Shanks wasn't surprised by Mikoto's words. In truth, her departure had always been inevitable.
The Uchiha clan had co to the Land of Hot Water with a clear mission—to support the Daimyō, protect the capital, and contain any military incursions from Kirigakure. It was only a matter of ti before they were deployed to the borders.
Mikoto offered him a soft smile as she stepped closer. "We'll et again when I return to the capital," she said. "You're staying here, right?"
Shanks gave a silent nod, his gaze calm yet thoughtful. "Yeah. I'll be here."
There was a quiet understanding between them, unspoken but deeply felt. Both enjoyed the other's presence—an unvoiced mutual attraction that lingered in the air, never fully acknowledged, yet impossible to ignore.
Mikoto didn't say anything more. She turned and walked out of the training ground, the sound of her footsteps fading behind her. But just as she passed through the gate, she paused.
A strange heaviness had settled over her chest.
She glanced back, eyes drifting across the open yard where Shanks still stood—still watching, still calm. That single glance sparked a flurry of conflicting thoughts in her mind.
Her grandfather's decision flashed before her eyes—an arranged marriage. Uchiha Fugaku. A rising figure in the clan, poised to beco the next leader, with the full support of the elders behind him. It was a strategic match. One that had been decided long ago, with little room for personal desire.
Mikoto narrowed her eyes slightly, pushing the thought away with a small shake of her head.
What am I even thinking? she chided herself. It's just a fondness… a sense of admiration, maybe. That's all. It's not love. I'm not in love with him.
Still, the echo of the mont lingered.
She exhaled and turned forward again, her expression steady as she walked toward the Uchiha camp. Their deploynt toward the border would begin soon. The capital was behind her now—for the ti being.
And with it, she left behind the quiet presence of the one-ard swordsman who had started to an more than she was willing to admit.
When the ti cos to cross the bridge, she thought, we'll see what path lies ahead.
----
The departure of the Uchiha clan—and Mikoto with them—brought no disruption to Shanks's daily rhythm. He maintained his routine with quiet diligence. Morning trainings, afternoon ditations, evening readings, and nightly duels in his ntal realm with the Red-Haired Emperor. His days passed in a steady, purposeful rhythm, unaffected by the change in the capital's military presence.
Two days had passed since the Uchiha contingent had marched out toward the coastal borders.
Unbeknownst to Shanks, the absence of the Uchiha clan was precisely what his enemies had been waiting for.
Three mbers of the legendary Seven Ninja Swordsn of the Mist—Jūzō Biwa, wielder of the massive Kubikiribōchō; Fuguki Suikazan, bearer of the ravenous Sahada; and Kazumi, current wielder of the dual-bladed Hirakarei—had already been lurking in the forests surrounding the capital for days. They had arrived quietly, three nights ago, hidden under the cover of darkness of forest.
But they hadn't attacked imdiately.
These were no re assassins—they were veterans, elites who understood strategy and the weight of timing. They knew that if they struck while the Uchiha clan was still in the capital, their chances of success would plumt. Worse, the odds of death were unacceptably high. Even with their formidable strength, taking on Shanks and the Uchiha simultaneously would be a suicide mission.
So they waited.
They listened, watched, and bided their ti.
Now, in the dead hours of the night—long past midnight—the mont had finally arrived.
The capital of the Land of Hot Water was quiet, cloaked in a gentle fog. The stars above shone weakly, the moon veiled behind drifting clouds. In this silence, shadows moved.
Three of Kirigakure's deadliest shinobi crept through the sleeping streets, blending into the darkness like ghosts. Their chakra signatures were suppressed to an almost imperceptible level. They knew of Shanks's extraordinary sensory perception. Even the slightest slip could alert him.
But they were careful—thodical. Predators closing in on their prey.
The high walls of the Daimyō's mansion lood ahead. With silent coordination, they scaled the periter and infiltrated the grounds. No alarms. No resistance. Not yet.
Once inside the compound, Jūzō Biwa slipped ahead, his tall fra unnaturally light on his feet. Moving through the inner corridors, he grabbed a lone servant from behind—a young man carrying a stack of folded linen.
Before the servant could make a sound, Jūzō clamped a gloved hand over his mouth and pressed a kunai coldly against the base of his neck. His voice, rough and low, rumbled into the servant's ear like the growl of a beast.
"Tell ," he hissed, "where is Shanks staying? Which room is his? One wrong word, one sound—and you die here. When I take my hand off your mouth, speak. Only once. Choose your next words carefully."
The servant's eyes were wide with panic, his body trembling under the killing intent radiating from the swordsman.
But just at that critical mont—before the servant could utter a word—Jūzō Biwa's instincts flared violently. A sudden, overwhelming sense of danger crashed over him like a tidal wave. Simultaneously, Fuguki and Kazumi felt it too—a sharp shift in the air, as if death itself was drawing near.
Jūzō imdiately released the servant and spun into a defensive stance, raising his kunai with practiced precision. But it was already too late.
A deafening clang rang through the corridor, the clash of tal against tal echoing like thunder. Sparks exploded in the air as Jūzō was struck with imnse force, his body hurtling backward like a cannonball. He crashed through a thick stone wall, shattering it into rubble as he was flung into the adjacent courtyard.
In the space where Jūzō had stood, a lone figure now stood—calm, composed, and radiating pressure like a storm about to break.
A young man with striking red hair, wearing a flowing black overcoat. A single sword glead in his right hand under the moonlight.
Shanks Uzumaki.
Fuguki and Kazumi instantly recognized him, their eyes narrowing. There was no mistaking the presence before them. The predator had beco aware of the hunt.
Shanks's voice, quiet but resolute, cut through the silence like a blade.
"I suggest we take this outside the capital," he said, his tone calm yet final. "The Daimyō's mansion doesn't need to suffer for your poor decisions."
It wasn't a suggestion—it was a command. There was no room for negotiation in his words.
What the Mist assassins hadn't known was that from the mont they had stepped foot inside the Daimyō's mansion grounds, Shanks had already sensed them. His Observation Haki stretched over a radius of nearly sixty ters, enveloping the entire compound in a do of awareness. Their suppressed chakra and careful steps had ant nothing—Shanks had awoken the instant they crossed the threshold.
He had risen quietly, donned his black overcoat, sheathed his sword at his side, and moved like a phantom through the mansion, intercepting them before their intentions could take form.
Now, without another word, Shanks vanished from sight, his figure darting through the ruins of the wall and into the night. He moved with unrelenting speed, heading toward the outskirts of the capital.
Shanks soon arrived at an open field beyond the outskirts of the capital—a wide, moonlit expanse of hard earth and scattered grass. The air was crisp, the sky above clear and dotted with stars. He stood in silence, sword sheathed at his side, waiting.
Back in the Daimyō's mansion, Jūzō erged from the rubble, brushing fragnts of stone from his shoulders. His expression was grim, his pride wounded, but he gave a curt nod to his comrades. Fuguki and Kazumi responded in kind. Without a word, the three of them vanished in a coordinated blur, leaping from the ruined corridor into the night.
They had no intention of fighting Shanks within the heart of the capital. Whatever else they were, they were not fools.
Monts later, they arrived at the clearing where Shanks stood. The red-haired swordsman waited, motionless, his expression unreadable.
Without warning, Jūzō's massive Kubikiribōchō spun through the air, launched like a flying guillotine. But Shanks had already moved. With a subtle pivot to the side, he let the enormous blade pass just inches from his left shoulder, the wind from its passage whipping his coat.
He exhaled softly, then slowly unsheathed his sword, its polished edge gleaming under the moonlight.
With fluid speed, he ford several hand seals using just his right hand—the sa hand that gripped the blade. The seals blurred together with years of practiced precision.
Kazumi lunged at him next, bringing down his twin-bladed Hirakarei in a sweeping arc. The blades t with a resounding clang, steel crashing against steel. The impact sent a burst of pressure through the air, and Kazumi staggered backward, forced to skid several feet away across the ground, eyes wide. Shanks hadn't even shifted his stance.
Before Shanks could press the advantage, Fuguki charged from the right, swinging the grotesque Sahada with brutal force. The living blade twisted and snarled, its barbed surface eager to tear through flesh and chakra alike.
Shanks briefly considered tanking the hit with his Armant Haki—but chose otherwise. The barbs would shred his coat, and while he could remain unhard due to use of Armant Haki, he wasn't fond of ruined clothing. With a graceful step back, he dodged the swing completely, letting Sahada slice through the air just short of his chest.
He looked at Fuguki with a faint, knowing smirk.
You'll need to do better than that.
----
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