STIN: Chapter 94/96

Chapter 94: Evil Uchiha Vixen!?

A few days slipped by in suffocating silence.

Ryo's recovery was astonishing. Strength returned to his left arm like the spring tide, and he no longer confined himself to the bed. He began moving around, slow and cautious at first, then quickly steady and powerful.

Within the cramped tent he paced and stretched. Each motion drew smooth lines of muscle and carried an irrepressible aura of killing intent.

The numbness from the poison was completely gone. Power surged in him, and he longed for the raw satisfaction of blood and battle.

Mikoto still shadowed him, bringing water, medicine, and those bland rations. But something had changed.

She had grown quiet, no longer forcing conversation. When Ryo exercised, she would stand in the shadowed corner, a rolled medical scroll in hand. Yet whenever his movements tugged at a wound, her fingers tightened imperceptibly on the scroll's edge, then relaxed when he steadied.

When those bright black eyes occasionally met Ryo's, she would dodge like a frightened deer. A faint, suspicious blush flashed across her pale cheeks, slow to fade. There was clear annoyance at herself in her gaze, and a kind of timid avoidance, as if still mortified by that accident, not daring to look him in the eye.

Ryo's face stayed iron-cold. He ignored her.

At last, just then, the air changed.

Tsunade stepped in as Ryo, back to the flap, practiced one-handed forms. Every punch ripped the air with dull, sharp pops. Sweat soaked his vest, clinging to the taut back muscles already more than halfway recovered.

In the corner, Mikoto sat with her legs to the side, head lowered, fingertips unconsciously tracing the open scroll.

Tsunade's hawk-sharp gaze swept them both. Ryo's sweat-slicked power. Mikoto's deliberate, humble, persistent quail pose. She recalled the faint, ambiguous ripple she had walked in on days ago, and the strange sensation beneath her fingertips when she had checked Ryo's shoulder blade. Instantly, a nameless wicked fire, mixed with irritation, flared up her spine.

She was a shinobi, a medical sage, a veteran of battlefield hell. Mikoto's little tricks were child's play to her. The carefully averted eyes, the blush, the cautious stance, every bit of it was embellished bait.

Anger surged in Tsunade's chest.

She wanted to rip the flimsy act to shreds on the spot and throw this heart-disturbing girl out.

By instinct she wanted to protect the brat who had dragged her back from the edge of hell. She would not let him fall into a little fox's snare.

But then her eyes fell on Ryo's back, those deep, bone-showing scars. Scars earned to bring her, Jiraiya, and even that idiot Orochimaru back alive.

The scolding at her lips thinned into a hard, impatient snort from the nose. "Hmph."

Two steps carried her to Ryo. She yanked up his arm to inspect the injury, rougher than last time, almost venting.

"Enough. You are out of here tomorrow." Her hands flew, and her fingertips skated over skin, the familiar resilient texture only irked her more. The motion hitched a fraction. Her eyes grew stormier. "Standing here like a door god? Brat, back to your own quarters. The disinfectant stink in here gives me a headache."

Decree delivered, she spun and strode for the door.

As she passed the Uchiha girl by the flap, head perpetually bowed, still as a statue, Tsunade's eyes cut sideways, razor-sharp.

Not a question, a verdict and a warning. Threaded within, to her own shock, was a flicker of tacit leave, even a strange, reluctant anticipation. A tangle so complex it annoyed her more.

Tsunade had seen through it, raged at it, then chose the simplest solution, out of sight, out of mind. She dumped the mess.

Let the little fox play her game.

That choice itself carried a guilt and evasion Tsunade did not recognize in herself.

Mikoto kept her head down until Tsunade's footsteps faded to nothing.

Her spine still prickled with the memory of that icy, thorned gaze.

Her heart hammered, half from the terror of being seen through, half from the thrill of passing the test.

Tsunade had seen, and had not exposed it. That eerie permission shook and excited her more than any praise.

Ryo rolled the shoulder Tsunade had squeezed painfully. Bone clicked. He worked his left arm, feeling muscle gather and stretch beneath skin.

Tomorrow he would rejoin the unit. On the field, he would be faster. Harsher.

Next time, he would never be as ragged as on Ridge B-7.

He shook off the useless thoughts and set for one last set.

"Ryo-kun," Mikoto said softly, dust settling in her tone, calm and a newfound resolve he had never heard before. "Starting tomorrow, I will not come anymore."

"Tsunade-sensei asked me to look after you for a while. That task is finished." A tiny pull at the corner of her mouth, like she tried to smile and failed. Her voice was level, unreadable. No performance of guilt, no exaggerated shyness, only a resigned statement, as if that kiss had never happened. "From here on, during squad missions, I will be relying on Ryo-kun to look after us."

Ryo said nothing. He only watched her. The haze that had clung to her for days, the fluster and guilt that annoyed him, had vanished. She stood there, inexplicably clear.

Mikoto bowed slightly with clan-perfect etiquette, smooth but lifeless. Without another word, she quietly gathered the small violet wicker chest in the corner, the one that had held precious sweets and her careful preparations.

The lid clicked softly. She lifted the chest and walked toward the flap, steps still light but carrying a weary distance, as if a weight had been put down. Her black braid swayed with her steps, revealing the elegant, fragile line of her neck.

Ryo stood where he was, gaze unconsciously following the back that was about to slip away.

---

The next day.

Ryo Squad assembled.

Only, the air felt off. Nawaki sensed something wrong in every direction. Between Ryo and Mikoto there seemed to be a strange, complicated bond. And he, was he the odd wheel out?

What exactly had happened while Ryo was recovering?

"Ryo-sama. Danzō-sama requests your presence."

Before Nawaki could sort it out, a shinobi arrived, respectful, to summon Ryo.

(To be continued.)

Chapter 95: Grave

Torrential rain hammered Konoha's forward camp, hissing in the mud and flinging brown spray. The air was close and heavy, the reek of iron and powder choking every breath.

Whsssh. The sheet of rain split. Three figures cut straight toward the command core, like three steel blades stabbing through the battlefield's clotted air.

Nawaki followed last with a pack on his back, eyes darting at the resting shinobi. But whenever Ryo passed, it was as if an invisible hand seized their throats. Men went rigid in an instant.

Some ducked their heads and growled, "Ryo-sama." More simply froze, scalps prickling, spines locking straight, not respect, but a marrow-deep fear that crept across the soaked ground like a cold serpent.

Nawaki swallowed hard.

Days ago, the figure who single-handedly slaughtered through a thousand Iwa, clashed head-on with Akagan, and, drenched in blood, dragged Tsunade and the others from a heap of corpses, had become the battlefield's deepest imprint.

Fear, of pure, crushing power. Even if that power wore the face of a refined-looking red-haired boy.

Catching every awed, fearful glance, Nawaki's Adam's apple bobbed. Once he had fantasized about renown, praised by thousands, heart stoked by the Will of Fire.

Cold reality had doused that fantasy long ago.

Know yourself. Live. …All thanks to Ryo. The thought tasted bitter. His nails bit crescent moons into his palms.

Inside the command pavilion, currents went dark.

Whsh. The heavy flap rose and dropped, sealing out the storm.

Lamps guttered. Cheap incense bit the nose. Maps papered the walls. A colder, thicker stale hung in the air, ambition and calculation, like fog that would not lift.

On the dais, Shimura Danzō's hawk eyes fixed on Ryo the moment he entered. When his gaze slid to Nawaki and, especially, to the silent Uchiha girl at Ryo's side, a sharp twitch stabbed the edge of his eye.

That damned Uchiha whelp.

The dark fire in his chest whooshed up. When Ryo lay comatose with mortal wounds, what an opportunity. Poison. A medical mishap. Battlefield complications. The perfect stage. A hero who tragically succumbed to his injuries, who would trace it back to Danzō?

Ruined. She kept vigil day and night. Those eyes, undisguised vigilance and silent threat, kept his men from even approaching the bed. Every probe, lightly, flawlessly deflected.

All for nothing. And he could only watch as this unruly monster recovered, stronger. Danzō ground his teeth to chalk, strangled the urge to roar, and forced a waxen, concerned smile. His voice came thin and muffled, ice wrapped in velvet.

"Ryo-kun, how is the recovery?"

Ryo stepped to the center and did not bother raising an eyelid to that counterfeit face. His reply fell like ice on stone.

"Not dead."

The air froze. The temperature dropped.

Danzō's fake smile calcified.

"Hmph." He swallowed the snarl, coughed, and waved his lone Root appointee out.

He lifted a special scroll sealed in wax and intoned with mock gravity.
"The front is tight. We need the sharpest blade to break the game." His voice dropped to a coaxing rasp that pretended to command life and death. "Look at this. Do it, and it is worth more than killing a hundred elites head-on." He slid the scroll toward Ryo, eyes locked on his to catch the slightest ripple.

Ryo's face was a slab of ice. He reached, long fingers teasing. The wax seal crumbled like wet paper. He scanned the inked lines:

[Location: Ame border, Nohara settlement, population about 600]
[Status: Civilian vassals under Hanzō]
[Objective: Stage a massacre using Suna and Iwa style tools and ninjutsu traces. No survivors.]
[Executor: Kamiyama Ryo and squad]
[Strategic Aim: Frame Suna and Iwa, enrage Hanzō into a fight to the death. Konoha profits.]
[Time limit: 72 hours]

Silence imploded. Even the wick's tiny crackle boomed. Smoke hung frozen. The air was thick enough to choke.

Danzō's heart crept up his throat. Submission, or trouble worse than before.

Ryo never paused. Snap. He folded the scroll in one clean motion.

Clack.

The death sentence for six hundred innocents landed back on Danzō's desk like trash, open contempt, rolled twice, and pinned a blurred border on the map.

Ryo raised his head. Silver eyes bored straight through Danzō's shadowed schemer's gaze. His voice was so flat it chilled Danzō's spine.

"Find someone else."

"Kamiyama Ryo." Danzō exploded, palm slamming the table. Bang. Maps jumped. Gear rattled. "This is a wartime order." His voice went high and thin, authority challenged and aflame. "You are a registered Konoha chūnin. Obeying orders is your duty. I will not tolerate this insolence."

The roar crashed in the enclosed space.

Nawaki went paper-white. Cold sweat soaked his back. His right hand jerked to his tool pouch, knuckles bloodless. Mikoto slid half a step forward without a sound, nearly brushing Ryo's arm in a silent guard. Frost flashed in her lowered eyes. A cool kunai fell into her palm. Her killing intent prickled, spearing Danzō.

Ryo stood under the roar and the avalanche of killing intent, eyes lowered.

Then those eyes cut up, twin blades forged at absolute zero, stabbing into Danzō's pupils.

"My blade," he said, not loud, but each word detonated, iron law embodied, "kills only those who should die."

As the words fell, Ryo shifted, barely, but with a natural inevitability, putting the full height of his frame between Mikoto and Danzō, casting her in his shadow. An iron wall rose, unscalable, between malice and its target.

A pressure like an ancient beast awakening erupted, silent, and heavier than a thousand-fathom cliff. Cold as a polar trench. The tent's air seemed ripped from its lungs.

"Ghh." Danzō faltered. He felt like a leaf in a maelstrom. His back took a phantom hammer-blow. Breath punched out.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

He lurched backward, unable even to cry out, and slammed into his chair. One hand crushed the armrest, veins bulging. The other clutched his chest. His face flushed purple from the neck, then blanched blank. Sweat beaded and ran like peas across his brow.

His vision vignetted. Pupils pinholed with terror. Pain screamed. Thought fragmented.

Suffocation. Pain. Boundless fear. Death pressed cold and certain to his throat. No probe, no test, a naked warning, the next heartbeat could cleave him in two.

From the corner of her lowered gaze, Mikoto watched his twisted grimace. Her chin lifted the tiniest fraction. A glacial curve flickered at her lip and died.

Ryo's subtle move to shelter her hit like a tidal wave in her chest. The safest place, beneath the strongest wing, paired with the enemy's humiliation, made for perfect, savage joy. Look, only I stand behind him. Possessiveness surged, fully fed. She dropped her lashes, masking every trace.

That flash of triumph did not escape Danzō, whose senses had sharpened to sickness by pain and shame.

This Uchiha, born wicked, little vixen.

The poison of hate scalded what remained of his reason. The ruined poison plot, the accident that never happened, images stuttered past. Her fault. The snake coiled around Ryo, her, had driven him to riskier games.

His eyes vomited venom, fixing on Mikoto, maddened vivisection in the gaze.

Ryo snorted, cold as hellwind. His pressure did not ease. It surged.

Crack.

An invisible edge kissed Danzō's neck. The chill bit marrow-deep.

An ice tub dropped. Every cell shrieked danger. Sweat drenched his underclothes. The spiked warning nailed into his brain. The leaking malice sluiced back behind his eyes and stilled, dead water.

Damn it. The monster would kill him.

"Hh… ah…" Danzō dragged air, chest flopping like a stranded fish. Colorless now, all threat and fury doused, only a strangled humiliation remained. He shooed weakly, as if waving off a fly.

"…Enough." His voice rasped. "With war so near… since Ryo-kun has… other ideas…" He did not speak the word scroll again.

His glance flicked to a plain roll lying at the desk's edge. In a blink a better, cleaner, deadlier idea sketched itself. If you will not die by my hand, go to hell by theirs.

A thin gleam skated through his eye.

He snatched the plain scroll and snapped into command. "Urgent from the front. Iwa is moving. Root intelligence, northern Grass Country buffer, abnormal Iwa infiltration."

He hurled the scroll hard at Ryo. "Critical. Possible second front to threaten our flank. Ryo Squad, by order, move immediately to recon. Determine enemy scale and intent. If you find a hidden strongpoint, you are authorized either to annihilate at discretion or signal the camp at once."

Risk, take it. Die with it.

The scroll hit Ryo's palm, light and rough.

He did not bother to look at Danzō's face. He ripped the tie and skimmed:

[Location: Northern Grass buffer, around Asu Gorge, high risk]
[Objective: Recon Iwa infiltration, size and purpose. If enemy strongpoint confirmed, destroy at discretion or urgently report, risk borne by unit.]
[Executor: Kamiyama Ryo and Squad, war emergency]
[Time limit: 168 hours, seven days]

Ryo's face was still water. A good place. Iwa, time to balance accounts. He stuffed the scroll into his vest without even a nod. For a dog sending him to the slaughter, why waste breath.

He did not spare Danzō's face, twisted with the thrill of a plan regained and respect in ruins. Ryo spun.

Red hair carved a decisive arc.

Whump. The heavy flap snapped up in his wake. The wet roar of the camp poured in.

Ryo stepped out.

Nawaki and Mikoto shadowed him without hesitation.

The flap dropped like a coffin lid, sealing every venomous scheme and snarled shame inside the dark.

Within, only Danzō's bellows and the wick's weak crackle remained. A tiny flame throbbed at the dead center of the black, limning a demon's face in shadow.

Humiliation, beyond any he had known.

Then that venom pivoted, onto another figure.

"And that damned, innately evil Uchiha vixen. She ruined everything. They should both die."

Rage throbbed his temples. His skull threatened to split. Ryo to Grass Country, to Ashu Gorge.

A cold delight sluiced his shame and anger.

What was that place? A meat grinder. Iwa, who had just lost Akaiwa and a thousand elites to him, were sharpening knives. Ōnoki, sleepless and vengeful, would not miss a revenge platter brought to his table.

And—

His mouth stretched in a soundless, twisted grin. One hundred million ryō. Red hair. Silver eyes. Iwa's nemesis. The bounty news must have flown like plague on wings, raking the shinobi world.

Suna's puppeteers. Kiri's assassins. Kumo's bruisers. And the hounds of the underworld, bounty men and ninja syndicates.

One hundred million. Enough to make anyone feral.

Danzō shivered with a strangled pleasure, his rasp like a snake's tongue tasting poison in the dark. Cruel expectation filled the dead tent. "Let Iwa's massed forces, and the scavenging wolves of the shinobi world, give you a proper welcome, little monster. You will learn soon what it means to refuse me, Shimura Danzō."

"Let Grass Country be your grave."

Outside, the downpour did not tire.

Ryo crossed the command cordon in a single step, without slowing.

Cold rain battered his shoulders, but could not quench the icy, pure fire burning in his silver eyes.

Iwa.

Time to settle the bill.

(To be continued.)

Chapter 96: The Kusagakure Ninja’s Collapse Continues

Border of the Land of Grass.

The dirt road was not exactly rough, but it stretched three long shadows across the ground. The air held the lingering damp of Ame, laced with grass and earth. Compared with that forever-sodden country of relentless rainfall, these green low hills and surprisingly open fields felt almost like paradise.

Nawaki stretched hard, sunlight splashing his face and chasing off the mildew clinging from the rainy front. "Finally, no more sleeping in tents you can wring water out of." He blew out a breath, glancing around. "Land of Grass is not half bad, huh?"

Mikoto did not pick it up. She tucked a windblown strand of black hair behind her ear, scanning the surroundings with calm eyes. At last she looked to the red-haired boy walking point. "Mission first, Nawaki-senpai. Remember our goal, track Iwa's movements." Her voice was clean and crisp. "Ryo-kun, Kusagakure, the key intel point is here, right?"

The corner of Ryo's mouth lifted in that habitual, faintly mocking line. "Of course," he said quietly. "A small nation jammed in the cracks is always a wall that leaks wind from both sides. Come on, let's take a look at Kusagakure."

The instant they stepped through the village gate, all three faltered, as if something had caught their feet.

Two words hit harder than any report could, filthy and sick.

Crooked wooden huts crowded together over mud, looking like the next stiff breeze would fold them. The rot of old timbers mixed with a faint reek of human waste, stabbing the nose. Narrow lanes were a mess of muck. The sparse passersby were sallow and thin, eyes hollow and dull. When a glance did land on the three, there was no curiosity, only thick, uncut suspicion and undisguised dislike.

"This dump is a ninja village?" Nawaki's eyes bulged, his voice sliding off key. "Konoha's sewer outlets are brighter than this. Where did their mission rewards go, down a dog's throat?"

"Maybe into the daimyo's vault. Or…" Ryo snorted, ripping the facade without mercy, "…maybe certain people's purses got so heavy they collapsed the whole village. The Land of Grass should be rich. Get a pig for a daimyo and a leader who only worships money, and the signboard falls right off."

Mikoto's gaze drifted over those numb, or openly hostile, faces. Her brows knit, catching the deeper wrongness. "Ryo-kun," she said very low, "the way they are looking at us… it is like they are warding off trouble."

They had not gone fifty paces deeper before three men in grass-green, ragged uniforms blocked the way. The leader's face was heaped with slabby muscle. A scar ran from brow to chin. A dry stalk hung at an angle in his mouth. His eyes raked them with smug superiority. When he saw how young they were, the contempt nearly spilled.

"Stop. Konoha?" Scarface spat the stem, voice cold and hard.

"Yes." Ryo's expression did not change. He treated the rudeness like air. "Konoha chūnin, Kamiyama Ryo, leading a squad on official duty. Standard intel exchange regarding—"

"Exchange my ass." Scarface cut him off, volume jumping. "Kusa does not take visitors, especially from Konoha." The two chūnin behind him stepped forward, hands casually, yet precisely, settling on their kunai.

Nawaki could not swallow that. He lunged a step. "Hey. What kind of attitude is that? We are allies, ironclad. Is this how Kusagakure talks to an ally?"

Scarface sneered, contempt dripping. "Allies? Spare me. You kids playing soldier need to roll out before I make you." His gaze flicked over Ryo's striking red hair without a spark of recognition, never linking it with the red-haired devil currently ripping through the ninja world. To him, they were pampered brats out to play. "Kamiyama Ryo? Familiar name? Who cares."

Mikoto's frown deepened. This was not mere bad manners, they were deliberately provoking.

But inside Scarface's bark, Ryo caught the key, "especially from Konoha." His eyes tightened. Fragments snapped together.

Use their age to bully them off? Fine, kids are easy to cow. But an alliance is still an alliance. Even if you hate it, you keep up appearances. To tear the mask off entirely, wrong. A special rejection just of Konoha? Why? Who is in the village that makes them this scared? When Nawaki challenged their attitude, that flicker in the man's eyes, like a man afraid of touching a live wire.

"Oh?" Ryo's quiet voice rasped like ice on glass and stabbed straight through Scarface. "So, no hosting allies… because you are busy hosting a different guest?"

Scarface's face twitched. His eyes suddenly went skittish. The bulldozed bravado drained out. "Shut your damn mouth. Do not spout nonsense." Louder now, but thin and anxious. "Get lost. Now."

That reaction was the best answer, nailing Ryo's guess in place.

"Tch." Ryo had his decision. Forcing a tear through now was not the time, and not needed. "Looks like we came at a bad time."

He lifted a hand, steady, onto Nawaki's shoulder just as the boy sparked again. His face relaxed into an almost lazy smile. "Fine. When the host is not welcoming, guests should not overstay. That warmth of yours? We simply cannot afford it. Nawaki, Mikoto, let's go. They are busy entertaining."

He turned on his heel and left, crisp and clean, steps even picking up a hint of leisurely stroll.

Mikoto fell right in, catching Nawaki, still throwing daggers with his eyes, and tugging him after Ryo.

"Seriously? We are tucking tail?" Nawaki hissed, unwilling. "They, why—"

"Leave them to farm mushrooms?" Ryo did not even look back, his voice drifting clearly down the unnaturally quiet lane. "We are not in a hurry. Take two days off. Land of Grass, nice hills, nice water. I hear there is a creek to the east. Roasting game beats getting glared at in this dump."

He said it loud enough for the eavesdropping Kusa sentries on the roadside to hear every syllable. He wanted them to file the trio under spoiled junior officers on a sightseeing trip, gone on their way, nothing to worry about.

Scarface watched them disappear and hawked up a wad of phlegm. "Tch. Know your place. Brats." His tight shoulders sagged. As long as these Konoha kids did not stumble into Iwa's honored guests, there should not be trouble.

---

Dusk stained the grass in dark gold. By a creekside copse, a campfire cracked and leapt, painting the trio's faces.

"Ryo." Nawaki finally burst. "What are you playing at? We are really running? What about the mission? Iwa intel? And those Kusa punks, right now I want to go back and knock their teeth in."

Across the flames, Mikoto was stripping a luckless deer with a kunai, precise and steady. She glanced at Ryo, firelight caught in her pupils, and waited.

Ryo prodded the fire. Sparks hopped. The curve at his mouth flattened. When he spoke, the warmth seemed to drain from the night. "Tail between our legs? Or did you just miss the devil in their eyes?"

"Devil, my ass. Their brains got slammed in a door." Nawaki flopped down, sulking.

"First, even a paper alliance does not expel envoys. That is spitting in your ally's face. Kusa's leadership may be stupid, but not so stupid they ignore the rules entirely. Unless…" Ryo's voice dropped. His gaze cut across his two teammates. "Unless there is a reason big enough to make them drive us out at any cost. As in, their own lives."

"Ryo-kun means…" Mikoto's kunai paused. A glint lit her eyes. "Iwa are already here?"

"Right." Ryo's reply was a nail. "They beat us by a step. Either paid a fortune or got Kusa by the throat. Enough that they tossed even pretense. When I turned the question back, Scarface's face collapsed in real time."

Nawaki slapped his thigh. "Damn. So that is why Konoha set them off, they are afraid we will spot Iwa in the village? Those grass mutts went full weathervane and started plotting with Iwa behind our backs?" He clenched his fist till it ticked.

"How deep the tie goes." Ryo stared through the flames, as if he could see Kusagakure's silhouette swallowed by dusk. "But the important intel is inside, and tied to Iwa's core deployments."

"Then what are we waiting for, go in and get it." Nawaki bounced, eager.

Ryo gave him a slanted look that said, Did a door really crush your skull? "Want to make a scene big enough to pull every Iwa out to play?"

"Uh…" Nawaki deflated like a punctured wineskin. "Then… what?"

The corner of Ryo's mouth curled again, the cold confidence of a man with the board in his hands. "They think we are useless and that shooing us fixes everything? Fine. We will play along." In the dark, his voice came down like nails. "Half false, half true, buy time."

The plan unrolled at once.

In the open, Ryo's squad became the Konoha tour group.

By day, they lazed in a conspicuous, open spot by the creek. Nawaki whooped over a homemade fishing rod. Mikoto sat quietly in tree shade. Ryo tinkered with a little gadget he had brought, coaxing out a simple music player that wafted popular tunes over the water. The smell of roasting meat drifted for too long, drawing Kusa sentries to glance from a distance, mutter "useless brats," and yawn back to their posts.

At the camp, Nawaki griping over skewered fish, Mikoto quietly sorting gear, the tinny music looping, nothing seemed off. But in the unnoticed angles, Mikoto's gaze cut through the flicker of coals to Ryo's back in the shadows. Nawaki was still cussing about the rod.

The humiliation from Scarface's barking still seemed lodged in Nawaki's throat. "Cowards. Useless." He bit into an overdone fish and scowled at the bitter char. "I swear I—" He waved the blackened tail, with no target to vent on.

"Wait." Ryo gave him one word.

Firelight rose and fell. Mikoto, a little farther off under a tree, lowered her eyes and repacked a water-spotted pouch. In the moonlight her lashes cast soft gray shadows on her lids. She watched Ryo's straight red silhouette blur, then melt into the tree-edge darkness. The small, deliberate nearnesses over the last days, the brief crossings of eyes, the wordless passings of tools, each action like an invisible strand of silk, winding, slow and unnoticed. As that bit of red finally fused with the night, the line of her lips quivered, almost imperceptibly.

She lowered her gaze to the edge of her wooden geta on the damp grass, where a slim ankle peeked. Moon and firelight glazed it gently. The memory of that afternoon dressing his wounds slid through. A minuscule ripple crossed her heart and vanished.

Kusa's arrogance and sloppiness became the perfect cover for Ryo's moves.

Two days straight, the music and meat by the river played on schedule. Kusa's watch slackened. The men on surveillance stopped even pretending, just wrote them off as Konoha fools wasting rations.

Scarface's report upward was smug. "Konoha's rice buckets. Sent a few kids to do what? One bark and they ran off for a picnic."

Kusa's leader sprawled in a broken chair and snorted. "Konoha? That is the level. Trash."

The three rested as usual.

Ryo, citing strategy, sat a bit apart, eyes closed, actually stretching his powerful observational sense toward the village, fishing for suspicious chakra pulses, Iwa signatures or a meeting site.

Nawaki gnawed meat, bored. "Eat roast every day and I will turn into roast. Ryo, are we still sitting here? Did your brain—"

Mikoto gave Nawaki a helpless look. "Patience. Ryo-kun is looking for an opening."

And then Ryo's senses brushed a thread of chakra, so faint and so uneasy, curled deep in tall grass near the camp. It held fear and hunger and a distinctive spark of life. Familiar, Kushina's lineage. And it was a child.

Ryo's eyes snapped open. He turned his head that way and said, low and absolute, "Who is there? Come out."

(To be continued.)