Danzo stared at Itachi's retreating back, teeth grinding as the young Uchiha walked out of Root headquarters.
Then—
"What the hell is going on!" His voice lashed out, cold and furious, eyes narrowing on the remaining operatives.
"I underestimated Uchiha Duan's strength. The entire second squad was annihilated. I engaged him directly, but I could not finish him—so I chose to withdraw. The failure is mine. Please, Danzo-sama, punish me."
Aburame Ryōma spoke without excuse, bowing his head. His tone was flat, without resentment, taking the burden fully onto himself.
Danzo exhaled through his nose, steadying the anger twisting in his chest.
He knew Ryōma's caliber. The man was not only loyal but formidable—his kikaichū techniques were lethal even to Uchiha with Sharingan. Ryōma never exaggerated nor lied.
If even he had been forced back… just what kind of monster had Uchiha Duan become?
Danzo sank slowly back into his chair, raising a hand in dismissal.
"Enough. Get up. You will not be punished for this."
Ryōma rose. His hidden eyes behind tinted lenses gave nothing away as he asked,
"Shall we dispatch another squad to finish Duan?"
Danzo's single visible eye narrowed. Then he shook his head.
"No. Not now. Let the matter rest. We act as though nothing happened."
He was calm—utterly.
Why should he worry? Hadn't he ordered the death of the Hokage himself once, and survived unscathed? In Konoha, assassinating a single Uchiha hardly compared.
No one could touch him.
He was the shadow beneath the Leaf—the hand that covered the sky. The darkness of the ninja world itself.
Ryōma inclined his head again.
"I will reorganize the intelligence on Uchiha Duan, gather everything we know, and submit a full report."
"Do it. Every shinobi has a weakness—Uchiha are no exception. Find his."
Danzo's tone left no room for argument.
For now, the matter would be set aside.
"The second team is gone. Root needs new blood. It's been too long since I last looked into the clans." He tapped his cane against the floor, muttering to himself, then turned back toward Ryōma.
"Tell me… are there any promising seedlings among the Aburame?"
"I will inquire," Ryōma replied quietly, bowing once more. For just a moment, under the cover of his glasses, a shadow of sorrow flickered in his eyes.
He was loyal to Danzo, loyal to Konoha—but he loved his clan as well. To give their young to Root was to consign them to a life in the dark.
—
Outside Root's lair, Itachi walked quickly through Konoha's dim alleys, his eyes clouded.
Even Root's carefully planned strike had failed. His uncle had survived.
What sort of battle must that have been?
He didn't know the details, but he could guess—perhaps the same uncanny technique Duan had used against the masked man had turned Ryōma's kikaichū aside.
Maybe, when his uncle returned, he could ask.
But days passed.
Three mornings later, Duan still had not appeared.
Instead, Itachi was summoned. With Kakashi and Tenzō, he reported to the Hokage's office, where Hiruzen Sarutobi sat wreathed in smoke.
Click.
The Third puffed his pipe, exhaled a thin smoke ring, and said to Kakashi,
"The Forest Country has allied with us openly, yet I hear whispers of them courting Iwagakure in secret. I have dispatched Might Guy's team to the border to exchange scrolls with the Forest daimyo's envoys, but…" His eyes narrowed. "I am uneasy. Take Team Six, follow Guy in secret. If the Prajna betray us, you know what must be done."
"Yes, Hokage-sama."
Kakashi accepted the order, his tone flat, as though it were routine. The squad departed at once.
Along the road, Itachi walked in silence, thoughts tangled.
Kakashi glanced at him with a faint smile.
"First time in the field as Anbu. Nervous?"
Tenzō chuckled and clapped Itachi's shoulder.
"Don't sweat it. Even if you mess up, it's nothing. I once tried to assassinate Hokage-sama himself—when I was ten."
His words hung for a moment, lighthearted, but Itachi only looked forward.
He wasn't thinking of nerves.
He was thinking of the clan.
The Uchiha assembly loomed little more than a week away. Hawks and doves within the clan had grown more hostile than ever, the air so taut it could snap with a spark.
Last night, Shisui had met him in private, face solemn.
"This meeting may decide everything. If the factions clash, the clan could break apart. Stand with me, Itachi. Help me keep the peace."
And his uncle… Duan had agreed to attend as well.
No one could predict what he might do there.
A chill ran through Itachi. The sense of something inevitable, something disastrous, pressed down upon him.
He could not afford to miss that meeting.
But would this mission let him return in time?
—
Meanwhile, deep within the Land of Fire—
A cloaked man walked a lonely forest road, hat brim shadowing his face.
Duan.
The primeval woods stretched vast around him, beasts rustling in the undergrowth. After long miles, he came upon a town.
Sparse houses. Shuttered shops. The streets empty, save for crows perched along wires, calling harshly into the still air.
Duan walked unhurriedly to the end of the street, entering a tall building. He slipped into a side corridor—toward the toilet.
The same toilet, another time.
Behind its hidden door lay the Fire Country's underground gold exchange.
Creak.
He pushed through, descending a dim passage until the sound of voices swelled around him. The trading hall opened up—a cavernous den, packed with bounty-nin, wandering ronin, and blades-for-hire.
The gold exchange was no mere market. It was the black pulse of the underworld: stolen goods, secrets, blood money—
And corpses.
The dead were worth more than the living. In flesh lay secrets: bloodlines, cells, hidden jutsu.
Senju Hashirama was proof enough. His cells were coveted like sacred meat, sparking decades of grotesque experiments. Had the First Hokage's body been burned to ash, much tragedy might never have come.
Here, the morgue was the busiest counter of all.
Duan passed bounty hunters queued with bodies slung over shoulders. Staff examined each corpse, verified identity, and paid in silver and ryo.
Prices ranged from hundreds of thousands to tens of millions. For a Kage, for an S-rank rogue, fortunes beyond measure.
But Duan—code name Araki—was no common hunter.
He never queued.
The owner himself hurried to greet him, a bald man with a scar across his face.
"Mr. Araki! Welcome."
Duan studied him once, then looked away.
Just a front man. The true master behind the exchange was someone else entirely.
But that wasn't Duan's concern. He wasn't here for politics.
Only money.