I, Uchiha, will not be whitewashed!

On the eve of his departure, Shuoge went to see Zhishui.

Shisui didn't cry; she simply placed a shuriken into his hand and said, "It's a loan to you; you have to return it."

Shuoge accepted it and tucked it behind his waist.

When he went out, Feng was waiting for him at the door. He didn't say anything, but just patted him on the shoulder.

-

It was early morning, before dawn.

Shuoge arrived at the meeting point at the village entrance right on time. He disliked waiting for others and being waited for, so he always arrived on time. Three figures were already waiting there.

Two middle-aged men leaned against a doorpost, one with a cigarette in his mouth and the other with his arms crossed.

They carried a scent of the battlefield—not the smell of blood, but something fainter, something that seeped into their bones.

Exhaustion, alertness, and distrust of everything new.

A young man stood nearby, wearing a vest resembling that of a Jonin, his face expressionless, staring blankly in the direction of the village entrance.

Shuoge walked over and stood still.

The Chunin with the cigarette in his mouth saw him first, and almost dropped his cigarette.

"What's going on? A genin?"

The one with his arms crossed also turned around, looking Shuoge up and down. His gaze moved from his headband to the long sword behind his back, and then back to the six-year-old's face.

His brows were so furrowed they could trap a fly.

"It's just a kid?"

"Our team is a standard elite squad."

The man with the cigarette in his mouth stubbed it out, his voice filled with barely suppressed anger.

"A special Jonin-led team, with three Chunin. One of them was lost at the border last time, and the others were also injured, so they just came back to rest. And the higher-ups, well, they replaced us with another one—"

He glanced at Shuoge and swallowed back the words "Have you weaned yet?"

But the meaning was all in their eyes.

The person with their arms crossed wasn't as polite as him.

"Forget about genin, sending these immature brats to the front lines? Are they trying to kill us already? Or do they think our team shouldn't even be coming back?"

Shuoge didn't speak. He stood there, knife behind his back, hands at his sides, breathing steadily.

The special Jonin remained silent.

His name was Ken Morishita, he was in his early thirties, and he had an old scar on his face that ran from his brow bone to his cheekbone, a remnant of the Second Shinobi World War.

He looked at Shuoge for a while.

Six years old.

At most seven years old.

The headband was new, the clothes were new, and the ninja tool bag was bulging, clearly having been stuffed full just before the trip.

The knife on his back was longer than his entire body, and there were several scratches on the scabbard, which was the only part that wasn't new.

He remembered what he was doing when he was six years old. Catching fish by the river, raiding bird nests in trees, and secretly reading ninja scrolls in his father's study. Not carrying a knife to kill people.

Has the war really come to this?

Do we need such young children to go to the front lines?

He had seen dead people, severed limbs, and fifteen-year-old children being carried back with their eyes still open.

But at six or seven years old—he felt from the bottom of his heart that children of that age should be doing their homework at school, running on the playground, and buying a piece of candy to eat on their way home.

Instead of standing here with a knife longer than himself hanging on his back, ready to kill.

"Have you ever killed anyone?" Morishita asked.

The voice was calm; it wasn't a test or a threat, but simply an confirmation of a fact.

Both Chunin looked at Sakugo at the same time.

The cigarette butt was held between his fingers, but he forgot to smoke it.

With his arms crossed and brows furrowed, he seemed to be waiting for a predictable answer—that he hadn't killed anyone, so they could legitimately send the brat back to the village.

"Killed them," said Shuoge.

The air fell silent for a moment.

The cigarette he was smoking fell to the ground.

I lowered my arms from my chest, then put them back up, unsure of where to put them.

They looked at Shuoge, whose face showed no feigned tension, no boastful pride, and not even the earnestness of "I'm telling the truth."

It was just calm.

That kind of calm that comes from having seen blood and knowing what blood tastes like.

Morishita did not ask who was killed, when, or why.

Those things don't matter. What matters is that this six- or seven-year-old child stood in front of him, said "killed," and then stood there as if he hadn't said anything at all.

"Do you know what we're going to do?" Morishita asked again.

"To kill," said Shuoge. "Or to be killed."

The man with the cigarette in his mouth picked it up from the ground, held it in his hand, his knuckles turning white.

He wanted to say something—"How old are you?"

Do you know what it's like when a person dies?

Did you know that your hands might shake after you kill someone?

Did you know that you might have nightmares at night?

But he said nothing. Because the child already knew. He had done it, he had trembled, he had nightmares. And then he stood there, saying "killed," as if talking about what he had eaten that day.

The man with his arms crossed turned away, no longer looking at Shuoge.

It's not that I disdain it, it's that I can't stand it anymore.

He recalled vomiting all night after his first murder, falling asleep hugging the toilet, and waking up to find his face covered in tears. When the boy said he had "killed," his eyes were dry.

"Let's go." Morishita said no more and turned to walk straight out of the village.

Two Chunin followed.

As he passed by Shuoge, the man with the cigarette in his mouth opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end he just put the cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and took a deep drag.

The person with their arms crossed didn't look at him. Not that they ignored him, but that they didn't dare to look.

The fact that a seven-year-old child said "killed" sent chills down his spine.

Shuoge strode forward, walking at the very back of the group.

They walked at a moderate pace, keeping in step with the people in front of them.

The morning mist hadn't yet dissipated, and the streetlights at the village entrance glowed with a hazy orange light through the fog.

He glanced back. The village was still asleep, the streets were deserted, and only a single lamp burned in the distance, its light flickering in the mist, as if bidding farewell to someone.

He turned back and caught up with the group.

No one looked back at him anymore.

It wasn't trust, it was something much heavier—they started to see him as a "person," not a brat, not a burden, but the kind of "person" who might die on the battlefield, or who might not.

On the battlefield, this is the greatest respect.

The fog is getting thicker.

The road ahead was unclear; all that could be seen were the backs of two people, blurry and indistinct, as if separated by a layer of water.

The air smells of rain.

It is going to rain.

……

……

……

The group moved quickly along the main road, making no attempt to conceal their tracks.

Morishita ran in the lead, at a pace that was neither too fast nor too slow, maintaining a rhythm that allowed everyone to keep up.

The two Chunin stood on the left and right, maintaining a standard guard formation.

Sakugo brought up the rear, his steps steady and his breathing even. He no longer needed to consciously adjust himself to keep up with the marching speed of adult ninjas—something he couldn't do six months ago, but he could now.

"We don't need to hide."

Morishita had said this before they set off.

"There's no way to hide it. This road leads straight to the front lines, and enemy infiltration squads love to ambush people on this road. If we can take care of them easily, we will; if we can't, we'll make a big scene, and naturally, someone will come to surround and annihilate us."

The meaning is clear: they are going to the front lines, not to deliver intelligence. Hiding is pointless; fighting is the only objective.

-

By midday, the fog had dissipated, and sunlight streamed through gaps in the clouds.

The road was lined with waist-high weeds, which rippled in waves when the wind blew.

Morishita suddenly raised his fist, and everyone stopped at the same time.

"Come out." His voice wasn't loud, but it was deep.

There was a moment of silence in the overgrown weeds.

Then the three of them stood up from the grass.

Iwagakure's headband, khaki vest, and expression as hard as stone.

One Jonin and two Chunin. A standard infiltration team configuration.

The Chunin with the cigarette in his mouth cursed, stubbed it out, and a kunai slid from his waist and he held it in his hand. The one with his arms crossed had already formed half a hand seal, chakra gathering at his fingertips.

The Iwagakure Jonin glanced at them, his gaze shifting from Morishita to the two Chunin, and finally settling on Sakugo.

Stopped.

A child, seven years old, at most seven years old.

His lips twitched, not in a smile, but in something more contemptuous.

"There's no one left in Konoha," he said.

Morishita did not respond. He drew his sword, and chakra condensed into a thin layer of light on the blade.

"You all step back."

This statement was primarily addressed to Shuoge.

-

The Iwagakure Jonin moved. He was very fast, not in a straight line, but in a way that made it impossible to judge his direction as he moved erratically through the tall grass.

Mori's slash missed its mark, and the Iwagakure Jonin had already circled around to his side and kicked him in the ribs.

Morishita flew through the air and crashed into a tree, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

The chunin, who was smoking, charged in from the side and thrust his kunai straight at him.

The Iwagakure Jonin didn't even turn around; he slapped him across the face with his backhand. The man with the cigarette in his mouth was spun around on the spot, two teeth flew out, and he fell into the bushes.

The one with his arms crossed completed the hand seals, unleashing Earth Release: Earth Split Palm—the ground cracked open, and the Iwagakure Jonin's feet sank into the void.

But he simply jumped lightly, landing on the edge of the crack, and then kicked the man who was crossing his arms in the chest.

The sound of bones cracking was crisp; the man clutching his arm coughed up blood and collapsed to the ground.

Three tricks.

One special Jonin and two Chunin were all defeated.

The Iwagakure Jonin stood between them, patting the dust off his hands as easily as brushing off flour.

He glanced at Morishita, then at the man with the cigarette in his mouth and the man with his arms crossed.

"Konoha Village, the strongest of the Five Great Nations, occupies the most fertile forests and plains—"

"Is that all?"

"This is so disappointing."

He walked towards Morishita, his steps slow, like a cat teasing a mouse that could no longer run.

Morishita leaned against the tree trunk to stand up, the knife still in his hand, but his hand was trembling.

I have two broken ribs, and it hurts to breathe.

But he didn't back down, because he still had that child behind him.

The Iwagakure Jonin walked up to him, looking down at him. "Get out of my way. I'll wipe out your Konoha's 'seedlings' first, so this forest will never sprout a new leaf again!"

Morishita did not yield. He raised his knife—

Then he saw it.

Behind the Iwagakure Jonin, the weeds were moving. It wasn't the wind; something was moving within the grass. Quickly, very lightly, like a snake. The Iwagakure Jonin sensed it too. He turned around—

The flash of the blade erupted from the bushes.

It's not a downward chop, it's a upward flick.

Shuoge sprang up from the bushes, his blade slicing an arc from the Iwagakure Jonin's knee down to his chest.

The Iwagakure Jonin reacted quickly—he retreated abruptly, the blade only slicing through his vest and a layer of skin, without hitting any vital organs. But Morishita's sword was already waiting in his retreating path.

The Iwagakure Jonin forcibly twisted his body in mid-air, abruptly changing his direction.

The moment he landed, before he could even steady himself, Shuoge's knife was already at him again.

This time it wasn't a sneak attack, it was a frontal assault.

The blade slashed horizontally from the left, and the Iwagakure Jonin ducked to dodge, then punched Sakugo in the face.

Shuoge didn't take the blow head-on. Instead, his foot slipped, and he retreated, his entire body brushing against the fist. The tip of his blade grazed the arm of the Iwagakure Jonin.

Blood seeped from his sleeve. The Iwagakure Jonin looked down at his arm, then at Sakugo. His eyes changed—not with contempt, but with seriousness. A seven-year-old child, two stabs, and he had drawn blood.

"Interesting." His voice lowered.

-

Two Iwagakure Chunin flanked them from both sides.

They had been watching from the sidelines, and now that they saw their captain injured, they finally moved. One attacked from the left, the other from the right, their kunai aimed straight for Shuoge's ribs. Their coordinated attack sealed off all escape routes.

Shuoge did not retreat.

He took a step forward, and with a swift upward slash, the kunai of the chunin on the left was severed along with his wrist.

Blood spurted out, and the man screamed in agony, clutching his severed wrist and kneeling on the ground.

The blade didn't stop; it spun around, the back striking the right-hand chunin in the temple. Not the blade—it was the back. The man's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed limply, a thin line of blood trickling from his ear.

Two cuts. One hand severed, the other unconscious.

The pupils of the Iwagakure Jonin contracted.

He looked at Shuoge—the child standing between two half-dead bodies, the knife tip pointing downwards, blood dripping from the blade onto the weeds.

His breathing was steady, his hands did not tremble, and his eyes—those dark, unfathomable eyes—were looking at him.

It's not the child watching the enemy; it's the hunter watching the prey.

-

"escape--!"

Morishita's voice was squeezed out of his throat, hoarse like sandpaper rubbing against sheet metal.

He saw it—the Iwagakure Jonin's chakra was surging, a sign that he was about to fight to the death. A Jonin fighting with all his might, a seven-year-old child couldn't even last a second.

"Run!"

The Iwagakure Jonin turned around and looked at Sakugo, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

His arm was slashed, the skin and flesh torn open, but he was still smiling.

A seven-year-old child, carrying a knife longer than himself, walked towards him.

What is this if not suicide?

He raised his hand, chakra gathering in his palm—Earth Release: Earth Spear. The ground cracked open, sharp rocks piercing from the soil like a row of giant beast's teeth.

Shuoge jumped up.

It's not backwards, it's forwards.

Stepping on the sharp, protruding rocks, one step, two steps, three steps, it felt like walking on the water under a waterfall, like practicing martial arts on a river under the moonlight.

The rock shattered beneath his feet, sending fragments flying that cut his cheek, but he didn't stop.

The smile of the Iwagakure Jonin froze.

He took a step back, trying to create some distance, but Shuoge's knife had already fallen.

It's not a chop, it's a throw.

The long sword flew from his hand, spinning towards the face of the Iwagakure Jonin—

……