Who is the hunter, and who is the prey?

On the riverbank.

Kisame, bound hand and foot by the steel wires of the Longsword: Stitch, lay on the ground, drenched and helpless, like a dead fish. He lifted his head in terror, gazing up at the towering Ringo Kushimaru, and asked cautiously, “S-sir, what is the meaning of this…”

Before Ringo Kushimaru could respond, a black-haired boy with half his face hidden beneath bandages emerged from the thick mist.

“Sir, this fellow didn’t disappoint you, did he?” Zabuza Momochi bowed to Ringo Kushimaru, then looked at Kisame with a half-smile, his eyes full of mockery.

“Hmm, this shark-faced brat has some skill. He’s qualified to be my subordinate.” Ringo Kushimaru nodded in approval. He then retracted the Longsword: Stitch, releasing Kisame from his restraints, and ordered Zabuza, “You stay here and explain to this brat the rules of serving under me.”

With that, Ringo Kushimaru blurred and vanished, using the Body Flicker Technique. The dense mist that had shrouded the area disappeared along with him.

“Kisame Hoshigaki, we meet again. Get up.” Zabuza smiled.

Kisame struggled to stand. He was covered in deep welts, gifts from the sharp steel wires of the Longsword: Stitch; blood seeped from the wounds, leaving him in a miserable, battered state.

“Give me an explanation.” His gaze was fierce as he directed his furious demand at Zabuza.

“Don’t be angry, Kisame. You’ve actually had some good luck.” Zabuza sat leisurely on a nearby stone bench, crossed his legs, and drawled, “As you saw, I recommended you to Lord Ringo Kushimaru. Congratulations on passing the field assessment—you’re now his subordinate. From now on, we’re teammates.”

When Zabuza pronounced the word “teammate,” his tone was tinged with irony.

Kisame’s expression shifted, and at last he forced out a few strained words: “Understood.”

“Very good.” Zabuza snapped his fingers crisply and began painting a bright picture. “I’m looking forward to working with you. If we perform well, perhaps Lord Kushimaru will notice us soon enough and promote us out of the ranks of the lower class into the ANBU. So, let’s do our best.”

“ANBU!” Kisame’s entire body trembled, his pupils contracting in obvious excitement.

Zabuza noted his reaction with satisfaction. He then explained the rules of the squad to Kisame and, before leaving, instructed, “Meet at the village gate at six tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”

With that, he left.

Kisame watched Zabuza’s back until it vanished from sight. His expression returned to calm, as placid as still water, betraying not the slightest ripple.

Clearly, he had been acting all along.

Kisame had originally been pondering how to get close to Ringo Kushimaru to find an opportunity to strike, but he hadn’t expected his target to seek him out first and even recruit him as a subordinate.

More accurately, as a high-ranking pawn.

Moreover, Kisame had heard that during past missions, Zabuza was notorious for killing his own teammates. He harbored no good intentions in making this recommendation.

Yet, whether it was Ringo Kushimaru or Zabuza, both underestimated Kisame Hoshigaki.

They would regret it.

Kisame withdrew his gaze and entered his house, standing before the mirror. In just a short while, most of the wounds he had deliberately sustained in battle had already healed. Nonetheless, he took some plasters from the drawer, stuck them on the wounds on his face, and wrapped bandages around various parts of his body to maintain the appearance of unhealed injuries.

Then he settled in to rest and recover his strength.

Early the next morning.

The village gate was shrouded in morning mist; the roadside trees and grass were beaded with dew. A cold wind occasionally swept by, stirring the fog and slapping it against the face, sending a chill to the bone.

Most of those participating in the search-and-destroy mission had already gathered—over a hundred in all, of every rank from genin to jonin, though most were lower-class shinobi from third-rate families.

Zabuza leaned against a large tree, arms folded, eyes closed, conserving his energy.

“Kisame, you’re here.” After a while, he opened his eyes and looked at Kisame, who had arrived punctually.

Kisame said nothing, standing silently by Zabuza’s side like a speechless statue, awaiting further orders.

“See that? Demon Zabuza and Mad Dog Kisame are teamed up now—best stay far away from them.”

Around them, the shinobi whispered among themselves, casting wary glances at the pair.

A few moments later, the two captains of this search-and-destroy operation, the infamous “Cold-Blooded Duo,” finally showed up.

Kisame had seen Ringo Kushimaru yesterday, so now his attention turned to Jinin Akebino.

Jinin Akebino was a one-eyed man with a long braid. In contrast to the towering, 2.13-meter-tall Ringo Kushimaru, Jinin was only 1.72 meters and appeared much slighter.

Yet, despite his unremarkable looks, his combat prowess was second to none among the Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist.

This was due to his mastery over the Explosive Blade: Splash, which he wielded with consummate skill. The massive sword he carried on his shoulder had a regular blade on one side and on the other, an enormous scroll capable of summoning countless explosive tags—granting it devastating power.

Gulp.

Kisame swallowed, his gaze lingering discreetly over the blades of the Longsword: Stitch and the Explosive Blade: Splash. His throat was parched, his heart pounding.

He could feel the Iron-Eater cheat in his mind stimulating his cortex, flooding him with dopamine that made him almost giddy with excitement.

His body craved these two ninja blades, desperate to devour them.

Kisame forcibly suppressed his urge, shifting his gaze to calm himself.

Just then—

“Is everyone here?” Jinin Akebino scanned the crowd, frowning, his mood clearly sour.

Three months ago, the Third Mizukage had ordered the Cold-Blooded Duo to retrieve Pakura’s head. But after Pakura returned to Sunagakure, she never left the village again.

As Sunagakure’s hero, she was heavily guarded.

The Cold-Blooded Duo found no chance to assassinate her and had to return empty-handed. The Third Mizukage, seeing them come back with nothing, was not pleased.

“It’s all that useless Kurosuki Raiga’s fault—killed by a woman, making the world think our Seven Swordsmen are nothing but a bunch of pretenders.” Ringo Kushimaru sneered, toying with the Longsword: Stitch.

“That’s why, this time, we’ll go on a killing spree and restore our honor. Not a single one of those Sunagakure bastards will go home alive.” Jinin Akebino snorted, twin jets of white breath streaming from his nostrils.

“In that case, let’s begin. Move out!” Ringo Kushimaru ordered.

At his command, the hundred-odd Mist shinobi leapt into the woods, launching a grand-scale search-and-destroy operation.

The mountains and forests of the Land of Water were rife with danger.

Here, hunter and hunted played their games of pursuit and evasion at every moment.

The Sand shinobi who had infiltrated the Land of Water were more numerous and cunning than before. Splitting into small groups, they engaged in guerrilla warfare, and in just a week had destroyed dozens of bridges and dams, inflicting tremendous economic losses.

To effectively eliminate the enemy, the Mist shinobi divided into twenty squads of four to six, fanning out. If any encountered danger, they were to call for help with signal flares.

Three days passed.

In a remote, densely forested mountain, a four-man team advanced in a Y-formation.

Kisame and a genin were on the left and right flanks, leading the formation; Zabuza was in the center, commanding, with another teammate as rear guard to prevent attacks from behind.

Of the squad, the other two were Zabuza’s longtime comrades—Kisame alone was the newcomer.

As the core, Zabuza’s position in the center was both offensive and defensive—the safest spot.

Kisame, scouting ahead, was the one most at risk.

A day earlier, they had tracked traces of a small enemy group to this unfrequented forest and, hidden by dense trees, discovered the enemy’s camp.

Zabuza immediately proposed a surprise attack to slaughter everyone there.

But Kisame objected.

He felt something was off—the tracking had gone far too smoothly; it was likely a trap.

“Kisame, your concern isn’t unfounded, but since we’re here, we can’t just give up, can we? How about… you go scout them out, and the three of us will cover you from behind,” Zabuza said with a malicious smile, delivering his order.

The other two stared at Kisame, their eyes full of menace.

It was clear Kisame had no choice.

“Sigh, what can I do?” Kisame sighed, scratching his head as if resigned.

But as his right hand reached up, he suddenly flung it forward—throwing the quicklime hidden in his palm!

Zabuza, already wary, leapt back, dodging the attack in a flash.

The other two were slower. The lime caught them in the eyes and they screamed in agony.

“Kisame Hoshigaki! You dare attack your own comrades—do you know what that means?!” one shouted, wiping the lime from his face, a mix of shock and rage in his voice.

It was common for veterans to bully rookies in a squad; usually, the newcomer would just endure it. But Kisame, without a word, had attacked—madness.

No sooner had he finished speaking—

Splurt!

Kisame, moving like a phantom, appeared behind him and drove a kunai through his heart.

“If I kill you three, no one will know about this. Don’t forget, you were the ones who wanted me dead first. I’m just acting in self-defense,” Kisame said coldly.

“You rabid dog—Die!” The other, furious at his comrade’s death, quickly wove hand signs and unleashed a high-pressure Water Release: Wild Water Wave, blasting Kisame through the air.

In the nearby woods.

A Sunagakure jonin and three genin exchanged glances.

The day before, they had deliberately left tracks to lure the Mist shinobi into a trap. Just as the enemy was about to walk into it, the Mist ninja began fighting among themselves.

“Tch, if I’d known they were such a rabble, we wouldn’t have bothered,” the Sunagakure jonin spat contemptuously. “Take advantage of their infighting—kill them all.”

Whoosh whoosh whoosh.

Several wind blades shot from the woods, assailing both Kisame and Zabuza.

With the Sand shinobi’s entry, the fight quickly devolved into a three-way melee.

In truth, this chaos was to Kisame’s advantage.

Recognizing Zabuza as the “Demon,” the Sand jonin launched a ferocious assault against him, hoping to bring down the strongest enemy in one stroke.

Clang, clang, clang!

The two clashed with kunai in a furious exchange, going dozens of rounds without a clear victor.

Meanwhile, Kisame was entangled with two Sand genin.

He could have disposed of them easily, but instead chose to avoid battle—blocking their ninjutsu with a Water Formation Wall, then disappearing into the depths of the forest as the watery barrier faded.

His reason was simple: if Kisame revealed his true strength, both the Sand jonin and Zabuza would realize and stop fighting each other.

But now, seeing each other as the greatest threat, they were entirely absorbed in their duel, ignoring Kisame altogether.

Ten minutes later.

The forest was in ruins—boulders shattered, trees toppled, blood everywhere.

The Sand squad was annihilated. Of the Mist team, only Zabuza remained alive.

A brutal battle, without question.

“Hah… hah…” Zabuza panted heavily, drenched in cold sweat, one arm hanging uselessly at his side. A gaping wound on his shoulder gushed blood, staining his arm and dripping onto the ground.

At his feet lay the Sunagakure jonin’s corpse—a hole in the chest, eyes wide in disbelief, as if he could not accept being bested by a mere Mist genin.

“Pah.” Zabuza spat out a mouthful of bloody phlegm and hastily bandaged his shoulder.

His skill had grown by leaps and bounds lately—this was the first time he’d killed a jonin-level opponent. It had been a desperate, lucky victory, but victory was victory.

At this rate, Zabuza would soon enter the Mist ANBU, perhaps even become a candidate for the Seven Ninja Swordsmen—a brilliant future awaited.

Where had Kisame gone?

The thought struck him. Frowning, he looked around, but Kisame was nowhere to be seen—he had vanished.

Yet, his sixth sense as a shinobi gave him a vague sense of danger.

It wasn’t safe to linger.

He quickly searched the corpses for anything useful and left in haste.

An hour passed.

Staggering and weak, Zabuza emerged from the forest and knelt by a small river, scooping cold water with his hands to splash his face.

He was losing too much blood—this was the only way to stay conscious.

He had underestimated his adversary.

The Sand jonin’s Wind Release had cut so deep the bleeding wouldn’t stop. Zabuza was hanging on by sheer willpower.

At least, now that he’d left the misty, mountainous forest, the area was open and flat—if he fired a signal flare, the other Mist squads would see it for sure.

Carefully, he fetched the only flare from his ninja pouch and, lowering his head, prepared to bite off the fuse.

But at that moment—

Whoosh!

A kunai, wrapped in explosive tags, shot from the woods and exploded just as it reached him.