"Feldsher, what's wrong?"
Behind a massive boulder, the black-haired Iwa shinobi crouched low, glancing back at his companion who had crept up behind him. He whispered, "No Konoha scouts in the area. Our position is secure—the enemy hasn't detected us yet."
His companion, carrying a ninja knife across his back, smiled with barely concealed pride. "Of course not. I'm Iwaitetsu, a legendary stealth ninja of Iwagakure. When it comes to reconnaissance, those Leaf Village brats don't stand a chance against me."
Scouting missions were fundamentally about remaining unseen. The moment combat erupted, the mission failed. Intelligence gathering between rival villages typically fell into three scenarios: seeing the enemy without being seen, knowing you were being observed and observing back, or having your ally spot an enemy you'd missed.
Iwaitetsu considered himself firmly in the first category and was pleased with himself. "Lord Ōnoki finally gave the order. After all this waiting, my bones are practically rusted through. This war will be my chance to take down some Leaf Village ninja."
Feldsashi glanced at him with concern. "Konoha's strength is considerable. We shouldn't underestimate them."
"Nervous?" Iwaitetsu waved a dismissive hand. "The vanguard under Lord Taiseki is already positioned in Windmill Town. Reinforcements will arrive within days."
"True enough..."
Feldsashi nodded. The Tsuchikage had orchestrated this campaign meticulously, aiming to seize the initiative before Konoha could mobilize. The main army had likely already crossed into the Land of Grass. With momentum on their side, the Leaf Village would be forced into a defensive stance.
"So that's how it is," came a calm voice from directly behind them, freezing both men in place. "The Iwa vanguard is already stationed in the Land of Grass? Thank you for the intelligence."
Iwaitetsu's face flushed crimson—a mix of shame and rage. In an instant, the realization hit him like a physical blow. He'd fallen into the first scenario, but he'd gotten the roles backwards.
"You little brat! You should've run with that information! What kind of fool stays to fight?" He drew the ninja sword from his back in one fluid motion. "I'm Iwaitetsu, the legendary stealth ninja of Iwagakure!"
Seiran smirked. The name stirred a memory from his past knowledge—something Jiraiya had once mentioned. An Iwa shinobi who'd boasted about being a legendary stealth master, claiming he could defeat Jiraiya in a single move. That encounter had ended with the fool getting struck by a spherical projectile and flying eighteen meters backward.
Seemed like the type.
Iwaitetsu didn't waste breath on further insults. His body sank into the earth with a wet, grating sound. When he emerged, he was already behind Seiran, the blade flashing as it drove toward the back of his neck with murderous intent.
"Die!"
Feldsashi held his breath—was this it? Iwaitetsu's signature technique?
Then he watched, horror-struck, as the blade sank clean through Seiran's neck.
"You... little ghost..." Blood pooled in Iwaitetsu's mouth. His voice shook. "Wh-what...?"
Seiran didn't pause. Electromagnetic Manipulation seized the embedded knife, and the metal twisted violently. Flesh and bone became pulp in seconds.
Feldsashi finally snapped to awareness and bolted for the tree line.
Seiran raised his right hand. A sphere of magnetic fluid condensed above his thumb, and he flicked it forward with a sharp motion.
Blue lightning crackled through the air. The silver projectile became a streak, wrapped in lethal electromagnetic force.
The explosion came sudden and absolute. Feldsashi's skull cratered inward. Gray matter and blood erupted from the exit wound as his body dropped like dead weight.
Seiran walked over and reclaimed the magnetic fluid from the corpse. His position was precarious—if other Iwa scouts discovered this encounter, the entire operation would unravel. He needed to erase all evidence.
Electromagnetic Furnace ignited.
Blazing heat consumed both bodies in an instant. Within seconds, only scorched earth remained. No traces. No witnesses.
He'd learned early on that the Electromagnetic Furnace's most practical application was disposing of evidence.
Seiran lay across the boulder, considering his next move. Other Iwa scouts were definitely in the area. With his current abilities, he held overwhelming advantage.
Byakugan active. Magnetic field perception at maximum range. Rotting Wood Technique concealing his presence.
It would be wasteful not to capitalize on this opportunity.
Seiran adjusted his position and extended his arms. Silver magnetic bodies flowed from his sleeves, amalgamating mid-air into the shape of a sniper rifle. The muzzle solidified into a suppressed barrel.
He pressed his left hand against the grass beneath him. Metal particles from the soil responded to his will, drawn upward and compressed under Electromagnetic Manipulation until their molecular density increased dramatically. One by one, they reformed into bullets of lethal precision.
Conventional sniper rifles were loud, obvious, vulnerable to detection. Electromagnetic propulsion eliminated gunpowder's signature boom. The only noise came from bullets breaking the sound barrier, but Seiran's specially-crafted rounds—shaped to minimize aerodynamic shock—produced barely a whisper. Combined with the muzzle suppressor, the rifle became a ghost weapon.
The first bullet loaded with a soft click.
Through his magnetic field perception, Seiran locked onto the nearest target two kilometers distant—an Iwa scout lying in tall grass.
Byakugan verified the angle.
Target confirmed.
Seiran's lips curved into a predatory smile. "Time to teach you the price of carelessness."
Blue lightning coalesced around the barrel.
He squeezed the trigger.
The report was barely louder than a breath. Two kilometers away, an Iwa scout's head detonated in a spray of red. Grass and soil became soaked with blood and brain matter.
The next bullet loaded.
Another target—this one crouched behind dense brush. He never saw death coming. A crater the size of a bowl opened through his chest. The shinobi fell backward, disbelief frozen on his dying face.
The third shot claimed a scout buried underground. Electromagnetic force reduced flesh to ash.
Without needing to recover his magnetic fluid, Seiran felt no hesitation using the bullets freely. These projectiles, though compressed to maximum density, had a three-kilometer effective range before air friction degraded them into harmlessness.
Three kilometers exceeded any conventional sniper rifle's practical distance.
Seiran chose targets methodically—isolated scouts or those positioned poorly enough that a single shot could claim two lives. Each shot was calculated. Each movement minimal.
By day's end, seven Iwa scouts lay dead across the grasslands, none of them aware of the threat until the moment they died.
Later, the survivors among Iwa's reconnaissance teams would speak in hushed whispers of a force they couldn't see, couldn't understand. They'd call it terror incarnate.
They'd call it Old Six.