"Tonbo, the brass just upgraded that intercept to an A-rank mission. You're my lucky charm, kid!"
Mawari Dokuraku grinned, slapping Tonbo on the shoulder.
Tonbo felt a flicker of genuine relief. In wartime, mission credits were the only currency that mattered. An A-rank classification meant a payout of at least one million ryo—once the war ended, of course. Right now, it translated to village contribution points that could be exchanged for higher-level ninjutsu scrolls or rare resources.
That amount could buy a hundred high-grade explosive tags.
But the rewards didn't stop there. Detecting the enemy unit counted as a separate B-rank achievement, and the subsequent mind-reading session was another notch on his belt.
The intel he had extracted from the Iwa Chunin was chilling. That squad had been a dedicated assassination unit targeting Konoha's logistical spine. The Intel Division, the Corpse Processing Team, the Interrogation Unit, the Medics—everyone in the rear guard was on a hit list.
If Tonbo hadn't sensed them, the massacre would have been catastrophic.
"Captain, is there something else?" Tonbo asked, noting the tension lingering around Mawari's smile.
"Sharp as always," Mawari chuckled, his expression sobering. "We can't be sure if that scout transmitted our coordinates before you crushed him. We're compromised. We're moving camp."
Tonbo's spine stiffened. "Understood."
"Good. Pack light. We move tonight."
As Mawari hurried off to coordinate the logistics, Tonbo didn't immediately pack. Instead, he sat cross-legged and pulsed his sensory chakra. He swept the area for a solid kilometer, checking every shadow and burrow until he was absolutely certain no eyes were watching.
He was determined to stay in the Analysis Team. He would not let the enemy burn down his only sanctuary.
Night fell, suffocating the forest in heavy shadows.
Under the sliver of a crescent moon, a column of black-clad figures moved through the trees. They were ghosts. Not a twig snapped. Not a leaf rustled. Even the nesting birds remained asleep as the ninja passed beneath them.
Tonbo moved in the center of the formation, his breathing regulated, his chakra suppressed to a whisper.
Concealment. It was the most basic ninja art, yet the most vital. Watching the anime had never conveyed the sheer, oppressive silence of a real shinobi march. Hashirama and Madara were gods of war, flashy and loud, but this—this silent, deadly procession—was the reality of the trade.
Assassins. That's what they were.
Even Seishi, the nervous rookie, moved with perfect, fluid grace. It made Tonbo wonder about the future.
How did Naruto ever graduate? Tonbo mused as he leaped over a ravine. Was it really just the Shadow Clone Jutsu? Or was it politics? Someone needed the Jinchuriki to pass, because his stealth skills were non-existent.
Thinking of Shadow Clones gave Tonbo an idea.
If a clone transfers memory and fatigue back to the user upon dispersal... that's a vulnerability.
What if he reversed his Mind Transmission technique? Instead of pulling information out, what if he pushed something in?
He had spent weeks diving into the minds of tortured, dying men. He had a library of agony stored in his head. Physical torture, the grief of lost comrades, the despair of betrayal.
Psycho Mind Transmission: Trauma Spike.
He could package that concentrated suffering and inject it into a clone—or a main body—as a genjutsu. If he hit a Shadow Clone with it, the clone would pop, transmitting the psychological trauma instantly to the original.
It wouldn't kill an elite Jonin, but in a battle where speed was everything, a split-second hesitation caused by a phantom scream was a fatal opening.
One flinch. One kunai to the heart. Game over.
Tonbo knew his limits. He had no bloodline limit. His chakra reserves were average. He would never be a powerhouse like Naruto or Sasuke. So, he had to be smarter. He had to be cruel.
He would specialize in the mind.
The Sharingan is the pinnacle of Genjutsu, he reasoned. But below that? Kurenai Yuhi. I can surpass her. I might not reach Itachi's level, but I can become a terror in my own right.
At worst, he would survive long enough to become a Jonin and retire to a desk job while the "Children of Prophecy" handled the gods.
Swish! Swish!
"We're here," a voice signaled from the front. "Set up the perimeter."
"ANBU detail, Sensors—sweep the area. Leak nothing."
"Sir!"
Under Inoichi Yamanaka's command, the new camp was established with clockwork precision. Tonbo was briefly deployed with an ANBU squad to scout the perimeter, ensuring the new location was secure.
Days turned into weeks. The Analysis Team settled back into its grim routine.
Tonbo treated his job like a dojo. Every morning, he clocked in to rape minds of their secrets. Every evening, he refined his taijutsu and experimented with his new Genjutsu theories.
He also became a scavenger. Many of the memories he read contained secret techniques from other villages. He transcribed them, breaking them down into training manuals. If he found a jutsu Konoha didn't possess, he turned it in for merit points. If it was useful, he kept it for himself.
His chakra capacity was growing. Where he could once only cast Earth Flow Spears three times before exhaustion, he could now manage five.
"Spiritual energy... Physical energy..."
A month passed in the blink of an eye. The pressure of war was a crucible. Tonbo was evolving faster in these few weeks than he would have in years of peacetime academy training.
Through the fragmented memories of new prisoners, he pieced together the broader tactical map. They were stationed just behind the border of the Land of Fire, a razor-thin margin from the main conflict zone.
Iwagakure was pushing hard. They were fighting a two-front war against Konoha and Kumogakure, yet their aggression never waned.
Konoha was stretched thin. Even with the medical corps, Orochimaru, and the Yellow Flash, the line was buckling.
Tsunade, Jiraiya... please come back soon, Tonbo prayed silently. Don't let the timeline derail.
During a session with a half-dead Iwa scout, Tonbo saw a memory that made his blood run cold.
In the vision, a blur of silver hair moved with lightning speed, wielding a short blade that glowed with white chakra.
Beside him ran a boy with orange goggles and a girl with a brown bob cut.
Kakashi. Obito. Rin.
They were here. Which meant the Kannabi Bridge mission—and the tragedy that would shape the next twenty years of history—was approaching fast.