The night smelled of salt and wet wood.
Wave's villagers slept uneasy, though no thugs came pounding on doors anymore. They didn't know what to call the silence that replaced fear, but Ren did. It was a warning.
Root had arrived.
Ren crouched on a rooftop overlooking the docks. His Sharingan glowed faintly, both eyes carrying two tomoe. They spun with a steady rhythm, picking up every ripple in the fog.
Below, six masked figures slipped from a boat. Their chakra signatures were muted, their movements precise. Root operatives—Danzo's hand.
They're not here to scare. They're here to erase.
Gojo leaned lazily against a lamppost at the edge of the pier, as if he were waiting for a ferry. "So, Boss, what's the plan? Greet them with tea, or show them the special?"
"Neither," Ren murmured. "We make sure they leave without answers."
Zabuza hefted the Kubikiribōchō onto his shoulder. His bandaged mouth twisted. "I'll cut first. Clean and fast."
"And I'll stop anyone from reaching the villagers," Haku said quietly from the shadows, senbon glinting between his fingers.
Ren gave a small nod. "Positions. They'll fan out."
The Root team split just as he expected—two toward the square, two sweeping the alleys, two straight for the bridge.
"Target: confirm Uchiha survivor," one whispered.
"Secondary: blindfolded man. Kill if possible."
Gojo chuckled under his breath. "Always me. Flattering."
The first clash came fast.
A Root operative leapt into an alley, blade drawn. Zabuza stepped out of the mist like a wall. His cleaver swung in a brutal arc that split the man's guard. Steel screamed against steel, then against bone. The body dropped without a sound.
"Too slow," Zabuza muttered, dragging the blade free.
The second operative with him tried a backstab—only to freeze as senbon pierced his wrist and thigh. Haku appeared behind him, calm as still water, and pushed two more needles into his neck. The man collapsed, limbs paralyzed.
Haku's voice was soft. "One down. One bound."
Ren met his pair on the rooftops. They came fast, kunai aimed for his throat and chest. His Sharingan spun—two tomoe catching every twitch of muscle, every shift of balance.
The first strike cut air. Ren had already moved aside, twisting his kunai to parry the second. A flash of cursed energy on the edge of his blade made the impact sting, forcing the Root back.
They regrouped instantly. Professional. Silent. One feinted low, the other swept high. Ren blocked the low strike, rolled with the high, then snapped a wire trap from his pouch. The wire whistled and tightened, slicing shallow into one man's arm before he cut free.
Ren pressed forward, kunai slashing, Sharingan predicting their rhythm. He didn't kill. He disrupted—cutting tendons, breaking balance, forcing them off step.
One Root masked figure hissed, "Confirmed. Sharingan—two tomoe."
Ren's jaw tightened. Now they know.
Down at the docks, Gojo finally moved. Two operatives rushed him, blades stabbing. Neither touched.
The air itself slowed their strikes, distance stretching like invisible water between their blades and his body. They stabbed again, harder. Their kunai stopped inches short, trembling against nothing.
Gojo sighed. "Predictable."
He flicked a finger. Their own weapons snapped out of their hands and clattered into the sea. He kicked one lightly in the chest—hard enough to send him crashing through a crate. The other froze, recognizing something beyond him.
"Run along," Gojo said, voice playful. "Tell your boss he needs bigger fish."
Ren's fight tightened. The two Root pressed harder, trying to pin him. One launched a fireball—small, quick. Ren's Sharingan read the hand signs, and he was already moving before the seal finished. He rolled under the heat, cursed energy flaring along his arm. His counterpunch cracked into the man's ribs, sending him staggering.
The other Root closed in. Blade flashed. Ren raised his kunai—but his chain flickered, wrapping the enemy's ankle for a fraction of a second. Enough to disrupt his stance.
Ren drove his knee into the man's stomach. He folded, gasping.
Not enough to kill. Enough to break.
"Retreat!" the Root leader barked, voice sharp from the pier.
Two bodies were already down, one paralyzed, another broken. The survivors pulled back in practiced formation, smoke bombs hissing to cover their escape.
Zabuza took a step forward, cleaver hungry. "I'll finish them."
"No," Ren said firmly. His Sharingan dimmed, fading back to black. "Let them go."
Zabuza glared. "Why?"
"Because dead men confirm nothing," Ren said. "Danzo will send more if he's sure. But if all they bring back are half-truths, he wastes time chasing shadows."
Gojo smirked, clapping Ren's shoulder. "Efficient, Boss. And stylish. You didn't even bleed."
Ren exhaled slowly. Inside, his chest still throbbed from the fight. Two tomoe help, but Root isn't the last. They'll be back. Stronger. I need to be ready.
The fog settled again.
On the docks lay three silent Root bodies—one dead, one crippled, one unconscious. The others were gone, vanishing into the night sea.
Haku stepped beside Ren, eyes calm. "They won't stop."
"I know," Ren said quietly. "That's why we make Wave stronger. When Root returns, they'll find more than a survivor. They'll find an Order."
Zabuza slung his blade onto his shoulder. "Then we sharpen our fangs."
Gojo grinned. "And polish our style."
Ren looked out over the half-built bridge, its ribs reaching into the mist. "And next time," he murmured, "we won't let them leave so easily."