Suddenly, with a deep, guttural rumble that echoed through the opening like distant thunder, Kamebo the sloth began to convulse. His massive frame shuddered with a slow, almost lazy effort, and then, with cheeks distending grotesquely and eyes narrowing with a look of mild discomfort, he let out a wet, resonant "ghoorrkkk!"
The noise was followed by the first of many loud, wet "sploorrtk!" sounds as a massive, tightly packed carton slid from the corner of his yawning mouth.
"Thud!"
It hit the ground, the impact reverberating through the chamber floor. Dust and fine debris shook loose from the ceiling beams above. But Kamebo didn't stop. Again and again, the sloth wheezed and gagged, his throat ballooning with effort as carton after sealed carton began tumbling out in a slow cascade, like some unholy conveyor line of storage containers.
"K-Kami..." one of the guards breathed, staggering backwards in disbelief as another crate—twice the size of a travel pack—landed just meters from him.
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the assembled shinobi. The scene was surreal—bizarre even by shinobi standards. The idea of summoning a sloth to deliver war supplies had already left them blinking, but watching as this massive, shaggy creature vomited out not only ration crates but also weapon lockers, medical storage packs, and rolls of treated parchment was something else entirely.
A wide-eyed chunin, not more than sixteen, looked on with his mouth half-open. "H-How did all of those fit inside the sloth?"
"I don't even—does he have some kind of internal storage dimension?" another whispered, pressing a hand to his temple like the answer might leak out.
A grizzled Jonin, arms crossed over his chest, frowned deeply as he stepped closer to one of the fallen crates. He knelt, brushing away the residual mucus that clung to the metal siding. His sharp eyes scanned the engraved emblem at the corner.
"This... these aren't standard issues. Look at the engraving—it's slightly crooked. And the curve on the lightning bolt? It's not even the right arc. Someone tried to replicate our sigil, but it's off."
He reached out, flicking the latch open on the crate and flipping it wide. Inside were sealed ration bars, soldier pills and nutrient pouches, but the packaging was unfamiliar—foreign. He held one up, examining it with clear suspicion.
The guard who had escorted Raiken and his team forward stepped in at last, now staring hard at the supply pile with a sharpened suspicion that bordered on alarm. His voice cut through the growing unease in the room like a blade.
"Raiken," he said, tone low but charged, "these supplies... they're not from the village. The rations, the weapon engravings, the crate builds—it's all imitation. Someone tried to pass them off as Kumogakure-issue, but it's sloppy work. Shoddy at best."
Raiken turned slowly, his dark eyes calm and unreadable. He didn't flinch. If anything, he seemed... prepared for this question.
Before he could speak, however, one of his comrades—tall and lean—stepped forward. His voice was unhurried, but there was steel beneath the surface.
"Of course, they're not from the village," he said. "Our resources are stretched thin. The High Command is too focused on reinforcing key supply routes and the southern strongholds along the border with the Land of Hot Water. This outpost? It's not even on the primary resupply list."
There were more murmurs now, uneasy shifting of feet as shinobi began looking between one another, and then back to Raiken's team.
"We've secured alternate support," the scarred shinobi continued. "Another benefactor. One who understands the stakes. One who's committed to aiding our beloved village's war efforts."
The first guard's eyes narrowed. "Another benefactor? Who?"
Raiken finally spoke, his voice smooth and clipped. "Their identity isn't for public distribution. Need-to-know. What matters is their conviction. Their supplies are here, and we now have what we need to hold this outpost—maybe even buy the village time to reposition its forces."
A heavy silence fell. It wasn't just the words, but the way Raiken had said them—so matter-of-factly, so completely without apology. He wasn't asking for permission. He wasn't seeking approval. The supplies were here. The mission was in motion.
One of the younger shinobi—maybe seventeen, his forehead protector still gleaming from polish—hesitated as he picked up one of the vomited crates. "But... if they're not from the village..." he started, trailing off.
"Then shut up and be glad we have something to eat," snapped an older kunoichi, hoisting another case onto her shoulder. "You want to go into battle on empty stomachs and dulled kunai?"
=====
High above the noise and churn of the stronghold, at the very summit of the bastion that stood like a hidden monolith in the rough terrain, two men stood in silence.
The wind was stronger here. It rolled across the stone like an invisible tide, flapping their cloaks and carrying with it the smell of metal, dust, and faint ozone—an old scent of storms passed.
The balcony they stood on was carved straight from the natural rock, shaped by Doton jutsu, and reinforced with chakra-infused plating. Beneath them, the life of the fortress pulsed with activity—shinobi moved like ants around crates, barking orders, dragging weapons and supplies deeper into the belly of the stronghold.
But up here, the world felt distant.
One of the men was tall, built like a boulder smoothed by time, his skin weathered and dark from years under the sun. He wore the standard Kumogakure one-strap flak jacket.
His name was Shibuki. His companion, thinner and wiry with pale skin and sharp eyes, wore a dark travel cloak, his hood pushed back to reveal hair touched with streaks of grey. There was no headband on his brow, but the way he stood—rigid and observant—marked him as a seasoned shinobi. His name was Renmaru.
"They arrived earlier than expected," Shibuki said at last, breaking the long silence. His voice was gravelly, shaped by years of command.
Renmaru didn't turn to him. His eyes were scanning the sky, the clouds, the movement far below. "Yes. But those crates... they aren't from Kumogakure."
Shibuki didn't speak for a moment. "We've been sacrificed, I am sure you know this,"
Renmaru gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. "Of course, our purpose is simple. Delay Konoha's advance toward the northern mountain corridor. Give the village time to reinforce the eastern wall."
"And in doing so," Shibuki added quietly, "we will die."
There was no rage in his tone. No indignation. Just the grim steadiness of a man who had seen too many wars to be surprised by the cold logic of strategy.
Renmaru finally looked at him, his eyes narrow. "You sound like you're against dying for the village."
"I understand the necessity," Shibuki replied, jaw clenched. "I've led missions where I knew we wouldn't come back. But understanding the need and liking it are two very different things."
Renmaru turned away from the railing, folding his arms. "How do you feel about all this? Honestly. Especially with your son still in the village?"
Shibuki was quiet for a long time. The wind tugged gently at his cloak, exposing the faded bandages wrapped around his forearms—proof of battles endured.
"Dodai is strong," he said finally, his voice quieter now. "Too smart for his own good, sometimes. But he's got potential. More than I ever did. The Raikage sees that, too. Took him under his wing, gave him field responsibilities earlier than most."
He exhaled slowly, a hot breath against the cold wind.
"He'll survive," Shibuki finished, though he said it like a prayer rather than a certainty.
Renmaru gave a faint nod, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
"Kreeeee!!!"
Both men looked up as a shadow cut across the ledge. A large eagle swooped down from the sky with elegant, deadly grace. Its wings beat twice before landing on Renmaru's outstretched arm, claws gripping his forearm guard tightly but respectfully. The bird wore a slim leather tube bound to its right leg.
"Message hawk," Renmaru murmured, and Shibuki stepped closer.
Renmaru removed the scroll from the eagle's leg, and with a practised flick of his fingers, broke the seal. The wax bore a symbol not of the Raikage's command office—but a lesser mark, more obscure, etched with a cipher embedded in its pattern. Renmaru's fingers moved quickly, unfurling the thin scroll. His eyes scanned the lines, a language encoded in symbols and spacing. For several moments he read in silence.
Shibuki waited, watching him. The wind still tugged at them, the cold curling into their bones.
Finally, Renmaru folded the scroll back into itself and exhaled.
Shibuki raised a brow. "Well?"
Renmaru looked at him, and this time, his eyes had hardened. Something resolute had taken root behind them. "It's time," he said, voice like flint striking steel. "We move out."
=====
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