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

Martial law fell over Deai Port like a tightening net.

The clamor of the docks was cut off in an instant. Heavy barricades were rolled into the streets as Chayama thugs—spears and short swords in hand—barked orders, dispersing crowds and forcing shops to shutter. Panic rippled through the city like a stone dropped in still water. The city’s usual din gave way to the crisp clip of hooves on cobblestones, crude commands, and the occasional choked sob. An electric, suffocating tension hung in the air.

At Haifi Pavilion the inn’s doors were bolted fast. The owner’s face was pale with sweat as he shepherded frightened guests back to their rooms and urged them to lock their doors. Then, breath steadying, he climbed to the third floor and knocked at the room with the best view.

”Ninja-sama…” his voice trembled only faintly. ”The city is under martial law. It’s chaotic outside; they say they’re searching for bandits. If you have no urgent need, please remain inside. If you require anything, tell us—we’ll do everything we can.”

”Understood. Thanks for the warning. We’ll handle it,” Roshi answered calmly.

Through the sensory link with his Wood Release clone, everything his main body felt at sea—every shock, every change in the city—synchronized instantly. The bait had worked in part: a ninja with strange secret techniques had been caught. But interrogation was never Roshi’s strength, and this opponent had kept silent, closing off every lead.

The original plan had been modest: lure out one or two shinobi, capture them, and then use interrogation or Sharingan genjutsu via Itachi to extract intelligence. If that failed, bring the prisoner back to the Village’s intel division. Roshi had not expected such decisiveness from the enemy.

Martial law and the mass deployment of Chayama troops would cow the city’s other powers—forcing guilds and merchants to fall back and seal their defenses—but such a show of force could not be sustained. Whoever ordered it sought a quick, crushing blow. They aimed to seize the Wasabi estate inside a narrow window—and to do that they needed more than common thugs; they needed shinobi.

So far the Chayama Gang’s only confirmed ninja had been Jubei. Now the corpse on the deck and the shadow prowling near Haifi Pavilion had proven otherwise: two enemy shinobi were already on the field.

The Wasabi House’s remaining defenders might theoretically hold against Jubei. Theoretically. The Black Snake Group’s true strength and placements were still unknown. Considering the worst-case scenario, Roshi knew it was time to act.

”One last chance,” he said to the captive on the deck. ”Name.”

Shoshi bared blood-stained fangs, then clamped his eyes shut. Whether Roshi intended to torture, threaten, or bargain, silence remained his choice—for his comrades, for his cause.

Roshi drew a steady breath. He had hoped this final exchange might crack the man, confirm his allegiance. It hadn’t. Leaving a living shinobi with secret techniques and unbroken will in the middle of a collapsing operation would be like burying a live bomb.

The decision hardened in him. The burden of intelligence fell to his blade.

He did not approach theatrically—just a precise motion. A kunai struck true, piercing the man’s heart.

When life ceased, Roshi unrolled a sealing scroll and wrapped the corpse. Last time he had left part of the body behind, preserving the secret of his Wood Release. This time there was no such reservation: the man carried no unspeakable jutsu that needed hiding. He would bring the whole body back to Konoha so the village could study the technique and learn what it could.

”Rogue shinobi… always troublesome.”

Half a day of planning, and still the Black Snake Group remained a shadowy enigma.

Roshi turned to the pale messenger beside him, a young man clutching the scroll tube as if it were his lifeline. The boy’s knees nearly buckled under the weight of fear.

”The plan has changed.” Roshi’s tone was steady, resolute. ”Return at once to the waters off Deai Port. There’s no need to head for the Daimyō’s palace. Simply patrol the sea and wait for my signal.”

The messenger’s eyes widened. ”Sir? But… this evidence—”

”The evidence matters,” Roshi cut him off, gaze sharp as a blade. ”But rushing to the palace now is even more dangerous. Do you understand? Without me there, who can say if the Daimyō would spare your life? There’s no need to gamble it away.”

The boy met Roshi’s eyes, and something in their unshakable calm anchored his spiraling thoughts. He swallowed hard, then nodded again and again. ”Yes, sir! I understand!”

Roshi said nothing more. His figure flickered, vanishing from the doorway. In the next instant, he was atop the tallest mast at the stern, cloths snapping in the sea wind. He cast a single glance toward Deai Port, then blurred into an afterimage, stepping across the waves—racing toward the city locked under martial law.

At Haifi Pavilion, a thin sliver of lamplight slipped through the curtains, falling across the face of Roshi’s Wood Clone. The main body’s choice and movements registered instantly.

It was time to act.

Still, that stubborn rogue ninja proved one thing: capturing him alive was possible, but forcing answers from him was nearly impossible. And yet, intelligence remained paramount. At the very least, Roshi needed confirmation—was this man truly of the Black Snake Group? What was their structure, their purpose?

He pushed open the wooden window frame with a faint creak, barely audible beneath the occasional shouts echoing from the street. Roshi didn’t lean out, but let his calm gaze settle into the thick shadows pooling at the corner below.

”Watched me for so long… aren’t you tired?”

In the darkness, Genshoku’s fluorescent green pupils shrank to slits. He hadn’t expected the Konoha shinobi to slice through the thin veil of silence first. His canines ground down on the copper coin between his teeth, the bitter metal sting keeping him sharp.

”Konoha ninja… always sharp,” Genshoku rasped, his voice like sandpaper dragged across steel, muffled by the coin. He stepped half a pace into the light; his oilskin cloak gleamed faintly, wet with mildew and shadow. The small bell at his wrist, etched with the character Shoku, stayed unnervingly still. ”But this isn’t the time for idle words.”

The brim of his hat cast his face in shadow, revealing only a grayish jaw and bloodless, pressed lips. His tone was cold, almost mocking:

”The merchant you were guarding? His cargo is already at sea. Mission complete, isn’t it? So why sink deeper into the mud of Deai Port? What did Wasabi Jirochō promise you that’s worth gambling your life?”

The Wood Clone’s face betrayed nothing.

”Listen, Konoha shinobi,” Genshoku’s voice dropped lower, edged with a sinister pull. ”The Wasabi estate is… lively tonight. Old man Jirochō may not live to see dawn. Staying here won’t change that. Why not—” He paused deliberately, the bell on his wrist giving the faintest tremor. ”—leave Deai Port. I guarantee safe passage. Take your reward, and go back to Konoha alive.”

”Oh?”

Roshi’s calm reply cut through the night like steel. ”You speak as though you know exactly what’s happening at Wasabi House. Then tell me…” His gaze pressed down on Genshoku, heavy as iron. ”…who do you represent, to offer such guarantees?”

Inside and outside the window, their eyes clashed in the silent air. The dead port, locked under martial law, seemed to fill with the invisible smoke of a battle about to ignite.

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