Return
Two days later, word of Sakumo Hatake spread—not just to Shirō and his team, but across the entire Land of Demons.
Of course, Sakumo had originally traveled in secret. He deliberately concealed his movements so that enemy forces wouldn't target Shirō and the others first. But once he reached the capital of the Land of Demons, he stopped hiding. The White Fang of Konoha walked openly through the city gates, his presence unmistakable.
Strangely, however, he didn't go directly to Shirō. Instead, he rented a room at a local inn. Still, just that was enough. From that moment on, no one dared make a move against Shirō's group. White Fang's reputation had already been carved into shinobi history—no one was foolish enough to "test" him again.
Rumors circulated among the foreign shinobi stationed nearby. Some whispered that White Fang's kenjutsu was "assassination-based" and had no real advantage in frontal combat. But anyone with sense scoffed at that. Assassination? Was slitting someone's throat face-to-face considered assassination? Only fools believed such nonsense.
Every other Village's shinobi quickly abandoned their covert missions. There was even an unwritten rule among them: if you encounter White Fang, retreat—no punishment will follow. That was the level of dread his name carried.
This was exactly what Sakumo wanted. It wasn't fear of the enemy that drove him, but caution. From Nakamura's intelligence reports, he had already learned that Shirō had been injured more severely than he let on. If ambushed, Sakumo feared he might not arrive in time to protect him. So he deliberately used his reputation as a deterrent, forcing enemy spies to scatter without drawing his blade.
For Shirō's group, Sakumo's arrival was a relief. They had been nearing their limit, barely keeping up the illusion that Shirō was still bedridden. The priestess of the Land of Demons supported them, but pressure from the other Villages mounted day by day. Foreign envoys constantly came probing for answers.
Even without Sakumo, Shirō would have had to "recover" that very day—his supposed illness had been dragged on too long.
That evening, they visited the priestess together. But when the others left, she asked Shirō to remain. The two of them spoke until midnight. No one knew what was said.
When Shirō finally emerged from the palace, his face betrayed everything: a complicated mix of relief and worry. He wasn't the type to mask his emotions. After all, he was still just a young man in his twenties. Shinobi training could only harden him so much; he wasn't yet the kind of schemer who could play three layers of politics at once.
Back at their quarters, Shirō locked himself inside his room for the entire next day. Nakamura and the others grew concerned, but they didn't pry. Instead, they simply left meals by the door. To their quiet relief, each tray was emptied, proof enough that Shirō's body was fine even if his mind was burdened.
Finally, on the following day, the priestess's sealing ceremony was held. Representatives from the other four Great Villages attended, though none were particularly pleased. The whole matter now seemed meaningless to them—they weren't citizens of this country. Still, to decline an invitation from the spiritual leader of the Land of Demons would have been disrespectful, so they gave face and attended.
Shirō too emerged from his self-imposed solitude.
"Let's go. Today's the ceremony, right?" he said calmly.
"Are you really alright, Shirō?" Nakamura asked, brows furrowed as Taichi and the others exchanged worried glances.
"I'm fine," Shirō replied, brushing their concern aside. "We shouldn't be late."
Seeing that he had no desire to elaborate, they let the matter rest.
The ceremony itself was simple. The priestess gave words of comfort to her people and offered a public thanks to Shirō's group. No treasures or lavish gifts followed—it was only symbolic. And that was fine. Shirō knew better than to expect payment. They had taken this mission as a commission, and the Land of Demons truly had no wealth to spare.
Afterward, they visited Sakumo. Shirō initially wanted to leave immediately, but Sakumo dissuaded him. The original plan had been to rendezvous with White Fang elsewhere, but since Sakumo had arrived early, there was no need to rush. They could afford to rest.
That night, Shirō joined the others in the living room rather than retreating to his chamber. He spoke casually, as though nothing had happened. After two days of silence, his composure had returned.
In truth, he had realized he had let himself get caught in unnecessary worries. The conversation with the priestess had shaken him, disrupting his rhythm. But in the end, he reminded himself: strength was all that mattered. Hadn't he made it this far with that principle alone?
If not for the Magic Crest he had completed half a year earlier, the priestess would never have been saved.
The sword he projected, a degraded form of the so-called King's Sword, was only of C-rank. Aside from its raw sharpness as a Noble Phantasm, it wasn't especially useful. Its only true merit was the beam of light it could release through True Name Release—a devastating cannon of energy. But that technique consumed an immense amount of chakra. It was that weakness that had pushed Shirō to begin developing his Magic Crest.
When the Crest was completed, it wasn't empty. It already contained about half a reservoir of energy, enough that Shirō could produce Exploding Tags for nearly a year. That alone had carried him through this battle.
But creating that energy core—the magic crystal—had taken six months of effort, accelerated only because of the resources and environment of Ryūchi Cave. Without that, even his abnormal reinforcement abilities wouldn't have been enough to craft it so quickly.
And now, all of it was spent. Overnight, he had returned to square one.
Later that evening, Shirō returned to his chamber and unrolled a blank scroll. He began drafting his new training plan. The first priority was restoring his Magic Crest's reserves. But it couldn't be at the expense of his daily regimen. He had to balance both carefully.
Some techniques he yearned for, others were aligned with his fighting style. He lacked the time and energy to pursue them all. So he organized them, listing names, arranging them in order of priority. He also began preparing auxiliary items—construction materials for a Magic Workshop, reagents for future magecraft he hadn't yet mastered. Better to collect them in advance than be caught unprepared, like with the Crest.
Shirō had tried for years to correct his forgetful, scatterbrained habits. He failed every time. This time, at least, he wrote everything down—one step at a time, organized and systematic.
Of course, the scroll only contained names, no full processes. But that was fine. In the shinobi world, no one had the knowledge to decipher them anyway.
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