The Sand shinobi forces descended into chaos. High-ranking officers fell one after another, their positions systematically dismantled by Seiran's precision strikes and Minato's surgical efficiency. The enemy camp was reeling.
Back in the Konoha command tent, Orochimaru studied Seiran and Minato with visible satisfaction.
"Impressive work," he said, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "I didn't expect the two of you to cause such disruption. Sunagakure is already fracturing. Time to capitalize."
Minato shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his head with characteristic modesty.
"Most of that was Seiran. I just provided support."
It was partly genuine humility—Minato had never been one to chase glory. But there was also calculation in it: the more battle achievements Seiran accumulated, the faster he could secure that Flying Thunder God Technique Orochimaru had been dangling.
Orochimaru's gaze lingered on Seiran like a collector examining a prized artifact, his smile deepening with each passing second.
"That railgun ninjutsu of yours is remarkable. I confess, I still don't know you well enough, Seiran."
Seiran's jaw tightened. Minato was standing right there, and Orochimaru was nominally in command. This wasn't the time or place.
"Lord Orochimaru, we should focus on the offensive," he said carefully.
Orochimaru exhaled, understanding the wisdom in restraint. His expression shifted—serious now, all business.
"Then it's time to move. I'll have the high command assembled immediately."
---
The command tent's sand table was covered in tactical markers. Orochimaru's palm struck the table's edge with decisive force, his gaze sweeping across the assembled jonin.
"It's time to strike back," he announced. "We've been passive too long. Now we attack."
He moved methodically through the assignments. "Shikaku, take the second and third units. Left flank, hit their camp from the side."
The scarred jonin nodded sharply. "Understood."
"Minato, fourth and fifth units. Right flank. Cut off their retreat."
"Understood," Minato replied in a steady voice.
"Tsunade, you command the reserves. Medical support—be ready for casualties."
Orochimaru watched her carefully, his frown deepening at her weak nod. Unlike Jiraiya, who would've laughed the assignment off with boisterous confidence, Orochimaru understood that Tsunade's hemophobia was a liability he couldn't ignore. But wasting one of the Sannin seemed equally foolish. Medical command was the best compromise.
His attention finally settled on Seiran, and he hesitated—a rare moment of visible deliberation.
"Seiran, you'll join my unit. Frontal assault."
"Okay!" Seiran's immediate acceptance drew sharp reactions from the gathered jonin. Eyes widened. A few jaws tightened.
The first unit faced the Sand's apex fighters—Elder Chiyo, Rasa himself. And Orochimaru was committing a teenager to that meat grinder, even if that teenager was the highest-ranked new genin?
Even Minato was only assigned to a flank position.
Strange looks passed between the officers, unspoken questions hanging heavy. Those rumors that had been circulating...
Minato felt the weight of their stares and tried to ignore the creeping embarrassment. What was going on? Why did people keep looking at him like that?
Orochimaru, however, seemed amused by their shock. When this was over, these jonin would understand exactly what Seiran was capable of. The thought almost made him smile.
---
In the Sand command tent, Rasa paced like a caged predator, his face twisted with rage.
Again.
That bastard had slipped away again. So close. Close enough that Rasa could almost hear the mockery in the air, only to have it answered by that cold, mechanical crack of the railgun.
Thirty-six.
That number alone should have broken him. Thirty-six elite Sand shinobi—not conscripts, not foot soldiers. Command staff. The nerve centers of Sunagakure's military apparatus.
At the latest high-level meeting, more than half the seats had sat empty.
That beast was systematically decapitating his officer corps.
And the sniping pattern was deliberate. Calculated. The timing and location grew increasingly cruel, less tactical and more theatrical. There had been days with no attacks at all, letting his forces believe the threat had passed—only for the nightmare to resume the next morning with naked bodies arranged in degrading positions, half-dead generals gasping for breath as they tried desperately to recover their dignity.
Rasa's teeth ground together until he thought they might crack. His complexion cycled through shades of fury—red to white to sickly green.
His entire command structure was losing face. The soldiers were beginning to look at their superiors with barely concealed contempt.
The worst part? He had almost nothing to work with. The sensor corps couldn't track the sniper. Scouts found nothing. Konoha's intelligence dossiers contained no ninjas with jutsu like this. Perhaps Konoha had hired some black market assassin. It wouldn't be the first time in a war.
The first encounter near the black market base. That had to mean something.
Who are you?
The question burned in his chest like acid.
The tent flap exploded inward. A Sand scout burst through, breathless and wild-eyed.
"Report!"
"Lord Kazekage! Konoha—large-scale attack! At least two thousand shinobi mobilizing! They'll be here in twenty minutes!"
Rasa's breath caught. Then sharpened. The chaos. The sniper attacks. They were all preparation.
"Are you certain?" His voice remained controlled despite the inferno behind his eyes.
"Absolutely, sir. That many can't be hidden."
"Damn it." Rasa's hands balled into fists. "So the sniping was Konoha's opening move. They weakened our command structure, and now they strike while we're fractured."
He turned toward his officers with terrible intent burning in his eyes.
"Gather the high command. Now. We're going to war."
---
If this chapter was worth your time, a Powerstone helps others find it.
Want to read ahead, check Patreon
[email protected]/Rogue_Soul