Seven days passed in a blur.
Seiran woke before dawn and made his way to the training ground, where he found Rin already waiting—arms crossed, eyes sharp as blades.
"You're late."
"It's six o'clock," Seiran said flatly. "Briefing's at seven."
"A true ninja arrives hours early to sharpen their will. Your discipline is—"
He covered his ears before she could finish.
Two minutes before seven, Anko came sprinting around the corner, gasping for breath and wiping sweat from her forehead.
"Sorry! Almost didn't make it."
"You're fine," Seiran said.
"Anko, arriving early is a fundamental—"
Seiran clamped a hand over Rin's mouth before she could launch into another lecture.
Shibi arrived a few minutes later and surveyed the team with his usual calm. "This mission is different. Only Seiran and I will participate. The rest of you train independently until we return."
"What?" Anko's face fell. "I got up early for this?"
Rin's frown deepened. "Why only Seiran? How long will you be gone?"
"The Hokage's call," Shibi replied. "Duration depends on how things develop."
Something flickered in Rin's eyes—the mention of the Hokage carried weight. An ANBU operation, maybe.
Shibi nodded curtly. "Seiran, one hour to prepare. Dismissed."
---
Two figures in black robes moved through the forest canopy like shadows, leaping between branches with practiced precision. The Land of Fire's wilderness blurred beneath them.
Shibi landed on a thick bough and turned to Seiran, his voice dropping low.
"This mission carries weight. We're looking at A-rank minimum. Could spike to S-rank if things go south."
Seiran's breath caught. "S-rank?"
"The black market," Shibi continued. "You know what it is?"
"Underground hub for bounties. Illegal trades." Seiran nodded. He knew well enough—in years to come, classmates' heads would fetch staggering prices in those dark networks.
"The black market exists in every major nation," Shibi explained, his voice steady. "It's the shadow side of our world—transactions that can't happen in daylight. Last week, our operative in the Iron Country's market reported unusual activity. Over a hundred million ryo moved in a single transaction."
Seiran's jaw tightened.
"And they spotted Iwagakure shinobi."
"Iwagakure?" The name hung in the humid air like a threat. "Why would they—"
"War preparation, likely. The Hokage suspects their hand in it." Shibi's expression remained neutral, but his tone carried gravity. "The Iron Country sits between Fire and Earth. Large, covert transactions don't happen without reason."
The implications settled over Seiran like a cold weight. War would compress his training timeline dramatically. With his current strength, he'd be a liability in an actual conflict, not an asset.
But something didn't add up. The Third Shinobi World War wasn't supposed to start from Iwagakure's side—it was Sand Village that sparked that powder keg. So why the sudden activity?
He filed the question away.
"This isn't random either," Seiran muttered, realization clicking into place. "The clan head gave me the Gentle Fist techniques days ago. The Hokage put in a request, didn't he?"
"Perceptive." Shibi didn't deny it. "Your Byakugan's scouting range is invaluable. And your Magnet Release gives you versatility the ANBU needs. The combination works."
Seiran understood. Using the Hokage's authority to give a branch family member meaningful missions—it was a counterbalance against the main clan's control. Smart politics.
After days of travel, they crossed into the Land of Iron.
Before entering the capital, Shibi handed Seiran a pair of tinted contact lenses.
"Your Byakugan stands out too much. These will help you blend."
Seiran took them, curious. "Colored contacts?"
"ANBU equipment," Shibi said, slightly embarrassed. "They're... not attractive, but functional."
He slipped them in. No blur to his vision. No irritation after adjustment. A glance in a mirror showed brown eyes—utterly unremarkable.
"The shinobi world's priorities are weird," Seiran muttered.
---
The capital of the Land of Iron felt like stepping back in time.
Traditional architecture dominated the skyline, all sloped roofs and wooden beams. Armored samurai walked the streets, katanas hanging at their waists, their bearing unmistakably different from any ninja Seiran had encountered.
"Their biomagnetic fields," Seiran observed quietly, watching a group pass. "They're dense. Stronger than most chunin."
The samurai's physical power was evident in every movement—no jutsu to enhance them, just raw conditioning and discipline. Their armor alone suggested a different fighting philosophy entirely.
"That's why they've survived," Shibi said. "Physical strength doesn't need chakra to be lethal."
Seiran nodded, but dismissed the thought. Samurai in full armor, bound by metal and sword forms? Against a shinobi with his abilities, they'd be predictable.
He shrugged it off and kept walking.
The investigation was about to begin.