Fujimoto Tōma gave up on the idea surprisingly fast.
Not because he'd lost interest in swordsmanship. Quite the opposite. He simply couldn't find a teacher worth learning from.
During the caravan's rest stops, he'd quietly observed the armed escorts traveling with them. Most called themselves warriors, but the label felt generous. Their skills were shallow, their confidence loud, and their mouths louder. The kind of people who talked big because they'd never been tested.
Worse, they seemed to have a strange fixation on the four Leaf shinobi openly assigned to the convoy. The way they kept needling them, watching them, trying to provoke something. It made Tōma frown. None of them met his standards.
If that was the level of "instruction" available, he'd rather wait until they returned to the village. At least then he could trade the merit he'd accumulated from recent ANBU assignments for proper sword techniques from the archives.
Thinking it over, Tōma knew this wasn't a problem with swordsmen as a whole. Every profession had its dead weight. These just happened to be his traveling companions.
As for Konoha's sword styles… his memory was hazy. The village wasn't exactly famous for them. A few names surfaced, half-forgotten. Something about a short-lived swordsman and a technique called Crescent Moon Dance. Functional, maybe, but unimpressive.
It certainly didn't compare to that legendary counterattack he remembered from another life. A single, decisive slash delivered from the top of a staircase. Clean. Merciless.
Then there was the Hatake style. Effective, lethal, and completely out of reach for him right now.
So for the time being, Tōma shelved formal swordsmanship. Instead, he decided to experiment with combining ninjutsu and blade work. Not ideal, but workable. He preferred learning sword fundamentals first, but reality didn't care about preferences.
No teacher meant improvisation.
He unfastened the long blade at his side and wrapped his fingers around the hilt.
The motion immediately startled the elderly craftsman riding with them.
"Black Shadow," the old man asked cautiously, "did you sense an enemy?"
"No," Tōma replied. "Just practicing. I don't want my hands getting dull."
"Well… this space is a bit cramped," the craftsman said, glancing around the carriage. Even the largest wagon wasn't built for swinging steel.
"I know my limits," Tōma said calmly.
The old man relaxed. "Then I won't disturb you."
His grandson, however, stared at the sword in Tōma's hands with interest. That curiosity lasted all of three seconds.
"So it's just a normal blade," the boy said, visibly disappointed. "I thought ninja weapons would be special. Honestly, it's not even as good as what I make."
Tōma paused, then said nothing.
The sword suited him perfectly. The Third Hokage himself had chosen it. But the boy had the background to make such judgments, so Tōma let it slide.
He did briefly wonder how the Hokage would feel hearing that assessment.
Then the boy added casually, "If you ever come to the Land of Iron, I'll forge you something better."
Tōma looked at him.
It was probably an offhand comment. A boast, even. Still—
"That's a promise," Tōma said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I'll bring the materials myself."
The boy froze. He'd expected the comment to drift away. Now that it hadn't, backing out would mean losing face.
"…Fine," he said stiffly.
Tōma then pulled out a marked kunai and handed it over. "Hold onto this. Don't lose it."
The boy took it, turning it over in his hand. His expression soured almost instantly.
"This craftsmanship is terrible," he muttered.
Before he could say more, the old craftsman grabbed his arm sharply.
"Keep it safe," the old man said, voice serious. "No matter what."
The boy blinked, understanding dawning. He nodded and tucked it away.
The journey continued.
Several quiet days passed without incident, easing the tension among the convoy. Too much, in Tōma's opinion.
The boy grew restless, constantly trying to sneak out of the carriage. Each attempt ended the same way. His grandfather stopped him, or Tōma did. Usually both.
By now, the boy looked utterly defeated. No enemies, no action, and constant supervision.
Tōma didn't mind. No trouble was the best kind of trouble.
During those days, he refined his approach. Blending chakra nature transformation with a blade turned out to be simpler than expected. The theory was straightforward. He just hadn't thought to apply it this way before.
Execution, however, would need real combat to polish. Timing, angles, restraint. All of it would have to be relearned.
Late one night, the boy leaned close and whispered, "Black Shadow, just let me get some air. Please. It's dark, no one will notice. I swear I'll forge you an amazing sword someday."
"No," Tōma said flatly, chewing on his rations.
The boy sagged, despair written all over his face.
Then Tōma spoke again.
This time, his tone changed.
"Wake your grandfather," he said quietly. "Something's wrong."
The boy's blood ran cold.
He stumbled toward the old man, panic breaking through his fatigue.
Tōma scanned the darkness beyond the firelight. He couldn't count them precisely. Around a dozen shinobi, at least. There were more beyond that. Non-shinobi. Too many to track without chakra signatures.
He frowned, then pulled out a wooden alarm device marked with the insignia of Team Tenzo. Pressing the trigger, he tossed it high into the center of the convoy.
A sharp, piercing cry split the night.
The sound jolted everyone awake. Shouts and curses erupted as confusion spread through the wagons.
It also sent a ripple of shock through those hiding in the dark.
Had they been discovered? How?
They didn't know that if they'd been more careful, they might have slipped past Tōma's perception. But shinobi preparing an ambush always circulated chakra in advance. That alone made them visible to him.
Team Tenzo wasn't surprised. They'd already sensed movement closing in and were preparing to signal the convoy themselves. Tōma had simply beaten them to it.
"All right," one of them muttered, drawing steel. "Every time with this guy."
Torches flared to life across the convoy.
Seeing their ambush exposed, the attackers abandoned stealth and charged, hoping to exploit the chaos.
At the same moment, Team Tenzo moved.
The night finally bared its fangs.