"The generals of the Land of Fire will never bow to the likes of you! There is one of me—but there will be thousands more like me!"
Though Xiahu of Early Spring tried to shout with all his might, his voice was still faint.
Clap!
Sanzhiji clapped his hands mockingly.
"That’s not your concern," he sneered. "Now, let me test your courage."
Xiahu watched as Sanzhiji drew a gleaming katana.
His own body was already covered in wounds—too many to count. Just staying upright was the limit of his strength.
"Urgh—!"
Suddenly, screams erupted from behind. Before Sanzhiji could strike, several of his samurai in the rear cried out and collapsed in bloodied heaps.
"Huh?" Sanzhiji paused, turning in confusion.
From the shadows emerged a figure—Saitama—slashing through samurai like they were nothing more than paper dolls.
"Still alive?" Sanzhiji narrowed his eyes.
"You think rabble like this is enough to kill me?" Saitama’s tone was cold. He was wounded—blood pouring from a hole in his back, soaking his cloak—but he stood tall. He had cauterized the wound using Lightning Release, but it was still bleeding heavily.
"A dying man swinging wildly." Sanzhiji snorted. He wasn’t a shinobi, but he could recognize a man at his limit.
"Kill him!" he ordered, retreating and shoving his subordinates forward like pawns.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Saitama didn’t bother channeling chakra. Even with just taijutsu, he cut down the samurai who charged him, their bodies hitting the ground one after another.
"Saitama!"
Xiahu’s blurry vision cleared slightly. Relief washed over him—he had narrowly escaped death.
"Don’t let him get away!" Sanzhiji shouted, climbing onto his carriage. His men obeyed his orders without hesitation, sacrificing themselves to delay Saitama.
The carriage rolled away in a blur of hooves and dust, Saitama unable to stop it.
"Haaah..." Saitama exhaled deeply, surveying the fallen corpses littered around him.
The difference between a shinobi and an ordinary warrior was massive—even a chakra-depleted shinobi like him could overwhelm trained swordsmen.
"Are you alright?" Saitama asked, approaching the fallen Xiahu.
"I’ll live. Still breathing," Xiahu grunted with forced optimism.
"My lord! My lord!"
Baji-hu emerged from a nearby hiding spot, running to Xiahu’s side.
"Fool! Help me up already," Xiahu barked without malice.
Baji-hu nodded frantically, grabbing Xiahu’s uninjured arm and helping him to his feet.
"Tch!" Xiahu winced as pain shot through his side.
"Do you still plan to continue to the capital?" Saitama asked.
"Of course. Once I’m there, Sanzhiji won’t be able to do as he pleases," Xiahu said through clenched teeth.
Saitama didn’t quite understand. Why was he still pushing forward? Did he have allies or some kind of plan?
In any case, Saitama needed rest. His life was his own to protect now.
He helped Baji-hu support Xiahu to the carriage. After applying a quick bandage using supplies from within, Saitama climbed aboard, preparing for whatever came next.
---
In the end, Xiahu of Early Spring returned to the capital.
The day they arrived, nearly a hundred samurai lined the street to greet him, shouting, "Welcome back, General!"
Saitama stood silently, arms crossed. Xiahu, having anticipated such a scene, showed no emotion. He simply motioned for the samurai to follow him into the city.
The people made way—two powers could not share the same throne.
"With this, my mission is complete," Saitama murmured, standing on a nearby rooftop. He spotted a figure atop the city wall.
"Sanzhiji!" Xiahu called, eyes narrowing.
Sanzhiji smirked, waved mockingly, and turned away—his loyal followers at his side.
"Hah!" Xiahu laughed loudly and raised his arm like a conquering hero.
"Let’s go!" he shouted.
Baji-hu whipped the reins, and the entourage marched triumphantly into the capital.
---
Later, at Xiahu’s estate, he turned to Saitama.
"You should stay and rest for a few days. Enjoy the city. You’ve earned it."
He knew how badly injured Saitama had been—and how much he had done to protect him.
"Yeah." Saitama nodded. He had no immediate plans to return to Konoha.
There was still no proof he had killed the two Root operatives, but he knew Danzo didn’t care for proof.
He needed to heal, remain vigilant, and adapt to the changes in his body—especially the newly awakened Sharingan.
Receiving Saitama’s agreement, Xiahu didn’t linger. He arranged a room for him, instructed his servants to take care of their guest, and went about his own affairs.
The battle with Sanzhiji wasn’t over. The enemy had failed to assassinate him, but in the capital, things wouldn’t be solved with brute force. The game had only just begun.
---
At the mansion, Saitama summoned a physician for treatment. Though he’d sealed his wounds with electricity, it wasn’t ideal. He wasn’t a medical-nin—best to leave it to the professionals.
"The injuries aren’t critical," the doctor concluded. "The wound on your back is deep but already closing thanks to your physique. I’ll rebandage you shortly, but you should focus on resting."
"Thanks." Saitama nodded. He knew his body well. His regeneration wasn’t normal—it bordered on exceptional, maybe even kekkei genkai-tier.
"I’ll go prepare the dressings," the doctor bowed low, wary of offending the shinobi.
Some ninja were temperamental. Even if Saitama seemed composed, the doctor knew to keep his tone deferential.
"Yeah. Don’t take too long. I plan to go out later."
"Understood!" The doctor gathered his tools and hurried off.
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