Chapter 26: Come Here
"Senior Chunin."
I stared at my updated system evaluation, feeling like I was looking at a report card that had gone completely off the rails. My physical attributes were so imbalanced I practically qualified as a medical anomaly.
According to my usual calculations and comparisons, a senior chūnin with my particular combination of bloodline abilities should theoretically be able to tangle with some tokubetsu jōnin—assuming they weren't specifically equipped to counter me.
And that was a big assumption. Genjutsu specialists, for instance, would turn me into their personal punching bag faster than you could say "Sharingan."
Tokubetsu jonin were the middle children of the ninja world—too strong to be regular chunin, not quite strong enough to be full jōnin. They were specialists who excelled in particular areas but lacked the well-rounded competence of true jōnin.
The result was a wildly inconsistent power level. Put a taijutsu specialist against someone weak in physical combat, and they could hold their own against a jōnin. Put them against someone who specialized in their weakness, and they'd get schooled by a skilled chūnin.
That was exactly my situation. Strong in physical combat, pathetically weak in genjutsu. Against the right opponent, I might actually win. Against the wrong one, I'd be lucky to land a single hit before getting my brain scrambled.
Rock, paper, scissors with lethal consequences. How delightful.
I'd exhausted all my daily corpse-looting attempts and had to accept that I wasn't getting any more power-ups today. No emergency trump cards, no convenient experience boosts. Just me, my imbalanced stats, and whatever trouble was inevitably heading my way.
Glancing at the window, I realized night had fallen while I'd been busy with my morbid activities. Time had a way of slipping by when you were communing with the dead.
"Wait."
The realization hit me like a slap to the face. According to standard ninja protocols, the two chunin assigned to guard me should have checked in at least once per hour. They needed to exchange information, confirm each other's status, verify the code words.
But I'd been so absorbed in processing my newfound power that I'd completely lost track of time. More than an hour had passed, and neither of them had come to the command room.
A cold knot formed in my stomach. In my experience, when people stopped following basic safety protocols, it usually meant they were either dead or no longer in a position to care about protocols.
Neither option was particularly reassuring.
I wanted to go look for them, but leaving the command room would be tactically stupid. The room was spacious with good sightlines, while the corridors outside were narrow death traps perfect for ambushes. We'd seen plenty of evidence of that when we first arrived.
But staying put would be equally stupid if a large-scale Iwa-nin assault was incoming. I'd be trapped like a rat in a cage.
I sat down heavily, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with a small flame jutsu. The dead guys weren't going to complain about secondhand smoke.
Taking a deep drag, I muttered, "Damn it. I can't be this unlucky."
But even as I said it, I knew luck had nothing to do with it. This was war, and in war, the unlucky died first.
I crushed the cigarette under my heel and frantically pulled out every explosive tag I could find. I might not be a trap specialist, but I understood the basic principle: make the enemy's life as difficult and short as possible.
Working quickly, I strung the tags together with ninja wire and plastered them across walls and doorways. If someone wanted to get to me, they'd have to go through my impromptu minefield first.
"Whoever comes will die," I muttered, activating my Sharingan. The familiar weight of the tomoe spinning in my vision was oddly comforting.
I settled into position, hand resting on my sword hilt, eyes locked on the door. Like a farmer waiting for rabbits—except the rabbits were probably armed and trained to kill.
Time crawled by with the speed of continental drift. Every shadow seemed to move, every sound echoed with potential threat. Paranoia was a survival skill in this business.
Then the door handle moved.
My pupils contracted to pinpricks, every muscle in my body coiling like a spring. Here we go.
"Who's there?!" I called out, my voice carrying more authority than I felt.
The door was locked, which should have been the first clue for any legitimate visitor.
"It's me," came a familiar voice from the other side. One of the chūnin guards, or at least someone who sounded like him.
But I'd learned not to trust familiar voices in enemy territory. "Password!"
Silence.
One second of silence that stretched like an eternity. In that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that whoever was on the other side of that door wasn't supposed to be there.
I released my sword hilt and formed hand seals.
Hiss, hiss, hiss—
The explosive tags began to burn with the soft sound of doom approaching. The fuses caught like a chain reaction, racing toward their inevitable conclusion.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The explosions came in rapid succession, each one shaking the entire building like an earthquake. Dust and debris filled the air, and I had to admire whoever had designed these checkpoints—they were built to withstand serious punishment.
The walls and corridors outside the command room were reduced to rubble, but the structure held. Good craftsmanship, even if the current circumstances didn't allow me to appreciate it properly.
I kept my Sharingan active, scanning the wreckage for any signs of movement. You didn't become a jōnin by being easy to kill with basic traps.
"Quite a welcome gift," came a calm, amused voice from the pile of rocks. "Konoha certainly takes security seriously."
A figure stood up from the debris, looking somewhat disheveled but very much alive. His clothes were torn, hanging off a muscular frame that suggested he specialized in turning people into paste.
Tsuchi-something, my mind supplied unhelpfully. Iwagakure jonin.
If he hadn't noticed something was wrong at the last second and protected himself with earth-style jutsu, my explosive surprise would have turned him into chunky salsa. Unfortunately, that one second of hesitation on my part had given him just enough time to react.
Note to self: next time, explode first and ask questions later.
I kept my hand on my sword hilt, feeling my temple throb as my Sharingan spun faster. One look was enough to confirm my worst fears—this guy was definitely jōnin level, possibly even a particularly strong one.
The Iwa-nin looked at my alert posture and noticed my crimson eyes. He chuckled with the kind of confidence that came from knowing you held all the cards. "Well, well. A little Uchiha. Too bad it's only single tomoe—if you had three, this plan might have actually been in trouble."
Plan?
The pieces clicked together in my mind like a particularly unpleasant puzzle. The tracks at Nagano Mountain had been bait. They'd lured Orochimaru and the main force away so they could pick off whoever was left behind at the checkpoint.
Classic divide-and-conquer tactics. Except they'd miscalculated who was leading our team.
Suppressing the ice-cold fear crawling up my spine, I forced a cocky grin. "Konoha's determination goes way beyond your imagination. I don't think you know who's leading our little expedition."
"Oh?" The Iwa-nin raised an eyebrow with casual interest. "Do tell."
I let the name drop from my lips like a bomb. "Orochimaru."
The effect was immediate and satisfying. The jonin's eyes widened, and for just a moment, genuine fear flickered across his face. Even hardened Iwa-nin knew better than to mess with one of the legendary Sannin.
"With Orochimaru-sama personally leading the team," I continued, pressing my psychological advantage, "I'd say your buddies hiding in Nagano Mountain are about to have a very bad day."
The Iwa-nin's expression darkened as he processed the implications. "Even if it is Orochimaru, he won't get out of this easily. But that's his problem. Are you ready to die, boy?"
From his perspective, I was just another chunin with a barely-awakened Sharingan. Dangerous enough to be cautious around, but not dangerous enough to retreat from.
I smiled—not the fake confidence I'd been projecting, but genuine amusement. Because I'd just confirmed something very important.
"Come here," I said, crooking my finger at him.
The gesture was pure provocation, but my smile was real. This Iwa-nin had no idea Orochimaru was leading our team, which meant they weren't fully prepared for what was coming their way. With any luck, the Snake Sannin would be back soon to turn this jōnin into a very surprised corpse.
And if things went really badly? Well, I could always run. My newly-boosted constitution should be good for something.
The Iwa-nin stared at me for a moment, then his face twisted with rage. He'd just realized he'd been intimidated by a kid, and his pride wasn't taking it well.
"You little—" he snarled, clenching his fists. Instead of reaching for jutsu, he decided to settle this the direct way. His fists were apparently his preferred method of problem-solving.
"Rock Fist Technique!"
Click, click, click -
Stone and earth flowed over his already-substantial fists, turning them into literal rock hammers. He launched himself at me with the kind of speed that made my enhanced perception feel like a cruel joke.
My Sharingan tracked every detail of his movement—the way his muscles coiled, the trajectory of his attack, the wind pressure from his approach that made my face sting.
I could see it all perfectly clearly.
Unfortunately, seeing an attack and surviving it were two very different things. This wasn't just any jonin—this was a particularly strong one who specialized in turning people into pancakes.
And I was fresh out of experience cards.
Well, I thought as a fist the size of a small boulder hurtled toward my face, this is going to hurt.
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