"Why don't you run away now?"
Four Sand shinobi fanned out around Uchiha Gen. Their captain, a tall Chunin with a scar across his forehead, grinned like a man who thought the hunt was over.
Gen's smile was stranger. A flick of his wrist, and two paper tags snapped into flame.
The Chunin's eyes widened. "Fall back!"
Boom!
Twin detonations ripped the air, shockwaves and fire blasting outward. Three Sand genin were hurled off their feet, armorless bodies slamming to the ground. They coughed blood, twitching, their insides already broken.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh
From behind, three shuriken cut through the treetops, whistling toward the chunin's head, spine, and lower back.
Steel flashed. The chunin spun, kunai sweeping up to knock each one away.
That instant of focus was all Gen needed.
He dropped from the canopy, blade angling for the scarred forehead.
The chunin caught the movement too late with no room to dodge, no time for seals. As he raised his kunai to block.
Steel rang against steel, sparks snapping in the dark. Gen twisted away, free hand snapping up to grab his throat.
The chunin shoved him off and drew back to counter, then froze.
Three shuriken jutted from his back in a perfect vertical line. Blood streaked down his flak jacket. The blades had bitten deep — deep enough to sever what mattered.
Not everyone could afford armor. Fewer still wore it but it slowed them down.
Gen's boot sank into the man's gut with a dull thump. Sharingan flared crimson, arms sweeping in a blur as he cut down the incoming kunai and shuriken still spinning through the air.
The chunin collapsed, his limbs twitching, and his spine broken.
The three surviving genin stared at the red glow in his eyes — two tomoe spinning slowly.
An Uchiha with a matured Sharingan. Everyone knew what that meant. A two-tomoe user could match or surpass most special jonin. And these three… were just genin.
Fear was enough to slow them.
Gen let the Soul-Soul Fruit's power slip free. The air around the Sand shinobi bent, and faint, glowing threads streamed from their heads — life and soul dragged out in one relentless pull.
They dropped like cut marionettes.
The Chunin saw one of his men crumple and choked out, "What… what did you do?"
"You don't need to know."
Gen strolled over, drew out the Chunin's soul and lifespan, then flipped the body and slid his sword into the base of the skull. Quick. Clean. Nothing suspicious in a war zone.
Three bloody shuriken found their way back into his pouch. Then he vanished into the trees.
He stopped only once he'd put distance between himself and the bodies. The excitement of creating his new living weapons earlier had drowned out the weight of killing. Now, the battlefield's reality pressed closer.
But war didn't care about right or wrong — only sides. Gen had inherited the original owner's battlefield instincts; the discomfort faded quickly.
He cleaned and reloaded his gear, swallowed a high-grade Military Ration Pill, and felt chakra return in a slow burn. One Shadow Clone earlier had eaten half his reserves, not empty, but close enough to be dangerous.
On a battlefield, there was never time to meditate chakra back. You swallowed a pill and kept moving.
The Uchiha's pills were among the best in Konoha, rivaling the Akimichi's, and their clan supplied nearly half the village's stock. His own strong soul made fine chakra control natural; an edge in both ninjutsu and combat efficiency.
Half an hour later, reserves topped off, Gen was on the hunt again.
A lone Sand shinobi appeared ahead — armored, a scroll strapped to his back, his expression calm despite the isolation.
A specialist, Gen thought. At most a special jonin. The real monsters are already pushing deeper into Kikyo Mountain.
He considered using camouflage for a close strike… and decided against it. If the man had sensory skill, getting close first would be the mistake. Better to test.
Gen flicked a shuriken...
The Sand ninja moved first. His hand lifted, and three shuriken hissed toward Gen's hiding place.
Sensory type. Figures.
Gen slipped aside, spinning a return shot. The shuriken bit deep into bark — then curved back in midair.
The Sand ninja flinched, abandoning a half-formed jutsu to deflect. The panic in his block told Gen everything.
Fire Style: Phoenix Fire Technique!
Orange fireballs spat from his mouth in rapid succession, arcing like seeds scattered from a pod, sealing every escape route.
The Sand ninja clapped his hands. White smoke burst out, spitting a hail of senbon. Metal whistled through flame, scattering it.
Gen stepped aside, mind-touching his shuriken to hold position.
When the smoke thinned, something stepped forward — a wolf-headed puppet, eyes empty and metal teeth bared.
The Sand shinobi's jaw tightened when he saw Gen's Sharingan. Puppeteers hated facing Uchiha; too much of their craft depended on deception the eyes could strip away.
Gen tilted his head, tossed a small white sphere.
A kunai shot from the puppet's mouth, punching straight through the sphere. Nothing happened. The Sand ninja relaxed a fraction.
Then the wolf turned. Its jaw snapped wide — and a cluster of kunai blasted point-blank into its master's chest.
The Sand shinobi's eyes went wide, blood spilling from his lips. The breastplate saved his life for the moment, but not the fight.
Gen was already moving, stealing the man's soul and lifespan before the body hit the dirt.
The wolf puppet lowered its head and rubbed against his leg like an obedient hound.
"Playing with puppets in front of me? You really thought you could show off?" Gen's voice was flat. "Even the Red Sand Scorpion wouldn't make that mistake. You… were unlucky."
"Destroy his brain," Gen ordered. "And you don't speak unless I allow it."
"Yes, Master."
Quality aside, a Homie forged from another's soul could follow simple commands.
"Back to me," Gen said.
The three shuriken on the ground lifted and dropped neatly into his pouch. The wolf vanished into a sealing scroll.
At the treeline, a figure landed silently.
"Seems I'm not too late…"
Yellow hair caught the light. Blue eyes. A fitted blue combat suit beneath the Konoha green vest. Handsome, bright — like sunlight breaking through winter.