Seiran's pulse quickened as he watched the sensory barrier shimmer in the distance. The Byakugan's veins pulsed against his temples—his most prized ability, and yet it felt useless now.
Yes, he could map the stronghold's general layout. The chakra signatures were unmistakable. But distance rendered details into meaningless blur. Personnel positions, internal movement patterns, the ebb and flow of power within those walls—all of it remained locked behind a veil of darkness he couldn't penetrate.
He clenched his fists. Too many unknowns. What had that mysterious shinobi reported? What kind of force was this? And the question that gnawed at him most: what did they want?
Shibi Aburame stood beside him, arms crossed, his expression grim beneath the perpetual dark sunglasses.
"Sensei," Seiran said carefully, "my Byakugan can map the stronghold, but only roughly. The enemy shinobi here are far more numerous than that Iwa team we dealt with in the capital. If we don't understand their purpose, this mission fails."
"I'm aware," Shibi replied with a thin, humorless smile. "But moving closer now would be suicide. We'd be walking into their trap."
Seiran's eyes narrowed, tracking the sensory barrier through his Byakugan. Three kilometers. That was the perimeter—the point where detection became inevitable.
"Sensei, could you send a parasitic insect past the barrier? We need intelligence."
Shibi's jaw tightened. "Already attempted it. The control range is insufficient. My parasites can't maintain a steady vector beyond two kilometers. After that, they lose their way. The command signal degrades too much."
Seiran fell silent, but his mind was already racing.
Two kilometers. But there was that final kilometer—the gap between Shibi's control limit and the stronghold. What if that distance could be bridged? What if he could reroute the command signal, extend it, essentially create a new navigation system for the insects?
A spark ignited behind his eyes.
"Sensei, what if you implanted a fixed directive into the parasite's consciousness? A simple order—fly three kilometers in that direction, then scout and return. Could you do that?"
Shibi considered this, his silence stretching. "I could implant a basic command. But once the distance exceeds two kilometers, I lose all connection. After that..." He shrugged helplessly. "It's out of my hands."
"Then get several sturdy parasites ready," Seiran said, his voice steady. "I have an idea."
"An idea?" Shibi's eyebrows rose. "Care to elaborate?"
"It's complicated. Just prepare them first."
Shibi nodded slowly. He extended his left hand, palm upward. Several black insects crawled from his sleeve, clustering across his fingertips like moving shadows.
Seiran drew two kunai and pressed them together, grinding metal filings from the blades. He pinched the tiny particles between his fingers and carefully—methodically—placed them on the back of each parasite. The placement was deliberate, each position calculated to remain stable without disrupting the insect's flight mechanics.
"Now implant the scouting command," he instructed.
Shibi's voice carried a note of resignation. "I don't know what you're planning, but I suppose I have to trust you at this point."
The parasites took flight, their tiny wings beating frantically as they disappeared into the jungle's emerald depths.
Shibi's shoulders sagged. "I've lost them."
Neither spoke. The jungle pressed in around them—humid, still, heavy as a held breath. Seiran's eyes remained fixed on the distant treeline, unwavering.
Time crawled.
Shibi's expression shifted through phases like the moon: first hopeful, then anxious, finally settling into disappointment. Too long had passed. The parasites were lost, probably wandering blind through the forest, incapable of returning with anything useful.
He hadn't wanted to shut Seiran down earlier. The boy had been so confident, and Shibi couldn't bring himself to crush that certainty. After all, the Aburame had cultivated parasites for generations. Two kilometers was a hard limit, a ceiling written into the insects' very biology.
The jonin's expression darkened as these thoughts weighted down on him.
Then something shifted in the air.
Seiran's head lifted. His eyes widened slightly.
In the distance, a handful of small black shapes appeared, wobbling unsteadily as they approached. They were returning—alive, intact, carrying data.
"It... it actually worked?" Shock painted itself across Shibi's face.
Seiran's mouth curved upward in a quiet smile.
The metal filings served as magnetic focal points. During his past life, he'd learned that migrating birds and insects would flee before earthquakes struck—their behavior altered by sensitivity to shifts in Earth's magnetic field. The biology was elegant: insects possessed ferrous compounds in their bodies, enabling them to sense and navigate by geomagnetism.
Seiran couldn't manipulate the planet's magnetic field, but he could simulate localized fluctuations from his position. The metal particles on the parasites would orient themselves to those shifts, creating a living compass.
It was instinct carved into insect DNA across millions of years of evolution.
Shibi, meanwhile, was receiving the transmitted data. His eyes widened progressively as the images flooded his mind.
"I... didn't think this would work!"
---
Two days later, on a forest road outside the capital.
An Iwa shinobi in disguise adjusted the scroll hidden beneath his clothing. He glanced around the quiet road and approached an inn where his team waited.
"Lord Taiseki, the supplies have arrived."
The jonin grunted approvingly. "Excellent. Such a quantity—Lord Ōnoki will reward us handsomely for this. Let's move out. I've been in the Land of Iron too long already."
The seven-man squad began their journey back through the forest.
Their conversation was light, almost celebratory.
"Whoever was selling must have had a massive stockpile."
"We lucked out. Came for iron tools and found this treasure instead."
One of them laughed. "Shame the black market keeps sellers anonymous. I'd like to thank whoever it was personally."
But his words were cut short by a sharp, piercing whistle.
The Iwa shinobi's throat exploded in a spray of red. His mouth gaped uselessly, his vocal cords severed by an invisible blade before he crumpled.
Taiseki's vision flooded crimson.
"Enemy ambush!"
More whistles followed. Figures materialized from the forest, encircling them. The leader's voice cut through the chaos like ice.
"If you need thanks, don't bother. Leave your lives instead."
"Who are you?" Taiseki's eyes blazed as he snarled the question through clenched teeth.
"Dead men don't need names."
A hand rose. Gold dust surged forward like a crashing tide—the unmistakable technique of Magnet Release.
Taiseki threw up an Earth Wall, the chakra barrier shimmering. "Sunagakure? You're starting a war with this?"
"War?" The red-haired man's voice dripped with contempt. "There's no war if you don't survive to report it."
From the rear, a coolly dressed kunoichi stepped forward. She gestured, and an orange fireball erupted toward one of Taiseki's men. The Iwa shinobi screamed as his body desiccated instantly, leaving only a withered husk.
Taiseki's blood went cold. Pakura's Scorch Release. Two kekkei genkai users from Hidden Sand.
This was a massacre.
---
One kilometer away, two figures perched silently in the high branches of towering trees, watching the carnage unfold below.