There was a port along the coastline.
This port served as the only gateway for foreign trade in the Land of Rainbows. Cargo ships came and went day and night, carrying goods to distant nations and returning with supplies the country itself could not produce.
Within the busiest district of the port stood a modest restaurant, its windows glowing faintly as dusk settled.
Inside, Fugaku sat by the window.
"Two servings of fish in sauce, and a bowl of sashimi," he said calmly, handing the menu back to the waiter before turning his gaze outside.
Night was approaching, and the port was alive with noise and motion.
Every corner of the street told a different story. Elderly beggars knelt at intersections, foreheads pressed to the ground as they begged for scraps of mercy. Filthy children chased one another through puddles, laughter echoing despite their hunger. Merchants with weary eyes hurried past, clutching goods close to their chests. Samurai with heavy blades drank loudly, voices rising above the din. Women bargained fiercely at vegetable stalls, while drunken men stumbled into strangers and sparked pointless fights.
It was chaos, but it was human.
A hesitant voice pulled Fugaku from his thoughts.
"Sir… are you really Uncle Yantu's friend?"
The youth stood stiffly beside the table, posture tense. Yantu had been the identity Fugaku used during his mission. This boy was someone he had pulled out of danger during the aftermath.
Fugaku did not turn his head. "Yes. You said you wanted to leave the Land of Rainbows. I am leaving too, so I brought you along."
The youth swallowed and said nothing more.
Despite his age, he was not stupid.
What had happened the night before involved explosions and assassinations. Anyone with half a brain could guess it was connected to the man sitting calmly in front of him. Knowing that made silence the wisest choice.
If he talked too much, he might die.
As for other dangers, he was not overly worried. He had no money, no powerful family, and no remarkable appearance. He was painfully ordinary, even ugly by most standards. What reason would someone like Fugaku have to target him?
An absurd thought crossed his mind.
What if I am actually the lost heir of some hidden family? Maybe they finally sent someone to retrieve me so I can inherit a fortune.
Novels always started like that.
The idea made his anxiety fade, replaced by foolish excitement.
Fugaku had no idea the youth had already cast him as a secret guardian in his imagination. Even if he knew, he would not care. Bringing the boy along had been a casual decision, nothing more.
Soon, the food arrived. They ate quietly, each lost in their own thoughts.
Then the atmosphere changed.
A disturbance rippled through the street outside.
Fugaku lifted his teacup, glanced toward the window, and froze.
"Pfft."
He spat the tea out and coughed violently.
"The Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist?"
The reaction was instinctive.
Every generation of the Seven Ninja Swordsmen from Kirigakure were infamous monsters. Each one possessed strength at least on the level of an elite jonin, often more.
Worse still, they never acted alone.
Seven swords, seven shinobi, perfect coordination. Their combined power was not additive but exponential.
Even legendary shinobi became cautious when facing them together.
The question was simple.
Why were they here?
At first, Fugaku tried to convince himself it was coincidence. That thought vanished the moment he saw a black ninja rat perched on one of their shoulders.
A tracking summon.
Just like Yamaki's falcon.
They had followed the trail here.
His heartbeat spiked.
Who else could they be hunting?
Besides him, who had just completed an S‑rank mission.
Cold dread crept down his spine.
Run?
Where could he possibly go?
Before he could act, the leading swordsman's gaze locked onto him.
"Found him."
One by one, the seven entered the restaurant.
The owner, half asleep behind the counter, looked up to greet them. The killing intent rolling off their bodies made his blood run cold. Without a word, he dropped down and hid.
The swordsmen walked straight toward Fugaku's table.
The youth froze, chopsticks hovering in mid‑air. Seeing Fugaku trembling slightly, he understood the situation instantly.
This was bad.
Very bad.
He jumped to his feet and forced a smile at the scar‑faced man leading them. "This has nothing to do with me. I do not know him. I am just a beggar. You can talk among yourselves."
He bowed repeatedly while backing toward a nearby window.
A fat man with wild orange‑red hair laughed. "Jūzō, your face scared him. I told you to wear a mask."
Jūzō Biwa snorted. "Nonsense. I am handsome. You have no right to judge me, Kisame."
At his words, he slammed the massive Kubikiribōchō into the floor. The blade sank several inches into the wood.
Kisame Hoshigaki grinned, resting Samehada on his shoulder. "Want to see if Samehada likes your chakra?"
"Enough," another voice cut in.
A thin, masked swordsman let out a strange laugh. "If you keep arguing, the kid will escape."
The youth froze mid‑step.
The masked ninja flicked his wrist.
A needle‑thin blade shot forward, piercing the youth's back. The wire attached snapped tight, yanking the sword back into its owner's hand.
The youth slammed into the wall and collapsed. Blood pooled beneath him.
Fugaku's mind went blank.
The boy lay motionless, eyes wide, blood bubbling from his chest.
The masked ninja raised Nuibari, pointing it directly at Fugaku's head.
Am I going to die?
Despair crushed him.
Then a deafening explosion rocked the restaurant.
Fugaku curled instinctively, expecting death.
Smoke filled the air.
An exploding tag.
His limbs unlocked.
Ignoring pain, he scrambled across the floor. Shrapnel tore into his forearm, blood spilling freely.
The pain sharpened his mind.
He hurled every remaining exploding tag he had into the smoke.
Explosion followed explosion.
When the smoke cleared, the restaurant was gone.
The street lay in ruins.
A thin figure holding Hiramekarei spoke calmly. "Did he escape?"
Jūzō shook his head. "The tracking rat is still here."
Kisame frowned. "Who triggered the first tag?"
Jūzō answered slowly. "Someone else intervened. But it changes nothing."
At the mention of the Third Mizukage, silence fell.
Jūzō smiled. "The order stands. Kill the Uchiha boy. Leave the body intact."
He licked his lips.
"His head is worth 8.5 million ryo."
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