The pressure stunned Ryūkotsu for a while, then he couldn't help but grin because he liked this kind of pressure; he was even looking forward to what kind of trick the old man would come up with.
Murasake, for his part, would have rather swallowed a live scorpion than use this jutsu, but he knew if he wanted to end this fight fast, he could only do so by using his biggest masterpiece—a technique so stupidly demanding that the current crop of Uzumaki toddlers—er, youths under thirty—would rupture something just reading the scroll.
The prerequisites were a joke: First, master the Adamantine Sealing Chains (which immediately weeded out every Uzumaki who wasn't a certified freak of nature).
Second, possess either the vitality of a tailed beast or Yang chakra control so refined you could probably heal a splintered soul.
In his prime, Murasake hadn't just met these requirements—he'd tripped over them and then built a monument in their honor.
The technique was brutally simple: take the chains linked to your very body and soul, and set them on fire. Not with flame, but with raw, life-burning Yang chakra.
"Kagutsuchi no Kusari (Chains of the Sun-Searing Hearth)!"
The vibrant gold of the chains shone, then erupted into a luminous, terrifying emerald green, which honestly made it appear less intimidating.
But strangely, Ryūkotsu's instincts were warning him, and he even felt the base of his spine go cold.
He didn't recognize the technique—his knowledge of secret clan arts was roughly on par with his knowledge of flower arrangement—but his dragon gut was screaming.
Murasake, for his part, wasn't about to give a lecture. He was literally burning daylight with every second counting.
The attack itself was deceptively straightforward, simply a reenactment of their first clash: one chain lanced forward, a simple spear of intent, with several others coiling behind to strike.
Ryūkotsu's earlier smirk had frozen. He was cautious now, muscles coiled, but his arrogance still clung on. So what if the chains changed color? Really not a big deal. Unless they could erase him from existence, he'd just tank it and then tear this old fool in—
The thought died halfway through his skull.
There wasn't time to think, only to move—and thanks to a lifetime of near-misses and outright disasters, his body moved before his brain could finish screaming, flinging himself backward.
What in the name of all that was holy had he just seen? His bone—the same spear-like shard that had pierced armored flesh—had, upon touching those eerie chains, simply… disintegrated into dust.
A single, crystal-clear realization punched through the panic: Oh. I have massively fucked up.
In a flash, every life choice that led him here played in his mind. Why had he treated this like a game? Why hadn't he used the Larch Dance and ended this earlier, when he had the chance?
But he had no time for regret before a second wave of chains, shrieking like damned souls, was already carving through the air toward him.
His eyes darted to Murasake. The man's face was the color of old parchment, sweat sheening his brow.
'He can't keep this up for long,' Ryūkotsu thought, a spark of grim hope igniting. It grated on every single one of his prideful bones, but the math was simple: defend, dodge, survive. Wait for the smug bastard to burn himself out.
Murasake, however, was fresh out of patience.
Knowing delay was death, Ryūkotsu tapped into the one technique he'd never quite mastered, the one that made his own chakra feel wild and rebellious, slamming his palms to the earth.
"Sawarabi no Mai (Dance of the Seedling Fern)!"
The ground erupted.
Murasake's eyes went wide.
'Impossible,' he thought. Among the battle-crazed Kaguya lunatics he'd dismantled over the years, he'd never actually seen this legendary technique.
But as a scholar of every jutsu under the sun, he recognized it instantly—a forest of bone erupting from the earth, inescapable, a grinder of flesh.
His body moved on instinct, a desperate leap backwards. Yet, as a deadly thicket of bone spears shot skyward, his panic cooled into analysis.
The range was limited; the density, underwhelming. This wasn't the perfected, apocalyptic grove of legend.
A slow, bloodless smile spread across Murasake's face. The monster had a trump card, but he'd played it poorly.
"Is that all?" Murasake called out, his voice regaining its taunting melody. "I expected a forest… and you offer me a thicket!"
But Murasake had to hand it to the young Kaguya patriarch because he'd played this hand brilliantly.
He could feel his own life force flickering like a candle in a hurricane. The lad had gained precious seconds. Speaking of it, Murasake knew he couldn't last more than ten seconds using this Jutsu.
Just as he was mentally drafting his very dramatic, very final stand—
"That's enough, Elder Murasake!"
The voice cut through the tension, as a red-haired middle-aged man appeared at Murasake's side.
Murasake didn't even need to turn because he'd recognize that chakra signature anywhere—Mugetsu, the actual leader of this Uzumaki assault, and currently looking about as pleased as a cat in a rainstorm.
As the man in charge, Mugetsu had fully expected to square off against the Kaguya patriarch himself—a sprightly foe almost two decades his junior, which he found not bad as a matchup.
But then Murasake, in the timeless tradition of powerful elders everywhere, had waved him off with a 'Let me stretch my bones, boy!' And Mugetsu, who respected the old man's strength and wisdom, had relented.
Now, after just a few moments of politely disassembling a squad of Kaguya elders, he turned to find Murasake basically trying to ignite his own vitality against a lunatic not worth it.
'Respect for one's elders is one thing,' Mugetsu fumed internally, 'but watching one commit suicide by jutsu is where I draw the line!'
His expression left no room for negotiation. It was the same face a mother makes when she finds her child trying to adopt a scorpion.
Murasake took one look at him and sighed, the vibrantly glowing chains around him dissolving like mist.
Ryūkotsu stood frozen, a bone spear still clutched in his hand. His showdown… had just been parented.
"Wha…? Huh?!" he sputtered, his jaw unhinging slightly. "We were in the middle of a glorious life-and-death struggle! A clash of fates! And you just… stop?!"
He wasn't even taunting anymore. He was genuinely, soul-crushingly confused.
"I'd heard the Uzumaki were cautious," he muttered, voice thick with devastation, "but this is just an insult to the art of fighting! Where's your passion? Your fire? Your willingness to die?!"
A throbbing vein announced itself on Mugetsu's temple, pulsing in time with his rising blood pressure.
First, Murasake had the audacity to use Kagutsuchi no Kusari, burning his life, and now Ryūkotsu was launching into a monologue about… honor?
'We're shinobi, you absolute turnip,' Mugetsu thought, his eye twitching. 'We hide in trees, we poison wells, we fake our own deaths for tactical advantage. Since when did 'fair fight' enter our vocabulary?'
He watched Ryūkotsu gesture dramatically, spouting something about pristine combat and ancestral pride. A profound, soul-deep weariness settled over Mugetsu.
He was from the Kaguya clan. It explained everything. The whole bloodline was a case study in magnificent, bone-sprouting insanity.
Well, if the world insisted on handing him broken, raving tools, then Mugetsu would just have to be the fixer. As a matter of fact, he was exceptionally good at repairs. And sometimes, fixing something required taking it apart first.
(END OF THE CHAPTER)
I know, a little bit too short, and I would either make this fight end or change POV in the next chapter but either way, I feel like I'm not longer getting bored writing fighting scenario which feels good, and don't forget to vote please guys!