We moved out early in the morning, when thick fog was still lying over the forest. The sun barely pierced through it, and each step was accompanied by the crunch of wet branches underfoot. The air was cool and damp, with light steam rising from our breath. The sound of the squad's steps merged with the whisper of the wind in the crowns, and it felt as if the forest was watching us.
— Stay in formation, — our commander threw over his shoulder, a lone chūnin with a stern face.
I fell a little behind and channeled chakra into my legs, increasing the weight of my training weights by about five kilograms. My muscles immediately responded with heaviness, but I had long grown used to this pain. At the same time, I began weaving hand seals — simple combinations, honing the movements until they became second nature. "Strange, but most of my seal training happens on the road," I thought, watching out of the corner of my eye as Genma checked his senbon, and Guy ran ahead with his usual enthusiasm.
We barely stopped. Only one short lunch break — twenty minutes of silence, when each of us pulled out supplies or grabbed a ration, and then we were back on the road. "Actually, the route to the borders will pass through the Land of Fire, so there shouldn't be much danger," I mused, chewing on a dry flatbread. But knowing this world, I understood: we couldn't relax. Behind any tree an enemy could be hiding.
By evening we left the foggy forest, and the road widened, gradually turning into a stone path. Fields and scattered farmsteads opened before us. Smoke stretched in the distance — probably villagers burning branches or drying harvest. At one point I caught myself thinking that in this peaceful scene there was no hint of war, though we were closer to it than ever.
When the sun leaned toward the horizon, we finally reached the first large city.
— Everyone ready? — the chūnin stopped and looked at us.
I nodded automatically, though inside I felt the weight of exhaustion. My legs ached, the weights pulled me down, but I didn't want to show weakness.
The city greeted us with silence. There was no bustling marketplace, no laughter of children on the streets. Empty alleys, shuttered shops, rare passersby with wary glances. You could feel that this place lived beside war. And yet, it still breathed with life…
— Let's reserve rooms, then rest, — the commander said.
We followed him, and about ten minutes later a building with a massive sign "Kolos" came into view. The letters were carved directly into a wooden plaque, old but clearly often repainted. The inn looked sturdy and imposing: a two-story structure, gray stone walls, upper levels of dark timber.
The tiled roof sagged a little, but overall the building gave an impression of reliability. The wide porch creaked underfoot, and faint lamplight flickered in two or three upstairs windows — the others remained dark, as if shut.
When we stepped inside, I was struck by the silence. I had expected to hear noise — at least the chatter of guests, clinking dishes, laughter, or heels tapping the floor. But instead there was a hollow emptiness, broken only by our own steps. The vast hall that served as the lobby felt too spacious. Thick wooden beams supported the high ceiling, faded paintings of mountains and rivers hung on the walls. Everything was clean, but… lifeless.
Behind the counter stood the owner — a tall man in his forties. His face was clean-shaven, his hair tied in a knot. He wore a plain gray robe, without adornments. His smile was too wide, almost ostentatiously friendly.
— Rooms for thirty, — the chūnin said curtly, approaching the counter.
— Of course, of course! — the owner replied eagerly, bowing slightly. His hands deftly pulled out a bundle of keys. — Almost the entire second floor is free. Please, make yourselves at home, rest after your journey.
His voice sounded ordinary, but too smooth, as if he were repeating a memorized phrase. I held my gaze for a second before heading upstairs.
We split into rooms. The wooden staircase creaked under the squad's weight, and the second-floor corridor greeted us with darkness: only rare oil lamps flickered along the walls, casting long shadows.
They gave us three rooms in a row. When I opened mine, the first thing I noticed was the smell. Not sharp, not foul, but… stale, as if no one had lived here for a long time, though the beds looked freshly made.
Each room had eight beds: simple wooden frames with thin mattresses covered by gray blankets. Against the wall stood a small cupboard and a table with an empty pitcher. No luxuries, only the bare minimum. But after the long road and living in tents, even this felt elite.
I dropped my bag on one of the beds and sat beside it. The planks under the mattress creaked softly.
— Well, livable, — I muttered, eyeing the ceiling where cobwebs hung between beams.
Guy, as usual, flopped onto a bed with a running start, arms spread wide.
— Oooh, now this is luxury! I could stay here for a week! — he said, folding his arms behind his head.
Genma, on the contrary, immediately busied himself with his gear. He carefully laid out his senbon on the blanket, checked each needle, attached seals to some. His face stayed focused, as if he didn't even trust the silence around us.
I realized I, too, felt a faint tension. The inn was far too quiet, far too empty for such a large city. But weariness pressed down on my shoulders, and I brushed aside the doubt: "Maybe the war just scared away the guests…"
— Guy, Genma, let's go take a walk and get a proper meal, — I suggested, once we set down our things.
— Yeah, no problem, — Guy perked up.
— Fine, I'm hungry, — Genma agreed unexpectedly. Usually he refused, but this time exhaustion and hunger seemed to win.
The three of us went back out. The evening city was still deserted, but one eatery still had its lights on. Inside smelled of grilled meat and broth. We took a table by the window and ordered simple food: rice, miso, some vegetables, and skewered meat.
— Still, it's strange here, — I said, watching the rare passersby hurry home as if afraid to linger outside after sunset.
— Fear, — Genma snorted, spinning a senbon between his fingers. — A border city. They live like sitting on a powder keg.
Guy laughed and waved his hand:
— Come on, don't be gloomy. The food's good, so just enjoy it. Tomorrow we move on.
We ate, paid, and returned to the inn. The corridor was silent, only somewhere above the boards creaked. I noted to myself that the building had far too few guests, despite the city being fairly large. But fatigue outweighed curiosity.
When we climbed to the second floor and entered our room, a bad feeling pricked at me. The atmosphere inside was strange, heavy. At first I couldn't tell why. Then I noticed: several beds were empty. Those who had taken them before us — were gone.
— Hey, where are the others? — Guy asked, glancing around.
No answer came. I stepped closer and froze. On one of the mattresses was a dark stain — not yet fully dried. Blood.
My heart pounded harder.
— Draw your weapons, — I said quietly.
At that moment, a dull thud came from the next room, as if something heavy had fallen. Then — a muffled cry. We exchanged glances, and Guy was the first to dash to the door. I followed.
The corridor met us with darkness. The oil lamps that had burned earlier were extinguished. Only weak moonlight slipped through the shutters. A chill ran down my spine.
— It's a trap, — I whispered.
Suddenly — footsteps. Several figures stepped out of the shadows. Their uniforms were foreign. Not ours. The insignia of another village — I recognized it by the patches. Everything became clear: the inn wasn't working for us.
— Tch, — Genma narrowed his eyes. — Looks like we've walked right into it.
I drew a kunai, and my fingers automatically began weaving seals. A thought crossed my mind: "Misfortune is stalking us…"
A fight awaited us.