Kurobachi's legs burned. Every step was agony. She had been running through the night without rest, and her chakra reserves were scraping the bottom—nearly empty. The forest gave way to rock. The Land of Earth stretched before her, harsh and unforgiving.
She closed her eyes for a moment and saw them again.
Dokubachi, cleaved in two. Hachimitsu dragging himself forward on ruined stumps where his legs had been. Jibachi's final stand. Commander Suzumebachi, wreathed in flames.
One hundred sixty-eight shinobi. All of them, ash.
She stumbled against a boulder and gasped for air. The Kamizuru outpost was close now—she could see the watchtowers carved into the cliffs ahead. Almost there. Just a little further.
Two guards dropped from above, weapons already drawn.
"Identify yourself!"
"Kurobachi," she managed. Her throat was raw. "Camp Nine. Emergency report for Lord Ishikawa."
Their faces changed. Suspicion gave way to alarm. One of them stepped closer, reaching out to steady her.
"What happened to your unit?"
"Dead." The word came out flat. "All of them."
The guard's hand tightened on her arm. "Lord Ishikawa is still at the capital. But Lord Mu is here."
They half-carried her through the outpost. Other shinobi watched in silence as she passed. She felt their eyes on her—the sole survivor, covered in dirt and blood that wasn't hers. They dragged her deeper into the mountain complex, through corridors lit by torches that flickered against stone walls.
The war room was deep inside the mountain. Maps covered every surface—troop positions, supply routes, enemy movements. A large table dominated the center, surrounded by senior commanders who fell silent the moment she entered.
At the head of the table stood Mu.
He was both commanding and strangely unremarkable. Plain robes, no clan insignia. But everyone in the room deferred to him without question. Ishikawa's second-in-command. A man renowned for incredible strength and tactical brilliance, feared by enemies and respected by allies alike.
"Clear the room," Mu said. His voice was soft, but it carried weight.
The commanders hesitated. They wanted to hear this. But under Mu's stare, they filed out without protest.
"Sit before you collapse."
Kurobachi sank into the chair he indicated. Her legs were shaking so badly she didn't think they'd hold her much longer.
Mu handed her a canteen. She drank deeply, the cool water soothing her parched throat. It was the first relief she'd felt in hours.
"Start from the beginning," he said. "Don't leave anything out."
She took a shaky breath. Steadied herself. "Three days ago, Commander Suzumebachi unified what remained of the camps. We had lost eight in two weeks—all to the same attacker. One hundred sixty-eight shinobi from four camps. We established layered defenses. Sensor formations, explosive tags, three-man combat teams..."
"Go on."
"He struck at night. His chakra signature was—" She searched for the right words. "Enormous. But distorted. Unlike anything I've ever sensed."
"Describe him."
"Tall. Purple and black robes. Long black hair tipped red." She met Mu's gaze and held it. "Three pairs of eyes running down his face. Yellow irises with red sclera. Flame-like markings on his neck." She swallowed. "And his sword—the scabbard looked like flesh. It had eyes. Blinking eyes."
Mu went completely still. "Three pairs of eyes. You're certain?"
"I'm certain. We all saw it." Her voice rose despite herself. "He wasn't human. He was a demon."
"Calm yourself." But Mu's tone had sharpened, losing its earlier gentleness. "What techniques did he use?"
"I don't know." The admission felt like failure. "I couldn't identify any of them. He fought like a samurai, but—" She clenched her fists. "He could regenerate. We hit him with explosive traps. Direct hits that should have killed him. The wounds healed in seconds."
Mu's hand slammed down on the table. The maps jumped. Several commanders outside the room must have heard it, but no one entered.
"Regeneration." He said the word like a curse. "Instantaneous cellular regeneration from explosive trauma." His eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her want to look away. "That's not a technique. That's not a kekkei genkai. That's biologically impossible."
He began pacing, and Kurobachi realized she was seeing something rare—Mu genuinely shaken. "In twenty years of combat I've never encountered anything that could regenerate like that. Medical ninjutsu can accelerate healing, yes. The Uzumaki have remarkable vitality. But healing mortal wounds in seconds?" He stopped, turning to face her. "No human body can do that. The chakra cost alone would kill the user."
"Then what is he?" Kurobachi whispered.
Mu's jaw worked silently for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was deadly quiet. "I don't know. But if what you're describing is accurate—six eyes, instantaneous regeneration, chakra reserves that dwarf even othershinobi—" He exhaled sharply. "We're not fighting a shinobi. We might not even be fighting something that was human."
He returned to the table, gripping its edge. "What happened next?"
"We coordinated everything we had. Threw it all at him." The memory made her chest tighten. "It didn't matter. He killed forty-four of us in the first fifteen minutes."
"No weaknesses?"
"His regeneration slowed when we hit him repeatedly. We thought—we hoped—we could exhaust his chakra. But..." Her voice dropped. "His reserves were immense. More than anyone I've ever sensed."
"And then?"
"Commander Suzumebachi ordered me to run. He and Commander Jibachi created a distraction." The tears came despite her best efforts to hold them back. "I heard the explosions as I fled. Commander Suzumebachi used the Forbidden Art."
Mu's knuckles went white against the edge of the table.
"Did he pursue you?"
"I don't know. I just—I kept running. All night."
The silence stretched between them. Heavy. Oppressive.
"He let you go," Mu said finally. His tone had gone sharp. "Two hundred sixteen shinobi lost to this enemy. More than we've lost in the entire campaign." He straightened. "Six eyes. Flame markings. An organic sword. This isn't human. Some kind of monster, perhaps. But why target us specifically?"
"Could the Daimyo of the Land of Iron have sent him?"
"Possible. Relations between the Kamizuru Clan and the Land of Iron have been deteriorating." Mu's gaze drifted to the maps on the wall. "This requires further investigation."
---
The pale moon hung over the capital of the Land of Iron. Most of the city slept. Only the night patrols moved through the streets, their footsteps echoing off stone.
Muzan stood on a rooftop overlooking the eastern district. He wore black—plain, nondescript clothing without any distinguishing features. Nothing that would mark him as anyone in particular.
His first target was Magistrate Nakamura. The man oversaw trade and was one of Shinji's staunchest allies. A key supporter.
Muzan moved across the rooftops with practiced ease. No wasted movement. No sound.
Nakamura's residence came into view. Guards at the main entrance, as expected. Muzan slipped into a side alley and watched their patrol pattern.
A second-floor window caught his attention. Slightly ajar.
He scaled the wall and paused at the window, listening. Inside, Hideaki slept alone. Perfect.
Muzan eased the window open and slipped inside. The room was dark, but he could see well enough. He crossed to the bed, silent as shadow. A kunai appeared in his hand.
One precise strike between the ribs. Through to the heart.
Nakamura's eyes flew open. Muzan's other hand clamped over his mouth.
"Your time is over," he whispered.
The light faded from Nakamura's eyes. His body went slack. Muzan withdrew the kunai and wiped it clean on the man's sleeping robe.
Then he was gone, vanishing back into the night.
The next target was more challenging. Captain Masahiro commanded a palace guard unit and lived in the barracks. More security. More risk.
Muzan approached along the southern wall during the shift change. The guards were distracted, focused on the handoff. He slipped past them unseen.
The hallway was empty. He picked the lock—an old skill, but still useful—and opened the door without a sound.
Inside, Masahiro sat at a low table, reviewing documents by lamplight. His hand rested near his sword. Alert even at this hour.
He looked up. "Who—"
Muzan closed the distance in an instant. One strike crushed the captain's windpipe. Masahiro gasped, hands flying to his throat on instinct, but the kunai through his heart ended it.
He slumped forward onto his documents. Blood spread across the papers, soaking through the ink.
Muzan checked the hallway again. Still empty. He slipped out and relocked the door behind him.
Three more targets remained.
By dawn, five bodies lay cold in their beds.
Muzan returned to his textile shop as the merchants began opening their stalls. The city was waking up around him. He changed clothes, washed away any trace of blood, and slipped back into Kanzaki's skin. The gentle merchant. The kind man who sold fine fabrics and smiled at his customers.
When the first customer arrived, he greeted them warmly.
"Good morning. Looking for anything in particular today?"
Outside, city guards rushed through the streets. Voices raised in alarm. Chaos beginning to spread.
Inside the shop, Kanzaki smiled and helped an elderly woman select silk for a kimono.