Youma County.
Magistrate Shirakawa sat cross-legged on the tatami mat. A man in his forties, he was tall, overweight, with a round, kind-looking face that now appeared deeply troubled.
His wife quietly approached and handed him a slice of chilled watermelon, freshly cooled from the well. Normally, Shirakawa found comfort in the simple joys of life: time with his childhood sweetheart, governing without corruption, and above all else, eating.
But today, he had no appetite.
The reason lay before him: warriors sprawled across the magistrate's mansion floor, groaning in pain. Their bodies were bandaged and bloodied. Even the county's best doctors, summoned in haste, could do little. For wounds this severe, survival was a gamble.
Among the wounded were two ninjas from Kirigakure. One was already dead, his body cold. The other had been gutted, intestines exposed before the surgeon had hurriedly stuffed them back in and tried to stop the bleeding.
Outside, the fog rolled thick across the town, oppressive and unnatural. Shirakawa scowled at it.
He bit into the watermelon with frustration, juice dripping down his chin.
"What the hell is this? Can't the heavens blow this damn fog away already?"
As if in answer, a sudden gust of wind surged through the town. Roof tiles rattled, trees bent, leaves spiraled upward like green blades, slicing through the fog. In seconds, the suffocating haze was gone. The blue sky returned, and a fresh breeze replaced the sticky humidity.
Shirakawa, watermelon in hand, turned in stunned silence.
All around, pain-stricken warriors paused their moans. Doctors froze mid-procedure. Curious townsfolk cautiously opened their windows.
Clip-clop...
The rhythmic sound of horse hooves echoed from the entrance of the town.
A man sat atop a horse, holding the reins with calm authority. Though he wore no headband and carried no visible weapon, something about his presence struck everyone with unspoken awe. Eyes widened. Hearts raced.
The wounded Mist shinobi on the ground, Sakamoto, gasped and cried out:
"Master Logan!"
The shout was so sudden that his freshly treated wounds reopened, and his intestines spilled out again. Yet, he felt no fear—only a deep sense of relief.
The name "Logan" snapped Shirakawa from his daze. He slowly chewed his watermelon, eyes fixed on Logan and the convoy that followed him.
Expressions flickered across the magistrate's face—conflict, calculation, realization. Then he sprang to his feet and dashed barefoot into the street.
He knelt in the center of the road and bowed his forehead to the ground, his voice echoing:
"Youma County has been attacked by bandits! We are in grave danger. I humbly beg Lord Logan to save our town from disaster!"
Logan's horse stopped directly before him.
Blood dripped from Shirakawa's forehead where it met the stone.
Logan dismounted and strode past the magistrate.
"Tell me everything."
---
About a month prior, a bandit group had established a base on a hill seven or eight kilometers outside of town. They robbed merchants, terrorized villages, and demanded tribute from Shirakawa himself.
"So," said Sakamoto, eyes drifting to his fallen comrade, "we joined the local samurai to take them down."
He swallowed.
"At first, we assumed it was just a rogue Mist-style technique. But once inside... it was different."
His voice trembled slightly.
"The leader of those bandits could generate an illusion-based fog. We couldn't distinguish friend from foe. It was chaos. We didn't even touch the enemy before we were torn apart."
Logan narrowed his eyes, staring at Sakamoto.
"Have we met before?"
The man laughed nervously.
"Haha... I was part of the old 'diehard' faction. Back when you fought Yagura, I... uh, threw a kunai at you. But I've changed! Honest!"
After Yagura's fall, many diehards had been executed. Those who remained, like Sakamoto, were given dangerous tasks to atone.
Logan raised his hand.
Sakamoto flinched—then felt a gentle pat on the shoulder.
"Then try to live with a clear conscience."
Logan mounted his horse and headed toward the hills.
Terumi Mei followed at once.
Zabuza also stepped forward, but Kanhara Hayato stopped him with a subtle glance toward Shirakawa.
This magistrate, kind-faced as he seemed, was no fool.
Zabuza stayed to guard the convoy, assisted only by young Chojuro.
As Logan and Terumi Mei disappeared into the distance, Magistrate Shirakawa's warm smile faded.
A samurai approached and leaned in close.
"Governor, are you sure this is wise? Those bandits... they say they're followers of Logan. They call themselves 'Awakeners.' What if he—"
Shirakawa's eyes gleamed coldly.
"Don't ask questions you shouldn't ask."
"Y-yes, sir!"
The magistrate turned his gaze toward Logan's vanishing silhouette, then resumed eating his watermelon.
---
The road to the bandits' stronghold was short. Fog had already begun to regather, but Logan and Terumi Mei moved forward swiftly.
The terrain grew soft and marshy. Swamplands stretched out before them.
"This place is perfect for neutralizing armored samurai," Terumi Mei muttered.
Logan nodded. He released a ripple of chakra across the land. The soil hardened underfoot, forming a stable path.
Soon, a mountain loomed before them, surrounded by fog.
Before they could ascend, a group of a dozen men appeared, dragging three carriages.
Shouts echoed from inside one of them.
"Damn it! Your rich merchant husband is human, and so am I! You serve him, but not me?!"
A loud slap rang out.
"You know what fairness is?! Equality?!"
With a crash, the carriage door burst open. A woman's head slammed into the frame. Her hair was yanked back, and a man leaned in, whispering with venom:
"If your husband gets to sleep with you, I get to sleep with you!"
"If your son can drink milk, I can drink milk!"
"That's equality! You hear me, you relic of a woman?!"
Suddenly, the horses pulling the carriages froze.
No amount of whipping moved them.
The men looked up.
Logan stood before them.
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