He looked back at all three.
"You know what panic does to jutsu?"
Silence.
Raitaro's voice went colder.
"It makes you sloppy. Sloppy gets people killed."
He let it sit.
Then softened just a fraction.
"You three are shinobi," he said. "Which means you learn a skill civilians don't get to learn."
He tapped his chest once.
"You decide what to feel later."
He stepped back and spread his hands.
"So steel yourselves," he said, grin flashing. "Finish the mission. And stop terrifying the people you're being paid to protect."
Reina's cheeks were still red.
Samui's shoulders had dropped.
Raizen's breathing stayed steady—but the fist around his ribs loosened.
Raitaro turned away like the conversation was done.
Then glanced back over his shoulder.
"And Team Eleven?"
They straightened instinctively.
Raitaro's grin sharpened.
"Save the fear," he said. "You'll need it tomorrow."
⸻
Day Five came with a different kind of air.
Familiar ground. The trees thinned. The scent of hot springs rode the wind in faint mineral threads. The road felt worn differently, like it had been walked a thousand times by the same tired feet.
The caravan recognized it.
You could see it in loosened shoulders, raised voices, even the horses stepping easier like they knew home was close.
Team Eleven felt it too.
They'd finally learned to let tension sit behind their eyes instead of in front of them.
Samui's gaze still swept the road, but it wasn't snapping like a trap.
Reina still walked point, but her shoulders weren't clenched like she expected the world to leap at her.
Raizen kept Full Body Circulation humming faint under his ribs—quiet, controlled, like a second heart that refused to panic.
For the first time in days… it almost felt like they were going to finish clean.
And that was when Lady Unlucky decided to show her teeth.
Shoosh—!
Clunk.
Samui stopped mid-step.
A shuriken sat perfectly wedged in the rear wagon's wheel assembly—angled like someone had thrown it with intention, not desperation.
Not a wild toss.
A placement.
Samui's eyes lifted to the treeline.
Nothing.
Just rocks.
Just shadows.
Just stillness.
The kind that only happened when something was holding its breath.
"Stop the line," she hissed, low.
But before the words could carry—
Boom.
Boom—!
BOOM!
Smoke bombs hit the dirt like meteor strikes.
Gray-black clouds erupted outward in thick choking waves, swallowing the road in an instant.
The world turned into noise.
Horses screamed.
Civilians shouted.
Metal clattered—caltrops thrown fast and low.
Shuriken thudded into wood and leather.
The horses tried to bolt—
and couldn't.
Because the bandits had done it right.
Caltrops and tack pins were driven into the dirt at the wagon corners, and thin wire—nearly invisible—was anchored across the path. Any horse that lunged forward would shred its own legs or flip its harness.
So they panicked in place instead—rearing, bucking, slamming against the wagons like living wrecking balls.
The civilians froze.
Not cowardice.
Blindness.
Smoke burned eyes, filled lungs, turned the world into a wall.
Team Eleven's instincts snapped awake—
—but there was nothing to strike.
No silhouettes.
No clean direction.
A counterattack would be wasted chakra into fog.
Then Samui—rear guard—caught it.
Movement.
Not one.
Many.
Shapes slipping through the smoke like wolves using a storm.
For a split second her mind did the thing it always did when stakes got real:
Calculate. Choose the best option. Don't make the wrong one.
Engage?
Or fall back and protect the wagons closest to her?
Her breath caught.
Not fear.
Hesitation.
And that hesitation cost them the one thing you could never buy in an ambush:
tempo.
Bandits burst from the treeline with battle cries meant to do one thing—make civilians lock up.
They threw blades and spears into the smoke, not aiming to kill the shinobi—
aiming for horses.
aiming for wheels.
aiming for chaos.
A spear punched into a horse's side with a wet, sickening sound.
The animal shrieked, adrenaline overriding pain, ripped hard against its harness—
a strap snapped.
The horse tore free and vanished into the smoke, dragging broken rope behind it like a screaming banner.
And Team Eleven still couldn't see.
Raizen didn't wait for perfect.
He reacted.
He vaulted up onto the nearest wagon roof, wood flexing under his feet, and snapped his hands out.
Threads shot from his fingers—fast, practiced—lacing into dirt, wagon frames, nearby trunks.
Not a full field web.
Just enough.
His eyes closed as Web-Sense spread.
And the moment the threads caught vibrations—
his stomach dropped.
Too many.
Twenty—maybe more—closing from multiple angles, moving like they'd rehearsed it.
The sensory rush slammed him, his brain trying to process every footfall at once—
but he ripped what mattered out of the flood and shouted:
"Bandits!" Raizen barked. "Twenty—every angle!"
Reina's head snapped toward him through smoke. Samui's shoulders tightened like she'd been slapped awake.
Then—
FLASH.
A cluster of light tags detonated in the center of the caravan like miniature suns.
White pain filled the world.
Civilians screamed.
Horses thrashed harder.
Raizen's vision went blank for a heartbeat.
But Reina was already moving.
Her cloak flared as she snapped it up, the fabric catching the flash, shielding her eyes for just long enough.
And through the fading glare, she saw what the smoke had been hiding:
Bandits pushing in.
Not charging blindly.
Advancing in pairs—one with a weapon, one with a cable or net.
Controlled.
Professional.
Reina surged forward to meet them—because that's what she did.
She unsealed her sword in one smooth motion, steel sliding free with a hiss that felt like a promise, and slammed into the first pair.
Bandit One swung a scimitar down hard.
Reina met it with a clean parry that rang like thunder.
She stepped in, kicked him square in the chest—
and sent him flying backward into smoke.
Bandit Two stabbed from her flank with a spear.
Reina pivoted, let the point slide past her ribs by a hair, switched to reverse grip—
and drove her pommel into his face.
He stumbled.
She swept his legs out and dropped him to the dirt.
Her blade came down—
not to kill.
To pin.
The katana punched through shoulder muscle and buried into the ground beside his neck.
He howled.
Reina ripped it free before the scream could become a signal.
More shapes pushed in.
More weapons.
And Reina did what Reina always did when she smelled a fight:
She pressed.
She tried to cut her way through all of it at once—because her instincts said if she broke their front, the whole ambush would collapse.
But that was exactly what they wanted.
Because while she was tearing apart their decoys—
two shadows slipped past her line in the smoke and went around.
Toward the wagons.
Toward the civilians.
Toward Genzo.
And meanwhile—
Raizen was in the center where he belonged—
trying to do everything.
Birdcage threads snapped outward, lightning whispering along them in controlled pulses—quiet, efficient—wrapping ankles, catching wrists, yanking weapons off-line.
He shoved civilians down behind wagon wheels.
Redirected thrown blades.
Tried to anchor the whole battlefield in his hands.
It worked.
And it cost him.
A javelin came out of the smoke—thrown with practice, not rage.
Raizen saw it too late.
It punched clean through his shoulder with a brutal thunk.
Pain flared hot and immediate.
His threads shuddered.
His concentration hiccuped—
and in that single broken moment, the center loosened.
A weighted rope snapped up like a serpent and wrapped his torso.
Another loop caught his legs.
Bandits surged in from three angles at once, hands moving fast—knotting, anchoring, cinching.
Raizen hit the wagon roof hard, breath punching out of him.
Clubs came down.
Not to kill.
To overwhelm.
To keep him from stabilizing.
Full Body Circulation kept his body from shutting down outright—kept his nerves from spiraling into panic—but pain was still pain, and he felt control sliding.
He grit his teeth, hands shaking through signs.
"Raiton—" he rasped through smoke. "Raijū Shōtotsu!"
Lightning surged from his palm in a straight brutal line.
The beast smashed through fog like a battering ram, clipping two bandits and blasting them backward in a crackling tumble.
It bought him a breath.
Raizen roared through it, snapped his spear into his hand from his wrist seal, and slammed the butt end down.
The rope went taut—
he twisted.
Metal bit.
The shaft tore through the weighted line like a blade through meat.
Free.
He dropped into a basic fighting grip—one hand near center, one at the rear—turning his spear into a piston.
Thrust.
Thrust.
Thrust.
He drove bandits back with reach and timing, keeping them from swarming again—
but the damage was already done.
Because while Team Eleven fought at three points—
front.
rear.
center—
the bandits executed one thing:
Extraction.
Two figures slipped through smoke near the center wagons.
They didn't swing wildly.
They moved like they had a map.
One tossed a smoke tag right into Genzo's face.
The other popped a flash at his feet.
Genzo flinched back, blinded—then immediately stepped in front of two civilians who'd been knocked down.
Even without sight, his instinct was protection.
That choice cost him.
A fist smashed into his face.
He staggered.
A cable snapped around his ankles.
He tried to plant his feet—but the cable was already anchored.
A long rehearsed whistle cut through the chaos.
High.
Sharp.
A command.
The cable yanked.
Genzo's legs flew out from under him.
And he was dragged—hard, fast—off the road and into the forest like a fish being reeled from water.
"GENZO!" someone screamed.
Raizen spun, eyes wide.
Reina snapped her head toward the sound—
and for the first time, her blade hesitated.
Samui's breath caught as she finally committed—
but commitment was late.
Smoke swallowed Genzo whole.
The forest closed behind him.
The ambush didn't end with blood.
It ended with absence.
A gap in the caravan line where their leader had been.
A cable trail cutting into dirt like a scar.
And the sickening realization settling in Team Eleven's chests at the same time:
They hadn't been beaten.
They'd been played.
⸻
The smoke didn't vanish all at once.
It unraveled—slow, stubborn strands peeling off the road like something alive refusing to let go.
Raizen's lungs burned. His shoulder burned worse.
He stood in the center of the wreckage with his spear braced in dirt, chest rising and falling in controlled counts while Full Body Circulation kept his body from shaking apart.
In—two—three.
Out—two—three.
Around him the caravan came back online in ugly pieces.
A handler whispered to a horse with foam on its lips, trying to keep it from panicking again.
Two traders checked a crate seal with trembling hands like they were praying the stamp would still be intact.
Someone cried quietly into their sleeve, embarrassed by the sound.
And the road—where Genzo had been—was a wound.
A long shallow groove carved into dirt where the cable had dragged him into trees.
No blood.
No body.
Just absence.
Reina's blade was still out.
She stood a few steps ahead, shoulders up, eyes tracking treeline like she expected Genzo to walk back out any second and prove the world didn't get to take people it hadn't earned.
Samui crouched near the rear wagon, fingers brushing the shuriken embedded in the wheel assembly.
Her face was calm.
But her eyes were too sharp.
Raitaro didn't speak until the caravan stopped screaming.
Then—voosh.
He was there.
Standing beside the cable groove like it belonged to him.
His gaze swept the scene once, and the air tightened.
Even the traders quieted, sensing the shift.
"Report," Raitaro said.
No comfort. No praise.
Just a word stamped into stone.
Reina turned first, jaw clenched.
"Smoke screen to blind the caravan," she said, clipped. "Flash tags to disrupt. They targeted horses and wheels to lock movement."
Samui added without looking up, "Bandits moved in pairs—weapon and restraint. Objective was extraction, not slaughter. Formation was rehearsed."
Raitaro's eyes slid to Raizen.
Raizen's hand tightened on his spear without him meaning to.
"…Twenty," Raizen said, forcing his voice steady. "Multiple angles. They had a practiced thrower—javelin class. And a cable team ready. They knew exactly who they wanted."
Raitaro nodded once.
"Losses?"
"No civilian deaths," Reina said. "No shinobi deaths."
"Two horses injured. One escaped," Samui added. "Cargo… some was taken."
Raizen's head snapped to her. "What?"
Samui rose slowly, dust on her knees.
"They didn't only take Genzo," she said. "They took light goods. Quick pull. High value."
As if summoned by her words, one trader stumbled over holding a broken seal cord, voice shaking.
"The lacquer box—" he croaked. "The stamped one. Yunokawa registry—It's gone."
Raizen's stomach sank.
Not random looting.
Documents.
Leverage.
Reina's voice came out sharp.
"They got away clean," she spat. "No bodies. No trail through this mess."
Raitaro's gaze stayed calm, but it was the calm of a blade.
"Good," he said.
The word hit like a slap.
Reina blinked. "Sensei—"
"Good," Raitaro repeated. "Now you know what a real operation looks like."
Silence.
The caravan members were listening now too—trying not to, but unable to stop.
Raitaro turned slightly, taking in the wagons.
"Mission status?" he asked.
Samui answered first.
"Escort is still possible," she said. "We can patch harnesses. Wheels are intact enough. We continue."
Raitaro nodded.
Then looked at all three of them.
And his voice lowered.
"Decision," he said. "Right now. As Team Eleven."
Raizen's breath stalled.
Reina's shoulders tensed.
Samui's eyes narrowed.
Raitaro's gaze flicked toward the forest.
"Do you pursue Genzo," he said, "or do you finish the escort?"
Raizen stepped forward immediately.
"We go after him."
Reina snapped her head to him. "Raizen—"
"We go after him," Raizen repeated, voice tightening. "He's the client. He's the reason this caravan exists. You saw him. He carried people like they mattered."
Samui's hesitation returned like an old scar.
"If we pursue," she said carefully, "we leave seven civilians and four wagons with two genin. That's an invitation for the bandits to circle back. Or for someone worse."
Raizen's jaw clenched.
"They won't—"
"You don't know that," Samui cut in, quiet but firm. "And we don't have a sensor. We don't know if the forest is trapped. We don't even know if they're alone."
Reina's eyes were hard.
"Our contract is the caravan," she said.
Raizen looked at her like she'd insulted him.
"They took Genzo."
"And if we split," Reina shot back, "they take everyone else too."
Raizen's throat tightened.
He could still see Genzo from days ago—steady, warm, accountable.
Genzo carrying a crate because pride didn't get people home.
Genzo stepping in front of civilians even blind.
Raizen's fingers flexed.
"This is wrong," he said.
"It's reality," Raitaro replied.
Raizen forced his voice level.
"If we don't go now," he said, "they'll have time. They'll torture him. They'll kill him. Or they'll use him. Routes. Schedules. Yunokawa."
Samui's eyes flicked to the stolen box mention.
"That's exactly why we can't gamble the rest of the caravan," she said. "Genzo is one target. The caravan is seven. And now they already have registry papers."
Reina exhaled harshly.
"We deliver," she said. "Then we report. Then Kumo sends the right team."
Raizen stared at her.
"You think they'll send a team fast enough?"
Reina didn't flinch.
"I think we're genin," she said. "And we're not getting this caravan killed because your heart is loud."
Raizen went still.
That hit.
Raitaro didn't interrupt.
He let the decision be theirs.
"Vote," he said.
Samui spoke first.
"Finish the escort."
Reina followed immediately.
"Finish the escort."
Raizen didn't answer right away.
His eyes were still on the forest.
Raitaro waited.
Raizen's hand tightened until knuckles whitened around the spear shaft.
"…Pursue Genzo," he said.
One voice.
Against two.
The vote was decided.
The air felt colder.
Reina didn't look at him.
Samui did—just once—with something almost apologetic.
Raitaro nodded like this outcome had always been coming.
"Escort first," he said.
Raizen's jaw flexed.
"But—"
Raitaro cut him off, sharp.
"That 'but' is how you get clients killed," he said. "Escort first."
Raizen swallowed so hard it hurt.
He wanted to argue.
He wanted to sprint into the woods alone and damn consequences.
But he could feel the caravan behind him.
Shaking hands.
Frightened eyes.
Wagons filled with everything these people had gambled to build their village.
If he left and something happened to them—
Genzo would've died for nothing.
Raizen's breath shook once.
He hated that logic.
Because it was the kind of logic that got good people buried.
Raitaro stepped closer, low enough that only Team Eleven could hear.
"This is why C-rank exists," he murmured. "Not to make you heroes. To teach you what responsibility costs."
Raizen stared at the dirt.
At the cable groove.
At the line where Genzo had been removed from the world.
Reina sheathed her blade with a harsh click.
Samui moved to clear the shuriken and re-seat the wheel pin.
The caravan began to re-form—slow, shaken, alive.
And that's when Raizen saw it.
Half-buried near the smoke-blackened dirt, snagged under a snapped harness strap—
a sealing tag.
Not Kumo.
Not Yunokawa.
Raizen crouched and picked it up with two fingers like it might bite.
The inkwork was competent.
But the structure was wrong.
The anchor line was reversed.
The chakra channel bent the wrong way—like someone had copied the shape without understanding why it curled.
A seal used wrong.
Not "advanced fuinjutsu."
A counterfeit.
Raizen lifted it toward Raitaro.
"Sensei," he said quietly. "They had fūinjutsu."
Raitaro's gaze sharpened.
He took the tag, studied it for a heartbeat, then his mouth curved into something that wasn't a smile.
"No," Raitaro said. "They had someone who trained them to imitate it."
Reina's head snapped up.
Samui's eyes narrowed.
Raizen felt something cold settle in his stomach.
This wasn't random bandits.
This wasn't hunger.
This was instruction.
Raitaro folded the tag and tucked it away.
"Move the caravan," he ordered. "Now."
Raizen looked back once—one last time—at the forest.
And in his chest, anger burned clean and steady.
Not wild lightning.
Not panic.
A vow.
Because they were choosing to finish the mission—
but Genzo wasn't becoming a forgotten footnote.
Not to Raizen.
Not ever.
⸻
The forest swallowed sound differently.
Out on the road, noise had been chaos—horses screaming, civilians crying, steel ringing.
In here?
Everything was muffled. Damp. Heavy. Like the trees were swallowing the world on purpose.
Genzo Arakawa came to with dirt in his mouth and rope biting his wrists.
His vision was smeared from the flash tag—white ghosts at the edges, shapes wobbling when he tried to focus. Every breath tasted like smoke and wet leaves.
He tried to move—
A boot pressed into his back and pinned him.
"Don't," a voice warned. Not angry. Practical. "You fight, you get hit. You stay still, you breathe."
Genzo's jaw clenched. He forced air in slowly.
In… out…
That was when he realized what hurt most.
Not the rope.
Not the bruises.
The sound.
Metal clinking.
Crates shifting.
People moving fast—too organized to be desperate.
They weren't dragging him for sport.
They were extracting him like he was cargo.
A sack thumped to the ground nearby. Another followed.
Genzo narrowed his eyes, trying to see through blur.
Silhouettes moved between trees—bandits, yes—but not sloppy. Quiet steps. Practiced hands. One checked a pouch seal with a quick thumb press like he'd done it a hundred times.
Loot.
Not everything—just the light, high-value goods you could carry and sell fast.
Medicine vials.
A coil of high-grade wire.
Sealed cloth bundles.
And one object Genzo recognized even through the haze—
a small lacquer box stamped with Yunokawa's registry seal.
He felt cold settle behind his ribs.
They weren't just stealing.
They were taking paperwork.
A bandit crouched in front of him—mask half pulled up, eyes bright with adrenaline.
"You're important," the bandit said, almost impressed. "You got guards, papers, route permissions. Schedule. Names."
Genzo didn't answer.
The bandit leaned closer.
"Tell us," he said. "How often you run. How many wagons. Which cargo. Which escorts."
Genzo's lips split into the beginning of a smile.
Small.
Mean.
It made the bandit hesitate.
"Ask me again," Genzo said roughly, "and I'll spit blood in your eye."
The bandit's hand twitched.
But before he could react—
A thin sound cut through the trees.
Not loud.
Not a shout.
A tap—like a coin striking stone.
Every bandit nearby straightened.
Even the one in front of Genzo backed off half a step, suddenly careful.
A figure stepped out from behind a trunk.
Not in armor.
Not in a dramatic cloak.
Just dark layers that drank moonlight, hood up, face mostly hidden.
But Genzo saw the detail that mattered:
A glove with stains that weren't dirt.
And the scent that reached him a heartbeat later—sharp and wrong.
Herbs.
Chemicals.
Poison.
She didn't speak at first.
She just looked at the scattered loot, the ropes, the men.
Then her gaze settled on Genzo.
It didn't hate him.
It measured him.
Like he was a tool to use.
One of the bandits swallowed hard.
"Boss," he said quickly, "we got him. And we got goods—"
Her hand lifted slightly.
The bandit shut up instantly.
She crouched in front of Genzo, close enough that he could hear her breathing—steady, controlled. Not excited.
She smelled faintly of rain falling on rust.
"Genzo Arakawa," she said softly.
Genzo's eyes tightened. "So you know my name."
"I know the shape of what you've built," she replied. "A village that grows too fast attracts wolves."
Her gaze flicked toward the lacquer box.
Then back to Genzo.
"But wolves don't do paperwork," she added. "And wolves don't place shuriken like that unless someone taught them."
Genzo didn't blink.
He refused to give her fear.
"So what are you?" he asked.
Her mouth didn't move into a smile.
But something in her eyes did.
"A storm you don't see until you're wet," she said.
She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a sealing tag.
It looked normal at first glance.
But Genzo had handled enough contracts to recognize quality.
The ink was too clean.
The lines too precise.
And the structure—
Genzo's brow creased.
The anchoring was wrong.
The chakra channel reversed like someone had copied a pattern by memory.
She held it up between two fingers.
"Your Kumo escort noticed this," she said, almost to herself. "Good."
Genzo's stomach dropped.
She glanced toward the road behind them—toward where Team Eleven would be regrouping.
Then back to Genzo.
"You have two uses," she said quietly. "Information. And leverage."
Genzo spat to the side. "You won't get either."
Her eyes didn't change.
"No," she agreed calmly. "Not from you."
She stood.
And the temperature seemed to drop with her.
"From time," she continued. "From pressure. From the simple truth that people break differently when they believe they've been abandoned."
A bandit shifted. "Boss… should we kill him now?"
Her head turned slightly.
Just slightly.
The bandit flinched.
"Not yet," she said.
Then she looked at the loot sacks.
"Take what's light. Burn what slows," she ordered. "We don't need everything. We need enough."
Bandits moved faster now.
Genzo's breathing stayed even, but his heart pounded.
He forced himself to speak.
"Yunokawa will remember this," he said.
She paused.
Didn't turn.
"I'm counting on it," she replied.
Then she walked deeper into the trees, and the bandits fell in behind her like tidewater following the moon.
Genzo was dragged along last—rope biting, vision blurring, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth—
and somewhere far behind them, on the road they'd left,
Team Eleven would be choosing duty over pursuit.
Which meant the only thing keeping Genzo alive right now…
was that this woman still had plans.
And plans were always more dangerous than rage.