Raizen woke earlier than he was used to.
He didn't need to guess why.
Nerves sat in his chest like a quiet drumbeat—steady, unavoidable.
Today mattered.
Not just another training day. Not another drill. This was the first step outside the safety of Kumo's walls—the first time his preparation would be tested by something that didn't care how hard he'd trained.
Raizen refused to let unreadiness ruin it.
He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and got dressed without hesitation.
The first thing he pulled on was the gift his mother had given him.
A Tsukihana long-sleeve—deep violet fabric reinforced with fine chainmail sewn between the layers. Light enough not to restrict movement, but strong enough to turn a glancing blade or dull the bite of claws. It carried warmth, protection, and something harder to define.
Care.
Raizen slid it on beneath his flak vest, adjusting the fit until it rested perfectly against his shoulders.
Good.
Next came his ninja pouch, secured around his waist. Inside were the basics—kunai, shuriken, wire, tags—nothing excessive. Everything had a place. Everything had a purpose.
On his wrist, the Tsukihana seal waited—high-grade, cleanly inscribed. His medical kit and spear rested inside it, ready to be called out in an instant. He brushed his thumb over the seal once, feeling the faint warmth of keyed chakra respond.
Still there.
Still his.
He tied his headband across his forehead, the metal plate settling into place with a familiar weight. Then he paused, scanning himself in the mirror one last time.
No loose straps.
No misplaced tools.
No hesitation.
Raizen exhaled slowly.
In—two—three.
Out—two—three.
Then he turned and stepped out of the house, the door sliding shut behind him.
The morning air was cool as he made his way toward the Ninja Center near the Raikage's building—toward Team Eleven, toward Raitaro, toward whatever waited beyond the village gates.
Today, he would find out if he was ready.
⸻
The difference between the village and the Raikage's building was night and day.
Outside, Kumogakure slept—lanterns dimmed, rooftops quiet, only the wind and the distant creak of hanging signs.
But the tower?
The tower breathed.
Torches still burned in the halls. Paperwork still moved from desk to desk. Shinobi came and went like tides—boots whispering across stone, cloaks swaying, metal plates clicking softly. A messenger sprinted past with a sealed tube in his hand. Two chūnin argued in low voices over a map near the wall. Somewhere deeper inside, someone laughed once—too tired for it to be real humor.
Raizen stepped through the main doors and felt it immediately:
This place didn't sleep because the world didn't.
He caught glimpses of familiar faces too—older academy students, a few instructors, even one kid he remembered from sparring.
Everyone looked awake in the way only working shinobi did.
Not energetic.
Alert.
Ready to move the instant the air changed.
Raizen adjusted the strap across his chest and walked deeper into the building, following the flow toward the mission lobby.
And there—tucked into a corner where the torchlight didn't hit too hard—were his teammates.
Reina leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, posture sharp like she'd been standing there for ten minutes just to prove she could. Samui stood beside her, calm and quiet, eyes scanning the room like she was already counting exits.
When they spotted him, Samui lifted a hand in a small wave.
Reina didn't wave.
She smirked.
"Nice of you to finally join us," Reina said, voice dry. "What, did you take a second shower so your new clothes could appreciate you?"
Raizen sighed like he was exhausted already. "Good morning to you too."
Reina's eyes swept him—headband, long-sleeve underlayer, gear set cleaner than usual—and then landed on his forearms.
Her gaze sharpened.
"…What are those?"
Raizen looked down at the bracers and lifted both arms like he was presenting evidence at trial.
"Bracers," he said. "Gift."
He rotated his wrist, letting the metal catch the light for a second.
"They reinforce the forearm and protect the wrist line. Helps when I'm rotating grips on the spear." He tapped the edge lightly. "And the sealwork inside assists with controlled body amplification. Not a steroid boost—more like a stabilizer."
Samui's eyes narrowed slightly in interest.
Reina's eyebrow jumped.
"Body amplification," she repeated slowly. Then she latched onto the bigger problem. "Gift from who?"
Raizen hesitated half a beat.
"…My other sensei."
It wasn't even the words—it was what they implied.
Someone else.
Time he hadn't mentioned.
Work he hadn't shared.
Reina's head snapped back like he'd confessed to being secretly a jōnin.
"What the hell?!" she barked—loud enough that three shinobi at the front desk glanced over.
Raizen winced. "Reina—"
She didn't care.
In two steps she was on him, fingers fisting his collar and yanking him forward like she was about to interrogate him in the ANBU basement.
"When," Reina hissed, "were you planning to tell us you were doing extra training?"
Raizen blinked, hands hovering awkwardly like he wasn't sure whether to pry her off or just accept death.
"It wasn't… exactly planned," he said carefully. "I kind of got thrown into it."
Reina shook him once. "Oh. So you accidentally fell into secret training?"
"Basically, yeah."
Reina's glare turned volcanic.
"So while we were grinding drills with Raitaro, you were—what—getting upgraded?"
Raizen's mouth opened.
Nothing intelligent came out.
Because the truth was complicated—and dangerous.
Because the man who'd "thrown" him into it didn't feel like someone you casually explained in a mission lobby.
Reina released him like he offended her hands, then turned away with a sharp huff, arms crossed so hard she looked like she was trying to crush her own ribs.
Raizen straightened his collar, still processing.
Samui, as always, saved the room from combusting.
She stepped forward and looked Raizen up and down again—not judging, just noticing.
"…Your outfit looks good," Samui said simply. Then, softer, "The color suits you."
Raizen froze.
His ears warmed instantly.
Reina's head turned so fast it almost snapped.
She stared at Samui like Samui had just committed an unforgivable crime.
Then she flushed—hard.
"No," Reina said, voice strained. "No. Don't—don't just say things like that."
Samui blinked once. "Like what?"
Reina grabbed Samui by the collar the exact same way she'd grabbed Raizen—except this time it looked less like anger and more like panic.
"Complimenting him!" Reina snapped, mortified. "In public!"
Samui looked down at Reina's hands, then back up at her face—calm as a lake.
"…You're loud," she said.
Reina made a strangled noise and let go, turning away again like the wall was the only thing that could understand her.
Raizen coughed into his fist, trying to recover his dignity.
"Anyway," he said quickly—too quickly—"I… got you both something."
That line worked like a jutsu.
Reina's head turned.
Samui's attention sharpened.
Raizen reached into his pouch and pulled out two sealed scrolls, tossing one to each of them.
Reina caught hers with one hand. Samui caught hers cleanly with both.
Reina broke the seal first, because of course she did.
The scroll unfurled—and a dark green cloak slipped out, fabric heavy, clean, and unmistakably well-made. It wasn't flashy, but the stitching was precise enough to make even a tailor feel insecure.
Reina held it up and frowned.
"A cloak?"
Raizen nodded, suddenly a little nervous. "Not normal."
He stepped closer and pointed at the inner lining, where thin seal-script ran like quiet veins.
"Temperature regulation seal. You'll stay comfortable in heat or cold." His finger moved to the hem. "Storage seals—two. One on each side. Small-volume, fast access. For essentials."
Reina gripped the cloak tighter.
She didn't say thank you.
But her fingers clenched like she was afraid it might disappear.
Because she knew what something like this cost.
And she knew she would never have bought it for herself—not when she had bills, gear, and a future that didn't come with noble backing.
Raizen pretended not to notice the way her throat bobbed once.
Then Samui opened hers.
Out slid a chainmail undershirt—fine-linked, lightweight, darker metal that didn't shine too hard.
And a second item: a dark blue sealed scroll with a water-marked tag.
Raizen raised a hand quickly.
"Careful with that one," he said. "It's sealed water—enough to give you a reliable supply for jutsu if we end up somewhere dry."
Samui lifted her eyes. "Sealed… water."
Raizen nodded. "You're our main Suiton user. If you're stuck rationing puddles, we're weaker. This keeps you at full function."
He tapped the chainmail.
"And the undershirt—defense. High quality. Cuts and some piercing. Doesn't restrict movement."
Samui's gaze softened.
She bowed her head slightly—small, respectful, sincere.
"…Thank you," she said.
Reina stared at her cloak like she didn't trust herself to speak.
Then she muttered, very quietly, almost like it hurt:
"…This is excessive."
Raizen shrugged. "It's our first time outside."
Reina glanced up, eyes sharp again—trying to recover her usual edge.
"…Don't die," she said, like an order.
Samui nodded once. "Agreed."
Raizen huffed a small laugh.
"Same," he said. Then he looked between them—teammates, real teammates now—and felt something settle in his chest.
Outside, the village slept.
Inside the tower, shinobi moved like storms.
And today?
Today, Team Eleven stepped beyond the comfort of home.
But standing there with new gear in their hands and each other at their sides—
Raizen didn't feel like he was walking into it alone.
⸻
Voosh.
Raitaro appeared right in front of them like the air had coughed him out.
None of them jumped anymore—Month Three had beaten that weakness out of them—but Raizen still felt the instinctive spike in his chest. A pulse of alertness. A half-step of readiness.
Raitaro grinned like he noticed anyway.
"Good morning," he said, voice easy. "You all look… mostly alive."
Reina's eyes narrowed. "Mostly?"
Raitaro ignored her and walked a slow circle around them like an inspector.
Samui—calm, blade secured, posture balanced.
Reina—coiled and sharp, cloak folded and strapped, scrolls tucked tight.
Raizen—new long-sleeve under the vest, bracers gleaming faintly, the keyed seal on his wrist sitting quiet like a loaded weapon.
Raitaro's gaze lingered on the bracers for half a breath, then moved on without comment.
"Alright," he said. "C-rank day."
That single phrase made the air feel heavier.
Raizen's hum steadied inside him. Full Body Circulation stayed quiet—present, but controlled.
Raitaro lifted a finger.
"Rule one: the road isn't training."
He lifted a second.
"Rule two: that doesn't mean you get stupid."
Reina scoffed. "We know."
Raitaro's grin widened. "I didn't say you didn't know. I said you don't always listen."
He stopped in front of Samui.
"As you know, I pulled the mission in advance," he said. "No waiting in the main line. No drama. We confirm the team, take the scroll, and we go straight to the gates."
Raizen blinked. "You can just… reserve missions?"
Raitaro shrugged like it was obvious. "When you're charming, yes."
Reina rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful.
Samui's voice cut in, calm but direct.
"Sensei," she said. "What kind of mission?"
It was the question all three of them had been holding in their teeth since last night.
Escort? Elimination? Search? Border patrol?
Raitaro's grin turned irritatingly pleased.
"That," he said, "is the briefing."
Reina stepped closer half an inch. "So tell us."
Raitaro laughed under his breath.
"You'll learn in about sixty seconds," he said, then jerked his head toward the desks. "Move."
They followed.
The mission center was crowded in that quiet, efficient way—shinobi flowing around each other like water, no wasted motion. ANBU masks flashed by like ghosts. A pair of chūnin argued in low voices over a route map. Somewhere down the hall, someone was signing off a casualty report with a pen that looked too steady.
Raitaro didn't take them to the main mission line.
He walked them past it—past genin teams waiting with stiff backs, past a pair of civilians clutching a request form like it was a prayer—and toward a smaller desk set off to the side. Less traffic. More authority.
When the receptionist behind it looked up and saw Raitaro, she froze.
Then she turned red so fast it was like someone had slapped a heat seal on her cheeks.
"M-Mizuchi-sama!" she stammered, immediately dropping her gaze and rummaging through a stack of scroll tubes. The movement was so frantic it sent two tubes rolling off the desk.
Reina's expression flattened. "Unbelievable."
Samui's mouth twitched once—almost a smile.
Raizen just watched, fascinated. He'd seen Raitaro flirt with danger, death, and lightning itself, but this?
This might have been his most terrifying skill.
The receptionist finally found the correct scroll and held it out with both hands like it was sacred.
"H-here," she said. "The mission you reserved yesterday."
Raitaro accepted it with exaggerated grace, as if receiving a royal decree.
"Thank you," he said smoothly.
Then—because he couldn't help himself—he shot her a wink.
The receptionist made a quiet sound that might've been a squeak and nearly knocked over her ink tray.
Reina hissed. "Sensei."
Raitaro didn't even look at her. "Yes, yes. I'm a menace. Let's go."
He turned and led them out of the building, cutting through a side corridor and out a rear exit where the noise dropped off and the air felt cleaner. The morning light hit them full in the face, and for a second Raizen could smell the village waking up beyond the tower—steam from kitchens, damp stone, the far-off scent of rain that never quite left Kumo.
Raitaro stopped beneath the shadow of an overhang—private enough that no one could casually overhear.
He unrolled the mission scroll.
The paper crackled softly in the wind.
His expression shifted—not grim, not playful.
Professional.
"Team Eleven," he said, voice calm. "C-rank."
He let them feel that for a beat.
"Objective: escort a merchant caravan from Kumogakure to a neighboring country's trade village." His eyes flicked up. "Multi-day travel. Civilian protection. Route discipline."
Reina's shoulders loosened half a fraction—escort meant structure. Rules. Formation.
Samui's gaze sharpened—already mapping terrain and water sources.
Raizen felt a strange mix of relief and tension. Escort missions sounded simple until they weren't.
Raitaro continued.
"There are four wagons," he said, tapping the scroll. "Seven merchants. One caravan leader. Mixed cargo—textiles, tools, medicine, dried food."
Raizen's eyes narrowed slightly at that last one. Medicine meant value.
Value meant attention.
Raitaro looked up and pointed at each of them in turn.
"Roles."
He pointed at Samui first.
"Samui. Rear security and visibility control. Mist is allowed only on my command—if you blanket the whole road without warning, you blind your own team. Understood?"
Samui nodded once. "Understood."
He pointed to Reina.
"Reina. Front-left pressure and quick response. If something hits the lead wagon, you're first contact. You do not chase. You hold. You don't get dragged out of position."
Reina's jaw tightened. "Yes, sensei."
Then he pointed to Raizen.
"Raizen. Center pivot. You plug holes. You protect the leader wagon. You control spacing." His eyes narrowed slightly. "And you do not run off alone to be heroic."
Raizen blinked. "…I wasn't—"
Raitaro lifted a finger. "I said it once. That means you were going to."
Reina snorted.
Samui's eyes softened slightly like she agreed with Raitaro more than she wanted to admit.
Raitaro rolled the scroll tighter.
"Threat expectations," he said, voice even. "Low."
Raizen's stomach didn't buy it.
Raitaro held up a hand before anyone could speak.
"Low doesn't mean none," he said. "It means you keep your guard up without inventing ghosts."
He glanced between them.
"Possible hazards include weak chakra beasts, opportunistic bandits, weather issues, and terrain problems." His grin returned—thin, sharp. "And civilian stupidity."
Reina muttered, "That's the most dangerous one."
Raitaro nodded like she'd said something profound.
"One more thing," he said, and the air tightened again. "Rules of engagement."
He didn't say kill.
He didn't have to.
"Protect the caravan," Raitaro said. "Protect each other. If someone tries to take a life—yours or a civilian's—you end the threat."
Raizen swallowed once, slow.
Samui's face stayed calm, but her eyes went colder.
Reina didn't flinch.
Raitaro stepped back.
"Alright," he said, voice lighter again like he was giving them permission to breathe. "Gates in fifteen. Final checks now. If you forgot something, you live with it."
He started walking.
Then paused, looking back over his shoulder with that lazy grin.
"And try to look like professionals," he added. "If you embarrass me in front of civilians, I'll make you run the whole route twice."
Reina's eye twitched. "Sensei—"
Raitaro vanished with a voosh, leaving them in the morning air with a mission scroll, a timetable, and the sudden understanding that this wasn't training anymore.
Raizen exhaled.
In—two—three.
Out—two—three.
Then he tightened his straps, met his teammates' eyes, and nodded once.
"Let's go," he said.
⸻
The three genin wasted no time.
They didn't sprint like academy kids late for roll call—they moved like shinobi with a clock in their ribs.
A short Body Flicker, a rooftop landing, another burst—controlled, efficient. The village blurred beneath them in clean slices of morning: sleeping shops, dim lanterns, tiled roofs wet with mist.
And then the gates came into view.
Kumogakure's main gate wasn't just a doorway—it was a throat. The point where the village breathed missions out and swallowed reports back in.
Even this early, it was crowded.
Chūnin teams stood in loose clusters with scroll tubes tucked under their arms. A pair of civilians argued softly with an administrator over a stamped form. Two merchants hauled crates toward a checkpoint, sweating already. Shinobi slipped in and out of the guard towers like shadows changing shifts.
It wasn't loud.
It was alive.
Raizen landed first on a low rooftop beam and let his eyes scan.
There—closest to the gate, positioned like they wanted to leave the instant someone gave the word—was the caravan.
Four wagons, lined up clean.
Not fancy, not poor. Practical.
Canvas covers tied down tight. Axles reinforced. The lead wagon had extra bracing on the corners like someone had paid to avoid "accidents." The smell of dried goods and oiled wood mixed with the morning damp.
And around it—seven civilians.
They chatted and laughed too loudly for people about to leave a village's protection, but their hands told the truth: one man kept checking the knot on his pouch; another kept glancing at the road like it might bite him. A woman adjusted her scarf three times in a row without realizing.
Nervous smiles.
Forced confidence.
Raizen pointed subtly, two fingers toward the group.
"That's them," he murmured.
Reina and Samui followed his gaze.
Samui's eyes swept over the wagon wheels first—route-readiness, weight, water supply.
Reina's eyes went to the people—who looked like leaders, who looked like liabilities.
"Alright," Reina said quietly. "Stay sharp."
They dropped down together—no dramatic crash, no unnecessary flair—just a clean landing near the lead wagon.
A man at the front of the group startled so hard he yelped and nearly stumbled backward.
Raizen caught the reflex in his shoulders, the way his arms tensed as if he expected a weapon. Civilian, but not helpless. Merchant life did that to people.
Then he realized who they were.
The fear snapped into a smile so fast it almost looked painful.
"Oh—oh!" he said quickly, clearing his throat and stepping forward. He was middle-aged, sun-touched skin, sturdy hands, and the kind of eyes that had negotiated with angry customers and worse. "Right. Shinobi."
He bowed, a little too deep.
"Genzo Arakawa," he said. "Caravan leader. I issued the request."
Reina stepped forward immediately, posture crisp and controlled like she'd been born in a mission lobby.
"Reina," she said first, voice confident but respectful. "Team Eleven. These are my teammates—Samui and Raizen."
Samui gave a small nod.
Raizen inclined his head, polite, measured.
Genzo's gaze traveled over them—headbands, gear, posture—and then he blinked like a thought hit him.
"…You're young," he said before he could stop himself.
Reina didn't flinch.
Genzo coughed once, embarrassed. "I—sorry. That came out wrong. Your… sensei mentioned this is your team's first C-rank."
Reina's mouth twitched like she wanted to take offense, but she swallowed it and answered the way a professional would.
"Yes," she said evenly. "But don't mistake 'first' for 'unprepared.' We've been training for months for field conditions—escort routes, formation defense, and combat under stress. You're in safe hands."
Raizen watched her talk and felt something settle.
Reina wasn't performing.
She meant it.
Genzo studied her for a beat longer, then gave a slow nod like he'd decided to trust the tone even if the faces were young.
"Good," he said. "Because I'm not just moving cloth and pots."
He gestured behind him, and one of the merchants pulled back a flap enough to show sealed crates—medicine stamps, dried rations, tools wrapped in wax paper.
"Yunokawa's been short on supplies," Genzo continued. "Hot Water's trade post pays well, but the road's… been getting worse."
Reina's eyes sharpened. "Bandits?"
Genzo shrugged. "Bandits, beasts, opportunists. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. The point is—I'd like to get there without losing anyone or anything."
Raizen caught it: without losing anyone.
It wasn't written in the mission objective.
But it was written in Genzo's face.
"Route," Reina said, and the word came out like a command.
Genzo blinked, then smiled again—this time less forced.
He unrolled a rough map from inside his vest. It wasn't official shinobi parchment, but it had clear markings: a main road, a river cut, a fork around a ridge.
"We take the standard pass out of Kumo, then cut through the lower ridge trail," he said, tapping with a calloused finger. "Less exposed than the open road. We camp once before the border checkpoint, then continue into Hot Water territory. Yunokawa Trade Post is another half-day past the gate."
Samui leaned in slightly, eyes tracing the map.
"Water sources?" she asked.
Genzo's eyebrows rose—impressed. "Two reliable streams before the border. One spring in Hot Water territory."
Raizen watched Reina nod, watched Samui absorb details like she was building the route inside her head.
Then he looked at the caravan again—the wagons, the merchants—and felt the weight of it.
This wasn't sparring.
These people didn't get to tap out.
A faint hum ran through his body as Full Body Circulation settled, like his system knew to stay ready.
And then—
"Yo."
The voice drifted in lazy, like it belonged in a completely different scene.
Raizen didn't need to turn to know.
Raitaro arrived the way he always did—appearing at the edge of the group like he'd been there for five minutes and just decided to let reality catch up.
A dango stick hung from the corner of his mouth. His hands were in his pockets. His expression said morning stroll.
His chakra presence said don't try anything stupid.
Genzo straightened immediately. "Mizuchi-sama."
Reina's eye twitched at the name again, but she didn't comment.
Raitaro lifted a hand in a lazy wave and walked over, chewing once.
"Genzo," he said around the dango like they were old friends. "Wagons look decent. People look nervous. Perfect."
Genzo gave a small, uncertain laugh.
Raitaro's gaze slid over Team Eleven—gear, posture, the way they stood near the caravan without crowding it.
"Look at you," he said, voice amused. "Actual shinobi."
Reina bristled. "We've been—"
Raitaro held up one finger.
"Save it," he said. "Talk less. Watch more."
Then he looked at Genzo.
"Last-minute changes?" Raitaro asked.
Genzo hesitated. "Just… I'd prefer the ridge trail. Less open."
Raitaro nodded once. "Good preference. We'll do that."
He took the mission scroll from his vest and tapped it lightly against his palm like it was nothing.
"Team Eleven," he said, tone shifting. Not playful now—clear and official. "Formation's as briefed. Reina front-left. Samui rear and visibility control. Raizen center pivot."
He glanced at Raizen last.
"And you," he added, eyes narrowing slightly, "do not wander off to 'check something' unless I tell you."
Raizen's jaw tightened. "…Yes, sensei."
Raitaro's grin returned just enough to be annoying.
"Good. Because if you get kidnapped on your first C-rank, your mother will kill me. And I don't want that kind of trouble before lunch."
Reina snorted.
Samui's mouth twitched.
Genzo looked like he didn't know if that was a joke.
Raitaro clapped once, loud enough to cut through the morning bustle.
"Alright," he said. "Wheels roll in two minutes. Merchants—load up, tighten straps, last bathroom run now. If you're not on a wagon when we move, you're jogging to Hot Water."
A merchant panicked and immediately ran.
Raitaro turned to his team.
"Remember," he said, voice quieter now. "Your job is not to look impressive."
His eyes held theirs.
"Your job is to bring them home."
Raizen felt something click in his chest again.
The door locked behind him.
Genzo climbed onto the lead wagon, calling final instructions. Drivers took reins. Canvas flaps snapped shut. The caravan shifted, creaking like an animal waking up.
Raitaro stepped forward, dango stick still in his mouth, and lifted a hand toward the open road.
"Move out."
The gates opened.
And Team Eleven—new gear, new jutsu, new weight on their shoulders—walked out of Kumogakure for the first time.
Bound for the Land of Hot Water.
Bound for Yunokawa Trade Post.
And bound for whatever waited on the road that didn't care how hard they'd trained.