Chapter 104: Ripples of Retreat
Land of Rain, Sunagakure Forward Camp
A lone, bedraggled figure materialized at the edge of the camp's perimeter. It moved with a stiff, purposeful gait, its face a thundercloud of humiliation and fury. It walked straight for the command tents, ignoring protocol.
The two Sand-nin on patrol at the gate shifted, their hands moving toward their weapons on instinct. Then they froze, their eyes widening in disbelief as they recognized the hunched posture, the distinctive hairstyle, the robes now stained with mud and… was that blood?
"Chiyo-sama?!" one stammered.
"What happened to you?!" the other blurted out, unable to mask his shock.
They were looking at a legend, a pillar of Sunagakure. The Chiyo they knew was unflappable, a master manipulator who controlled battles from a distance of perfect safety. This figure before them looked… defeated. Her clothes were torn and dirtied, her usually immaculate hair was disheveled, and a grimace of pain and deep anger was etched onto her face. It was a sight so incongruous it felt like a hallucination.
Chiyo didn't acknowledge them. She couldn't. To speak would be to acknowledge her failure in front of subordinates. She kept her eyes fixed ahead, her jaw clenched so tight it ached, and marched past them into the heart of the camp, leaving the two guards to exchange horrified, silent looks.
She went straight to her private command room, a sealed tent reinforced with privacy seals. The moment the flap closed behind her, the rigid posture collapsed. She staggered to a field desk, braced herself on it, and a violent cough wracked her frame.
HACK—PTUI!
A thick glob of dark, clotted blood splattered onto the wooden surface. It wasn't a fresh wound; it was the congestion and internal bruising from the concussive shockwaves that had traveled through the earth and her chakra shield. She was a skilled medical ninja in her own right, and she'd been working on the damage during her desperate flight. Expelling this was the final step. Her breathing, which had been shallow and pained, evened out. The physical injuries were mostly healed.
But the other wounds were not so easily mended.
Her hands, usually steady as stone, trembled slightly as she lifted them. They felt empty, useless. The Chikamatsu Collection of Ten Puppets—her life's work, the culmination of Suna's puppet arts, a force that could stalemate a small army—was gone. Reduced to slag and splinters. The loss was catastrophic, not just personally, but for the village's military strength. A piece of Sunagakure's heritage had been erased in a single, lopsided engagement.
She pushed the grief for her creations aside. Survival dictated cold analysis. The paramount question now was not what she had lost, but who she had faced.
Who is that Konoha ANBU?
The codename 'Rakshasa' meant nothing. The abilities were a nightmare puzzle: monstrous physical strength and speed that mimicked the Eight Gates but without the backlash; masterful, armor-shattering swordmanship; that impossible fire transformation that made him immune to physical harm. It was a toolkit designed to dismantle specialists like her.
A cold dread trickled down her spine as another connection snapped into place.
Sword skills.
Jiro of the Kunomiya Clan, a Special Jonin of Suna's own ANBU, wielder of a legendary Kusanagi blade… he had gone missing, presumed dead, on a mission in this same region. His last report mentioned pursuing a Konoha Sannin. Had he run into this same 'Rakshasa'?
If a jonin of Jiro's caliber, armed with a peerless sword, could be killed so easily that no distress signal was sent… the threat level was even higher than she'd feared.
"But I didn't see him wielding the Pheasant Sword…" she muttered to the empty tent. If he had taken Jiro's blade, why not use it? Was his own black sword superior? The thought was chilling.
After a long, silent period where the only sound was the drumming of rain on the tent canvas, Chiyo straightened. The strategist reasserted itself over the humiliated artist. She grabbed a scroll and a brush, her movements sharp and decisive.
She had to warn the village. She had to make the Kazekage understand. Konoha hadn't just deployed a powerful ANBU; they had unleashed a strategic weapon unlike any on record.
"Send an urgent communiqué to the Kazekage. Priority: Eyes Only."
Land of Wind, Sunagakure Village, Kazekage's Office
The Third Kazekage, a man with sharp features and a mind like a steel trap, sat behind his desk. The scroll in his hands was from Chiyo. He had read it three times. The frown on his face had deepened with each pass.
"Konoha," he murmured, the word heavy with grudging respect and fresh anxiety. "The foundation of the greatest village runs deep. To have such a powerhouse hidden within their ANBU ranks…"
He set the scroll down, steepling his fingers. Chiyo was not an alarmist. For her to be driven to retreat, her priceless puppets destroyed, and to send a warning this stark… it changed the calculus.
"A direct collaboration with Iwagakure may be necessary sooner than planned," he mused aloud. "Though Onoki, that old bastard, will be even more stubborn and irate after his own forces were humiliated. He'll drive a harder bargain."
His gaze fell back on the scroll. The description was frustratingly vague where it mattered most. A red Rakshasa mask. A black sword that cuts anything. Fire that becomes his body. Immense speed and strength.
"This 'Rakshasa' is a ghost. A problem that persists in the shadows will only grow," he said to the empty room. A shinobi of that caliber shouldn't be a ghost. They should have a history, a name, a pattern. "Sakumo Hatake? No, the White Fang's prowess is well-documented, and he doesn't use Fire Release to that degree. An Uchiha? Could the Uchiha Kagami have returned to the field?"
He dismissed the last thought. Kagami was retired, his health fading. But the point remained: without a true identity, they couldn't craft a counter-strategy. They couldn't exploit weaknesses that didn't exist in their intelligence files. This unknown was a blind spot, and in war, blind spots got people killed.
He picked up a different report, this one from Iwa, detailing the annihilation of a squad by a single Konoha operative. The similarities were undeniable. The same ghost was haunting both of their armies.
The Third Kazekage's expression hardened. The Second Great Shinobi War had just found its first true wildcard.
Land of Rain, The Return Journey
The rain fell in a constant, dreary drizzle, turning the earth to mud and the sky to a sheet of grey wool. Ragnar, Tsunade, and Uchiha Mikoto moved through it in silence for a time, each lost in their own thoughts.
The rainwater didn't touch Ragnar. A subtle, invisible field of Armament Haki rippled over his cloak and mask, causing each droplet to bead and slide away as if repelled by a magnetic force.
Tsunade, with chakra control so refined it was second nature, simply allowed the water to flow over the contours of her body and gear without absorption, keeping her perfectly dry. For a moment, Ragnar idly noted it did look more aesthetically pleasing than his method.
Uchiha Mikoto, less concerned with such displays, let the rain soak into her black ANBU cloak. It was designed for all weather, and the damp weight was a familiar sensation.
Their journey after the clash with Chiyo had been uneventful. No more patrols, no ambushes. The path to the Konoha camp was clear. Part of Ragnar's mind tugged him back toward the hidden hut in the Rain, to check on Yahiko and Konan. But duty—and the critical need to get Tsunade's antidote to Jiraiya—pulled him forward. They would have to wait.
As the indistinct outlines of the Konoha fortifications began to darken the grey horizon, Tsunade broke the quiet.
"Ragnar," she said, her voice thoughtful. "You gained this strength… without a word to anyone. The battles you must have fought in secret to reach this point… they must be far more numerous than just routing Chiyo."
Ragnar offered only a noncommittal shrug.
Tsunade's expression grew complex, a mix of awe, concern, and sisterly pride. She let out a soft sigh. "At this rate, I fear it's only a matter of time before you're made ANBU Captain."
"ANBU Captain," Ragnar repeated, his tone flat. "That's… unlikely."
He wasn't being modest. He and Sakumo might share the trait of rising from common roots, but their loyalties were painted in different colors. Sakumo's heart beat for Konoha with a pure, unshakeable rhythm. Ragnar's loyalty was to survival, to strength, and to a very small circle of people. He was a useful tool, a sharp blade the Hokage could point at enemies. But you don't give the handle of your sharpest blade to the weapon itself. The Hokage would never place the direct, elite force of ANBU under the command of an outsider, a refugee with no clan ties. Not unless the political landscape changed dramatically.
That change, historically, would come with Tsunade's own reign decades hence. By then, the title would be meaningless to his goals.
"Unlikely?" Tsunade gave a humorless laugh. "Ragnar… honestly, I hope you leave ANBU. That place… it changes people. It grinds away who you are until you're just a tool for the village's darkness. I don't want that for you."
Her concern was genuine, cutting through her usual brashness.
"I know," he said, his voice quieter. "Maybe… I won't be in ANBU much longer."
The words hung in the damp air. Uchiha Mikoto, walking a step behind, heard them and felt a subtle jolt. Leave ANBU? If he left, what purpose would the mask hold for her? Her reason for joining—to follow a path separate from her clan's politics under Kagami's ideal—had become intertwined with the enigmatic Rakshasa who fought with such terrifying clarity.
Konoha Forward Camp – Perimeter
The sentries spotted them long before they reached the gate. The stark white and red of Tsunade's attire was a welcome sight. The blood-red Rakshasa mask beside her was a familiar, and increasingly legendary, symbol of Konoha's hidden ferocity.
"Lord Rakshasa!"
"Tsunade-sama! You're back!"
The relief and respect in the guards' voices were palpable. Their eyes, however, held a flicker of something else—shock, speculation, awe. News traveled fast in a war camp. Whispers of a lone ANBU slaughtering Iwa squads, of a masked demon walking with a Sannin, had already begun to circulate.
Ragnar and Tsunade gave curt nods and moved past, heading straight for the command headquarters at the camp's heart. The atmosphere around them felt charged, thick with unspoken questions.
Konoha Camp – Central Headquarters
The air inside the command tent was tense enough to slice with a kunai.
At the head of the central table sat Danzo, acting commander in Sakumo's temporary absence. His single visible eye was hard, his posture radiating a cold, entitled authority. He was the law here, and he clearly relished it.
Directly opposite him, standing rather than sitting, was Hatake Sakumo. The White Fang had returned from his mission just hours before. His presence was a quiet, solid counterweight to Danzo's imposing gloom. He didn't need to posture; his reputation and the casual confidence in his stance were argument enough.
Arrayed around the table were other elite jonin, representatives of Konoha's smaller but influential clans. The seating arrangement wasn't random. A clear, invisible line divided the tent. On one side, men and women whose eyes occasionally flicked to Danzo for guidance. On the other, those who stood straighter with Sakumo in the room. It was a silent, fragile standoff between the Hokage's direct, honorable authority and the shadowy, ruthless pragmatism of the Root.
The argument that had been simmering froze as the tent flap was thrown open.
All eyes turned to the entrance.
Standing there, with the grey light of the rainy day behind them, were Tsunade, her clothes stained with the evidence of hard travel, and the ANBU operative known as Rakshasa, his mask impassive, his cloak damp at the hem.
The tension in the room didn't break. It simply found a new focus.
(End of Chapter)
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