Chapter 57 – All Quiet on the Western Front (Part 3)
Hanegawa felt a sudden, inexplicable unease.
He sat up in bed, pulled on the white vest the ANBU had recently issued, and stepped outside his room, exhaling a long breath.
In the frigid winter air, his breath billowed into pale mist. That small miracle of nature had once made every young boy—including Hanegawa—imagine they possessed some hidden superpower.
"Want one?"
Uchiha Jōka, who lived in the room next door, had woken for reasons unknown. He stood beside Hanegawa in the corridor, offering a pack of cigarettes.
Hanegawa hesitated before taking one.
Jōka flicked his lighter without prompting, holding the flame out for him.
"Thanks."
Hanegawa took a leisurely drag, blowing a smoke ring into the night. Jōka simply stood there, savoring his own cigarette in silence.
Neither man felt like talking. For shinobi—especially men—conversation inevitably led back to the village, to politics, to grievances. And those paths seldom ended pleasantly.
Hanegawa's official mission was to reinforce the border. The real mission, given by Danzō, was to keep an eye on Jōka.
And Jōka knew it. The Uchiha clan had been ostracized in the village for generations, and Danzō's hostility toward them had lasted just as long.
"I've always wondered… this formation of yours—three points like the character for 'pin'—what's the logic behind it?" Hanegawa asked, scratching his head.
He meant the deployment of Jōka, Shimura Narukage, and Aburame Saiwei. Instead of concentrating their defense around the dam, they were scattered into a "品"-shaped arrangement on the map. Saiwei held the top point in Mokuning Village, while Jōka and Narukage guarded opposite sides of the dam.
Jōka grinned faintly in the dark. "The Aburame have their summoning insects—communication is instant. Grouping together would just slow our reaction time."
Hanegawa nodded. Sounded reasonable enough.
Maybe his unease was just paranoia. If anything happened in Mokuning Village, the insects would alert Jōka immediately.
And even if Saiwei were assassinated, there were still five hundred Konoha shinobi stationed there. Surely someone would get word back. Double insurance. Nothing to worry about… probably.
The winter air was dry, and Hanegawa's scalp itched. He scratched hard, losing his taste for the cigarette.
He flicked the butt to the ground, the ember snuffed under his heel.
"I'm turning in. You—"
He'd barely taken two steps when the thud of something heavy hitting the ground echoed through the cold, followed by the sharp whistle of blades slicing air.
"You go! I'll cover you—find Narukage!"
Jōka's right shoulder was half-cleaved away. His Sharingan snapped open, the three scarlet tomoe spinning in the dark like demonic lanterns.
Shhhk—
Yahiko, wearing the white dove mask, slid his blade back into its sheath. Behind him, Uzumaki Nagato stepped forward, his Rinnegan locking eyes with Jōka.
Genjutsu: Sharingan.
"Banshō Ten'in."
Nagato's left hand lifted. His right hand drew a blade, aiming for Jōka's abdomen.
Drip… drip…
Hanegawa turned his head just in time to see something that froze his blood.
Jōka was dead—impaled cleanly, as if he'd thrown himself onto Nagato's sword. This was a fully awakened three-tomoe Uchiha jōnin, an elite—dead without casting a single jutsu.
Jōka wasn't a genjutsu specialist, but at three tomoe, the Sharingan came with an instinctive mastery of illusions—its power lay in disrupting the enemy's mind with sheer force of will.
But this time, he'd been up against the eyes of his own clan's progenitor—Uchiha Madara. To pit the Sharingan's genjutsu against the Rinnegan… it was like trying to invert the laws of heaven and earth.
And so he died—swift, surgical—brought down by Yahiko's ambush and Nagato's ocular jutsu in perfect harmony.
Hanegawa didn't know the finer details. He only understood one thing: these Rain-nin were no ordinary foes.
He had to run. Now.
Heart pounding, he spun to flee—then stopped dead.
"…You've got to be kidding me." He swallowed hard.
Ahead stood Senkiri Ryōsuke, empty-handed except for the one-handed seal he was about to complete. Behind him, a line of Rain-nin wearing metal-foreheaded protectors. Each clutched a Konoha shinobi's severed head.
"Looks like you're the last one… will you surrender?"
Ryōsuke's voice was casual, his hands slowing ever so slightly.
Hanegawa wanted to scream at the old man—demand whether he knew what a shinobi's loyalty meant, what the Will of Fire meant, what clan honor meant.
But then he remembered—he was barely six months from retirement. He could've lived out his days in peace, growing old among his kin.
After a lifetime of killing, after all the dirty work he'd done for Danzō… why couldn't he be allowed a decent end?
Clang.
The ninja blade slipped from Hanegawa's hand, clattering against the ground. Slowly, he raised both hands above his head.
"I surrender! I know the full disposition of Konoha's forces on the other side of the dam! I'm also one of Danzō's trusted aides… spare my life, and I'll be useful to you!"
"Oh?"
Senkiri Ryōsuke arched an eyebrow. He hadn't expected the last survivor to be such a valuable catch. Interesting.
His hands halted mid-seal, shifting smoothly into a different jutsu—Curse: My Inner Will.
He strode over to Uchiha Jōka's corpse, dipped a gnarled fingertip into the fresh blood, and pressed it to Hanegawa's forehead.
"There. Just a little insurance. From now on… you're one of us—a Rain-nin."
The heavens opened again, rain pattering down. Droplets struck Hanegawa's brow, washing away the Uchiha's blood. Red rivulets traced down the bridge of his nose, slipping into his mouth.
Hanegawa pulled off his ANBU mask and tossed it carelessly to the mud. Dropping to one knee before Ryōsuke, he declared:
"I pledge my service to Lord Hanzō!"
Seeing such prompt obedience, the wrinkles on Ryōsuke's withered, parchment-like face deepened into a faint smile. A flicker of nostalgia shone in his eyes as he struck his chest with his fist.
"For the will of Lord Hanzō!"
The surrounding Rain-nin immediately echoed his cry.
"For the will of Lord Hanzō!"
"For the will of Lord Hanzō!"
Their voices rose in fervent unison.
Hanzō—the prodigy born from the mud and rot of the Land of Rain—had forged Amegakure from chaos, ending the ceaseless infighting of its shinobi.
When Yahiko and Nagato criticized the decay of the Rain Village, they forgot the truth: it was Hanzō who had created the village in the first place. Without him, there would be nothing to criticize.
Ryosuke had lived through that era, following Hanzō step for step. He bore scars and truths that the new generation could never understand.
To bring peace to the shinobi world, one first needed the power to enforce it. And to gain that power, one needed soil where such strength could take root. In Ryōsuke's eyes, no one had done that better than Hanzō. Every sacrifice he made, every drop of blood spilled, was to lift his homeland out of the mire where others trampled it.
His loyalty was not to the man, but to the vision in Hanzō's heart—the promised future, the promised peace.
And until that vision was realized, no matter how much pain, no matter how much killing… the price was worth it.