Except for Lock, five of the other seven seriously injured were heavily disabled, unable to return to the battlefield as combatants. The remaining two were in slightly better condition, but they would never fight as they once had.
The difference between a front-line shinobi and a logistic support worker—or even being forced to retire altogether—was immense.
Lock could sense that, though his companions joked and kept up appearances, they were carrying deep pain inside.
The village would grant them pensions, of course, but those could never match the income or honor of active duty.
Still, Lock knew this was the reality of the shinobi world. Compared to those who had fallen outright, the injured were still considered lucky. No shinobi could expect to remain unscathed forever on the battlefield.
Because nearly everyone was wounded, their group's progress was slow. It wasn't until the fifth day that they arrived at one of Konoha's hidden strongholds under the escort of the four-guard squad.
Konoha had countless such bases scattered throughout the Land of Fire. Each secured a certain territory, relayed intelligence, and acted as staging points for reinforcements.
The plan was simple: hand off the wounded at this stronghold, and from there, a unit would escort them the rest of the way back to the village. The arrangements had been made in advance.
Even in the Land of Fire, Konoha's stronghold is concealed. After repeated verification, the guards led everyone toward a remote reserve station that should have been the correct post.
But as they approached, the escort captain suddenly shouted—
"Not right!"
The relaxed mood vanished instantly. Every shinobi tensed, even the wounded, readying themselves for battle.
"What's wrong?" someone asked urgently.
The jōnin captain, Hijikata Shirō, scanned the area with a grim expression.
"The situation's wrong. Our strongholds are secret, yes—but their security is always strict. We've already stepped into their defense perimeter, but no one has shown themselves. That should be impossible."
Lock had never been part of an external stronghold before, but even he understood. For a base to leave them unchallenged this long was a clear sign that something had gone terribly wrong.
"Stay sharp. A fight is coming."
Ninjas didn't believe in coincidences. If something looked off, then there was danger.
Sure enough, before Shirō's words even faded, a storm of shuriken came whistling from all directions.
"Careful!"
They had walked straight into an ambush—the enemy had been waiting for them all along.
The jōnin guards reacted swiftly, but the sheer number of projectiles was overwhelming. Lock, with only his right arm functional, still managed to weave and block with kunai, narrowly deflecting steel after steel.
The four escort guards held their ground, but the wounded were in dire straits. Screams erupted as several were struck, unable to keep up with the defense.
"Protect the injured! Spread out!" Hijikata Shirō barked, stepping forward as a shield.
The three chūnin guards immediately split, carrying or covering the less mobile. Even those wounded but still able to move tried to dodge or launch ninjutsu in retaliation.
Lock ground his teeth. With both arms, he could have defended better, maybe even counterattacked—but with his left useless, he couldn't save the others.
Then a scream tore through the chaos.
Lock whipped his head around just in time to see Uncle Mita—one of the disabled veterans who had joked with him days before—collapse, riddled with shuriken.
"Uncle Mita!"
Lock's eyes reddened. In the short days they'd traveled together, the man had been warm, kind, even playful despite his injuries. Now, seeing him drenched in blood, Lock's heart clenched.
Mita had lost an arm and several fingers on the other hand long ago. His shinobi career was already over. Just yesterday, he'd told Lock he only wished to live long enough to raise his son. He had even joked that, one day, he wanted his son to spar with Lock—and lose. Then, he said, he could rest in peace.
Now, barely clinging to life, Mita staggered toward Lock instead of away.
"Lock… run! They're hidden, we're exposed. You have to go!"
He shoved Lock with his remaining strength, putting himself between the boy and the incoming hail.
"Uncle Mita!"
Lock's teeth ground together. He understood. Mita knew he wouldn't survive—but he wanted Lock, Konoha's young genius, to live. That was his last wish.
"Go! Now!"
More blades tore into Mita's body, but he didn't falter. He screamed at Lock to flee, to carry on where the rest of them could not.
Lock forced down his grief and retreated, using the gap Mita's sacrifice had opened.
"Captain Shirō, what do we do?" one of the surviving guards called out.
Of the twelve-man group, only eight remained after that first barrage—four guards and four wounded. They had regrouped hastily in the cover of brush and trees.
Aside from Lock and Hijikata Shirō, everyone bore new injuries.
Shirō's face was stormy.
"We've been targeted from the start. This stronghold's been compromised. But who are these enemies—to attack us so brazenly, here, on our own soil?"
His voice was tight with rage. To be ambushed this way, within the Land of Fire itself, was an unforgivable insult.
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