So, without slowing our pace and keeping our formation, we moved forward.
Yes, this is a great chance to get more used to the weight, I thought, dragging my feet weighted with ankle braces. Each step was heavy, but that was the whole point. I wasn't going to take them off—if I could move freely under this load, I'd be twice as fast without it.
While the caravan marched steadily on, I decided not to waste time. The brain quickly adapts to the monotony of the road, but hands—not so much.
I started practicing hand seals on the move.
First slowly, focusing on precision—to make sure my fingers moved flawlessly.
Then I sped up, trying to reach a level of automation. I alternated each repetition: first the basic sequences—Serpent, Boar, Tiger—then more complex ones, like Monkey – Horse – Dog – Dragon – Rat.
Every now and then, I noticed Genma glancing over his shoulder—apparently curious about what I was doing. But I didn't let myself get distracted.
Forming seals while walking was harder than it seemed. My hands slipped sometimes, especially on sharp turns or when avoiding roots. But that only made it more exciting.
I mentally pictured the activation of jutsu, but didn't release any chakra—just guided it slightly to simulate the flow and feel it internally. It was control without consumption—a useful discipline.
The sun was slowly dipping toward the horizon, bathing the road in soft orange light. The air grew fresher, the tree shadows longer and deeper.
The caravan stopped at a small clearing not far from the road: a convenient place for camp—with a dense wall of trees on one side and a spring just ten steps away on the other.
The horses snorted tiredly, the wagons began to form a semicircle, creating a defensive perimeter.
The merchant and his people got used to their routine—unpacking a modest travel dinner. We helped light the fire, checked the gear, and scanned the area for possible threats.
I sat a bit apart from the fire, on a flat rock, and closed my eyes.
The flames crackled, lighting up the faces and casting flickering shadows on the trees. Sensei waited until everyone had gathered around, then said:
— Genma and I take first watch. Gai and Kotetsu will cover the rest of the night until dawn.
— Understood, — the three of us replied in near unison.
Genma gave a slight nod, twirling a senbon between his fingers. Gai just shrugged, still chewing his rice. I nodded silently in agreement.
The caravan began to quiet down. Silence settled over the camp—only the crackle of the fire, chirping crickets in the grass, and the occasional rustle of leaves.
I crawled into my sleeping bag, trying to get at least a little rest...
At two in the morning, Genma quietly woke us.
I got up, stretched, and immediately felt the weight of the ankle braces—at least I was getting used to them.
Despite the dark night and the long day's march, I wasn't sleepy. I used one of the techniques we were taught at the academy: circulating chakra through my body, from limb to limb. It helped with staying alert and slightly improved chakra control—even if the effect was minor and not very helpful right now.
Gai stood with his hands behind his back, staring toward the trees. He was surprisingly silent—apparently focused, too.
From time to time, we walked around the camp, checking the perimeter. Occasionally, we exchanged short remarks:
— All quiet, — he'd say with a slight frown, as if hoping for something to happen.
— So far. Let's hope it stays that way until morning, — I'd reply, scanning the darkness between the trees.
Fortunately, our shift passed uneventfully. We spent the night by the fire, rotating positions, our eyes fixed on the shadows. Only the crackling wood and the faint sounds of the forest accompanied our watch.
That's how the days passed. We marched, rested, trained, stood watch.
Everything was calm—until one morning.
On the seventh day of travel, as the morning sun began to filter through the dense tree canopy, bathing the forest in a soft golden light, we followed our usual path—tired, but coordinated.
Everything seemed to be going according to plan—until it wasn't.
A group of armed men suddenly blocked the road ahead. They stepped confidently onto the path, taking up the entire width.
Four in front—rough faces, battered armor, sharpened swords and spears. Behind them—a dozen men with bows, and another dozen with axes and clubs.
The wagons stopped. The horses began to snort nervously.
Chōza-sensei calmly stepped forward, his hands visible. His voice was steady, almost lazy:
— Why are you blocking the road?
From the group stepped a man who stood out—dressed slightly better, in solid chainmail, with a neatly trimmed beard and a smug grin. He leaned on a spear, eyeing us with thinly veiled hostility.
— Fifty percent of the cargo—and you pass without trouble, — he declared, like naming a toll.
I felt my muscles tense.
Another man approached the leader—a thin one, with sly eyes. He whispered something quickly into his ear. The leader frowned, looked us over, his gaze lingering on the Leaf headbands, and after a pause, he shouted:
— Fine! Since you're shinobi from Konoha—just twenty percent! A generous offer!
His tone oozed arrogance and condescension. He clearly believed that their numbers would be enough—even against more than just ordinary guards.
Sensei remained silent. His face unreadable.
Then, without warning, his hands began to form seals rapidly. He pressed his palms to the ground:
— Earth Style: Swamp! — he announced loudly.
The soil beneath the bandits began to tremble.
A moment later, it softened, turning into thick, viscous sludge—as if a swamp had burst from underground.
Men began to sink waist-deep, some screamed, struggling to escape, but it was too late—they were stuck, helpless like flies in amber.
But the relief was short-lived.
From the forest—left and right—came a sharp whistle. Then a cry.
From behind the trees, a second wave burst forth—an ambush group that had been hiding all along.
Over twenty people, armed with various weapons, clad in sturdier armor, faces twisted with malice.
They surged toward the caravan, skirting the swamp. These weren't ordinary bandits—there was training in their movements.
Sensei snapped around:
— Kotetsu, Gai, Genma—stay with the caravan and protect the client!
— Understood! — we answered in unison.
At the same time, the forest echoed again with whistles and a sharp yell.
The ambushers—coordinated and fast—emerged from the shadows.
More than two dozen fighters with swords, axes, spears. Some wore armor—filthy, but reinforced.
These were not typical bandits. Their movements showed discipline.
Among them, I instantly noticed a few who moved too fast, too precisely—clearly not mere thugs.
One of them started forming seals, preparing to use a Fire Technique—until sensei interrupted him with a swift counterattack.
A couple of genin, without a doubt. Probably defectors or outcasts, now using their skills among brigands.
But one of them stood out above the rest.
He weaved through trees and fighters with unnerving confidence. His movements were sharp, deliberate—like someone truly trained.
Not just a brawler—but a real shinobi.
As he drew closer, I clearly saw the headband on his forehead—its Mist symbol scratched out and dulled.
A former ninja.
Chūnin?