The sun beat down on that nameless border town, its streets laid bare beneath a sky that held no mercy for the weary. The peaks of the mountains rose jagged and unmoved by time, casting long shadows like sentinels guarding something that had long since died. The town, if it could be called that, sprawled in silence, its buildings sagging under the weight of years and dust. The road that stretched before us, lined with dust and loose gravel, was marked more by the erratic roll of tumbleweeds than the presence of any living soul.
As we neared, the air shimmered with heat, a wavering line between what was real and what might have been. A wind came through then, rattling the chimes hanging from a weathered storefront, but even that sound was quickly swallowed by the nothing that seemed to own this place. Our feet found the coarse sand beneath them, the grit scraping the soles of our shoes, and the dryness clung to everything.
It had been over a month since we departed Konoha, a month since we’d set out on this fruitless, interminable mission. For all its length and effort, the task was dull and uninspired—a pursuit of a criminal whose rank barely scraped above mediocrity in the bingo books. Yet, somehow, we had been chosen for this, plodding our way through foreign lands, the heat and dust clinging to our skin. It occurred to us, not for the first time, that the mission served more as a distraction than anything of true consequence. A way, perhaps, for the council to keep us at arm’s length while they orchestrated their quiet intrigues back in the village.
Our eyes drifted towards our teammates. Neji, still bound in the bandages wrapped tightly around his neck, was silent. His hatred for us had not lessened; if anything, it had sharpened, though now there was something else there, something older. Fear. And fear was something you could trust. The poison we’d administered had taken its toll, and the proud Hyuga had spent days unable to speak. Even now, his voice, when he used it, was rough, broken. We suspected, however, that he would not soon forget the lesson in humility we had provided.
Tenten, for her part, had drawn further away, her discomfort palpable in every glance. It was as though she couldn’t quite decide how to view us—whether with anger or fear. An interesting dichotomy, really. We did not take it personally. These emotions would sort themselves out, given time. And Guy, ever the exuberant one, had taken to inserting himself between us and the rest of the group whenever possible. There was something about his behaviour, though—something that suggested he wasn’t acting out of fear, at least not for himself. No, the Jonin had little reason to fear us personally. He knew his strength far outstripped ours, at least for now. But it seemed he feared for them, for Neji and Tenten, though I doubt he admitted to that openly.
We did not care much for their emotional states. To us, they were little more than pieces on a larger board, each moving in their preordained paths. Their worries and suspicions were of no concern, so long as they remained out of our way.
The saloon doors creaked and swayed behind us, every eye in the place turning our way. It was a tired place, filled with tired people—those who had no other place to be. The place stank of desperation and cheap liquor. Bandits, missing-nins, bounty hunters—all gathered in the half-light, waiting for something to happen or for nothing to change. We stepped up to the counter, and the bartender, old and grizzled, glanced our way.
“What’ll it be?” he asked.
“A cup of sake,” we said, cutting Guy off. As we did so, we slid a sketch across the counter. Our target. The man we were chasing across these desolate lands. And, alongside the picture, a small stack of coins—more than enough to loosen the bartender’s tongue.
“You seen him?”
The bartender didn’t look at the money. His gaze flitted around the room, eyes wary, before he finally glanced at the photo. He poured the drink without a word.
“Haven’t seen him,” he muttered.
Another stack of coins. The sake tasted like dirt.
“I think I might remember now,” he said, stuffing the money into his apron. The man thought he was clever, but clever didn’t last long in places like this.
“Let’s not get greedy, friend,” we said, and the shadow beneath him shifted, snaking toward him like a thing alive. His hand moved of its own accord, reaching for the knife under the bar. The blade hovered near his crotch, and the sweat on his face grew thick.
“How long do you think you’d last?” we asked him, our voice quiet. “After you lose them?”
He forced a chuckle. A pitiable noise. “I think I remember now.”
We let the jutsu slip away, and the tension fell with it. “Two days ago,” the bartender continued, “he left for the next outpost.”
“And why would he do that?”
The bartender glanced at Guy, who stood behind us, arms crossed. “Yūkaku,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.
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“Fair enough.” We took another sip of the sake—still tasted like shit—and left the bar. Neji and Tenten hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, their disdain for the place palpable. Guy stood there, watching us, trying to understand. But there was nothing to see. Nothing we wanted him to know. The Jonin wasn’t going to find anything unless we wanted him to.
We left the town behind, and an hour later, the next outpost appeared. It didn’t take long to find the brothel, the women outside draped in clothes too thin for the weather, too thin for anything. Neji dodged their advances, as did I, though Tenten’s face flushed with embarrassment. The information came quickly after a few more bribes, and we were on the move again, tracking our prey through the desolate landscape.
The shinobi we sought proved a nuisance, his skin coated with earth armour, nails of chakra-infused iron firing from the ground like torpedoes. But he wasn’t skilled, and it wasn’t long before Guy took him down, the fight over before it had truly begun. The mission was all but complete, another check on a list. But we knew this was nothing. The council was playing its game, and we were just a piece moving across the board.
The real game was still to come.
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Somewhere along the Eastern Border. The Land of Fire.
“Tora...”
“Hebi.”
“Inu. Tatsu.”
“Iikkō suru.”
The soft, rhythmic chant of hands coming together, once, and then again—sharp, deliberate—was almost drowned out by the low hum of chakra pulsing through the air. Danzo’s presence felt like a slow whirl of dust, and in the middle of it all, the sacrifice. Their scream, though, was unmistakable. A wretched sound that pierced the thick quiet as their form began to change, dust and ash swirling into something half-formed, half-forgotten, taking on a new shape. It was not violent—this transformation—but unsettling, a shift from one existence into another.
Slowly, the chakra signature—the one once belonging to the sacrifice—was no more. What emerged in its place was a shadow from the past, old and musty, yet insistent in its presence.
“Sensei.” Danzo's voice cracked, and his knees hit the ground, a gesture mirrored by the two masked figures behind him.
“Lord Second!” they chorused, voices dulled by the white masks they wore.
The figure who now stood before them, eyes a faint shade of ash, turned slowly, his gaze drifting across the gathered shinobi, as if seeing, and yet not quite seeing.
“Danzo?” The name slipped from the figure’s lips, a question weighed down by a long and wearied silence. Then, his gaze fell, taking in the decayed state of his own hands. “Edo Tensei... What is this you have done, this—” His voice was edged with the remnants of old authority, now cracked.
Danzo bowed his head even further, his words nearly lost to the dirt beneath him. “Forgive me, Tobirama-sensei. My hands were forced.”
Tobirama’s gaze shifted, searching the air as if trying to recall something distant, long faded. “What happened? How fares the village?”
“The village prospers,” Danzo said, the words emerging slow and measured. “But its future—” His voice faltered, a subtle catch betraying what he feared to admit.
At Danzo’s signal, one of the masked operatives rose, stepping forward with a small scroll. Tobirama accepted it, his hands trembling as they unfurled the paper. His eyes moved erratically, scanning the document in silence. At last, a name escaped him.
“Uchiha Sasuke.”
Danzo’s breath caught, his voice dropping as if speaking of something cursed. “His hatred burns, Sensei. So pure. So true. Unrivalled by any of his clan before him.” A pause. “I fear the rise of another Madara. But now, there is no Hashirama to subdue him.”
Tobirama’s fingers curled around the scroll, then, almost dismissively, he tossed it back to the operative. His gaze darkened. “A Mangekyō at six...” His words trailed off, the weight of them sinking into the earth beneath them. “Why is the boy still alive, Danzo?”
Danzo hesitated, and then his voice lowered further. “My hands... were tied. His older brother is loyal. Misguided, perhaps, but valuable. I dare not move against the boy for fear of the repercussions. Hiruzen... Hiruzen has grown soft. He refuses to see reason.”
There was a long silence as Tobirama seemed to withdraw into his thoughts, his gaze unfocused, lingering somewhere beyond the horizon.
“And so you resort to Edo Tensei.” The words were calm, yet there was something like an accusation in them. “You summon me from the dead to... kill a child?”
Danzo straightened slightly, his voice now edged with something darker. “Do not underestimate the boy, Sensei. He is far more dangerous than his years suggest. He has survived encounters with forces that would have destroyed others twice his age. His eyes... his eyes are weapons unlike any we have seen before. One of them can obliterate a person’s soul.” A pause, weighted. “We do not know what the other eye is capable of.”
Tobirama’s gaze turned cold, unreadable.
“I have no one strong enough to ensure his death,” Danzo admitted, his voice a whisper of defeat. “Not without drawing Hiruzen’s attention.”
There was another long silence before Tobirama nodded, a faint acknowledgement. “Very well. I will handle the matter myself. Your work, as always, is imperfect. I am not at full strength.” His eyes glinted, a pale reflection of the man he once was. “But it should be more than enough to deal with an upstart Uchiha brat.”
Danzo’s lips curled ever so slightly. He gestured to another operative, who stepped forward with a scroll, a cloak, and a mask. “I have arranged for the boy to be sent on a mission to the Land of Wind,” Danzo said. “He should reach the capital in three weeks. All the details are within.”
Tobirama took the effects, slipping the mask over his face, the cloak over his decayed form. “And his eyes?” he asked, his voice now muffled by the mask.
“They will secure Konoha’s future,” Danzo whispered. “Retrieve them, Sensei.”
With a nod, Tobirama was gone. Not a trace left behind.
Simply gone.