Chapter 35: First Hunt

The forest was alive with the quiet hum of the night. Branches swayed gently, whispering secrets to the wind, while the faint rustle of nocturnal creatures carried through the dense underbrush. Above, the moon hung high in the velvet sky, its light threading through the canopy to dapple the ground in pale silver. Tomaru moved through it all like a shadow, his charcoal cloak merging seamlessly with the darkness.

His boots brushed against moss-covered roots as he landed lightly on a thick branch, pausing to scan the area. The faint pulse of his Tenseigan illuminated the world in a way that went beyond mere sight, painting the chakra signatures of the forest's inhabitants in soft, glowing outlines. The flickering aura of a fox darted between bushes, while birds perched high above, their energy a dim presence in the treetops.

No human signatures.

Tomaru exhaled softly, the sound barely audible over the crickets' nocturnal symphony. He crouched, his gloved fingers brushing the rough bark beneath him as he surveyed the clearing ahead. The soft glow of his lantern barely cut through the mist curling along the forest floor, but it was enough. Enough to focus on the task at hand.

The Bingo Book lay open in his lap, its pages a testament to the darker side of the shinobi world. Each entry chronicled a name, a face, and a legacy of violence—a catalog of those who had crossed the boundaries of law and morality. Rogue ninja, ruthless bandits, mercenaries-turned-murderers… Each name carried a story, and every story ended in blood.

Tomaru's eyes scanned the page illuminated by the lantern's flickering light. The grainy sketch of Goro Yasume stared back at him, the jagged scar across his cheek a cruel slash of ink.

Name: Goro Yasume

Rank: C-Class Missing-nin

Affiliation: Formerly of the Land of Water

Crimes: Extortion, kidnapping, murder of a traveling merchant caravan.

Bounty: 800,000 Ryo.

Last Known Location: Abandoned mine, outskirts of the Land of Rivers.

Tomaru's fingers hovered over the page as he reread the details. Goro's crimes painted him as a predator—violent, brutish, and overconfident. The kind who preyed on the weak and surrounded himself with subordinates to bolster his ego.

"A sloppy brute," Tomaru murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Yet something in the description nagged at him. Sloppy didn't mean stupid. A mine was more than a hideout; it was a fortress. One entrance. Narrow tunnels. Limited avenues for attack or retreat.

He snapped the Bingo Book shut and tucked it into his pack, his movements deliberate and quiet. The weight of the mission settled over him, heavier than his gear. This wasn't just about the bounty—it was about proving himself.

Eight hundred thousand ryo, he thought, adjusting the straps of his pack. Enough for the next step. Enough to show I'm ready.

Tomaru adjusted the mask that hung at his side, its angular design catching the faint glint of moonlight. The dark-brown lenses concealed the glow of his Tenseigan, allowing him to observe without revealing his secrets. The mask felt heavier than it should have—a physical reminder of the line he was crossing tonight.

He knelt by the lantern, extinguishing its flame with a practiced motion. The forest dimmed, its shadows lengthening and deepening around him. His cloak flowed behind him like liquid shadow as he moved deeper into the woods, his steps light and purposeful.

Every detail of his gear had been meticulously prepared. His kunai were sharpened to a razor's edge, and the seals on his tools had been checked and rechecked. He carried no unnecessary weight; every item had a purpose, every choice deliberate.

As he neared the edge of the clearing, Tomaru paused, crouching low to the ground. He closed his eyes and silenced his chakra flow, the sensation leaving him cold and hollow but invisible to detection. With the Tenseigan, he visualized the distant mine—its tunnels winding like veins through the earth, the faint glow of chakra signatures marking the guards patrolling its perimeter.

"Four sentries at the entrance," he noted, his voice a whisper. "Uneven patterns. No coordination. Complacent."

The faintest smirk tugged at his lips beneath the mask. They won't see me coming.

The trees thinned as Tomaru approached the abandoned mine. Its jagged maw yawned open, lanterns flickering weakly at the entrance. Shadows stretched long and uneven across the rocky terrain, and the faint murmur of voices carried through the night.

Tomaru melted into the underbrush, his every movement deliberate. His Tenseigan painted the guards in glowing hues—flickering with each breath they took, their chakra faint but steady.

He reached into his pouch, retrieving a small pebble. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it skittering into the bushes on the opposite side of the clearing.

"What was that?" one guard muttered, his voice tinged with unease.

"Probably a fox," another replied. "Go check it out anyway."

Tomaru waited, his body coiled like a spring, as two of the guards ventured toward the disturbance. The remaining two lingered by the entrance, their postures slack, their attention wandering.

Arrogance, Tomaru thought, his movements fluid as he closed the distance.

The first guard didn't even register the shadow behind him before a sharp blow to the back of his neck sent him crumpling to the ground. Tomaru caught his body, lowering it silently into the grass.

The second guard turned, his eyes widening just as Tomaru's kunai pressed against his throat.

"Quiet," Tomaru murmured, his tone icy. The guard froze, his breath hitching. With a precise strike to a pressure point, Tomaru rendered him unconscious and dragged him into the shadows.

By the time the two remaining guards returned, they found nothing but silence.

And then Tomaru was upon them.

His strikes were swift and decisive, his movements blending speed with efficiency. Within moments, the guards lay unconscious at his feet.

Tomaru adjusted his mask, his voice low as he murmured to himself, "First step, complete."

Standing at the mouth of the mine, Tomaru exhaled slowly, his breath steady in the cool night air. The world around him was silent, save for the occasional creak of the mine's wooden beams groaning under the weight of the earth above. The sharp scent of damp stone and mildew mixed with the acrid tang of old sweat and rusted metal wafting from within.

He adjusted his mask, ensuring its angular edges sat firmly against his face, and scanned the dark expanse ahead with his Tenseigan. The faint glow of chakra signatures pulsed like embers against the pitch black, revealing the positions of Goro Yasume's remaining lackeys. They moved lazily, with none of the coordination or sharp focus of trained shinobi.

With a final glance over his shoulder, he stepped into the mine, the shadows closing around him like a shroud.

The air grew heavier as Tomaru moved deeper into the tunnels, the dim lanterns casting faint, flickering light that painted the walls with jagged shadows. Each step was measured, his boots barely brushing the uneven ground. The creak of the mine's wooden supports echoed faintly, a haunting reminder of the fragility of the structure.

Ahead, the chakra signatures of Goro's subordinates glowed faintly, scattered throughout the winding tunnels. Some clustered in small groups, their voices carrying in low, gruff tones. Others stood alone, their attention slack.

Tomaru pressed himself against the wall, his Tenseigan pinpointing the nearest guard. The man was leaning against a rickety support beam, a makeshift spear dangling from one hand as he picked at his teeth with the other.

Sloppy.

Tomaru moved like a shadow, his steps silent as he approached. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the man's spear and yanked him backward, locking an arm around his throat. The guard barely had time to gasp before Tomaru applied pressure to a nerve cluster, rendering him unconscious.

He lowered the body carefully, propping it against the wall as if the man had simply fallen asleep. No alarms, he thought. Not yet.

The next guard was easier. Tomaru tracked his chakra signature to a narrow passage where the man was hunched over a small gambling board, muttering curses under his breath.

"Idiots," the guard grumbled, shaking a pair of crude dice. "Always leaving me out here to—"

He didn't finish the thought. Tomaru's kunai pressed against his neck, the cold steel silencing any protest.

"Drop the dice," Tomaru whispered, his voice low and menacing. "Unless you want them to be your last throw."

The guard froze, his trembling hands releasing the dice, which clattered to the ground.

"Good," Tomaru said, striking a pressure point with practiced precision. The man slumped forward, unconscious before he hit the floor.

The central chamber of the mine was a grotesque parody of a throne room. Lanterns hung from fraying ropes, their weak light casting long, uneven shadows across the walls. A crude throne made of mismatched crates and tattered cloth sat at the center, its splintered edges jutting out like jagged teeth.

Goro Yasume lounged on the throne, his massive axe resting against the armrest. He was every bit the brute the Bingo Book had described—broad-shouldered, his scarred face twisted into a permanent sneer. Around him, a handful of lackeys lounged idly, their weapons lying within arm's reach but their postures unprepared.

Tomaru stepped into the light, his mask catching the flicker of the lanterns.

The room stilled.

One of Goro's men stood abruptly, his hand fumbling for a rusted blade. "Who the hell are you?"

Tomaru tilted his head slightly, his calm voice cutting through the tension. "The person who's going to ensure you make better life choices."

Goro barked a laugh, the sound echoing harshly in the chamber. "You've got guts, kid, I'll give you that. But guts don't count for much when you're dead." He grabbed his axe, its massive blade glinting in the dim light.

Tomaru's tone was calm, almost bored. "I could say the same about you. This operation of yours… it lacks polish." He gestured vaguely at the throne. "Wooden crates? Tattered rags? You're not even trying."

Goro's grin faltered. "What?"

"Interior decorating," Tomaru said, his voice laced with mock seriousness. "It's important for setting the right tone. Right now, all I see is poor craftsmanship and questionable hygiene."

A faint snicker escaped from one of the lackeys, quickly stifled when Goro turned a murderous glare on him.

"You think this is funny?" Goro roared, rising to his feet.

"No," Tomaru replied smoothly. "But watching you try to swing that oversized axe might be."

With a bellow, Goro charged, his axe slicing through the air in a deadly arc. Tomaru sidestepped effortlessly, the blade missing him by inches and embedding itself in the ground with a dull thunk.

Goro yanked the weapon free, sweat already beading on his brow. He swung again, his strikes wild and heavy, each blow leaving deep gouges in the walls and floor.

Tomaru danced around him, his movements fluid and precise. "You're strong," he remarked, dodging another swing. "But strength without control? It's like a sword with no edge—useless."

Goro snarled, his swings growing more erratic as frustration clouded his judgment. Tomaru seized the opening, darting forward and landing a sharp, earth-chakra-infused strike to Goro's wrist. The axe clattered to the ground, and Goro stumbled back, clutching his arm.

"You…" Goro wheezed, his chest heaving. "You're a demon."

Tomaru's voice was icy as he stepped closer. "A demon wouldn't waste time talking."

With a final surge of chakra, Tomaru struck Goro square in the chest, the impact sending a ripple of energy through the chamber. Goro collapsed, gasping for breath as his body crumpled against the makeshift throne.

Tomaru turned to the remaining bandits, his mask hiding the cold intensity of his gaze. Most cowered, their weapons forgotten. One managed a trembling question: "Are we… done?"

"That depends," Tomaru replied, his tone sharp as steel. "If I hear you've rebuilt this operation, I'll return. And I won't bother with warnings." He gestured toward the throne. "Burn that. It's an insult to craftsmanship."

Without another word, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving the bandits to their fear.

The forest seemed quieter now, the rustling leaves and distant chirps of nocturnal creatures barely registering in Tomaru's mind. The weight of his mask hung heavy in his hand as he made his way back to Konoha. Moonlight filtered through the canopy, painting patches of silver across the path, but its beauty felt distant, almost artificial.

His steps were steady but deliberate, each one accompanied by the dull echo of his thoughts.

The hunt had been a success—clean, efficient, and without hesitation. Goro Yasume was defeated, his men scattered like leaves in the wind. By any measure, Tomaru had completed his first bounty with precision. Yet, the satisfaction he'd expected was absent.

Instead, a cold, creeping unease filled the void.

The soft creak of the door broke the stillness as Tomaru entered his room. The dim light of a single lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the walls.

He set the mask down first, its scuffed surface catching the lantern's glow. The once-pristine edges were now marked by the night's events, each scratch a testament to his first hunt.

Beside the mask lay the Bingo Book, its worn pages a stark reminder of the world he had willingly stepped into. Names and faces stared back at him, their crimes etched in ink like a litany of sins. Goro Yasume's entry was among them, now marked with a faint smudge from his fingers.

Tomaru sank into the chair, leaning back as he let his head rest against the wall. The faint scent of pine and damp earth still clung to his cloak, but it did little to ground him. His gaze fixed on the mask, its angular lines and dark lenses reflecting the person he was becoming.

The silence pressed against him, heavy and suffocating. He replayed the events of the hunt in his mind—the calculated strikes, the taunts that felt almost too easy, the detached precision with which he had dispatched Goro's men.

It wasn't the violence that unsettled him. It was how natural it had felt.

"When did this become so easy?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the lantern's flame.

He had expected hesitation, guilt, maybe even fear. But there had been none. No trembling hands, no second-guessing. Only calm, calculated efficiency.

The morals and values of his past life—of a world governed by laws, ethics, and civility—felt like distant memories. Shadows of a life that no longer fit the person he was becoming.

Tomaru reached for the Bingo Book, flipping it open to Goro's entry. He traced the jagged sketch of the man's face, his fingers brushing over the list of crimes.

Extortion. Kidnapping. Murder.

His actions had been justified. He had brought a killer to justice. Yet the gnawing question remained: At what cost?

The faint hum of the Tenseigan stirred within him, a quiet reminder of the power coursing through his veins. It was a gift—one that had saved his life and set him apart. But it was also a burden, its glow a constant reflection of the path he had chosen.

Power without purpose breeds chaos, he thought, recalling the philosophy drilled into shinobi during their training. But what happens when purpose begins to blur?

The detachment he had felt during the hunt wasn't just an adaptation—it was a transformation. Piece by piece, the person he once was seemed to fade, replaced by something colder, sharper, more ruthless.

Tomaru leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk as he clasped his hands together. His reflection in the dark lenses of the mask stared back at him, silent and unyielding.

"I'm losing something," he admitted to the emptiness around him. "And I don't know if I can get it back."