The attack came on the last night of the delegation.
I was in the seal vault, reviewing ancient scrolls by lantern light, when the alarms went off. The sound was a piercing wail that meant only one thing: enemy shinobi in the village. Not a drill. Not a false alarm. Real enemies, inside the walls.
My Sharingan activated instantly. The world slowed, sharpened, filled with tactical data. I grabbed a kunai from the wall and ran.
The delegation's wing of the compound was already under siege. Three shinobi—Kiri jounin, based on their chakra signatures and the pattern of their water-release jutsu—had bypassed the outer defenses. They were heading for the guest quarters. Heading for Tsunade.
I arrived as the first assassin broke down her door.
Tsunade met him with a punch that cratered the wall behind him. She was fast—faster than I expected—and her chakra-enhanced strength was terrifying. But she was ten years old, and he was thirty, and his sword was already swinging.
I threw the kunai.
The Sharingan calculated everything—the distance, the wind, the angle of his blade, the micro-adjustments he would make to dodge. The kunai flew in a perfect arc, striking his sword hand and pinning it to the doorframe.
He screamed.
The other two turned toward me. One had a water dragon already forming; the other was shrouded in mist, only his eyes visible.
I didn't have time for chains. I didn't have time for seals.
I had my father's taijutsu.
I moved. The Sharingan showed me their attacks before they made them—the hand seals for the water dragon, the flanking route of the mist ninja. I ducked under a jet of pressurized water, rolled past a kunai strike, and drove my palm into the water ninja's throat.
He collapsed, choking.
The mist ninja was faster than I expected. His blade caught my arm—a shallow cut, but deep enough to bleed. I spun, kicked his knee sideways, and finished him with an elbow to the temple.
Three jounin. Ten seconds.
My arm was on fire. I looked down. The cut was clean, but something was wrong—the edges of the wound were turning black, and dark veins were spreading up my forearm.
Poison.
"Ren!" Tsunade was at my side. "Don't move. Don't move, I've got it."
Her hands glowed green. The medical technique—the one she had promised to teach me. She pressed them to my arm, and I felt the poison being drawn out, the flesh knitting together. It hurt worse than the cut.
"Your chakra is fighting it," she said through gritted teeth. "You have natural resistance—the Uzumaki vitality. But this is strong. Stay still."
"You're crying," I said.
"I'm not crying. There's something in my eye."
I reached up with my other hand and wiped a tear from her cheek. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just don't die. You still owe me chain lessons."
I laughed. It hurt. Everything hurt. But I was alive.
The village guards arrived moments later, swarming the scene. My father appeared last, his Mangekyo blazing. He looked at the three dead jounin, then at me, then at Tsunade's hands still glowing on my arm.
"Interesting," he said. "The Senju girl saved you."
"She saved me," I agreed.
My father's eye twitched. "We'll discuss this later."
He walked away. Tsunade helped me to my feet. Her hands were shaking.
"That was stupid," she said. "Charging three jounin alone."
"They were going to kill you."
"So? You could have died."
"I didn't."
"This time."
I looked at her. In the moonlight, with her hair disheveled and her face streaked with tears and blood, she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
"Tsunade," I said.
"What?"
"Thank you for not telling anyone about my eyes."
She punched my shoulder—hard. "Idiot. Of course I didn't. I'm not a snitch."
I smiled. A real smile. It still felt strange, but less strange than before.
"There," she said. "Getting better. Now let's get you to a real medic. My technique is sloppy."
"It saved my life."
"It was adequate."
She put my arm over her shoulders and half-carried me toward the infirmary. I leaned on her more than I needed to. She didn't complain.