The Suna escorts led them through the village gates and into the open desert in staggered intervals; each team isolated, each drop point randomised, each departure designed to prevent early collaboration.
They stopped at a barren stretch of sand marked only by a single weathered post. "This is your starting point," one of them said, "Your map, your scroll, and final instructions. You have seventy-two hours. The checkpoint is marked. Do not deviate from the designated corridor unless you wish to be disqualified. Or dead."
He handed Satoru a sealed leather tube, then turned and walked away. Within seconds, the escorts had vanished over a dune, leaving Team Five alone in the vast, indifferent desert.
Mariko cracked open the tube and unrolled the map; a topographical rendering of the Demon Desert, marked with a single red X approximately fifty kilometres to the northeast.
"We move at night," she said, "We rest during peak heat and ration water; one canteen per day, no exceptions. Avoid unnecessary fights early. Let the aggressive teams wear themselves down."
Ren nodded, his eyes scanning the horizon for threats. Satoru said nothing; he was memorising the positions of rock formations and dry riverbeds.
Open terrain means visibility is dangerous, he thought. We can see enemies coming from miles away, but they can see us too. Ambushes will be difficult to set, but not impossible. The dunes provide cover if we stay low. The real enemy is not other genin; it is exhaustion. Heatstroke. Dehydration. The desert will kill more teams than any scroll battle.
They began to walk.
The first several hours were a brutal education. The sun climbed higher, bleaching the sky white, turning the sand into a mirror that reflected heat from below as well as above.
Satoru could feel his skin drying, cracking, ageing in real time. Ren's breathing had grown heavy; Mariko's face was flushed beneath her sun hood. They moved in silence, each step a negotiation with exhaustion.
They began to see signs of other teams. Discarded equipment; a broken canteen, a torn map fragment, a single sandal half-buried in a dune. Chaotic tracks that looped back on themselves, suggesting disorientation. A smear of blood on a rock; fresh, still wet.
Someone is already wounded, Satoru noted. Less than half a day in.
Ren stopped, pointing at a rock formation in the distance. "We passed that same outcropping two hours ago. I am sure of it." Mariko frowned, studying the map.
"That is impossible. We have been moving northeast, following the sun. There is no reason to loop back."
Satoru said nothing. He had noticed it too; the subtle repetition of landmarks, the way the shadows seemed to shift at inconsistent angles, the faint, almost imperceptible wrongness in the air.
At first, he had attributed it to natural desert disorientation; the mind played tricks in the heat, and even experienced shinobi could lose their bearings. But the patterns were too regular, too deliberate.
Genjutsu, he realized. The desert itself is a trap.
He activated his Sharingan.
The world snapped into focus. The duplicated rock formation was not a duplicate; it was a mirage overlay, projected onto a bare stretch of sand. The inconsistent shadows were false, their angles mismatched with the true position of the sun. The horizon distortions were not heat; they were layered illusions, designed to confuse depth perception and disorient people.
Someone has seeded the entire region with genjutsu traps, Satoru thought. Not powerful enough to overwhelm a trained sensor, but subtle enough to wear down exhausted genin over time.
Through the Sharingan, he could see the true path; a narrow corridor between the chakra threads, winding through the dunes. He adjusted their course, guiding Ren and Mariko around the illusions. They did not question him; they simply followed, their relief visible in the relaxation of their shoulders, the easing of their breathing.
This is why I show my value, Satoru mused.
The sun was beginning its descent when they spotted the oasis. It appeared on the horizon like a vision from a dream; a cluster of palm trees, a pool of clear blue water, a sliver of shade against the burning sand.
A cool breeze seemed to emanate from it, carrying the scent of damp earth and growing things. Ren's step faltered; his eyes widened, and his tongue darted out to wet his cracked lips.
"Water," he breathed. "Actual water."
Mariko grabbed his arm, her grip tight. "Wait. It could be a mirage."
Satoru did not respond. He was already studying the oasis through his Sharingan. Something was wrong.
The reflections in the water were too perfect; they mirrored the trees exactly, with no distortion from wind or ripples. The shadows were too sharp; they fell at angles that did not match the position of the sun.
It is a trap, he thought.
He expanded his senses, pushing the Sharingan and his chakra field to its limit. The chakra threads became visible; a dense network buried beneath the sand, woven into the roots of the false trees, anchored to the edges of the false pool. And beneath the threads, buried in the shadow of the dune, he detected chakra signatures; four of them, low and controlled, the breathing of shinobi waiting in ambush. Their chakra was too refined for genin, too steady for nervous trainees.
Proctors, he realised. The oasis is bait. The 'water' is quicksand. And they are waiting for us to walk into the kill zone.
He caught Mariko's eye and gave a tiny shake of his head. She understood immediately; her grip on Ren's arm tightened, and she pulled him back a step. Ren's confusion lasted only a moment; then his training kicked in, and his face went blank.
"Oasis is a trap," Satoru murmured, "Four proctors buried beneath the sand. Quicksand around the water. Wire traps at knee height, probably triggered by tripwires near the tree line."
Mariko's jaw tightened. "Do we retreat?"
Satoru considered. Retreat was the safe option; avoid the trap, conserve energy, find another route. But the proctors were expecting retreat; they had probably positioned themselves to pursue any team that fled, herding them toward another ambush. And the oasis was the only landmark for miles; any team that approached it would be forced to either engage or divert, losing time and water.
No, he decided. We do not retreat. We adapt.
"We counter-ambush," he said. "They are expecting us to fall into the trap. They are not expecting us to know they are there." He quickly outlined the positions; the proctor nearest the tree line, the one beneath the water's surface, and the two flanking the oasis from the east and west. "Ren, you take the eastern flank. Mariko, the western. I will draw their attention from the centre. We strike simultaneously, before they realise we are not victims."
Ren's face had gone pale, but he nodded. Mariko's expression was grim, but her hand was steady on her kunai. They had trained for this; ambushes, counter-ambushes, coordinated takedowns. The desert was not the training ground, and the proctors were not wooden dummies. But the principles were the same.
Satoru waited until Ren and Mariko had circled into position, their chakra signatures fading into the background noise of the desert. Then he walked toward the oasis, his steps slow and unsteady, his shoulders slumped, his canteen held out in front of him like an offering. He let his Sharingan deactivate; he wanted the proctors to see him as vulnerable, exhausted, desperate.
Let them think I am easy prey, he thought.
He reached the edge of the oasis. The false water shimmered; the false trees swayed in a breeze he could not feel. He could sense the proctors beneath the sand, their chakra spiking with anticipation, their muscles coiling to spring. He raised his canteen, took a step toward the pool, and then he stopped.
"Now," he said.
=====
Your Reviews, Comments and Powerstones about my work are welcome
If you can, then please support me on Patreon.
Link - www.patreon.com/P4lindrome
You Can read more chapters ahead on Patreon.
Latest Chapter: Chapter 173-Lucky Bastard