A Forceful Rescue at the Senju Clan Compound

Three hundred meters north of the Senju Clan Compound.

Danzō's seventeen-man formation had already shrunk to thirteen.

After the Four Red Yang Formation was broken, Tsunade retreated to the roof of the main house. Sixty percent of her chakra had been used up, and the Creation Rebirth Mark on her right fist glimmered faintly purple beneath the moonlight.

But she was still standing.

A standing Tsunade was harder to deal with than a seated Kage-level fighter.

"No rush." Danzō stood in the back row, his left hand tucked behind his back, his tone as casual as if he were telling servants to sweep the courtyard. "Wear her down. Once her chakra drops below thirty percent, close in."

The thirteen Root ninjas silently spread out, dividing into three groups to take turns harassing her with long-range ninjutsu. They would not approach, would not linger in battle, and would only exhaust her.

Tsunade smashed the fourth wave of Wind Style throwing knives. When she landed, her knee bent slightly.

It straightened after only half a second, but Danzō saw it.

"Soon." The corner of his mouth curled.

Sakumo Hatake was already dead. Nawaki Senju was trapped in the Forest of Death. Kushina Uzumaki and that Uchiha Clan traitor girl were probably still lost in the forest.

Tonight was the night he had waited twelve years for.

The Senju Clan. This was where it ended.

"Third group on the left flank, from—"

Danzō's command caught in his throat.

Because the third group on the left flank did not respond.

It was not defiance. The outermost Root ninja on the left flank no longer had a head on his shoulders.

There was no sound, no warning. Not even blood sprayed out—the wound was too clean. The instant his carotid artery was severed, his heart had not yet reacted and begun pumping blood.

The head fell to the ground and rolled twice. The body swayed, then toppled stiffly forward.

The companion beside him had not even finished turning his head.

A second head fell.

This time, someone saw it—the sensory ninja in the first group on the left flank caught a flash of white at the last moment.

From right to left. Faster than his visual processing speed.

He opened his mouth to shout, "Enemy attack!"

He got as far as "Enemy" when the white flash returned.

Three heads. Four seconds. The smell of blood had not even dispersed.

The entire left flank was as silent as a graveyard.

Danzō pulled his left hand from behind his back, drawing a short blade. His eyes frantically swept the darkness.

He could not sense anything.

No chakra fluctuations. No footsteps. No breathing.

It was as though the moonlight itself was killing people.

"Everyone, pull back! Back to back!"

The order went out. But the response was a dull thud from the right flank—a Root ninja was slammed into the ground, his chest completely caved in, ribs piercing out through his back.

This time, someone saw the killer clearly.

A white mask. A black Anbu uniform. A white-glowing short blade sheathed at his waist.

A Root ninja who had drawn his sword chased after him. His blade had only just risen above his head when the white mask was already in front of him.

The short blade never left its sheath.

The masked man drove the heel of his left palm directly into the top of his head.

His entire skull sank three centimeters downward.

Before the corpse hit the ground, the masked man had vanished.

Danzō's back was drenched in cold sweat.

That speed. That efficiency at killing. That utterly unhesitating style of attack.

How many active Konoha ninja could reach that level?

A name suddenly came to mind.

Impossible.

That man had already committed seppuku at home. He had arranged for two hidden sentries to watch him and wait to collect the body—

The two sentries had not reported back.

Danzō's pupils shrank to pinpoints.

He knew that short blade too well. The White Light Short Blade. Under moonlight, it gave off a distinct icy-blue gleam. There was only one in the entire ninja world.

"Impossible—"

The sky came crashing down.

Not metaphorically.

A grayish-white Wood Dragon crashed down from the night sky south of the Senju Clan Compound, its head slamming directly into the center of the remaining Root formation.

The ground exploded. Dirt, broken stones, and tree roots flew into the sky alongside the screams of Root ninjas.

Three Root ninjas who reacted half a beat too slowly were crushed beneath the dragon's body. The sound of their breastbones breaking was clearly audible amid the explosion.

Danzō was thrown over by the blast wave. He scrambled backward ten steps before his back hit a broken tree and stopped him.

He looked up.

Someone stood atop the Wood Dragon's head.

Twelve years old. His hair was a complete mess from the wind. Mud and blades of grass clung to his clothes.

His expression was clean and innocent.

But in the moonlight, his eyes looked exactly like a snake's as it watched its prey.

"Danzō." Nawaki jumped down from the dragon's head, landing almost silently. "It's only been a few days, and you've gotten bolder."

Danzō braced himself against the broken tree and stood. The empty sleeve on the side of his severed arm fluttered in the night wind.

His gaze swept rapidly over the battlefield.

The left flank was wiped out. The right flank was wiped out. The center had been scattered by the Wood Dragon.

Of the thirteen men, no more than four were still standing.

And that white-masked shadow stood thirty meters to the north, blood still wet on his short blade. Its tip pointed down, droplets falling to the ground one by one.

"Sakumo Hatake?!" Danzō's voice cracked. "He should have—"

"Should be dead?" Nawaki tilted his head. "Didn't the two men you sent to watch the show report back?"

Danzō's face twisted.

"Oh, right. They can't report back anymore." Nawaki brushed the dust from his hands. "Dead people aren't very good at using communication techniques."

On the rooftop, Tsunade panted heavily as she watched her little brother standing amid the Wood Dragon's remains. She tried hard to keep the corners of her mouth down, but failed.

"Brat, you're five minutes late."

"Sorry, sis. I picked someone up on the way back."

Tsunade glanced at the white mask to the north. She saw that short blade.

She did not ask a single question.

"What next? Want me to go down there and beat him up?" Tsunade flexed her knuckles.

"No." Nawaki waved at her. "Sis, dealing with an old dog like this would only dirty your hands."

Danzō's right eye twitched.

"Nawaki... do you think that just because you—"

Nawaki formed a hand seal with one hand.

His left hand. Five fingers pressed downward.

Only one seal.

The ground split apart.

Not one crack. The entire stretch of ground burst open at once.

Tree roots surged from beneath the soil. One, two, ten, dozens—like a swarm of living snakes, thick and thin. The thickest were as wide as water buckets, while the thinnest were no thicker than fingers.

They covered the sky and earth.

The four remaining Root ninjas did not even have time to react. Roots wrapped around their calves from below, passed beneath their armpits from behind, and twisted around their wrists from both sides.

Three seconds. All four were hanging in midair, limbs spread wide, weapons scattered across the ground.

Danzō turned to flee.

He took half a step. A thumb-thick root drilled out of the ground and wrapped around his ankle.

A second wrapped around his other ankle.

A third, fourth, fifth—from his waist, chest, shoulders, winding layer by layer like ropes.

The last one slowly coiled around his neck.

It was not tight. But Danzō could feel that with a single thought from Nawaki, the root would constrict.

He was lifted half a meter off the ground, suspended in the air like cured meat hung out to dry.

Nawaki walked over.

Every step was slow. His feet crunched crisply over broken stones and dirt.

He stopped before Danzō and looked up at the old man hanging above him.

"Lord Danzō." Nawaki's tone was exceedingly gentle, exactly like when he addressed teachers at school. "You said the Senju Clan had become history."

He reached out and patted the root around Danzō's neck.

"Does history slapping you in the face hurt?"

Danzō's face turned the color of liver. Perhaps it was an illusion, but the root around his neck seemed to tighten another fraction.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something.

A series of orderly landing sounds came from the distance.

Sixteen—no, twenty chakra signatures were rapidly approaching from the direction of central Konoha Village.

Anbu. Not Root.

The Hokage's direct Anbu.

The Anbu captain at the front saw the scene before him through his iron-bar mask, and his steps slowed by half a beat.

The clearing outside the Senju Clan Compound was a complete mess. Tree roots and trunks jutted from the ground everywhere, turning the entire area into a small forest.

The Root ninjas hung in the air like clothes on a drying line. Some were still struggling; others no longer moved.

On the tallest "tree" in the center hung a one-armed old man.

Nawaki stood beneath the old man's feet, hands in his pockets, looking up.

The Anbu captain swallowed and turned to look toward the back of the group.

Hiruzen Sarutobi stepped forward.

The Third Hokage's pipe was unlit. The wrinkles on his face looked as deep as knife cuts under the moonlight.

His gaze passed over the severed limbs and tree roots littering the ground before finally settling on Danzō, hanging in midair.

Nawaki did not turn around.

"Third Hokage, you arrived at quite the perfect time."

His voice was soft and steady, carrying a faint smile.

"You timed it perfectly—wait until the scene was cleaned up, then come out to handle the aftermath. Is that the only skill the old monkey taught you?"

The Third Hokage tightened his grip on his pipe.

Nawaki slowly turned around to face the Third Hokage and twenty elite Anbu.

A twelve-year-old boy. Behind him lay a battlefield of ruins, above him hung a traitor, and at either side stood a Kage-level older sister and a Kage-level figure in a white mask.

"Tonight's debt." Nawaki pulled his hand from his pocket, palm up, and spread it open.

"Let's settle it face-to-face."