Chapter 111: The Blood-Eyed Shura and the White-Haired Son
Jiraiya led Kagenori into a side chamber, the air thick with unspoken tension. "Master Jiraiya," Kagenori began, his tone neutral. "What did you wish to discuss?" He already knew the topic would be Kakashi, and he had no interest in the Sannin's sentimental concerns.
"Kagenori," Jiraiya started, his voice uncharacteristically grave. "Kakashi's state of mind... it isn't right. Perhaps he needs more time. A mission like this, so soon after his father's..."
"Kakashi is my disciple," Kagenori interrupted, his voice flat and final. "I am the foremost authority on his condition. He is fully capable of executing this mission."
Jiraiya's expression hardened. "The boy I remember wasn't so... hollow. This is the mark of a psychological wound. As his sensei, you have a duty to address it, not exploit it."
Kagenori met his gaze, his own eyes like chips of granite. "I repeat, I know his condition. He has simply come to understand a fundamental truth."
"And what truth is that?" Jiraiya pressed, a frown etching deep lines on his face.
Kagenori delivered the words with cold, deliberate precision. "That for a shinobi, the mission takes absolute precedence over all else, including comrades. Anything and everything can be sacrificed for its completion. It is the lesson Lord Sakumo taught him with his own life."
Jiraiya recoiled slightly, the statement striking him like a physical blow. He fundamentally rejected this cynical philosophy, yet the brutal, recent evidence of Sakumo's fate made a hollow rebuttal. The village's hypocrisy had given Kagenori's warped logic a perverse validity.
"Master Jiraiya," Kagenori said, turning to leave. "If there is nothing else, my disciple and I have a mission to carry out."
He paused at the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder. "If you have the opportunity to see Minato Namikaze, I would appreciate it if you passed on a message for me."
"What message?" Jiraiya asked, his voice tight.
"Tell him his naive theory—that comrades come first—was incorrect. The evidence now conclusively proves it."
With that, Kagenori left the room, leaving a heavy silence in his wake. Jiraiya stared at the empty doorway, his expression deeply troubled. He couldn't comprehend how the noble tragedy of the White Fang had been twisted into this cold, ruthless doctrine. Sakumo had been caught between two conflicting ideals, but he never deserved to become a cautionary tale for heartlessness.
"The boy is being molded in their image," Jiraiya muttered to himself, the thought a bitter pill. "Orochimaru's coldness, passed to Kagenori, and now to Kakashi." He sighed, a sound of profound weariness. He could offer a warning, but he held no authority to intervene.
Out in the war-ravaged Land of Grass, Kagenori and Kakashi began their work. As weeks turned into months, a grim legend began to circulate among the Iwa ranks. They spoke of a "Blood-Eyed Shura" and a masked "White-Haired Son" who brought swift, merciless death to any small patrol they encountered.
The Blood-Eyed Shura was, of course, Kagenori. The White-Haired Son was Kakashi.
Officially, their mission was reconnaissance. But whenever they crossed paths with an Iwa team of manageable size, they engaged without hesitation. Their methods were brutally efficient: precise, fatal strikes, leaving no wounded, no prisoners, only corpses. In the crucible of this constant, high-frequency combat, Kakashi's skills sharpened at a terrifying rate. He began to mirror Kagenori's habits perfectly—decapitations, clean throat slashes, ensuring every enemy was irrevocably dead.
Their campaign of terror was a pinprick to the vast Iwa army, but the constant attrition was a persistent, gnawing irritation. The Rock-nin organized several hunter-nin teams, but Kagenori and Kakashi's superior mobility and Kagenori's Observation Haki made them ghosts, impossible to pin down. The intelligence they gathered and sent back via summoning snakes allowed Jiraiya and Shinsuke to hold the defensive line, but it was Kagenori's personal war that earned him his infamous moniker.
Frustrated, the Iwa command finally issued a standing order: any team of fewer than seven shinobi, with only a single Jonin, was authorized to retreat on sight of the "Blood-Eyed Shura" and his apprentice without facing court-martial. It was a tacit admission that sending smaller teams against them was simply a waste of lives.
"The Blood-Eyed Shura," Kagenori mused aloud one day, wiping his blade clean after a brief, violent encounter. "What a vulgar nickname."
Simultaneously, Kakashi cleaned his own White Light Chakra Sabre. "You should be grateful, Sensei. My title is far worse. 'The White-Haired Son'? It's utterly humiliating. If Kushina-nee hears about it, she'll never let me live it down."
In their regular correspondence, Kushina always inquired after Kakashi, and he had taken to including his own letters with Kagenori's. Her replies were always filled with teasing affection, and the thought of this new nickname becoming known to her was a source of genuine dread for the boy.
Kagenori sheathed his sword. "What can you do? You are a little kid. Be glad they didn't call you 'The White-Haired Brat.' If they had, I'd be the first one laughing at you, forget Kushina."
Kakashi grimaced beneath his mask. The thought of being called "The White-Haired Brat" was a social horror beyond contemplation.
"Where to next, Sensei?" Kakashi asked, changing the subject.
Kagenori unrolled their map, its surface now a dense web of crossed-out locations. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I don't know. We've searched everywhere. She's not here. She must not be in the Land of Grass at all..."
Kakashi thought for a moment. "Sensei, what about Kusagakure itself? It's the most populous place in the country. Wouldn't that be the most logical place to hide?"
Kagenori shook his head. "Kushina's clansman would be in hiding. Why would they go to a crowded shinobi village, especially one caught in the middle of a war? It's the last place they'd seek refuge."
"Sometimes," Kakashi countered, his voice taking on a cynical edge that mirrored his master's, "the best place to hide is in plain sight. Where everyone is looking for a spy, no one notices a refugee."
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