They didn't call it a mission.
They called it errand work.
That's how they dressed it up when they pulled me out of class and told me to follow the masked shinobi waiting outside the Academy gates. No paperwork. No explanation. Just a hand on my shoulder and a quiet order.
"Don't bring attention to yourself."
I almost laughed.
---
We left the village through the eastern checkpoint just before dusk. The sky was low and heavy, clouds pressing down like they wanted something from the earth. The masked shinobi—ANBU, though he never said it—moved without sound. I struggled to keep up, chakra control stretched thin as I leapt branch to branch.
Every landing jarred my ribs.
The wound from Kaito's kunai had healed, but not cleanly. It pulled when I breathed too deep. I hadn't told anyone. Pain was information. I was still learning how to read it.
We stopped in a shallow ravine an hour out.
He raised a fist.
I froze.
"There's a missing supply courier," he said, voice muffled behind porcelain. "Bandits. Possibly rogue shinobi. You observe. You do not engage unless ordered."
I nodded.
My stomach tightened anyway.
We followed the trail down into the ravine, mud sucking at our feet. The smell hit me first—metallic, old blood. My eyes burned as the Sharingan slid into place almost on its own.
Two bodies.
One face-down in the dirt. The other slumped against a rock, throat opened wide enough that I could see white cartilage beneath the drying red.
I swallowed.
The ANBU crouched, inspected the wounds. "Sloppy," he muttered. "Amateurs."
A sound came from ahead.
Not loud. Not careless.
A shift.
My gaze snapped up.
Three heartbeats.
That's how much warning I had.
---
The first one dropped from above.
I saw the shadow detach from the rock face a fraction of a second before impact. My body reacted before thought—roll, shoulder screaming as I hit the ground, a blade cutting through the space where my neck had been.
Steel rang.
The ANBU intercepted the second attacker in a blur of motion I couldn't follow, sparks flying as kunai met sword. The third came for me.
He was taller. Lean. Scar running from temple to jaw. His eyes flicked to my forehead protector and lingered.
"Just a kid," he said, almost disappointed.
He lunged.
I raised my arms too late.
The impact rattled my bones, forearms screaming as his kick smashed into my guard and sent me skidding backward through the mud. I barely kept my footing. He followed immediately, no wasted motion, blade arcing low for my legs.
I jumped.
The blade caught my calf anyway.
Pain exploded.
I landed badly, ankle buckling, and nearly went down again. The Sharingan tracked him automatically—shoulders turning, weight shifting, breath steady. He was experienced, but not refined.
I threw a kunai.
He knocked it aside without looking.
I threw another.
Same result.
Too obvious.
I forced chakra into my legs and charged.
He grinned.
We collided.
My fist slammed into his ribs. Not enough force. I felt it immediately—the way his muscles absorbed the blow, the way his balance barely shifted. His elbow came down on my shoulder, crushing me toward the ground.
I bit back a scream.
My vision tunneled.
Move.
I twisted, letting his weight slide past me, and drove my knee up into his thigh. Hard. I felt muscle tear.
He grunted but didn't fall.
His blade flashed up.
I caught his wrist.
The impact numbed my fingers instantly. Steel bit into my palm as I shoved it away from my face. We were chest to chest now, breath hot, mud splattering as we struggled for leverage.
He was stronger.
I could feel it.
So I stopped fighting his strength.
I leaned in and headbutted him.
Bone cracked against bone.
Stars burst behind my eyes, but his grip loosened. That was enough.
I drove my thumb into his eye.
He screamed.
High. Sharp. Human.
I didn't stop.
I tore the blade from his hand and plunged it upward under his jaw, angling the way I'd seen in anatomy diagrams, the way the Sharingan showed me would bypass bone.
His scream cut off abruptly.
Blood poured down my wrist, hot and slick.
He collapsed.
I stumbled back, chest heaving, staring at the body.
My body was shaking violently now.
Not from fear.
From the realization that I'd just done it correctly.
---
The fight ended seconds later.
The ANBU stood over the last body, blade clean, posture relaxed like he'd finished stretching.
He looked at me.
Really looked.
Then he nodded once.
We didn't speak on the way back.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt resistance give way beneath my hand. Felt the exact angle where bone stopped and flesh yielded. The Sharingan had recorded it perfectly.
I sat up and stared at my palms.
They were steady.
Too steady.
I understood then what progression really meant.
It wasn't about getting stronger.
It was about how much of myself I was willing to carve away to make room for what this world demanded.
And the worst part?
Somewhere deep inside, beneath the fear and the nausea and the blood—
I was already calculating how to do it better next time.
.