The confirmation came from Inu, his voice a low monotone that cut through the settling dust. "Target confirmed, deceased. Mission accomplished."
He rose from his crouch, turning his featureless mask toward Yuta, who stood silently at the crater's edge.
The massive bowl of shattered earth and rock was a testament to the power he had unleashed, a raw scar upon the land where his long-held vengeance had finally been executed.
Eight years. The specter that had haunted him, that had been the crucible in which his resolve was forged, was finally laid to rest. His father's memory, though faded by time, could now be a source of peace rather than a driving purpose.
He allowed himself a single, steadying breath, feeling the weight of the years lift from his shoulders. He met Inu's masked gaze and gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"The mission is complete," Yuta affirmed. Then, a flicker of rebellion sparked within him. "However… to prevent Danzo-sensei from immediately piling another mission on me the moment I return, I've decided to take a brief detour. I'll be… wandering for a bit before I report in."
A beat of silence. This was a clear breach of protocol. Shinobi returned to the village without delay. Leave was a privilege, not a right to be taken.
"I see," Inu finally replied, the words heavy with unspoken understanding. Principles were one thing; reality was another.
Yuta was not just any shinobi. He was Danzo's disciple, and more pertinently, he was the living weapon who had just single-handedly annihilated a Kage-level threat with ease. Denying him was not a matter of rules, but of survival instinct.
"Understood," Inu acquiesced. "I will report the mission's status."
A final, casual wave, and Yuta was gone, his form dissolving into the shadows of the forest, leaving the three Anbu operatives alone with the corpse and the crater.
From behind his fox-faced mask, Sakumo Hatake let out a low, incredulous whistle.
"Well," he murmured to himself, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and professional assessment. "That might just be the easiest S-rank mission I've ever had the privilege of not participating in."
He had deduced Yuta's youth from his stature, but the sight of his actual face—smooth, unlined, and startlingly young—had been a jolt. And the flagrant disregard for standard procedures… Yet, the Root agent had sanctioned it. Sakumo's role was to observe and report, not to question. The Third Hokage would receive a full account.
By the time Sakumo had finished his thought, Yuta was already miles away, the air of the Land of Hot Water filling his lungs.
The nation was a tapestry of steam and serenity, its landscape dotted with renowned hot spring resorts that promised a tranquility utterly alien to the world of shinobi.
It was a place he had only ever read about, a destination of fantasy. Now, so close, he would not deny himself the experience.
A rueful thought crossed his mind. Killing Kakuzu was almost too straightforward.
'I should have brought Tsunade and the others along.'
The prospect of enjoying these famed hot springs alone felt almost like a wasted opportunity.
'Next time,' he promised himself. 'I'll bring them next time.'
He had just handed over the entrance fee for a hotsprings, his mind already on the steaming waters, when the illusion of peace shattered.
A cacophony of panicked shouts erupted from the adjacent bathing area, the sounds of distress cutting through the calm like shards of glass.
A moment later, the proprietress of the establishment burst into the lobby. Her hair was wet and disheveled, her body hastily swaddled in a bath towel that did little to conceal her trembling. Her eyes, wide with fear, darted around the room before locking onto Yuta.
She rushed toward him, her words a frantic, tumbling torrent.
"Please! Excuse me! Have you seen a little girl? My daughter! She's ten! I only turned my back for a second to change, and she vanished! Have you seen her?!"
'The Land of Hot Water. A missing child.'
The combination sent a familiar, cold dread coiling in Yuta's stomach. His relaxing soak was officially over; his money was wasted.
He shook his head, his expression neutral. "No, I haven't."
The last flicker of hope in the woman's eyes extinguished. She spun on her heel without another word, her voice rising to a raw, desperate scream as she called her daughter's name into the crowded space.
Her terror was a spark to tinder that spread.
"My boy is gone too!"
"Where is my child?! This place is cursed!"
"Everyone, to the owner! We need answers!"
The realization spread through the crowd like a virus. Dozens of parents discovered their children were missing. In the span of a few minutes, the resort's tranquil public area devolved into a scene of pure chaos.
Yuta's brow furrowed in a mixture of irritation and dawning comprehension. The pieces clicked into place with an unsettling clarity.
The Land of Hot Water. Missing children. The association was immediate and ominous: the Jashinists.
The cult that worshipped a deity of pain and death, notorious for abducting the young for their vile rituals and heretical experiments. They were the ones who had created Hidan.
But the timeline felt wrong. Hidan himself would be a mere child now, if he was even born. Was the cult's reach this long? Their history this deep?
The lobby was now a landscape of disorder—wooden geta sandals lay abandoned, baskets of folded yukatas were overturned, and towels were trampled underfoot by the heedless, panicked crowd.
It was within this chaos that Yuta's trained perception isolated a single, incongruous figure.
Amidst the sea of anguished and angry faces, this man was a void of calm. The surrounding turmoil did not touch him. His eyes, cold and analytical, performed a systematic sweep of the crowd. Searching.
They found Yuta.
A predator's gleam ignited in the man's gaze. A new quarry had been identified. Yet, he was disciplined. To move overtly here, surrounded by a mob of enraged parents, was to invite a bloody end.
So he employed patience, allowing the natural currents of the distressed mass to carry him, step by subtle step, closer to his target.
'Four. I have four already. Just one more. One more, and my quota is met. Then I can disappear from this place.'
'He's hunting me,' Yuta realized.
He gave no outward sign. His assessment was instantaneous—the man had no chakra, was no shinobi, merely a mortal tool. A low-level operative. Confronting him here would be pointless, yielding no real intelligence.
A better plan formed. Let the hunter believe he has caught his prey.
If this was indeed the work of the Jashin cult, this was an express route to their heart. He would walk willingly into the lion's den.
The decision was made, Yuta's entire bearing transformed in an instant. The composed shinobi vanished, replaced by a lost, vulnerable child.
His eyes widened with feigned confusion and fear, his head swiveling as if searching for a familiar face in the crowd.
'Closer… just a little closer now…'
The cultist, Chikami Kirisu, allowed a thin, wet smile to touch his lips. A thrill, dark and intoxicating, coursed through him.
The other four had been snatched from moments of parental inattention. But this one… this one he would pluck from the heart of the chaos itself, a testament to his skills.
The sheer risk of it filled him not with fear, but with a perverse and swelling pride and excitement.
'Yes… that's it. Just like that. Come with Uncle now. Don't make a sound.'
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