Chương 56: When You Find a Snake

Unlike the chaotic three-way deadlock paralyzing the Northern Front, the Southeastern theater was not yet a pressure cooker. The primary reason for the reinforcement call was the reallocation of the Hyuga-led vanguard to the North; Nara Suzaku's unit was merely the stopgap measure meant to mend the hole in the line. The composition of the unit—predominantly unseasoned rookies only a few years out of the Academy—spoke volumes.

As the Third Shinobi World War ground on, Konoha's pool of viable combatants had been strained to the breaking point. This was a universal malaise; no village, great or small, was immune. Minor powers like the Hidden Grass, Waterfall, or Steam harbored delusions of scavenging the remains of the Great Nations, but they were living in a fool's paradise. In a clash of titans, the grass only gets trampled. For a shinobi on the march, the most vital currency was stamina.

Speed was secondary to the stability required to meet a sudden ambush. Having neutralized the Mist scouts and scrubbed the battlefield clean, the unit rested under the cover of night before resuming their trek. They reached the Eastern Command Headquarters at precisely seven o'clock the following morning. This was the fundamental divide between shinobi and the common man.

Traversing a significant portion of the Land of Fire had taken a mere day of measured travel; had they moved at a forced march, they could have cut that time in half. As they approached the outer perimeter of the command zone, the scattered squads began to coalesce. A patrol of shinobi in standard-issue Leaf flak jackets intercepted them, verifying their credentials with cold efficiency before vanishing into the foliage in a blur of Body Flicker Technqiues. Inside the camp, the unit was assigned temporary barracks.

The accommodations were spartan—a single, communal room designed for immediate response. Shinobi slept fully garbed, gender a secondary concern to the reality that an infiltration could occur at any heartbeat.

"Rest here. Do not wander until I return," Yunmi Gekko instructed before departing. As a Jonin, he didn't share his students' luxury of idle time; he was expected at the war council to digest the current tactical landscape. The moment their sensei was out of earshot, Yugao Uzuki leaned in, her eyes dancing with excitement.

"Do you think Lord Orochimaru is here? Do you think sensei will actually meet him?" Hayate looked uncertain. Zhen merely offered a non-committal shrug.

"Hard to say." Yugao frowned, confused. In the hearts of the Leaf's rank-and-file, Orochimaru was still a titan of the village—one of the Legendary Sannin, a disciple of the Hokage, and a frontrunner for the Fourth's seat. He was the hero of the war's opening gambit. While he lacked the sun-kissed, approachable charisma of Minato Namikaze, his aura of lethal competence commanded absolute reverence. Zhen's suspicions were confirmed by noon. When Yunmi returned, his expression was uncharacteristically pinched.

"I heard Lord Orochimaru is terrifying in person," Yugao whispered, eager for a report.

"Is it true, Sensei?" Yunmi's gaze flickered.

"I'm afraid I didn't see him, Yugao. And keep those rumors to yourself; they serve no one."

"You didn't see him? But isn't he the Supreme Commander of the Eastern Front?" Yunmi lowered his voice, casting a glance toward the door.

"The council was presided over by Fugaku Uchiha, the head of his clan. As for Lord Orochimaru... word is he vanishes frequently. No one seems to know his whereabouts." Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings. Yugao's face fell.

"How could he just... not be there?" Zhen knew exactly how. Orochimaru's interest in the theater of war had likely evaporated the moment he realized it could serve as a buffet for his experiments. Let Fugaku chase the prestige of the Hokage candidacy—a role the Uchiha patriarch craved with a desperate hunger. Orochimaru was hunting for something far more permanent than political power. Time was too precious a commodity to squander on idle waiting.

During the afternoon lull, Zhen dragged his teammates back to the "Eternal Genin," Kosuke Maruboshi, intent on milking the veteran for every drop of wisdom he possessed. Yunmi, knowing Kosuke's protective nature toward the younger generation, gave them his silent blessing. After dinner, a messenger arrived with a summons: Zhen was needed at the medical ward. The field hospital was a labyrinth of canvas and antiseptic.

Zhen found his solicitor in a quiet corner of a vacant ward—a spectacled, mild-mannered man in his thirties engrossed in a medical text.

"Uncle Mishima," Zhen greeted.

"You asked for me?" Toshio Mishima was a close colleague of Zhen's mother at the Konoha Hospital. Zhen had spent enough time scavenging experience points in the wards back home to be a familiar face.

"Zhen, you made it. How about it? My ward is understaffed. With your proficiency, you'd find the work here child's play."

"Is this a request from my mother?" Toshio didn't blink.

"Megumi suggested it, yes. But her letter was clear—the choice is yours. We won't press-gang you into service."

"I appreciate the offer, Uncle. Truly. But... I think I prefer the front line." Toshio let out a hearty laugh.

"Exactly as your mother predicted. Very well. But consider yourself on call—if the influx of casualties becomes too much, I'm dragging you in here."

"Fair enough. If I'm in camp, I'm yours." Their conversation was punctured by a raucous, feminine shout from the corridor.

"Mishima-senpai! Senpai! Fix me up, quick!" The door was kicked open with unnecessary force, admitting a girl with a wildly spiky ponytail. Her hair was a deep, plum-violet, matched by the sharp hue of her eyes. She was slightly shorter than Zhen but radiated a frantic, uncontained energy. Toshio rubbed his temples.

"Anko... where did your master take you this time?"

"High-level recon! Never mind that, just patch me up. I've got training tonight." So, this was Anko Mitarashi. Orochimaru's sole pupil. She was abrasive, impetuous, and seemingly devoid of basic etiquette—a female mirror of Naruto Uzumaki. It was a baffling enigma that a man of Orochimaru's temperament would tolerate such a student. Toshio shook his head.

"I've been on my feet all day, Anko. I'm resting."

"What? Then what about my arm?"

"Don't be a brat. There's another medic standing right in front of you." Anko performed an exaggerated, theatrical scan of the room before her eyes landed on Zhen. They stared at one another, both immediately deciding the other looked entirely unreliable. She pointed a skeptical finger at him.

"This squirt? He's a medic?" Zhen's left hand ignited with a serene, emerald glow.

"Anko-senpai, your manners seem as stunted as your growth."

"Alre?

'Senpai'? Do I know you?"

"We haven't met. But I've seen you at the Academy. You were two years ahead of me; you graduated right as I was entering my second year."

"Bwahaha! A junior! Well, you look capable enough. Get to it then."

"With pleasure." Zhen began unwinding the haphazard bandages on her forearm. It was a deep laceration from a bladed weapon—clumsily cleaned but significant. As the green light of his chakra began to knit the muscle back together, Zhen spoke up.

"Tell me, Anko-senpai... do you have a personal grudge against meat?"

"Huh? Dango is way better than meat... wait, how would you know that?"

"You're two years older than me, yet I'm taller. You really should call me 'senior' instead of 'squirt' if you're going to stay that small." Anko: "..." Late that night. The squad was submerged in deep sleep, but Zhen's eyes snapped open in the darkness. His sensory net had caught a ripple. Outside, a small snake was weaving through the grass with a rhythmic, intentional grace that no wild creature could emulate. It was circling their barracks with surgical precision.

In the Hidden Leaf's Eastern Command, there was only one person who used such messengers. Someone was baiting the hook.