At the same time, in the Province of Lightning—within the ravine known as Yunlei Gap.
Deep inside a cave, the leader of an anti-imperial resistance group sat slumped against the stone wall. His greasy hair stuck to his dirt-smeared face, his bloodshot eyes unfocused, his entire figure exhausted beyond measure.
His right thigh was tightly bound in layers of bandages. Every pulse of agony only fueled the hatred burning in Kazuma's heart.
A team member nearby spoke in a voice thick with despair.
"Boss… what do we do? This time Konoha sent Sasori. That monster killed two-thirds of our brothers. The search team is closing in… they'll find this place soon."
Kazuma's gaze drifted, hollow and distant. Against his will, the memories he had tried to bury resurfaced.
Twelve years ago, he had been one of the Guardian Ninja Twelve, the elite bodyguards of the Fire Daimyō—an independent unit loyal only to the daimyo himself. Back then, Kazuma firmly believed the Hokage system was unnecessary and that true power should rest in the hands of the daimyo.
But after his plans collapsed, he had been forced into exile.
Homeless, hunted, and paying every price imaginable, he devoted himself to a single obsession: destroying Ryoma, destroying Konoha, and crushing the rising Shadow Empire. It had long since become a twisted, consuming wish—one he would pursue no matter the cost.
In the early days, he used patriotism as bait to gather supporters—people discontent with Ryoma's reforms and expansion. Ryoma might have unified the continent with overwhelming military force, but his political and social reforms had yet to settle.
But as the years passed, the truth became undeniable.
People today ate well, lived comfortably, no longer suffered the torment of constant war.
The emergence of new conveniences—the network, the space-gates, and other technologies no one had ever dreamed of—changed everything.
Compared to the paradise they lived in now, who would rise up to fight some vague ideal of "freedom"? Who wanted to trade peace and prosperity for chaos?
Did a nation need to collapse into ruin before people could call themselves "free"?
Normal civilians could no longer be recruited.
But enemies of Ryoma still existed.
Those who had watched their loved ones die by his hand a decade ago now grew into adulthood—nurtured by hatred since childhood. They became the core of the resistance.
Then there were the extremists on both ends:
One side were violent sociopaths who despised the peace Ryoma created.
The other were idealists convinced his authoritarian regime would inevitably corrupt the world in the long term.
And beyond those, many others joined for their own personal reasons.
But this year, Ryoma made another sweeping move—crushing several enemies with little effort. More than ninety percent of Kazuma's current personnel abandoned the cause. Their organization was collapsing.
Desperate to salvage what remained, Kazuma fled with his remaining followers to the Province of Lightning, hoping to rebuild.
Half a month ago, they carried out their first major operation in years—an attack on an official involved with the Ryoma Festival in Kirigakure.
But the moment they acted, Konoha descended upon them like sharks scenting blood.
This time, it wasn't a standard shinobi squad.
It wasn't Kakashi.
It wasn't Obito.
It was Sasori of the Red Sand—a murderous puppet master whose name struck deeper fear in the underworld than even the Emperor's celebrated champions.
Sasori's puppets had slaughtered countless resistance groups. Descendants of fallen daimyo from the former Five Great Nations, samurai from the Land of Iron, rogue organizations—none had survived him.
In the underworld, his cruelty and precision far overshadowed Kakashi and Obito.
Thinking of Sasori made a violent tremor run through Kazuma.
Just a graze from Sasori's poison-tipped needle had crippled his thigh, leaving it nearly useless.
Days of relentless pursuit followed.
Sasori's group didn't have a single injured member.
Kazuma's men were moments away from total annihilation.
And now, in this shadowed cave, with the echo of approaching footsteps growing louder, Kazuma finally understood:
This was the end.
Kazuma's unwillingness seethed in his chest.
His original goal had always been to defeat Ryoma.
Yet from beginning to end, he had never even seen the man with his own eyes.
Ryoma's influence alone—his policies, his subordinates, his empire—was enough to crush Kazuma's organization again and again.
Ryoma's forces pursued them relentlessly, forcing Kazuma and his men to flee like cornered animals.
Every night, Kazuma whispered lies to himself, hypnotizing his mind with the same desperate chant:
As long as I keep going… one day I will defeat Ryoma.
But each time Ryoma's power revealed itself—unyielding, absolute, almost divine—Kazuma's conviction faltered a little more.
"Can I really win? With a gap like this… we never had a chance."
As he sat in a daze, one of his subordinates burst into the cave clutching a scroll.
"Boss! A message—from Mr. Jū!"
This "Mr. Jū" was a mysterious informant.
Kazuma and Jū did not know each other's identities, but whenever the Anbu drew near during a pursuit, Jū somehow provided their movements.
Over time, the rebels came to trust the unseen informant.
Kazuma took the scroll, feeling the rough paper under his fingers, and untied the cord.
Their group no longer dared to use electronic devices.
Too easy to trace.
Too easy to eavesdrop.
They had lost many comrades because of digital leaks.
Letters were the safest option left.
In this new era—an era of networks, ubiquitous databases, and Ryoma's continent-spanning information system—nothing stayed hidden for long.
Terminal logs, online accounts, hotel check-ins, space-gate travel records… even footage from every camera across the continent flowed into centralized archives managed by imperial intelligence.
Twelve years ago, such surveillance had been impossible.
Too many power blocs. Too many competing interests. Too much bureaucracy.
But Ryoma did not care for such complications.
When he issued a directive, every institution obeyed.
And if a system jammed or resisted, Konoha forced it open—violently if necessary.
And so, all information—public and private—was absorbed into the empire's intelligence network.
Before Ryoma, secrecy was a luxury.
Under Ryoma, it no longer existed.
Unless a person vanished entirely from society, the empire knew everything.
Understanding this, Kazuma had abandoned all modern transport.
No trains, no motor vehicles, not even purchasing more horses—anything that could generate a trace.
He and his followers walked everywhere, living like fugitives of a bygone age.
It was miserable beyond words.
Kazuma was just about to unroll the scroll when—
BOOM.
A deafening blast shook the cavern.
A voice thundered from outside:
"We are from Konoha! Kazuma—you are surrounded!
Surrender! Give up this pointless struggle!"
Another voice followed, cold and merciless:
"Any resistance—kill on sight."
The next moment, a violent distortion ripped through the cave.
A tearing sound echoed as if the earth itself were splitting open.
A massive chunk of rock above Kazuma's head shattered, collapsing inward as a gaping hole was punched straight through the ceiling by sheer overwhelming force.
Dust rained down.
The cave trembled.
And Kazuma finally understood:
The empire had found him.
(End of Chapter)
📝 Limited-Time Offer (Ends Soon): $9 → 20 chapters ahead
🦊 Pa-treon-com/LordMerlin
😊 Thank you for your support!