Over the past few days, Hatake Kyūjō hadn’t gotten many chances to personally take action.

The only time he truly stepped in was during the assault on Sunagakure’s logistics unit. For reasons unknown—perhaps to keep him from getting bored, or maybe to sharpen his edge—Captain Araki specifically assigned one of the enemy Chūnin for Kyūjō to face one-on-one.

The outcome? Predictable.

With a single lightning-fast strike of his Lightning Release: Thunder Rampage — Thousand Blade Dance, Kyūjō brought the Sunagakure ninja down before the man even had time to react.

From that moment on, the elite task force—comprised of hardened Jōnin—accepted Kyūjō’s strength without question. They swiftly eliminated the remaining enemy Jōnin themselves, and not a single voice ever rose again to doubt Kyūjō’s presence among them.

Still, Sarutobi Chikawa had been reassigned to stay by Kyūjō’s side at all times. No one argued. It was common sense. Someone with Kyūjō’s talents was too valuable to be left unguarded.

It was a natural reaction. Once you experience the convenience of working with someone who practically has cheat-code powers, even elite Jōnin from Konohagakure wouldn’t want to go back to the old ways—risking their necks every step of a mission.

But strangely enough, it was after this successful S-rank mission that Kyūjō began to reflect more seriously.

He realized he had underestimated his own sensory abilities—abilities that, in this world, bordered on the realm of broken.

With perception like his, he could change the course of a war single-handedly.

Unless Sunagakure somehow had a way to overcome his detection range, the current forces Konoha possessed would be enough to decimate them—no reinforcements from the Three Legendary Sannin required.

— — —

Meanwhile, in the main command tent at the Sunagakure frontline, the war commander Chiyo sat alone, gently clutching the worn-out flak vest of her deceased son.

Her husband. Her son. Her daughter-in-law.

All of them had died. And their bodies remained in the hands of Konoha.

For a woman nearing sixty, the grief in her heart was immeasurable.

If not for her grandson—Sasori, still just a child in need of guidance—perhaps she would’ve charged straight to the battlefield and dragged Hatake Sakumo down with her in a suicidal clash.

Her hatred had nearly turned toward the Third Kazekage himself, for sending her son on a death mission.

What was that man thinking?

If not for his overwhelming contributions to the war effort, Chiyo might have truly believed her son had been sacrificed in some political maneuver.

But now… none of that mattered anymore.

Even if it were true, what could she do?

Kill the Kazekage? That would make her the greatest traitor in the history of Sunagakure.

“…Ryū, please rest easy in the afterlife. I swear, I will kill Hatake Sakumo with my own hands. For you and Ena.”

Just as the words left her lips, shouting erupted outside the tent.

A young Sunagakure ninja came sprinting through the rain-drenched grounds, his face pale and drenched in sweat, speaking urgently with the two guards stationed nearby.

Chiyo stepped out of her tent, gently laying her son’s vest aside. Her voice was low but firm.

“What is it?”

“Lady Chiyo!” the young man cried, breath ragged. “Our rear supply team… they were ambushed by Konoha shinobi! Not a single survivor!”

Her face went cold.

“When exactly did this happen?” she asked, tone sharp as steel.

The scout gulped. “Judging from the terrain and signs left behind… most likely last night.”

Chiyo wasted no time.

“Summon every Jōnin not currently out on assignment. Bring them here. Now.”

She shoved the tent flap aside and marched toward the war table, where a large battle map of the region lay unfurled and waiting.

— — —

Elsewhere, along a muddy mountain pass recently soaked by heavy rain, the trail had become a river of slush.

Sarutobi Chikawa grumbled as he chewed on a soldier pill.

“Ugh, stupid rain… My uniform’s soaked to the bone. This sucks…”

“Enough, Chikawa,” snapped Captain Araki. “Can’t your soldier pill shut your mouth too? Just pipe down.”

He didn’t truly mind Chikawa’s grumbling, but ever since Kyūjō joined the team, Chikawa had been growing far too relaxed—far too casual for a shinobi in enemy territory. That wasn’t acceptable behavior.

Still, the warning only made Chikawa grin.

“Heh. Come on, Captain. Try chewing soldier pills with rainwater—it’s surprisingly tasty! Besides, the mission’s over, right? We’re heading home. What’s the rush?”

“We’ve got Kyūjō with us! No need to worry. I’ll protect him myself!”

“I swear—” Araki sighed, unable to even finish the retort.

And then…

Kyūjō, walking in the middle of the formation, calmly raised one hand.

“Stop. Now.”

Instantly, everyone gathered around him. They understood this signal all too well—it meant there was trouble ahead.

This wasn’t the first time.

“Kyūjō, is it Sunagakure shinobi?” Chikawa asked, voice sharp now. “How many? Jōnin?”

Kyūjō didn’t reply immediately. His brows furrowed in thought.

The shinobi of Sunagakure weren’t fools. By now, they must have realized that Konoha had someone with a terrifying sensory skill among their ranks—someone who could avoid most patrols and slip through enemy lines undetected.

Even if they didn’t know Kyūjō’s exact location, Chiyo had surely taken action.

And she had.

She’d deployed over a hundred Jōnin in a wide, circular formation along the only route that led back to Konoha—forming a massive trap.

If Kyūjō’s range had been only three kilometers, perhaps it might have worked.

But the truth was far worse for the enemy.

His detection range far exceeded anything they anticipated. Traps of that scale couldn’t escape his perception—unless they were ten times larger.

But that would make the trap useless, because the enemy Jōnin wouldn’t be able to support each other at such wide intervals.

Even so, they were trapped.

There was only one way home. The alternative was to make a massive detour that would delay them by at least a week—unless, of course, they could fly.

Well… Kyūjō could.

In the world of One Piece, he had refined his own version of Moon Walk, the Marine Rokushiki technique, evolving it into his unique ability: Aerial Step.

At full speed, he could shatter the sound barrier and return to HQ within minutes.

But… he wasn’t alone.

So how could he bring the entire team across enemy lines?

Ahead of them, more than a hundred Sunagakure Jōnin lay in wait, scattered within a ten-kilometer radius. Chiyo had committed everything to this final trap.

‘What is this woman’s grudge against us?’ Kyūjō thought grimly. But then, an idea sparked in his mind.

‘Why should I play by Sunagakure’s rules?’

‘If you expect me to retreat, then I’ll do the opposite.’

“Captain Araki. There’s a large-scale ambush up ahead. But… I have a suggestion.”

With a glint in his eyes, Kyūjō began outlining a strategy.

Not from this world—but from another time, another Earth.

A war doctrine from a famous historical text titled On Protracted War:

“When the enemy advances, we retreat. When the enemy camps, we harass. When the enemy tires, we strike. When the enemy flees, we pursue.”

There was no need for direct confrontation.

They could use superior mobility to harass the enemy’s rear lines instead.

If Chiyo didn’t want them to return—fine. Then they wouldn’t return.

Kyūjō wanted to see just how many Jōnin Sunagakure could afford to throw away just to block a single mountain trail.

After all, he believed in his brother. Hatake Sakumo wasn’t a fool.

Once Sunagakure overcommitted to this position… the White Fang of Konoha would bite back hard.

‘Granny Chiyo… you made a grave mistake.’

And for some reason, Kyūjō suddenly remembered a technique.

A truly legendary one.

“You know which one I mean, right?”

“Of course… Secret Taijutsu Technique: One Thousand Years of Death.”

A forbidden art from the Hatake bloodline… destined to be immortalized one day by Kakashi himself.

— — —

After a short discussion, not a single Jōnin voiced any objection.

In fact, they looked more fired up than ever—eager to slip past the trap and wreak havoc behind enemy lines.

Even Araki, their captain, could only nod silently.

The reality was clear: this team’s leadership had unofficially passed into the hands of Kyūjō—a Genin, no less.

Watching everyone move into formation, Araki chuckled softly, shaking his head… then followed after them.

“If Sunagakure wants to play dirty… then let’s teach them a lesson they’ll never forget.”

— — —

Midnight.

Under the looming shadow of a giant tree on the outskirts of the Sunagakure camp, a lone scout stood in silent vigilance. This was one of the perimeter surveillance posts surrounding their main base.

His name was Hirata Tomohiko, age 24.

A sensory-type shinobi from the fading Hirata clan of Sunagakure. Current rank: Chūnin.

He activated his inherited technique, closed his eyes, and synchronized with the wind, detecting subtle shifts in air pressure within a 1,800-meter radius.

A legacy sensory ninjutsu passed down from his great-grandfather.

Wind Release: Flowing Dance

Long ago, his ancestor could sense movements up to three kilometers away—able to read enemy posture and velocity just from the breeze.

But the clan had faded with time, unable to adapt to the shifting power dynamics of the ninja world. They never allied with the Senju. They remained in the Land of Wind, and eventually fell into obscurity.

Now, only Hirata Tomohiko carried on their legacy.

“…If I die, our clan’s technique dies with me,” he whispered.

And then—he felt it.

A chilling breath of air touched the back of his neck.

Before he could react, a calm, youthful voice spoke from the shadows behind him.

“Sorry… shinobi of the Hirata Clan. But don’t worry—your clan’s technique won’t disappear. Because I’ve already learned it.”

A gleam of metal in the darkness.

Hatake Kyūjō’s kunai slashed clean across the man’s throat.

The sensor ninja collapsed without a sound. With fading consciousness, he struggled to turn his head—desperate to see the face of the man who had stolen both his life and his clan’s final secret.

“Y-You… stole… our pride…!”

And then—darkness.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

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