Five days slipped by on the road with little to mark them. The carriage trundled steadily onward through fields, small hamlets, and stretches of empty wilderness. Bana kept the mare moving at her easy pace, stopping only for rest, water, and the occasional meal at roadside stalls or quiet clearings.
Conversation remained light weather, road conditions, the occasional story from Bana about places he'd passed through years ago. Shikamaru mostly listened, arms crossed, watching clouds or the horizon, saying little.
He had tried in every town they passed. Notice boards, taverns, even asking merchants directly. The jobs were always the same: low pay, low risk, low effort. A few ryo for hauling crates or chasing stray goats. Nothing that matched the skill he carried, and nothing worth the time. He turned them all down.
His personal pouch separate from the sealed emergency stash grew lighter with each meal, each night in a cheap inn when the weather turned wet. He had been careful, eating simple food, skipping extras, but five days of nothing earned meant the coins were nearly gone. Tomorrow, or the day after, he'd have to dip into the emergency fund he'd sworn to save for real trouble. The thought sat heavy in his chest, a quiet sadness he didn't voice. He had left Konoha to find something new, something simple, and already the road was reminding him how even simple things cost.
On the sixth afternoon, the road narrowed into a wooded stretch, trees crowding close on both sides. The sun filtered through in thin shafts, dappling the dirt path. The mare's hooves thudded softly, the carriage creaking in rhythm.
Then a sharp cry cut through the quiet young, male, raw with pain.
Bana pulled the reins instinctively. The mare halted, ears flicking forward.
Ahead, maybe thirty yards down the road, a young man knelt in the dirt. He looked no older than twenty, dark hair matted with sweat and blood, one hand pressed to his side where red seeped through his fingers. Around him stood eleven figures dressed head to toe in black—hoods pulled low, faces obscured by cloth masks, bodies wrapped in tight, dark fabric that swallowed light. No village insignia, no clan symbols, no visible weapons drawn yet—but the way they circled him, loose but deliberate, made their intent clear.
They weren't friends. They weren't here to help.
The young man gasped, trying to rise, but one of the black-clad figures stepped forward and drove a boot into his shoulder, forcing him back down. Another laugh low, muffled rippled through the group.
Bana's jaw tightened. He glanced sideways at Shikamaru.
"Trouble," the old man said quietly.
Shikamaru's eyes narrowed, posture unchanged but gaze sharpening. He studied the scene: eleven against one, wounded opponent, no obvious backup on the young man's side. The black clothes suggested hired blades or bandits organized enough to move as a unit, sloppy enough to do it in daylight on an open road.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
"What a drag," he muttered.
But he was already shifting, hand drifting toward the hilt of the katana at his back. The sadness from earlier faded, replaced by the familiar, cool focus that came when choices narrowed to action.
Bana kept his voice low. "We could keep going. Road's wide enough to turn around quiet-like."
Shikamaru didn't answer right away. His eyes flicked to the young man again still alive, still fighting to stand despite the blood pooling beneath him.
Then he spoke, calm as ever.
"Stop the carriage."
Shikamaru and Bana slipped off the carriage quietly, moving low and fast toward a large boulder half-hidden among the roadside trees. The mare stayed calm under Bana's quick hand signal, standing still without a sound. They crouched behind the rock, shadows blending with the dappled light filtering through the leaves.
From their vantage point, the scene unfolded clearly: the young man on his knees in the dirt, blood soaking his side, breathing ragged. The eleven black-clad figures encircled him tightly—hoods low, masks covering everything but their eyes, bodies wrapped in dark cloth that made them look like living shadows. No symbols, no banners, but their movements were coordinated, predatory. One held a short blade loosely at his side; another toyed with a length of chain. They weren't rushing the kill. They were enjoying it.
Bana peered around the edge of the boulder, eyes narrowing as he counted heads. He kept his voice to a bare whisper.
"Eleven on one, and that boy's already half-gone. This'll be difficult, kid. We could still slip away—road's got cover if we move quick."
Shikamaru stayed low, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his katana. He watched the group for another second the way they shifted weight, the small gestures between them then let out a soft, low laugh. It wasn't loud, just amused, almost lazy, cutting through the tension like a breeze.
Bana shot him a sideways glance, brow furrowed. "What's so funny?"
Shikamaru's mouth curved into a faint, confident smirk. Without taking his eyes off the ambush, he raised one hand in a casual, almost playful gesture fingers forming the familiar seal of the Shadow Imitation Technique. A thin tendril of shadow stretched from his feet, snaking along the ground toward the rock's edge, invisible in the dappled sunlight until it reached the open road.
He tilted his head slightly toward Bana, the smirk widening just a fraction.
"Difficult?" he murmured. "Nah. Just troublesome."
The shadow paused at the treeline, waiting for his command. Shikamaru's eyes gleamed with that quiet, calculating focus he reserved for moments when the board finally made sense.
Bana stared at him for a beat, then exhaled a quiet chuckle of his own, shaking his head.
"Alright, genius. Show me what you've got."
Shikamaru's fingers twitched once.
The shadow surged forward across the dirt.
Shikamaru's shadow surged across the dirt in a thin, dark line, racing toward the nearest black-clad figure. It reached the man's feet in an instant, latching on his body froze mid-step, arms locked at his sides, eyes widening behind the mask as the Shadow Imitation took hold.
But only for a heartbeat.
The man twisted violently, breaking free with a sharp jerk of his shoulders. Chakra flared along his limbs in a controlled burst experienced shinobi, trained to recognize and counter binding techniques. The others noticed immediately, heads snapping toward the treeline where the shadow had originated. Hands flashed to weapons; two already drew short blades, scanning the rocks and trees.
Bana hissed under his breath. "They're no amateurs."
Shikamaru's smirk faded. "Tch. Figures."
He didn't waste time. His hands moved in a swift seal.
"Smoke Screen Jutsu."
A thick plume of gray smoke erupted from his position, rolling outward like a living fog. It billowed fast and heavy, swallowing the road, the trees, the carriage, the entire clearing in seconds. Vision dropped to zero; sound muffled; the world turned hazy and choking.
Shouts erupted from the black-clad group—curses, orders to hold formation, warnings not to scatter. Kunai hissed through the smoke in wild arcs, silver flashes cutting the gray. One grazed the boulder inches from Shikamaru's shoulder; another thudded into the dirt near Bana's boot. Shikamaru moved low, silent, body angled to avoid the blind throws. He slipped between the projectiles like water through gaps, ponytail swaying as he closed distance.
The smoke hung thick for another ten seconds, then began to thin, drifting upward on the breeze.
When it finally cleared enough to see shapes again, the scene had changed.
One of the eleven lay crumpled in the dirt, eyes wide and glassy. A katana Sasuke's gift protruded from his throat at a clean, upward angle, blade buried to the guard. Blood pulsed once, twice, then slowed to a trickle, pooling dark beneath him.
Standing over the body was Shikamaru.
He wore one of the attackers' own masks now black cloth pulled tight over the lower half of his face, hood up, eyes calm and half-lidded above it. The stolen mask hid his features perfectly; in the confusion of smoke and sudden death, he looked like one of them.
The remaining ten froze, staring at their fallen comrade and the masked figure who had appeared from nowhere.
"Who the hell ?" one started.
Shikamaru tilted his head slightly, voice low and muffled through the mask.
"Wrong question," he said.
His shadow stretched again this time from the dead man's feet, snaking toward the closest attacker before they could react.
Bana, still crouched behind the rock, let out a quiet, impressed breath.
The young wounded man on the ground lifted his head just enough to see, blood dripping from his mouth, eyes widening in faint hope.
The fight had just begun.
The masked men froze for a split second, eyes darting between their dead comrade and the masked figure standing over him—Shikamaru, now indistinguishable among them in the stolen black cloth and hood. Fear flickered behind their masks, but it passed quickly. They were professionals; panic was a luxury they couldn't afford.
One barked a sharp order—"Flank him!"—and the group snapped back into motion, spreading out in a loose semicircle, blades drawn, chakra humming in the air.
Shikamaru didn't wait. He charged forward in a low sprint, katana already half-drawn, shadow trailing behind him like a living whip.
The ground beneath his feet betrayed him first.
A sudden rumble—then the earth split open in a perfect circle. A hidden Earth Release user had molded the dirt into a deep pit trap the moment the smoke cleared. Shikamaru's foot caught the edge; he pitched forward, arms windmilling for balance, but the hole widened with a violent yank of chakra-infused soil. He dropped straight in, knees slamming against packed earth, the walls rising around him like a cage.
Locked.
The men didn't hesitate.
Three Earth-style users stepped forward, hands slamming together in unison. Mud and stone surged up from the pit's rim, forming thick pillars and walls that sealed the top half-closed, leaving only a narrow opening above. Shikamaru was cornered, boxed in on all sides, no room to maneuver.
A fourth man—taller, broader—formed seals with deliberate slowness. Flames roared to life in his palms.
"Fire Style: Great Fireball Technique!"
A massive sphere of fire erupted from his mouth, hurtling down into the pit like a falling sun. The heat scorched the air before it even reached Shikamaru.
Two others flanked the opening, wind chakra swirling around their hands.
"Wind Style: Great Breakthrough!"
Twin gusts slammed into the fireball from opposite sides, accelerating it, fanning the flames into a roaring inferno that filled the entire pit. The combined attack hit with devastating force—fire and wind merging into a white-hot vortex that swallowed the space where Shikamaru stood.
The ground shook. Smoke and embers billowed upward. The attackers stepped back, breathing hard, watching the pit with grim satisfaction.
"Threat neutralized," one muttered, lowering his blade.
Another laughed under his breath. "One less problem."
But the victory lasted only a second.
Two of the men—standing closest to the pit—suddenly clutched their throats. Blood sprayed between their fingers in bright arcs. Their eyes widened behind masks as they staggered, gurgling, then collapsed face-first into the dirt.
The remaining eight whirled toward the bodies.
In the pit, the scorched figure of Shikamaru lay motionless—then poofed into a cloud of white smoke.
Substitution.
High above, perched on a thick branch of the nearest tree, the real Shikamaru crouched. His mask was still in place, katana dripping red from the quick, silent throat-cuts he'd delivered during the chaos of the combined attack. His shadow stretched long from the tree trunk, thin tendrils already creeping across the ground toward the stunned group below.
He tilted his head slightly, voice low and calm through the mask.
"Too slow."
The men looked up, realization dawning too late.
Bana, still hidden behind the rock, let out a quiet, impressed whistle.
The young wounded man on the ground lifted his head just enough to see the masked figure on the branch—hope flickering weakly in his bloodied eyes.
The remaining attackers tightened their grips on their weapons, but the air had shifted.
The fight wasn't over.
It had just turned decisively in Shikamaru's favor.
The remaining masked men tensed, blades half-raised, eyes flicking between the tree branch where Shikamaru crouched and the bodies of their fallen comrades. The air still carried the sharp scent of smoke and blood, embers drifting lazily from the scorched pit.
Their leader a taller figure with a faint red stripe across his hood stepped forward one pace, hand raised in a sharp gesture to halt the others. His voice came out low and controlled, muffled by the mask but carrying authority.
"Stand down."
The group hesitated, then lowered their weapons fractionally, though grips stayed tight. The leader's gaze locked on the masked figure in the tree.
"Whoever you are," he said, "you're no amateur. We've lost enough already. I don't know your village, your clan, or your grudge but I know when a fight's turning bad. So let's talk before more blood hits the dirt."
Shikamaru remained perched on the branch, katana resting casually across his knees, mask still concealing his features. His posture was relaxed, almost bored, but the shadow at his feet twitched faintly, ready to extend at the slightest provocation.
The leader continued, voice steady. "Why'd you jump in? We weren't after you. What's your stake here?"
Shikamaru tilted his head slightly, voice calm and even through the cloth.
"I saw a kid getting jumped by eleven guys on an open road. Looked like a bad day for him. Figured I'd even the odds."
The leader let out a short, humorless laugh.
"Even the odds? You just dropped three of us like it was nothing. That 'kid' down there" he jerked a thumb toward the wounded young man still kneeling in the dirt, clutching his bleeding side "is a fugitive from Suna. Slipped their chains months ago. We're contracted to bring him back. Alive, preferably. That's all this is. Business."
The young man coughed wetly, lifting his head just enough to glare at the leader. "You call murder business?"
The leader ignored him, eyes still on Shikamaru. "Point is, stranger, this isn't your fight. Walk away now, no hard feelings. We finish the job, you keep breathing. Simple."
Shikamaru didn't move. His gaze drifted briefly to the injured young man pale, breathing shallow, but still conscious then back to the leader.
"Simple's overrated," he said quietly. "And I already started. Walking away now would be… troublesome."
A ripple of tension passed through the masked group. Hands tightened on weapons again. The leader's posture stiffened, but he didn't signal an attack. Not yet.
"You're making this harder than it needs to be," he warned. "We don't know you. You don't know him. Why bleed for a runaway?"
Shikamaru's eyes narrowed just a fraction above the mask.
"Because sometimes the road gets boring," he replied, "and saving someone who doesn't deserve to die is less of a drag than watching it happen."
The leader studied him for a long moment. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Your funeral."
He raised a hand again this time not to stop, but to signal readiness. The remaining eight shifted into loose formation, chakra flaring subtly along their limbs.
Bana, still hidden behind the boulder, gripped the rock's edge tighter, muttering under his breath, "Kid's got a death wish… or a plan."
Shikamaru's shadow stretched longer from the branch, thin and dark, creeping silently toward the ground below.
The standoff hung in the air, fragile and sharp.
One wrong move, and the clearing would run red again.
Shikamaru remained crouched on the branch, katana balanced across his knees, the stolen mask still concealing his face. The wind rustled the leaves around him, carrying the faint metallic tang of blood from the ground below. His shadow lingered at the edge of the clearing, thin and waiting, but he held it back.
The leader's words hung in the air: the young man was a Suna fugitive, this was just business, walk away and live.
Shikamaru stayed silent for several long moments, eyes half-lidded as he weighed the situation. Eleven now eight against one, even with his advantages, carried risk. Bana was still hidden behind the rock, unarmed as far as Shikamaru knew, and the old man had done nothing to deserve getting dragged into a shinobi brawl. The mare stood calm near the carriage, but one stray jutsu could change that.
He exhaled slowly through the mask.
"Fine," Shikamaru said at last, voice low and even. "I'll take your terms."
A ripple of surprise passed through the masked group. The leader's posture eased slightly, though his hand stayed near his weapon.
Shikamaru continued, tone flat. "I'm traveling with that old man over there." He jerked his chin toward the boulder where Bana remained hidden. "He's no fighter. Just a driver giving me a ride. I don't want him caught in this mess and hurt or worse. So I'll walk away. You finish your job, I don't interfere. But I'm not leaving empty-handed. Give me some money enough for a week or two on the road and we're done."
The leader studied him for a long beat, eyes narrowing behind the mask. He glanced at his remaining men, then back up at the tree. Calculating. Weighing the cost of more bodies against the price of a bribe.
Finally, he gave a curt nod.
"Smart choice."
He reached into a pouch at his belt, pulled out a small leather sack, and tossed it toward the base of the tree. It landed with a soft clink—coins shifting inside.
"Two hundred ryo," the leader said. "More than fair for staying out of our way. Take it, disappear, and don't look back. We'll know if you don't."
Shikamaru dropped lightly from the branch, landing in a crouch. He scooped up the sack without taking his eyes off the group, feeling the reassuring weight of the coins through the leather. He tucked it into his jacket, then straightened.
"Deal," he said simply.
He turned toward the boulder, raising his voice just enough for Bana to hear.
"Come on, old man. We're leaving."
Bana emerged slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture to show he was unarmed. He kept his movements deliberate, eyes flicking between Shikamaru and the masked men. The young fugitive on the ground watched in stunned silence, blood still seeping from his side, hope fading from his expression.
The leader stepped aside, opening a path down the road.
"Safe travels," he said, the words laced with warning.
Shikamaru didn't reply. He walked past the group without hurry, Bana falling in step beside him. They reached the carriage; Bana untied the mare's reins with steady hands, though his jaw was tight.
Shikamaru climbed up first, settling on the bench. Bana joined him a moment later, snapping the reins gently. The mare started forward, wheels creaking as the carriage rolled away from the clearing.
Behind them, the masked men closed in on the wounded young man again. A muffled groan carried on the wind, then silence.
Shikamaru stared straight ahead, the sack of ryo heavy against his chest. His mask was still on; he made no move to remove it yet.
Bana glanced sideways after a minute.
"You really just… sold out the kid?"
Shikamaru's voice came out quiet, almost bored.
"What a drag if I didn't."
But his fingers tightened briefly on the hilt of his katana, and the shadow at his feet twitched once subtle, unnoticed by Bana.
The carriage rolled on, leaving the clearing and its blood behind.
The road stretched ahead, empty once more.
But something in Shikamaru's posture had shifted subtle, but there.
He wasn't done thinking.
The carriage rattled faster now, wheels kicking up dust as Bana snapped the reins with more urgency than before. The mare's hooves pounded the dirt road in a steady, quicker rhythm still graceful, but pushing her limits. Shikamaru sat forward on the bench, one hand braced on the side rail, eyes scanning the treeline behind them. The clearing and the masked men were long out of sight, swallowed by distance and the curve of the road.
Bana kept glancing sideways, brow furrowed, grip tight on the reins.
"Kid," he said after a few minutes, voice low over the clatter of wheels, "you mind telling me what the hell just happened? One second you're taking their money and walking away, the next you're telling me to ride like the Nine-Tails is on our tail. You didn't… do something stupid back there, did you?"
Shikamaru didn't answer right away. He waited until the road dipped into a quieter stretch trees thinning to reveal a small, glassy lake bordered by reeds and flat stones. The water caught the late-afternoon light in silver ripples. Far enough from the ambush site. Isolated. Safe, for now.
"Stop here," Shikamaru said quietly.
Bana pulled the mare to a halt near the water's edge. The horse snorted, shaking her head, sides heaving slightly from the faster pace. Bana set the brake and turned fully toward his passenger, arms crossed.
"Alright. We're stopped. Now talk. Why the rush? And why'd you take their coin if you weren't planning to stay bought?"
Shikamaru exhaled slowly through his nose. He reached up and pulled the stolen black mask down from his face, letting it hang loosely around his neck. His expression was calm, almost bored, but his eyes held that familiar sharp glint.
Then he flicked his fingers once casual, almost lazy.
A soft puff of smoke bloomed in the back of the carriage.
When it cleared, the young wounded man from the road sat slumped against the rear bench. His hands were pressed to the gash in his side, blood still seeping through his fingers, but he was breathing shallow, ragged, but alive. His eyes fluttered open wider in shock, darting from Shikamaru to Bana and back again.
Bana stared, mouth half-open, then let out a low, incredulous whistle.
"You… you shadow-cloned the kid out? Right under their noses?"
Shikamaru gave a small shrug.
"Substitution with a shadow clone. Left the clone in the pit to take the hits, swapped the real one out during the smoke. They were too busy celebrating to notice the switch. By the time they realize the body's gone cold and not bleeding right, we'll be long gone."
The young man coughed wetly, wincing as he tried to sit straighter.
"You… you saved me? After taking their money?"
Shikamaru glanced at him, expression flat.
"Didn't take their money to keep it. Took it so they'd think I was bought. Made them lower their guard. Less troublesome that way."
Bana shook his head slowly, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the situation.
"You're a devious one, Nara. Remind me never to play shogi against you."
Shikamaru leaned back against the bench, arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the sky where clouds drifted slow and indifferent.
"What a drag," he muttered. "Now we've got a bleeding fugitive in the carriage and a pack of hunters who'll figure it out eventually."
He looked at the young man again, eyes half-lidded.
"You got a name, kid? And a reason Suna wants you back bad enough to send eleven pros?"
The young man swallowed hard, blood staining his teeth as he spoke.
"Kuro," he rasped. "And… it's a long story. But thank you. I thought I was dead back there."
Shikamaru nodded once, then turned to Bana.
"We'll patch him up here. Then keep moving. Faster this time."
Bana chuckled under his breath as he reached for the small medical kit stowed under the bench.
"Looks like your quiet farm life just got a lot more complicated, kid."
Shikamaru closed his eyes briefly, the faintest hint of a smirk crossing his face.
"Yeah," he said. "What a drag."