Nawaki didn't rush.
He walked to the edge of the tent and rapped the support pole twice with his knuckles.
"Wake up. We've got visitors."
The tent flap flew open. Mikoto was already rolling out with a short blade in hand, dropping to one knee. One look at her posture told them she had never let go of her weapon even in sleep.
Kushina followed right after, her hair a mess but her eyes bright.
Shikaku came out last, a blade of grass still stuck in his hair, his entire face saying, I knew nothing good would come of going out with you.
"Twelve of them. No forehead protectors. Their chakra levels range from chunin to near-jonin." Nawaki crouched beside the campfire and casually drew a few lines in the dirt with a branch. "They're coming from the northeast, avoiding the main road and heading for our cargo. Mercenaries."
Shikaku instantly sobered up.
"Who's fighting?"
Everyone looked at Nawaki.
Nawaki stood, took two steps back, and leaned against a large tree with his arms folded.
"Shikaku, you do it."
Shikaku froze.
"You set the formation and give the orders. I'm not fighting tonight."
"...You serious?"
"They're just twelve small fry. No need to use a sledgehammer to kill chickens." Nawaki yawned. "Pretend I'm not here."
Shikaku opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He hadn't known Nawaki for very long, but it had been long enough to understand one thing—when this guy said he wouldn't fight, he truly wouldn't.
"What a pain."
Shikaku muttered under his breath, but his mind was already racing.
He swept his gaze over the terrain. A sheltered slope. Three wagons arranged in a triangle, the campfire slightly west of center. A stream lay to the south, while dense woods filled the north and east. The