Fanma stood on a high rooftop, his “Predatory Field” releasing a faint, metallic scent of blood that blanketed all of Konoha.
The aura allowed him to pick up the distinct scent of everyone’s chakra.
Back in his Anbu days, Fanma had often mused that Amegakure ninja always carried a lingering, melancholic scent of stagnant rain—as if their psychological health was fundamentally compromised.
“Heh, found you.” Fanma locked his gaze onto a luxury carriage, inside of which three streams of chakra reeked of dampness.
In a blur of motion, he intercepted the carriage.
The head coachman looked at the tall Fanma and smiled with disdain.
“Who are you?
Do you know whose carriage this is?
This is the private transport of the Lord Daimyo!” Oh?
Disguising themselves as the Daimyo’s retinue?
That’s quite an innovative bit of spycraft.
It’s a shame to waste that kind of brainpower on being a ninja.
Fanma waved a hand lazily.
A violent gust of fist-pressure shattered the carriage instantly.
The two hidden spies and the coachman instinctively activated their Body Flicker, scattering into the air.
Fanma smiled, remarking, “Since when did the Daimyo of the Land of Rain learn the Body Flicker technique?” The three Rain ninja stopped the charade, baring their teeth in grimaces.
“Kill him!” Snap.
Snap.
Two dull thuds.
Two more “rotten watermelons” exploded.
The remaining Rain ninja stared in disbelief at his headless comrade, then looked at Fanma in sheer terror.
“It’s over…
we ran into the ‘Blood Wolf’.” During his long tenure in the Anbu, Fanma had spent years active on the borders, dealing with the specialized units of various nations daily.
His violent, fast-paced taijutsu style—and his habit of leaving enemies in a pulverized state—had made him quite notorious across the ninja underworld.
“Blood Wolf” was the moniker his enemies had given him.
Some, however, argued that running into the Blood Wolf was a stroke of luck—the end usually came quickly and painlessly.
The Rain ninja gritted his teeth, snatched a scroll from his wrist, and prepared to activate it.
Fanma flicked across the space, clamped a hand onto his throat, and used his index and middle fingers like scalpel blades to shred the spy’s spine.
With a few precise, follow-up strikes, he snapped every remaining major joint.
The Rain ninja ended up like a dissected frog on a laboratory table: still conscious, but completely unable to move a single part of his body.
Fanma picked up the scroll the spy had been trying to activate, examining it with genuine interest.
It was a sealing charm—some kind of secret art?
Definitely not an ordinary explosive tag.
He carefully wrapped it in his own chakra and stored it away, waiting for the Anbu and the Police Force to arrive.
He turned his gaze toward the wreckage of the so-called “Daimyo’s carriage” and drifted into a moment of boredom.
Truth be told, the Daimyo system was a strange relic of the ninja world: they possessed no real martial power, yet occupied a position of absolute superiority.
However, in the Land of Fire, there was a reason for it.
When the Senju clan dissolved, while the name disappeared, the bloodline connections remained.
Just because the surname had faded didn’t mean Nawaki wasn’t Hashirama Senju’s direct grandson.
About half of the Senju clan continued working as ninja, spreading their influence, which was actually why Konoha’s civilian-born ninja frequently produced geniuses—the Senju genes were quietly refining the village.
The rest of the Senju had moved into important official positions in the Land of Fire or intermarried with the Daimyo’s household, starting new lives.
Consequently, the most important supporters of the Land of Fire’s Daimyo were actually the original Senju clan members.
This was why even someone as brazen as Danzo dared not lay a finger on the Daimyo.
After waiting about two minutes, the Police Force and Anbu arrived late.
Fanma looked at them and said coldly, “Anbu Number 24 and 56—the Inuzuka clan should be ashamed of you.
Tekka, Enbu—the Uchiha clan is disgraced by your incompetence.” The four arriving ninja bowed their heads in shame, bowing deeply in unison.
“We are deeply sorry, Senior Fanma!” Fanma swept his gaze over them, feeling the weight of history.
Twenty years had passed since the First Great Shinobi War.
The fruits of Tobirama Senju’s sacrifices had matured into economic dividends, making Konoha rich and fat on abundance.
But this very prosperity had dulled the senses of Konoha’s ninja, eroding their sense of crisis.
Meanwhile, the neighboring small nations—starving, bled dry, and pushed to the brink—watched Konoha with greedy, bloodshot eyes.
They were desperate people who had survived on hunger and slaughter, and they looked at the village with ravenous envy.
History tells us that people never learn from history, Fanma thought.
He pointed to the Rain ninja, who lay on the ground like a dead fish.
“I left one alive.
Do not let any more mistakes happen.” “Yes, Senior.” Fanma waved them off and began walking home, pondering what dishes to cook for Tsunade that evening and what he should say.
The more he thought about it, the more restless he became.
He felt a long-lost, unfamiliar sensation: nervousness.
He forgot the philosophical insights he’d just been having—what did history or realizations matter compared to a date?
The young ninja watched Fanma walk away, all letting out a collective sigh of relief.
“Huh?
Even you Uchiha clan members are afraid of Senior Fanma?” “You probably don’t know—our Clan Head has been bedridden lately.
I heard he was almost beaten to death by him two days ago.” “The Anbu have been whispering about that, too.
I heard that during the commander selections, Fanma-san took on two people simultaneously.” “Wasn’t it five?
But for Senior Fanma, that’s just a normal Tuesday.
We should be grateful he didn’t kill anyone.” “Hey, tell me more about Senior Fanma!
I’m still a junior in the clan; it’s hard to get the inside scoop.” “Bottom line: he’s terrifying.
A scratch means a wound, a touch means death—get it?” The Rain ninja, dragged along the ground like a dead fish, wanted to participate in the conversation, but he couldn’t speak—only his eyes emitted an eerie, shimmering light, signaling his agreement.
…
Hokage’s Office.
Danzo shoved the door open in a fit of rage.
Seeing the smoke-filled office only fueled his fury.
He roared, “Konoha has been infiltrated by a few Rain ninja to this extent!
Hiruzen, the Anbu are a disgrace!” The Third Hokage’s face was grim.
He sighed and said, “Indeed.
The pain of war is forgotten as quickly as it arrives.
The village’s ninja have gradually lost the vigilance they once possessed.” Danzo slammed his hand on the desk.
“If a ninja isn’t acting like a ninja, what use are they?
Hiruzen, you are too soft!
I’ve told you time and time again—petition the Daimyo.
Let our own merchant caravans handle foreign trade; stop letting foreign merchants into our village!” The Third stood up, stepped forward until he was face-to-face with Danzo, and shouted back: “You talk as if it’s easy.
If foreign trade were so simple, your Foundation wouldn’t be begging me for funding every other day!” Still feeling unsatisfied, he added: “Your Foundation has consumed so much funding—where are your results?
Five years of the Foundation’s output doesn’t even compare to six months of Orochimaru’s research!” At the mention of funding and results, Danzo was so furious the bandages on his face shook.
My funding goes to Orochimaru, you old dog!
I just can’t tell you that!
Finding himself unable to refute the point, he could only resort to the classic line: “Hiruzen, you will regret this!” “Danzo, I am the Hokage!” Konoha Interrogation Room.
Ibiki Morino grinned savagely as he summoned his clan’s ancestral interrogation chamber and threw the Rain ninja inside.
The Anbu Commander, Sarutobi Shin—the Third’s eldest son—had a grave look in his eyes.
He ordered, “Summon Uchiha Fugaku, Yamanaka Shingen, and Yuhi Shinku.
We must ascertain what intelligence was stolen and how many invaders there are.” Who would have thought Konoha’s Anbu had grown this lax?
War was coming, and this wasn’t good news.
Still, thank goodness for that bastard Fanma; at least he had salvaged the situation.
He was unexpectedly reliable.
Thinking back to his days in the Anbu when he had tried to establish his authority by lecturing Fanma—only to have his ribs broken for his trouble—Shin simply smiled.
I suppose this counts as a strange sort of friendship, he thought.
After all, as he once said: you don’t really know a man until you’ve fought him.
A ninja must speak through their strength.
Shin thought of the past, his heart lingering on the days of old.
Earn Them Together!