Roshi had given instructions before he left, so when Anko and Itachi arrived at the Wasabi estate, they instinctively kept their distance—no needless chatter, no probing questions.
Shizune, however, moved first. Noticing the two younger shinobi's guarded posture, she closed the gap with careful steps.
"I'm Shizune," she said softly. "I used to live in Konoha, but I left with my teacher… It's been seven or eight years."
She offered her background plainly. At the name of Konoha, the tension in Anko's shoulders eased. A genuine smile broke through. "Shizune-senpai is already a jōnin, right?"
"No." Shizune shook her head, serious. "I was only a chūnin when I left—and I still am." Her gaze flicked around before she lowered her voice. "My ninja registration is 010800."
"Anko Mitarashi, Chūnin." The purple-haired kunoichi introduced herself readily; a proper number lent Shizune immediate credibility.
"Uchiha Itachi, genin." The black-haired boy's reply was brief and polite.
"Roshi mentioned you before he departed." Shizune inclined her head. "I specialize in medical ninjutsu—if you get hurt, come to me. And… for combat support, I do have some self-defense jutsus."
She wasn't a talker by nature, but speaking to two village juniors stirred an old connection. Her calm, honest demeanor slowly put Anko at ease.
"Shizune-nee's teacher…" Anko began, then clamped a hand over her mouth. "Sorry—that was rude."
"It's all right." Shizune's voice was gentle. "My teacher retired. I retired with her."
A muffled commotion cut through them from the Wasabi courtyard. Jirochō burst back through the sliding doors, his face storm-dark.
"The city gates are closed!" he barked. "They declared an emergency lockdown… Jubei is making a move!"
Shizune stepped forward immediately. "Move to the backyard! We'll hold the front."
Itachi and Anko exchanged a look. Itachi melted into the corridor's shadow—part of the plan. He would observe, unseen, and strike when the moment came.
Jirochō shook his head. "No. Their target is me. If I hide, they'll sweep to the back of the house." He looked to Shizune and Anko. "A ninja who watches from the shadows gains the advantage—but if I conceal myself, you'll be the ones forced into exposure."
He inhaled, steady. "I'll take the front courtyard with my men. When to act is your call."
The head of the Wasabi Family bowed deeply to them both, then glanced toward the corridor where Itachi had slipped away and offered another solemn bow.
"Everything—entrusted to you. For Deai Port, for the Wasabi family… I will not forget this." He turned then, shoulders squared, and strode toward the front, resolve steeling him like armor.
Anko watched his retreating back and breathed, "This Wasabi-san… he's a good man."
"Indeed," Shizune replied softly. "He was my teacher's friend."
Tension thickened in the courtyard. The metallic rattle of armor, the muffled commands of guards, and the glint of blades being drawn all wove together into a taut hush. Shizune fell silent, checked her tool pouch, and rolled back her sleeve to inspect the shuriken launcher strapped to her arm.
Anko's grin vanished too. Her right hand slid into the wide purple sleeve of her coat, fingers finding the familiar weight of a kunai.
Minutes crawled by like hours. The front guards' breath was audible, their knuckles white on hilts. Every gust of wind over the wall sounded like approaching boots. The whole estate held its breath.
Suddenly—
BOOM—!!!
A deafening blast shattered the stillness. The heavy front gate of the Wasabi house shuddered as if struck by an invisible battering ram; the door and its wooden frames warped, splintered, and blew inward. Splinters sprayed like a furious rain.
Through the choking dust, three silhouettes strode over the wreckage—dawned as if from the mouth of some hellish rift—then slowed into the front courtyard.
The man leading them was Jubei himself, the city guard captain. His white haori snapped in the blast wind. He kept his katana sheathed, but the air around him pulsed with a palpable, chilling killing intent. The nearest Wasabi guards staggered back, faces drained of color.
To Jubei's left stood a figure more terrifying than any thug: his left arm bound in blood-darkened rags, fingers pale and unnaturally sharp as bone. A filthy crimson sash hung from his sleeve. His left eye was a dull, dead amber—vacant as a fish's—and it swept the courtyard with clinical indifference.
To Jubei's right, another silhouette slouched beneath an oilskin cloak mottled with mildew and salt stains. The hood shadowed a gray-green jaw and cracked, bloodless lips, as if the man had risen from some drowned grave. Slung over his shoulder was a hulking brown gourd, half a person's height, its surface slick with moss—an object as heavy and uncanny as the figure who bore it.
Their arrival chilled the courtyard as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees. The Wasabi guards felt their courage drain away; weapons trembled in white-knuckled hands beneath an utterly inhuman pressure.
Jubei's gaze, a cold edge, cut across the trembling defenders and landed on Wasabi Jirochō in the center. A humorless curl touched his mouth; his voice, low and calm, rolled across the courtyard like distant thunder.
"Wasabi Jirochō… your road ends here."
His eyes swept the assembled men again before returning to Jirochō's face. The final words fell like a guillotine.
"And these insects? They'll be crushed along with you."
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