Ambushed, Battle Begins

The caravan was ambushed on the afternoon of the second day after entering the dense forest.

To be precise, it first went quiet.

Aoba Yamashiro was the first to notice something wrong. The taciturn special jonin suddenly raised his right fist while marching—fingers curled, knuckles level with his shoulder, clean and sharp. It was the tactical signal to halt. Yamada, walking behind him, nearly collided with his back.

"Aoba-sensei?" Yamada lowered his voice, his hand already reaching for the ninja tool pouch at his waist.

Aoba Yamashiro tilted his head, his ears turned toward the depths of the forest like a hound catching the scent of blood.

"The birds have stopped singing."

Takuma's footsteps faltered. He looked up at the canopy overhead. No birdsong. It wasn't just the birds; even the chirping of insects had vanished. The entire forest seemed to have been hit with a mute button, leaving only the creaking of the oxcart's wooden wheels against the dirt road and the sound of their own breathing.

Chubei was still sitting on the oxcart tallying accounts, the beads of his abacus clicking away, completely oblivious to the shift in atmosphere.

"Boss Chubei," Takuma said in a low, steady tone, "please take your men and hide under the oxcart."

The old merchant didn't ask why. He pulled his two assistants off the cart and huddled into the gap between the cargo and the wheels. This reaction made Takuma's heart sink—only those who had truly experienced danger possessed such unquestioning obedience.

Then he heard the sound of wind being torn.

Three kunai shot out from the depths of the forest, flying in a triangular formation toward Aoba Yamashiro's throat, heart, and abdomen.

Aoba Yamashiro's reaction was faster than the kunai. Leaning sideways, bending at the waist, and stepping back—the three movements were performed in one fluid motion. The first grazed his earlobe, the second pierced through his armpit and embedded itself into the oxcart's sideboard, and the third was swatted away by his own kunai in mid-air, sparks from the metal collision exploding in the air.

"Earth Style: Earth Wall!"

Aoba Yamashiro performed a hand seal with one hand and slammed his palm onto the ground. A two-meter-high wall of earth rose from the soil, blocking the front of the oxcart. The surface of the wall had a moist, earthy sheen, thick enough to withstand a frontal assault.

Figures from the dense forest appeared from three directions simultaneously.

Two to the front-left, two to the front-right. A standard pincer formation.

Five people in total. The man who stepped out from the front was burly, with a scar on his left cheek running diagonally from his brow bone to his jaw, splitting one eye into a permanently half-closed slit. He held a short blade with a dark red edge, his gait unhurried.

The other four enemies closed in from the flanks. None of the five wore headbands, and they were dressed in nondescript, mismatched combat gear.

"Missing-nin," Aoba Yamashiro's voice was as cold as a frozen river. "Outlaws with no village to call home. Don't be fooled by their gear—every one of these people has blood on their hands to have survived this long."

The scarred man stopped ten paces in front of the earth wall, tilted his head to glance over it at the three genin, then withdrew his gaze. His lips split into a slit, revealing a few teeth capped with metal.

The scarred man raised his short blade toward Aoba Yamashiro, his tone suddenly becoming very polite—polite enough to make one's back go cold: "Ninja of Konoha, we only want the cargo. Hand over the client, take the three brats and leave, and I won't kill you. That's a fair trade, isn't it?"

Aoba Yamashiro did not answer, holding his kunai horizontally across his chest.

The scarred man waited for a moment, the smile on his face fading. He pressed his short blade downward and spat out two words: "Do it."

The moment the battle erupted, there was no preamble. The scarred man went straight for Aoba Yamashiro, his short blade swinging in a full-force hack; the whistling sound of the blade tearing through the air made one's eardrums ache. Aoba Yamashiro parried the blow with his kunai, but he was outmatched in strength—after blocking the blade, he pushed forward to force the scarred man back a step. Another enemy's iron chain swept in from the left, the sickle at the end aiming straight for his neck. Aoba Yamashiro was forced to lean back to avoid it, simultaneously throwing two shuriken with his left hand to counterattack.

The three were locked in a melee, the shrill sound of clashing blades incessant. But Aoba Yamashiro was pinned down on the front line, unable to turn back.

The other three enemies had already lunged toward the sides of the oxcart.

Yamada Kenta and Sato Jiro moved to intercept them, with the goods and the client behind them—there was nowhere left to retreat.

Takuma faced two opponents.

The Iron-Spike Man and the Double-Axe Brute flanked him from left and right. The iron spikes on the Iron-Spike Man's knuckles glinted coldly in the sunlight. His arms were covered in old scars, and his footwork was light and precise—he was clearly a veteran accustomed to close-quarters combat. The Double-Axe Brute was short and stocky, his shoulders as wide as a door panel. He held a short-handled axe in each hand, the blades mottled with rust, yet the edges were honed to a gleaming sharpness.

"Kid, your teammate won't last long," the Iron-Spike Man said, working his fingers as the spikes clicked together with a faint metallic sound. "Do you want to die on your own, or should we help you?"

Takuma did not answer. His brain was operating at a speed far beyond normal.

Two against one. One opponent had speed and experience, the other had strength and weapons. He would have to trade injury for a kill.

He took a deep breath and charged toward the two men.

The Iron-Spike Man was visibly stunned—he had seen too many genin turn and run in this situation, but this was the first time he had seen one charge at two enemies head-on. The hesitation lasted less than half a second before his combat instincts took over. He splayed the fingers of his right hand, the iron spikes aiming straight for Takuma's face.

At the moment of contact, Takuma shifted his body, sliding past the Iron-Spike Man's right side while simultaneously pulling two smoke bombs from his pouch and smashing them onto the ground. Gray-white smoke exploded instantly, swallowing a five-meter radius around the three of them. The Iron-Spike Man's attack missed, his spikes slicing through nothing but smoke.

The moment the smoke bombs detonated, Takuma had already circled behind the Double-Axe Brute, raising his kunai to stab at his lower back.

The brute's reaction was faster than he had anticipated—he swung his axe backhand, forcing Takuma to retract his blade and retreat. The axe blade grazed his lapel, shaving off a patch of fabric. But Takuma's goal had been achieved: his attack forced the brute to pivot, and as the brute turned, he stepped onto two explosive tags Takuma had kicked under his feet while charging.

The sound of ignition was piercingly sharp within the smoke. The brute lowered his head, saw the flickering fire at his feet, and his pupils contracted violently.

The sound of the explosion drowned out his scream.

Firelight tore through the smoke, and the shockwave sent the Double-Axe Brute flying, slamming him into the trunk of a cedar tree three meters away. His axe flew from his hand and embedded itself in the ground. Half his body was charred, his chest caved in, and he struggled to crawl up before collapsing again.

But the explosion also dispersed the smoke. The Iron-Spike Man had jumped out of the blast radius the moment it detonated, and the look of contempt on his face finally vanished. He looked at Takuma, who was standing up from the debris of the smoke, and narrowed his eyes.

Takuma was not in good shape. The blast point was less than three meters away—close enough that the shockwave had shredded the front of his clothes, leaving his exposed skin covered in tiny scratches and burns. A gash had been cut into his left ribcage, and blood was seeping out. His ears were ringing, and there was a taste of rust in his mouth.

The Iron-Spike Man's gaze was fixed firmly on that wound on his left ribcage.

The blood was coagulating. New tissue was growing inward from the edges of the wound. Pink, fresh skin covered the area within seconds. Not just that wound—every small scratch on his body caused by the explosion was healing in sync, as if some invisible force was frantically repairing his body.

The Iron-Spike Man did not move. He stood five paces away, watching the skin under Takuma's ribs that had already returned to normal—if one ignored the tear in his clothes and the bloodstains, one would never know there had been a bleeding wound there seconds ago. His fingers curled and extended slightly, the iron spikes clicking together with a faint sound; it wasn't the rhythm of battle, but his hands trembling uncontrollably.

"You... monster..." the Iron-Spike Man's voice trembled.

He had killed many people in his life as a missing-nin, some strong, some weak. But he had never seen someone who could regrow their own flesh within seconds after being hit head-on by an explosive tag. This was outside his understanding.

Takuma pushed himself up from the ground and spat out a mouthful of blood. He looked down at his left ribcage—the skin had completely healed; the bloodstains remained, but the wound was gone. He raised his hand to wipe the corner of his mouth, then took a step toward the Iron-Spike Man.

His clothes were in tatters, and his exposed skin was still stained with blood and burn marks, but the wounds themselves had all vanished. Sunlight leaked through the gaps in the canopy, shining on him; the new skin glowed with a healthy luster in the light, forming an unsettling contrast with the blood-soaked, tattered clothes.

"You're the monster," Takuma said, looking into the Iron-Spike Man's eyes, enunciating every word. "Your whole family are monsters."