"So, we are all in agreement," Guldrin said, his voice steady as he leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes moving from one person to the next. "Tsunade, Shizune, and Schnee will stay here with little Risa and her sister, while the rest of us," He paused and counted as he continued, "Ino, Shiro, and myself, will go scout the village."
Tsunade tipped her cup, the amber liquid inside catching the soft light. She nodded slowly, then shifted her attention back to Schnee. The two had been in their own corner most of the evening, sharing drinks and quiet conversations like old friends reunited after years apart, despite having only known each other a short while. They chuckled quietly between themselves, as if everything else wasn't their responsibility.
Shizune, who had been sitting and leaning her head against the edge of the table, let out a sigh that carried resignation. "Someone needs to be responsible for my Lady, so yes, I'll stay here and make sure the children are cared for." Her eyes flicked briefly toward Risa and her sister, who were still asleep in the room, then back to Tsunade with a long-suffering expression.
Tsunade scoffed, downing another drink before pouring another and speaking, "You say that like I'm irresponsible or something." Her words carried a playful bite, though she didn't get the response she was hoping for.
No one, not even Schnee, her newfound drinking partner and apparent confidant, responded. The silence said enough. Everyone in the room knew Tsunade's tendencies well enough to understand Shizune wasn't exaggerating. Responsible wasn't exactly the first word that came to mind when describing the legendary medical sannin.
Guldrin raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He had other things to focus on. With a quiet exhale, he summoned his inventory, the shimmer of the system's interface visible only to him and Shiro. A few pieces of clothing appeared in his hands, nothing extravagant, just practical, well-worn outfits that would pass unnoticed in a crowd.
He tossed a folded bundle toward Ino. "Good thing I plan for a lot of contingencies. It's not much, just a simple black hoodie and some sweatpants. We'll cover it with a tattered cloak. Don't feel bad, you won't be the only one looking out of place." He gestured toward Shiro, then at himself. "Shiro and I will be wearing something similar. The important thing is to keep our faces down and blend in. With luck, the shops haven't closed yet. Maybe we can find something more regional. Until then, we'll make do."
Ino caught the bundle midair, her brow raised as she unfolded the hoodie. "You expect me to wear this?" she asked, her tone caught somewhere between disbelief and annoyance. "You do realize I'm a kunoichi, not some civilian skulking around in rags, right?"
"You're a kunoichi," Guldrin replied, his tone even, "which is exactly why you need to not look like one. If someone spots you moving with that perfect Konoha-trained posture, or sees the obvious ninja gear, they'll know something's off immediately. No illusions or chakra-based techniques to circumvent the issue. You need to look like a local, breathe like a local, and act like you belong; that way, you're invisible. That's what we need right now. I swear, this should be ninja 101…"
Ino pursed her lips, clearly not liking the logic, but unable to argue against it. "We might be ninjas, but we also get our choice of outfits, minus the headbands… Well, Root didn't, but at least we had a uniform…" She mumbled but began dressing anyway, "Fine. But after this, I'm picking out my own disguises. I thought when I escaped Root, I would be allowed to dress how I wanted…"
Shiro, sitting quietly nearby, smirked faintly as she slipped her arms into her own hoodie. The black fabric hung loose on her smaller frame, the sleeves slightly oversized, just as she prefers. "You'll survive, Ino. It's not like the clothes are cursed or dirty. You might even enjoy the texture… Besides," she added with a faint glint of amusement in her eyes, "it's kind of funny seeing you pout over fashion as a kunoichi."
"I'm not pouting," Ino shot back, glaring at her before pulling the hoodie over her head anyway.
Guldrin didn't waste any more words on the matter; he would ensure later that her concept of Ninja, or assassins for that matter, experiences a full overhaul. He dressed quickly, pulling the sweatpants on, adjusting the tattered cloak over his shoulders, and pulling down the hood until his face was half-hidden in shadow. He shifted his weight, testing the feel of the clothing. Loose enough for movement, not restrictive, but not flashy. This would do.
By the time he looked up, Shiro was already finished and waiting, her hood pulled low over her iridescent-purple-highlighted hair. She moved with her usual quiet confidence, her eyes sharp and observant as she waited. Ino, meanwhile, was still tugging at the sleeves of her hoodie like it had personally offended her.
"You'll get used to it, princess," Guldrin said, the faintest hint of amusement slipping into his tone.
She muttered something under her breath that he didn't bother asking her to repeat.
Satisfied, Guldrin checked the gear strapped beneath his cloak. His fishing knife v.3, throwing knives hidden in the folds, one of many things Root training had drilled him on, ensuring he had tools for every perceivable job. Shiro had her own gear concealed, and Ino was more than capable of making use of her own arsenal once needed.
"Alright," Guldrin said, pulling the cloak tighter around his shoulders. The fabric hung heavy, masking most of his frame in shadow. "We move casually, stay together, and don't draw attention. Keep your eyes open for anything unusual, especially movement near the docks. If the information Ino pulled earlier is right, there's a shipment expected soon. We need to find out what's moving through here, who it's going to, and how heavily it's guarded. If we can intercept without drawing suspicion, all the better."
Shiro gave a short nod, the faint reflection of lamplight catching in her eyes. She adjusted the hood over her hair, her tone flat. "And if we can't intercept quietly?"
"Then we adapt," Guldrin answered without hesitation. His grin returned, thin but still there, more predator than joker. "But remember, this is reconnaissance first. We're not here to start a war in the streets. Not yet, at least."
Ino crossed her arms under her cloak, her posture stiff. The black hoodie she wore underneath still bothered her, a kunoichi trained to move with precision forced into a baggy disguise that clung to her in all the wrong ways. She gave a small huff, repeating his words with a touch of sarcasm. "Not yet."
"Let me make it clear," Guldrin said, turning to them both with a steady look. "If my life isn't in danger, don't intervene. No heroics, no sudden moves. I may do things you find dumb or unneeded, maybe even dangerous, just trust I have reasons."
Shiro's expression didn't change, but her eyes narrowed. Ino tilted her head, clearly dissatisfied. Both of them had seen Guldrin's regenerative ability in action before. His durability gave him an edge, but hearing him treat his own safety as secondary didn't sit well with them. After a beat of silence, neither argued. They would watch, they would wait, but when the time came, they'd act as they saw fit.
The three of them moved toward the door. Schnee, still at the table with Tsunade, lifted her cup in a casual salute. Her faint smirk was one part encouragement, one part amusement. "Try not to burn down the village while you're out, young master. This is my off-time, and I won't be cleaning up your messes."
"No promises," Guldrin replied dryly, reaching for the handle. "But I do know how to clean up after myself." He pulled the door open and stepped into the Inn's hall.
The hallway creaked under their shoes, the faint smell of stale ale or sake and burnt wood lingering in the air of the old inn. The common room behind them was still filled with murmurs, clinking glasses, and the occasional bark of laughter, but out here the noise was muffled. Ahead, a single lantern cast a weak glow toward the front exit, right past the reception desk.
The night air hit them as soon as they stepped outside. It was cool, damp, and carried the scent of sea salt mixed with smoke from scattered chimneys. The streets were still alive, but not with the kind of energy one found in a thriving, honest settlement. This village carried the weight of desperation, even if it tried to appear otherwise.
Dim lanterns swung on posts, their light cutting through the shadows. Narrow alleys broke off between buildings, but as you walked deeper, you saw a completely different picture.
Leaning buildings, most of them built with rotting wood patched together by whatever scrap their owners had on hand. The sound of shouting carried faintly from somewhere deeper in the district, followed by laughter that clearly wasn't friendly.
Their first stop was a clothing stall or shop, something that could give them proper disguises that would hold up under closer inspection. Cloaks and hoods might work, but standing out is inadvisable.
The group kept a casual pace. Too fast and they'd draw attention. Too slow, and they'd look like they were scouting and also draw attention. They threaded the line, walking like people who had no better place to be but still knew where they were going.
Ino scanned the streets carefully. Even under her hood, her sharp senses picked up details the average passerby would ignore; some things are habit at this point. A drunk collapsed against a wall, but the bulge under his ragged coat wasn't from drinking or bad life choices; it was the shape of a knife. A group of men arguing at a corner, their voices low and heated, one of them carrying a satchel that clinked faintly with metal… Likely something illegal… A woman pulling a child by the arm too roughly, her eyes darting toward every shadow as if expecting someone to appear.
"This place is worse than I thought," Ino muttered under her breath.
"It's rotting from the inside," Guldrin agreed quietly. "And rot attracts vermin." He didn't say more; it wasn't needed.
Shiro stayed silent, her gaze flicking to the rooftops more often than the street. She didn't like how many shadows there were above them, nor how easy it would be for someone to tail them unnoticed.
It didn't take long to find what they were looking for. A small market was still active despite the late hour, its stalls lit by oil lamps. Most of the merchants looked tired, worn down by the day, but unwilling to close when a few more coins could be earned.
One stall in particular caught Guldrin's eye, rows of cloaks, shirts, trousers, shoes, and sandals, clearly second-hand but serviceable. Perfect for blending in.
They approached casually. The vendor, a wiry old man with a half-bald head and hands blackened with dirt, looked up with suspicion at first. His eyes flicked to Guldrin, then to Shiro, then narrowed slightly at Ino. Three cloaked strangers at night weren't exactly trustworthy customers.
"You buying or wasting my time?" the old man rasped.
"Buying," Guldrin said simply, pulling a sack of coins from his pocket and letting them clink on the edge of the stall. He kept his tone casual but firm; he intended to discourage any haggling. "I need eight outfits, two children, and the rest adults, seven female and one male."
The man's eyes darted to the coins, then back up to Guldrin. His gaze lingered for a long moment, as though weighing whether these three strangers were trouble worth refusing. Finally, with a grunt, he snatched the sack of coins off the counter and stuffed them into a slightly bigger pouch at his waist. His hands were as blackened as charred wood, years of grime ground into skin that no amount of scrubbing would ever clean.
He jabbed a finger toward the racks of worn-out clothing stacked unevenly behind him. "Pick what fits," he rasped. His voice sounded like gravel. "No returns. Don't argue about size. If I ain't got it, or you don't see it, then I don't have it. That's how it is."
Shiro smirked faintly at his tone, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. She didn't bother to say anything, though; she knew better than to banter with shopkeepers in places like this. Guldrin, too, didn't bother replying. He understood the man's kind, the sort who'd seen far too many hustlers, thieves, and desperate families trying to talk him into lowering prices. The coins were already gone from the counter; the vendor had no incentive left to care.
The group sifted through the racks quickly but carefully. They weren't here to make a fashion statement, but they couldn't afford to look like outsiders either. Every stitch of fabric mattered. Guldrin pulled out a plain set of dark trousers, the kind dockworkers wore when they wanted something that wouldn't snag or tear easily. He paired it with a simple cloth shirt, rough and uncomfortable, but nondescript, and a heavy, thick coat that hung down past his thighs. It smelled faintly of fish and salt, but it would help him pass as just another face among dock laborers.
Ino's frown deepened as she dug through her options. She eventually settled on a faded green kimono with patched sleeves, something clearly worn down over the years of use. A dull shawl completed the look, giving her a layer she could pull around her shoulders to add a bit more concealment. It wasn't flattering, and her face betrayed her disdain, but she didn't argue. Function came first.
Shiro chose a dark blue set of workers' clothes, simple trousers tied at the waist, and a short jacket that looked sturdy enough. Practical, unremarkable, exactly what she needed. A scarf hung from the rack nearby, and she snagged it, winding it around her neck with the knowledge that it could cover her face in a heartbeat if things went sideways.
They didn't stop there. Guldrin insisted on picking up a few more outfits, sizes that would fit the others, back at the inn. Tsunade, Shizune, Schnee, and even the rescued kids. None of it was flashy; all of it was second-hand, patched, and plain. But to those like the kids who had come from having almost nothing, even these threadbare clothes would feel like treasure.
When they stepped out of the shop again, the difference was immediate. Light cloaks over their new outfits gave them extra layers to work with, but to anyone watching, they looked nothing more than cloaked, tired villagers returning from a long day's work. The suspicion that might have followed them earlier melted away.
With disguises secured, they headed down toward the docks. The streets narrowed with every turn, buildings leaning closer together, their wooden walls bowed and warping inward from years of neglect and moisture.
The further they descended, the stronger the smell of saltwater became. It mingled with fish guts, oil, and smoke, filling their noses and clinging to their clothes. The faint creak of moored ships and the rhythmic splash of waves against wooden pilings reached their ears before the water itself came into view.
The docks stretched out as far as the eye could see into the black water. Lanterns swayed gently on tall posts, casting rippling circles of light across the damp planks. Ships rocked lazily at anchor, their sails furled, rigging groaning with the shifting tide. Men moved about in practiced rhythm, hauling crates, tightening ropes, shouting to one another over the groan of wood and the slap of water.
They weren't soldiers; anyone could see that. The guards, if you could even call them that, were thugs in patched coats and dirty boots, leaning against crates with their arms crossed, clubs or blades dangling at their sides. Their eyes never stopped scanning, though. They weren't disciplined, but they were suspicious by nature, the sort that had survived too long in this rotten village by being paranoid of everything.
"There," Ino whispered under her breath, her sharp eyes cutting toward the largest of the ships. It appeared to be a metal and wood combination for stability, obviously an expensive ship.
Her gaze landed on a cluster of men near the ramp. One figure barked orders while the rest carried around thirty sealed crates down in pairs. The boxes were heavy, judging from the way the workers' shoulders hunched and knees bent, and they bore faint symbols burned into their sides.
Guldrin followed her gaze, narrowing his eyes. "You're sure?"
"Yes." Ino didn't hesitate. "That's the symbol he remembered. The one their enforcers were told to look for. No mistaking it."
"Alright," Guldrin said, his voice low. "Then those crates are the shipment. Heavy as hell, too, going by the way they're bending their backs unloading them."
They pulled off to the side, blending into the shadows behind a stack of barrels, watching the movement with sharp, calculating eyes.
"Heavily guarded," Shiro noted after a moment. Her voice was steady, but her eyes never stopped moving. "Three sentries are stationed across the perimeter. Four regular muscle moving around. An unknown number inside the ship. If those crates are what we're looking for, then the cargo's important enough to warrant more protection than we can see." She shifted slightly, already starting to piece together a plan in her head, angles of approach, guard rotations, blind spots.
Only when she turned back did she realize Guldrin wasn't at her side anymore. Her heart skipped.
"Oh god…" she muttered, eyes darting to the left.
Ino followed her gaze, exhaling sharply through her nose. "What is he doing?"
"Probably something we wouldn't approve of."
"Definitely."
Their fears were confirmed as they spotted him already halfway across the dock, weaving through the workers like a drunkard who had lost his way home. Somewhere along the way, he'd acquired a half-empty bottle, holding it lazily as if he'd been drinking from it all night. His steps were exaggerated, off-balance, perfectly mimicking the sway of a man far too deep into the bottle to know where he was going while whistling and humming a drunken tune.
Shiro's teeth clenched. "He isn't…"
Ino groaned. "Yeah, he is."
They could only watch as Guldrin staggered closer and closer to the line of workers unloading the crates. Just as one man carried a particularly heavy box down the ramp, Guldrin stumbled sideways in perfect timing, crashing directly into him and falling on the ground, causing the crate to slip from the man's hands.
Wood hit the dock with a hollow crack.
*Ting. Clang. Clang.*
The contents spilled across the boards, thirty-odd metal plates sliding and ringing as they scattered across the planks. This, of course, drew the attention of every guard and worker nearby.
Guldrin slurred out a garbled apology, his words coming out in the perfect drunkard's voice. Nobody noticed the subtle flick of his hand, the way he brushed it across one of the plates as though steadying himself, but in actuality, slipping it instantly into his inventory.
The worker he had collided with cursed loudly, rage spilling out as quickly as the cargo had. "You fucking drunk! Arrgghhh, what the fuck! Do you know what you've just done?!" He shoved Guldrin back, his boot raised in retaliatory anger.
'They have boots here? I thought the ninja world wore sandals… Well, maybe that is just for the ninja population?' He couldn't help but wonder as he watched the man lashing out, intending to kick him in the ribs.
"I'm- sorry- sir- I…" Guldrin stammered, his voice slurring further as he collapsed onto his knees.
Then he gagged and put his hand to his mouth, concealing a small potion, which he quickly consumed and stored the empty bottle.
*Blegghhh.*
Vomit splattered across the planks, the stench, much worse than it should be, hitting immediately. Workers recoiled, cursing in disgust. The man he'd slammed into snarled and kicked him harder, boot connecting with Guldrin's side again and again as he shouted about slum rats, drunks, and cursed luck. It was pretty brutal, but no one stepped in, probably thinking the foolish drunk deserved it.
The commotion drew the attention of a nearby guard. Heavy boots thudded against the dock as he approached. His eyes swept over the mess, the spilled cargo, the drunk on the ground, the furious worker. He asked what the hold-up was in a voice that carried authority.
When his eyes landed on Guldrin, his lip curled into a sneer. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and drove his boot into Guldrin's chest as he was trying to stand up. The impact sent him flying around ten feet across the planks, skidding to a stop with a pained grunt.
"Get the fuck out of here," the guard barked. His voice cut through the noise like a whip. "If you don't want to die, crawl back to whatever gutter you came from!"
Then he turned his glare onto the worker. "You. Clean this shit up. Get the rest of the crates moving now. I don't care how long it takes; you drop another one, and it's your head. Spare boxes are over there." He gestured toward a few spare crates in a stack.
The worker's face twisted, but he bowed his head and scrambled to start picking up the plates, muttering curses under his breath.
Guldrin lay sprawled against the boards for a moment, groaning like a man half-conscious. From the shadows, Shiro and Ino both had the same thought: this wasn't over.
Crawling away on his elbows and knees under the jeers and mocking laughter of dockhands and thugs, Guldrin dragged himself across the damp wooden planks until the shadows finally swallowed him. He slipped around the corner of a shed-like structure that leaned precariously against the dock pilings, its boards warped from salt and weather. The stench of rotting fish and stagnant seawater clung to the place, but it offered cover, and more importantly, privacy.
Only then did he allow himself to sit up properly, wiping the grime and vomit from his chin with the back of his sleeve. His ribs ached from the kicks, though most of it had been acting; he'd taken far worse before. With a grunt, he pulled the stolen plate from his cloak, its dark metallic sheen catching faint streaks of lantern light from the docks beyond.
A moment later, Shiro and Ino emerged from the shadows, both slipping in silently, though their faces told different stories. Shiro looked like she was on the verge of scolding him into the grave, while Ino's expression was a mix of irritation and disbelief.
"That," Shiro began, her voice low but carrying the sharp edge of disapproval, "was reckless and utterly unnecessary."
Ino folded her arms, lips pressing thin, and gave a curt nod. "For once, I agree."
Guldrin only grinned through the ache in his ribs, holding up the oddly heavy, for its size, dark metal plate like a prize. "Worked though, didn't it? Tell me it wasn't worth it."
Before Shiro could answer, he tossed the plate underhand toward Ino. "Here. Take a look. Anything familiar?"
She caught it with a frown, turning it over in her hands. It was dense and heavy, the surface was dark and smooth, not ordinary metal, and faint glitters shimmered under the lantern light. As she studied it, her eyes sharpened, then widened slightly. Her breath caught, and she looked up at him, the seriousness in her gaze wiping the grin from his face.
"This…" she began, her voice low, "This is chakra-conductive metal. The same material the Mist used to forge the Mist's Seven Swords."
To prove her point, she placed her hand over the plate and funneled a small amount of water-nature chakra into it. The surface glowed a faint blue, humming faintly before settling back into dull dark metal once more.
Shiro's eyes narrowed in realization. Guldrin leaned forward, intrigued. "So… rare, important, and probably expensive as hell?"
Ino gave a humorless laugh. "More like priceless. Extremely rare. Nearly impossible to get your hands on unless you've got state-level connections or an underground empire at your back, or applied for it via Kage approval. If all those crates are filled with this…" She trailed off, glancing back toward the dock, where the workers were still moving cargo. "If that entire shipment is what I think it is, then it's worth more than a decade of wages for this whole village combined."
Guldrin whistled low. "That much?"
"Easily," Ino confirmed. "And whoever's responsible for moving it… If they lose it, they're finished. Danzo's the kind who doesn't forgive failure. If he's the one orchestrating this, then the overseer and Wolf are living on borrowed time. Root will descend on him like wolves the moment it's gone."
Shiro's mind was already turning gears. "So. We steal it. The overseer and Wolf get executed regardless of whether the boss wanted them dead. The Boss loses money, loses favor with Danzo, and in his desperation, he'll scramble. Root won't let it slide. If we keep our eyes on the boss, he'll lead us straight back to their nest in this village."
Guldrin pointed at her with a crooked smile. "Exactly what I was thinking. You two are finally starting to see the fun side of my plans." He tapped the side of the plate with his finger. "A little pain, and now we get the chance to burn down their whole operation. Tell me that's not worth a few bruises. Which are mostly healed by now…"
Shiro crossed her arms but said nothing, her silence speaking volumes.
"As for how we actually get our hands on this haul," Guldrin said at last, tapping the edge of the stolen plate against his knee, "Ino, you're our key. You think you can slip into the overseer's head, use him to steer the delivery somewhere quiet, somewhere we can handle them without drawing a crowd?"
Ino didn't answer right away. Her brows drew together, her lips pursed in thought as she weighed the risks. She finally nodded, "Yes. I'll need to wait until they're already set to move the shipment. When his mind is focused on giving orders, he'll be easier to hijack. If I take control then, I can lead him away from the main street, make him walk the carts into a side alley or a dead zone."
She hesitated, then added with chilling calm, "But to make it convincing, I'd have to finish him. If I don't, the second my control breaks, he'll remember something was wrong. Someone will notice he went stiff, or wonder why he collapsed without reason. If I make him die during the possession, it looks like he died in the ambush. Cleaner that way."
Guldrin tilted his head. "Cleaner, maybe. How he dies really doesn't hold much impact when we steal the whole shipment… But doesn't that… hurt? Ya know, killing yourself inside someone else, then snapping back to your own body?"
Ino turned her head sharply, fixing him with a flat, unamused stare, "I don't want to hear that question coming from you."
Guldrin blinked, then smirked in spite of himself. "Okay, fair."
Still, she answered, her voice lowering, almost mechanical. "It used to hurt. At first, it was agony. But Danzo considered that weakness. He didn't tolerate weakness. He forced me to experience it again and again until I stopped reacting. Until pain wasn't pain anymore. Eight years of Root conditioning. I don't have the luxury of flinching at things like that."
The air hung heavy for a moment. Even Shiro shifted slightly, her expression flickering with something between discomfort and anger. Guldrin rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.
"Oof," he muttered. "Didn't mean to drag that out. My bad. Look, he'll get what's coming. That's a promise. After what he did to all of us, his days are numbered already."
Ino gave no reply, though her eyes softened briefly before she forced the metaphoric mask back into place.
The subject was dropped there. No point dwelling on it when there was work to do.
They turned their eyes back to the docks. Workers were bent over, straining their backs as they lifted crate after crate, the overseer barking at them to hurry. Sweat shone on their brows, shirts clung to their skin, and the occasional curse slipped through clenched teeth. Piece by piece, the shipment was stacked onto multiple heavy carts reinforced with iron bands. The mules strapped to it stamped their hooves impatiently, their breaths steaming in the cool night air.
Guldrin crouched low behind the shed, peering out just enough to watch. "Looks like they're just about done. Get ready. We will take your body with us when we move."
Ino adjusted her cloak around her shoulders, steadying her breathing. Her fingers moved in practiced precision, forming the seals she knew as well as her own heartbeat. She closed her eyes, exhaled slowly as she muttered "Ninja Art: Mind Transfer Jutsu," and then her body went still, slumping gently against the shed wall.
Guldrin sighed and muttered, "Speaking your technique name… So not ninja-like…" Inside his mind, he heard Emily's bell-like giggling at Guldrin's frustration.
Back to Ino, her consciousness shot outward like a spear, bridging the distance in an instant. The overseer stiffened slightly, his stride faltering mid-step. No one noticed as he coughed to cover the slight hesitation, and then his movements smoothed out again, his voice carrying the same authority as if nothing had changed.
From within, Ino's words now carried through his throat and his tone. "Change of route. This path is exposed. Too many eyes."
The dockhands blinked at him, confused. One of them frowned. "Boss, we've always used the main street. It's faster."
The overseer snapped at him, Ino twisting his words with sharp command. "Faster means easier for thieves to notice," she snapped, turning the overseer's tone into something clipped and authoritative. "We're not here to make your life easy. We have reason to suspect foul play, and rushing will only draw attention. We cut through the side alley, where it's quiet and controlled. Or," she leaned the overseer forward, glaring at the nearest worker who spoke, "Do you want to explain to Wolf or the boss why his shipment doesn't make it?"
The argument ended right there. The grumbling, the muttered complaints about long shifts and aching backs, all of it died in an instant. Men glanced at one another uneasily, as if debating whether arguing was worth it. It wasn't. None of them wanted to die.
A couple of them visibly swallowed their protests, shoulders stiffening, before they went back to the carts. No one wanted to be the one responsible for angering the boss, or whatever shadow hung behind the boss, the kind that could erase entire families with a whisper, as they had heard in the past.
The carts creaked forward again, wooden wheels straining against uneven stones. The mules pulling the lead cart twitched their ears nervously, as if they too sensed that something was wrong; animals are smarter than people give them credit for. They snorted and tossed their heads, hooves clattering against the cobblestones as the overseer, under Ino's careful manipulation, led them into the narrow cut between two rows of warehouses.
It was a choke point, and Guldrin knew it the moment he climbed the room and stepped into its shadow.
The main street had been wide enough for the salty night breeze to drift in from the harbor, carrying with it the sounds of waves slapping against the docks, drunken sailors shouting at taverns, and the occasional crash of barrels being rolled.
Here, though, the world shrank. The warehouses leaned together like crooked teeth, blotting out most of the lantern light from the streets. The buildings smelled of mold, of fish left too long in the sun, of stagnant water seeping in from somewhere unseen.
Even the ocean seemed far away now, the roar of waves muffled into a faint, ominous hush.
Perfect, Guldrin thought.
"This is good," he whispered, his voice so low it was almost lost under the mule's hooves. He adjusted his grip on Ino's limp body, cradling her as though she were a heavy but fragile object. Her body was warm but utterly lifeless, head tilted against his shoulder like a doll. "Tight space. Few witnesses. They won't know what hit them."
Shiro's eyes flicked toward him, her iridescent hair shifting as she turned her head just enough to speak. "One of us has to stay with Ino's body," she murmured. "We can't risk someone using our inattention as a chance to attack her."
"Rock, paper, scissors?" Guldrin suggested without hesitation.
Shiro blinked at him. Even now, on the cusp of bloodshed, he wore that damned grin.
"You're serious?" she asked.
"Dead serious."
They crouched in the shadows. Ino's body lay carefully against the wall behind Guldrin. The sound of the cartwheels scraping over cobblestone filled the tense air. Guldrin raised his hand. Shiro mirrored him.
"Rock," he whispered.
"Paper," she said.
"Scissors."
Guldrin's fist stayed closed. Shiro's hand opened flat. He groaned under his breath.
"Damn it."
Shiro's mouth twitched into the barest hint of a smile. "I win."
"Of course you do… It was a game… What did I expect to happen…? Fine," Guldrin muttered, settling himself next to Ino like a guard dog. "Go have your fun. Just don't leave me out for too long. I'll get jealous."
Shiro didn't reply. She was already moving.
Her fingers worked swiftly, precise movements that left nearly invisible strands of mana stretched across the alley. The threads shimmered faintly for an instant before melting into the gloom, as if they'd never been there at all. Some of them stretched tight at neck height, carefully angled across the path the workers would take. Others were layered near knee and waist level, traps meant to shear through limbs when panic drove men into wild, desperate motion.
It was a web of death, meticulously spun in silence.
She even placed strands along the far wall of the alley, just beyond the line of the carts. When the inevitable panic hit, men would scatter that way, seeking space, only to run headlong into the threads that would slice through them like knives.
She paused once, fingers hovering over another strand, then tightened her jaw and strung it anyway. Better too many than too few.
From his crouched position, Guldrin watched her with a kind of quiet awe. Shiro's face was calm, eyes narrowed in razor-sharp focus. To anyone else, she might have looked cold, detached. But Guldrin saw it for what it was: efficiency. Precision honed by experience, sharpened by survival.
"Three," Shiro whispered, her voice barely audible. She positioned herself behind a stack of crates on the roof, just ahead of the workers, waiting.
The mule snorted, stamping a hoof. The wheels of the cart squealed under the strain.
"Two." Her hands flexed, ready.
The overseer marched at the head of the group, Ino's mind and thoughts guiding his steps. His eyes were too focused, too controlled, but none of the men noticed. They trudged after him, tired and unaware.
"One."
The first man at the lead stumbled, his throat catching on a thread strung at neck height. His head slid cleanly from his shoulders, tumbling to the ground before his body even realized it was dead. Blood sprayed in a hot arc, spattering the cobblestones.
The next worker behind him jerked in horror, stepping sideways, directly into another strand. His arm was then severed at the elbow, dangling uselessly as he screamed.
Panic erupted like wildfire.
"Ambush!" someone shouted.
Men pushed forward, carts rocking dangerously. A mule brayed, wild-eyed, trying to pull free from its harness as the air filled with shouts and the metallic tang of blood.
The overseer, Ino, still in control, reacted instantly. She pulled the blade at his hip, turned it on herself, and drove it straight through his chest. The body collapsed with a wet thud as she cancelled her technique.
At the same instant, Ino's true body, propped against the wall beside Guldrin, gasped violently. Her chest rose as though she had been drowning and only now broken the surface. She shuddered once, breath rattling, then steadied. Her eyes snapped open.
"Welcome back," Guldrin muttered, not taking his eyes off the chaos erupting in front of them. "I am not sure Shiro even needs our help…" He scoffed as he gestured with his head,
The alley had become a slaughterhouse. Shiro's threads cut silently, slicing through flesh and fabric alike. One man turned to flee, slamming straight into a strand that took his leg clean off at the thigh. Another ducked low, only to catch a thread across his face, bisecting it in an instant.
The last of the workers and hired muscle broke completely, panic turning them into prey. Trapped between the carts, the mules, and the heaps of their dying comrades, they bolted blindly, running straight into Shiro's invisible threads. Every direction led to the same end, limbs sheared off, bodies collapsing in broken piles.
Thanks to Guldrin's foresight, the silencing seals he placed around the area held strong. No screams or frantic shouts carried beyond the alley; outside, the docks were calm, unaware of the massacre unraveling in their shadow.
By the time the last body hit the ground, the outcome was sealed. Tonight, too many men had died for nothing, and the Bamboo Village's boss had lost more than money. Reputation, trust, control, it all slipped through his fingers with this shipment. And when his people came to investigate, they wouldn't find culprits, only another blood-soaked alley littered with corpses, empty crates, and a single metal emblem which would haunt them till the end: the all-seeing eye.
(Give me your POWER, Please, and Thank You! Leave reviews and comments, they motivate me to continue.)