Throne Of The Uchiha

Bait

The rain fell harder now, thick sheets of it cascading from dark, oppressive clouds overhead. Fugaku looked up, his expression grim.

"Find shelter immediately," he ordered. "We need to treat everyone's injuries before they worsen."

In this era, medical ninjutsu remained a rare art. Tsunade's revolutionary reforms had not yet begun; the concept of field medics was still in its infancy. For most squads, especially in remote sectors like this one in the Rain Country, even basic treatment relied on bandages and experience, not chakra.

Aburame Nozawa's body rippled with movement as countless kikaichū swarmed in and out from beneath his cloak, dispersing to scout the surroundings. Beside him, Hyūga Ning activated her Byakugan, veins bulging at her temples as she scanned the terrain for shelter.

The twelve-man Konoha unit moved swiftly under the guidance of the two sensory specialists. Eventually, Nozawa signaled: a formation of collapsed rock concealed a partially-sheltered plateau—locally known as Half-Moon Mountain. It was half-collapsed, but the surviving structure offered both natural cover and concealment.

The squad filed silently into the cave. The outer part was open enough to watch the sky and the rain—a makeshift lookout—while the inner chamber provided space to rest and regroup.

Fugaku seated himself on a smooth boulder and began dressing his wound. The injury was shallow—a result of a genjutsu-induced misjudgment during combat. Others hadn't been so lucky.

Satomaru and Yamada Shinji had suffered serious trauma during an encounter with Iwagakure ninjas—likely jōnin-level opponents. Both were rendered combat-ineffective for the time being.

Fugaku made a mental note: a dedicated medic-nin was no longer optional. This war would grind down even the most elite units without one.

He unrolled the mission scroll again, its contents clear and brutal: Operate in northwest Rain Country. Eliminate all enemy ninjas encountered. It was a war of attrition—Konoha's high command sought to bleed the joint forces of Iwa, Suna, and Amegakure dry before a major offensive.

But the squad's resources were dwindling. Half of Fugaku's shuriken and kunai were already expended. Satomaru and Shinji would need to return to the forward operations camp to recover. Resupply was inevitable.

Two days passed within the cave. Rain fell endlessly. The soldiers rested, healed, and planned. Fugaku's arm was no longer a hindrance.

"Nozawa," he said at last, "send your kikaichū to scout the area. This time, no direct combat—we'll rely on deception. We'll prepare traps and lure the enemy into an ambush."

The Aburame clan member nodded without a word.

Fugaku spread a topographic map across the stone floor. The others gathered around. He pointed to a narrow road, three kilometers south of Half-Moon Mountain.

"This route is frequented by Rain Country civilians and shinobi alike. Five hundred meters east of it is a natural rock formation. It's the perfect kill zone."

He drew a circle with his finger. "We lay traps here. Nozawa and I will serve as bait. We'll lure the enemy to this spot. The first strike comes from the traps. The second, from our surprise attack."

"Understood," Qiuze Daye responded, adjusting the sealing scroll strapped to his hip. "I'll deploy a sealing array over the trap to mask its chakra signature. They won't detect a thing."

Fugaku nodded in approval. Though the Uzumaki clan's sealing arts remained centralized in Uzushiogakure, Konoha had inherited enough knowledge to stay ahead—at least for now. But Fugaku knew that peace with the Whirlpool was fragile. In a few years, that knowledge would likely become a target.

Rain continued to fall as the team set out. The rock pile, sharp and uneven, was ideal terrain for laying hidden explosive tags. Basic wire-and-shuriken traps were deployed to distract, but the true danger lay in a daisy-chained network of detonating tags buried beneath the surface.

"Take your positions," Fugaku ordered. "Nozawa, begin scanning. Watch for movement near the trail."

Fugaku and Nozawa positioned themselves behind a low stone ledge. It offered concealment but was just exposed enough to invite investigation—deliberately suspicious.

Camouflage wasn't just about hiding. It was about manipulating perception. Sometimes the best bait looked like poorly-hidden bait.

"Enemy approaching," Nozawa whispered. "Twelve. All Iwagakure. Moving from the north."

Fugaku observed through the curtain of rain. They had the right numbers—twelve—but their gait and posture showed signs of recent battle. Minor injuries, perhaps fatigue. Still dangerous.

"They've seen the rock pile," Nozawa said. "They're sending one to investigate."

The lead shinobi, a jonin by his flak vest markings, issued an order. "Qingyan, scout the rocks. Stay alert."

A younger ninja—Qingyan—stepped forward. As soon as he moved, Fugaku and Nozawa sprang their trap.

Several shuriken flew at sharp, curving trajectories—Fugaku's signature throwing angles. Qingyan reacted quickly, his short blade flashing as he deflected the projectiles with skill.

But that was just phase one.

The moment he stepped closer, Nozawa's kikaichū surged forward in a sudden swarm—forcing him back and sowing chaos among his comrades.

The rest of the Iwagakure team tensed. Dozens of hidden weapons flew toward the two Konoha shinobi.

But Fugaku's Sharingan spun into motion.

In a blur of movement, he tracked every kunai, every senbon. His blades moved in a blur of steel, clashing with enemy weapons mid-air, protecting both himself and Nozawa.

Amid the flurry, he palmed a scroll from his pouch and tossed it to Nozawa.

"Take this and retreat," Fugaku ordered. "It contains the Iwagakure communication codes we intercepted. Deliver it to HQ—no matter what."

This was the ruse they'd planned. A fabricated intelligence scroll would make their presence—and retreat—seem more believable. Without it, the Iwa shinobi might have realized they were simply bait.

Better to risk being hunted than be suspected as spies by either side. In the shinobi world, suspicion alone could mean death. When it came to espionage, every village operated under one brutal rule: Better to kill ten innocents than let one spy escape.

And so the bait was set, the trap sprung, and the game of shadows continued beneath the endless rain.