It was like any other day
Malenia was called into the assignment hall early in the morning. The clerk handed her a scroll, its seal unmarked by urgency.
Route inspection. Outer islands. Estimated duration: three days.
No escort listed.
She read it twice, then rolled the scroll and bowed before leaving.
At the docks, there was no one waiting for her. No jonin checking equipment. No final instructions. The boat assigned to her was small and already prepared. She loaded her pack herself—rations, sealing tools, spare wire, medical supplies—and pushed off as the tide turned.
The silence felt heavier than danger.
The mission itself was simple. She followed the coastline, checking barrier markers hidden among rocks and trees. Most were intact. One had been tampered with—sloppily. She corrected it, reinforced the array, and left a coded mark for later review.
On the second day, she encountered fishermen arguing near a cove. They scattered when they noticed her presence. She did not pursue. Fear without guilt was common.
She completed the mission on schedule.
No complications.
The second assignment came a week later.
Then another.
Some required travel inland to minor outposts. Others involved escorting sealed cargo short distances. Gradually, the tasks shifted. Less observation. More decision-making.
During one mission, she tracked a lone smuggler moving through marshland. His chakra was uneven, his movements careless. She followed at a distance, watching how he reacted to sound, to terrain, to pressure.
When he finally noticed her, it was already too late.
The fight was short.
She blocked once, misjudged the force, and felt the shock travel up her arm. She adjusted immediately, changed her grip, and ended it cleanly.
She sat afterward, breathing steadily, and replayed the mistake in her head.
It did not happen again.
Not every mission ended with confrontation.
Once, she failed to arrive in time to prevent stolen cargo from leaving the shore. She returned and reported it plainly. No excuses. The loss was recorded.
Her missions continued.
She learned how long she could travel before fatigue affected her focus. Which terrain slowed her movements? How the weather changed chakra flow.
Water techniques were used sparingly. Only to control movement or end fights quickly. Her sword remained her primary tool.
At night, she camped alone. Checked perimeter seals. Slept lightly.
By the end of the year, the assignments no longer came from the general pool.
They came directly.
No escort. No supervision.
Just objectives.
Her mission records grew thicker. No annotations. No special remarks.
That was enough.
she was 13 now. She was growing very tall, very fast. She was just slightly shorter than her father. Her height right now is 5'11.
One evening, she returned late and went straight to the training yard. The lanterns were already lit. She ran the same drills she always had—footwork, strikes, guard transitions.
Again.
And again.
From the balcony above, her father watched briefly, then turned away.
She did not notice.
She was learning the shape of responsibility.
And it was settling into her hands.
She also heard about a group of seven swordsmen of mist emergence, and she was very interested in challenging blades with others to check her kenjutsu, as there were no kenjutsu masters whom she couldn't beat in her clan.
Then the other day, she was on patrol on the outskirts of Uzushio when suddenly her Instincts flared.
She reacted on instinct.
Her blade snapped up just in time.
CLANG
The force traveled straight through her arms, sharp and heavy. Her feet slid back across the stone as she absorbed the impact. A thicker blade pressed against hers, powerful and deliberate.
She looked up.
Red eyes met hers through drifting mist. A tall man stood before her, two hands on two handles, but it was one blade of a massive sword, which was rather unique, the other relaxed at his side. His posture was loose—but ready.
"Good," he said calmly. "You blocked."
Malenia didn't answer.
She shifted her stance, lowering her center, tightening her grip.
He attacked again.
No warning. No wasted movement.
The next exchange was fast—short arcs, heavy strikes meant to break guards rather than slip past them. She didn't retreat. She redirected, turned force aside, stepped in and out of range with precise footwork.
Steel rang again and again.
Her focus narrowed until there was nothing but timing and distance.
He changed the rhythm suddenly.
She felt it—and adapted.
A heavy strike clipped her shoulder, tearing fabric and sending pain through her arm. She didn't flinch. She stepped inside his follow-up swing and forced his blade wide.
They separated briefly.
He studied her then, eyes sharper. "Red hair," he said. "Uzumaki."
She also observed his forehead, where there was a mist headband.
She exhaled slowly. "Mist shinobi ."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "That explains the control."
He raised his blade again.
So did she.
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