The breathing was uneven, my chest felt tight — as if something was squeezing it from the inside.
I lowered my gaze to my legs, feeling the weakness pulsing through my muscles.
So this is what it means, I thought, to have the chakra reserves of a regular genin.
Throughout the entire battle, I had to drag myself up from the ground over and over again. To regain even a fraction of my usual speed, I kept reinforcing my body, flooding chakra into my muscles, ligaments, tendons. Without that, I'd have been nothing more than a target. But with each chakra pulse, the weights strapped to my legs didn't just feel like training tools anymore — they were anchors, pulling me down, into the earth.
I couldn't take them off. Not now. That would be admitting weakness. That would be a step backward.
So — I kept going.
But the price was brutally simple. My chakra reserves were dwindling by the second. Not rapidly — no. Worse: inevitably. Like water seeping through a crack in a vessel. I thought I was conserving. Not wasting. Not overspending. Just enough. The bare minimum. And yet — a few enhancements, a couple of jutsu — and I was nearly empty.
"Alright, enough whining," I cut off my inner voice, irritated by my own complaints. "Shut up and move."
Now wasn't the time for self-pity. I was still alive. Which meant — I had to act.
I had to get back to my team. If they were still fighting — I might be able to help, at least a little.
I quickly assessed my chakra level.
About twenty percent. No more. That was… basically nothing. With that, I could squeeze out one C-rank technique — barely. Or maybe a couple of substitution jutsu, no more. But if used at the right moment, maybe it would be enough. Enough to help. Or at least not die for nothing.
I tucked my chin down, hunched low, and slipped into the forest's greenery, moving cautiously through the trees — low, careful, conserving every motion.
I pushed past the branches, brushed aside a snapped twig — and froze.
A clearing.
It hadn't changed much – the same fallen trees, torn-up grass, only now the chaos was littered with the bodies of bandits. Their faces were distorted with pain and fear, and each body seemed to silently recount the brutal skirmish that had just taken place.
But the most striking thing was the massive mark on the ground — several meters wide, as if a giant hand had slammed into the earth and left a deep print nearly five meters long.
I stared at it without meaning to — so this is the power behind the Akimichi techniques, I thought from the cover of the bushes.
That kind of blow couldn't have been light — it was the raw force of the Akimichi clan.
Shinobi battles are all about speed — seconds decide the outcome — so it wasn't too surprising to see this scene only minutes after I'd fallen behind.
War doesn't wait.
But what surprised me more was what I saw next: sprawled among the half-shaded tree trunks was Gai — his body heavy, breathing labored, propped up on one elbow.
Genma was sitting nearby — his eyes tense and scanning the battlefield carefully.
I slowly exhaled, counting to three. The rustling of leaves, the crunch underfoot — anything could give me away, but the forest was silent. Smoke drifted with the wind, and the air was thick with the scent of ash and blood.
I emerged from the bushes slowly — first to my knees, then rising fully, kunai still in hand. Habit. Even when it seemed like it was over, relaxing was foolish. In battle, there's always someone pretending to be dead.
"Hey…" I croaked once I was a few meters away.
Genma turned his head first. His gaze slid over me.
Gai didn't react right away — he was lying on his side, clutching his arm. Sweat glistened on his face, hair stuck to his forehead. But when he saw me, his lips twitched — like he tried to smile, but even that was too much effort.
I stepped closer and knelt beside him. The earth was warm from the sun, damp from blood.
"You're alive," I said quietly — just to hear my own voice.
"For now," Genma rasped, glancing toward the forest. His eyes were sharp — like a hunter's — even now, after the battle.
"Where's sensei?" I asked as I moved nearer.
Genma jerked his chin toward the trees.
"Took two of them. Dragged 'em that way. A minute ago."
I followed his gesture, peering into the shadows between the trunks. The wind stirred the leaves, rustled the grass. Everything looked calm — too calm.
"Interrogation, probably…" the thought flickered.
I didn't say it out loud. You didn't say those things — especially among us, the new generation of genin, who considered such methods… outdated.
Still, older shinobi — especially those who fought in the Second War — knew how to be ruthless.
I crouched next to Genma, feeling the ache in my legs settle into a dull, pulsing throb.
"How are you?" I asked, eyeing his torn glove.
"A few cuts," he waved it off. "But Gai…"
I looked over at my friend. Gai lay gritting his teeth, his right arm clutched to his chest. He wasn't groaning, but his breathing was rapid and uneven.
"Broken?" I asked quietly.
"At least," Genma nodded. "He's lucky he didn't dislocate the whole shoulder. One of those guys hit like a hammer."
I nodded, silently. For a few seconds, we just sat in the quiet. Only the wind and a distant cry of crows.
"We won, right?" Gai finally broke the silence, eyes still closed.
"Not sure," I said. "Doesn't count until sensei comes back."
"Heh," Gai gave a weak chuckle — then coughed immediately.
I glanced again toward the forest. Still no sign of sensei.
"I'll go check," I said, standing.
"Wait," Genma grabbed my sleeve. "He told us — don't interfere. Said if he's not back in ten minutes, then go."
I looked up at the sky. The sun was at its peak. Dust was settling.
But with every passing second, the unease only grew.
"He's going to kill them, isn't he?" I asked, not even sure who I was speaking to.
"That depends on what they say," Genma replied wearily. "And what he wants to hear."
Part of me hoped sensei was just digging for information.
But another part… knew what shinobi of his generation were capable of.
They didn't always seek compromise.
Just then, the silence was broken by cautious footsteps. People from the caravan began to emerge from the wagons — merchants, guards, a couple of women. Some whispered to each other, others looked around warily. One guard circled a wagon and pulled out a hoe — just in case. But none came closer. They just watched, kept out of the way.
About five minutes later, sensei finally emerged from the forest. Slowly, without rush, as if nothing had happened.
Two men dragged behind him — hands bound, faces in the dirt, eyes downcast. Prisoners. That was it. No one else.
The rest, apparently, weren't deemed worth questioning… or didn't survive.
By then, the caravan had gathered near one of the wagons — as instructed in case of danger.
Someone had already begun harnessing the horses again. The rest waited.
I stepped forward, meeting sensei at the edge of the forest.
"Sensei, what should we do with them?" I asked, nodding toward the bandits who had started to stir.
That's when I noticed the familiar face of that chunin...
Sensei cast a glance over the bound men. They were silent, offering no resistance. Their faces were lifeless.
"Tie them tighter and leave them by the roadside," he said calmly. "A patrol will pass by sooner or later — they'll handle it. Dragging them into the city would just be a waste of time and resources."
We nodded. No further words were needed. The decision was made.
The bandits were secured with strong ropes. We confiscated anything sharp and sat them down beneath the trees near the road. At Genma's request, one of the caravan guards wrote a brief note for the patrol:
"Survivors from a band that attacked a guarded caravan. Bound. The rest — standard procedure."
He pinned it to the nearest tree trunk with a kunai.
"Well then, time to clean up," sensei said calmly, already forming hand seals.
His hands moved quickly, weaving a familiar sequence: "Earth," "Dog," "Rabbit."
"Earth Style: Burial," he said softly, but with absolute certainty.
At that moment, the ground around the wagons and bandits began to shift slowly, as if responding to his will. A low rumble echoed, as though coming from deep within the earth. First, the soil rose slightly, forming an invisible but sturdy barrier — then it gently began to absorb the scattered remains and debris.
The burial was clean and swift — within thirty seconds, there was no trace left of the broken wreckage. The ground smoothed out, rising just slightly, like a fresh layer of moss.
"Clean and without a trace," sensei said, lowering his hands and looking over the even surface.
It was as if the battle had never happened, I thought, scanning the area.
The caravan slowly began to move forward once more.