But Murasake's attack only delighted Ryūkotsu. He knew he truly didn't have a good way to deal with this damn barrier, but when it came to close combat, that was his specialty.
He was even confident that in the whole village, only the Mizukage could match him toe-to-toe… and even then, purely in hand-to-hand, he would bet on himself every time.
"Dance of Willow!" he shouted, unleashing the technique without hesitation. Bones shot from his elbows and knees, turning him into a walking, lethal pincushion.
Now, Murasake didn't stop his assault. And here's why: he'd fought a few members of the Kaguya clan back in the Warring States era.
In fact, it wasn't an exaggeration to say he knew their fighting style like the back of his hand—if the back of his hand were covered in pointy, unpredictable bones and a complete disregard for personal space.
That was exactly why he'd used Chakra Enhanced Strength. Not only did it pack a serious punch (and kick), but it also came with built-in impact protection—so long as you controlled the output.
At the same time, the Adamantine Sealing Chains he'd kept out weren't just for show. They hovered nearby, ready to swat away any surprise bones and snag Ryūkotsu the moment he got sloppy.
Ryūkotsu might not have been the sharpest kunai in the pouch, but he knew one thing: getting caught was not an option. Still, his only play was to close the distance and fight dirty—which, honestly, was the Kaguya clan's brand of hospitality.
Their biggest advantage in close quarters was simple: you can't defend against someone who can stab you from their elbows, knees, and probably their eyebrows if they tried.
Take the Dance of Willow—against anyone else, it was a nightmare. How do you counter an attack that comes from everywhere at once? These were bones that could pierce rock. Your average kunai—or your average ribcage—wasn't going to cut it.
The punch didn't so much hit Ryūkotsu as it was intercepted by the sudden, grotesque bone that sprouted from his palm like a morbid welcome mat.
There was a sharp crack, not of the bone breaking, but of the air surrendering. The force scraped his knuckles raw and sent him skidding backwards, feet carving trenches in the earth.
And Ryūkotsu… grinned. A wide, manic, toothy spectacle of pure joy.
The Shikotsumyaku is a Kekkei Genkai so stubbornly rare that across the entire shinobi world, only five other poor souls had managed to wake it up—and even then, they'd gotten the kiddie version. Ryūkotsu had the deluxe edition.
And its most underrated trick is a recovery speed that would make a Jinchūriki blink. Fatal wounds only need a second, let alone shattered bones which they can simply replace with a whole new set.
So, while he was still sliding backwards, the flesh on his hand re-knit itself. The scrapes vanished like they'd been politely asked to leave.
Murasake didn't even blink because he hadn't expected a single punch to end it. Even as Ryūkotsu flew back, Murasake's chains were already uncoiling like metallic serpents, hunting the air where he'd stop. One hesitation, one single second of pause, and it would be over.
But the Kaguya Patriarch wasn't in the business of hesitation and didn't need to dodge. Instead, he used the freshly regenerated bone-spike on his palm to parry.
The sound was less clang and more SCREEEECH— a horrible, nails-on-chalkboard symphony as he batted aside each seeking chain.
And in the same breath, he launched himself forward at Murasake, stealing back the offensive so aggressively it was practically theft.
What followed was a blistering exchange, bones against chains, bones against seals, a scene of violence where the initiative changed hands faster than a bad rumor in a ninja village—practically a blur of white and red.
Sure, after a few moments of this, old Murasake—lacking the Kaguya clan's 'what injury?' policy—looked a bit worse for wear. His jacket was scuffed, his hair slightly more "artistically disheveled."
But the infuriatingly calm smile never left his face. He looked less like a man in a fight and more like a guy who'd just remembered where he'd left his keys, confident he'd find them any second now.
It was that smile that finally boiled Ryūkotsu's blood.
"What's with the act, old timer?!" he roared, deflecting another chain with a spray of bone shards. "You're not winning! And take a look around—your clan isn't exactly throwing a victory party either! Hahaha!"
Murasake's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. In the heat of the dance, he'd deliberately dialed down his clan's famous sensory prowess.
In a close-range brawl with a monster like this, feeling every distant scrape of kunai and cry of pain was just distracting—a surefire way to get a bone through the gut because you paused to wince.
Murasake used the full extent of his sensing ability and… Yikes. The psychic feedback hit him like a missed forbidden jutsu.
He'd expected the Uzumaki to be having a rough time, but this was less of a 'rough time' and more of a 'total system failure.'
Honestly, this was in fact the real reason he kept his mental radio tuned to 'mild static' in the first place.
Even without focusing, a part of him just knew the Uzumaki were getting clobbered, and his subconscious, being a bit of a softie, preferred not to watch the highlights.
His little chat-and-clash with Ryūkotsu had lasted what, five minutes? In that brief commercial break, fifty-three bright, vibrant Uzumaki chakra signatures had winked off the map.
The Kaguya weren't faring much better, but realistically, they were a clan who considered 'impalement' a friendly handshake.
A bunch of lunatics with bones in weird places.
It was a gut-punch, sure. But Murasake, a man who had personally depopulated the equivalent of a small tourist village, understood the brutal math.
Sometimes, to save a clan, you had to let it get a little banged up.
The Uzumaki had just woken up due to the attack on Kiri, but they were still in a daze because they were wrapped in the secure, fluffy blankets of Senju and Uchiha protection, thinking they'd picked ride-or-die allies and could return to sleeping after it's over.
But Murasake knew the score.
What happens when Konoha's own walls are shaking and the Uchiha and Senju must make a choice? Would they abandon their village and their people?
Therefore, the Uzumaki needed to learn to stand on their own two, currently very wobbly, legs.
Knowing it was necessary didn't mean he had to like it. He sighed.
"Alright, that's probably enough to completely wake up those youngsters," he muttered to himself. He shifted his gaze back to the Kaguya leader, his previously lazy demeanor solidifying into something terrifying. "Playtime's over, kid. I have to admit you've got spark. With a few decades of experience you may be worthy. Unfortunately for you…"
Normally, Ryūkotsu would have interrupted with some drooling rant about blood and ossification. But the Kaguya patriarch was silent, his cocky grin frozen.
This wasn't the playful pressure from before; this was the weight of a mountain. Ryūkotsu had once spat in the Mizukage's face for kicks, but this time, it felt like staring into the empty eye sockets of the Shinigami itself.
(END OF THE CHAPTER)
Really unlucky, woke up with burning throat and then with headache in the afternoon yesterday and even today, I'm not feeling well