c152 – Konan and Sasori
After leaving Konoha, Uchiha Gen used the Flying Thunder God Technique to cross great distances, soon reaching the Land of Whirlpools. Yet, instead of reporting immediately to Konoha's camp, he decided to linger.
He had enjoyed himself during his return to Konoha; to balance it out, he wanted to indulge once again before resuming the battlefield grind.
Thus, he bypassed the current warfront where Konoha and Kirigakure clashed, heading instead to Uzushiogakure's rebuilt capital. Though the Uzumaki clan itself had been destroyed years ago by the combined assault of Kumo, Kiri, and Iwa, the surrounding trade city had revived as a bustling hub of commerce.
War did not dampen it rather, it thrived. Both Konoha and Kirigakure, needing nearby supplies, purchased goods in Uzumaki markets. Merchants sold weapons, food, and information at inflated prices, and the neutral city profited. Naturally, Konoha's and Kiri's supply agents clashed here, ambushes and sabotage hidden within the flow of trade.
The day was gloomy; thick clouds stretched across the skies of Uzumaki, no rain falling but cold winds sweeping the streets.
In disguise, Uchiha Gen spent most of the day in Uzumaki's bustling quarters, sampling restaurants, casinos, street stalls, and even less respectable establishments. He immersed himself until the afternoon bells tolled, planning finally to leave when he noticed shadows tailing him.
Gen smirked inwardly. The souls and lifespans of his pursuers were gifts too convenient to ignore. He adjusted his pace, slipping toward the city's outskirts.
He did not drag them into some deserted alley—doing so would invite suspicion. In the chaotic Land of Whirlpools, hunters and prey often reversed roles. It was common for the weak to pretend to be strong, or the strong to feign weakness.
Soon, on a barren patch beyond the gates, several rogue shinobi and mercenary warriors surrounded him.
"Hand over the money, brat," snarled the leader, a scarred man with a single eye, pointing his blade. "We're here to rob, not kill."
Gen considered. Had his lavish spending made him a target? In this land, wealth without strength was fatal.
With a poof of smoke, he dropped his disguise, revealing the Konoha forehead protector upon his brow.
"Konoha ninja…?!"
"Retreat!" shouted the one-eyed bandit.
It wasn't reverence for Konoha's name. The Land of Whirlpools now swarmed with Leaf shinobi; to kill one and leave tracks meant death. These rogues knew Konoha's Intelligence Division was relentless.
They tried to flee but Gen moved first. Prey that came to his door would not escape. Even a mosquito's leg was still meat, and enough small harvests built into abundance.
The Sharingan opened, its tomoe spinning into a triad. The one-eyed bandit froze, trapped in genjutsu before his shout finished. The others fell just as swiftly, minds caught in the red whirlpool of illusion.
Eyes truly were weapons of slaughter.
The cleanup was simple: drain their life force, erase their bodies, leave no trace. As for their claim to spare lives? Gen scoffed. No bandit spared wealthy marks out of kindness. To leave them alive was to invite retaliation.
Just as he prepared to use Flying Thunder God to leave, a thunderous explosion shook the forest nearby.
Another fight? Another chance to harvest?
Smiling faintly, Gen canceled his jutsu and headed toward the sound.
Through the trees, detonations echoed, blasts scorching bark and soil. From a branch perch, Gen peered into a clearing where two figures clashed.
A young man, striking with vivid red hair and pale features, commanded a puppet with precise hand motions. His robe was maroon, his eyes cold Sasori of the Red Sand.
Opposite him floated a woman with light lavender hair styled into a short bob, a paper flower ornament above her ear. Her golden eyes glimmered under light purple shadow. Sheets of paper fluttered from her outstretched arms, forming shuriken and spears. She wore a black cloak patterned with red clouds the mark of Akatsuki. It was Konan, Angel of Amegakure.
The battlefield bore their marks: shattered puppets scattered like corpses, patches of snow melted by fire, craters from detonations.
Sasori's hands blurred; a summoning scroll unfurled. With a burst of smoke, the puppet of the Third Kazekage appeared, its dark sand-iron aura radiating menace.
From the air, Konan's gaze flicked to the newcomer on the treetop. She halted her bombardment. Sasori, too, stilled, his sharp eyes following hers to Gen.
The sight of the Leaf forehead protector ignited shared hatred.
For Konan, the scars of Yahiko's death engineered by Danzō and Hanzo of Amegakure had long since burned away any warmth toward Konoha. Even Jiraiya's memory could not soften that.
For Sasori, the hatred was older, deeper: his parents had been slain by Sakumo Hatake, the White Fang of Konoha. Though Sakumo was later disgraced, that did nothing to ease Sasori's grief.
Their eyes met, then turned as one toward Uchiha Gen. Without words, they launched at him.
Gen thought wryly: his elders had warned him curiosity kills the cat. Luckily, he was no cat. He was a predator.
The Sharingan blazed as he leapt from the branch, Kusanagi drawn in a reverse grip. Midair, he slashed, chakra igniting.
Wind–Flame Sword!
Golden and white fire wove together into two nets one cast upward, the other downward.
Konan's eyes widened. A ninjutsu with no hand seals? She scattered into paper to evade, rising higher. Sasori thrust his chakra threads, commanding the Third Kazekage's sand-iron into a wall.
The fiery net struck. The iron wall cracked with a deafening boom, molten red dripping from fissures.
Konan retaliated instantly, releasing a storm of razor-sharp paper shuriken, a hail of death.
Gen landed, planting a seal. A silver-white shield unfurled from the ground, spinning and deflecting the barrage like leaves before a storm.
Sasori's lips curved. "An Uchiha. Perfect. Another exquisite puppet for my collection."
The Third Kazekage puppet raised its arm, sand-iron surging into thousands of glittering needles. They darkened the sky as they shot forth, a tidal wave of death
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