Rogues are hunters—lone wolves that ordinary people avoid yet fear. They are tools despised by nobles but needed nonetheless. They are also prey—scavenging dogs in the ninja world, festering wounds in shinobi villages, vermin that cannot be wholly exterminated.
Komainu cared nothing for these buzzing judgments. Power was truth, and he lived by that creed. He had wandered with the Black Erosion Group for years—raiding, hired slaughter, survival—so long as he avoided the real giants of the shinobi world, life was easier than most rogues. He thought he had mastered the art of surviving in the cracks of the ninja world—until those dim amber serpent eyes fixed on him.
"Mmm…interesting life," the soft voice hissed with cold inquiry, as if a serpent's tongue licked his spine. "Let me see…where your limits lie."
Invisible force pinned him in place, his bones groaning under the strain, his very soul shredded by that gaze. His vaunted strength—enough to terrorize the countryside—shrivelled before this predator's inspection.
They were caught, toyed with, and then discarded like refuse.
"A bit of amusement," the voice drifted away, leaving him chilled to the bone. "But mere defective goods."
If not for the annoying fly at his heels, he might have proved useful.
Orochimaru, once one of the Three—now a rogue shinobi. Such a terrifying presence, and yet he too fled before the village's hunt…
"We…should find a village to join?" A hoarse whisper broke the despair.
Silence met it.
"A small village is stable but as poor as a stone in sand! Who would harbor us?" came an immediate rebuttal.
"A Great Village? They'd skin us alive at the first test! Starting as fodder, dancing to their whims, slaving for scraps while bearing collars?"
Whispers gnawed the hush like poison insects. Join a village? Live under their roof? Rage and a defiant spark flared within Komainu's chest.
"Then we'll found our own!" his voice sliced through the din, fierce with resolve. "A village of our own!"
Thus they sought a base—remote enough, yet not too isolated or impoverished. Tea Country fit: local yet prosperous enough to support a modest ninja village.
But they could not approach the daimyō directly.
Komainu chose Yacha Slope. He bound scattered bandits into one rope—the Chasan Group. Then Black Erosion brokers took on pirate guises, plundering merchant ships bound for Nazaki Island. Panic spread like plague, trade ceased, and finally the daimyō's envoy appeared before them.
"Your prowess saved our shipping lanes—Tea Country shall remember," the envoy acclaimed, his bowing tone belying his scrutiny. "Yet Konoha Hidden Village's long partnership with us cannot be so abruptly severed."
"If you establish your village, the commissions will follow naturally. The daimyō promises to open the gates wide," the envoy murmured.
Indeed—an open gate. Subdue the Wasabi family, let Waisuke ascend, let the Chasan Group act openly.
But where would the money come from?
Building a ninja village demanded vast funds—for tools, fortifications, and personnel. The Black Erosion Group's meager savings fell far short. They would have to control this port—tax every merchant and roving bandit they found.
Komainu withdrew his gaze from the distant silhouette of the Seafoam Inn. The scarred militia captain hurried in, reporting breathlessly.
He rose. In the Seafoam Inn remained only one occupant—Anko and Itachi had gone to guard the messenger. Komainu's operative, Genkai, should handle them. The mission now: pin down the messenger, while Komainu's true target lay elsewhere.
He considered: Komainu's strength equaled a village's top Jōnin—those two would manage. But the true challenge was Wasabi Jirōchō—for if that old fool survived, his ironclad evidence would live on. Kill Jirōchō, and the "proof" became ownerless lies: the daimyō would discard it or worse, punish the Wasabi family for slander. The chaos's root would vanish with Jirōchō's death.
"Mobilize the city guard," Komainu's voice cut cold. "Declare martial law."
"Sir? On what grounds?" The militia captain blanched. "Our forces cannot hold the city if we spark a backlash…"
Their power derived from rivals fearing the daimyō's favor toward Waisuke. Chasan Group tacitly left other powers' interests untouched. Sudden martial law would shatter this fragile balance, enraging all factions.
Komainu's eyes glowed from beneath shadowed brows—two arctic depths reflecting the Wasabi estate silhouette and a blade's slow, cold promise. The captain swallowed his protest.
"Hmph," Komainu snorted, "That's the point—they must be on guard."
The captain's eyes widened as realization dawned.
Martial law would make civic leaders think the Chasan Group was going berserk—looting in the chaos. They'd withdraw their people into safe compounds, bolting doors and fences. In that panic, Wasabi's allies would be helpless to aid him.
Attacking the Wasabi estate required elite forces—true power, not common rogues. The Chasan thugs' purpose was to muddy waters and scatter attention. They'd draw out the police and forces.
"Yes, sir!" the captain assented and fled to spread the decree.
Silence returned to the ragged coastal room, wind howling through broken windows. Komainu's hand closed on his sword's hilt.
Wasabi Jirōchō…
(TL notes: btw on the novel it was written as "Wasabi Jiro-chan...", and that part made me cackle )
Chapters in advance there: patreon.com/Thaniel_a_goodchild