The reinforcements trickled in slowly at first, squads dispatched from the nearest outposts, then larger groups sweeping in from the ridges.

By the time the sun dipped low behind the forests of Grass, the momentum had fully shifted.

Kusa shinobi, seeing their commander gone and the tide reversing, finally broke formation.

One horn sounded retreat, then another, and their forces bled back into the wilderness.

Konoha had held. Barely.

The survivors dragged themselves together in the ruined compound.

Bloodied and battered, uniforms torn, they gathered instinctively around the ones with the highest standing left: Yukino Sumi, her ink eagle dissolving back into black strokes around her feet; Choza Akimichi, his Butterfly Mode faded, sweat pouring down his massive frame; and the Inuzuka ANBU captain, his ninken at his side, muzzle slick with blood. Those three were now the highest prestige shinobi present.

The reinforcements fanned outward, sweeping for hidden stragglers, laying seals and traps to secure the outpost again. Inside, the wounded and exhausted collapsed wherever they could, and the survivors took stock.

The Root commander was missing.

Not only him, every single Root shinobi in this stronghold was dead, save for four survivors who had fought alongside Okabe atop the earth walls.

All others had perished in the chaos, their corpses scattered among the trenches and broken barricades.

Only two ANBU had survived outside of Kurogane. The rest… ashes on the battlefield.

Ryusei sat down heavily, ribs bound by his own hasty Yang Palm, and cataloged it all in silence.

The Southern front had been the farthest point, and when the fighting was most chaotic, nobody saw what had truly happened there.

Nobody saw the Root commander, mask himself among his own subordinates and strike at him in disguise.

Nobody saw how Ryusei had countered, killed him, and fully destroyed that corpse afterward.

Every single Root operative who had been part of that ambush was already dead, cut down later by Kusa blades.

The Kusagakure shinobi who witnessed it were either hunted down by reinforcements or driven back with the retreat.

Ryusei’s eyes narrowed, the corners of his lips twitching faintly as he thought. “So… the only ones left who might have the faintest clue are those four Root operatives with Okabe. And even they probably weren’t part of the strike itself. Even if they did know, they wouldn’t — couldn’t — say a word. Not to Hiruzen’s people, not to anyone. Root business doesn’t leak.”

The thought coiled in his mind. Was this order truly Danzo’s alone? If so, Hiruzen would remain ignorant, and Danzo would bury the failure out of embarrassment.

However, in the end, it didn’t matter. He had already revealed his full strength here, won enough merit to shield himself, just in case, at least for now.

Kanae and Renjiro stood close to Ryusei as the survivors regrouped, both visibly worn from the endless fighting.

Kanae’s Byakugan faded, her pale eyes softening as she turned to him.

For a moment, her cold mask cracked; she let her gaze linger on his bloodied ribs, then quickly averted it.

“You really… shouldn’t be moving around like that,” she muttered, voice colder than it should have been, but the tiny waver in it betrayed her. “You always act untouchable, but one day you’ll collapse for real.”

Ryusei gave her his narrow-eyed grin, dry as ever despite the blood at the corner of his mouth. “Worried again? You’ll get wrinkles if you keep glaring at me like that. Besides, collapsing isn’t in my schedule.”

Kanae clicked her tongue and looked away, ears burning, but she didn’t move from his side.

Renjiro, on the other hand, let out an incredulous laugh, wiping his tanto clean on his sleeve.

“You’re unbelievable, Ryusei. Broken ribs, nearly gutted, and you’re still flirting in the middle of a war zone.” Renjiro groaned, muttering under his breath. “Tch. I swear, if this is how you two act now, the next mission will be unbearable…”

But even as he complained, he stayed close, watching the battlefield with them. They were bloodied, exhausted, and battered, but together.

Ryusei exhaled slowly, easing himself down against the remnants of a shattered wall. His ribs still burned each time he drew breath, but he kept his voice steady when he glanced toward Kanae.

Meanwhile, Ryusei tilted his head back with a faint sigh. “It’s just ribs,” he muttered when Kanae’s gaze lingered on him a second too long. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

Kanae quickly looked away, but her lips pressed into a thin line.

She couldn’t even count anymore how many times she had seen him stagger on the edge of death in just these last few months.

The memory sat heavy in her chest, but she swallowed it down and said nothing.

“Don’t look at me like that. Your state isn’t much better than mine. Vital Surge might’ve boosted you in the moment, but the aftershocks will more and more the more your body starts relaxing back to normal.”

His words carried none of his usual sharp teasing this time, just a quiet, matter-of-fact tone that sounded almost… caring.

Kanae stiffened, her cheeks warming against her will. She immediately crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him, forcing her voice into its usual coldness. “I don’t need you worrying about me.”

Ryusei smirked faintly, ignoring her sharpness. “Then hurry up and learn the technique properly. Otherwise, if it comes up again, I’ll have to ‘activate’ it for you myself.”

Her face flared instantly, memories of his hands pressing into her earlier flashing through her mind now that the heat of the battlefield had ebbed.

Only now did she fully realize what she had let happen. Her fists clenched tight, knuckles white, and she spat through clenched teeth, “Idiot! Pervert!”

Ryusei only chuckled, his slit-eyed expression deliberately calm, as if her outburst amused him more than anything.

But inside, Kanae bit down on the embarrassment twisting in her stomach. Because the truth was undeniable.

The technique really had suited her.

It hadn’t thrown her balance off or made her Gentle Fist sloppy; it had sharpened her strikes, made her strikes and chakra tenketsu ejections faster, heavier, without breaking her flow.

It had been exactly the extra push she needed, no more, no less. And she couldn’t deny that she wanted it again. That thought alone made her face heat worse, so she buried it under more anger.

‘I’ll learn it myself. I won’t let him touch me again like that,’ she told herself firmly. Still, another thought followed quickly after, one she couldn’t deny either: ‘but the technique is real… and worth it.’

She steeled herself inwardly. She would push her Yang Release training harder and accelerate her studies into medical ninjutsu. The sooner she mastered it, the sooner she wouldn’t need him for it again.

Renjiro stepped in then, brushing soot and blood from his shoulders, his tanto now slung casually across his back. “Whatever you call it, that guy was on a different level. It’s no shame getting injured by someone like him. Strongest bastard I’ve ever seen up close.”

Ryusei cracked a grim smile. “Same. Strongest existence I’ve faced firsthand. That was raw power. If we hadn’t cornered him together, I doubt even Choza could’ve finished it in time.”

Renjiro nodded firmly. For once, no smirk, no mocking jab. Just a hard, cold agreement.

Hisanori walked over, wiping blood from the edge of his blade, his face pale with fatigue yet still calm.

He was lean and wiry, his short black hair streaked with early gray. A scar marked his jaw, and his steady, sharp eyes carried the weight of long campaigns.

He moved with the quiet precision of a veteran swordsman, every motion disciplined and controlled.

His usual measured tone carried a rare edge of relief as he addressed Ryusei.

“You should’ve been finished back there,” Hisanori said, matter-of-factly, though not unkind.

“If I hadn’t seen that opening… well, let’s just say I don’t usually gamble on kids throwing themselves into the meat grinder.”

Ryusei gave him a lopsided grin, narrow eyes glinting. “And yet you gambled anyway. I owe you one, Hisanori. Literally saved my life—so thanks.”

Hisanori blinked once, then let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Don’t thank me too much. I wasn’t sure I’d last long enough myself, not until the reinforcements arrived, before you suggested that plan. My clan’s dance… it burns through stamina fast. Also, if Tenzo had gone for me instead of you, I wouldn’t be standing here.”

Ryusei shook his head. “Don’t sell yourself short. Your timing was perfect. That Crescent Moon dance kept him off balance, gave me the space to land that Shatter Palm. Without that, his poison glove would’ve ended me before I even understood what it was.”

Hisanori sheathed his blade, eyes narrowing slightly as if recalling the clash. “That was no ordinary commander. He was the kind who could’ve gutted a Kage’s retinue if given the right terrain. And you…” His gaze lingered on Ryusei, as though weighing him carefully. “…you don’t fight like someone your age. You remind me more of my father’s generation than a boy barely past the Academy.”

Renjiro, who had been listening, smirked faintly. “Don’t inflate his ego too much, or he’ll start thinking he’s already Hokage.”

Ryusei only chuckled, unbothered. “Don’t worry. Hokage isn’t my goal. Staying alive long enough to get where I want to go—that’s enough for now.”

Kanae glanced away at that, her lips tightening, though the faint color still lingered on her cheeks.

Hisanori gave a small nod before stepping back, satisfied enough with that answer, and left a few words of advice.

“Then keep doing what you’re doing, because you won’t always have someone like me perfectly watching your blind spot. We were lucky this time, and finishing that enemy earned us a big merit—but in truth, the fewer times we find ourselves in situations like this, the better. That’s what my experience has taught me.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep