I, Uchiha, will not be whitewashed!

Kazuo Morita squatted on the ground, wiping the blood off his hands with a cloth.

It wasn't his own blood—it belonged to that elite Chunin from Iwagakure.

For his final blow, he used a kunai, piercing the man's ribs and lungs. The man died with his eyes still open, looking at the sky, as if he wanted to say something.

He wiped his hands, stood up, and glanced at the battlefield.

The survivors were all doing their own thing—some were bandaging their wounds, some were picking up scattered ninja tools, and some were leaning against tree trunks in a daze.

No one speaks.

The silence that followed the battle was heavier than the battle itself.

"Collect the bodies." Morita's voice was flat, as if he were saying something he had done many times before.

The two genin stood up and walked toward the scout's corpse.

He was nailed to a tree trunk with a kunai, which pierced through his chest and embedded itself in the wood. When it was pulled out, his body fell forward, but was caught by those nearby.

They laid him flat on the ground, straightened his arms and legs, and closed his open eyes.

No one cried.

He simply stared silently at the bloodless face.

Another victim lay in the middle of the open space, his abdomen cut open, his intestines stuffed back in, and haphazardly wrapped with bandages.

It was done hastily—not because he could still be saved, but because he shouldn't have died such a gruesome death.

The bandage was soaked in blood, turning dark red, and stuck to his stomach like an ill-fitting garment.

Someone straightened his clothes to cover the wound.

Kakashi leaned against a tree trunk, the wound on his shoulder simply bandaged, the bandage tightly wrapped, with a little blood seeping out.

He didn't say anything, but just stared at the corpse with a knife wound in the abdomen not far away for a long time, then looked away and looked at his own hand.

The bodies of the Iwa ninja were dragged together and piled up at the edge of the forest.

No one closed their eyes for them, no one straightened their posture. They were just piled up there, waiting for someone to come and collect them later—or perhaps no one would come.

"Make a note of both sides..."

Morita spoke to a low-ranking ninja. The man pulled a crumpled notebook from his pocket, turned to a new page, and began to write. The pen scratched on the paper.

On Konoha's side, two were killed, one was seriously injured, and three were slightly injured.

On the Iwa ninja side, two were killed and one escaped.

After finishing writing, the genin closed the notebook, glanced at the two corpses of his comrades on the ground, moved his lips slightly, and then stuffed the notebook back into his pocket.

"team leader."

Someone shouted.

It was the genin who had been on guard duty earlier. He stood at the edge of the woods, pointing at the two Iwa ninja corpses on the ground, and then at Sakugo.

"Those two... were killed by that child."

Morita did not speak.

He glanced at Shuoge—the black-haired boy was squatting by the river, washing the blood off his knife.

The movements were slow and meticulous, as if they were doing something they did every day.

The water flowed over the blade, carrying away the blood and revealing a cold, silvery gleam beneath.

"I saw it," Morita said.

To put it bluntly, if that child hadn't killed two Chunin, their entire group would probably have perished here.

The genin opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then swallowed it back. He just stared at Sakugo's back, his eyes filled with complex emotions—awe, fear, and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Morita did not continue speaking.

He turned and walked toward the bodies of his two companions, squatted down, and took off their headbands.

The back of the headband was engraved with a number, the only trace they left in Konoha. He tucked the headband into his coat, patted their cold shoulders, and stood up.

"Get ready to go. It's even less safe after dark."

The survivors began packing their belongings.

A ninja tool pouch, a water bottle, and half a supply of soldier's rations. Some were tying their shoelaces, some were checking the remaining kunai, and some were stuffing their comrades' belongings into their own backpacks. No one looked back.

Kakashi stumbled as he stood up, but steadied himself by holding onto a tree trunk.

Sakugo had just returned from the riverbank, his sword already sheathed. He glanced at Kakashi but said nothing.

Kakashi didn't say anything either.

The two looked at each other for a second, then turned around and walked towards the group.

The team resumed their journey.

No one spoke, and their footsteps were heavier than when they arrived.

Two more backpacks, two fewer faces.

Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the leaves, falling on the silent faces, on the still-bleeding bandages, and on the crumpled notebook.

Two more lines appeared in the notebook—two names, two numbers, two bodies that could never be returned to.

This is war.

The living are thankful it wasn't them; the dead become cold lists of the fallen, numbers in archives, or black veils hanging at someone's door.

No one looked back.

In the woods behind them, two Konoha corpses lay quietly, waiting to be transported back, to be burned to ashes, and to have their names engraved on the long list of names on the memorial stone.

Like those who died on the front lines, on missions, or anywhere else—carved into the stone, into the numbers, into a memory that is remembered on a rainy day and quickly forgotten.

The group has gone far away.

The woods fell silent again, broken only by the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves and the call of a bird in the distance. The sun began to set, and the light grew dim and yellow.

The bodies of the Iwa ninja were still piled up at the edge of the woods, unclaimed.

Tomorrow, I might be dragged away by wild beasts.

It might be buried by a passing patrol team.

Maybe it will just pile up there, rot, and become part of the soil.

No one will remember their names—in the archives of Iwagakure, they are just two numbers. Like the two numbers in Konoha, they lie in some drawer, waiting to be archived, waiting to be forgotten.

-

There were no further unexpected events on the rest of the journey.

After all, this is within the Land of Fire, and it's already the limit for one or two small Iwagakure units to infiltrate. To tear a larger gap in Konoha's defenses, a full-scale offensive would be necessary—and that day has not yet arrived.

As evening fell, the team arrived at the border camp.

The camp was located on a high ground on the border of the Rain Kingdom, surrounded by a security barrier and patrolling sentries.

The Leaf Village flag fluttered in the setting sun, its corners rustling in the wind. Several large tents stood in the center of the camp, one of which was topped with a small red flag—a sign that a Kage-level expert was stationed there.

The guards at the camp gate checked Morita's mission scroll before allowing him to pass.

As the group entered the camp, they were immediately enveloped by the unique atmosphere of war—ninjas were rushing around everywhere. Some were covered in blood and carried into medical tents, some were squatting in corners wiping their knives, and some were leaning against sandbags with their eyes closed, their faces still covered in blood.

The air was filled with the mixed smells of ointment, blood, and dirt.

"Deliver the supplies to Warehouse No. 3, then find the medical team to treat the wounds." Morita's voice was still so flat, like a machine speaking.

"We'll head back early tomorrow morning. Get a good rest tonight."

The team disbanded.

Those who were still alive dispersed, no one said goodbye, no one said "see you tomorrow".

In a place like this, tomorrow is too far away.

Kakashi handed over the supplies and had the medical team re-bandage the wound on his shoulder.

The bandages have been changed; they're white, but they'll soon be soaked in blood and turn red.

When he stepped out of the medical tent, he had a cup of hot tea in his hand.

The medical team gave it to him, saying, "Drink something hot to warm your stomach." He held the tea in his hand but didn't drink it. He wandered around the camp and finally found Shuoge in a secluded corner.

That corner was far from the main camp, near a grove of low trees.

There was no tent, no campfire, just one person and a knife.

Shuoge is wielding his sword.

One, one, another.

Exactly the same as when I was in Konoha.

The sound of a blade slicing through the air echoed in the twilight, its rhythm as steady as a heartbeat.

His breathing was steady, his movements fluid, as if nothing had happened during the day. As if the two corpses, the blood, the red dew that slid from the tip of his knife—none of them existed.

Kakashi stood ten paces away and watched for a while.

He had assumed Shuoge would need something—someone to be alone for a while, or a cup of hot tea, or…

he does not know.

When he killed someone for the first time, his hands trembled all night, he couldn't hold the kunai, and his mind was filled with that face.

Later, the second and third times, after many repetitions, the shaking stopped.

But the first time was different.

The first time was etched into my bones; I can't forget it.

So he came.

I brought a cup of tea that was almost cold.

But he realized he was wrong.

Shuoge's movements were completely unhindered, his breathing was perfectly steady, and his gaze was unwavering.

He just stood there swinging his knife, doing the same thing every day and every night.

Calm as a stone, as a tree, as a long knife that has just been wiped clean.

Kakashi stood there, his tea already cold. He didn't approach, nor did he speak. He simply stared at that retreating figure for a long time.

Then he turned around and left.

After taking a few steps, the sound of a knife being swung behind me suddenly stopped.

"Kakashi."

Kakashi stopped walking without turning around.

Shuoge's voice came from behind, very faint.

"Give me some tea."

Kakashi paused for a moment, then turned and walked over. He handed the now-cold tea to Sakugo. Sakugo took it and took a sip. It was cold and had a slightly bitter taste.

"It's cold," he said.

"Um."

Shuoge held the cup of cold tea and glanced at the camp in the distance.

The campfire flickered in the twilight, shadowy figures moved about, and sounds filled the air.

The camp was completely separated from where he swung his knife, but the sounds could still be heard—some were laughing, some were crying, and some were calling someone's name.

"It's noisier here than in Konoha," he said.

Kakashi didn't reply. He sat down against a nearby tree, watching Sakugo finish his cold tea, put the cup on the ground, and raise his sword again.

Swing a knife.

One, one, another.

Kakashi sat under the tree, not leaving. Two people, one wielding a sword, the other sitting.

No one spoke, and no one needed to speak.

It was completely dark, and the campfire in the camp flickered in the distance.

The sound of a blade slicing through the air kept ringing out, like something that would never stop.

……

……

……

In the center of the camp, inside a huge tent, candlelight cast two shadows that swayed on the canvas wall.

Frontline commander Shiro Yamanaka sat at a folding table, a thick stack of reports spread out in front of him.

Several bowls of cold porridge were piled on the corner of the table, untouched.

Chief of Staff Nara Shioyaki stood beside the sand table, a charcoal pencil in his hand, sketching something on the list on the wooden board. The red flags in the sand table represented Konoha, and the black flags represented Iwagakure. There were significantly more black flags than last month.

"Third supply squad, skirmish." Salt Burn's voice was calm. "Two dead, one seriously wounded."

"name."

"Genin, Hyuga Yuto, 12 years old. Genin, Inuzuka Kou, 11 years old."

Shiro paused, his pen still. Hyuga Yuto—the kid who stood outside the tent for an hour last week when he arrived at camp, too afraid to come in. Now he was just a line of text on a piece of paper.

The secret service would deliver a death notice, a piece of paper with the name, number, time and place of death written on it.

Expressionless, toneless.

When it arrived at home, my family cried, then put it away and buried it at the bottom of a box.

After a few years, the paper will turn yellow, and people will forget about it.

"Team 42 encountered an elite Iwagakure unit. All four members were killed: one Chunin and three Genin."

All killed in action. Four words, four lives. Chunin were 32, Genin were 19, 17, and 14. In the face of war, eight and fourteen are no different. They are all just a piece of paper, a line of text, a number.

"Those three genin were only recruited less than two weeks ago. Two of them are on the front lines for the first time."

First time going to the front lines. Some came back, some became just names on a list.

Like those who went to the front lines ten times, no one would write an extra line.

"The medical team reported six seriously injured, two of whom may not survive the night. Seventeen people were slightly injured. One person is still missing, an eleven-year-old genin. The search and rescue team has not found him yet."

Missing. On the battlefield, missing is no different from death. The only difference is that death requires evidence, while missing requires nothing. When a person is gone, they are gone.

Shiro leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His mind was filled with those names. When they were alive, they laughed, they cried, they were afraid of the dark, they missed home. Before leaving home, they would write a letter that would never be sent.

But now they've all become words on paper, black and white, motionless, and devoid of warmth.

"Shiro, you should go to sleep."

"Can't sleep. Have you checked today's list?"

"It's been checked."

"Are the numbers correct?"

"right."

Shiro was silent for a moment. "Seventeen men died last month, and this month isn't even over yet, there are already thirty-two."

Salt-burning remained silent.

Numbers don't lie.

What about next month?

What about next month?

Nobody knows.

Shiro closed the reports on the table, stacked them together, and piled them on the corner of the table.

Each one contained the same thing—name, number, time and place of death.

Each one felt heavy, pressing down on the table and on my heart.

"You'll write tomorrow's report." Shiro stood up, lifted the curtain, and went out. The night wind blew in, carrying the smell of gunpowder and blood.

Yan Shao sat at the table, looking at the stack of reports.

The topmost document had its corner curled up, revealing the beginning of the next line—"Genin, twelve years old, killed in action." He reached out and turned the report over, revealing a new page.

The above still shows names and numbers. It's the same as the previous page, and the same as all the other pages.

He picked up his pen, dipped it in ink, and began writing tomorrow's report. The pen tip scratched across the paper.

Outside the tent, a campfire burned. Someone played the shamisen, the sound soft and slow, as if bidding farewell to someone.

Inside the tent, Yan Shao finished writing the last word and put down his pen. The line read—"Seven dead today." He stacked the report on the corner of the table, together with the previous ones.

Tomorrow, someone will deliver another report.

New name, new number.

They piled up, getting higher and higher, heavier and heavier.

Shiro stood outside the tent, gazing at the distant sky. There were many bright stars in the sky. Each one resembled a person.

But he knew that some stars had already died out.

The light is still on its way and will take a long time to be seen.

By the time the light arrived, the stars were no longer there.