Time stretched out like molten glass, dripping slowly under the crushing weight of waiting.
Yet Ishiki Kujo only grew colder, sharper, a blade forged in patience. Behind him, the phantom of Moody Blues shimmered into view — then melted away into nothingness.
As hours dragged on, Ishiki's Byakugan caught a strange pattern: a squad of Kumogakure shinobi repeatedly patrolling the same patch of forest, not far from his hidden perch. They passed once, twice, thrice — each time more agitated.
One member, stubborn as a pit viper, fixated on a specific spot. He scoured it obsessively but came away empty-handed. After the third fruitless search, even the team captain grew visibly irritable, barking sharp words, but the insistent shinobi refused to back down.
If only Ishiki could lip-read, he could have deciphered their silent, tense conversations through the Byakugan's gaze.
Still, when that squad circled past a fourth time, Ishiki's curiosity sharpened to a razor's edge.
He'd measured it precisely — every half hour, a squad passed that area. If he timed it right, he could slip in during the gap, unleash Moody Blues, rewind time, and uncover whatever secret gnawed at their nerves.
But was it worth the risk?
Ishiki's gaze drifted toward the cabin where the butchered captive was hidden. If anything else on Kuroku Mountain merited such heavy security, it could only be intel — the kind the captured spy had tried to smuggle out.
His clone had already scanned the area carefully with the Byakugan — no anomalies detected.
Which only made Ishiki more certain: the treasure was buried deep, too well hidden for casual glances.
"Time to test it," Ishiki muttered.
The moment the latest patrol moved on, he dropped soundlessly from the tree and sprinted low to the ground, a shadow among the roots.
Reaching the suspect zone, he summoned Moody Blues.
The Stand immediately began its rapid rewind. The forest blurred around him, images jerking backward — squads pacing, birds flying in reverse, wind undoing itself.
Until —
A familiar silhouette shimmered into view, painted onto Moody Blues' body.
Ishiki froze the rewind. His eyes narrowed.
The shape Moody Blues had recreated — the body language, the size of the head and torso — matched perfectly with the limbless corpse strung up in the shack. Even more telling, the clone's earlier scans had spotted a sealing mark in that brain.
No mistake. It was the spy.
Excitement, sharp and electric, coursed through Ishiki's veins.
He signaled Moody Blues to resume playback at normal speed and began tailing his Stand through the memory.
The spy strode to a massive tree, then rapidly flashed through hand seals — the summoning technique's distinctive sequence. He pressed a palm to the earth, and although Ishiki's vision couldn't see the summoned creature, the subtle shifts in Moody Blues' clothing told him enough.
Tracks. Long, thin tracks.
A serpent had coiled its way up the man's body.
The spy, seemingly unbothered, carefully produced an object from his robes. As both the item and the snake vanished simultaneously, the man's mouth twisted into a satisfied smile.
"With this intel, Lord Orochimaru will surely claim victory," the man whispered.
"But I must also leave something behind for Kumogakure... and fulfill Lord Danzō's orders. Pity about the eyes — and these few treasures I must part with."
Eyes.
Ishiki's gut clenched like a noose.
Those eyes — surely it meant Uchiha Shisui's Sharingan.
Tamping down the sudden rush of adrenaline, Ishiki watched as the spy dug a shallow hole under the massive tree, buried something carefully, and patted the soil smooth.
Moody Blues' playback ended.
Ishiki stepped forward and unearthed the hidden object: a scroll.
He didn't unfurl it immediately. No time. Danger thickened the air like black fog.
Without delay, he recalled Moody Blues, tucked the scroll into his vest, and ghosted back to his previous hidden perch.
Settling among the branches, Ishiki's mind raced.
Orochimaru's involvement was clear — the snake familiar, the whispered loyalties.
But Danzō?
The revelation twisted like a poisoned dagger in Ishiki's chest.
Danzō was plotting against Shisui.
A black operation to eliminate the Uchiha prodigy.
And if Danzō had shared this plan with the spy —
There was no way the spy's head would be allowed to fall into enemy hands.
Once Konoha's Analysis Unit dissected the spy's brain, Danzō's betrayal would surface.
Which meant:
The mission was a lie.
They weren't rescuing the spy. They were burying evidence.
Ishiki's skin crawled. A primal warning in his blood.
Even worse, the real intel — the true treasures — had already been transmitted to Orochimaru via the summoned snake. The mutilated corpse left behind was just a smokescreen.
And the mission orders? Still unchanged.
Meaning Orochimaru must have known Danzō's plan and decided — for reasons of his own — to let it play out.
A web of vipers.
A battlefield of shadows.
Tightening his grip, Ishiki unfurled the stolen scroll at last, eyes narrowing as he read:
Ninjutsu: Heavenly Transfer Technique.
He felt the world tilt.
The Heavenly Transfer Technique — Tensō no Jutsu — wasn't some combat trick. It was a strategic-level forbidden jutsu, capable of instantaneously transporting any object to any location at the speed of light, unaffected by obstacles, unaffected by distance.
A treasure of Kumogakure.
A jutsu that explained why the Land of Lightning's armies clashed evenly against Konoha's might.
No wonder Kumogakure locked down the entire mountain.
No wonder their elite forces prowled like rabid wolves.
If the battlefield hadn't needed Raikage's personal presence, Ishiki was certain the man himself would have descended upon Kuroku.
And the spy had more than just this scroll.
What else had been stolen?
The thought hammered Ishiki's heart like a war drum.
But he crushed the rising excitement ruthlessly.
Dreams of glory were deathtraps.
Raikage might be absent —
But Kumogakure's elite squads were undoubtedly inbound.
Ishiki shoved the scroll deep into his gear pouch, mind racing ahead.
The noose was tightening.
He had to move.
And he had to move fast.