Naruto: The White Spider of the Leaf

The rain never stopped here. That was the first thing I noticed as we entered the city. It was a soft, unrelenting drizzle, a gray mist that filled the air and stuck to the skin like a damp veil. The kind of rain that got under your clothes and seeped into your bones if you weren't careful. It was the kind of place where the sky was just a darker shade of gray, as though it was always twilight.

The city itself was a muddy, half-drowned thing. The streets were narrow, winding, and uneven, lined with low buildings made of weathered wood, stone, and metal. There was an almost industrial feel to it, with pipes running along the edges of buildings, their purpose known only to those who lived there. Some of the buildings had roofs that were barely above their heads, slanted at odd angles to keep the weight of the rain from collapsing them in on themselves. There was no real sense of order here; things had been built haphazardly over time, growing like weeds in the cracks of the streets.

It had been nearly two weeks since we entered the confines of this endlessly drowned land and we'd found out several things from various information brokers and while we spied on certain individuals. As far as we could tell, the rain was mostly focused on dealing with the skirmishes between the Rock and Sand shinobi on the western side of the country. On our side in the east, the Leaf had entered several battlefields with the Rock, but it wasn't nearly as serious as in the west from what we could tell. 

The effects of all this were showing all over the place. There were more than a few ghost towns which we passed while we were on the western side of the land of Rain. Refugees were moving about hoping to avoid the conflict between shinobi. 

It was–terrible, to put it mildly.

We were now going on a lead we got from a rather trusted source, so we infiltrated the village hidden in the rain, Amegakure. There were tons of rain shinobi here, of course, but thanks to the huge influx of refugees hoping to hide in this more or less city, we could move unbridled.

We moved quietly, blending into the chaos like shadows in a storm. The transformation jutsu cloaked us in the guise of ordinary refugees—a small group of rain-soaked middle-aged folk, unremarkable and forgettable. Minato, always thoughtful, had chosen the form of a lanky man with a worn cloak and a hat that shielded his golden hair from view. Yukino had taken on the appearance of a tired woman carrying a small satchel, her pale eyes now dark and dull, hidden beneath the hood of her tattered shawl. Jiraiya sensei had gone for the role of a weathered wanderer, his hunched posture and scraggly beard making him seem old and unthreatening.

As for me, my disguise was that of a lean man with a face lined by the hardships of the road, my hair a matted mess beneath a rain-streaked hood. My hand rested on a wooden staff—simple, utilitarian, and entirely believable for someone trudging through the muck of a place like this.

The key was subtlety. This wasn't a place where outsiders drew attention by choice. The people here were too used to hardship, too wary of strangers. The locals moved with a purpose, heads down, eyes darting only briefly to take stock of their surroundings. We did the same, giving out the idea that neither we nor they wanted to do anything with each other. Our steps were deliberate, our postures slightly hunched against the rain, our eyes scanning but never lingering. The streets were alive with muted sounds—the splash of boots through puddles, the occasional creak of a cart's wheel, the muffled chatter of cityfolk exchanging goods beneath awnings that barely kept the rain at bay.

Jiraiya led the way, his sharp eyes flicking from face to face, searching for someone who might know more about the city's inner workings. The rest of us followed closely, careful not to give ourselves away.

A merchant's cart rattled past, its wheels cutting deep tracks into the muddy road. The man pulling it glanced at us briefly, then moved on, uninterested. Perfect.

"We're not here to stand out," Jiraiya murmured under his breath, barely loud enough for us to hear. "Keep your heads down, act like you belong."

I kept my eyes on the street, taking in the details. The pipes that ran along the buildings hissed and dripped, carrying water to who-knew-where. A faint smell of something metallic hung in the air, mingling with the damp. The few stalls we passed offered sparse goods—dried fish, rough-woven fabrics, small tools. The economy here seemed as weather-beaten as the city itself.

As we turned a corner, Jiraiya paused, his gaze landing on a grizzled man leaning against a wall beneath a makeshift awning. The man was bundled in layers of patched clothing, a long pipe dangling from his mouth, smoke curling upward to mix with the rain. He had the look of someone who'd seen too much and cared too little.

Jiraiya approached him with the air of a man looking for directions, his voice low and casual. "Excuse me, friend. My companions and I are looking for a place to rest our feet and maybe hear a bit about the situation outside Amegakure. Any suggestions?"

The man gave him a long, measuring look before shrugging. "You're not from around here, are you?"

Jiraiya let out a dry chuckle, scratching at his fake beard. "Is it that obvious?"

The man didn't smile. "The Storm's End," he said gruffly, jerking his head toward a side street. "It's where the merc, drinkers and lots of shinobi go. Not a lot of normal folk though. If you've got questions, someone there'll have answers. Just don't go asking too many, if you know what's good for you."

Jiraiya gave a nod of thanks and slipped the man a small coin before turning back to us. Without a word, we followed him down the indicated path.

As we walked, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched. In a place like this, eyes were everywhere, and trust was as rare as sunlight. But that was the nature of the Hidden Rain, wasn't it? Everyone had secrets, and everyone was looking for someone else's.

We made our way through the streets, and after a few turns, we found the tavern. It was a squat, dimly lit building, the kind that blended into the shadows. The sign above the door creaked in the wind, the words barely visible beneath layers of dirt and rain. We entered without hesitation, the scent of damp wood and stale beer hitting us instantly.

Inside, it was exactly as the man had described. The air was thick with smoke, and the only source of light came from a few flickering candles placed haphazardly around the room. The walls were lined with rough-hewn timber, and the floor was sticky from years of spilled drinks and cheap liquor. The room hummed with the low murmur of voices, but the atmosphere was far from welcoming. Lots of the patrons were rough-looking—mercenaries, probably, or the kind of people who never fully recovered from the world they had lived in.

I glanced around the room, taking in the scene. There were only a few civilians mixed in with the rest, but even they seemed out of place, like they were trying to avoid drawing attention to themselves. The conversations were hushed and quick, with occasional bursts of laughter or shouting from the more boisterous groups. In the far corner of the room, a group of Rain Shinobi was gathered around a table. They were hard to miss, with their headbands clearly visible. They were discussing something heatedly, gesturing wildly with their hands as they continued their meal.

"Stay low," Jiraiya murmured, noticing my gaze. He had already spotted the group of Rain Shinobi, and I could see the gears turning in his head. "There they are, just like we'd learned. This might be the break we're looking for."

Minato shifted uncomfortably beside me, his eyes flicking between the mercenaries and the Rain Shinobi. "Do you think they're talking about the tensions between the villages?"

"Probably, if they're really drunk enough," Jiraiya replied, his voice low. "But we won't know unless we get closer. Let's sit down, play the part, and listen in."

We found a table in the far corner, far enough to avoid drawing attention but close enough to hear the murmur of the Rain Shinobi's conversation. As we settled in, I could feel the weight of the mission pressing against my chest, the tension rising like the humidity in the air. This was the heart of the storm, and we had only just stepped into it.

The Rain Shinobi continued to argue in their corner, and though the words were muffled, I could hear the sharpness in their voices. There was something brewing here.

The tavern was dimly lit, with shadows pooling in every corner, the flicker of lanterns barely penetrating the smoky haze that hung in the air. The smell of alcohol, damp wood, and sweat was thick, blending into the kind of atmosphere that told you secrets were shared here, often for a price. We slid into a booth near the edge of the room, our transformation jutsu disguising us as a group of unassuming refugees. I kept my face neutral, my body language relaxed, but my senses were sharp.

Jiraiya was the one who approached the bar, ordering drinks and a platter of food. It was all part of the act—keep up appearances, blend in, and attract no attention. 

From where I sat, hunched over a mug of lukewarm tea, I could feel the weight of eyes sweeping over us occasionally, though no one lingered long. Just another group that arrived in town; that's what we were supposed to be.

Jiraiya-sensei played his part well, leaning casually against the bar, laughing with the barkeep about the miserable weather. His transformation jutsu rendered him a stout, bearded older gentleman—nothing flashy, nothing memorable. Minato, Yukino, and I stayed quiet at our table. I tried to keep myself busy with the menu, though my ears were tuned to the group of shinobi gathered at the far end of the room. They weren't trying to draw attention, but the way they carried themselves—their sharp, deliberate movements—betrayed their profession. And they weren't just relaxing. The low murmur of their conversation was too tense for that. 

Jiraiya-sensei returned to the table, setting down a plate of steaming dumplings and drinks. "Eat," he said softly, his voice barely carrying over the ambient noise. "But listen."

Snippets of their conversation drifted over.

"... movements from the Sand. They're testing our defenses again. If we let them keep pushing like this, it'll only be a matter of time before they find a weak point."

A woman at their table, her voice clipped and precise, responded. "It's not just the Sand. I've had reports of Rock shinobi lurking near the north-western sectors again. They're probing too—looking for vulnerabilities."

The discussion among the Rain shinobi grew more heated. A man's voice, sharp and commanding, cut through. "We can't keep waiting. The Leaf's movements near the eastern border are getting bolder too. They've stationed more shinobi there in the last week alone. If the Rain doesn't act soon, we'll be surrounded by three of the great nations and be helpless. The three of them will start killing themselves AND us right in the middle of our country!"

"Yeah, and all of this isn't even to conquer our land for resources or anything of the sort. It's actually just so they can slaughter each other. What lunacy! Why must they drag our poor country into this ruin?"

One of the men hit the table. "That's exactly why we ought to be doing something!"

Another voice, quieter but no less intense, countered. "We don't act without orders. You know that. And besides, we still have him. As long as that man is with us, no one will be able to push too far into our territory."

That piqued my interest. I leaned forward slightly, keeping my movements subtle as I took a sip from my drink. Beside me, Yukino adjusted her posture, pretending to stretch but clearly tuning in as well.

"That man?" one of the female shinobi at the table asked skeptically.

The commanding voice replied with confidence. "Hanzo, who do you think?" 

The name made the table go quiet for a moment, the group exchanging glances. I felt Yukino shift slightly beside me, her attention sharpening.

We finally landed on some info about the big man.

"Hanzo, huh?" the woman said, almost like she was testing the name. "You're putting a lot of faith in him. He's not a miracle worker."

"No." He shook his head. "But he's the best weapon we have. And we'll need him. Especially if the Leaf makes a move next too."

The quieter man leaned back, his expression unreadable. "He'll do what's necessary. The bastard might've just been an experiment of the village, but he'll prove damn useful."

"Speaking of what's necessary," the man said, his voice dropping lower. "I do need to mention that I've received some orders. We will rendezvous with the other unit tomorrow night. If we're going to take out the Leaf shinobi near the eastern border, we'll need all hands on deck. We hit their command outpost first, cripple them before they can organize properly. That way the Rock and Sand can keep their focus around our western border and we'll have more time before it escalates to the central region."

Their conversation ended not long after that. Apparently, their higher ups were tipped off about the location of the Leaf's current main base at their border. We didn't find out who had done this, but we appreciated the info all the same. The group then promptly finished their drinks and slipped out of the tavern one by one. The scarred man lingered a moment, scanning the room with a suspicious gaze before finally leaving.

When the door swung shut behind them, Jiraiya leaned forward, his voice low. "Hanzo. And a planned attack on the Leaf."

Minato furrowed his brow, whispering, "Who's Hanzo?"

"An experiment gone right, apparently." I mumbled back.

Yukino leaned closer, her voice low. "If this Hanzo guy is their trump card, that should mean he's either holed up somewhere secure or moving constantly to avoid being targeted. Either way, getting close to him won't be easy."

"That's putting it mildly," I muttered, my fingers tapping idly against the rim of my cup. The mention of Hanzo had put me on edge. "Considering the way they discussed him, it's safe to say he should be a kage-level combatant."

"Kage-level…" Yukino seemed to shiver at the thought.

"We should move soon after we finish our meal." Jiraiya said. "I want to follow those men." 

As we finished our meal, we maintained our façade of weary travelers, blending seamlessly with the background noise of the tavern. But beneath the surface, every nerve was on high alert. The storm outside was nothing compared to the one brewing within these walls.