Dragged Down
"Chase them," Uchiha Fugaku ordered calmly. "They're exhausted and won't hold out much longer. Nozawa, release the kikaichū—check for traps."
As he gave the command, Fugaku flicked his wrist. Two shuriken spun through the air and embedded themselves into the throats of two fallen Iwa-nin, silencing their weak groans.
A subtle shimmer flashed in his vision.
[You have defeated a Chūnin. Gained a small amount of ocular power.]
"Hm?"
Fugaku paused mid-step. His Sharingan spun, noticing a faint discrepancy—an Iwagakure ninja was feigning death, his chakra barely flickering, his breathing almost imperceptible. He had hidden it well—well enough to deceive ordinary eyes. But Fugaku's three-tomoe Sharingan didn't miss it.
A kunai whistled through the air—an explosive tag attached. The resulting blast illuminated the cave, consuming both of the fallen Rock-nin in flame.
Another message flickered before his eyes.
[You have defeated a Jōnin. Gained a moderate amount of ocular power.]
The three Konoha shinobi stepped out of the scorched cave. The bodies had been reduced to char and ash, with no sign of the four fleeing Iwa-nin.
"Did you tag one?" Fugaku asked.
Nozawa nodded. "Yes. One of my kikaichū landed on him. They carry a scent marker—no visual needed. Even if he suppresses his chakra, the insects can still find him."
Fugaku gave a slight nod. That much was common knowledge among those who had worked with the Aburame clan. Their male and female insects could track each other through scent trails undetectable to most sensory types.
Following the lead of several kikaichū scuttling across the rocks, the three-man Konoha team moved swiftly through the cold rain, keeping to the rugged paths where their steps would be muffled and their presence hidden.
Ahead, Omoto and three other Iwagakure shinobi fled at high speed, their blood-soaked uniforms testament to the earlier clash. Their breathing was ragged. Fatigue dragged at their limbs.
"Captain Omoto," one of the Iwa-nin gasped, "we can't keep this up. We should stop and fight. There are four of us and only three of them."
"No," Omoto said through gritted teeth. "If they were ordinary Leaf-nin, I'd agree. But one of them is an Uchiha—with a fully matured Sharingan. In this rain and darkness, we're sitting ducks. That eye can read every movement, every twitch. They'll bleed us dry."
"Still... we set traps. Maybe they triggered one."
Omoto looked over his shoulder. Nothing but shadow and mist.
"Don't bet your life on 'maybe.' Keep moving. I'll lay another trap. If they're close, it might slow them down."
Behind them, Fugaku and his comrades were closing the distance. His Sharingan caught faint shifts in terrain—chakra threads, wire lines, buried tags—basic field traps meant to delay pursuers. He guided Sato and Nozawa to avoid them with a single hand sign.
Dawn began breaking over the rain-slicked cliffs. They had chased the Iwa-nin through the night. The quarry was near its limit.
Omoto and his team finally collapsed beneath a rocky overhang, panting, hands on knees. There was no sign of pursuit—but no relief either.
"They're gone," one muttered, forcing himself to believe it.
"They're not," Omoto said grimly. "They're just waiting for us to break."
Just over a ridge above them, Fugaku, Sato, and Nozawa crouched in silence, observing.
"They're finished," Fugaku said. "We move. Quietly—make it swift."
Sato and Nozawa nodded. They'd paced the pursuit perfectly—let exhaustion gnaw at the enemy, drain their awareness.
These elite Iwa-nin were no longer warriors—they were prey.
Fugaku drew several kunai and hurled them in a tight spiral at Omoto. At the same time, the trio lunged forward—three shadows cutting through the mist.
Omoto reacted instantly. His instincts screamed the moment the metal flashed. He deflected two kunai, but the others buried deep into his ribs and thigh. Blood gushed as he staggered back, eyes wide.
The other Iwa-nin barely had time to react. One fell to Fugaku's blade, his throat slashed in one clean stroke. Another collapsed under Sato's precise stab to the heart. The third screamed as his chakra was drained by Nozawa's kikaichū—left a husk before his throat was slit.
[You have defeated a Chūnin. Gained a small amount of ocular power.]
Fugaku stepped up to Omoto, who lay in a pool of blood, gasping, yet not afraid. The man's eyes held no hatred—only exhaustion. Acceptance.
He was a relic of a dying age.
"In another life," Fugaku murmured, "you might have known peace."
Omoto gave a faint, bitter smile before slipping into unconsciousness.
"Nozawa," Fugaku said, voice low, "find shelter. We'll rest, then return to the rendezvous point. No need to regroup with the Aburame main unit."
"Understood."
Nozawa extended his arms. His kikaichū scattered in all directions to scout. The three Konoha-nin cleaned the battlefield, collecting their gear and eliminating traces of their presence. The rain helped wash away footprints and blood.
Eventually, they reached a dry cave tucked behind a rocky outcrop. The air inside was still and cold, but it was shelter from the storm.
They lit a fire. The flickering flames cast soft shadows as warmth slowly returned to their chilled bodies.
In the field, illness was a slow death. Cold hands couldn't weave hand seals. Coughs gave away your position. Fugaku made sure his team remained combat-ready—no weakness tolerated.
Around the fire, they rested in silence. Rain whispered against stone outside. But in this moment of peace, they had survived—again.