I, Uchiha, will not be whitewashed!

Uchiha Sakugo cut in from the edge of the camp, not from the front, but from the side.

His sword remained sheathed, and the wind blew across its blade.

All the Sand Ninja's eyes were on Sakumo, and no one noticed a small figure coming around from behind the sand dunes.

An invisible blade flew from its sheath, and an unseen wind sliced ​​open the throats of two Sand Ninja.

As they fell, their eyes were still looking in the direction of Sakumo.

The third person turned around, saw Shuoge, and was stunned for a moment—in that moment of stunned silence, the sword was already drawn.

It's not the wind, it's a knife.

The blade pierced through the man's ribs and emerged from his chest.

Shuoge drew his knife, and the man went limp, blood gushing from the wound, staining a patch of sand red.

Kato's pupils contracted sharply.

His fingers were already moving—chakra threads flew from his fingertips, connecting to the shattered remains of a puppet at the edge of the camp.

The pieces of wood bounced up from the sand, unable to form a complete shape, but enough to block Shuoge's next strike.

Several pieces of wood flew toward Shuoge's face, carrying poisoned senbon needles.

Shuoge took half a step back, and with a flash of his blade, the wood shards were split in two.

But his escape route was blocked—another puppet pounced from the side, the beast-shaped one with eight legs, each leg bound with a poisoned blade.

Kato's fingers were moving, as fast as if he were playing the piano.

His eyes were not on the puppet, but on Shuoge.

A genius brat from the Uchiha clan, with three-tomoe Sharingan, and the ability to use an invisible wind-style technique.

This person cannot be allowed to live.

He separated a chakra thread and connected it to the third puppet—the humanoid one—which had been guarding the tent.

The three puppets moved simultaneously, lunging at Shuoge from three directions.

Then the white light cut in.

Sakumo's sword slashed from the side, not at the puppet, but at the strings.

The three chakra threads broke simultaneously, like a snapping harp string, emitting a sharp buzzing sound.

The three puppets froze simultaneously, fell from mid-air, and crashed onto the sand, raising a cloud of dust.

Kato's fingers froze in mid-air, the backlash from the chakra threads causing beads of blood to seep from his fingertips. He took a step back, drawing his sword from his waist—not a puppet, but his true form.

"Konoha's White Fang..." His voice was deep, like a stone hitting the ground. "You actually dared to come."

Shuo Mao did not answer.

His knife was already raised.

The white blade flashed briefly in the morning light, like a shimmering spot on the water, then vanished in an instant.

Kato's sword blocked the attack, and the sound of metal clashing exploded in the desert, as piercing as bones breaking.

He was knocked back three steps, his hand split open, and blood flowed down the hilt of the knife.

Sakumo didn't stop; the second strike had already landed.

Kato retreated again, holding his sword horizontally in front of him, barely managing to block the attack.

His puppet was shattered, his chakra threads severed, and his fingers were bleeding. He was a puppeteer; without his puppet, he was just an ordinary Jonin. And his opponent was Konoha's White Fang.

The third cut.

Kato's sword flew out and stuck in the sand, its hilt humming and vibrating.

He knelt on the ground, a deep, bone-revealing wound on his chest, blood seeping from between his fingers. His eyes were fixed on Sakumo, his lips trembling.

"you--"

Kato knelt on the ground, blood still gushing from the wound on his chest.

His lips were trembling, and his eyes held fear, anger, and resentment.

He seemed to want to say something.

But Sakumo didn't give him a chance to speak.

A flash of light.

The white blade sliced ​​past Kato's neck without a sound or pause, like the wind blowing across sand.

Kato's head slid off his shoulder, fell onto the sand, rolled half a circle, and came to rest next to a fragment of a puppet. His eyes were still open, his mouth still agape, as if asking the question he hadn't had a chance to finish.

Shuo Mao sheathed his sword.

Blood dripped from the blade, onto the sand, and was absorbed.

The white blade was clean again, like a mirror that had never reflected anything.

He bent down, grabbed Kato's hair, and held his head in his hand. Blood was still dripping, one drop, two drops, making small craters in the sand.

He turned around and walked to Shuoge's side.

Shuoge stood on the other side of the camp, five corpses lying beside him. Blood was still dripping from his knife, his breathing was steady, and his hand was steady. He glanced at what Shuo Mao was holding, but said nothing.

"Let's go," said Shuo Mao.

Uchiha Sakugo walked through the desert, his sword already sheathed.

He glanced at what Sakumo was carrying but didn't ask why.

No need to ask.

White Fang's mission is to behead someone, and Kato's head is the answer.

It wasn't for revenge, nor for venting anger, but to let Sunagakure know—this supply line is cut off, this commander is dead, and they can't continue this war.

It was also to let Konoha know that White Fang's sword has not aged.

He quickened his pace to catch up with the white figure ahead.

The desert stretched out behind them, the wind smoothing out their footprints and covering the bloodstains. It was as if nothing had happened. But Kato's head, heavy in White Fang's hands, dripped blood all the way.

-

The two had walked less than a mile from the camp.

Sakumo Hatake suddenly stopped in his tracks.

His steps faltered at the top of the dune, still holding Kato's head in his hand.

The wind blew from the west, and the sand stung his face. He didn't turn around; he just stood there, like a stone that had been eroded by the wind for too long.

Uchiha Sakugo also stopped, and a chilling atmosphere filled the air.

His hand rested on the hilt of the sword, and his three-tomoe Sharingan silently began to turn.

He saw it—below the sand dunes, the path he had come from was gone.

Instead, there were ten puppets, half-buried in the sand, arranged in a fan shape, each with a different design.

Some look like humans, some like beasts, and some like legendary evil spirits.

Their eyes gleamed with a ghostly blue light under the moonlight, like ten will-o'-the-wisps.

—The White Secret Technique: The Ten Masters of Chikamatsu.

Chiyo emerged from behind the sand dunes.

There was no sedan chair, no guards, only her alone.

Her silvery-white hair fluttered in the night breeze, and the wrinkles on her face looked as if they had been carved by a knife.

Her fingers were moving, all ten fingers, each connected to a puppet. The chakra threads shimmered in the moonlight, like a net woven over sixty years.

"Konoha's White Fang." Chiyo's voice came from below the sand dunes, not loud, but every word was clear.

Shuo Mao remained silent.

He placed Kato's head on the sand and drew his sword from his waist. The white blade gleamed in the moonlight, like a mirror.

"Kato..."

"He is my prized student."

Chiyo's gaze swept over the headless corpse, and her lips twitched slightly, but it didn't look like a smile or a cry.

"You've taken another life."

Her fingers paused for a moment, then continued moving.

"That's fine. Once you kill someone, your tense muscles will relax."

"Your swordsmanship emphasizes killing intent."

"How much of your murderous aura do you retain now?"

Sakumo held his sword horizontally in front of him, the blade facing the moonlight without reflecting it. "You used your own student as bait."

It's not a question, it's a statement.

Chiyo did not deny it.

Her fingers were moving faster, all ten fingers moving, as if she were playing a melody that only she could hear.

"He knew what he would face when he accepted the mission. Since he became a ninja, he was already prepared."

"My disciple is not afraid of death, but he is afraid of dying without meaning."

Chiyo raised her head and looked at Sakumo.

Those old eyes seemed to be filled with hatred and anger, but in reality, they were surprisingly calm.

Her emotional fluctuations were merely a ploy to mislead the enemy.

As a Kage-level powerhouse, she was naturally able to control her emotions.

"You killed my son, you killed my daughter-in-law, and you made my grandson lose his parents."

Chiyo's voice suddenly changed; it was no longer a calm narration, but something else entirely.

Like the yellow line on the horizon before a sandstorm hits Sunagakure—it looks far away, but you know it's coming.

"I think about killing you every day and every night, every moment."

Her fingers tightened abruptly. Ten puppets rose simultaneously from the sand, their movements as synchronized as a single person. Chakra threads taut in the moonlight, emitting a faint hum.

"Today, you must die."

Sakumo's sword moved.

Not forward, but to the side—to push the sword aside.

"Walk."

That single word was as light as sand slipping through your fingers.

But Shuoge heard it.

He didn't move.

The sword is drawn, and the wind flows over its blade.

The three-tomoe Sharingan looked at the ten puppets, at the dense chakra lines, at Chiyo's fingers—ten fingers, ten puppets, ten weapons.

He knew that he wouldn't be able to leave without dealing with this old woman.

He knew even more that it was impossible for Hatake Sakumo to leave.

"Let's go," Sakumo said again. This time his voice was even lower, so low it seemed like he was talking to himself.

Then he rushed up.

A white blade flashed, slicing through the night and striking the humanoid puppet at the front.

The puppet's scythe came at them, and the sound of metal clashing exploded in the desert, like bones breaking.

Sakumo was forced back a step, and the second puppet pounced from the side.

He dodged to the side, the blade slicing through the beast-like puppet's back armor, but it was no use—the puppet felt no pain, no fear, and no retreat.

The third and fourth bodies pounced at the same time, blocking all his escape routes.

Shuo Mao's knife wove a net in the moonlight, so fast it was invisible.

But Chiyo's fingers were faster than his.

Ten fingers, ten puppets, each attacking, each defending, each cooperating.

If you block the front, the back will come.

If you block the left side, the right side will come.

You cut off an arm, and it still has another. You split a body open, and the fragments can still be used as projectiles. You can never kill Chiyo's puppet, because her chakra threads are always moving.

Sakumo had a cut on his shoulder, and blood seeped out from his clothes.

His knife slowed down.

It's not that the sword is slow; it's that chakra is being consumed, stamina is being depleted, and blood is flowing.

He had already killed a round of enemies in the camp and had been hacking away on the dunes for so long.

He is a human being, not a god.

Chiyo's fingers moved faster.

The ten puppets attacked faster and more densely, like a storm in the desert or a giant wave at sea.

Shuo Mao's blade began to shrink, shifting from offense to defense, from defense to parrying. He retreated, one step, two steps, three steps. His back slammed into the slope of the sand dune, and he could retreat no further.

Chiyo's fingers paused for a moment.

The humanoid puppet held its scythe high, the moonlight shining on the blade, cold as ice. Her eyes were fixed on Sakumo, those old eyes held no hatred, no pleasure, only one thing—a sense of closure.

-

Uchiha Sakugo rushed up the sand dunes, intending to reinforce Hatake Sakumo.

Only by eliminating Chiyo as quickly as possible can they have a chance to break through the encirclement.

pity--

As soon as Shuoge took a step forward, a puppet crashed into him from the side.

He dodged to the side, the blade severing the chakra threads, and the puppet crashed to the sand.

He didn't stop, and continued to surge upwards.

His Sharingan had already seen it all—the direction of the chakra threads, the trajectory of the puppet, the angle of the attack—all were clearly visible in his pupils.

He didn't stop walking. His sword slid out of its sheath, and with a backhand slash, he severed the chakra threads.

The puppet froze in mid-air, then crashed onto the sand and shattered into pieces.

He stepped over the debris and continued to surge upwards.

The second body, the third body, the fourth body.

They attacked from three directions at the same time.

His Sharingan predicted every trajectory, and his body moved faster than his brain—he dodged the second claw by sidestepping, severed the third's thread with his blade, and knocked away the fourth's weapon with the back of his blade.

The three puppets landed almost simultaneously. He stepped over the wreckage of one and continued to rush upwards.

The fifth body, the sixth body, the seventh body, the eighth body.

Four chakra lines, four paths, four angles.

His sword drew an arc in front of him, and an invisible wind blade severed three lines. The puppet on the fourth line rushed towards him.

He didn't dodge; his Sharingan had already seen through all his movements—his left arm was raised, and the knife in his right hand was hidden behind his back.

He crouched down and slid under the puppet's left arm, the blade slicing upwards through the puppet's abdomen and emerging from its chest. The puppet's parts scattered on the ground, but he didn't turn back, continuing his upward charge.

The scarred man frowned.

That kid has a sharp eye.

Every line, every trajectory, every blind spot was crystal clear. His knife didn't look fast, but every strike landed on the most vital spot.

It's not about cutting the puppets, it's about cutting the strings. It's not about brute force, it's about those eyes.

"Change tactics," the scarred man's voice was deep. "A war of attrition. Hold him off."

The puppeteers began to take turns.

They didn't rush in all at once, but wave after wave, giving Shuoge no time to breathe. The first wave of five puppets had barely fallen when the second wave of five pounced on him.

He slashed three puppets, dodged two, and then the third wave of puppets arrived.

His sword was still in the air, not yet withdrawn; the fourth wave of attacks had already blocked his retreat.

His breathing began to become heavy.

It's not that I'm tired, it's that my rhythm has been disrupted.

His Sharingan can see every attack, but his body can't keep up with the speed of his eyes.

There were too many puppets, and the attacks were too dense. He had no time to adjust his breathing, no time to sheathe his sword, and no time to do anything except swing his sword.

Swing the sword, swing the sword, swing the sword.

"Is your body unable to keep up with your eyes?"

Shuoge instantly understood his current situation.

The improvement from the three-tomoe Sharingan is indeed significant, especially in terms of perception.

The current situation is that the eyes can see it, but the body can't react.

"Then let's change our fighting style."

"I can do more than just—"

"knife!"