The supply line behind Konoha lay quiet in the moonlit dark, save for the faint whisper of leaves in the wind.
Through the forest, three Hidden Mist shinobi moved in perfect triangle formation, bounding from branch to branch. Their pace was steady, their focus sharp—until, without warning, all three faltered mid-step.
It wasn't clumsiness. It was the tree itself.
The thick trunk they had aimed for, shifted, bending unnaturally as if alive.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh…
Eight shuriken sliced through the night from above, each spinning with deadly precision.
The Mist shinobi, a special jōnin flanked by two chūnin, reacted instantly despite their shock. Blades flashed, ninja swords and kunai snapping into ready positions.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Metal rang in the dark. Mid-flight, the shuriken collided with each other, ricocheting into altered paths. That sudden redirection shattered the Mist ninjas' defenses. Steel bit into flesh. They cried out, crashing to the forest floor.
Before they could recover, thick branches whipped forward, wrapping them in a vice-tight grip.
"Hehehe…"
The laugh was strange—mocking, drawn out.
From the towering trees, faces emerged in the bark, grim and sneering. Branches writhed like limbs, leaves rustled like breathing. Fangs bared in the wood, claws scraped against the trunk.
The Mist ninjas stiffened. "The tree's alive—?"
"A tree demon—?"
"What kind of monster…?"
A figure shimmered into view, his camouflage peeling away like shed skin. He stepped onto a bridge of living wood that extended toward the bound enemies, the branches lifting the struggling shinobi toward him.
Uchiha Gen's eyes glinted in the shadows. Without a word, he called upon the power of the Soul-Soul Fruit. Three translucent blue souls—each trailing faint, glowing threads, were ripped from the Mist ninjas' bodies, along with white, glowing orbs that pulsed with life.
The captives' heads drooped, fear frozen in their empty eyes.
"Come back."
At the command, Homies released three bloodstained shuriken from their wounds. They dropped from the branches, and Gen caught them mid-air, wiping the steel clean on the Mist uniforms before slipping them back into his pouch. The rest, common steel, weren't worth retrieving.
"Put them down. Shuryu."
The wooden Homies uncoiled, dropping the limp Mist ninjas toward the forest floor. A shadow loomed—Shuryu's draconic mouth opened wide, unleashing a torrent of flame. In seconds, the bodies were charred black.
With a thought, Gen summoned back the lifeforce he had lent to the temporary Homies. Faint white spheres floated from the surrounding lesser tree-creatures, dissolving into his body.
Big Mom might have had the resources to grant permanent souls freely. Gen was no such king. Only his two advanced Homies, and the very first batch he had ever created, held their souls forever. The rest were on borrowed time.
"The interception's done," he murmured. "Now for my own work."
A clap of his hands, a puff of white smoke, and Gen's form shifted into that of a Kirigakure special jōnin. His features hardened, his headband glinted with the Mist's insignia.
An hour later, in the forest north of Konoha's front line, chūnin Uchiha Yuichi was racing through the canopy with three Genin at his back. They'd just finished a mission and were heading for the safety of camp.
"Enemy! Prepare to fight!"
Yuichi's sharp eyes caught movement ahead—a figure closing in fast.
The Genin dropped to separate branches, steel in hand, eyes fixed forward.
The Mist jōnin—Gen in disguise—licked his lips, gaze predatory. "Tch. Unlucky to meet here, isn't it?"
Yuichi's voice was hard. "Who knows which side's unlucky. Don't underestimate us."
His dark eyes turned crimson, a single black magatama orbiting in each.
Gen's smile widened. "An Uchiha. Good. I've wanted to study those eyes."
Before the words were finished, he vanished. Yuichi barely crossed his arms before the kick landed.
Boom!
Then slamming him into a tree, blood bursting from his mouth.
The genin didn't hesitate. Two launched a flurry of shuriken in a feint while the third lunged in close.
Gen weaved through the blades like water, drove his fist into the attacker's chest, and in two more blurs, dropped the other two with a single blow each.
This was the true scale difference: an elite jōnin against fresh genin.
"I'll hold him... go!" Yuichi barked, dragging himself upright. "He's a jōnin. Don't throw your lives away!"
Fire Release: Great Fireball!
His hands blurred through seals. His chest swelled, and a roaring fireball lit the night.
Gen sidestepped, already countering, three shuriken flung with sharp whines, lodging deep into a trunk. Yuichi twisted away and answered with a barrage of shuriken and kunai.
Wind Release: Breakthrough!
Wind roared from Gen's lungs, scattering steel and leaves alike, blasting Yuichi off his perch.
The chūnin crashed to the earth, the impact wringing blood from his lungs. Coughs wracked his body; his limbs refused to rise.
He reached for his eyes, to destroy them before capture, but darkness claimed him before his fingers touched skin.
His squad's sobs trailed into the trees as they obeyed his last order to flee.
Gen watched them go. Three witnesses were useful; and besides, he had no interest in snuffing out their family lines.
Kneeling beside Yuichi's unconscious form, Gen's mind turned over the calculation:
A two tomoe Sharingan gave him at least two clean observation chances, four if fortune favored him. Enough? Perhaps not.
To be sure, he'd need a single-tomoe user as well. That could mean four to eight full study sessions.
In peacetime, snatching Uchiha inside Konoha would be too risky. But during war? A missing clan shinobi could be easily written off to enemy action.
Decision made, Gen hefted Yuichi onto his shoulder and slipped into the forest, heading for a safe house hidden well beyond the front.