Tu Ge's Bag of Rice!
Another day passed, and finally, the Priestess's sealing ceremony was ready. Shirō and his companions were currently on their way to the palace meeting room.
It was worth mentioning that after four days of training, Miyue and her team had shown remarkable progress. With a few more missions under their belt and some accumulated field experience, they could already be considered strong Chūnin candidates.
This was no small feat. Shirō and his team themselves were only officially Chūnin, though with their hidden trump cards they could barely be considered at special jōnin-level in terms of combat capability.
In other words, one of the two goals Shirō had set for this mission—helping Miyue and her team improve—was already halfway accomplished.
After Nakamura's stern admonishments, Miyue and her teammates had worked with impressive focus over the last three days. Although shinobi from other villages had also made progress, Miyue's squad stood out.
Especially after Miyue's strange awakening of her dōjutsu, the gap widened further. The Sharingan was notorious across the shinobi world for its overwhelming versatility—a kekkei genkai that had shaped the history of nations. From the Three Great Dōjutsu, it was easily one of the most unfair advantages, and as it evolved into higher stages, each form pushed its wielder above peers of the same rank.
Because of this, Konoha's reputation was secured. The only remaining priority was to fulfill the Land of Demons' request.
Soon, the group was led by the Priestess's guards into the council chamber. A huge map of the Land of Demons was unfurled on the table in front of the Priestess.
"Priestess-sama, forgive us for making you wait," Nakamura said respectfully. As the representative of the strongest of the Five Great Nations, he stepped forward without hesitation to speak on behalf of the others.
"It's alright," the Priestess answered softly. "I must trouble you all this time."
"Priestess-sama, let's dispense with formalities," the Kumogakure leader interrupted bluntly, clearly dissatisfied with Nakamura taking the lead. His tone carried a trace of irritation, though his status and strength weren't enough to challenge Konoha's position openly.
The Priestess nodded without comment. "Please, look here. The location of the demon Mōryō is here." She pointed to a marked spot on the map.
"There are large numbers of puppets gathered there," one shinobi muttered. "It won't be easy to break through."
"Their regeneration speed is a bigger issue," another added grimly. "If we're bogged down, we'll be trapped."
"And too many shinobi will only make movement cumbersome. Too few, and we risk being overwhelmed. The balance is troublesome…"
Shikamaru, who had been quietly observing, spoke at last: "Priestess-sama, you'll need to enter with us personally, correct?"
"Yes. Only I can seal Mōryō. That is why I require your aid."
"That complicates matters," the Sunagakure leader said frankly. "Escorting you into the battlefield will slow us down considerably."
Everyone understood what he left unsaid: each village valued its own shinobi above the Land of Demons. Even if they succeeded, casualties would be inevitable—and none of the nations wanted to bear the brunt of it.
The Priestess lowered her gaze. Though she was saddened, she did not argue. It was her destiny to sacrifice herself for the seal. Expecting foreign shinobi to risk everything for her was unrealistic.
Shirō, however, grew restless. If everyone chose to withdraw, what would be the point of this mission? More importantly, this was an opportunity to alter fate. In the original timeline, every generation of Priestess gave her life to seal Mōryō. If nothing changed, this Shion too would die.
That was not a future Shirō could accept.
"What if," Shirō suddenly said, his voice cutting through the heavy silence, "I can eliminate all the puppets in an instant?"
The room fell silent.
Then, the Kumogakure leader burst out laughing. "Hahaha! Boy, keep dreaming. This is no place for children's fantasies."
Shirō didn't rise to the provocation. Kumogakure shinobi were infamous for their blunt tempers, and his youthful appearance made his words difficult to take seriously.
"It's fine," he replied evenly. "There's no risk in trying. What if it works?"
The Kumogakure jōnin narrowed his eyes. "You're serious?"
"Of course." Shirō met his gaze without flinching.
"Very well. But if you fail, we're withdrawing immediately. Priestess-sama, do you object?"
"I am deeply grateful for any help," she said softly, bowing her head.
"Then let's see it," the Suna leader said, almost amused. At the very least, Shirō's attempt would give them justification to retreat if things went poorly.
Shirō understood. This was his gamble. More than anything, he wanted to test whether fate itself could be resisted. His magecraft, though modified to resemble ninjutsu, remained fundamentally Magic. If the "Will of the World" truly existed in this shinobi reality, then perhaps his actions here could ripple against destiny itself.
If he could prevent the Priestess's death, then perhaps other tragedies could also be rewritten.
Soon, strategies were sketched out: the order of attack, the combinations of squads. When the time came, it would be too late to plan.
On their way to the North Wall—the main front where the puppets swarmed endlessly—Taichi whispered nervously, "Shirō, are you really confident in this?"
Shirō touched the glowing crest on his right forearm and smiled faintly. "Don't worry. I've prepared for this move for a year. I believe in it."
At the northern defenses, the sight was overwhelming: thousands of stone puppets crawled over one another, swarming like an army of ants. Behind them loomed the dark cavern where Mōryō's spirit pulsed ominously. The barrier that had held them so far flickered, barely containing the onslaught.
"Alright, kid," the Kumogakure leader sneered. "Show us what you've got."
Ignoring the stares, Shirō stepped up to the parapet. Rolling up his sleeve, he revealed the glowing lines of his Magic Crest as they pulsed across his forearm.
He pressed his palms together. "Sada… feel Tu Ge's bag of rice!"
The words—half a joke, half a mantra—echoed strangely. The crest blazed as Shirō spread his arms wide.
"Projection… start!"
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