Chapter Ten:​ Information Warfare (PT 2): Birds Aren't Real​

Earlier.

Three hundred miles away…

At the break of dawn, whilst the tiny village of Asahimura still lay shrouded in the misty embrace of twilight, a solitary figure stirred on the gnarled branch of a sweetgum tree.

Kuro, a crow as black as the midnight sky, fluffed his feathers against the chill, his beady eyes gleaming as wakefulness slowly suffused his being. The corvid shook his head once, then twice before hopping off his perch, gliding up a slight draft towards another.

You see, unlike other birds, Kuro was a creature with a distinct purpose in life. He had a task; an unspoken compulsion that drove him to this perch every morning…

A cause he took great pride in as any self-respecting bird should.

As the first rays of sunlight pierced the horizon, he began his vigil. From his vantage atop a telephone poll that overlooked the torii gate, the corvid commanded a clear view of the dirt road that wound its way through the rice paddies and into the heart of the village.

Kuro's keen gaze scanned the road for the telltale signs of grain-laden wagons, drawn by oxen and driven by merchants in straw hats and robes. Each wagon carrying grain held a significance that the corvid couldn't comprehend, yet believed in absolutely.

The hours passed with the slow, steady rhythm of hooves and wooden wheels. Kuro's focus never wavered, his mind attuned to the subtle distinctions between grain wagons and those carrying other goods. A rattling cart of ceramics, a creaking wagon of firewood—these he ignored. But when a wagon heavy with sacks of rice trundled into view, Kuro's head cocked to the side, his eyes narrowing as he made a silent tally.

Occasionally, he would swoop down to investigate more closely, searching for crumbs in the wagons' wakes that he would then proceed to gobble up—taxing the rabble as any self-respecting bird would. Other times he would land on the large sacks themselves to carefully search for tears and holes from which he could seize a beakful or two before the merchants at the fore wizened up and protested his presence.

By noon, the sun stood high in the sky, casting warm light upon the village. Kuro stretched his wings, feeling the pull of hunger in his belly. It was time to collect his tribute, it seemed. With a lazy leap, he took flight, gliding over the thatched rooftops and down into the bustling marketplace.

There, amidst the throngs of villagers, stood a food stall, a humble structure of wooden planks and a faded cloth canopy. The vendor, a grizzled man with a weathered face, went about his work, seemingly oblivious to Kuro's arrival. The crow landed on the edge of the stall, watching as the vendor prepared skewers of grilled fish and vegetables.

Kuro's sharp beak tapped against the stall, and the towering thing momentarily glanced at him before shaking its head. Reaching into a small bowl in the corner, the vendor extracted four chunks of fish entrails. One by one, the man placed them on the counter, and Kuro gobbled them up swiftly. Then came the part of this dance that Kuro found both frustrating and necessary—the communication of his count.

The crow racked his tiny brain for a moment before he began his sequence of pecks, a series of taps that translated the morning's tally into an unbalanced ternary code. His beak tapped out the pattern: peck, pause, peck-peck, long pause, peck, pause, peck-peck. The vendor continued his work, showing no visible signs of comprehending Kuro's profound wisdom, yet always providing the food in the same manner.

Kuro repeated the sequence two more times, ensuring the message was clear. The vendor, as he always did, silently placed three more chunks of fish entrails on the counter, followed by a small handful of bread crumbs. This gesture satisfied Kuro, who felt a strange sense of contentment wash over him.

With his hunger sated and his duty half-fulfilled, Kuro took flight once more, returning to his post by the torii gate. There, he resumed his watch, counting the grain wagons as they entered and left the village.

It would be nightfall before Kuro would visit the vendor again for their final exchange of the day.

***​

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the village of Asahimura, Kenji began the process of closing up his food stall. The market square, once bustling with the sounds of traders and villagers, now grew quieter as people made their way home. Kenji worked quietly, his hands deftly wrapping up leftover skewers and carefully packing away the day's unsold goods.

The worn cloth canopy fluttered in the evening breeze as Kenji secured it, his mind already drifting to thoughts of home. He placed the wooden skewers in their storage box, ensuring everything was neatly organised for the next day's work.

As he finished tidying up, a familiar flutter of wings drew his attention. The crow had returned. Without breaking his rhythm, Kenji glanced at the bird, now perched on the edge of the stall. The crow, with its gleaming black feathers, began its peculiar tapping ritual on the wooden counter. Pause, pause, peck long pause, pause, peck, peck.

Kenji allowed a small smile to crease his weathered face. The raven's antics had become a predictable end to his day, a fleeting amusement amid the routine of village life. He reached into his pouch and placed three morsels of fish and a small handful of rice on the counter, just as he did each evening. The corvid snapped up the offerings, and Kenji watched it for a moment with a smile before turning back to his tasks.

With the stall secure, Kenji hoisted the wooden boxes onto his cart and began the short journey home.

Kenji's house stood at the edge of the village, a modest wooden structure with a neatly kept vegetable garden attached to one side. The scent of simmering stew greeted him as he approached the door. Sliding it open, he was welcomed by the warm glow of the stove and the sight of his wife, Aiko, busy preparing dinner. Their son, Yuto, played quietly with wooden toys in the corner.

"Welcome home," Aiko greeted him with a smile. Kenji nodded in return, feeling the day's weariness begin to lift. He set the boxes down and made his way to the bath, where steaming water awaited him. Sinking into the wooden tub, he let the heat seep into his muscles, easing the fatigue from his body.

After his bath, Kenji joined his family at the low table. The simple meal of rice, miso soup, and grilled fish was a comfort after a long day. As they ate, Yuto chattered about his day, and Kenji listened with a contented smile, his wife's gentle laughter punctuating the boy's stories.

Dinner concluded, and the family tidied up together before settling for the night. Kenji unrolled his futon and lay down, the day's events blending into a soothing blur as he drifted toward sleep. The crow and its peculiar pecking were far from his mind, a passing novelty in the mundanity of his daily life: Its message, whatever it was, remained unheeded and unimportant—a minor distraction in the steady rhythm of Kenji's existence.

Until it wasn't.

The vendor's eyes snapped open.

His hands rose of their own volition and began to weave hand signs.

蛇. 虎. 鳥.

Hebi. Tora. Tori.

陰遁・千里使者の術 (Inton: Senri Shisha no Jutsu)

Yin Release: Thousand-Mile Courier Technique

The meagre chakra Kenji's body held drained away at that moment as the strange technique took hold. Moments later, succumbing to severe chakra exhaustion, the unwitting man fell unconscious beside his wife. The next morning, Kenji would awaken, feeling refreshed and possessing no memories of the events that transpired that night, moments after he fell asleep.

Oblivious.

***​

In a secret, underground chamber beneath Lord Fugaku's residence, a shadow clone sat unmoving in the centre of the room, his feet crossed in a lotus position. Beside the clone were two motionless bodies. Their heaving chests moved with barely perceptible motion while gastric feeding tubes led from their abdomen connected to upright feeding tanks containing a nutritional, calorie-dense food puree. The unconscious bodies were naked save for the diapers wrapped around their groins and the air filter covering the lower half of their faces.

The clone that sat between them with its index fingers pressed against their foreheads also barely moved. For hours, it sat in silence, eyes closed as it slowly exchanged chakra with the comatose duo. It wasn't until midnight arrived that the clone finally opened its eyes.

Ahead of it was a giant scroll hanging from the ceiling. Bare at first, the scroll slowly began to darken as indecipherable words in ink manifested on its surface. The sheet of parchment seven meters wide and a meter-and-a-half tall was soon completely covered with strings of characters, numbers, and letters the size of pinheads.

The clone's eyes flashed crimson as a Sharingan emerged before promptly disappearing, memorising the scroll's content in its entirety. As the clone once again shut its eyes, the markings on the giant scroll slowly faded away until nothing remained but a plain cream expanse.

The shadow, unfazed by the change, allowed itself to settle back into the fudge of Itachi's Dreamscape Computation Jutsu. Carefully, it fed accumulated data into the brains of the comatose missing-nins by his side, using their collective intellect and chakras to crunch the numbers into actionable intel.

Twenty-four hours later, thirty minutes before the next batch of data would arrive, the clone removed its hands from the human computers by its side to perform a single hand sign.

蛇.

Hebi.

陰遁・千里使者の術 (Inton: Senri Shisha no Jutsu)

Yin Release: Thousand-Mile Courier Technique

***​

Present.

It was a few minutes before the end of my watch when my internal clock ticked, reminding me of a task that was slowly becoming my nightly ritual. Absentmindedly, I retrieved a small journal from my pouch, opening it to see a jumble of characters appear. My eyes narrowed slightly as I subconsciously decoded the message.

Of course, crows, jays, squirrels and raccoons on their own were hardly the most reliable informants. But in large enough numbers, and with a large enough margin for error, they could, most times, be depended on to deliver. Hence, my hesitance to simply disregard what was looking to be an extremely unrealistic prediction; one made even more implausible by how obviously resistant to derailment the original plotline of this universe has proven to be.

On their own, Ninjas were hard to keep track of. Silent. Invincible. Yet, it remained an indisputable fact that they were reliant on their civilian populace to function effectively. For food, money, and other mortal amenities. Hence, the easiest way to keep track of any organized shinobi force was to investigate the civilian body that supported it.

Which is what I have been doing.

A shinobi-affiliated village purchasing more wheat, pine soot, and parchment—all base material for producing soldier pills, fūinjutsu ink and scrolls respectively—could only mean so many things.

"Kumogakure…" I mused as I momentarily contemplated the value of diverting my very limited resources to investigate this matter.

"What are you fuckers cooking up this time around?…"