Ryusei only smirked. Okabe’s aura was getting harder to ignore, more pointed, more openly hostile with every passing week.

‘Well, you can’t compare him to Hiruzen in that regard…’ Ryusei thought dryly.

Soon after, Kanae and Renjiro arrived.

The mission desk didn’t bother with the usual routine this time.

They were told to head straight in; the Hokage himself would brief them.

It made sense. Every S-rank mission, and at least half the A-ranks, went directly through Hiruzen’s hands due to the importance.

Shikaku was the one who met them at the door again, as if he had nothing better to do than babysit fresh chūnin on their way to the Hokage.

He guided them through the hall in his usual half-asleep manner, yawning like the weight of the village was just another mild inconvenience.

Inside, Hiruzen waited behind his desk, pipe in hand, expression carved into that practiced calm that fooled everyone but Ryusei.

“This time,” the Hokage began, “your team will reinforce a listening post in the Land of Grass.”

Ryusei’s eyes narrowed slightly. The Grass Country, of course.

A buffer zone between the great powers, loyal to whichever side seemed stronger at the moment.

These little garrisons weren’t glamorous.

They existed to project influence and keep Grass from tilting too far off balance.

Usually, they were classified as B-rank missions; skirmishes were common but manageable.

But not now. Not with the air already souring toward another war.

Hiruzen’s tone never wavered as he laid it out. “Given the volatility, this post has been elevated to A-rank. You’ll be stationed there until further notice. Reinforcements are being rotated in… you will not be the only ones sent.”

“There has to be a reason he chose that post for me, and why he waited until now,” Ryusei thought, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Out of all the outposts scattered across the buffer states, why this one? Probably because it has the highest chance of being attacked.”

He exhaled quietly, already piecing it together.

These border garrisons were rarely manned by ordinary forces, not even ANBU.

Most shinobi wouldn’t sign up to be stationed year-round in a volatile foreign zone.

Which meant the post had likely been under Root’s control until now. Another risk factor is waiting for him. Tricky.

Still, after so many assassination attempts, the thought hardly made his pulse stir.

He wasn’t cocky, far from it. He had simply gone numb.

No fear, no anger, no resentment.

Only cold calculations, always running in the back of his mind.

Options to fight, options to flee. A machine grinding out survival plans.

‘Anyway, all I can do is calculate the best response and leave the rest to fate. I can’t control the world, only my own choices. Minimize mistakes, maximize chances. Whether I escape this time and live long enough to succeed, that part isn’t in my hands. What is in my hands is making sure I give everything. Make sure every attempt on my life fails. And one day, when the balance tips, I’ll take my revenge and drink their blood for it.’ Ryusei’s thoughts were steady, without a flicker of doubt.

Kanae’s eyes flicked toward Ryusei for the briefest instant, a glance so quick it could’ve been missed by anyone less perceptive.

Okabe’s aura, meanwhile, stirred with a faint excitement, as if he was anticipating the blood in the air.

Renjiro looked ready too, his stance sharp, already aware of the implications. Whether there was any concern for Ryusei behind that readiness, it didn’t show on his face.

Hiruzen, however, focused only on Ryusei. On his utter lack of reaction, not even a ripple in his aura. The Hokage’s thoughts turned dark beneath the mask of calm wisdom.

“Interesting… He’s either completely unaware or he’s already accepted his fate. Less likely. No, more likely he’s simply confident. Hah… then let’s see how long that lasts. Make it interesting for me, boy. I’ll be waiting for the report of your death on my desk.”

Behind the perfect facade of the sagely leader, the menace leaked through.

The meeting ended the same way they always did, formal words, shallow bows, and the Hokage’s smile that never reached his eyes.

Shikaku escorted them out again, still half-asleep, as if nothing in the world could rattle him.

Once outside the office, the team broke off into its usual quiet formation.

No one said much. Kanae kept her eyes forward, silent as ever.

Renjiro cracked his neck once and adjusted his blades, more eager than concerned.

Okabe walked with that calm, measured pace that looked reassuring on the surface but, to Ryusei, reeked of hidden intent.

Ryusei’s own smile never faltered.

To onlookers, he looked like a bright, cheerful boy about to carry the Will of Fire on another mission.

Inside, his thoughts were already grinding.

They passed through the gates of Konoha by midday, the road stretching toward the west.

Workers hauling carts and shinobi patrols gave them looks of respect as they moved out.

To the village, they were another squad of young prospects, trusted enough to be sent beyond the borders.

To Ryusei, it was another cage with sharpened bars, another stage Hiruzen had set.

And so, with the same rhythm of footsteps and silence, Team Okabe left the village behind, heading toward the volatile land where whispers of war grew louder each day.

Three days later, they crossed into Grass. The air felt different, tense, unsettled, as if even the trees were leaning away from the border.

The garrison wasn’t a grand fortress, just a cluster of reinforced posts built into a ridge overlooking the valley.

Barriers of earth and wood, chakra-etched watchtowers, trenches cut into the hillsides.

It looked small on the surface, but Ryusei’s senses could feel the layers of chakra hidden underneath. Root’s kind of place.

This wasn’t the only post in Grass. Smaller stations dotted the region, manned by a handful of shinobi each, just enough to listen, report, and die if they had to.

But this one… this one was different. The manpower had been stacked here. A “spearpoint” outpost, the one meant to take the first hit if Iwa pressed too far.

They passed the outer watch line without a word, escorted in by masked shinobi. Even from their footsteps alone, Ryusei could tell, Root.

Low to high chūnin, twenty or thirty of them in total, their movements drilled and joyless.

ANBU presence was lighter, just a single squad.

Five operatives and their high-jōnin captain, standing off to the side, separate from the Root men. 

They settled into the camp quickly, blending into the rhythm of Root’s cold, mechanical order.

For half a day, nothing changed: routine patrols, silent watch shifts, and the distant sense of tension pressing down on everyone.

Then, by midday, the other four reinforcements from Konoha finally arrived.

The atmosphere shifted the moment they stepped in.

Chōza Akimichi’s sheer size and chakra mass made Root operatives glance twice despite their masks.

Sumi Yukino of the ink-wielding clan carried herself with quiet confidence, the kind that spoke of precision and deadly versatility.

Shinku Yūhi radiated a calm intensity, while the Hisanori Gekkō swordsman walked with the poise of someone who had drilled every step of his life with a blade at his side.

Together, they were fewer in number than Root’s chūnin squads, but their presence alone carried more weight.

Even Root, expressionless as ever, seemed to stiffen at the realization that these were not disposable shinobi.

Ryusei kept his usual narrow-eyed smile as he watched the scene.

“It seems they really aren’t planning to give up this place if they’re sending heavyweights like this,” Ryusei thought, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Even Chōza Akimichi… one of the most important pillars of the Hokage’s faction.”

He recognized all of them easily enough.

Chōza was famous, a giant even among giants, his strength well known.

Shinku Yūhi was more obscure, but Ryusei remembered him from the original timeline, Kurenai’s father, a genjutsu specialist.

The other two, though, Sumi Yukino and Gekkō Hisanori, were less familiar.

He didn’t know their exact ties to Sai or Hayate, but they were clearly from those clans.

In this world, he had learned that Sai wasn’t just an orphan with a brush.

There had once been a Sumi clan, small but genuine, with its own proper, decent heritage.

Sai was likely one of its last survivors, maybe even the last, as he was an orphan without relatives, swallowed by Root.

His “rediscovery” of painting and ink later was no accident; more likely, Danzo decided not to waste his innate predisposition for those arts as he understood their value.

The same with the Gekkō, Hayate’s surname wasn’t just a name, but the remnant of a dwindling clan. 

These two here were probably among their final relatives still standing.

Ryusei almost smiled bitterly.

What the Hokage faction had done to clans like these was, in its own twisted way, a masterpiece.

Once, many minor clans had rushed to join Konoha, lured by the call of the legendary Hashirama Senju and the might of the Uchiha beside him.

They thought they were securing their future by merging into the village.

Instead, they were quietly erased, bled of their numbers, dissolved of their identities, their techniques pulled into the Hokage’s personal archive, their heritage folded into the pool of “ordinary” shinobi.

How else did people think Hiruzen came to be called “the Professor”?

You don’t master every jutsu of Konoha because centuries of clans simply handed them over for free.

No, he dismantled them piece by piece.

Found traitors or ambitious climbers in every clan, bought them with ranks, money, jutsu, or simple ideology.

Enticed them away from their kin, or bent them with threats and pressure.

Over time, the small clans were too divided and too weak to resist the Hokage faction’s weight.

The Hyūga ignored them, wrapped up in their own cage of traditions.

The Senju destroyed themselves.

The Uchiha isolated themselves with arrogance or were too weak to reach out.

And so the smaller ones were erased.

Their fate was inevitable.

If even the Hatake, once counted as a noble small clan with a powerful heritage, had collapsed into a single name and a single sword, what hope did these others have?

The Yūhi weren’t even a real clan to begin with, just Shinku’s personal talent passed down to his daughter.

But that was how clans began in the first place.

As for Chōza Akimichi, he was no fading ember.

He was a true heavyweight, one of the strongest shinobi in the village already.

Barely in his early twenties like Shikaku, yet already destined to rise as the next patriarch of a clan that still mattered.

As for why the Hokage couldn’t afford to lose presence here, it was obvious.

War was about to start.

Holding this post meant protecting Fire Country’s position and keeping leverage.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep