Naruto: Starting by Reading Minds in Naruto

Hayakawa finished his meal, rinsed the bowl, and set it beside the stove. 

Tonbo moved before the chūnin could turn. One hand covered Hayakawa’s mouth while a kunai entered between his ribs and pierced the heart. The man’s body stiffened once, then sagged against him. 

”Forgive me,” Tonbo whispered. 

He lowered Hayakawa to the floor and formed the seal for Psycho Mind Transmission. Death did not erase a shinobi’s mind at once. For a few precious moments, fading neural activity preserved fragments that would soon become inaccessible. 

Tonbo entered before those pathways collapsed. 

Memories rushed past him: rain on an Academy yard, an instructor correcting the angle of an umbrella, the first assassination completed without witnesses, the names and habits of three young subordinates. Tonbo ignored private griefs and small pleasures unless they explained behavior. He needed routines, relationships, passwords, techniques, and every detail that might expose an impostor. 

When he withdrew, Hayakawa’s remaining neural activity had nearly vanished. 

Tonbo opened a storage scroll and pressed his palm to its formula. Ink spread around the corpse, drew it into the seal, and left a discreet containment mark at the center. The body would remain preserved until Tonbo could return it to Konoha as evidence or destroy it safely. 

A Transformation gave him Hayakawa’s face, build, and clothing. That would fool ordinary eyes, but Amegakure’s rain judged chakra rather than appearance. 

”Genjutsu: Borrowed Signature.” 

The technique settled over his chakra network like a second pattern. It did not suppress his reserves. Instead, whenever an external sensory field touched him, the illusion returned the signature Tonbo had recorded from Hayakawa during weeks of observation. The rain would encounter a familiar resident where Tonbo stood. 

Developing the technique had required five days. Selecting a victim had taken far longer. 

Hayakawa was a commoner with no surviving family and few intimate relationships. His superior knew him as dependable but reserved. His three subordinates respected him without sharing his home or his secrets. Most days followed the same structure: training before dawn, administrative work, missions, and an evening alone beside the heater. 

Psycho Mind Transmission completed the disguise. Tonbo knew how Hayakawa walked when tired, which shoulder he favored beneath his rain cloak, how he signed reports, and which subordinate required the most supervision. Unless someone close enough to notice a missing private memory confronted him, Tonbo could become the man he had killed. 

He disliked the thought and accepted it anyway. Hayakawa’s death opened a route into Amegakure’s command structure that no forged document could provide. 

The stolen memories also clarified the village’s economy. Amegakure lacked the broad mission network enjoyed by the Five Great Shinobi Countries, but its operatives possessed an exceptional reputation for assassination. Daimyō, nobles, merchants, and rival officials hired Rain shinobi when a death needed to look accidental or remain unattributed. 

Hayakawa’s last target had been a minor noble in the Land of Birds. His umbrella concealed needles and channels for directing rainwater, while his personal ninjutsu turned the surrounding weather into cover for attacks from several angles. Every Amegakure chūnin was expected to cultivate a similarly individual method. Teams taught young shinobi the profession; experienced assassins often worked alone. 

That income explained the village’s recovery and the quantity of weapons available to its rulers. Tonbo’s incomplete foreknowledge associated Konan with an extraordinary stockpile of explosive tags. A network of well-paid clandestine missions could support preparations on that scale without attracting the attention of larger villages. 

He lifted Hayakawa’s umbrella and tested its balance. 

”From now on, I am Hayakawa.” 

For several days he would repeat the dead man’s exercises, visit familiar places, and observe every reaction. Only after the identity survived ordinary contact would he approach records that mattered. Jiraiya had once penetrated Amegakure through experience and audacity; Tonbo intended to learn whether patient impersonation could reach further. 

Far above the Land of Fire, a messenger hawk descended toward Konoha’s Communications Department. The seal beneath its wing carried another of Tonbo’s reports. 

A communications shinobi verified the cipher, recorded the arrival, and delivered the decoded pages to the Hokage’s office. Hiruzen read them while Danzō waited across the desk. 

”Your Analysis Team leader is an exceptional infiltrator,” Danzō said. ”You continue to waste him on ordinary village duties. Place him under Root, and his abilities could serve Konoha without distraction.” 

”No.” 

Hiruzen did not look up. Root would strip Tonbo’s talents from the life that gave him reason to use them. Danzō saw a weapon; Hiruzen saw an officer, husband, father, and teacher whose loyalties had been earned rather than carved away. 

The report contained observations gathered over more than two months. Amegakure’s ruler called himself God and appeared rarely before ordinary shinobi. Day-to-day authority belonged to the woman known as Lady Angel. More troubling was the confirmed disappearance of the village’s former leader. 

”Hanzō is dead,” Hiruzen said. 

The words silenced the room. Veterans of the Second Shinobi World War remembered Hanzō’s poison, his salamander, and the humiliation he had inflicted upon entire formations. The title of demigod had not been empty praise. 

Tonbo’s sources agreed that the new ruler killed him and dismantled his remaining supporters. If those accounts were accurate, the reverence surrounding God rested upon demonstrated power rather than propaganda alone. 

”The Land of Rain has produced another dangerous leader,” Danzō said. His expression remained still, but the Rinnegan youth from years before occupied his thoughts. Power capable of killing Hanzō could not be permitted to mature beyond Konoha’s reach. 

Hiruzen rolled the report closed. ”Recall Iwao and Murakumo. Tonbo has entered the village successfully. Additional movement will only increase the chance of discovery.” 

”Their presence gives him a reserve force,” Danzō replied. ”If the enemy exposes him after he obtains decisive intelligence, two operatives may be the difference between recovery and loss.” 

Hiruzen considered the distance, the unknown ruler, and the difficulty of replacing a compromised support team. ”They remain where Tonbo placed them. No independent action. No attempt against the village leadership.” 

Danzō inclined his head. 

He did not mention the additional Root teams already moving toward the Land of Rain. Once his researchers reproduced the principle Tonbo had discovered, he had no intention of leaving the Rinnegan untouched. 

At the Tobitake home, Ayame fed Tenyu and Maki beside an open window. Three months had softened the newborn wrinkles from their faces and given both children enough strength to grip the small Tonbo figurines resting against their blankets. 

The twins made matching noises and turned toward the window. 

Two woven birds swept into the room, circled once, and landed before Ayame. Their reed beaks opened together. 

”Safe. Everything is safe. Do not worry.” 

The message repeated, then both birds folded into ordinary figurines. 

Tenyu and Maki laughed with such delight that Ayame stared at them in betrayal. 

”I feed you every day, and this is the happiest you have ever looked? Your father sends two noisy birds and suddenly he is your favorite?” 

The twins waved the little figures without remorse. Ayame gathered them closer, relief loosening the tension she had carried since Tonbo left. 

”Just wait until he comes home,” she told them. ”All three of you owe me.”