The afternoon sun, pale and indifferent, cast long shadows across the packed earth, and the only sounds were the creak of wooden wheels, the snort of draft animals, and the low murmur of voices that carried the particular nervousness of people who knew they were far from help.
The caravan was unremarkable at first glance. Covered wagons, their canvas tarps drawn tight against the elements, rolled along in a loose column. Guards rode alongside—hard men with hard eyes, their hands never straying far from the hilts of their swords. Merchants in plain robes discussed routes and profits, their voices low, their gazes constantly scanning the treeline. Animals strained against their harnesses, their breath fogging in the cool air.
But there were signs that something was wrong. The guards were too heavily armed for a simple trading caravan; swords, spears, crossbows, and even a few scrolls that suggested shinobi techniques.
And the caravan leader; a stout man with a merchant's smile and a butcher's eyes, seemed relaxed only because he believed they were far from any threat.
He was wrong.
Renjiro watched from a rocky outcropping above the road, his Sharingan active. He had been tracking this caravan for three days.
This is the one, he thought. The caravan leader, Goro, is one of Orochimaru's suppliers. Specialises in obtaining children with bloodline limits. A node in a larger network.
He had reviewed the intelligence dozens of times. The guards were mostly mercenaries and rogue shinobi, hired killers who had no loyalty to anything but coin. None belonged to major hidden villages. Their leader was a jonin-level combatant—competent, but not exceptional. The rest were chunin at best.
Normally, I'd avoid unnecessary confrontations, Renjiro admitted to himself. But frustration has been building. Months of chasing Orochimaru have produced little. Abandoned facilities. Cold trails. Dead ends.
I need information. And this caravan has it.
He had no elaborate plan. No backup. No ninjutsu—not yet. He would not use his chains, his barriers, or any technique that would leave traces. Ninjutsu left evidence. Witnesses left stories. Corpses left questions.
Simpler solution. Kill everyone quickly. Leave nothing useful behind.
He stood, his bo staff resting across his shoulders, and dropped from the outcropping.
The guards saw him the moment he landed in the middle of the road, a dark figure in simple travelling clothes, his face partially obscured by the shadow of a hood. They reacted with trained efficiency—hands going to weapons, bodies shifting into combat stances, voices rising in alarm.
"Who are you?"
"What do you want?"
"Identify yourself!"
Renjiro gave no answer.
He simply began to walk toward them.
The first guard lunged, a spear thrust aimed at his chest. Renjiro's staff swept up, deflecting the point with a sharp clack, and the return stroke caught the man's throat. Cartilage crunched. The guard fell, gurgling, his weapon clattering on the ground.
The second guard came from the left, a sword swinging toward his ribs. Renjiro stepped inside the arc, the staff spinning, and drove the butt into the man's solar plexus. Air exploded from his lungs and he doubled over, only to meet the staff's upward swing that crushed his jaw.
The third guard tried to run. Renjiro's staff swept his legs, and the man fell face-first into the dirt. A quick strike to the back of his skull, and he was still.
Three seconds, Renjiro thought. Twelve more to go.
The mercenary shinobi attacked together, their coordination born of desperation rather than skill. Fireballs, earth spikes, wind blades; all of it useless. Renjiro's Sharingan read every movement before it began, tracked every hand seal, every shift of weight, every flicker of killing intent.
His staff was a blur—spinning, striking, blocking. He broke knees, crushed throats, and disarmed opponents before they could complete their techniques.
The guards panicked. Some tried to flee, only to be cut down by Renjiro's staff as they ran. Others attempted coordinated attacks, circling him, trying to find an opening. There was none. He was everywhere and nowhere, his movements too fast, too precise, too certain.
Within minutes, the road was littered with bodies. Broken weapons lay scattered among the dead. The caravan animals had bolted, their harnesses cut by stray strikes. The wagons stood silent, their canvas tarps spattered with blood.
Only the caravan leader remained alive.
Goro was on his knees, his face pale with terror. He had watched his men die; had seen the dark figure move among them like a harvestman cutting wheat, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that he was next.
"Wait," he said, his voice cracking. "Wait, wait, wait. I can pay you. Double whatever they're paying you. Triple. Name your price."
Renjiro said nothing.
"Whatever amount," Goro continued, desperation bleeding into his words. "Ten times. Twenty. I have money. I have connections. I can make you rich."
Silence.
"Please," Goro whispered. "What do you want?"
"Where is this caravan going?"
Goro's eyes widened. He had expected a demand for money, for goods, for something he could bargain with. Not this. Not a question about destination.
"The Land of Rivers," he said quickly. "A compound in the mountains. There's a contact, a man named Takao—"
"Takao?"
"Yes, Takao. He handles the deliveries. I don't know his full name. I don't ask. He pays well and doesn't ask questions."
Renjiro's expression did not change, but something cold settled behind his eyes.
"Takao," he repeated. "Where in the Land of Rivers?"
Goro gave directions—a valley, a series of caves, a network of tunnels that had been converted into a receiving station. He spoke quickly, desperate to prove his usefulness, to convince Renjiro that he was worth more alive than dead.
He was wrong.
When the interrogation was over, Goro waited nervously, his hands clasped before him, his eyes fixed on Renjiro's face.
"You'll let me go?" he asked. "I told you everything. I cooperated. You said—"
Renjiro killed him. A single strike to the temple, quick and clean. Goro's body crumpled, joining the others on the blood-soaked road.
Human traffickers, Renjiro thought, Child merchants. Such people do not deserve mercy.
He turned to the wagons.
The reinforced doors were locked with heavy chains, the locks reinforced with simple seals, nothing that could stop him. He broke the chains with a sharp tug and pulled open the doors.
Dozens of children huddled inside; some crying, some silent, some clutching each other in terror. They were of various ages, from toddlers to young teenagers. Their clothes were ragged, their faces pale, their eyes wide with fear.
Several possessed obvious bloodline traits: unusual eyes, distinctive physical features, clan markers that spoke of inherited abilities. A girl with pale, pupil-less eyes—Hyūga, perhaps, or a branch family member. A boy with red hair and sharp teeth—maybe Kaguya, maybe something else. Others with features he could not identify.
They stared at Renjiro, and he saw himself reflected in their eyes; a dark figure, silhouetted against the light, his clothes spattered with blood.
He paused.
Now, where am I supposed to take all of you? I can't leave them here, he thought. The next caravan would find them. Or wild animals. Or exposure.
I can't take them to Konoha directly. Too many questions. Too much scrutiny.
I can't simply release them. They're children. Most of them don't even know where they are.
He sighed.
This is what I get for acting without a plan.
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