When the numbers on the map were counted again, the truth landed like a kunai between the ribs: three hundred shinobi on the main front versus nine hundred Kaguya attackers massing beyond the ridge. That gap didn't look like strategy. It looked like a funeral plan.
Inside the command tent, Daitō Kiyoe's face gave nothing away, but even his voice had a tight edge. "We can't hold forever. If the Kaguya supplies arrive intact, they'll steamroll us."
Raizen watched the captains disperse to their posts, the tension in their shoulders like bad armor. He rubbed the hollow of his palm where old calluses met new scars and asked, "Their convoy hasn't arrived yet, right?"
Kiyoe paused — then shook his head. "Not reported. But the route will be heavily guarded. The Kaguya would never run supplies unprotected."
Raizen grinned. "Then let's make them wish they had."
He didn't need permission. He already had the plan. Where others saw an impossible choke with no hiding spots, Raizen saw opportunity: fast, aerial strike, maximum disruption, minimum drag. He molded clay in his lap — a familiar, ugly little bird — and summoned the technique he'd been practicing in the dark hours between training and nightmares. The giant clay bird hunched its wings, then launched into the twilight like a thrown stone.
"You're really going alone?" Kiyoe asked, surprised and worried in the same beat.
Raizen shrugged. "Adding people just means more people to rescue if it goes sideways. Trust me — solo's my speed. Also, I don't do convoy escorts. I do detonations." He flashed that smirk that got him in trouble and saved him sometimes. "Remember the last hit? I didn't exactly underperform."
Kiyoe sighed, then barked the route details and the few rumors they'd managed to pull from scouts. The Kaguya used two possible lines to bring supplies into Heiwa Canyon. One was the obvious main road — wide, direct, defended by numbers. The other was a narrow, twisting track that would slow wagons and invite ambushes. If the Kaguya were anything like their reputation, they'd pick the straight way. They were big, brutal, and very fond of straight lines.
"So the main road it is," Raizen said. "Good. That's where I'll be."
By dusk he was riding the clay bird high over Heiwa Canyon, looking down on a sea of flaps and canvas — the Kaguya camp spread on a slope, terraced and orderly. They'd flattened the area, rolled away boulders and obstacles, making a defensible perimeter with clear sightlines. Raizen's fingers tightened on the bird's clay reins. They weren't sloppy. The Kaguya patriarch, Kaguya Arata, didn't tolerate sloppiness. That meant even the supply teams would be watched like vipers.
All that caution was a problem and a hint at once. If they were this careful with logistics, they expected resistance. That made Raizen smile under his breath. Predictability was a weapon too.
He rode low and circled the supply road, until a barren patch of ground opened like a throat. There was no cover — that was the point. The only way through was the route itself. Any convoy here would assume it was safe; that's exactly why Raizen would strike.
He waited. Hours passed. He practiced small jutsu quietly, conserving chakra, listening to the valley breathe. He could have flown back and loosed a dozen shadow clones to make noise elsewhere — that would have been the dramatic choice. Instead he polished patience like a blade.
At dusk a line on the horizon became motion: wagons hauled by horses, carts rickety with crates, supply carriers marching with poles and banners. Not just food — detonating charms, medical satchels, rope, and powdered medicines. These were the lifeblood of a campaign. Lose this, and the frontline force turns brittle.
The convoy moved slower now, rounding a bend, guards spaced in tight formations. Raizen coasted the clay bird down in a whisper, its wings folding like an omen. He could have simply blown the road and run — but this needed to be surgical. He wanted panic, not just damage. The goal: cut morale, not only ropes.
He pulled out clay and worked fast, shaping a small cluster of explosive dolls. The design was simple: shock, smoke, and a burst that looked like an accident. He had the trigger ready — a small chakra circuit that would light the detonators from a safe distance. Just a flick of his will and the dolls would scream.
Then the convoy stopped.
Not a sudden halt, but the kind of careful freeze that screams practiced countermeasures. Scouts spread in an unexpected pattern. A horned flag rose; voices snapped orders. Someone on the lead wagon scanned the sky.
Raizen's chest tightened. The Kaguya had expected something. Either the Daitō scouts had been sloppy, or the Kaguya had ears in the trees. He ducked, blending his breath into the night.
He waited as the scouts fanned out, the convoy forming tighter. Guards moved with methodical precision, more than a scrap team — professional, not panicked. That wasn't random. That suggested the supply run wasn't a spontaneous resupply. It was deliberate, staged, and protected by those who'd anticipated attacks.
Raizen gritted his teeth. His first plan might fail, but you don't let plan failure become plan death. He slid the explosive dolls into a shallow rut and stepped back, every nerve taut. If they were ready, he'd need misdirection. He summoned a whisper of wind, a stray clay sparrow that would fall on a smaller flank road, a distraction he could use to split attention for a breath.
The convoy's guards jerked toward the sound. Heads turned. For a sliver of time, the formation loosened.
That was all Raizen needed.
He triggered the dolls.
The road erupted — a controlled, terrifying bloom of flame and smoke. Horses reared, riders cursed, the first wagons rolled and broke. The slaughter was tidy and loud. Screams filled the valley, but more precious than screams was confusion. The neat polygon of the Kaguya formation ruptured like paper.
Raizen dove from the clay bird into the chaos, chakra flaring to cover his descent. He moved like a blade in the gaps: a few selected strikes to panic leaders, a burst of chakra to sever a cart's axle, and then vanish into the dust. He didn't stay to count the losses. A good strike is a ghost: you want damage and rumors, not a body count you can't explain.
By the time the Kaguya regrouped, the convoy was in ruins and the once confident guards were frayed. Raizen rode higher and watched them scramble, smoke curling like a bad omen over their camp. He'd taken food, medkits, and detonators out of the equation for now. He'd bought the allied clans a breath — and that breath could be the difference between surviving until reinforcements or dying in an organized heap.
He landed back near Daitō command as dawn bruised the mountains. Kiyoe's face was unreadable until he saw the smoke on the horizon. Then, and only then, did relief crack the surface.
Raizen stepped off the clay bird, cloak dusted in ash, and offered the tiredest, truest grin he had. "How's that for solo? Saves us from being food for one more day."
Kiyoe didn't smile; he didn't need to. He only nodded once, hard. "You bought us time. Now we use it."
Raizen felt it then: not triumph, not even relief. Just the cold, steady click of the war machine turning toward the next move. He was a small gear, but sometimes small gears were the ones that jammed the enemy.