Chapitre 4: Chapter 4
After 1 month,
He leaned his back against the rough wall of the hut, staring blankly at the flickering candle. Beside him, a young shinobi sat in a formal seiza position, carefully arranging the parchments to decipher the spies' messages. Lost in his thoughts, he was pulled back by the sound of the young man addressing him, "Master?".
He blinked, focusing. "Oh—uh, sorry. Are you done... deciphering, or...?" He trailed off, feeling unsure.
"Yes, Master," the shinobi replied, giving a small nod. "The message confirms your suspicions about the Burned Men tribe. They are indeed the smallest tribe, though they're still treated with... caution and respect by the other tribes."
"Smallest, huh..." he muttered, mulling over the words. "How strong are they, exactly?"
The young man continued, "They have only 200 able-bodied men."
The word only caught his attention. The way the young shinobi said it hinted at a sense of confidence—like he thought 200 was no real threat.
"So... does that mean we could, uh, attack in, say, four days?" he asked, glancing at the shinobi for reassurance.
But the young man shook his head. "We couldn't, Master. We need to wait for a more suitable time."
A look of confusion crossed his face. "Wait—why not? I mean, they're... they're only 200 men."
The shinobi's gaze was steady as he answered, "We need the night of wind and rain for the operation to succeed."
He blinked, processing this. "Oh, right... wind and rain," he repeated, sounding uncertain, as if the words didn't entirely make sense to him. He looked down, then glanced back up at the shinobi. "And... why exactly do we need that?"
"The storm will mask our approach and make it difficult for them to spot us. It's an old strategy, Master," the shinobi explained patiently.
"Ah... I see," he said slowly, nodding as if he'd always known. "Right. Wind and rain... that makes sense, yeah.".
He paused, then muttered to himself, "But... how would we even know the right timing? I mean, it's not like we can predict it... can we?"
The young shinobi caught his question and responded, "Master, we can. Shinobi are trained to forecast the weather."
His eyes widened in curiosity. "Wait... you can?"
The shinobi nodded and continued, "Yes, for example, if the stars are twinkling like blinking eyes, it means strong winds will come within three days. Or if the Big Dipper is covered with clouds, we know rain is coming."
He blinked, trying to keep up. The shinobi spoke on, "If black clouds cover the four stars forming the ladle of the Big Dipper, there will be rain that night. And if yellow chi appears in front of the seventh star..."
"Wait, hold on." He lifted a hand, feeling a headache brewing. "You lost me. I'll just... I'll trust you to let me know when it's time."
The shinobi bowed, understanding, as a second man entered the hut, holding out an oval-shaped coin. He took it, turning it over in his hand. The coin's surface was etched with the image of an imugi—a serpent-like creature—swallowing the moon, the symbol of his shadow force and spies.
"Good," he murmured, running a finger over the raised pattern. The imugi seemed fitting, a creature of subtle strength.
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Two weeks had passed,
and the Burned Men tribe had barely noticed when a few of their own went missing at first. It wasn't unusual—some could have gone hunting or gotten lost. But soon, more men vanished, too many for it to be anything ordinary. Even a search party was sent out to look for their lost kin.
When the party returned, they brought unexpected news. Some of their men had been found dead at the foot of the mountain, bodies strewn on the ground, ears cut off and throats sliced. It wasn't the deaths that rattled the tribe, but the unmistakable mark of the Black Ears—the practice of taking ears as trophies. It was a direct insult to their tribe, a challenge, and it didn't take long for the Burned Men to prepare for counter.
They launched skirmishes, brutal and relentless, against the Black Ears. Yet, despite their frenzy, the Burned Men struggled and suffered heavy losses. Forced to retreat, they hid among the rugged mountain caves, their wounded huddled together. Even the women and children bore the fear, knowing they could be found at any moment.
On such stormy night, with rain whipping against the rock faces and the wind howling through the narrow passes, the Burned Men were on high alert. Men patrolled at the mouth of their caves, weapons in hand, eyes scanning the dark outside. Fear lingered, but they clung to the hope that the mountain's cover would keep them safe.
One man stepped out of his cave, trudging through the mud to relieve himself near a rocky outcrop. He didn't hear a sound—only felt a quick flash of pain as a blade pierced his heart. A shinobi had slipped from the shadows, efficient and silent. The Burned Man crumpled to the ground, his lifeless body barely making a sound against the rain.
In another cave, two men sat on guard, occasionally glancing out into the night. One of them heard a faint rustling, and before he could react, a figure appeared, cloaked in darkness. A blade sliced through his flesh, and the first man dropped, his throat slit open. The other scrambled for his weapon, but a second shinobi had already closed in, ending him swiftly.
Further up, a lone warrior leaned against a rock, gazing into the storm, unaware of the shinobi creeping up behind him. In a fluid motion, the blade cut through his spine, leaving him paralyzed and unable to cry out. The ninja moved on, his kill barely a pause in his silent sweep through the mountainside.
Deeper within the caves, families huddled close, whispering among themselves. They knew the Black Ears were relentless, but this attack felt different. Just as one of the elder warriors rose to calm the group, a shadow slipped in, and he fell to the ground, a small wound marking his temple. Those who had seen it were paralysed with fear, too afraid to even scream.
The shinobi were thorough, methodical, their black robes blending with the shadows as they moved from cave to cave, taking down their targets with precision. No cries were heard; only the faint, final breaths of the Burned Men marked their passing.
As the storm raged on, the shinobi completed their silent massacre. The mountain had become a tomb for the Burned Men.
[
Time for our first quiz! This one's about our next mysterious assassin class traced back to ancient India. They were like 'gifts' to enemies, sent to eliminate them in, uh, creative ways. Most victims wouldn't survive past the next day… or after bedtime 😏. So, who were these deadly legends?
]
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone