Meanwhile, Ryusei was already sprinting madly, distance growing between him and the Root pursuers, though he could still sense them.

Dozens of signatures, tightly packed, disciplined, led by two High Jōnin and one Elite Jōnin.

A lineup so excessive it could probably take down a lower-tier Kage if they cornered him.

He almost laughed at the absurdity of it, though his chest burned.

A strange sense of gratitude bubbled up instead.

Gratitude toward whatever higher force might exist in this world, if such a thing existed at all.

Because if not for that single instant when he sensed the insect brushing against his body’s aura, he would already be finished.

Poisoned, paralyzed, and swiftly disposed of without even a chance to run.

Again, he realized the absolute importance of his close-range sensory net.

And again, he was thankful he had never neglected it, not once since his transmigration into this world.

That constant honing had just saved his life.

He took one last deep scan behind him, and his narrow eyes flickered.

Relief, strange and unwelcome, settled in his chest.

Root hadn’t targeted Renjiro or Kanae.

They had been let off. Especially Kanae.

He knew he shouldn’t feel that way now.

He should be ice-cold, detached, focused only on his own survival in a world such as this.

But human nature didn’t bend so easily.

It wasn’t just that they were now still useful as tools lodged inside ANBU.

It was also personal.

Kanae in particular… she had cracked behind his mask of casual indifference these last weeks, and he had noticed.

Whether he admitted it aloud or not, part of him was glad she had survived.

The reason he immediately sprinted toward the more heavily Kumo-controlled territory was simple: he had no other choice.

Turning anywhere else meant diving back into his own Division’s Konoha’s lines.

His small company was not standalone; it was also surrounded by many other companies after all, all forming a single Division in this general area.

The spiking of signals alone told him enough, Orochimaru, ANBU, and Root, who knew how many layers of nets were waiting amongst them in that space.

That way was nothing but death.

The only option left was enemy ground.

Ryusei, however, already understood how shinobi wars truly worked.

Unlike the armies of his past life, shinobi deployments always left huge tracts of land under minimal control.

A few squads spread across vast zones.

Even in so-called “enemy territory,” actual patrol density was low.

The risk was higher, but not suicidal, as long as you masked yourself properly from a sensory chakra standpoint.

And that was something Ryusei excelled at.

He had only opened the first two Gates at the start, using the explosive speed to break away and create breathing room.

Now, moving deeper north into Kumo’s areas of the Land of Hot Water, he closed them.

His pace dropped to something more controlled, fast enough to stay ahead, but not so enhanced that he bled chakra signals into the air.

Layered over that, he activated his most advanced sensory suppression.

Or at least what could be considered best while he still had to use some chakra enhancement to keep up his pace.

It wasn’t perfect invisibility, but it blurred his trail enough to keep most scouts blind, unless they were on top of him.

That bought him what he needed: time.

Chances of running into enemy squads accidentally were very low; however, chances of him catching some broad sensory signal weren’t.

So, Ryusei knew that this was only temporary. 

Now that the initial distance was established, he no longer feared immediate pursuit.

Even in his base state, his body was faster than theirs, and he had a head start.

His stride was steady, deliberately avoiding the telltale bursts of chakra that would light him up to Kumo’s sensors, or even smaller villages like Yuga or Shimo who prowled these contested borders.

Defection? He dismissed the thought as quickly as it rose.

Running to Kumo’s camp waving a white flag would likely get his head cut off a hundred times before he could say a word.

That option wasn’t salvation.

Though truthfully, he admitted to himself… it wasn’t worse than calmly lying down and waiting for Root to put a blade through his throat.

He had thought about that too in the darker hours of recent days.

But no. Ryusei had something better in mind.

A plan not born of desperation, but of calculation.

One that offered more than a short reprieve, one that could tilt expectation itself in his favor.

His lips curled into a faint grin as he tore across the rugged forest floor.

A plan far more promising than begging mercy from Kumo.

Ryusei understood the game clearly.

Even if he was faster for now, the Root weren’t chasing him blindly.

They were pacing themselves, conserving strength, waiting for him to burn himself out or force him too deep into Kumo’s territory until enemy patrols inevitably noticed.

He knew the other part of the trap, too, the tightening ring from behind.

Root squads closing in from the Konoha lines, planning to cut his retreat.

He was the prey as long as the marks stayed on him.

And with both an Inuzuka tracker and an Aburame specialist on his tail, he wasn’t naïve enough to believe he could just shake them off.

Worse still, the entire division’s sensory net was in play, a web stretching across dozens of kilometers.

Against that kind of machinery, there was no “fair” equation.

Head-on, he couldn’t face them.

He would be smothered, crushed.

So distance was his only weapon.

He had to keep outpacing them long enough to reach his chosen ground, his destination, before Kumo caught scent of him, or before another Root squad cut him off.

Because this wasn’t the only team hunting him. That much was obvious.

The one behind him was the main strike unit, but there were surely reserves scattered across the wider net, waiting for the chance to collapse on him once he slowed down.

The ANBU, meanwhile, were playing their own role.

They weren’t the ones sent to kill him outright, not while they were still active participants in this war and had their assignments.

Their job was suppression.

Smothering his signals, scrambling his sensory reach, keeping him cut off from potential allies.

They could track, they could jam, and they could spring ambushes if he dared double back toward Konoha’s side.

But they wouldn’t commit to the chase.

Orochimaru and his men were the same. Facilitators, watchers, the silent overseers.

The blades drawn against him belonged to Root.

Ryusei’s narrow eyes sharpened as he tore through the undergrowth, every step measured, every breath controlled.

“They want me boxed in, worn down, killed like an animal,” he thought, his lips curling into that thin, mocking smile again.

“But I’ll choose where this hunt ends. Not them.”

However, Ryusei soon realized something strange.

As he cut deeper into Kumo-held territory, the pressure of pursuit shifted.

The number of signatures behind him trimmed down, but those that remained felt heavier, sharper. And when he extended his net to measure them, they blurred in and out, harder to pin down than before.

It wasn’t just distance.

They were masking themselves.

His narrow eyes flickered with realization. “Those bugs… from that one earlier. He can use them like a constant sensory whirlwind.”

It fit. Just because he had managed to catch a vague glimpse of the swarm back there didn’t mean ordinary Kumo sensors could.

If even his sharpened perception was struggling to track them, then anyone else patrolling these forests would see nothing but the usual clutter of background chakra.

And even if a Kumo squad somehow caught a whiff of them? Ryusei’s lips curled faintly. “What could they do?”

A squad like this, led by an elite jōnin and two high jonin, wasn’t something ordinary Kumo squads could simply pin down.

They could break off or vanish in an instant, even if discovered.

That was why they dared to follow him this far in, into enemy-dense ground where no sane Konoha shinobi should step.

Ryusei exhaled through his nose, bitter amusement bubbling in his chest. “Or they simply don’t care about their own lives. Not as long as mine ends here.”

Ryusei knew the truth.

Running endlessly, burning through his chakra until the Root dogs finally cornered him, wasn’t a plan. It was a slow death.

The only way to break this deadlock, this giant killing game they had staged, was to reach a destination powerful enough to deter even Root, to reach someone who could shield him in a way nothing else could.

If that place, if that person, accepted him…

No, if she accepted him… then this noose around his neck could become his ladder.

Not only to survival, but to an entirely new dimension of his shinobi path.

He had envisioned this exact scenario months ago, not long after his transmigration, when he spent sleepless nights combing through his parents’ preserved notes.

There has always been a single lifeline for him that even his parents did not believe in.

Tsunade.

Not just a Senju, but the Senju who still walked the earth.

His clan’s last princess, Hiruzen’s ‘pampered’ student, Sannin of legend, and the woman foolish enough to let herself be chained by delusion and grief.

Ryusei had weighed her early.

He’d seen how thoroughly she had been deceived by Hiruzen, brainwashed since her childhood, how she buried her clarity beneath layers of loyalty, fear, and drink.

She wasn’t simple to approach, nor someone who would embrace him just because they shared blood.

But now?

Now he had no other option.

The battlefield had cornered him, Root had hounded him, and Orochimaru’s shadow was already in motion.

His enemies wanted him erased quietly, without a trace.

To live, to grow, he needed someone the system itself couldn’t dare move against easily in the short term.

And that meant Tsunade.

“She’s the only one left…” Ryusei muttered under his breath, his expression tightening. “So, I’ll make her mine. One way or another.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep