I, Uchiha, will not be whitewashed!

The Iwagakure Jonin dodged to the side, the blade grazing his ear before embedding itself in the tree trunk behind him, the hilt vibrating and humming.

He breathed a sigh of relief—then felt a jolt in his chest. Shuoge's fist, his entire body slamming into him like a cannonball, the fist striking the wound on his ribs.

The wound left by that knife.

The Iwagakure Jonin bent over, a sharp pain exploding from his ribs, and his vision went black. He heard the child's voice, very close, right next to his ear.

"Grab him."

-

Morishita sprang up from the ground as if experiencing a final burst of energy before death.

His ribs were broken, his face was bleeding, and his eyes were swollen shut—but he could hear.

He lunged forward, grabbing the Iwagakure Jonin tightly from behind, burying his face in his back, and locking his arms around his waist like a dog that wouldn't let go once it had bitten him.

"Hurry!" Morishita's voice was squeezed out through clenched teeth.

The Iwagakure Jonin struggled desperately, his elbows striking Morishita's face, temples, and back of the head repeatedly.

Morishita's face was unrecognizable, covered in blood, but his arm remained firmly in place.

Shuoge turned around and pulled a long knife from the tree trunk.

The Iwagakure Jonin's eyes widened, his mouth agape as if to say something, but Sakugo gave him no chance. The knife pierced through the back of his neck and emerged from his throat.

Blood clung to the tip of the knife, one drop, then two, falling onto the weeds.

The Iwagakure Jonin froze, his mouth agape, only the sound of blood bubbles bursting could be heard.

Morishita was still holding him, feeling the body go from struggling to convulsing, and from convulsing to going limp.

He did not let go.

It wasn't until Shuoge pulled out his knife and pushed the corpse off him that he stopped.

Morishita lay on his back in the grass, panting heavily.

The blood on his face was indistinguishable as to whether it was from his nose or a wound, and his eyes were so swollen that they were barely open.

He looked at the sky through the crack; the clouds were moving, very slowly.

Only one thought occupied his mind—the child hadn't run away. He rushed forward. He rushed forward, stepping on the rock spikes. A seven-year-old child, stepping on rock spikes, rushed forward.

He suddenly wanted to laugh, but as soon as he managed to open his mouth, the pain from his wound made him wince.

But he still smiled.

It wasn't the child who should have escaped; it was him. It was that Iwagakure Jonin. It was Morishita Ken. The one who should have escaped didn't, and the one who shouldn't have escaped—never even considered escaping.

-

The chunin, who was smoking a cigarette, crawled out of the bushes. Half of his face was swollen like a pig's head, he was missing two teeth, and his mouth was full of blood.

He staggered to the corpse of the Iwagakure Jonin and kicked it.

The body didn't move. He kicked it again. Then he plopped down on the ground and started laughing. As he laughed, tears streamed down his face. Not tears of sorrow, but tears of laughter.

He's still alive. That Jonin is dead. He's still alive.

He glanced at Shuoge—the boy was squatting next to his teammate who had his arms crossed, checking his injuries with practiced ease, as if he had done it many times before.

Suddenly, the person smoking felt a dryness in their throat.

He remembered the question he had asked himself before he set off—

Have you ever killed anyone?

He thought the answer was "killed," the kind of killing a seriously wounded enemy that happened on the border, the kind of finishing blow that happened when you were lucky enough to do it, the kind of "killed" that would make you tremble and have nightmares afterward.

No, not this kind.

Not the kind where you rush towards the Shinin by stepping on rock spikes.

It's not the kind where you throw a knife and then punch it.

This isn't the kind of person who stands next to a corpse without even breaking a sweat. This isn't just "having killed," this is—having killed many times. To the point where it's become a habit.

The one who had his arms crossed was lying on the ground three meters away, his chest was caved in, and he couldn't move, but his eyes were still open.

He looked at Shuoge, watching the seven-year-old boy examine his wounds, tear off the bandages, and stop the bleeding.

My hands were steady; there was no shaking.

He remembered the things he had said—"Do you know we're going to kill people?" "Do you know what it's like when someone dies?" Now he knew who didn't know.

It's not that the child doesn't know, it's that he himself doesn't know.

He didn't know that a seven-year-old child could kill so cleanly and then bandage the wounds so neatly.

Killing and saving lives, in those hands, are the same thing.

-

Shuoge tightened the bandage.

"A broken rib, might have punctured his lung." He looked up at the man with the cigarette in his mouth. "Do you have any bandages?"

The man with the cigarette paused for a second, then frantically rummaged through his ninja tool bag.

Yes, yes, yes, yes.

He handed over the bandage.

Shuoge took it and began to treat the wound.

His hands were steady, and his movements were skillful, unlike a seven-year-old child, but like a veteran who had done it many times.

The man with the cigarette in his mouth looked at him and suddenly felt his throat go dry. He remembered what he had said before setting off—"Don't hold us back." Now he knew that the biggest drag on the team was himself.

Morishita sat up from the grass and looked at Sakugo's back.

The blood on his face had dried and formed a dark red scab.

He opened his mouth, as if to ask something—how old are you?

When did you start practicing swordsmanship?

Who exactly are you?

But these questions, once on the tip of their tongues, were swallowed back down.

He has already seen the answer.

He saw it all—the child rushing up the rock spikes, the knife piercing the back of the neck, and the hand steady as a rock as it bandaged the wound.

No need to ask.

He lay in the grass, looking up at the sky.

The clouds are moving, very slowly, like something is moving forward.

He also has to move forward.

They all have to move forward.

Taking a seven-year-old child who kills as naturally as breathing to the front lines.

He suddenly felt like laughing.

Before setting off, he was still worried that the child might hold them back, cry, or wet his pants on the battlefield. Now he knew—the one who would truly hold them back was himself.

The wind blew from behind, carrying the smell of blood.

It was very faint, and was quickly masked by the scent of grass.

The road ahead was still long. The fog had dissipated, and the sunlight shone brightly on the dirt road.

No one spoke. The man with the cigarette lit it, his hand still trembling.

He watched Shuoge's retreating figure, the image of that slash replaying in his mind—leaping up from the bushes, the blade flashing upwards, clean and swift, slicing through the ninja's vest and flesh like cutting tofu.

He had killed people his whole life, but he had never seen such swordsmanship.

It's not about speed, it's about accuracy.

He was so accurate that he knew exactly where to cut, where to cut to cause fear, and where to cut to make a Jonin take a step back in front of a seven-year-old child.

The man, with his arms crossed, lay on a stretcher, his chest wrapped in bandages, unable to move.

But he kept his eyes open, watching the small figure at the very back of the line.

The child walked at the very back, at a pace that was neither too fast nor too slow, exactly the same as when they set off.

It was as if nothing had happened.

But he knew that everything had happened.

The Jonin was dead, one Chunin was dead and the other was injured, and the three adults—one Special Jonin and two Chunin—lay in the grass like three dead dogs, and were saved by a seven-year-old child.

He closed his eyes, trying to hold back his tears. Not shame, but something more complex.

Shuoge walked at the very back of the group.

The knife is behind his back, and his hand is at his side.

A gust of wind blew from the front, blowing his hair back. The shuriken tucked at his waist, the one engraved with the character "mirror," flashed in the sunlight.

……

……

……

When they arrived at the front-line camp, it was already evening of the second day.

The camp was set up 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 twilight, its corners rustling in the wind.

But unlike the last time I came, there were three times more tents for wounded soldiers, and the air was filled with the smell of ointment mixed with blood. People carrying stretchers had been working non-stop from morning till night.

As Ken Morishita was helped onto the stretcher by two medical ninjas, he glanced back at Sakugo.

His face was still swollen, and his eyes were barely open, but he wanted to see the child clearly.

Shuoge stood at the camp gate, knife behind his back, hands at his sides, his face expressionless.

Morishita opened his mouth, as if to say something—take care? Thank you? Don't die? But his throat felt like it was blocked by something, and he couldn't utter a single word.

He was carried away.

The chunin with a cigarette in his mouth walked beside the stretcher, took a few steps, stopped, and looked back.

He took a cigarette out of his pocket, put it in his mouth, but didn't light it.

He looked at Shuoge and nodded.

It was just a quick, light touch, and then he turned and left.

The man who liked to cross his arms was lying on the stretcher, unable to move, but he tilted his head and kept looking at Shuoge. Until the tent curtain fell, separating him from the outside world.

-

Shuoge stood still and waited for a while.

Nobody cared about him.

No one told him where to go, who to look for, or what to do.

People in the camp walked past him hurriedly, no one giving him a second glance. A seven-year-old child standing at the camp gate, carrying a knife—such a sight was hardly worth a second glance in today's camps.

He found a rock, sat down, and waited.

After waiting for about half an hour, a woman wearing a Chunin headband hurried over, carrying a stack of mission scrolls in her hands. Her hair was disheveled, and there were two dark circles under her eyes.

She saw Shuoge, paused for a moment, and then looked down at the list in her hand.

"Uchiha Sakugo?"

"Yes."

Where is your team?

"The captain and his teammates are in the medical ward. They're injured."

The woman glanced at him, her gaze lingering on his face for a second, but she didn't press the matter. On the battlefield, this was all too common. So common that there was no need to ask.

"Wait."

She turned and left.

Shuoge continued to wait.

Fifteen minutes later, the woman returned, carrying a scroll. She handed the scroll to him.

"Assigned to the Third Company, Fourth Platoon. The captain is Jonin Masaki Nakabayashi. Report to tent number three."

Shuoge took the scroll but did not open it.

"Now?"

"Now." The woman finished speaking, turned, and walked away. After taking two steps, she stopped, turned back, and glanced at him. "You know how to use a knife?"

"meeting."

"That's good." She left. Her steps were faster than when she came, as if something was chasing her.

-

Tent number three was located on the east side of the camp. It was much smaller than the wounded soldiers' tents and was a combat tent. When Shuoge lifted the curtain and went inside, there were already three people inside.

A man in his thirties sat behind a folding table, his face bearing an old scar running from his forehead to his chin. His eyes were deep and stagnant, like a pool of still water. He wore a Jonin vest and had two short swords tucked into his waistband.

Masaki Nakabayashi, captain of the fourth squad of the third company.

Two people were standing nearby. One was a tall, thin young man in his early twenties, twirling a kunai in his hand with practiced ease, but his eyes held the tension typical of a battlefield newbie.

The other was a woman in her mid-twenties, with short hair and freckles on her face. She was squatting on the ground checking her ninja tool bag, her movements swift and efficient, like a seasoned pro.

Shuoge went in and stood in front of the table.

Zhonglin raised his head and glanced at him. His gaze moved from the man's face to the knife on his back, and then back to his face.

There was no frown, no surprise, no "what a brat!" expression. He simply looked at it, as if it were a brick. Was it up to standard? Was it usable? Would it collapse if stacked on top of something?

"Uchiha Sakugo?"

"Yes."

"Have you killed someone?"

"Killed."

Zhonglin nodded. He didn't ask who was killed, when, or why.

He picked up a map from the table, unfolded it, and drew a line on it with his finger.

"We'll depart tomorrow morning for a Class B mission: reconnaissance behind enemy lines. The route is here, the supply depot is here, and the rendezvous point is here."

He looked up at the three people inside the tent.

"Is there a problem?"

The young man opened his mouth, as if to say something.

He glanced at Shuoge, then at the knife behind Shuoge's back, and swallowed his words. The freckled woman didn't look at Shuoge; she was looking at the map, tracing the line with her finger, and nodded.

"No," they both said at the same time.

Zhonglin put away the map and stood up. "Get a good rest tonight. We'll leave at dawn tomorrow."

He stepped out of the tent. The young man followed behind, pausing briefly as he passed Shuoge.

He looked down at Shuoge, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something—How old are you? Have you really killed anyone? Do you know where you're going tomorrow?

But he didn't say anything, he just nodded and left.

The freckled woman didn't leave. She squatted down, gave her ninja tool bag a final check, zipped it up, and stood up. She looked at Sakugo for a while.

"You... be careful."

"Um."

Uchiha Sakugo's reaction was very indifferent.

The freckled woman raised an eyebrow, then lowered it.

"My name is Natsuko. The one who turns kunai is called Tetsuma. You've met the captain before." She slung her ninja tool bag over her shoulder and walked towards the tent entrance. She stopped at the entrance without turning back.

"Stay close to me tomorrow. Don't rush ahead."

she left.

-

Only Shuoge remained in the tent.

He found a corner, leaned the knife against the wall, and sat down.

It was noisy outside the tent—some people were shouting, some were running, and some were crying.

There was a muffled explosion in the distance, like thunder.

He closed his eyes, his mind filled with images from today's events.

The Iwagakure Jonin's sword pierced through the back of the neck and came out through the throat, blood dripping from the tip of the blade.

Ken Morishita lay in the grass, his face covered in blood, but he was smiling. The man with the cigarette lit it, his hand trembling. The man with his arms crossed closed his eyes, tears sliding down his cheeks.

He opened his eyes and pulled the shuriken from behind his waist.

The one engraved with the character "镜" (mirror).

"I lent it to you, you have to return it." Zhi Shui's voice echoed in his mind, very softly, like the wind.

He tucked the shuriken back into his waistband and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, more killing. The day after tomorrow. And the day after that. Killing until the war ends, until we can return alive, until we can return the sword to Shisui.

Outside the tent, another explosion rang out.

This time it's even closer.