After leaving Konoha, Uchiha Gen flashed across space with the Flying Thunder God Technique, heading straight for the Land of Whirlpools.
But instead of returning to the Konoha camp immediately, he decided to make a detour.
If leaving Konoha required a little flair, then so did his return.
Skipping past the battlefront between Konoha and the Mist, he moved directly toward the Whirlpool capital. He intended to spend the day there before heading back.
Despite the war, the capital hadn't declined, if anything, it had become more prosperous. Both Konoha and the Mist sourced some of their supplies locally; it was cheaper and quicker than shipping everything from their villages.
That meant each side had its own procurement lines, guards, and intelligence operatives scattered through the capital. Sabotaging an opponent's logistics became another layer of the war. For the city's merchants and opportunists, that chaos translated into booming business.
The sky over the capital was leaden, heavy clouds pressing low without snow or rain, only a cold, biting wind cutting through the streets.
Disguised with a transformation, Uchiha Gen spent most of the day wandering; restaurants, brothels, gambling dens, and food stalls. By mid-afternoon, he was finally preparing to leave when he noticed he was being followed.
He smiled faintly. Delivered souls and lifespans were never unwelcome.
Rather than forcing things into a trap, he simply drifted toward the city outskirts. In a place as ruthless as the Whirlpool capital, hunters and prey often switched roles in an instant.
Sure enough, outside the city in a stretch of wilderness, several ronin and wandering samurai appeared, blades drawn, surrounding him.
"Kid! Hand over your money. We only want the cash, your life's not worth the trouble!"
A scarred one eyed stepped forward, katana gleaming in his hand.
Gen sighed inwardly. Had his extravagant spending drawn these moths to the flame? In the Whirlpool lands, the weak were devoured whole.
With a puff of smoke, he released the transformation—standing before them in his true form.
"A Konoha ninja?"
The ronin froze.
"Fall back!"
It wasn't reverence for Konoha's name that frightened them, but the knowledge that the village had a strong presence in the region. If they killed a Leaf operative, an investigation would follow.
Their sloppy tailing hadn't gone unnoticed, as witnesses had surely seen them. And once Konoha's trackers came looking, death was all but certain.
They moved to retreat. But Gen stepped lightly into their path, his expression cool.
"Kid, don't—!"
The cyclops never finished. Gen's eyes bled red, tomoe spinning into focus. One glance, and the ronin collapsed into his genjutsu.
The others followed a heartbeat later, caught in his gaze and unable to resist.
In this world, a single look could kill.
The rest was mechanical; extract their souls and lifespans, burn away the bodies and let the wind scatter the ashes.
As for their claim of 'only taking money'? Gen didn't buy it. Men who ambushed strangers in alleys weren't saints. Better to erase the risk than leave loose ends.
Just as he prepared to slip away with Flying Thunder God, a thunderous explosion shook the distance.
Gen's lips curved. Another harvest? Fortune truly favored him today.
Abandoning the teleportation, he headed toward the blast.
The saying went curiosity killed the cat. But Gen reminded himself, with a flicker of amusement as he wasn't a cat but a tiger.
The forest ahead boomed with constant detonations.
Flames lit the trees, shaking with each impact.
Moving swiftly through the canopy, Gen arrived at a clearing and saw them.
A boy with crimson hair, pale and striking, dressed in a rust-red robe.
Across from him floated a girl, lavender-blue hair tied in a bun with a paper flower, amber eyes with violet shadow, a black cloak patterned in blood-red clouds swirling at the hem.
Konan.
The ground beneath them bore witness to their clash, snow melted away, trees split, puppet fragments strewn about and craters gouged deep.
The red-haired youth unfurled a scroll with steady hands. With a burst of smoke, another puppet materialized, dark-blue hair, yellow eyes, robed in white with a blue shinobi outfit beneath.
Sasori of the Red Sand.
They had already sensed him.
Konan, airborne, turned first, Sasori followed, puppet strings taut. Both halted their clash, eyes narrowing toward the Leaf forehead protector gleaming on Gen's brow.
Murderous intent flickered between them.
For Konan, Konoha meant betrayal. Yahiko's death had been sealed by Danzo and Hanzo's treachery; Nagato's crippled body stood as the proof. Whatever warmth Jiraiya had once sparked toward the village had long burned out.
For Sasori, Konoha was the land of his parents' killer, the White Fang. Add to that the exposure of the Third Kazekage puppet and Akatsuki's plans, and his hatred was absolute.
They exchanged a glance. No words were needed. Together, they surged at Gen.
Gen chuckled inwardly. The old saying was right—curiosity did kill the cat. But a tiger didn't shy from hunters.
If they wanted a fight, then words were meaningless. Only strength would speak.
His Sharingan flared. He launched from the branch, Kusanagi flashing free, arcs of gold-white flame igniting along the blade.
Wind–Flame Sword!
Twin nets of blazing sword-light spread, one sweeping upward, one downward.
The technique was cast without hand seals. Konan's eyes widened; Sasori stiffened. One darted higher into the air, wings of paper fluttering. The other thrust his puppet forward, Magnet Release swirling into an iron wall.
The flaming net struck, shattering through. Cracks webbed across the barrier, molten iron dripping through the seams.
From above, Konan retaliated, her body scattering into a storm. Thousands of paper shuriken rained down, blotting out the sky.
Gen landed lightly, spinning his sword into a whirling shield of silver-white light. The paper storm slammed into it, harmlessly deflected.
"An Uchiha…" Sasori's voice hissed cold. "You'll make a fine addition to my collection."
The Third Kazekage puppet raised its hands, magnetic chakra surging. Molten iron hardened into black sand needles, condensing into a tide of death that surged toward Gen in waves.