Murakami Takuya’s gaze swept over the silhouettes outside through the cracks in the mud wall, and his fingers tapped the hilt of his blade three times.
“Twenty.
No headbands, but their positioning and weaponry are all typical of a Ninja.
The bald man directly in front—he’s not simple.”
He paused for a beat, then turned to look at the three of them.
“I’ll go break the line.
My target is the bald one—he’s the command core.
If I draw him away, their formation might break.
Use this window to break out toward the southwest.
Once you’re out, don’t stop.”
“But…” Jiraiya had just started to speak.
“No ‘buts’.”
His tone wasn’t heavy, but that very lightness made it impossible to refute, more so than any direct order.
He wasn’t asking for an opinion; he was issuing a command.
Tsunade bit her lip.
She wanted to say “We can help,” and “Let’s go together,” but the words were stuck in her throat, unable to come out.
Because she could calculate the odds.
Twenty against four, surrounded—she and Jiraiya combined couldn’t shoulder much of the burden.
The captain drawing the leader away alone to disrupt their formation was already the optimal solution.
She knew it was right.
But “knowing it’s right” and “being able to accept it” were two different things.
“Watch over them.”
Murakami Takuya’s gaze rested on each of their three faces for a second, finally landing on Kitahara Kaede’s.
Kitahara Kaede nodded.
The next instant, Murakami Takuya shot out.
The mud wall exploded from the center, gravel spraying everywhere to serve as the first wave of cover.
Before the dust had even settled, he had already passed through.
The sound of his short blade leaving its sheath was short, like tearing through a layer of paper.
Of the two black-clad men in front, one raised his blade while the other dodged to the side—but Murakami Takuya was a level faster.
A flash of blade-light, and the wrist of the one raising his sword was severed; the one dodging to the side was struck on the neck by the back of the blade, slamming into the ground and bouncing once.
The third one rushed up, but the moment his blade touched the short sword, it was sent flying, knocking over his companion behind him along with himself.
Three seconds, three men.
The smile on the bald man’s face froze completely.
He took half a step back, but Murakami Takuya was already in front of him.
The short blade slashed horizontally, and the bald man drew his katana to meet it.
The two figures locked together, rapidly moving away toward the village, further and further away.
Kitahara Kaede stood up from behind the dilapidated mud wall and scanned the area.
Sixteen people.
Fifteen of them didn’t put much pressure on him.
Only one was different—directly opposite, in a dark gray short jacket, in his early twenties, hands in his pockets, standing very loosely.
While the others were tense, he was observing.
Not cannon fodder.
This person was the only variable among the remaining enemies who could threaten Tsunade, so he had to handle it himself.
“Kaede—” Tsunade’s voice came from behind him, strained but not panicked, “What do we do?”
Her hands were already clenched into fists, and her stance was as steady as if she were nailed to the ground.
Kitahara Kaede turned his gaze back to the front.
“I will take on ten.”
Jiraiya almost bit his tongue: “You’ll take on…
ten?”
“Leave the remaining six to you.
Avoid the one in the gray jacket in front, pick any of the others.”
Jiraiya opened his mouth, wanting to say “You’re crazy,” but after seeing Kitahara Kaede’s expression, he swallowed those three words back.
There was no sign of bravado on that face.
Tsunade didn’t question the number.
From the time she had known him until now, every time he said he “could do it,” he had never failed to deliver.
There were many things she wanted to say—don’t get hurt, don’t be reckless, don’t use your body to block blades again.
In the end, only three words remained.
“Be careful.”
Kitahara Kaede reached out and gently pressed on the top of her head.
His palm pressed down and then pulled away, the movement natural.
Tsunade’s breathing paused for half a beat.
His palm was dry and slightly warm; the temperature transmitted through her hair was very clear—not a feeling of being protected, but of being trusted.
It was like he was saying: You can do it too.
“You too.”
After he finished speaking, he had already moved.
Tsunade was stunned for less than a second, then gritted her teeth and turned toward her own direction.
…
Kitahara Kaede cut in from the right flank of the encirclement, choosing the spot where the distance between the two men was the greatest.
Kitahara Kaede lowered his body, and the blade swept over his head.
Holding the Kunai in a reverse grip, he slashed upward across the opponent’s sword-wielding wrist, causing the blade to fall from his hand, and followed up with a knee strike to the chest.
The man flew backward, knocking down his companion behind him, and the two of them tumbled out together.
Kitahara Kaede didn’t stop, beginning to weave hand signs.
“Shadow Clone Technique.”
Two puffs of white smoke burst on either side of his body, and two clones cut into the two wings of the encirclement to pin down the outer enemies.
The original body went straight for the man in the gray jacket.
He was very clear about his Chakra reserves—after the two Shadow Clones, his original body had sixty percent left, and each clone had thirty percent; he couldn’t hold out for too long.
He had to take care of the man in the gray jacket before the clones dissipated.
The man in the gray jacket finally pulled his hands out of his pockets.
A narrow-bladed short sword, the edge polished very bright, his starting stance mature and steady.
“Interesting.” He grinned, “You still dare to use Shadow Clone and disperse your Chakra?”
Kitahara Kaede didn’t reply, thrusting his Kunai directly forward.
The first clash tested it out—the man in the gray jacket had more strength than him; head-on collisions were a disadvantage.
The counterattack came almost right against the momentum of his block; the short sword slid along the body of the Kunai, the tip aiming for his wrist.
Kitahara Kaede flipped his wrist to block, simultaneously retreating to open up distance.
The man in the gray jacket pursued, his steps steady, clearly intending to use an oppressive advance to compress his range of movement.
Kitahara Kaede retreated until the position was sufficient, stopped his feet, and quickly wove hand signs with both hands.
“Great Fireball Technique.”
Chakra exploded from his throat, the fireball expanding rapidly, nearly the size of a soccer ball, smashing toward the front of the man in the gray jacket.
Close range, sudden, with no sufficient room to dodge.
The man in the gray jacket rolled to the right, dodging with most of his body, but his left shoulder was still grazed by the edge of the flames—the flesh burn was frozen in an instant, his clothes scorched black, and a smell of burning drifted into the air.
He landed, stood up, and the smile on his face faded by two points.
“Do you have enough Chakra, brat?”
Kitahara Kaede didn’t answer, switching his Kunai from a forward grip to a reverse grip, lowering his steps, switching from offense to skirmishing.
The man in the gray jacket pursued, unleashing a series of strikes—
The first strike was a chop, which Kitahara Kaede dodged by turning sideways; the second was a horizontal sweep, which he avoided by lowering his body; the third was a downward chop, and he retreated a step diagonally backward, the blade smashing into the mud.
Every strike missed by just a little bit.
Not because Kitahara Kaede was faster, but because he had been watching the opponent’s shoulders the whole time.
The shoulder moves first, the blade moves later.
A fraction of a second in advance was enough.
The basics taught by Master Hiruzen.
The man in the gray jacket’s patience was being worn down; his strikes were becoming faster and faster, trickier and trickier—aiming for the neck, aiming for the back of the knees, all vital points.
But the more anxious he was, the more openings there were.
Kitahara Kaede was waiting for an opportunity.