The demolition team's failure had rendered the frontal assault meaningless.
Koseki understood now. The sudden attack was never meant to break through—it was a feint, a classic diversion to pull their forces away from the real target. The undefended camp. Once Konoha's supply lines were severed, even their strongest warriors would crumble from exhaustion. The slaughter would follow.
Everything had gone wrong.
Koseki gritted his teeth, staring up at the figure descending through the smoke-choked sky. One man. Two consecutive failures—both because of him.
He suddenly understood how Rasa must have felt. The Fourth Kazekage, toyed with repeatedly by Seiran. In the end, all hope reduced to ash.
"Retreat! Fall back!" Koseki's voice cut across the battlefield.
The pressure broke instantly. Iwa shinobi turned and fled in a panic, their will shattered like glass. The terror Seiran projected was absolute—without his order, they might have collapsed from fear alone.
Koseki cast one final look upward, then ran.
---
"Hah..." Seiran exhaled as his feet touched ground, his breathing heavy.
It had all come down to psychology.
His chakra reserves were nearly gone. Iwa still held a numerical advantage. A prolonged engagement would have been catastrophic. But their willpower had broken, and a broken army was no army at all.
Jiraiya rushed toward him, eyes sharp with concern. "Seiran! Is the camp secure?"
"The frontal assault was a diversion," Seiran said quietly. "Their real target was the camp."
"The demolition team?" Understanding flickered across Jiraiya's face. "The explosive clay specialists?"
Seiran nodded. "I intercepted them before they could strike."
Jiraiya went still. Then his head tilted back, and laughter erupted from deep in his chest—genuine, booming, uncontainable. "Hahaha! Ōnoki is going to lose his mind! His elite squad—the pride of Iwagakure—deleted by a single genin!" He stepped forward and clapped Seiran hard on the shoulder, nearly driving him to his knees. "You're a hero, kid!"
Seiran shifted uncomfortably under the man's iron grip.
Around them, Konoha shinobi watched with something between awe and disbelief as Jiraiya's laughter echoed across the ruined battlefield.
---
Inside the command tent, Jiraiya studied the casualty reports with methodical precision.
The frontal assault had been costly. Iwa's numerical advantage had bled them white, and Konoha's losses were steep. But the camp—untouched. Seiran had eliminated the demolition team before they could execute their strike.
In comparison, Iwa's losses were catastrophic. Losing an elite unit cultivated over decades would cripple them for years. At this pace, the war might actually end.
Jiraiya's eyes remained fixed on the sand table for a long moment. Then understanding crystallized.
He exhaled slowly and turned to the shinobi waiting outside. "Find Minato Namikaze. I have an important mission for him."
"Yes, Lord Jiraiya."
Alone with the miniature landscape, Jiraiya's gaze settled on one feature: a bridge rendered in meticulous detail. Beneath it, written in small letters: Kannabi Bridge.
Iwa's supply line. Their lifeline.
---
Ōnoki stared blankly at the space beyond his tent, the reports spreading across his mind like poison.
Hundreds of Iwa shinobi cut down by Seiran's railgun. Lord Rōshi defeated head-on. And the demolition team—completely annihilated.
The first two he had anticipated. The last one shattered something inside him.
The demolition team. Gone.
That unit had been built over decades with the village's full resources. Generations of investment. Expertise that couldn't be replaced. It seemed impossible.
"Father." Kitsuchi's voice was quiet but steady. "You underestimated him."
Two defeats. One ninja. Hyuga Seiran.
"His railgun extends beyond five kilometers," Kitsuchi continued, his tone methodical. "Further than anything observed during the Sand Village operation. We don't know if that's even his ceiling. That's how he eliminated the demolition team from range. Lord Taiseki's advance force before the war—probably him as well."
Ōnoki looked suddenly ancient, as if years had been added to his shoulders in moments.
More scouts and advance troops had vanished in the preliminary phase. It had to have been him.
How old was this boy? How far would he grow? Was another ninja god being born before their eyes?
"Pull the camp back three kilometers," Ōnoki ordered, his voice steady despite the tremor beneath. "Double the perimeter patrols."
If five kilometers was truly his range—and Ōnoki doubted it—then distance and reconnaissance were the only defense. They had to prevent another snipe.
"Yes," Koseki replied gravely.
"Ōnoki-sama..." Kitsuchi hesitated.
The old man's eyes narrowed, and something dangerous crystallized in his gaze. "It's time for a decisive battle. I will strike personally. I underestimated him before—I will correct that mistake now."
Kitsuchi's breath caught. He'd seen this look only once before: the day his father had stood against the Third Raikage A.
Joy flooded through him. His father was among the strongest ninjas alive, wielding Dust Release itself. Even Seiran couldn't overcome that.
"If Father moves, Iwa hasn't lost yet!" Koseki said eagerly.
The Tsuchikage's lips curved into something that might have been a smile—cold, decisive, and absolute.