In the end, it was Renjiro who, after a reluctant sigh, got the order from Okabe to carry Ryusei back to Konoha.

As for why it had to be him this time, Ryusei figured it was probably a mix of practicality and appearances.

Kanae was female and still injured, so that ruled her out.

Okabe, on the other hand, had his image as team leader to maintain, and more importantly, he was far more drained than Renjiro after their earlier fight with nearly four dozen enemy shinobi.

Renjiro had been previously tasked with, somewhat indignantly, chasing down any stragglers who slipped past the main clash, while Okabe’s role as a jōnin had been pivotal in breaking the enemy formations.

In other words, Renjiro had just enough strength left to volunteer, and Okabe had just enough authority to make it sound like an order.

Their pace was far slower than the push they’d made on the way in, exhaustion weighing on all of them, which suited Ryusei perfectly.

Every extra minute meant more time to quietly work the standard medical ‘Mystic Palm’ on himself, drawing out the healing process in relative peace before returning to that den of wolves called the village.

The ‘Mystic Palm’, unlike his creation, was meant for real healing, which meant it demanded far more time and focus to use.

On paper, it was an A-rank technique, the only one Ryusei knew at the moment, but it was completely useless in a fight.

Purely support, never meant for offense, and until now, it had never been anywhere near the top of his priorities, yet the original owner learned it anyway due to his survival instincts and memory of his mother.

Still, he knew full recovery was out of the question without weeks of rest and doing the same thing over and over there in familiar surroundings.

The combined damage from his injuries and the Yang Palm’s backlash ran deep, deeper than anything this body had endured before.

Even with the first-class vitality of a Senju talented physique, this wouldn’t be a simple walk back to strength.

Since the moment he’d taken over this body, not one second had passed without the constant throb of extreme pain.

Maybe it was the endurance he’d built in his past life as a chronically ill patient that let him endure it silently, never letting it show on his face.

If so, it hadn’t gone unnoticed; both teammates and the man carrying him had picked up on his composure.

As for the inevitable suggestion of Konoha Hospital once they returned, he already knew the answer.

He would politely decline those ‘examinations’, no matter how much the Hokage insisted later, on the grounds of his unique Yang Palm technique being something no medic there could fully understand, so the aftermath consequences of using it so much were best handled by him alone.

Meanwhile, Ryusei’s gaze settled on the spiky dark-gray hair of the boy carrying him.

Renjiro was about his age, and was his former classmate just like Kanae, though a bit leaner in build than him, and a Hatake by blood, a cousin to Kakashi at best, certainly not a brother or anything closer.

Still, he was the only member of the younger generation in his clan left behind Kakashi, which likely meant they knew each other personally, probably decently well.

The fact that only two Hatake of their generation remained said plenty about how far Konoha would go to suppress its once-illustrious clans when the opportunity arose.

Renjiro wasn’t quite at Kakashi’s level with the Hatake clan’s signature kenjutsu, but he wasn’t far off either.

Ryusei suspected that in the coming war, Renjiro’s end would likely come at the hands of an enemy… or perhaps from a knife in the back.

That was why he was not shown in the original series, probably, in Ryusei’s opinion.

After all, those who refused to bow to the Hokage’s faction, and sometimes even those who did, often met cruel fates.

Sakumo, from the same clan, had been a perfect example, and Ryusei himself knew about this truth firsthand his entire life.

Their relationship was about as warm as his with Kanae.

Renjiro treated him with the same coldness but occasionally threw in mockery or taunts for reasons the original owner never understood, reasons that only deepened his dislike.

These past three months on the team had been some of the most miserable in the original owner’s life, weighed down by constant hostility and no safe outlet for it.

As for the reason behind Renjiro’s attitude, Ryusei could only guess. It was probably even related to something beyond their Anbu mission to monitor him.

After all, no reason to dislike your mission target so much; that was not a connected thing.

All he truly knew from the body’s memories was that Renjiro was a fighting maniac, always talking about sharpening his blade or pushing his limits, and otherwise keeping to himself.

Maybe, like Kanae, he had glimpsed something in the original owner’s hidden nature, something that made him wary, or even hostile.

Until Ryusei learned more, that would remain just another unanswered question for him.

Meanwhile, Renjiro adjusted Ryusei’s weight on his back with a grunt again, the irritation in his tone obvious. “Tch. You’re heavier than you look.”

Ryusei kept his tone even, almost bored. “Then consider it training. You like talking about growing stronger, don’t you? Think of this as strapping a whetstone to your back.”

Renjiro clicked his tongue. “You’ve got a sharp mouth for someone who can’t walk.”

“Walking is overrated,” Ryusei said lightly. “Getting carried saves chakra.”

For a while, Renjiro didn’t respond, just trudged forward, his steps steady despite the extra weight.

Eventually, he muttered, low enough that it almost sounded accidental, “You hide pain too well. Doesn’t feel normal.”

Ryusei let out the faintest hum, giving no more than that. “Guess everyone’s got their quirks.”

Renjiro snorted. “Yours are irritating.”

Ryusei murmured, tone still mild. “We all carry something.”

That shut Renjiro up again. His grip stayed firm, but Ryusei could sense the irritation in every step, the quiet resentment of carrying someone he clearly disliked.

Yet beneath it, there was now the faintest trace of something else, a curiosity he couldn’t quite hide.

Ryusei guessed it came from how different his own behavior had been during the mission.

For example, not long after they’d left the hideout, Ryusei’s suppressed wounds finally burst open again.

Blood spilled across Renjiro’s shoulder, some of it splattering onto his clothes, but Ryusei barely made a sound.

Instead, he kept chewing chakra pills one after another, forcing what little energy he had left into his one usable hand.

A faint green glow flickered there as he tried to keep the injury near his heart and lung from worsening.

His other arm hung limply, the skin still marked with strange discoloration from the earlier chakra overdrive.

It looked dead, useless, and far more serious than he let on.

Renjiro couldn’t help noticing. Up until today, his opinion of Ryusei had been rock bottom.

Suspicious attitude, fake politeness, that narrow-eyed look, everything about him matched what the ANBU higher-ups had already warned: an “unstable element,” dangerous for Konoha.

Even back at the Academy, before graduation three months ago, Renjiro never thought much of him.

They’d been classmates, and Ryusei had always struck him as hypocritical, constantly holding back in sparring, even when provoked.

To someone like Renjiro, who lived to sharpen himself against stronger opponents, that was pure disrespect.

His own shinobi way was straightforward: grow through hardship, master the Hatake kenjutsu style, test himself against anyone stronger.

In just three months since graduation, he’d already made leaps forward, proof that his path worked.

And yet Ryusei, who always felt like he had a little more in reserve, refused every chance to test himself.

Their initial D-level missions have been quite boring and uneventful, perfect for some sparing.

Renjiro had tried hints, challenges, even open taunts, but Ryusei never rose to them.

That, more than anything, made him look like a clown in Renjiro’s eyes.

After all, ANBU had told him they were already well aware of Ryusei’s true ability. So why bother pretending to be weak?

Why hide a strength that everyone important already knew about?

To Renjiro, it was the height of foolishness.

Yet watching Ryusei now, how he suppressed his pain so completely, how he’d somehow frozen those wounds in time just long enough to keep fighting until the mission ended, Renjiro found his old view shaken.

That kind of technique… it was impressive, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

As for previously getting wrecked by a single genjutsu, Renjiro didn’t hold that part against him too much.

Even he knew how impossible it was for one person to guard against the will of the village’s higher-ups.

He already had a strong suspicion about who had targeted Ryusei this time.

And from how it played out, it didn’t look like they’d been desperate for a perfect kill right away.

More likely, they wanted him casually eliminated “with a borrowed knife”, use fitting outsiders to do the job, give up if it failed, then use the results as a test to gather information before moving toward a true disposal later.

If they had really meant it, Ryusei would have faced something far worse.

‘Not my problem,’ Renjiro thought, adjusting the weight on his back. ‘Stuff like this happens every day in the shinobi world. You act suspiciously, or tie yourself to the wrong people, and the village eliminates you. Simple as that.’

Whether Ryusei lived or died wasn’t his concern.

Renjiro’s goal had never been to stay some genin forever, or even just another cog in the regular forces.

His path was clear: ANBU.

That was where the real danger was, walking on the edge of the knife, sharpening instincts and reflexes, perfecting the Hatake kenjutsu style.

A man couldn’t grow sitting safe in a glass house. He had to dive headfirst into chaos.

And this little “unofficial mission” of watching Ryusei?

To Renjiro, it was already his doorway to ANBU, just as had been promised, or at least hinted.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep