Martial law descended like an invisible net, suddenly tightening around all of Degarashi Port.
The docks' clamor was shattered. Heavy barricades rolled into the streets as Chasan Group thugs in militia leather drove off pedestrians and ordered shops to shutter.
Panic spread like ripples from a thrown pebble. Hooves clattered on cobblestones amid harsh shouts and stifled sobs—a suffocating tension replaced the usual market bustle.
The Seafoam Inn's gates slammed shut. The innkeeper, pale and sweating, rushed to calm frightened guests and sent them back to their rooms. Steeling himself, he climbed to the third floor and knocked on the finest room's door.
"A—honored ninja, the city is under lockdown!" he stammered. "They say bandits are being rounded up. Unless you must go out, please remain inside. If you need anything, simply tell the inn and we will do our utmost to assist."
Shuji replied calmly, "Understood. Thank you for the warning; we will make our own arrangements."
Via the wooden–release clones' sensory link, Shuji's main body at sea had already detected both the intercept and this upheaval. Their bait tactic had succeeded halfway—a ninja had been captured. Torture was not Shuji's forte, especially when the captive clenched his jaws in silence.
Shuji's sea–borne self watched that shinobi before him. The plan had called for drawing out one or two ninja to seize; after cleansing the Chasan Group, they could decide whether to end the mission.
Intelligence on the Black Erosion Group could then be relayed to Itachi for Sharingan genjutsu extraction—or, failing that, the captive could be returned to Konoha for interrogation by the intelligence unit.
Yet the adversary's swift decisiveness was unforeseen.
Lockdown drove the Chasan thugs into the open, terrifying other factions—after all, their power rested within the town itself. But such heavy-handed tactics couldn't persist long. The decision–maker intended a swift resolution.
The Wasabi estate—Shuji pictured the mansion—could not fall without ninja support; the Chasan henchmen alone were insufficient. Officially only Komainu was ninja–level, but now including the captive and the watcher outside the Seafoam Inn, there were two.
The Wasabi guards' strength might theoretically match Komainu, but only in theory. The Black Erosion Group's structure remained obscure; Shuji must prepare for the worst—return now.
"This is our last chance," Shuji said to the messenger on deck, "leave your name?"
Komainu twisted his lips into a blood–stained grin, then shut his eyes. Whether the Konoha ninja would kill or intimidate him, his silence was the last barrier for his comrades.
Shuji sighed inwardly. He had hoped this final exchange might budge the captive, at least to confirm his allegiance to the Black Erosion Group.
But now the captive remained resolute—capturing him alive posed too high a risk.
Intelligence was key. At minimum, Shuji had to verify the captive's identity and role within the Black Erosion Group.
He gently pushed open the cabin window, the wood creaking softly amidst distant shouts below. He did not lean out, simply fixing his calm gaze on the shadowed street corner.
"Done watching for so long—aren't you tired?"
In the gloom, a pair of neon green eyes constricted sharply. Genkai had not expected Shuji to shatter their standoff so boldly. He clenched a copper coin between his teeth, its cold metal jolting him back to clarity.
"Konoha ninja, you are sharp," Genkai rasped through clenched teeth. He emerged from shadow, his oilcloth cloak glimmering wetly, the "hunger" bell on his wrist still. "But this is no time for chat."
He tilted his head, mouth unseen beneath the cloak's brim. "Your merchant's cargo has sailed. The escort is done, right? Why linger in Degarashi Port's cesspool? What promise did Wasabi make you? Is it worth your lives?"
The wooden–release clone remained expressionless.
"Listen, Konoha ninja," Genkai murmured, "Wasabi is stirring up trouble. He promised you something—tell me, in whose name do you guarantee our safety?"
Inside and out, glances collided. An invisible gunpowder lingered overhead as the lockdown–haunted port held its breath.
Chapters in advance there: patreon.com/Thaniel_a_goodchild