The scar-faced man had already crawled out from beneath the tree roots. A ring of bruises circled his neck, and his voice rasped like sandpaper.
"The north camp says four people are missing."
The kunoichi returned from the hollow to the east, her expression grim.
"What about the east camp?"
"No one missing," the scar-faced man said. "But all the hostages are gone."
The kunoichi sat down, bracing both hands on her knees.
"He was alone. Wounded. He slipped past our patrol lines, reached the main camp, took down six people, captured the four guards at the east camp, and freed twenty-three civilians. Then he left."
The scar-faced man said nothing.
The kunoichi raised her head.
"He didn't even kill anyone."
The scar-faced man drove his short blade hard into the ground.
"Next time. He won't be so lucky next time."
The kunoichi watched him without speaking.
She wanted to ask: if he could do this much while injured, what would happen once he recovered? What would happen when he stopped using his scabbard and started using his blade?
She said nothing.
She stood up, went into the tent, and began drafting a retreat plan.
By the time Chisen returned to the wall on Konoha's western side, dawn was approaching.
He climbed over far more clumsily than when he had left-the bandage on his left arm had loosened half a turn during the journey, and his sling had slipped down to his elbow. He couldn't use his left hand to help pull himself up, relying entirely on his right hand and core. Landing jarred the wound on his abdomen. He stood still for a few breaths before continuing.
The Medical Department's back door was unlocked.
No one had forgotten to lock it. Someone had left it open for him.
He