Chapter 21 — But He Said He Would Bring Light to the World
"Just a newly founded little village, and yet…!"
The leader of the Grass pursuit squad cursed under his breath, face twisting in disbelief.
What was supposed to be a simple mission — hunting down a few deserters — had somehow turned into a full-scale disaster.
Grass might not have been a major power on the continent, but even small villages had their rules, their pride, and their bottom line.
Dying in some nameless ditch far from home — or worse, returning in disgrace — was not an option.
Teeth gritted, the Grass-nin leader made a snap decision.
His sharp eyes fixed on the man standing calmly at the edge of the battlefield — the young daimyō of the Land of Fields, Oda Nobunaga.
Take the head, and the body dies.
That old truth still held. And how much of a threat could some well-dressed noble truly be?
With a snarl, the Grass-nin leader pulled a kunai from his belt and launched himself forward, body low and fast as a striking panther.
"This is my chance!"
A feral grin split his face as he closed in. He could already picture it — the self-righteous "lord" squirming in his grip,
the look of shock and humiliation on that composed face.
It would be glorious.
And his timing was perfect. Nobunaga's main force was still locked in combat with the rest of the Grass-nin.
Even if a few bodyguards were nearby, he was confident he could take them.
Sure enough, when the daimyō's guards saw the ambush, their faces turned pale.
In this world, few had the madness — or the stupidity — to strike openly at a ruling lord.
But it was already too late to stop him.
"Fire Style — Great Fireball Technique!"
"Wind Style — Rising Cyclone!"
Two of Nobunaga's guards moved at once, their seals flashing through the air.
A roaring fireball burst forward, followed by a column of swirling wind.
"Idiots!"
The Grass-nin commander sneered mid-charge.
He had to admit — the fireball's size and heat were impressive, the work of a skilled jōnin.
But the wind technique? It was pathetic — a weak gust at best.
"If you can't use a proper Wind Jutsu, don't embarrass yourselves!"
He ducked low, evading the flames with practiced grace, his body cutting through the air like a thrown spear.
He'd done this a thousand times — dodge the attack, close the distance, kill the caster.
"Let me show you what a real shinobi looks like!"
Confidence surged. If he could strike down the daimyō himself, his name would spread across the continent.
But just as he slipped past the blazing fireball,
a sudden pressure slammed against his back — a violent surge of air.
What—!?
His eyes widened as the fiery orb twisted midair —
caught and driven backward by the "useless" cyclone he had mocked only moments ago!
The two techniques merged — wind feeding fire — the inferno doubling in size before hurling straight toward him from behind.
"Impossible…! A combination jutsu!?"
The Grass-nin leader's voice cracked with disbelief.
He'd seen this kind of coordinated technique only in the great villages — where elite squads trained for years to synchronize chakra natures.
"Tch… but you think that's enough to take me down?"
He forced a crooked grin, gathering chakra into his legs,
ready to leap clear of the oncoming blast — unaware that this "little village" had far more in store for him than he ever imagined.
Because in the midst of smoke and fire, at the heart of the battlefield,
the man he had dismissed as a mere noble was watching — not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.
Conviction.
The Grass-nin commander, a veteran of countless skirmishes, moved with lethal precision.
Before anyone could react, his hands blurred through seals, the air around him whipping into motion as his cheeks ballooned.
"Wind Style: Great Breakthrough!"
A roaring gust erupted from his mouth, a torrent of chakra-infused wind so fierce that dust and gravel lifted from the ground.
The Great Fireball that had once filled the field with heat and light flickered — then was snuffed out completely.
But the Grass-nin leader didn't stop there. Spinning on his heel, he unleashed another burst of wind, sweeping outward in all directions.
The sudden gale cut off the reinforcements rushing to Nobunaga's side, forcing his guards to dig in and brace themselves.
For a brief moment, one man stood against many — and held.
Even if Grass's jōnin ranked below those of the Five Great Villages, among lesser nations he was still a force to be reckoned with.
A veteran warrior, calm under pressure, efficient in his killing intent.
"Now… come quietly, Lord Daimyō."
His voice was cold as steel.
Every motion was sharp, every decision ruthless.
From the moment he'd chosen to capture Nobunaga, the Grass-nin leader hadn't wasted a single heartbeat — no arrogance, no taunts, no hesitation.
He dashed forward, vanishing into a blur.
Nobunaga's guards struggled to recover their footing as the man cut through the chaos like a blade through silk.
In a blink, he was upon the young daimyō.
Nobunaga, calm as a still pond, reached for the sword at his waist—
—but before he could even draw it, a figure stepped between them.
"You can't kill him!"
It was Jūgo, his orange hair whipping in the wind.
Black markings crawled across his face and neck — the curse seal of Orochimaru awakening, pulsing with restrained power.
He didn't even understand why he had moved.
Perhaps it was the echo of Nobunaga's words — to bring peace, to bring light to the world.
Perhaps, just for a moment, he believed in them.
But that moment of hesitation was fatal.
As Jūgo turned his head, instinctively glancing back toward Nobunaga—
"Idiot!"
The Grass-nin leader's killing intent spiked.
He'd nearly paused when Jūgo appeared, suspecting a trap — but seeing the boy turn away in mid-fight, he seized the opening without thought.
His kunai flashed.
A blur of motion — and a strike aimed straight for Jūgo's neck.
CLANG!
The blade met bone.
A white, gleaming sword had blocked the strike — a sword not made of steel, but of bone itself.
Its wielder, Kimimaro, stood before Jūgo, his expression cold and precise.
At the same instant, black tendrils whipped through the air — Kakuzu's shadowy threads shooting from his arms.
"Earth Grudge Punch!"
The Grass-nin leader's body jerked violently as the attack struck home, threads snaring his limbs before he could leap away.
"Sorry," Jūgo muttered, realizing what had just happened.
Kimimaro's bone sword still glistened inches from his shoulder.
Kimimaro didn't reply. His face remained unreadable, but the fact that Jūgo had acted — that he had protected Nobunaga —
had caught even him off guard.
Truth be told, Kimimaro had felt that same strange pull when Nobunaga spoke earlier —
a flicker of something like… belief.
---
"Tch. Think of it as a discount."
Kakuzu's gravelly voice cut in, the corners of his mouth twitching in irritation.
"I can't have my employer dying before he pays me."
He said it gruffly, as if to save face — but even Kakuzu knew he'd broken his own rule.
Normally, no money up front meant no action.
Yet here he was, moving first.
Retracting his thread-bound arm, he joined Kimimaro and Jūgo at Nobunaga's side.
The three of them stood like a living wall — one silent, one grim, one oddly gentle — forming a perfect triangle around the young daimyō.
---
The Grass-nin leader froze.
His throat bobbed; a single gulp echoed in the sudden quiet.
He looked at them — real killers, every one of them —
and at the man they guarded, who stood utterly composed, still wearing that faint, almost kind smile.
For the first time, fear crawled into his gut.
"Rrraaaahhhh!"
He roared like a beast cornered, forcing the fear down with rage.
With a snarl, he drew a handful of shuriken and hurled them in a blinding wave toward the four figures.
Steel whistled through the air — but before the blades could reach them, Kimimaro's bones, Jūgo's fists, and Kakuzu's threads swatted them from the sky.
When the last shuriken clattered to the dirt, the battlefield fell silent once more.
And the Grass-nin leader — the man who had thought to take a daimyō hostage —
turned on his heel and ran for his life.
He didn't look back.
Because even in retreat, he could still feel that man's gaze —
the gaze of one who had sworn to bring light to a world drowned in darkness.