Chapter 6: Blood
Deep in the encampment, Shinmi sat on a rock worn smooth with time. He was utterly unremarkable—medium height, dressed in common rough-spun clothes, the kind of man who would be instantly overlooked in a crowd. Only when he raised his eyes to look at Shirakawa Kiesuke did a hard-to-read glint flash within them.
"The Daimyō's office sent men again," Shirakawa Kiesuke said, his voice dry. He stared directly at Shinmi. "You all... should get out of here for a while."
Koichirō and several other young men immediately grumbled in dissatisfaction, muttering, "What's there to be afraid of?"
Shinmi, however, nodded unexpectedly, his attitude almost sincere. "You're right. It's time to lay low." He even gave a slight bow.
Shirakawa Kiesuke's tense shoulders relaxed, almost imperceptibly. "It's not easy out there. Tonight... eat and drink well before you go." He motioned for the men behind him to set down their heavy loads.
"Many thanks..." The curve of Shinmi's mouth deepened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Koichirō, call everyone over. We'll eat our fill, rest our feet, and leave at dawn."
The camp quickly grew lively.
Many faces showed their reluctance to leave again, but Shinmi clearly had a way of keeping them in line.
Throughout the meal, Shirakawa Kiesuke and the men he'd brought were exceptionally warm, constantly urging the bandits to drink and eat, fussing over them and telling them to be careful on the road.
After several rounds of sake, an unnatural flush rose on the faces of Koichirō and the others. Their eyes began to glaze over.
Shinmi had also drunk a great deal, but his own eyes remained sharp and clear, that faint smile never leaving his lips.
Kiesuke saw it all, and his heart sank, bit by bit. Beneath that smile, something ice-cold was hidden.
The night deepened. A pale, grim moon hung in the treetops. Only when the camp was filled with the sound of rising and falling snores did Shirakawa Kiesuke slowly stand. He waved his hand toward the black shadows of the forest.
A faint rustling sound came from the bushes, like a snake sliding over dead leaves.
Led by Shirakawa Sōsuke, the villagers emerged from the shadows, their sharpened farm tools held in a white-knuckled grip.
At first, hesitation was still visible on some of their faces. But when the first, short scream tore the night's silence, their expressions quickly froze, leaving only a numb, grim resolve.
"This is the path they chose," old Sōsuke's voice was quiet, but it pierced the air like an icicle.
"They plundered the caravans and dragged our entire village into the fire." He scanned the faces of his men. "Think of your empty rice bins. Think of the goods you can't sell."
The sounds of screams, the dull thud of blunt tools striking flesh, and the gurgling of the dying all mixed together. The thick, metallic scent of blood spread through the cold air.
Sōsuke's voice remained abnormally clear amid the chaos. "Once they kill off the small caravans, they'll eventually turn on the merchants who do business with us."
"Once a man tastes a reward he didn't work for, he can never go back."
"This is the price they pay for listening to that outsider's poison!"
That last sentence was squeezed out, as if through clenched teeth.
Under the moonlight, the sickles and pitchforks in the villagers' hands dripped with a dark, red liquid. It splattered into the dirt with heavy, dull thuds.
The old man walked over to Shinmi's "corpse" and stabbed it viciously with a pitchfork several times before straightening up.
"Gather the goods," he commanded, not even glancing at the deathly pale Shirakawa Kiesuke beside him.
There wasn't much of value in the camp. Shirakawa Sōsuke gave a share to every man who had participated in the killing. The rest was piled together.
"This... along with these..." The old man pointed at the corpses scattered on the ground, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Take this to them, Kiesuke. Tell those two shinobi this is all that's left. The rest... was probably wasted by the thieves long ago."
"Yes... yes." Kiesuke's voice was shaking violently.
"This matter ends here. No one is to ever speak of it again." The old man's gaze cut like a knife across every villager's face. "The official story is that the Konoha shinobi eliminated the bandits. Tell everyone that."
He stared until every man had given a stiff nod, then finally looked away.
Carrying the pitifully small pile of "spoils," the column of Shirakawa villagers vanished into the deepest darkness before the dawn. The camp was left with nothing but deathly silence and the suffocating stench of blood.
Just as the sky began to turn a pale gray, a figure slowly sat up from the pile of corpses. Shinmi patted the blood-soaked front of his clothes and looked at the brightening eastern horizon, a mocking smile playing on his lips.
"I was planning to let them grow a bit longer..." he muttered to himself, his voice laced with scorn. "Well, this saves me the trouble."
He glanced around at the bodies of the villagers who had once hung on his every word. His smile deepened. "Now I can go live comfortably in the Land of Tea."
"A shinobi?" A cold voice suddenly cut through the air.
Shinmi froze, his head snapping up.
A young shinobi in dark green flak armor was standing silently atop the camp's broken wooden stockade. His forehead protector glinted in the first light of dawn.
He dropped as lightly as a leaf.
Shinmi's pupils contracted. His body shot back several steps, every muscle tensing as he stared at the Konoha symbol on the other's forehead.
"For a group of ordinary men to slip from the Land of Rivers to the Land of Fire, and then to the Land of Rain... I figured there had to be a puppet master." Shūji's voice was calm, but his gaze was a scalpel.
Shinmi's throat bobbed. His own voice, however, was surprisingly steady. "A bunch of petty thieves. This is a C-Rank mission, at best. Less than twenty men... the reward from the Land of Rivers wouldn't be more than fifty thousand ryō." His eyes were locked on Shūji's hands, watching for the slightest sign of a hand seal.
"That amount of money..." he said, subtly controlling his breathing, "...isn't enough for two shinobi to risk their lives. I never attacked anyone directly. My name isn't on any wanted poster. You file your report, let me walk, and your mission is still a success." He held his hands out slightly, palms up, signaling he was not a threat. "Why take the risk for so little? A fight between shinobi... there are too many variables."
"You seem to know the market well," Shūji noted, his fingers lightly brushing the kunai pouch at his waist. "You deliberately controlled the scale, ensuring the bounty wouldn't be high enough to provoke a real shinobi conflict?"
Shinmi's smile was faint. "The bodies on the ground are more than enough for your report."
"Theoretically, yes," Shūji agreed. "A request from the Land of Rivers could be taken by Konoha, Suna, or Ame. To be able to peg the reward so precisely... are you from Suna? Or Ame?"
"Let me guess. All this caution... you must be..."
Before he could finish, a "corpse" behind Shūji suddenly shot up. Wood chips flew as the form of a puppet was revealed beneath the bloody clothes.
Its joints gave an ear-splitting click-clack as its mouth snapped open, spraying dozens of senbon that glinted with a faint blue light!
Shūji's reaction was immediate. He spun to deal with the threat.
In that split second, as his attention was diverted by the puppet, Shinmi's hands became a blur!
His wide sleeves snapped open like the hoods of striking cobras, and hundreds of poisoned senbon exploded from within.
At the same instant, his chest swelled high, as if sucking all the air from the clearing.
"Wind Style: Great Breakthrough!"
A violent gale erupted from Shinmi's mouth, catching the cloud of poisoned senbon.
The force of the wind gave the needles terrifying speed and power, creating a whistling net of death that covered Shūji's entire back!
Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack—
The sound of the needles sinking into flesh was dense, like rain drumming on leaves.
Shūji's body jerked violently, then began to tremble. His eyes, cheeks, neck, chest, and limbs... countless tiny blossoms of blood burst open.
A dark blue toxin spread rapidly from the wounds. He staggered one step, then pitched forward, falling heavily onto the cold, hard-packed earth. He didn't move again.
Shirakawa Village was shrouded in the thin morning mist. The air was cold and damp, carrying the scent of earth and grass, but it couldn't completely mask the faint, coppery smell of rust.
Itachi stood at the village entrance, watching as the villagers, carrying a few simple bundles, walked silently into the village.
There was no grief on their faces. Only a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion and numbness.
Shirakawa Kiesuke walked at the very back, his steps unsteady, as if he might collapse at any moment.
Itachi's presence was like a stone dropped into stagnant water. The column of men stopped. Every eye focused on the small figure.
Shirakawa Sōsuke pushed through the crowd and walked to the front. His wrinkled face was like a piece of wind-dried bark, his gaze sharp and cold.
"Lord Shinobi," the old man's voice was hoarse. "The thieves have been... taken care of. There isn't much left. It's all here." He pointed to the bundles. "The chief will explain the situation to you."
Itachi's gaze swept over the villagers, noting the dark red stains on their clothes and farming tools.
His eyes finally landed back on Sōsuke's face. His own dark eyes were as calm and flat as obsidian. His voice cut clearly through the morning mist.
"Shūji-senpai asked me to relay a message."
The village entrance fell deathly silent. Even breathing seemed to stop.
"First: Konoha is aware of the full and complete process of what occurred at the encampment last night."
The words hit the crowd like a block of ice. Several of the villagers physically recoiled.
Shirakawa Kiesuke's head snapped up, his eyes wide with terror.
Old Sōsuke's face instantly darkened, the veins on the back of the hand gripping his walking stick bulging.
Itachi's voice remained perfectly level. "Second: The official report to the outside world will be unified. The bandits were tracked and eliminated by Konoha shinobi Shūji and myself, Uchiha Itachi. The villagers of Shirakawa provided necessary assistance."
He paused, looking directly into Sōsuke's eyes. "Third: Your actions in cleaning your own house are an internal village matter. Konoha will not comment, nor will we intervene. This is all on the condition that this matter is truly finished, and that there will be no further trouble on the trade road or for the client."
Sōsuke stared at Itachi, his chest heaving. After a long moment, he finally forced the words through his teeth. "...Understood." The sound was like grinding stone.
Itachi gave a slight nod. Without another word, he turned. His small figure melted silently into the dissipating mist, moving quickly back in the direction of the encampment.
The villagers remained frozen in place. Only after Itachi's figure had completely vanished did a suppressed, frantic whispering erupt, as fear and shock, like cold vines, wrapped around them.
Sōsuke slammed his staff into the ground. "All of you, shut up!" he barked. "Do as the shinobi-sama said! Clean yourselves up and get back to your business! If one word of what was said today gets out—"
His bloodshot eyes swept over them. The rest of the threat went unsaid, but the chill of it silenced everyone.
Shirakawa Kiesuke looked at his brother, his lips moving, but in the end, he said nothing. His stooped back just seemed to collapse a little more.