Tsunade's sharp eyes narrowed as she read the latest blood analysis.
"Your blood is saturated with this toxin," she said, voice calm but firm. "It's invaded your organs and even started binding to your chakra system. Honestly, I don't know how you're still alive. How did you hold out this long?"
She was Konoha's greatest medical-nin—one glance at the data told her more than most doctors could learn in a lifetime. And yet, what she saw didn't make sense.
By all rights, Lock should have been dead days ago.
Still, he sat there in front of her—pale, yes, but steady, breathing evenly, eyes clear.
Lock gave a faint, tired smile. "I'm not sure myself. Maybe it's… just my body. I've always recovered faster than most."
Tsunade snorted. "Hmph. If you don't want to tell me, fine. You and Jiraiya are the same—both hiding things and getting yourselves half-killed in the process."
Before Lock could reply, she plucked the vial of his blood from the tray and turned to leave.
"Wait here. I'll have the results in two or three days."
The door closed behind her, leaving Lock speechless. "Great," he muttered. "I get scolded for something Jiraiya did before I was even born."
The next few days of forced rest gave him plenty of time to think—and reflect on the battle that had nearly cost him his life.
He had been too proud, too confident in his own strength. His mastery of ninjutsu and stealth had carried him far, often allowing him to outperform even experienced shinobi. But that confidence had hardened into arrogance.
He'd thought he was ready to take on anyone. Even a Kage.
Reality had shown him otherwise.
The Third Kazekage wasn't just powerful—he was experienced, cunning, and ruthless. In that fight, Lock realized just how wide the gap was between power and wisdom.
If he had approached the battle with more patience, or trusted his instincts instead of his eyes, he might not have been so easily caught off guard. He'd underestimated his opponent… and paid the price.
The Kazekage's use of simple but deadly tactics—a mere sand-iron clone, for example—had fooled him completely. Lock had relied too much on what he could see, forgetting that a shinobi's greatest weapon is often deception.
And then there was Sasori of the Red Sand.
Younger, but infinitely more calculating. Lock could still recall that eerie calm—the way Sasori fought like everything was already decided. Every move, every word, every trap had been perfectly placed.
Even Lock's intervention hadn't shaken him. He'd been playing right into Sasori's hands.
Looking back, the only thing Lock could truly take pride in was escaping alive. That final counterattack—the combination of his chakra-infused dagger and his assassination technique—had been a desperate gamble. It worked, but it wasn't brilliance. It was instinct and repetition born from years of training.
He'd learned something important from all this:
Never underestimate an opponent. Never assume victory until it's earned. And never stop thinking, even in battle. Tactics and strength must move as one.
He made a quiet vow to himself then—to change, to grow, and to never let pride blind him again.
Because next time, there might not be a second chance.
A wry smile tugged at his lips as he remembered one more detail—something almost embarrassing.
In the heat of that fight, when he was certain he would die, he had completely forgotten about one of his own trump cards: the Immortal Shield, a secret seal-bound talisman created through ancient Uzumaki chakra preservation techniques. It could protect its bearer from a single fatal blow—reviving the body once through stored chakra.
He'd carried it for years. Yet, in that desperate moment, he'd forgotten it even existed.
"Some 'assassin,' huh?" he muttered. "A man with an Immortal Shield who forgot he had one."
Still, maybe it was better that way.
Had he remembered it, he might not have fought with such raw determination. Sometimes, the will to live mattered more than any technique.
This world wasn't a game where death could be undone. Every second mattered, every wound hurt, and fear was real. It was that fear—the instinct to survive—that had kept him alive.
On the third day, Tsunade returned, holding a small vial of pale green liquid.
"Here," she said, tossing it to him. "The antidote. Don't waste it."
Before Lock could even thank her properly, she was already halfway out the door.
He caught the vial and sighed. "She's really in a hurry. Guess I owe her one."
Without hesitation, he swallowed the antidote.
Within minutes, the burning ache in his chest faded. The poison's grip loosened, his strength returning as his chakra began to flow freely again. For the first time in weeks, he felt whole.
He stepped out beyond the boundary of the Life Spring that had kept him alive—and nothing happened. No pain. No weakness.
"Finally," he said quietly. "It's over."
He spent the next couple of days stretching his body and sharpening his blades, eager to move again after being confined for so long. But the peace didn't last.
Three days after his recovery, a message arrived from the Hokage's office—an urgent summons.
Lock frowned. The Third Hokage knew he had only just recovered. A forced call meant one thing: something serious had happened.
He threw on his cloak and left immediately.
On the way, he noticed other shinobi rushing toward the Hokage Building—Chūnin, Jōnin, even ANBU operatives.
His eyes narrowed. "So… the old man's moving the whole village?"
The air around him grew tense.
"It has to be Iwagakure or Kumogakure," he muttered. "No other reason to call us all in like this."
Whatever it was, Lock knew—this was the beginning of something much bigger.
The world was changing again. And this time, he would be ready.
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