Rustle, rustle, rustle.
A rough bamboo broom scraped across the bluestone paving, producing a monotonous, steady rasp.
Beneath the dead cherry tree, the two Root ninja corpses remained twisted into grotesque poses. Their cervical vertebrae had been crushed instantly by invisible attraction, blood spilling from their noses and mouths and winding through the cracks between the stone slabs.
The stench of blood quickly fermented in the chilly early-spring air, drowning out the faint soapberry scent lingering around Hinata's collar.
She did not scream. She did not retreat. Even the rhythm of her sweeping did not falter.
Her flawless white eyes were slightly lowered, deliberately avoiding the corpses on the ground. But upon closer inspection, one could see that her knuckles had turned bloodless from gripping the broom too tightly.
Thump. Thump.
Her heart slammed wildly against her ribs.
Hinata could clearly sense the lingering aftermath of that incomparably condensed, utterly domineering chakra in the air. That method of compressing the force of Gentle Fist strikes to the limit, even tugging at the surrounding air—only one person in the entire Shinobi World could do it.
He was back.
Right outside the door. In that shadow so deep that even moonlight could not pierce it.
Hinata bit down hard on her lower lip, a faint taste of rust spreading through her mouth. How badly she wanted to throw down the broom, rush through that decaying wooden door, and throw herself into his broad embrace. She wanted to tell him loudly just how suffocating the Main House's oppression had been these past three months.
But she could not.
Xiao had taught her this: a true hunter was always more patient than his prey. In the cannibalistic mire that was Leaf Village, weakness and tears would not earn sympathy. They would only excite those