The Enemy of My Enemy

02

Trigger Warning(s):
Graphic depictions of violence and gore

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If fear possessed a scent itself, then every inch of his body would be reeking of it.

A lone Konohagakure ANBU assassin sauntered among the disarrayed limbs and bodies spewed around him. The man remains unfazed by the scenery; his mismatched eyes reflect on the pool of blood that hugged the bottoms of his sandals. He was familiar with the works of war and bloodshed. Survival of the fittest -- unfortunately, it was a motto that every shinobi strived for.

The infamous Sharingan in the shinobi's scarred eye detected the weak chakra signals emitting from those who clung to life by a thread. The crimson orb swirled in languor as he unsheathed his katana and skewered the weapon into the body of those who resisted the reaper.

A mixture of blood and saliva dribbled down the corners of the sufferer's lips. His eyes rolled to the back of his head whilst his body violently convulsed. With a twist of his blade, the ANBU assassin watched as his victim twitched once more before stilling. The frail chakra outline of his last victim dispersed and soon left the world of the living. The ANBU tore the weapon out from the corpse and raised his ensanguined blade. The thick gore had coated the tip and trickled down the spine of his katana.

The shinobi's mismatched eyes darken behind his porcelain mask. He was familiar with death -- assassination was his business. To defend and protect his vulnerable village -- his home -- the ANBU shinobi was willing to give up his own body and soul to prevent others from having to suffer the torment of taking lives. Death was never silent for the one that engaged in it. Not before. Not after. Not ever.

Shinobi did many terrible things -- horrible acts which brought nothing but bloodshed and destruction that continued to rage on. And he was part of this — he was stuck in the midst of a vicious cycle filled with nothing but war, hatred, and death. How many lives was he responsible for? How many families had strived for vengeance over the ones he killed? He was tired of it all, but how was he to walk away from death when his own hands were drenched with so many of his victims' blood?

As soon as the adrenaline in his system retreated, the ANBU's knees nearly buckled from fatigue. He had drained most of his chakra and was close to fainting from exhaustion. His skewered katana was the only object that was holding him upright and preventing him from collapsing.

Desolate eyes scoured over the field once more, the ANBU's left orb pulsated in its socket as he searches for remaining survivors. His crimson eye fixated on the small chakra signature that flared near the perimeter of foliage. Had a bystander meandered through the scenery and witnessed him ridding the life of his enemies? Or was it one of the surviving targets that were desperately clawing their way out of their fate?

The rush of adrenaline returned and pushed his exhausted body into motion once more. The ANBU freed the blood that trickled from his blade with a flick of his wrist and slowly approached the foliage with nerves screaming from tension. The weapon tightened in his gloved hand as he closed the distance between him and the shrubbery. Angling the weapon downwards, the assassin thrust the katana which pierced the trunk of the tree and narrowly missed the flesh of a red-haired female.