I, Uchiha, will not be whitewashed!

Three days after the failed decapitation mission, the atmosphere at the western camp changed.

It wasn't the dullness of a defeat, but something more subtle.

People spoke quietly in their tents, exchanged glances by the campfire, and lowered their heads as Shuo Mao walked by.

The news spread quickly—White Fang abandoned the mission and chose to save his teammates.

Kato didn't die; the Sand Village's hundred-man squad is still active on the front lines, still killing people.

How many people died?

A dozen or so?

Twenty-odd?

No one has kept statistics, but everyone feels that the white teeth were chosen incorrectly.

Shuoge heard the sounds. They came from outside the tent, low in the air, like the chirping of insects.

"Even white teeth have their day..."

"Saving two people but killing twenty, how do you calculate that?"

"Is he getting old?"

Uchiha Sakugo sat in the tent, wiping his sword. His eyes, black and expressionless, were reflected on the blade.

He knew what would happen next.

Public opinion will crush White Fang, the elders will hold him accountable, and the Third Hokage will tacitly approve.

The most fatal blow came not from the enemy, but from the two people White Fang rescued—"They'd rather die in the desert than fail their mission."

This sentence will be the last straw that breaks White Teeth's back.

Before he transmigrated, when he read this story, he thought White Fang was out of his mind. Now, standing here watching all of this happen, he just thinks those two deserve to die.

On the fourth day, Shuo Mao received orders to return to the western front camp to take command.

Sunagakure is making moves in the east and needs him to keep things under control.

Before he left, he entrusted Kurosawa and Rin to Sakugo.

"Send them back to their village. We'll talk about it after they've recovered."

Uchiha Sakumo nodded, without asking why. He knew why. Hatake Sakumo trusted him.

Three people, one road.

Sakugo walked in front, his sword behind him, his hands at his sides. Kurosawa walked in the middle, and Rin walked behind him.

The journey took two days, crossing the desert and passing through low-lying forests.

The next day, they rested by the roadside. Kurosawa leaned against a tree trunk, his face pale, but his eyes were bright. That brightness wasn't spirit, but something sharper.

"Have you heard? The talk in the village," Kurosawa said. "They're all saying White Fang made the wrong choice. They say he should have killed Kato, not saved us."

Ling lowered her head and remained silent.

Shuoge looked at him. "So?"

Kurosawa remained silent for a while.

"I'd rather he never turned back. I'd rather he died in the desert than have the mission fail. Twenty-odd men—"

He didn't finish speaking.

Shuoge's sword was already drawn.

It happened so fast that Kurosawa didn't even have time to react.

He didn't even look up as the bell rang.

The blade sliced ​​across Kurosawa's throat, then across Rin's throat.

The two men fell down at the same time, leaning against the tree. The red lines on their necks were very thin, and the blood seeped out very slowly.

Their faces still bore the expressions from before—Kurosawa's guilt and Rin's silence.

Shuoge sheathed his sword, looking down at the two corpses. "Baiya saved you, and you wanted to kill him. You didn't know you would kill him, but I did. So you must die."

—Words can kill, and vicious words can destroy the soul.

Uchiha Sakugo turned around cleanly and left.

There was no turning back.

Two days later, Shuoge returned to the western camp alone. The people at the camp gate were taken aback when they saw him.

"Where are Kurosawa and Rin?"

"Dead. Encountered a Sunagakure infiltration unit on the way."

Shuoge went inside without stopping.

He walked to the tent of the third squad and lifted the curtain.

Shuo Mao sat inside, a map spread out in front of him, a pen in his hand. He looked up and saw Shuo Ge returning alone, his expression changing slightly.

"Kurosawa and Rin?"

"He's dead." Sakugo stood before him. "I encountered Sunagakure on the way. I couldn't save him."

Sakumo Hatake remained silent for a long time.

Then he lowered his head and continued looking at the map.

—When war breaks out, people die every day. Today it may be someone else, a complete stranger, or someone you know, a familiar comrade or teammate.

"Go and rest." Hatake Sakumo's tone was indifferent, as if nothing had happened.

Uchiha Sakugo turned and walked out of the tent.

He stood outside, the wind blowing in, carrying the smell of sand and dust.

He touched the scabbard at his waist.

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

"Uncle, I killed two people. They weren't bad people, but they deserved to die. White Fang saved them, and they would kill White Fang. So I killed them first."

"You probably think I made a mistake, right? Maybe. But I don't regret it."

He went back to his tent, sat down, and began to clean his knife.

The blade was clean and dry, with no blood on it.

It was as if nothing had happened.

……

……

……

The deaths of Kurosawa and Rin only caused a few ripples in the camp for a few days.

It's not that they weren't important; it's that too many people died on the battlefield. A couple more, a couple less—no one would remember. But no one would forget that White Fang abandoned the mission.

On the fifth day, Sunagakure launched a large-scale attack.

A gap was torn in the battle line, resulting in the deaths of over thirty men and injuries to over a hundred others.

There weren't enough medical tents, so wounded soldiers lay on the sand, their blood staining it dark red. Some were crying, some were calling out their teammates' names, and some stared motionless at the sky.

"If White Fang had killed Kato that time, the puppeteer force would have been leaderless, and this surprise attack wouldn't have happened." The speaker's voice was hoarse, and half of his face was wrapped in gauze, making his expression unreadable.

"Out of three teams, more than a dozen people, only one returned."

"I heard that the two he rescued died on their way back to the village. White Fang brought back two dead men."

Someone sneered.

"Then he might as well not save anyone at all."

On the eighth day, the front line retreated again.

The Sand Village's puppeteer unit tore a hole in the flank, and an entire squad was wiped out.

When the bodies were brought back, they were lined up in a row, covered with white sheets, and there were people and children under the sheets.

A young medical ninja lifted the white sheet, took a look, and then turned away and vomited.

The sounds in the camp have changed.

It was no longer whispered; it was open discussion.

People talk about it while getting food, while wiping their knives, and around the campfire.

No one avoided it, no one stopped it. When the name White Fang came out of people's mouths, it carried a strange weight—not respect, but resentment.

"I heard that the Third Lord is very angry about this matter."

"The elders are also asking. Someone has to be held responsible for such a big decision-making mistake."

"Take responsibility? How can we take responsibility? Can those who died come back to life?"

"Is White Tooth scared? Now that you have a son, you're afraid to fight back?"

"Then what's the point of being a ninja?"

Someone laughed, but the laughter was short and quickly swallowed by the wind.

On the tenth day, a chunin slit his own throat with a kunai inside his tent.

In the raid after White Fang abandoned the mission, he was the only survivor of his squad. His suicide note contained only one line: "If the mission had succeeded, they wouldn't have died."

The news spread throughout the entire camp the next day.

Nobody said it was real, nobody said it was fake.

Everyone is just spreading rumors.

As the story spread, it became a fact.

Someone shouted outside the white-toothed tent, "You saved two people, but dozens died. How can you sleep at night?"

No one responded.

The tent flap moved slightly, then stopped.

On the twelfth day, Shuo Mao returned from his mission.

Everyone saw him when he entered the camp.

He had silver-white hair, a white knife, a hunched back, and his left leg dragged slightly. There was blood on his clothes, not his, but that of the enemy.

His face showed no joy after killing the enemy, only exhaustion.

As he walked through the crowd, some people turned their heads away, some stared at him, and some spat behind his back.

It's not that we hate him, it's that we hate him for reminding us of those who died, of those battles we shouldn't have lost, and of that "what if."

If White Fang hadn't abandoned the mission, the war would have ended long ago.

This thought is like a thorn, stuck in everyone's heart. Unable to pull it out, it can only be pushed outwards. Pushed onto White Teeth.

Sakumo Hatake ignored everyone's voices. He walked back to the tent step by step, expressionless, lifted the curtain, went inside, and did not look back.

Uchiha Sakugo stood at a distance, watching the curtain fall.

He thought of his uncle.

The mirror is the same; a person walks into the morning light and never returns.

Do white teeth also look like this?

On a bright moonlit night, will you draw that white knife?

He turned and left.

Go to the training ground, go practice your sword, practice making that invisible wind even faster. Not to kill, but to be fast enough to block that white blade at some point.

He didn't know if he could stop it.

But he has to try.

-

Rumors are like a sandstorm, getting stronger and stronger.

Hatake Sakumo seemed oblivious to all of this. He sat at the table with a map spread out in front of him, his eyes bloodshot.

The knife rested against the table, its white scabbard covered in a layer of dust.

He hasn't slept for several days.

Uchiha Sakugo placed a scroll on the table. It bore the Uchiha clan's insignia, a red crest, and was sealed with the word "Top Secret." He remained silent.

Sakumo stared at the scroll, not moving. "What?"

"The Sand Village supply line," Sakugo's voice was calm. "Chiyo is escorting him, with the frontline commander providing support. Three days later."

Sakumo's fingers hovered over the table. He stared at the scroll, remaining silent for a long time. He knew what that scroll meant—pulling teeth from a tiger's mouth.

Success is a military achievement.

To lose is to die.

"What do you want to say?" Sakumo's voice was hoarse.

Uchiha Sakugo looked into his eyes.

His eyes were bloodshot, weary, and held something that had been suppressed for a long time. But there was no cowardice. He was simply waiting for a reason, a reason to pick up the knife again.

"You heard what they were saying outside," Shuoge said.

Sakumo didn't answer. He heard it. He heard every single word.

"It can't be stopped."

Shuo Mao looked up at him.

"Bring that man's head back, and that will shut things up."

The tent remained quiet for a long time. A breeze slipped in through the gap in the curtain, causing the candlelight to flicker.

Sakumo looked down at the reel, reached out, and opened the seal.

The map unfolded, clearly marking ambush points, routes, and troop deployments. He tapped the map twice with his finger, then looked up.

"Two people aren't enough."

Uchiha Sakugo turned around and lifted the curtain. A breeze blew in, carrying the smell of sand.

That's enough.

He didn't turn around.

Behind him, Sakumo stood up and picked up the white sword. He wiped the dust off the scabbard, revealing a clean white blade underneath.

He walked to the tent entrance and stood beside Shuoge.

Two people, one tall and one short, one with a white knife and the other with an old knife.

No one spoke again.

They left the camp and entered the desert.

Behind me, the rumors continued, but the sound grew fainter and fainter, swallowed by the wind.

-

The desert during the day is like a red-hot pot.

Uchiha Sakugo lay motionless on the back of the sand dune, his body pressed against the scorching sand.

The sun hangs overhead, twisting its rays into white needles that prick the skin.

He wasn't wearing goggles, just squinting, looking out through a thin layer of wind-style chakra—the air was distorted, and the distant sand dunes seemed to be soaking in water, swaying softly.

He had been lying there for two hours.

His lips were chapped, with beads of blood seeping from the cracks, which dried quickly in the wind and formed dark red scabs. His clothes were filled with sand, each grain sucking moisture from his body.

He still didn't move.

Shuo Mao lay motionless three meters to his right.

The white knife lay horizontally in front of him, its scabbard buried in the sand, only the hilt visible. His breathing was slow, so slow that one could barely feel his chest rising and falling.

Uchiha Shoko glanced at him sideways—the man's eyes were half-closed, as if he were dozing off.

But Shuoge knew he wasn't asleep. In those half-closed eyes, the pupils were constricted, like a cat lying in the grass, staring at a mouse hole.

They are waiting.

Intelligence indicates that the Sand Village's supply convoy will pass through here today.

The route is the only one—a depression between two sand dunes, no more than twenty meters wide, with towering sand ridges on both sides. When people and horses walk in it, it feels like they are sandwiched between two walls.

Uchiha Sakugo chose this place not because it was dangerous, but because he had no other choice.

The supply team won't go anywhere else; there's nowhere else to go.

This is the throat.

The wind blew in from the west, carrying sand and a dry, smoky smell, like bones being roasted.

Uchiha Sakugo licked his lips, and the crack split open again, the taste of blood spreading on his tongue. He didn't swallow; it wouldn't have mattered, his mouth was already dry.

As the sun began to set, Sakumo's finger twitched.

It was very light; my index finger was just slightly raised and then lowered again.

But Shuoge saw it.

His eyes followed the direction of his finger—in the distance, atop the dune, a dark dot appeared. Very small, as small as a grain of sand. But it moved.

The black dot turned into a black line.

The black line slid down the sand dune and into the depression, like a snake swimming on the sand.

Sakugo's three-tomoe Sharingan began to spin silently, and the scene in the distance was zoomed in—walking at the front were two Sand Village Jonin, with headbands tied on their foreheads and sand-proof cloths wrapped around their faces, only their eyes were visible.

Those two pairs of eyes swept across the depression, from the left sand ridge to the right, from overhead to toe.

With each sweep, Shuoge buried himself an inch deeper into the sand.

He held his breath, slowing his heartbeat to its lowest point. Wind Release chakra formed a thin film on his body, sealing in his body temperature, breath, and even the vibrations of his heartbeat.

The Sand Village's Jonin did not notice him.

But their gaze lingered on that sand dune for a long time, like two vultures sniffing out carrion.

Shuoge's fingers rested on the hilt of the knife, and the wind flowed silently over the blade.