The journey through the Land of Fire had been tranquil, but the tension within the group was growing steadily. Hinata had already informed her guardians: an attack was coming. No one doubted her. Wordlessly, they each donned their battle armor.
Though uniform in aesthetic—sleek plates reminiscent of Souta Kanbe's daily wear—each suit was uniquely crafted. Lord Masaru's was heavily fortified, a bastion against crushing blows. Emi's armor flowed like water, tailored to vanish with his motion. Ayaka's armor, crafted for stealth and subtlety, lets her blend with the environment like mist or drifting breeze. Its lightness and fluid design favored quiet movement and precise strikes. Kenshiro wore his like a memory, ancient and battle-worn. Souta, of course, moved with ease in his signature gear. Forged for the Earth Breathing Style, his armor was the heaviest among them—dense, solid, and unyielding. Each step echoed strength and control, like a walking cliff face in motion.
They had been traveling between two nearby villages flanking the Valley of the End, moving cautiously but steadily toward their intended destination. Though the pace was calm, it was purposeful: they were drawing closer to the battlefield Jiren had prepared. The terrain around them shifted from fertile farmland into forested ridges and jagged escarpments, signs that they were entering a region steeped in old energy. Jiren's formation lay dormant somewhere ahead, like a coiled serpent waiting beneath still waters. Hinata had warned them: she would know the instant it stirred.
That moment came in the late afternoon.
The sky had begun its descent toward dusk when it happened. Hinata's senses tingled, and she paused as they began to prepare a temporary camp just beyond a cliff path. The last of the supplies were being unpacked when she stopped breathing for a heartbeat.
The Black Lines tightened.
Invisible to most, these lines of spiritual pressure snapped inward over her guardians—indicators of encroaching hostility. Her breath caught, not from fear, but from certainty. A ripple spread outward through her soul.
They were here.
In the edge of her perception, she felt them.
One. Three. Five. Seven.
Seven presences moved through the forest like silent blades. The seventh… carried something different. A heaviness. A weight.
An intent that made her soul recoil for half a second.
"Now," she whispered.
No further command was necessary.
In a blur of motion, the group departed. Their mounts were left behind; no horse could match the speed of chakra-enhanced movement. Trees blurred. Air split.
They reached the Valley of the End as the sun dipped further, casting golden light across the carved faces of two legends.
Towering over the lake below, Hashirama Senju and Madara Uchiha stared eternally at one another. Each statue bore the solemn silence of gods watching over their battlefield—an old place, rich with sorrow, sacrifice, and power.
The waterfall crashed between them like a blade dividing past and present. The lake at their feet shimmered with fading sunlight, and in its surface reflected ghosts of wars long gone.
Hinata stood at the lake's edge. Her breath deepened. Her hand he caressed Mitsue, now coiled loosely around her shoulders in her small form, silver-white scales shimmering with alertness, and to Kuro, beneath her—silent, alert, and serving as her mount. The sleek black fur of the wolf glinted faintly in the waning light, her posture poised but unyielding as she bore Hinata with quiet pride.
But something stirred in the water. In the trees.
A spiritual disturbance—crafty and precise—was already threading through the terrain.
It did not push against her like normal chakra.
It avoided her. Skirted her senses. Hide from her guardians.
She knew immediately.
Jiren's formation was active.
And so were the intruders.
The first strike would come soon.
She drew her breath in quietly.
The Valley of the End would once again know violence.
And this time, its audience would be Hinata Gin—The Silver Lady.
<<<< o >>>>
Seven shadows moved silently across the treetops of the Land of Fire.
Their formation was tight, precise—an unspoken rhythm between predators who had hunted together many times. This was no ordinary mission. The objective: capture Hinata Gin, the so-called Iron Princess of the Land of Iron. Her increasing notoriety, and the rumors of talismans that could allow a Jinchūriki to survive extraction, had drawn the attention of Iwagakure's highest echelons. And now, their ANBU had found her.
The underworld had spoken clearly. Mercenaries in Yume, caravans passing north of Hi no Kuni, whispers in the ruins of old border posts—all pointed toward a wandering figure with a silver presence, guarded by five samurai and two mythical creatures.
"Samurai," scoffed Genda Suirō, his heavy frame landing against a thick branch. "Barely stronger than chūnin, even their best. They're fodder with shiny swords."
"Except for Mifune," muttered Makabe Ryō. "Or that lunatic Araki Gin. But those are myths more than standards."
"And this girl isn't even one of them," Karuna Tsuchi added with a sneer. "A blind shrine maiden with five walking statues and a pair of glorified pets. What are we even worried about?"
"We're not here to fight," Tenmu said, rolling his neck. "We're here to take her down, force her to spill everything she knows. I don't care if we have to drag her back in pieces."
Makabe let out a dry laugh. "Spill her? Heh. She's got spirit now, but give her to me for a few nights, and I'll tame her down. Who knows—maybe she'll even birth something useful for once."
"Disgusting," muttered Takiji, too low for anyone to hear clearly.
Captain Nibari Kenzan didn't react. He stared forward, his voice cold. "Shadow Guard. If Takama Gin has any foresight, he's hidden more blades around her than we can see. Proceed with caution."
"Tch," spat Tenmu. "Noble brats and their ghosts-for-hire. I'll cut through whatever they send."
As they moved across a ridge, Takiji Hiruzen lifted a hand in warning.
"Movement ahead," he said, brows furrowed. "She's accelerating—fast. I'd say they sensed us."
Kenzan clicked his tongue. "Pursuit formation. Fan out. Maintain sight but do not engage. Takiji, keep alert. If they've spotted us, there may be more watching."
The ANBU scattered, slicing through the trees like black arrows. The forest thinned—and there, beyond it, loomed the jagged cliffs.
The Valley of the End.
Madara. Hashirama. Titans carved into time itself. The waterfall thundered down like a judgment passed by gods.
"There," Kenzan pointed. "We cut them off at the lake."
They crossed the edge of the basin with practiced precision.
And then… something shifted.
"Where—?" Makabe turned, disoriented. "Wasn't Karuna right behind me?"
"I'm here," her voice answered, strange and distant.
"The distances... they're wrong," Naka muttered. "I can't tell who's near anymore."
Ahead, always ahead—the girl on the black wolf, the pale serpent across her shoulders, five warriors like statues of iron.
"Captain," said Takiji, urgency rising. "There's spiritual interference. This place is... bending us. This isn't chakra. I can't trace the source."
"Fall back!" Kenzan ordered.
He spun around. No forest. No ridge. Only an infinite shimmer of mist and mirrored water.
None of them heard him.
None turned.
Kenzan's breath grew sharp.
The girl's eyes—those white eyes that should not have been capable of sight—were watching.
This wasn't a battlefield.
It was a cage.
And he had led his men into the waiting hands of something far more prepared, than it should be.
<<<< o >>>>
First Battle: Lord Masaru Ishida vs. Makabe Ryō
Makabe Ryō stepped into the misted valley with fire already gathering at his fingertips. The formation had collapsed their sense of space—sounds twisted, directions blurred—but none of that mattered. There was a blind girl to capture, and a pack of outdated swordsmen in his way.
"Move, toy soldier," he growled, stepping toward the man before him. "I'll be taking your princess and showing her what a real man is."
The samurai's voice was calm, his stance composed and focused. Both hands gripped the hilt of his blade, held vertically before him in the classic Kendo offensive posture—blade aimed directly at his opponent's throat. "She asked that we avoid killing when possible," he said evenly. "But your aura... your eyes... You fall within the acceptable range of casualties."
Makabe roared and unleashed his Jutsu. "Katon: Gōka Metsudō!" A torrent of flame surged forward, sweeping across the water, boiling mist and obscuring vision.
The fire faded.
Makabe stepped forward—only to feel a cold bite of steel split the air behind him.
"Seems shinobi still don't understand the true purpose of armor," came the voice behind him. "Or well wielded katana."
In that instant, the world shuddered. The steel didn't just cut—it sang. A clean vertical slice ran from the crown of Makabe's skull down through his pelvis, a perfect line of judgment rendered in steel. His body froze in confusion as his vision doubled.
Then split.
From the inside, Makabe felt the impossible—like his soul itself had been divided. Blood sprayed upward like mist, and his mouth opened to scream, but only a gurgle of disbelief escaped. One half of his mind tried to grasp what was happening, the other already gone.
He collapsed in two.
Victory: Lord Masaru Ishida.
<<<< o >>>>
First Battle: Second Round — Lord Masaru Ishida vs. Jōnin Karuna Tsuchi
Masaru stood over the bisected corpse of Makabe Ryō, his blade at rest once more. There was no glory in this kill, only necessity. These were not honorable foes—they were predators who mistook cruelty for power. The teachings of his family's sword school had delivered justice, nothing more. Perhaps Lady Hinata would understand.
From beyond the falling steam and thickening mist, another silhouette approached. A woman this time—slim, upright, graceful. Her war fan glinted faintly, and her fractal-patterned ANBU mask betrayed nothing. Karuna Tsuchi did not run. She glided.
Masaru readied himself, both hands tightening on his katana. The tip pointed squarely toward her chest—the same guard stance that had ended Makabe's arrogance.
Her fingers danced through hand signs. "Jutsu: Kokei no Suna."
A glimmering powder cloud spilled outward, made of crystalline fragments that shimmered in the fractured light. Masaru's breath flowed through the filter integrated into his helmet—an innovation demanded after the battle with the cult of Jashin. The powder tried to settle, tried to cling, but never reached his lungs.
He charged forward. She was within reach. One clean strike using the reverse side of his sword, broken bones and assured unconsciousness, he would end this quickly.
But the blade passed through her.
An illusion.
A whisper curled behind his ear, almost intimate.
"All samurai are so predictable."
Pain exploded through his body as her palm connected with the back of his armor. A jolt of lightning surged into him, conducted perfectly by the thin film of vapor left from Makabe's flames. The electricity bypassed his defenses, arcing into his spine.
Masaru's vision whited out. Muscles clenched involuntarily. His legs failed him.
He collapsed onto the misted lake.
Victory: Karuna Tsuchi.