The merchant's cart creaked along the dirt road, weighed down with chests of glittering coins and polished ingots.
Golden fortune bound for the Land of Hot Water's sleepy resort town, and four shinobi in Konoha flak jackets trailing in its shadow.
The merchant had hired them in the first place because whispers spread fast on the trade roads.
A few other caravans had been struck recently, not by wandering bandits, but by strange masked men who seemed to know exactly when and where to strike.
Organized, precise, but still ordinary criminals in the end.
No shinobi-level fighters, just underworld gangs getting bold.
That was why the mission ranked no higher than C.
A cautious merchant with too much gold to move and not enough trust in the local guards.
Makoto Ishida, their jōnin sensei, walked at the head of the caravan.
His face was sharp and serious, with short black hair and a trimmed beard that made him look older than his thirty-odd years.
He carried himself like a man used to being ignored until it mattered, his gaze flicking between treetops and brush with quiet discipline.
Behind him, the three fresh genin trailed together, still buzzing with the thrill of their first C-rank mission.
Genta Inuzuka walked loudest, as always.
His shaggy brown hair was tied back in a messy tail, a pale ninken pup draped lazily over his shoulders.
"Man, finally something real," he barked with a grin. "No more finding lost cats or hauling firewood for old ladies. This is the shinobi life!"
Naoya Aburame, pale and quiet with his dark glasses hiding sharp insect-glint eyes, only adjusted the collar of his jacket.
"Your definition of 'shinobi life' is very shallow, Genta. Escort duty is only marginally less tedious than D-rank chores. At least this time, we are permitted to leave the village walls."
His tone was flat, almost scholarly, and his hands stayed buried in his sleeves.
Emi Hyūga laughed softly between them. "Oh, don't crush his spirit, Naoya. Let the dog believe he's a wolf. He needs it."
She winked at Genta, who flushed red beneath his clan's fang-like cheek markings.
Her long, dark brown hair swayed as she walked, tied loosely to the side with a violet band, strands escaping to frame her pale lavender eyes.
She wore a sleeveless tunic of muted violet, tailored for movement, with mesh showing at her sides.
Black arm warmers hugged her forearms, matching the fitted shorts and mesh leggings beneath.
Across her brow, her Konoha forehead protector sat at a deliberate tilt, covering the curse mark, yet angled just enough to look like a quiet mockery of the tradition that demanded it.
She looked every bit the cheerful, cheeky teammate she pretended to be.
Makoto glanced over his shoulder at them. "Stay focused. Bandits aren't uncommon this far from town. Don't get sloppy just because the road looks quiet."
"Yes, sensei!" Emi chirped back brightly, throwing him a mock salute. Genta snickered, Naoya exhaled in silence.
Outwardly, she was exactly what everyone thought she was, the team's mood-lifter, brave and cheeky, the branch girl who laughed too easily for a Hyūga.
But inside, her thoughts were colder.
She knew precisely where this mission ended.
She had already whispered the merchant's route to the ones who promised her freedom.
Kumo's agents were out there already, probably waiting, closing in with every step of the caravan's wheels.
Her teammates thought this was their first taste of real shinobi life. For her, it was the first step out of the cage.
She glanced at Genta, still beaming despite Naoya's dry barbs, and at Naoya, hiding his awkwardness behind insect-dry words.
They weren't bad people.
They even liked her.
But they were necessary sacrifices, nothing more.
Could either of them save her from the Hyūga's seal?
From being handed to some main house heir as a toy, soon?
Of course not.
Emi smiled again, sweet and coy, as if the thought never crossed her mind.
"You know," she said playfully, "if this cart gets any slower, we should just let Genta pull it. He's been bragging about his stamina since day one."
"Ha!" Genta barked. "I could pull three carts!"
Naoya didn't even look at him. "Please do. It would make the mission more efficient."
Their laughter carried down the road, light and simple, as if the world weren't about to shift beneath their feet.
Emi let it wash over her, playing her role perfectly, while silently counting down the distance until her real escort arrived.
The road sloped downward, winding between low hills where the air grew humid with the scent of hot springs.
The merchant's cart clattered noisily, its chests of gold rattling inside like a siren for every bandit within ten miles.
Makoto Ishida walked ahead, his dark eyes still scanning every tree line despite the utter silence.
A man used to caution.
His specialty was earth release, but his reputation came from his throwing technique, a way of infusing wind release into kunai until they moved with the bite of the wind itself.
When he threw, people rarely got up again.
It was the kind of trick that made him a reliable jōnin, but nothing extraordinary in a world of monsters.
Genta was busy talking to his pup, scratching its chin while bragging about how quickly he could smell an ambush.
Naoya answered with his usual dry monotone, correcting him about wind direction and terrain like a scholar lecturing a child.
Their banter carried easily on the road.
Emi smiled and laughed with them as always, her violet tunic brushing against her mesh leggings as she walked at their side.
Outwardly, she was teasing them, trading jokes, calling Genta a "wolf cub" and Naoya a "mosquito with glasses."
But inside, she was calm, waiting.
She had already notified Kumo.
During one of their tedious D-rank chores outside the village, carrying lumber, of all things, a stranger had slipped her a coded scrap of paper.
A location, a phrase, and a method of contact.
The kind of invisible net only a great village's intelligence branch could spin.
Since then, she had found ways to send small signals, and before leaving on this C-rank, she had dropped the final note of confirmation.
They knew the merchant's route, the timing, the prize.
She expected several shinobi to appear for her, perhaps a squad, maybe even a platoon for such an escort.
So when the forest eventually fell too silent, and only one presence entered their senses, she was surprised.
Suspicious, even.
First, Naoya's kikaichū twitched in their hive, restless, and Genta's pup let out a sharp whine, ears flattening.
Makoto's eyes narrowed instantly, his arm snapping out to halt the genin. "Form—"
The order was cut short.
A blur cracked through the treeline, lightning dancing faint and pale at the stranger's legs.
The road itself seemed to stutter with the sudden pressure of his arrival.
They barely had seconds.
The insects stirred, the pup barked, but by then the masked figure was already there, ten paces away, standing in stillness as though he'd been there all along.
A man clad in dark grey armor, his face hidden behind a steel mask.
Not a word, not a clan crest, nothing but the oppressive weight of killing intent.
Makoto cursed under his breath. "Too fast—"
But Gorō Arakida was already moving.
The Lightning Release Body Flicker snapped him forward like a thunderclap.
In a heartbeat, he was on Makoto, faster than the eye, hand pressed flat against the jōnin's chest.
A jolt of chakra surged invisibly, slowing the man's heart, and Makoto staggered back, choking, kunai barely drawn.
"Sensei!" Genta roared, charging with his pup.
Gorō spun, one arm flicking outward.
Lightning erupted across his palm, arcing like a whip.
It struck Genta mid-step, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him down, smoking and twitching.
His pup yelped, convulsed, and fell still.
Naoya's insects poured from his sleeves in a black flood, swarming the masked attacker.
Gorō didn't break stride.
His body flickered again, leaving afterimages as the lightning around him pulsed.
The kikaichū ignited midair, wings burning into ash, before their host crumpled beneath a second shock, body jerking violently before it hit the ground.
Two genin down in moments.
Makoto fought to stay upright, chakra flaring desperately.
He finally hurled three kunai at once, each sharpened with Wind Flow until they screamed through the air like tearing steel.
His trump card, weapons fast enough to shred even seasoned jōnin.
But Gorō's flicker was even faster again.
He blurred left, the kunai biting only earth.
In that same motion, he was beside Makoto again, a hand brushing his side.
Another pulse of lightning surged, violent enough that Makoto's body seized before he could even scream.
His kunai clattered to the dirt as his legs buckled.
However, Makoto wasn't finished yet.
With his last-ditch effort, his breath rattled, his body trembling from the shocks, his hands still barely moved.
Then, with desperate precision, he slammed both palms into the dirt. "Earth Release: Crushing Ridge!"
The ground heaved, slabs of stone tearing upward in jagged walls that surged around Gorō like the jaws of a beast.
For a moment, it looked as though the ambush might take him, raw stone collapsing inward, the weight of the earth itself pressing down.
But lightning always carved through the earth.
Gorō's frame blurred again, arcs flashing bright as thunder split the ridge apart.
Rock shattered into dust under the crack of his chakra, chunks raining down uselessly as his figure reappeared through the haze.
Makoto staggered back, still refusing to completely yield.
His last reserves burned as he wove another set of seals, chakra flooding into his lungs.
"Earth Release: Mud Dragon Bomb!"
A roaring serpent of soil and stone surged from the ground, mouth gaping wide as it spat boulders down the road.
The air howled with the force of it, dirt and rock screaming toward the masked shinobi.
Gorō didn't dodge. He simply raised a hand, lightning coiling into a spear. "Lightning Release: Thunder Fang Burst."
The beam of light tore through the dragon's skull, split its body down the middle, and exploded the barrage into harmless rubble.
The shockwave hammered Makoto back, his body already too battered to stand.
Lightning surged through him one final time, cutting off his breath.
This time, when he fell, there was no getting back up.
And then there was only Emi.
She had moved with them, her stance sharp, Byakugan active, palms flashing with the form of the Gentle Fist.
Her sixty-four palms struck the empty air between them, crisp, convincing.
She darted forward once, only to pull herself back again, feigning the limits of a fresh genin's stamina.
To her comrades, now falling one after another, it looked like she was fighting desperately at their side till the end as well.
Inside, her thoughts were steady, cold.
'That's all I can give you. Let you die believing I stood with you.'
Gorō, meanwhile, glanced at her performance from behind his mask, silent, unmoved.
In his eyes, she was also a corpse walking of sorts, bound for no different end soon.
The merchant's cart rattled behind them, gold clinking inside, as if mocking the silence that followed.
The stench of ozone lingered where her teammates burned.
And then, from deeper in the woods, another group presence stirred all of a sudden.