The scent of Mori no Sato hit Anko long before the first rope bridge emerged from the gloom—a stinging cocktail of pine resin, petrichor, and that faint, sulfurous tang leaking from the volcanic vents.
Above, the matsukaze roared through the needles of giant firs, a deep, oceanic sound that usually signaled work.
Today, it felt like a weight pressing against her skull, the pressure behind her eyes synced to a phantom pulse in her collarbone where the Curse Mark sat dormant.
Anko stepped onto the moss-slicked boards of the village entrance, her mesh chain armor waterlogged and dragging at her shoulders.
A stray strand of purple hair fell in front of her face, sticking to her salt-crusted skin as she narrowed her eyes at the gate.
The non-ninja guards standing at the perimeter barely moved.
Kōju, standing near a massive fir trunk, offered a short, practiced nod and a wave before turning his dark brown gaze back to the canopy.
Houses were woven directly into the living firs here, their roofs pitched steeply to shed the coming snow.
Anko could feel the village pulse—the heat of bodies in the elevated rooms, the vibration of footsteps on wood.
But her mind was miles back in the frost-aged pits, tracing the industrial-scale harvest grid. Every cart track in the village mud looked like a transport route for corpses; every pile of displaced soil resolved into a grave in her mind.
Outside the Guard HQ, the air grew thick with the smell of wet wood.
Todoroki stood waiting, his ashen-gray hair pulled back in a utilitarian ponytail.
His dark green vest camouflaged him against the mossy backdrop, but the dull, matte sheen of his silver forearm bracers marked him clearly.
"Why are you still here?" Todoroki asked flatly.
Kakashi stepped forward, his hand rising to scratch his head. "Well, you see..."
Anko didn't have the patience for Kakashi's stuttering diplomacy.
Her nervous system was already over-taxed, the metallic, sterile ghost-taste of formaldehyde competing with the village's woodsy aroma.
She shoved the silver-haired Jonin aside with a sharp elbow and closed the distance, her hand clamping down on Todoroki's shoulder. She felt the wiry muscle beneath his tunic.
"It's not bears, kid," Anko said, her tone dropping into a low, jagged rasp.
Todoroki's eyebrow twitched. "Then what—"
"A harvesting grid, Todoroki," Anko interrupted, her grip tightening. "Industrial scale. Earth-style precision. We found hundreds of graves in the back lot that were emptied with cataloged efficiency. The soil has been frozen for months—the frost was welded into the pit walls, kid. No moisture gradient, no collapse slump. This wasn't a one-off. It was a warehouse operation."
Todoroki's face paled. "How recent?" he asked, straining. "If there are extraction cells still active, which direction did they go?"
"The freeze erased the ruts, and whoever did this smoothed the exit with chakra manipulation." Anko replied. "They moved like they owned the terrain."
"We don't have the shinobi manpower for an investigation of that scale," Todoroki pushed back.
"Then you better find some," Anko snapped, her own breath coming short as the trauma of the discovery pressed against her ribs. "Increase the patrols. Secure the transit routes. Or the next thing you lose won't be old bones."
Todoroki stared at her, processing the weight of a warning from a woman who smelled like a burning match and held her jaw with the rigidity of a strike.
He gave an abbreviated half-bow and whirled around, heading into the HQ.
A volcanic vent nearby suddenly gurgled, spitting a yellow plume of sulfurous gas into the damp air.
Anko tasted the bitterness, a spike of nausea rolling through her.
The Curse Mark gave an icy prickle against her skin. He's still here. It's spreading. It's not finished.
"Right," Naruto piped up, cracking through her intrusive thoughts. "Now can we go? How far is this Land of Tea?" He threw his arms up in an exaggerated, theatrical flourish, louder than necessary. "I DON'T WANT TO WALK ANYMORE! I AM SO TIRED OF WALKING EVERYWHERE!"
His calves quivered when he shifted his weight—the bone-deep chill of the pits remained, clinging to his hips.
He flexed his fingers as if they didn't quite belong to him, his gaze darting frantically away from the piles of churned earth near the HQ's foundation—his jacket still carried the permanent shadow of Toki's blood.
The inn's laundry hadn't been able to scrub it out.
Idate, who had been leaning against a platform railing, pushed off.
He adjusted the khaki belt, the silver zipper glinting against the dark navy of his tunic. "Oh? Why didn't you just ask?"
Sylvie looked up from her boots. "What, you didn't run here?"
Idate looked at her skeptically. "Why would I do that? Wasabi-sensei sent me in speed. Running is for the race; logistics are for the travel."
He gestured with a thumb toward the clearing behind the HQ.
Above, a giant fir groaned as the wind shifted, sending a shower of needles down onto the dark earth.
There, looking entirely too luxurious for the mud, sat a large wooden carriage. Anko's eyes immediately mapped the mechanics: reinforced axles and heavy-duty suspension.
The kind of rig that could haul granite slabs—or a dozen stone coffins—without a groan.
But the real power sat at the front: four massive mustangs.
Anko smelled them immediately—heat radiating from their sleek coats, the tang of sweat and leather, and the earthy scent of manure.
The ground vibrated beneath Anko's boots as one of the mustangs shifted its weight, a low snort sending a plume of steam into the chilly air.
Anko saw Sylvie's eyes blow wide, her pupils dilating until the green was almost gone. Her mouth fell open.
"Hors—" Sylvie began to whisper, her breath hitching.
Her mirrored lenses caught the mustangs in a brief purple flash.
Anko immediately crossed her arms, fixing her student with an expectant stare.
Beside her, Naruto did the same, a predatory grin spreading across his face as they waited for the inevitable, high-decibel equine freak-out.
Silence stretched.
A mustang snorted again, its muscle trembling beneath its skin. High above, the canopy shifted with a hollow, woody creak.
Sylvie's gaze flickered.
She saw Naruto's grin.
She saw Anko's raised eyebrow.
Sylvie quickly adjusted her mask, the dull greyish-white fabric of her top fluttering in the draft.
Anko watched the gears grind behind Sylvie's forehead, the girl's jaw muscle undergoing a frantic micro-tremor.
A vein throbbed in Sylvie's temple as she held her breath, her knuckles whitening on her bag straps.
"Efficient," Sylvie finally said, in a perfect, robotic monotone.
Anko's jaw dropped. The lack of a reaction hit her like a physical insult—a flash of laboratory detachment that made her skin crawl.
"NO!" Anko shrieked. She lunged at Kakashi, grabbing the front of his flak jacket and shaking him until his teeth rattled. "YOU DID IT! YOU BROKE HER! YOU BROKE MY STUDENT!"
Kakashi went limp in her grip, looking away toward the mustangs with a bored, half-lidded expression.
"SHE REALLY IS JUST A CHIBI KUEBIKO NOW!" Anko wailed, her hands trembling with a residual adrenaline tremor as she pointed a shaking finger at the stoic, pale Sylvie. "Where's the screaming? Where's the flapping? Kakashi, you monster!"
Idate sidestepped away, sliding closer to Naruto and the silent Sylvie.
He scratched his nose. "Is everyone in Konoha like this now?"
Naruto and Sylvie turned to look at him. Simultaneously, they shrugged.
Then, looking at each other, the two Genin began to nod—slowly at first, then with increasing speed.
They turned back to Idate, nodding in a frantic, silent unison, before both broke into a sudden, jagged burst of laughter.
Anko let go of Kakashi's vest.
The smell of woodsmoke from the village was trying to mask the environment, but a trace of bitter gas clung to the back of her throat, an acrid, persistent ache.
"Fine," Anko grumbled, heading for the carriage. "Let's get to Tea. I'm not spending another night in these damp-ass woods."