Within Fire Country territory, a Konoha ninja's forehead protector guaranteed safe passage, so the caravan moved unimpeded—until they crossed into Tea Country. Then the guards began to straighten their backs.
Shuji sent a shadow clone ahead to scout the route. Small bands of highway robbers hiding in forested trails were quietly dealt with before they could act.
Occasionally the clone returned with evidence of a skirmish, earning Hiroyama Makoto's gratitude. Yet as the caravan neared the old woods called Yacha Slope, the easy atmosphere vanished into the hill's shadow.
"Ahead is Yacha Slope, Captain Shuji," Hiroyama urged his horse alongside Shuji, voice edged with tension. "That Chasan Group…"
"The camp on the slope is empty," Shuji replied coolly, staring at the lush hillside. His clone had reported a large bandit camp for hundreds—now abandoned with no sign of battle, as if the outlaws withdrew in good order.
Hiroyama's face drained of color. "Empty? Then…where did they go?"
"I don't know." Shuji's tone remained brisk as his eyes scanned the increasingly dense forest lining the road, alert as a drawn bowstring. The disappearance of hundreds of ruthless bandits left an ominous cloud overhead. His senses spread like an unseen web.
The caravan's safety did not feel assured until they cleared Yacha Slope and reached the final open road to Degarashi Port. Hiroyama exhaled half his dread. "We've made it! Thank you, Captain Shuji!" He believed the threat was over.
Shuji said nothing, eyes fixed on the port city's outline emerging ahead—Degarashi Port. Gray-white walls climbed the sea-faced hills, and masts crowded the docks. The closer they came to the gate promising safety and commerce, the sharper the dissonance born of the empty Yacha camp.
The caravan joined general pedestrian traffic approaching the tall gate. At the entrance checkpoint, guards in leather armor styled after Tea Country's militia stood at ease, long spears in hand. Their stance betrayed laziness, but their eyes scanned the cargo with the keen gaze of hawks, hinting at both scrutiny and greed.
When Hiroyama's carts rolled forward, the militia captain—a muscular man with a faint scar—casually surveyed the tarp-covered loads and the caravan's permits, twisting his lips into a forced smile.
"A cloth merchant, Hiroyama Makoto?" His voice dragged. "By our new city statute, inbound goods pay a special toll of forty percent of their value."
"What—?!" Hiroyama's face went ashen. "Forty percent?! No such rule existed! Sir, you must be mistaken!"
His outcry sounded like an alarm. From the gate's shadow dozens of similarly dressed spearmen swarmed out, swiftly encircling the six carts and the merchant. The atmosphere turned deadly still.
Anko's muscles tensed under her purple coat—this was outright robbery! But she held her ground.
Itachi stood at the caravan's rear, coldly scanning the militiamen: the calluses on their spear hands, the faint tattoos beneath their armor, the feral gleam in their eyes… subtle differences from true guards.
Hiroyama broke into a sweat. Merchant instinct overwhelmed all else as he forced a sycophantic grin and kowtowed, "Good sirs, please have mercy! I—I have no funds! Could you show leniency? Perhaps allow me to sell my goods first and pay afterward?" He wouldn't expect ninja to challenge the Tea Country authorities.
In fact, no Konoha mission ever involved defying a nation's administration. Since Tobirama established Root, shameful tasks never appeared on official mission boards—they were handled directly at the highest levels or by ANBU.
Ninja missions officially handled by the village always took the form of escort, subjugation, or similar respectable tasks.
"Leniency?" The militia captain sneered and eyed the carts greedily. "No money? Very well!" He waved his hand. "Leave two carts as tax! Seize them!"
"Yes, sir!" The surrounding militiamen responded like starving wolves attacking tarps.
"Stop."
The voice was soft yet carried ice through the gate's heated air.
Shuji's form flickered forward, planting himself before the two singled–out carts. He adopted no fighting pose—hands hung at his sides—standing as immovable as a stone reef. Sunlight slanted from behind him, stretching his shadow over the advancing guards.
The two front militiamen halted, startled by this silent barrier. Their fierce momentum stuttered.
The scarred captain's narrow eyes flicked over the Konoha symbol on Shuji's protector. His pride clashed with fear. He barked with forced authority: "Konoha ninja? I am captain of this city's militia! Collecting taxes is our duty! What? You ninja will interfere in Tea Country's affairs and strike at its officials?!"
"We were commissioned," Shuji replied evenly, eyes like ice probes boring into the captain's gaze. "Our contract is to escort this merchant and his goods safely to Degarashi Port."
"Or you intend to rob the property of the very client Konoha assigned you to protect."
As those final words fell, an invisible chill—like death's breath from a mountain of corpses—spread from Shuji's presence. Air felt drained and temperature plummeted. The militiamen at the carts turned pale as if strangled by unseen pressure, weapons quivering in their hands as they took instinctive steps back.
The militia captain's bluster collapsed into shock, his scarred face ashen. He knew without doubt that this unguarded young ninja was far more dangerous than any forest bear—and if he ordered an attack, Shuji would unleash a bloodstorm without hesitation.
Anko silently repositioned at a flanking angle. Itachi at the rear sized up the farther guards. A stifling hush blanketed the gate tunnel. Only the uneasy snorts of pack horses and Hiroyama's heavy breathing remained audible. A few onlookers exchanged glances, one slipping away quickly.
The captain's eyes flickered wildly, cold sweat beading at his temple. Several eternal seconds passed before his faux authority crumbled completely. He forced a ragged smile and stammered: "Ah…ah, it's a misunderstanding—pure misunderstanding!" He waved frantically. "Lower your weapons! Lower them! Do not alarm our honored guests!"
The surrounding militiamen seized their reprieve, hastily sheathing spears and stepping back.
Hiroyama moved to lead his men through the gate, but Shuji halted him.
"Pay them what the old rule stated," Shuji said lightly, releasing the suffocating aura.
Hiroyama blinked, then frantically counted bills from his money pouch and thrust them at the captain. The captain snatched them without looking, stuffing them in his tunic. "Clear the way! Quick!"
Shuji watched Hiroyama's profuse thanks as the merchant nearly bowed in gratitude, still shaken, directing his helpers toward the docks.
Shuji did not linger at the gate. He guided Anko and Itachi into a quieter side street. The alley was damp, carrying a faint brine from the sea.
"Captain," Anko's low voice broke the silence. "That was thrilling, but do you think the village will consider it improper?" She worried Shuji might be reprimanded later.
Shuji leaned against the wall as dim light filtered in. He did not answer immediately but instead directed his gaze to Itachi: "Itachi, what did you observe?"
Itachi looked up. "Those 'guards' bore tattoos beneath their armor—marks common among the Chasan Group bandits. Rather than official guards, they were outlaws."
Anko gasped, recalling the details now clear in her mind.
Shuji smiled. "Exactly. Newly legitimized bandits are often hunted by ninja, and their mindset hasn't caught up yet."
Chapters in advance there: patreon.com/Thaniel_a_goodchild