The journey back to Konoha was a blur of pain and exhaustion. Uno had appeared at Renjiro's summoning, her massive wings cutting through the pre-dawn darkness, her eyes sharp with concern. She had said nothing—eagles were not creatures of unnecessary words—but her flight was smoother than usual, her movements careful, as if she sensed that her passenger was barely holding himself together.
Renjiro sat on her back, his body slumped forward, his hands gripping her feathers with the last reserves of his strength. The wind whipped past him, cold and biting, but he barely felt it. His vision was dim, the world a blur of shadows and indistinct shapes. His chakra reserves were depleted, his muscles screamed with every movement, and the six-pointed Mangekyō in his eyes; the eyes that had saved him from Orochimaru, were beginning to fail.
I need to get home, he thought, his internal voice a whisper. I need to rest. I need to—
He did not finish the thought. Consciousness was slipping, the edges of his awareness fading into darkness. He forced himself to stay awake, to focus on the rhythm of Uno's wings, to count the time until they reached their destination.
Uno dropped him several kilometres outside the village, as was his custom with the summons. She landed in a clearing, her massive form settling into the earth, and Renjiro slid from her back, his legs nearly buckling beneath him.
"Are you sure you can make it from here?" Uno asked, her voice carrying a note of concern.
"I have to," Renjiro replied, his voice hoarse. "I can't appear at the gates like this. Too many questions."
Uno studied him for a moment, her bright eyes unreadable. Then she nodded, spread her wings, and launched herself into the sky, disappearing into the darkness.
Renjiro stood alone in the clearing, his body trembling, his vision dim. He began the painful journey toward Konoha.
One of the benefits of working on the village's barrier was that Renjiro could enter the village undetected. So entering the village was not a difficult task.
The village was quiet when he arrived, the streets empty, the lanterns low. The first hints of dawn were still hours away, and the civilians who would soon fill the streets were still asleep in their homes.
Renjiro moved through the shadows, his flickers short and controlled, conserving what little chakra he had left. Every movement was agony, but he forced himself forward, step by step, flicker by flicker.
His house appeared ahead, a familiar shape against the dark sky. He felt a surge of relief, and he pushed himself faster, his body responding to the promise of rest.
But as he approached, something stopped him.
Something is wrong.
The thought surfaced from the depths of his exhaustion, sharp and urgent. He could not see clearly; his vision was too dim, too blurry, but his instincts, honed by years of survival, screamed a warning.
He activated his Sharingan and forced himself to scan his surroundings.
I can barely see, he realised, a cold dread settling into his stomach. The Mangekyō deterioration is worse than I thought.
He pushed the fear aside and focused on his task. His chakra field expanded, a subtle pulse of energy that brushed against the buildings, the streets, the shadows.
And there—there—he felt them.
Tiny movements. Rooflines. Corners. Observation posts.
Someone is watching my house.
The realisation hit him like a physical blow. He had survived Orochimaru, had fought a Sannin to a standstill, had traded Hashirama cells for the secret of the Eternal Mangekyō. And now, in his moment of greatest weakness, someone was waiting for him.
Root, he thought, the name surfacing from the depths of his consciousness.
Danzo. Of course. He moved faster than I expected.
He did not approach directly. His combat instincts, depleted but not broken, took over. He flickered away from his position, circling around to a different angle, approaching his house from the rear.
The first one, he thought, his eyes finding a silhouette on a nearby rooftop. Watching the main entrance.
He appeared behind the observer, his movements silent, his chakra suppressed. A precise strike—thump—and the agent collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The second agent was on the opposite rooftop. Renjiro pulled him from his position, his hands finding the pressure points on the man's neck, and the agent went limp.
The third was hidden in the tree line, watching the side entrance. Renjiro moved through the shadows, his flickers brief and controlled, and the agent fell before he could react.
The fourth was watching the rear approach. Renjiro neutralised him with a single strike.
The fifth was positioned near the back door, his eyes fixed on the entrance. Renjiro appeared behind him, his hand closing around the man's throat, and the agent joined his comrades in unconsciousness.
No struggle, Renjiro thought, dragging the bodies toward his house. No battle. After fighting Orochimaru, these shinobi feel painfully slow. Painfully predictable.
He gathered all five operatives and piled them outside his door. He recognised their equipment, their seals, their weapon placement. He had been ANBU himself—he knew the difference between ordinary ANBU operatives and Root agents.
These were Root. Danzo's personal force.
Danzo sent them to watch my house, Renjiro coldly concluded. The question is why. And how much does he know?
He opened his door and began dragging the bodies inside.
The interior of his house was dark, familiar. Renjiro moved through the rooms, his vision still dim, his body still trembling. He deposited the Root agents in a secured room; a space he had prepared for exactly this kind of situation, and closed the door behind them.
He moved to his storage room, his hands finding the hidden compartments he had built years ago. He retrieved a preserved jar—a container filled with Sharingan eyes, carefully maintained, floating in chakra-infused preservation solution. His collection was gathered over years of combat and preparation.
Good thing I removed a few and regenerated Mangekyō replacements, he thought, a grim satisfaction flickering through his exhaustion.
He removed his current eyes; the six-pointed Mangekyō that had saved him from Orochimaru, and the pain, while significant, was not as severe as the battlefield swap.
He inserted the preserved tri-wheel pair.
His Vision quickly returned.
The world snapped into focus—sharp, clear, vibrant. Colours deepened, details emerged, and the dim haze that had been clouding his vision vanished. Relief flooded through him—the first true relief he had felt since the battle.
I can see clearly again, he thought, his internal voice almost reverent. I can see.
He took a moment to simply look—at the room, at the jars, at his own hands. The world was beautiful in its clarity. He had almost lost it, had almost sacrificed his sight to defeat Orochimaru.
But I didn't. I prepared. I planned. And now I have the time to plan for what comes next.
He moved to the room where the Root agents were being held. They were still unconscious, their breathing even, their bodies still. He studied them with his restored vision, noting the details he had been too exhausted to see before. The uniforms, the equipment, the seals—all of it confirmed what he had already suspected.
Danzo's people. Root. Watching my house.
He sat in front of them, his restored tri-wheel Mangekyō beginning to spin.
Why surveillance? Since when? What did Danzo learn? How much does Root know? Were they monitoring me, or searching for something?
He thought of the battle with Orochimaru—the techniques he had revealed, the secrets he had exposed.
Had Danzo somehow learned about the encounter? Had Orochimaru informed Danzo that he was tracking him? Had his agents been watching from a distance, recording everything?
No, he concluded. They wouldn't have been able to get close enough. The battle was too intense, too chaotic. But they might have known I was leaving. They might have been waiting for me to return.
He thought of the political consequences. If Danzo had evidence of his absence, his dealings with Orochimaru, his secret activities—the implications were dire. Treason. Imprisonment. Execution.
But I don't know what they know, Renjiro realised. Not yet. That's what I need to find out.
His Mangekyō spun faster, the tri-wheel pattern gleaming in the dim light.
"Let's see why Danzo sent you to watch my house."
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