The sea wind carried a sharper bite that morning.
Fishermen pulled their boats onto shore with fewer curses, fewer bruises. No one had come to collect their "fees" at dawn. For the first time in months, nets emptied into baskets without a hand snatching half away.
And yet, the villagers did not smile.
They glanced at the treeline, at the bridge's growing span, at the fog curling like a ghost across the water. For every missing thug, there would be a reckoning.
High above the inlet, on a bluff hidden by pines, Ren rolled a scroll across a flat rock. Zabuza crouched opposite, elbows on his knees, eyes on the sketches Ren had copied from Toru's stolen ledger.
"Three lieutenants down," Zabuza muttered. "Their men scatter like dogs without a master. But Gato's not the type to let coin bleed without stitching."
Ren tapped the parchment. "He's already moving. These entries—payments to mercenaries who don't belong to Wave. Outside help. Shinobi."
Zabuza's eyes narrowed. "Mist? Cloud?"
"Small villages," Ren said. "No Kage. But killers who sell their blades."
From a branch above, Gojo yawned so loudly a gull startled into flight. "So what you're saying is we finally get to stop playing accountant and start playing exterminator."
Ren didn't look up. "You can play whatever you want. I'll be fighting for the bridge."
Gojo smirked under the blindfold. "Our Boss is all grown up. Priorities, strategies… soon you'll be filing taxes."
"Shut it," Zabuza growled.
But the swordsman's gaze returned to the scroll, grim. "If Gato's bringing real shinobi, villagers will die."
"Not if we move first," Ren said. His Sharingan glowed faintly, one tomoe spinning. "We bleed their numbers before they reach the bridge."
The villagers noticed before noon.
Two foreign shinobi passed through the square in dark armor, laughing at the women who shrank back into doorways. One spun a kunai lazily, blade flashing as he pointed it at a boy too slow to move.
"Run, rat."
The boy's legs froze.
The kunai snapped from the man's fingers—straight into the dirt at the boy's feet.
The shinobi cursed, whirling. But no one stood behind him. Only shadows, too deep for midday.
The boy bolted. Later, breathless, he whispered to his sister: "I saw him. Red eyes. Watching from the fog."
That night, in a warehouse thick with smoke and coin, Gato slammed his cup against the table.
"Half my men gone. Ledgers missing. Ships late. And now villagers whisper about demons with red eyes."
Around him, mercenary captains shifted uneasily.
One, a shinobi with jagged scars across his cheek, leaned forward. "Then we answer whispers with screams. Let me loose on their streets. By dawn they'll forget red eyes—they'll remember fire."
Gato sneered. "Do it. Double your pay if you drag me the brat's head."
The scarred shinobi grinned. "Done."
Fog rolled thick when the mercenaries came.
Six shinobi. A dozen swordsmen. Enough to paint Wave's streets red before morning.
Ren stood on the bluff, watching torchlight bob through the alleys. His hands tightened on the scroll tube.
"They'll reach the bridge by sunrise," Zabuza said. His voice was steady, but there was a spark in his eyes—the kind that only came when a blade could finally sing.
"Then we cut them before then." Ren turned. His Sharingan gleamed. "No civilians. No witnesses. This ends on the water."
Gojo stretched, cracking his neck. "I like the confidence, Boss. Just don't trip on your own chains."
The mercenaries reached the inlet. Waves lapped black and silver against the pilings. The bridge loomed half-finished, ribs of timber jutting into fog.
The scarred shinobi raised a hand. "Burn it."
He never finished the order.
A shadow dropped from the fog—Zabuza, cleaver whistling. The first mercenary split from shoulder to waist before his scream left his throat.
Panic. Shouts.
Gojo strolled from the mist, blindfold tilted, voice sing-song. "Evening, gentlemen. Welcome to our bridge. Unfortunately, you're not on the guest list."
Kunai flew. None touched him. Each froze midair, hanging like ornaments before clattering uselessly to the planks.
"Try again," he said cheerfully.
Ren moved then. Quiet, precise. His kunai flashed, wires snapping taut. He cut through one shinobi's jutsu seals before they finished, cursed energy lacing his strikes with a sharpness that burned skin.
The Sharingan's tomoe spun, reading every twitch, every step.
But there were too many.
A blade grazed his ribs. Another clipped his shoulder. He staggered, vision narrowing.
Too fast. Too many. I can't—
Then he saw it: a girl in a torn green dress at the edge of the square, clutching her brother, eyes wide as mercenaries turned their way.
His heart lurched.
Not again. I won't watch them die.
Heat surged behind his eyes. The world split into sharper lines, cleaner angles. Every enemy's path, every knife's arc, every step in the fog unfolded like threads on a loom.
His Sharingan burned. A second tomoe spun awake in each eye.
Time slowed.
The first mercenary lunged—Ren sidestepped before the strike left the sheath. The second raised a kunai—Ren's blade was already there, cutting the tendon in his wrist. The third reached for the girl—Ren's chain flickered into being, snapping his ankle just long enough for Zabuza's cleaver to finish the job.
Blood hissed into fog. The girl ran, pulled by her brother's hand, away from the carnage.
Ren stood in the mist, chest heaving, eyes blazing red with two tomoe.
Gojo's grin widened. "Ohhh, now that is stylish."
Zabuza barked a laugh, cleaver dripping. "The brat's eyes finally woke up."
Ren exhaled, steadying. "Not just woke up." His gaze cut through the remaining mercenaries, every motion a thread already unraveled. "They see everything."
The scarred shinobi froze under that gaze. For the first time, his grin faltered.
By dawn, the inlet ran red.
The bridge stood untouched. The villagers whispered louder. Some spoke of salvation. Others of devils who fought in fog.
But all agreed: Gato's grip was breaking.
And in the mist above the water, a boy's eyes burned brighter.
The Eclipse Order had drawn blood in full view of the world.
And Ren Uchiha had taken his first true step from survivor to protector.