Naruto: Being a Shinobi with no System But...

Rogue ninja—hunters, lone wolves, shadows that civilians avoided yet whispered about in fear. To the powerful, they were tools to be despised but used. To the clans, they were wild dogs and vermin. To the great villages, they were rot that refused to be cut away.

Jubei didn’t care for such labels. Power was the only truth. He knew this well. For years he led the Black Snake Group—pillaging, selling blades for hire, killing without hesitation. As long as they didn’t provoke the great behemoths that ruled the continent—the hidden villages—their lives were easier than most rogues could ever dream. He believed he had mastered survival in the cracks of this world.

Until those eyes found him.

Cold, serpentine, unblinking.

”Hmm… an interesting life.” The voice was soft, almost effeminate, yet carried a chill that slithered down the spine. ”Let me see where your limits lie…”

Pinned by an invisible force, Jubei felt his bones strain, his very soul laid bare under that gaze. The power he had relied on, the strength that made him a predator in the wilderness, became nothing more than a child’s toy in those hands.

They were caught, played with, then discarded like waste.

”You brought me a moment of amusement. But in the end, you’re still defective products.” That voice lingered like venom on a wound. ”If not for those flies chasing me so tirelessly, perhaps I’d have found some use for you.”

Orochimaru. Once one of Konoha’s legendary Sannin. Now a rogue ninja. Even hunted, even cornered, his shadow was enough to reduce men like Jubei to trembling prey.

”Should we… join a Village?” someone rasped after a long silence, lungs still heaving.

The darkness stilled.

”Join a minor village?” another spat. ”Stable, maybe. But poor as dirt! And they’d never risk taking us in.”

”What about the great villages? Hah! You think they’d let us walk in? They’d gut us, strip us of every secret, then chain us as the lowest dogs. Die on their orders for scraps.”

The whispers crawled through the dark like insects, bitter and venomous. Dependence? Servitude? The thought festered in Jubei’s heart like poison. Then another idea—mad, arrogant, irresistible—flared to life.

”Then we’ll build one ourselves,” he snarled. His voice sliced through the muttering, raw and desperate. ”A village of our own!”

And so the search began. Remote lands lacked wealth. Central lands were death traps. But after long searching, the Land of Tea emerged as the perfect target. Far from the wars of the shinobi world, yet rich enough to support a village of its own.

They could not approach the Daimyo directly.

Jubei chose Nochapo. He united the scattered bandits into the Chayama Gang, while the Black Snake Group—masquerading as pirates—unleashed terror upon the sea route to Nazaki Island. Merchant ships sank. Trade collapsed. Panic spread like fire. And they again emerged as saviors. Finally, the Daimyo sent an envoy.

”Your strength is remarkable. The Land of Tea will not forget your aid in resolving this sea crisis.” The envoy’s tone was polite, but his eyes weighed Jubei carefully. ”Yet… Konohagakure has long been our ally. To change course so suddenly is no small matter.”

Lowering his voice, the envoy added, ”If you establish a foundation—prove your village can stand—then mission contracts will follow. The Daimyo will open… doors of convenience.”

Doors of convenience. Suppress the Wasabi family, elevate the Hejies, and let the Chayama Gang step into the light.

But a village cost money. Vast sums of it. Tools, strongholds, recruitment—every step bled ryo. Their savings were a drop in the ocean. And so, they seized Nochapo and Deai. Every street, every merchant, every traveler—bled dry to fund their dream.

Now, as Jubei lowered his gaze from the inn’s shadowed outline beneath the gray sky, a scarred captain hurried over and whispered his report.

Only one figure remained inside Haifi Pavilion. The other two must have gone to guard the messenger.

Shoshi should have handled a regular jōnin without issue. Yet no word had come. Something had gone wrong.

Jubei frowned. With Shoshi’s strength, defeat was possible—but death? No. Impossible. That left only the Konoha shinobi in play… and perhaps one or two hidden pieces under Jirocho’s sleeve.

But only one or two. If Jirocho truly had more, he would have already unleashed them against the Chayama Gang.

Reinforce Shoshi? Throw more men at the messenger’s route?

No.

If the first interception failed, sending reinforcements would only be too little, too late. Chasing after the courier now risked scattering their strength and missing the real opportunity.

Better to show power, not scatter it.

There was only one clean solution—

Kill Wasabi Jirochō. Remove him, and that ”ironclad” evidence would have no owner—just a story the Wasabi House had fabricated. The Daimyō could discard it, accuse Jirochō of conspiracy, and the whole scandal would collapse with him. Remove the head, and the rot beneath would die with it.

”Gather the men,” Jubei ordered, his voice flat and iron-true. ”Lock down the city.”

”Sir? The reason?” The scarred captain flinched, sweat beading on his brow. ”We can’t suppress everyone—this’ll spark backlash…”

Their freedom to roam the city so brazenly had depended on the other factions’ worry about the Daimyō’s favor toward the Hejies—on hesitation, not consent. A sudden, sweeping lockdown would shred that fragile equilibrium and force every guild and household to choose a side.

Jubei’s eyes, sunk beneath a shadowed brow, were cold as wells; the outline of the Wasabi House reflected in them. Murderous intent coiled there, and the scarred man swallowed the rest of his protest.

”Hmph.” Jubei’s snort was contempt itself. ”Good. Let them be vigilant.”

The captain’s face shifted as realization clicked: once the lockdown began, the city’s leaders would lock their doors and pull their men in, convinced chaos was the goal. In that panic, even Jirochō’s allies would be rooted to their own gates, unable to rush to his aid.

An assault on the Wasabi House would need elite power—not the common thugs of Chayama. The gang’s job was to frighten and confuse: make every ”fish” slip back into its hole so the hunters could strike.

”Yes, sir. Immediately.” The captain bowed, then fled, boots thudding over rotten boards, his sword sheath rasping the doorframe.

Silence swallowed the room. Wind moaned through the broken window as Jubei’s fingers tightened on his sword hilt.

Wasabi Jirochō….

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