Chapter 13: A Trap in the Moonlight
The village of Konoha lay under the bruised purple and orange wash of sunset, a picture of serene, drowsy peace. It was a beauty paid for in the forgotten blood and silent sacrifices of countless ordinary shinobi. Men like Yamada-sensei, whose names would never grace a monument, whose deaths in the coming war would be a statistic, a line on a scroll to be filed away. In their final days, they tried to leave behind something—a lesson, a warning, a spark of hope in a student who might live to see a better dawn.
"Ragnar… in these last days, I just want to be a proper teacher. To care for my students as they should be cared for."
"Konoha is flawed. It cannot protect everyone. It makes mistakes. It is young, and like all young things, it is sometimes cruel in its ignorance. But you must believe it can grow. Do not hold its current failures against its future. Give it a chance."
The echo of Yamada's final words, spoken with the gravity of a last will, followed Ragnar as he walked the quieting streets. The man was walking to his death, knowingly, because the village needed bodies to throw at the coming storm. It was a loyalty that bordered on madness, or perhaps the only sanity left in a mad world.
Konoha does not fail me, and I will not fail it.
Ragnar settled on the thought, not out of patriotic fervor, but cold calculus. He needed structure, resources, a base of operations from which to grow his power. Konoha provided that. For now, the alignment of interests was sufficient. Gratitude for past shelter, yes. A desire for future stability, certainly. But blind loyalty? That was a luxury for those who could afford to trust. He would fight for the village because a strong village meant a safer place for him to become stronger. It was a clean, transactional logic that left no room for the messy grief he felt for his doomed teacher.
He quickened his pace, arriving at his small cabin as true night fell, the sky a deep velvet studded with early stars. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine from the distant woods.
Squeak.
The unoiled hinge of his door announced his return. The single room was pitch black, still, and cold. He struck a match, the sudden flare painting wild shadows on the walls as he lit a stub of candle.
His body froze. His eyes, adjusting to the dim, flickering light, locked onto the surface of his rough-hewn table.
A scroll lay there. Neat. Ominous. It had not been there when he left.
Moving silently, he approached and picked it up. It was of plain make, black cord around a white parchment core. He unrolled it. The message inside was brief, stark, and written in a slashing, aggressive hand:
Kushina. Forest of Death. Outer perimeter. Come alone.
There was no signature. It didn't need one. The target was clear. This was for him.
As he finished reading, the parchment in his hands hissed, the ink flashing red for an instant before the entire scroll combusted into a brief, hot flame and crumbled to ash between his fingers, leaving no evidence.
Who?
Uchiha.
The deduction was instantaneous. The only entity in Konoha with both a motive and the arrogant theatricality for such a move was them. Uchiha Shirou, humiliated twice in one day, would not let the sun set on his shame. But Kushina? How could she be in their hands? She was under the protection of Mito Uzumaki, watched by the Hokage's agents. The risk of touching her was astronomical.
Then he reconsidered. In the original flow of history, even as the Nine-Tails' jinchuriki, Kushina had been kidnapped once. Protection was never absolute. And this wasn't about Kushina, not really. It was a blade aimed at his throat, using her as the bait. A trap. He knew it was a trap. The scroll practically screamed it.
But knowledge didn't change the equation. He had to go. If there was even a one percent chance they had her, the debt—for the food, for the unintended camaraderie, for simply being a rare person who looked at him without open disdain—demanded it. If it was a ruse, then the fight would simply happen on their chosen ground. Either way, it ended tonight.
Uchiha Shirou. You've signed your own death warrant.
A cold, focused fury settled over him, burning away the last of Yamada-sensei's melancholy philosophy. He changed swiftly, donning his dark, non-descript training clothes—perfect for blending into the night. Then he was a shadow leaving his cabin, moving with silent, predatory speed toward the looming darkness of the Forest of Death.
Simultaneously, in the heart of the village, Konoha's intelligence apparatus was whirring.
In the Hokage's office, lit by a single green-shaded lamp, an Anbu operative finished his hushed report and vanished in a puff of smoke.
Standing before the Hokage's desk, arms crossed over an impressive chest, was a young woman in her early twenties. She had long, honey-blonde hair tied in twin ponytails, fierce brown eyes, and an expression of simmering impatience. She wore a short green haori with the kanji for "Gamble" stitched boldly on the back, over a form-fitting blouse. She was Tsunade Senju, the Slug Princess, one of the Sannin-in-the-making, and currently a massive pain in her teacher's administrative side.
"Old man," Tsunade said, the moment the Anbu was gone, her voice sharp. "Are you just going to let the Uchiha walk all over everyone? This is getting ridiculous."
Third Hokage Sarutobi Hiruzen sighed around the stem of his pipe, exhaling a cloud of smoke that hung in the lamplight. "The Uchiha control the Military Police. Their authority is… difficult to challenge directly. However, this business with Shirou and the refugee boy, Ragnar… it reeks of a personal vendetta. A clan that cannot abide the talent of a single academy student has a sickness in its pride."
"Ragnar…" Tsunade tapped a finger on her chin, brow furrowed. "Why does that name ring a bell?"
"You led the team that extracted the survivors from that border skirmish three months back, Tsunade. He was one of them."
"Oh, right! The quiet kid. But why's he tangling with the Uchiha?"
"Apparently, three months ago, he put one of their precious academy prodigies in the hospital with a single punch. The boy still hasn't fully recovered."
A fierce grin split Tsunade's face. "Serves them right! Arrogant pricks could use a good beating."
"Hmph. The beating has consequences. The Uchiha have long memories. Speaking of which… the boy's combat style. Our observers report he exhibits a physical enhancement ability. Similar to a certain someone's… unique strength."
Sarutobi's words were casual, but his eyes were keen behind the smoke.
"Physical enhancement? Like my怪力?" Tsunade's interest visibly spiked, her professional curiosity overriding her irritation. "A bloodline? In a refugee?"
"Perhaps. It would bear looking into."
Tsunade was already moving. "Right. Well, I've got things to do, old man. Oh, and if the guy from the Konoha Gambling Hall comes around… tell him the Hokage will cover my tab. It's an investment in village morale!"
Before Hiruzen could sputter a protest, there was a bang of a swift Body Flicker, and she was gone, leaving only the faint scent of perfume and trouble.
"That girl…" Hiruzen muttered, but a small, tired smile touched his lips. He rose and walked to the window, looking out at the village swallowed by night. His thoughts turned to the earnest, desperate plea from Chunin Yamada earlier that day. A good man, walking to his end, asking only that a promising student be given a shield.
"My boy," the Hokage whispered to the darkness. "This is the only shield I can offer you now. A nudge in the right direction. The rest… is up to you."
Forest of Death.
The name was apt. Even on the outskirts, the air was colder, the silence heavier, pregnant with the clicks and rustles of unseen things. Ragnar moved like one of those things, a silent predator using his Level 2 Observation Haki to map the terrain, sensing for life signatures ahead.
He found the designated clearing. In the center, tethered to the thick trunk of an ancient oak, was a small figure with vibrant red hair. Kushina. She was struggling against her bonds.
But as Ragnar's senses brushed over her, the image wavered. There was no spark of life, no chakra signature, only the hollow echo of shaped wood.
Substitution Technique.
He wasn't surprised. He'd expected a trap. The confirmation only hardened his resolve.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Leaves stirred, not from the wind. From the deep shadows between the monstrous trees, a figure emerged. Pale moonlight caught the glint of a forehead protector, the arrogant set of shoulders, and the prominent Uchiha fan on a flak jacket. Uchiha Shirou stepped into the clearing, his face a mask of vindictive triumph. One arm was in a sling, the hand Ragnar had shattered. The other held a kunai, its edge catching the cold light.
"You actually came," Shirou said, his voice a low, pleased sneer. "The loyal little dog. I knew you would. Sentiment is such a wonderful weakness."
(End of Chapter)
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