The attempt did not come during the day.
It did not come during training.
It did not come while he stood under observation.
It came when routine felt most predictable.
Late evening.
After patrol rotation.
When lanterns in the district dimmed and most shinobi returned indoors.
Kuroto was alone inside his home.
Not resting.
Not meditating.
Listening.
The air had felt wrong since dusk.
Not heavy with fruit pressure.
Heavy with presence.
He extinguished the lantern without hurry.
Darkness settled naturally across the room.
Outside, the sound was subtle.
A footstep placed too carefully.
A shift in roof tiles measured to avoid noise.
Three.
No.
Four.
Professional spacing.
He did not reach for a weapon.
He stood.
The door slid open without sound.
Root.
No insignia visible.
No words exchanged.
Two entered from the front.
One from the rear window.
One remained outside.
Efficient.
Clean.
A blade moved for his throat immediately.
They were not testing this time.
They were executing.
He stepped back half a pace.
The pressure inside him did not surge violently.
It aligned.
The operative's blade slowed mid-strike.
Not stopped.
Weighted.
The second operative lunged simultaneously.
Kuroto pivoted smoothly, letting both trajectories collapse inward toward each other.
Their footing failed.
The wooden floor cracked beneath compressed force as both men were dragged down violently, breath crushed from lungs before impact.
No noise escaped the room.
The third operative launched a wind-based cutting technique.
The air sliced forward.
Kuroto raised his hand calmly.
The technique distorted mid-flight, spiraling inward before collapsing into nothing.
The room felt smaller.
Denser.
The fourth operative entered fully now.
This one did not hesitate.
A sealing tag flashed toward the wall.
Pre-prepared.
They had studied him.
Smart.
The tag ignited with binding formula.
Kuroto shifted slightly—
and pulled.
Not the tag.
The space around it.
The sealing formula bent, ink lines warping unnaturally before tearing apart under redirected force.
For the first time, one of the operatives faltered.
Uncertainty.
That was fatal.
Kuroto stepped forward once.
The operative's body lifted slightly from the ground—not thrown—but dragged inward by a gravity vector that did not align with natural direction.
He closed his hand gently.
The pressure intensified only enough to end resistance.
Silence returned.
The wood creaked faintly under altered weight distribution before settling again.
Outside, the final operative remained frozen.
He could feel him.
Breathing shallow.
Calculating.
Kuroto walked to the doorway and stepped outside without haste.
The masked shinobi did not attack.
He did not flee either.
"You were not meant to survive integration," the operative said quietly.
"So I've been told," Kuroto replied.
The operative's grip tightened on his weapon.
"This is containment protocol."
"Containment implies threat," Kuroto said calmly.
"You are."
Kuroto looked at him steadily.
"To whom?"
The question lingered.
The operative did not answer.
He attacked.
It was fast.
Precise.
Desperate.
Kuroto moved once.
The ground beneath them compressed sharply.
The operative dropped, breath stolen, mask cracking under pressure.
This time, Kuroto did not kill.
He released.
The man collapsed but remained alive.
A message.
Across the rooftops, a shadow observed.
Itachi.
He had not intervened.
He had watched.
And he now understood something clearly:
This was no instability.
This was mastery.
Below, Root operatives lay unconscious but breathing.
Kuroto looked toward the Hokage Tower in the distance.
Danzō had just crossed from narrative manipulation into assassination.
That changed the rules.
Because now—
Patience would no longer be one-sided.