Chapter 67: Facing the Root
Under the crushing pressure of Danzo's presence, Moonlight Swiftfire stood his ground. "Lord Danzo," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "We are ANBU Reconnaissance Team Nine, returning to report. During our exfiltration, we were ambushed by a large Iwa-nin force. The enemy comprised eighteen chunin and two jonin. After a… difficult engagement, we managed to disengage and return."
Ragnar listened, a flicker of surprise cutting through his caution. Swiftfire was omitting the crucial detail. He was actively hiding Ragnar's role in the slaughter. The captain, bound by duty and a soldier's gratitude for the life saved at the ambush's onset, was trying to protect him. It was a clumsy, transparent attempt, but the intent was clear.
He's trying to shield me from Danzo's attention, Ragnar realized. A debt, perhaps. Or the instinct of a decent man caught in a web of shadows. It wouldn't work, but the gesture was noted.
Danzo's single eye, cold and reptilian, studied Swiftfire. The story was thin as rice paper. His frown deepened, and when he spoke again, his voice was a lash. "Nonsense. A team of four, primarily scouts and infiltrators, 'disengages' from twenty elite Iwa-nin, including two jonin? You insult my intelligence. Tell me the truth now. Have you been compromised? Are you leading enemies to our gate?"
He made a subtle gesture. From the shadows at the edges of the tent, six figures materialized without a sound. They wore animal masks like ANBU, but theirs were plain, unpainted wood or ceramic, and their posture was different—utterly still, devoid of the individual quirks of ANBU operatives. They were Root. They formed a loose, perfect circle around Team Nine, cutting off any path to the exit.
The temperature in the tent seemed to plummet. Aburame Shigeru's insects buzzed uneasily beneath his clothes. Yamanaka Kaiji's hand twitched toward his tantō. To be accused of treason by one's own side, after surviving hell, was a bitter poison.
"Captain," Ragnar said, his voice calm, cutting through the tension. "The truth is simpler."
There was no point letting Swiftfire take the fall for a lie Danzo would never believe. The fox already had the scent.
Seeing the intervention, Swiftfire's shoulders slumped in defeat. He let out a weary sigh. "The truth is… we didn't just disengage. The enemy force was eliminated. All twenty." From his ninja pouch, he produced a heavy, clinking handful of metal tags—the unique identity tokens carried by Iwa-nin, collected from the corpses. He let them spill onto Danzo's desk with a grim, final rattle.
Danzo's eye tracked the tokens. His expression didn't change, but the intensity of his focus sharpened. In this phony-war stage of the conflict, such a cache of tokens represented a significant, unilateral loss for Iwa. A propaganda coup, a morale blow.
"And," Swiftfire continued, his voice gaining a thread of grim pride, "these were not killed by the team. They were killed by one operative. An ANBU field operative, codename: Rakshasa."
A ripple of tangible shock went through the six Root operatives. Their perfect stillness fractured for a microsecond. One against twenty? Two jonin? It was a claim that bordered on myth.
"What?" Danzo's voice was low, sharp with genuine surprise. "Since when does Konoha possess such strength unbeknownst to me? Who is this 'Rakshasa'? Identify him."
His gaze, burning with avaricious curiosity, swept over the four masked figures before settling, inevitably, on the one with the demonic visage.
"It is me."
Ragnar reached up. The action was deliberate, unhurried. His fingers found the edge of the Rakshasa mask and lifted it clear.
The face revealed was young. Handsome, with sharp, clean lines, but undeniably youthful. Yet, any impression of boyishness was incinerated by the eyes. They were calm, deep pools that held a frosty, assessing light, meeting Danzo's stare without a flicker of deference or fear. His lips were set in a neutral line, and an aura of quiet, unshakable confidence radiated from him—a trait belonging to those who have stared into the abyss and found it lacking.
"You…" Danzo's mind raced, scrabbling through files and memories. The face was familiar, teasing the edges of recognition. The boy had changed drastically from the academy graduate he vaguely recalled—filled out, taller, his presence denser, heavier. The brutal, transformative training and the subtle effects of the Phoenix Fruit had accelerated his growth, sculpting a warrior's body where a student's had been.
"I am Ragnar," he stated, his voice even and clear. "Graduated from the Konoha Ninja Academy. Current ANBU field operative, designation Rakshasa."
He offered no bow, no honorific beyond the basic. He stood as an equal reporting a fact.
Moonlight Swiftfire watched, a mix of dread and awe churning in his gut. He's facing down Danzo like he's a fellow captain. This kid has no fear.
"Ragnar…" Danzo breathed the name, and the connection snapped into place. The border refugee. The academy champion with the strange, non-chakra powers. The boy Hiruzen had personally placed in ANBU, blocking Root's recruitment. In what felt like mere months, the raw ore had been refined into a blade of alarming sharpness.
Danzo's disbelief warred with the evidence—the tokens, the blood-stench, the preternatural calm of the boy before him. No prodigy, not even Minato, advanced this fast without a secret. A powerful, exploitable secret.
"You claim to have single-handedly eliminated twenty Iwa-nin, including two jonin," Danzo said, his tone flattening into cold scrutiny. "Confirm this."
"Yes." One word. Absolute. It hung in the tent, a challenge and a statement of fact.
Danzo's dislike crystallized. He despised this… this equality in the boy's posture. He had seen it only in men like Sakumo—the unshakeable confidence of true power. If the claim was true, then Ragnar was not just a talent; he was a strategic asset of the highest order. And he was Hiruzen's asset. The secret behind his rise needed to be uncovered, controlled, and weaponized for Konoha's true benefit—for Danzo's vision of Konoha.
"I see," Danzo said after a long pause, his initial shock buried under layers of calculation. He rose slowly from his chair, the movement stiff. "The four of you will come with me. Now."
The order was delivered with a tone of finality that brooked no argument. It was the voice of command, expecting instant, mindless obedience.
Moonlight Swiftfire, relieved the immediate confrontation seemed over, instinctively began to nod. "Yes, Lord Dan—"
"Lord Danzo."
Ragnar's voice cut across Swiftfire's, cool and firm. All eyes snapped to him. He hadn't moved. "Before we follow you anywhere, you will tell us our destination and the purpose of this diversion. Otherwise, we will return to our assigned barracks to await Captain Hatake's debriefing."
The air in the tent turned to glass, ready to shatter.
Swiftfire, Aburame, and Yamanaka stared at Ragnar, then at Danzo, the dreadful implication dawning on them. They weren't being debriefed. They were being detained. Danzo's reputation, Root's methods… a cold sweat broke out on their skins. They had been moments from walking willingly into a cage, or worse.
Danzo's expression darkened, his one eye glinting with dangerous fury. The insolence was breathtaking. "You dare dictate terms to me? Say that again."
Ragnar took one deliberate step forward, placing himself slightly ahead of his team. He didn't flare his chakra or Haki, but his presence seemed to expand, filling the space between him and the old war hawk. His gaze, sharp and unwavering, locked onto Danzo's.
"I am an ANBU operative of Konoha," Ragnar said, each word precise and hard as a kunai strike. "I answer to the Hokage and to my direct commander, Hatake Sakumo. I do not answer to unexplained orders that deviate from protocol. State your purpose, or we depart."
The six Root operatives tensed, their hands drifting imperceptibly toward their weapons. The standoff was complete.
(End of Chapter)
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