Red Haired Supremacy

Suzuki Kenzaburō, a merchant by trade, was fleeing for his life.

He had abandoned his village in the dead of night, bringing with him only what mattered most—his wife, his young son, and a handful of guards. The reason for their flight was simple: Kirigakure shinobi.

His village had been attacked just days ago, with no warning and no mercy. If it had only been a matter of money, Kenzaburō would have gladly handed over every coin he owned. But word spread quickly, and what he heard chilled him to his core. A wealthy family on the other side of the village had done just that—given everything they had to appease the Kiri nin—but it hadn't saved them. The entire household was wiped out.

That was all the warning he needed. The moment he sensed danger creeping closer, he gathered his family and what few men he could trust and fled, hoping to reach safety before the storm closed in around them.

Now, they traveled in a carriage along a narrow dirt path, wheels creaking under the weight of their hope and fear.

Beside him, his son clutched a small pack, wide-eyed and silent for most of the journey. But now, curiosity—or perhaps anxiety—finally broke through.

"Father," the boy asked softly, "where are we going?"

Kenzaburō kept his eyes on the road ahead but managed a calm reply. "To Hachō Village. I know the village head there. He's an honorable man. He'll help us."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the carriage lurched to a sudden halt.

Kenzaburō's breath caught. He leaned forward instinctively, listening.

Outside, muffled voices. A few sharp words. A shout.

And then—silence.

A heavy, unnatural stillness settled over everything. Even the wind seemed to die.

Kenzaburō's hand moved to the dagger strapped beneath his coat, though he had never once used it in all his years of trade. His heart pounded, and his mind raced with one question:

Had they been found?

Just as Suzuki Kenzaburō gripped the hilt of his dagger, ready to defend his family against whatever threat had brought the carriage to a halt, a violent crash shattered the moment.

The left side of the carriage exploded inward, splintered wood flying in all directions. The blast sent his son hurtling into him, and Suzuki dropped the dagger instantly, wrapping both arms around the boy to shield him. His wife stumbled forward with a sharp cry, collapsing onto the carriage floor as debris rained down around them.

Wooden shards spun through the air like shrapnel. Suzuki instinctively shut his eyes and leaned forward, using his body to cover his son. Beside him, his wife crouched low, her hands over her head, trembling as she tried to shield herself from the storm of splinters.

Then, as quickly as it began, the chaos stopped.

Silence fell again—this time heavier, more ominous. The only sound was the wind whispering through the ruined side of the carriage.

Suzuki slowly opened his eyes.

A cold night breeze brushed against his face through the gaping hole in the carriage wall. He blinked once, then his gaze fixed on the figure standing just beyond the wreckage.

A rough-looking shinobi stood there, half-hidden by shadow, holding a massive hammer attached to a thick iron chain. His build was stocky, brutal. His expression showed no emotion—just cold intent. On his forehead gleamed the unmistakable headband of Kirigakure.

Then, behind him, three more figures emerged from the darkness. Each wore the same Kiri forehead protector. Their swords were drawn—and dripping with blood.

Kenzaburō's heart dropped.

They had killed the guards. All of them. Silently. Efficiently.

He looked at his wife, still shaking on the floor, and at his son, who clutched him tightly, face buried in his chest.

His stomach turned cold.

He knew what came next. There would be no negotiations. No mercy. These weren't rogue thieves or desperate deserters. These were Kiri shinobi—the same kind who slaughtered an entire wealthy family even after they surrendered everything.

The Kirigakure shinobi with the hammer stepped closer, the chain dragging slightly behind him. His expression didn't change—calm, cold, and predatory.

"Running away from us," he said, voice low and gravelly. "And taking your money with you? You've got guts, old man."

Suzuki swallowed hard, his throat dry, sweat beading down his face. He clutched his son tighter, trembling as he spoke.

"No… No, this isn't what you think," he stammered. "I—I left most of the money back in the village. I did it on purpose… so that you—so that the Kirigakure ninjas wouldn't get angry. I thought if I left it behind, you wouldn't come after us."

His voice cracked as he rushed to explain, desperation laced in every word. "I only brought enough to survive… to get my family to safety. That's all. But—but if you want that too, I'll give it to you. Every coin. Just… just let us go. Please."

The shinobi chuckled—a low, humorless sound.

"If you had stayed in the village and handed over the money willingly," he said, "and if we were in a good mood… maybe you would've lived."

He lifted the hammer slightly, letting the weight of it speak.

"But now? You didn't just run—you ran with hope. That's worse."

He took another step forward, eyes gleaming with cruel certainty.

"Now, you'll lose everything. Your money. Your life. And your family."

The other Kiri shinobi fanned out silently around the carriage, blades gleaming in the moonlight, ready to strike.

Suzuki's heart pounded in his chest like a war drum.

Suzuki fell to his knees, still shielding his son, desperation cracking his voice.

"Please... no. Don't do this. Let us go—or at least let my son go. He's just a child. The mistake is mine. Punish me, not him."

The Kirigakure shinobi's only response was a cruel, mocking laugh. He lifted his hammer, its chained weight gleaming in the moonlight, ready to swing.

Then—a voice rang out from the darkness.

"I would expect nothing less from a Kirigakure shinobi. The cruelty you carry is truly unmatched."

The hammer-wielding ninja froze.

All four Kiri shinobi immediately turned their attention toward the dense treeline beside the road, weapons raised, eyes scanning. The voice had come from there—calm, deliberate, and far too close for comfort.

From the black stillness of the forest, a slow, deliberate series of footsteps began to emerge. To Suzuki, huddled in fear, the sounds were barely audible, lost under his racing pulse and the trembling breaths of his son.

But to the seasoned ears of the Kirigakure ninjas, the footsteps were deafening—each one measured, confident, impossible to ignore.

The hammer-wielding shinobi narrowed his eyes, tension prickling across his skin.

"How…? How was I not able to sense his presence until now?"

His instincts screamed danger. Whoever this newcomer was, he had masked his chakra perfectly—so perfectly, it was as if he hadn't existed a moment ago. And now… now their presence was undeniable.

The air itself felt heavier.

The silence between footsteps was more suffocating than the sound.

Then from the shadows, he appeared—a lone figure with crimson hair, a sword sheathed at his side.

Shanks Uzumaki had arrived.

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