The stench of blood from the Wasabi House's front yard had already drifted up to the looming watchtower in the rear.
Itachi stood motionless at the parapet, as still as a carved statue. His black eyes remained fixed on the three figures below—their very presence steeped the courtyard in death's shadow. And then there was the katana, its merciless arc reaping lives with each swing.
Every flash of steel came with the shriek of shattering blades and the sickening crunch of human bodies being cut down.
The desperate screams and defiant roars of the Wasabi guards rang hollow—fragile and powerless before such absolute might.
Itachi's fingertips pressed unconsciously into the cold stone.
Only three.
Only three had come.
That alone had shattered Jirocho's worst estimates and made a mockery of their contingency plans.
If dozens had stormed the compound, they would have mostly been Chayama Gang fodder, perhaps bolstered by one or two shinobi. Against such numbers, Shizune, Anko, and the Wasabi guards could have held the line, maybe even repelled them.
But only three arrived.
That alone made them more dangerous than an army.
Had the Black Snake Group finally stepped from the shadows into the open? These three weren't expendable pawns—they were likely the core of the organization itself. Perhaps even its entire fighting force. The killing aura rolling off the leading samurai with every lazy swing of his blade was proof enough. The pressure radiating from the two behind him only confirmed it.
Danger
The mission priorities had to change at once. Repelling the enemy was no longer possible. The objective now was singular: create chaos, and in that chaos, cover Wasabi Jirocho's escape.
"Kid."
The voice came from behind him, a woman's.
Itachi reacted before the word finished echoing. His body snapped like a drawn bowstring, kunai flashing into his grip and slicing backward in a lethal blur. The air whistled as steel cut through it—
—but faster than sight, an arm materialized. Not to block the blade, but to touch. Fingers brushed his wrist with the precision of plucking a string of silk.
A wave of force, powerful yet impossibly gentle, surged through him. Itachi's arm went numb, the strength in his grip dissolved, and the kunai clattered harmlessly to the stone at his feet.
"Good reflexes." The woman's tone carried the faintest trace of approval before flattening again. "I am Shizune's master."
Itachi's body remained taut, yet the words made him instinctively ease the smallest fraction of his guard.
He turned sharply, and his gaze locked onto a woman with casually draped golden hair, her beauty striking in the play of shadow and light. She wore only a simple green robe, leaning carelessly against a wooden pillar inside the tower.
Her eyes flicked briefly over Itachi before settling on the massacre unfolding in the courtyard. Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
In that moment, Itachi knew: this woman was no ordinary shinobi. She was a powerhouse—one who had appeared at a critical juncture. Perhaps, with her, their original plan could still hold.
But her next words snuffed that thought instantly.
"No. I will not act."
Itachi's frown deepened. Shizune's master… surely she was a Konoha shinobi. Why refuse to fight?
The question flashed across his mind, but he banished it just as quickly. A shinobi of her caliber would have her reasons. Demanding them here was meaningless.
Tsunade offered no explanation. She only steadied her own simmering unease, then lifted her right hand. Resting on her palm were four palm-sized slugs, pristine and glimmering faintly, radiating a soft, life-giving chakra.
"Take them," she ordered, her tone leaving no room for hesitation. "Attach one to yourself. Through them, I'll transmit chakra to you."
Her gaze swept the battlefield below. "The other three—you know who to give them to. With these, so long as it's not instant death…" She trailed off. The unfinished words hung heavy, but the meaning was clear enough.
Then her golden eyes shifted, sharp and deliberate.
"Where is your captain—Roshi?"
"The captain is on a separate mission." Itachi's reply was short and emotionless. He slipped one tiny slug beneath his collar. The instant it touched skin, a vast, warm current of chakra—like a living hot spring—poured from the slug into his limbs and bones.
The amount of chakra stunned him inwardly, though his face betrayed nothing. He stowed the remaining three slugs with careful hands and refocused on the courtyard below.
It was a tableau of hell.
More than half the Wasabi guards lay dead or broken. Limbs, shredded armor, and ruined weapons littered the bluestone; blood painted the slabs a deep, dark red. Jubei moved through it as if walking a garden path, each casual arc of his blade reaping one or several lives.
At his flank, the bandage-wrapped man with the bone claw watched with detached appetite; the hooded figure with the great gourd remained an immobile, uncanny presence, its intentions unreadable.
"Enough!"
A dark purple blur launched from the side hall like a springing leopard.
Anko's eyes burned. The hem of her new trench coat snapped in the wind.
"Hidden Shadow Snake Hands!"
From her fingertips sprang a volley of brown, venomous snakes—sharp, hissing projectiles that darted for Jubei's throat, his heart, and his lower body. The strike carried the venom of long-smothered fury.
At almost the same instant, a dark-blue shadow drifted across the courtyard like smoke.
Shizune moved with grim purpose. She did not engage Jubei; she darted to the side of several gravely wounded guards. Emerald medical chakra flared in her palms, a soft, life-bearing light seeking to steady rapidly draining vitality.
Jubei's blade stuttered mid-arc.
Snakes?
His hawk-like eyes caught the Konoha symbol on Anko's forehead protector and the woman's furious young face. She's the one from the city gate— she and Orochi… and the kid—where is he? Ambushed? At sea? If he was guarding the courier, why hasn't Shoshi returned? Could a child truly have held him off?
Questions sharpened into alarm.
But the arrow had been loosed. Doubt hardened into ruthless resolve.
Whatever Konoha's intentions, this had to end now—Wasabi Jirochō must die.
Jubei flicked his wrist. His blood-dark katana carved a cold arc and sliced through the hissing snakes as if they were thread. Momentum unbroken, the blade's lethal edge whipped toward Shizune—who knelt to protect the wounded—and Anko, who had just landed and braced for combat.
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