The rough, low-quality sheets prickled his skin again. Just like yesterday. Just like the day before.
Today had repeated itself once more.
He sat up, muttering to himself, voice low and sharp like broken glass.
"Can't run from it… can't fight it… then what can I do? Those Iwa bastards—if their goal was a raid on the camp, why kill the patrol to the east?" His eyes narrowed, thoughts racing. "Unless… they're trying to exploit a blind spot."
The east side. Neglected. Quiet. Too close to the other camps' routes, so it didn't get much attention. If he were trying to launch a surprise attack, that's where he'd strike—through the east, through the cracked-open doors.
"The shinobi stationed there… probably low-ranking. Maybe one or two Chūnin at best." He let out a bitter, rasping laugh. "Heh… dirt-eating bastards…"
His muttering filled the small tent with a strange, eerie tension. He stood up, movements mechanical as he checked his gear and slung his pack on. Then, without a word, he slipped out of the tent flap and into the cool morning air.
The Chūnin on guard duty was still about ten meters away. Gave him a half-hearted wave. He returned it and made for the camp's front gate, his footsteps muffled by the soft crunch of the forest bed—rotting leaves and springy moss swallowing the sound.
Do I run? He thought bitterly. Stay out of formation? No, that'd raise suspicion. They'd drag me back—and probably stick me even closer to the damn Chūnin.
His eyes lit up as a thought struck him. Shikogan. Shuichi. That dojutsu can spot traps and chakra trails… If I were the Iwa shinobi, I'd leave a snare—cut off retreat, block communication, delay response. Make an info gap.
"If Shuichi spots something suspicious, we could report it. A dojutsu's word weighs more than mine anyway…" He clenched his fist, breath quickening. "Yeah. Yeah, that's it. I'm not repeating today again. That's a promise."
"Yo. You finally get some action?" Shuichi's voice cut through the air, dry and amused. "What is it, you get a girl?"
"Shut up."
Shuichi smirked, lazy and sharp. "So what's up?"
"How… how does your thing—your dōjutsu—how does it work?"
"Hmm?" Shuichi tilted his head. "Weird question, but sure, guess I can enlighten you. So, the Shikogan—it started as a secret jutsu. With constant use, it ended up changing my ancestors' genetics. Boom. Bloodline limit. It evolved."
He tapped the side of his eye, grinning.
"It's built for hunting. Night vision, wide peripheral vision, chakra tracking. If we spot a chakra signature, a faint trail sticks—like a thread leading to prey. Back in the day, it was common in our little clan. Hunting tribe, y'know? But then… a famine hit. Wiped out almost everyone. Only my family survived."
Osamu raised a brow. "That's… kind of morbid."
"Yeah, but I'm not too cut up about it," Shuichi shrugged. "Me and my folks are still kicking."
"Hm… hey, Shui. You mind doing something for me?"
"Shoot."
"Can you keep the Shikogan active during our patrol? Just… tell me if anything feels off. My gut says something's wrong."
Shuichi's expression turned serious for once. "If you say so."
****
A small squad of Konoha shinobi moved quietly through the towering trees and oversized mushrooms of the Land of Grass—a thin buffer between Iwa and the Leaf.
Swasssh.
"Osamu. There," Shuichi hissed, pointing. "There's a faint signature… might be a tarp. A trap, maybe?"
Osamu's eyes widened. "Sir! Stop! Shuichi's spotted something—a trap, likely an explosive tag!"
"Osamu! What the hell are you doing? This isn't the time to mess around!"
"Sir, this is a real concern," Osamu said firmly, eyes locked on the tree ahead. "If we don't at least check it out, we could be putting everyone in danger."
The Chūnin glared, pausing mid-stride on the branch. For a long second, the only sound was the wind rustling through distant leaves. Then, with a grunt, the man leapt to a nearby branch, hand already flicking a shuriken toward the spot Shuichi had indicated.
A heartbeat later—
BOOM.
The explosion tore through the forest. The massive trunk where the chakra signature had been hidden erupted into chunks and splinters, raining bark and debris across the area. Despite the destruction, the ancient tree remained upright, held in place by the thick web of mushrooms connecting it to two other titanic trunks like a natural suspension bridge.
The Chūnin's voice came low and hard. "We're pulling back. That trap was laid on a thinner branch—unstable ground. It was meant for stragglers. Anyone trying to retreat in a panic... they'd be blown sky high. There's an ambush waiting, I'd bet my headband on it."
Without another word, he turned. The group of Konoha shinobi—Osamu, Shuichi, and the other Genin—took off at speed, retracing their steps exactly, only using the branches they'd traveled earlier. Shuichi deactivated the Shikogan mid-run, eyes aching and chakra nearly drained. He pushed everything he had into keeping up, choosing speed over sight.
They reached the edge of the camp within minutes, hearts pounding, legs aching. The Chūnin didn't stop—he sprinted straight toward the command tent, calling for the captain.
Kurai Nara, the camp commander, emerged like a shadow out of the tent flaps, his brows furrowed as he listened to the report. His expression didn't change when he heard about the trap. Just a single nod.
Later, word spread: a team of Jōnin and Chūnin, led by the very same Chūnin who had taken Osamu and Shuichi on patrol, had been dispatched to the area. They brought a Hyūga along—no room for error now.
Osamu and Shuichi were excused from the rest of their day's duties, on direct orders. Their usual patrol leader had joined the strike team.
By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows over the canopy, the strike team returned—bloodied, bruised, but successful. A few heads hung from belts—enemy Chūnin, likely the reserves meant to reinforce the ambush. Those poor souls had bounties. funds are a great motivator even in war.
The scarred Chūnin who often looked after the camp's Genin, a gruff but dependable man, stepped up to Osamu and gave him a light pat on the head—more approving than affectionate.
"Good instincts, kid," he said gruffly. "Don't let it go to your head."
Then his voice dropped, serious again. "But don't sleep in tomorrow. You and Shuichi—Commander Kurai wants to see you both. Sunrise sharp. Got it?"
Osamu swallowed hard and nodded.
"Yeah. Got it."