The sea around Wave Country carried a silence different from Fire's rivers.
It wasn't peaceful—it was waiting.
Shikaku stood at the prow of a low trader's ship as it nudged into Wave's harbor. Rain had washed the air clear, leaving the smell of salt and tar sharp in his nose. Beside him, Yamanaka Inoichi adjusted the ledger under his arm while Yamato kept his hood low, eyes skimming the coastline.
"Looks better than the reports," Inoichi murmured. "No loitering gangs. No drunks beating on doors."
"Looks," Shikaku said, "are the first lie any port tells."
He studied the dockworkers hauling crates onto carts. They moved quickly, but not fearfully. Someone had drilled them. Someone had set schedules. The markings on the cargo were precise, identical chalk sigils—nothing sloppy. That alone told Shikaku the rumors weren't exaggerations. Wave hadn't stumbled into stability; it had been forced into it.
The captain spat into the water. "You three watch yourselves. Folks here whisper about shadows keeping order. Not daimyo's guards, not hired thugs. Something else."
Shikaku gave a noncommittal grunt, but his mind filed it away.
They disembarked quietly, blending into the stream of merchants. Inoichi carried their cover with ease—papers of timber contracts, questions about tariffs. Yamato stayed at the rear, presence light, eyes never still.
The first brush came in the market square.
A thief tried to snatch a woman's purse. He didn't make it three steps before a tall figure in dark uniform intercepted him. The man's mask covered half his face, but the insignia stitched into his shoulder was new: a half-circle eclipse with three faint lines like chains stretching outward.
"Return it," the masked man said simply.
The thief froze. Around them, villagers had already stopped to watch. Not with fear, but with the same wary attention one gave soldiers in a land that had known too many.
The thief handed the purse back. The masked man nodded once and vanished into the mist between two stalls—silent, efficient.
The villagers whispered.
"Eclipse Order."
"They're faster than the daimyo's own guards."
"Safer, too. That man would've lost a hand before. Now he walks away."
Shikaku caught every word. He also caught the look on the woman's face: relief, not terror.
"Not Gato's kind of rule," he said under his breath.
Inoichi hummed agreement. "Structured. Intentional. They want to be seen."
By evening, the three of them found a quiet inn near the docks. Shikaku spread a rough map of Wave on the floor.
"Patterns," he said. "Markets and streets are quiet. But the patrols don't wear daimyo colors—they wear that eclipse mark. The daimyo's household guards have new routes, cleaner rotations, no bribes at checkpoints. That tells me someone retrained them. Not the daimyo himself."
"Gojo," Yamato said softly. "The blindfolded man. He has presence enough to command even missing-nin like Momochi."
"Presence," Shikaku repeated. "And strategy. They're not hiding. They're rooting. That's the problem."
Inoichi leaned back against the wall. "The villagers approve. That makes removal twice as hard. Killers can be replaced. Hope can't."
Shikaku's eyes half-lidded. "Hope or fear, doesn't matter. Both are tools. The question is: whose hand is on the handle?"
Two days later, they had their answer.
Word spread through the town that the daimyo himself was holding an open gathering at the square. Such things were rare—Wave's daimyo had hidden behind palace walls for years. Now he was walking into the open with guards bearing eclipse insignias.
Shikaku's team joined the crowd. Villagers pressed close, murmuring. Children sat on shoulders. The fog lay low, heavy but not blinding.
The daimyo stepped onto a raised platform. His voice, once tremulous, carried steady.
"People of Wave," he began, "you know our years of fear. You know the grip of thieves and tyrants. That grip has broken. From this day forward, Wave is protected—not by bandits, not by foreign mercenaries, but by guardians who stand only for order and peace."
He raised a hand.
From the mist at the edge of the square, they came. Dark uniforms. Masks. Eclipse insignias glinting faintly. They moved in formation—disciplined, silent. Villagers cheered, some cautiously, some with sudden pride.
And then the air shifted.
A ripple of energy that wasn't chakra but carried weight, like the world leaning to listen. The crowd hushed without knowing why.
A man in white strode through the mist, blindfold over his eyes, hair bright as silver in the dim light. His smile was lazy, but the silence bent around it.
Gojo Satoru.
He lifted a hand in casual greeting, like this was a friendly stroll instead of a declaration. "Evening, Wave. I hear you've had a rough run. Let's fix that."
The villagers erupted—some with cheers, some with gasps. Children pointed. A fisherman shouted, "That's him! The blindfolded one!"
Gojo stepped onto the platform beside the daimyo, spinning a coin idly between his fingers. "You all know the daimyo. He's your man, your ruler, the one who signs the papers and collects the taxes. That doesn't change. But let's be honest—he can't do everything. That's where we come in."
He gestured toward the masked Eclipse patrols. "We are the Eclipse Order. We don't steal from you. We don't threaten your children. We keep the markets safe, the docks running, the bridge building. If anyone tries to bleed this country again, they answer to us."
The cheers grew louder. Gojo tilted his head as if enjoying music.
"Now, I'm not a politician," he added with mock seriousness. "I don't like speeches. So I'll keep it simple. You live your lives. We keep the knives away from your backs. Deal?"
The crowd roared.
Shikaku stood still, arms folded inside his cloak. His eyes narrowed slightly.
Gojo had just rebranded a criminal syndicate into a public police force—and the people loved it.
Later that night, the team regrouped at their inn.
"They've made it official," Inoichi said grimly. "Eclipse Order under the daimyo's banner. Gojo as the face. The people see him as a savior, not a warlord."
Yamato frowned. "The daimyo's voice trembled when he spoke. That wasn't authority—it was a puppet reading lines."
"Exactly," Shikaku said. He tapped the map again. "Control runs through the daimyo, but strings pull elsewhere. That makes this… complicated. They're not just bandits. They're institution-building. And they're good at it."
Inoichi rubbed his chin. "Do we confirm Ren? The child with Sharingan?"
"Not yet," Shikaku said. "He hasn't shown himself publicly. Which means he's smarter than most Uchiha I ever knew. Or he has someone teaching him restraint."
Gojo's smile flickered in his memory. Shikaku knew predators when he saw them. That man wasn't a wild card; he was a storm pretending to be a breeze.
"Report first," Shikaku decided. "Engagement is suicide."
But before they could leave, the fog gave them another message.
On their last night in the harbor, Shikaku stepped out to the pier alone. The water lapped quietly.
"You've been watching nicely," a voice said.
Shikaku didn't turn immediately. When he did, Gojo was leaning against a piling, blindfold gleaming faintly in the lantern light.
"Relax," Gojo said, smiling. "If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't have had time to sigh."
Shikaku's hand stayed in his pocket. "That supposed to reassure me?"
"Supposed to save us both time," Gojo replied. He flicked the coin once, caught it. "You've seen what we're building. You'll tell Konoha. That's fine. Just make sure your report's honest. Wave is safer today than it's been in years. Your Hokage likes safe, doesn't he?"
Shikaku studied him carefully. "You're putting a leash on a country."
Gojo's grin sharpened. "Better mine than Gato's. Or do you prefer chaos?"
Neither moved for a long moment. Only the fog shifted.
Finally Shikaku said, "You're not the daimyo."
"Nope," Gojo agreed. "But people sleep easier because of me. That's what counts."
He straightened, stretching like a man who'd just finished a pleasant chat. "Tell Sarutobi we're not his enemy. Unless he insists we are."
And then, with a flicker, Gojo was gone.
Shikaku let out a breath. Troublesome didn't begin to cover it.
By dawn, the Nara team boarded a ship back to Fire Country. They carried no evidence but their eyes, no proof but their memories. Yet Shikaku knew the Hokage would read the weight in their words.
Wave had a new order.
It wasn't Konoha's.
And if Konoha didn't tread carefully, the next war wouldn't start with missing-nin—it would start with the people themselves choosing their chains.