Chapter 2
When the Mist Closed
They knew something was wrong before the first blade showed itself.
The forest along the riverbank had gone quiet in a way that wasn't natural. Not the peaceful quiet of dawn, not the tired hush after rain—but the kind that pressed in, dense and watchful, like breath held too long. Kakashi felt it before he saw it: the slight hitch in the wind, the way the water's surface stopped reflecting the sky and instead mirrored only gray.
"Kurenai," he murmured without turning. "Genjutsu radius?"
She had already closed her eyes.
"Wide," she said softly. "Too wide."
That was when the fog rolled in.
It didn't pour. It unfolded—thin threads of mist sliding between tree trunks, pooling low, then rising until the forest became a maze of white corridors. Chakra-rich. Heavy. Deliberate.
Asuma's hand went to his trench knives. "Mist doesn't move like this on its own."
"No," Kakashi said. His Sharingan spun to life, red cutting through the pale veil. "It doesn't."
The first sword came from below.
Not swung—thrust, straight up through the damp earth, its edge ripping free in a spray of mud and roots. Kakashi leapt back as the blade whistled past where his ribs had been, its surface pitted and brutal, teeth-like notches running along the edge.
Samehada's cousin, his mind supplied instantly.
Then the fog screamed.
Seven figures emerged in a widening arc, silhouettes resolving into armor, bandages, and steel. Each carried a blade that looked less like a weapon and more like an executioner's argument—cleavers, needles, chains, a sword wrapped in explosive tags that clicked softly as chakra fed into them.
The Seven Swordsmen of the Mist.
And behind them, the fog thickened again.
The temperature dropped.
The water at the river's edge parted.
Yagura stepped forward, small and calm, his expression placid in a way that made Kakashi's instincts howl. The air bent subtly around him, pressure coiling like a held breath.
"The Copy Ninja," the Mizukage said mildly. "And the Sarutobi boy. How fortunate."
Asuma spat to the side. "You bring an army for three jonin?"
Yagura tilted his head. "No. We brought precision."
The swordsmen moved.
Not together—layered. Two rushed Asuma head-on, blades heavy and brutal, forcing him into a defensive retreat. One vanished entirely, chakra flickering as he sank into the fog itself. Another leapt high, sword spinning, raining needle-thin senbon laced with poison.
Kakashi blurred into motion, lightning cracking as Raikiri tore through the mist, deflecting steel and flesh alike. He clipped one swordsman across the chest, blood spraying—but the man didn't fall. He laughed, wet and broken, and came again.
"They don't care," Kakashi snapped. "They're not pulling back."
"Because they don't need to," Kurenai said.
She stepped forward.
Her chakra flared—not violently, but with terrible precision. The world tilted.
Suddenly there were twelve Kakashis. Six Asumas. The fog deepened, folding in on itself, reflections of reflections spiraling outward. The swordsmen hesitated for half a heartbeat—just long enough.
Asuma took it.
His trench knives flashed, wind chakra screaming as he carved through illusion and flesh alike, severing an arm, crushing a throat. One swordsman went down gurgling, another stumbled—
—and Yagura clapped once.
The genjutsu shattered like glass.
Kurenai staggered, blood spilling from her nose as backlash tore through her senses. Her eyes widened.
"He broke it," she whispered.
Yagura's gaze met hers.
Genjutsu met genjutsu.
The world inverted.
Kurenai gasped as her feet left the ground, illusionary chains snapping tight around her limbs, dragging her mind into freezing water. She fought—harder than most ever could—but this wasn't a contest of skill.
It was dominance.
A blade slid out of the fog.
It pierced her back just below the shoulder blade, clean and merciless.
Kurenai didn't scream.
She only looked surprised.
"Kurenai!" Asuma roared.
He broke formation, slammed into the swordsman who'd struck her, snapping the man's neck with a raw, furious motion—but it cost him.
A cleaver slammed into his side.
Ribs shattered. Blood sprayed dark and heavy.
Asuma crashed to one knee, breath ripping out of him in a wet gasp. His knives fell from numb fingers.
Kakashi reached for him—
—and the river exploded.
Yagura moved.
Not fast. Absolute.
Water surged upward, forming a crushing spiral that slammed Kakashi back into a tree hard enough to splinter bark. Pressure pinned him, chakra screaming in protest as the Mizukage advanced, eyes cold and unreadable.
"Run," Kurenai said.
Her voice was faint.
Asuma turned just in time to see another sword rise.
Kurenai smiled at him—small, tired, apologetic.
Then the blade fell.
When it was over, her body hit the ground without ceremony.
The fog swallowed the sound.
Something broke inside Asuma.
He forced himself upright, lungs burning, blood filling his mouth. He didn't look at her again. Couldn't.
"Kakashi," he growled. "Get out."
Kakashi struggled against the water prison, Sharingan spinning wildly. "We're not leaving—"
"You are," Asuma said, stepping between Kakashi and the swordsmen, trench knives igniting again despite his shattered side. "That's an order."
The Seven Swordsmen closed in.
Yagura watched.
And somewhere far away, unseen and still running, Might Guy was already too late.
Asuma Sarutobi should have been dead already.
By every rule of anatomy he knew, by every lesson drilled into him since childhood, the damage to his side alone should have dropped him unconscious. Three ribs were shattered inward; one had punctured a lung. Blood slicked his fingers every time he breathed. His chakra coils felt like frayed wire—each attempt to draw on them sent pain flashing white-hot up his spine.
And yet he stood.
The fog churned around him, broken by churned earth and fallen bodies. Kurenai lay somewhere behind him; he refused to look. The knowledge of her death pressed against his back like a blade he chose not to turn toward his own heart. If he looked, he would stop. If he stopped, Kakashi would die.
That was the math.
Two of the Seven Swordsmen advanced, blades low and patient now. They had learned. The one Asuma had killed lay twisted near the riverbank, neck broken at an impossible angle, but there was no hesitation in the others—only a tightening of formation.
Yagura stood apart, hands folded, eyes fixed on Asuma with mild curiosity.
"You're inefficient," the Mizukage observed. "Your stance is collapsing. Your breath is off-rhythm."
Asuma wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled through red teeth. "Then stop watching and come finish it yourself."
Yagura's expression did not change. "No."
The swordsmen lunged.
Asuma met them head-on.
Wind chakra roared as he forced it into his trench knives, shaping it with raw stubbornness rather than finesse. The blades extended, invisible edges screaming as they bit into steel. He ducked under a cleaver, pivoted, severed tendons at the knee of one attacker, then drove his shoulder into the second, using the man's momentum to hurl him into a tree hard enough to crack bark.
Pain flared bright and blinding. His vision tunneled. He tasted iron and ash.
He stayed upright by refusing to fall.
Behind him, Kakashi struggled against the water prison Yagura had formed, lightning flickering uselessly against the dense chakra shell. Every second Asuma held was another second Kakashi might break free.
Another blade struck.
This one bit deep into Asuma's thigh, nearly dropping him. He roared—not in pain, but in fury—and brought both knives down in a cross, decapitating the swordsman in a spray of blood and mist.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield stilled.
Then Yagura moved.
Water surged, slamming into Asuma like a wall. He flew backward, crashed into the ground, skidding through mud and shattered roots. His knives were gone. His body refused to answer when he tried to rise.
Yagura approached, unhurried.
"This is where you die," the Mizukage said quietly. "Your resistance has been… instructional."
Asuma laughed, a wet, broken sound. "Figures. Always thought I'd go out somewhere stupid."
Yagura raised one hand.
The water around them began to compress.
And then the fog exploded.
Not outward—apart.
A shockwave tore through the battlefield, scattering mist like torn cloth. Trees bent. Water sheared sideways. Several swordsmen staggered, suddenly off-balance as the pressure they had relied on vanished in an instant.
Yagura's eyes narrowed.
A green blur crossed the field.
The ground cratered where it landed.
Might Guy stood between Asuma and the Mizukage, chest heaving, eyes already burning with an intensity that made the air around him tremble. His vest was torn, blood streaked his arms, and his breath came too fast—he had been running hard, far past safe limits, driven by something close to panic.
He took in the scene in one glance.
The bodies.
The fog.
Asuma broken and bleeding.
Kurenai's still form in the distance.
Something inside him snapped.
"I'm sorry," Guy said softly. He didn't know to whom.
Then he opened the First Gate.
Chakra surged. Muscles tightened. The world sharpened.
The Second followed immediately. Then the Third.
He did not pause.
The ground shattered under his feet as he vanished, reappearing inside the swordsmen's formation. A kick obliterated one man's chest. A backhand crushed another's skull. Bone and blood sprayed outward as Guy moved faster than sight, faster than sound, each strike a precise, merciless erasure.
The Fourth Gate opened.
Steam poured from his body in white-hot sheets. The air screamed around him as he moved, each step cracking earth, each punch collapsing space with concussive force.
Yagura reacted instantly, water rising in towering walls, forming spears, chains, crushing waves.
Guy tore through them.
The Fifth Gate.
His skin burned. His muscles screamed. He felt tendons tearing, felt his own body beginning to fail—but he pushed past it, expression twisted not with rage but with grief sharpened into violence.
"Move!" he shouted without looking back.
Kakashi felt the water prison fail.
Lightning tore free as he collapsed to one knee, gasping, eyes wide as he took in the devastation unfolding before him.
Guy was no longer fighting.
He was holding the world apart.
Two swordsmen attempted to flank him. Guy pivoted, fists glowing red-hot, and struck the ground between them. The shockwave launched both men into the air, where their bodies came apart mid-flight, limbs scattering like broken dolls.
The Sixth Gate opened.
Guy's roar shook the forest.
Blood streamed from his nose, ears, eyes. His heart hammered like it wanted to burst free of his chest. He felt something tear in his leg—ignored it. He felt his vision blur—forced it clear.
Yagura finally advanced, water cloak surging, chakra dense and oppressive.
"This ends now," the Mizukage said.
Guy met his gaze.
"No," he replied. "It doesn't."
The Seventh Gate exploded open.
The air ignited.
Heat rolled across the battlefield in waves. Trees smoldered. The river boiled where Guy passed over it, steam screaming skyward. His body glowed red, cracks of energy spiderwebbing across his skin.
He struck Yagura.
Once.
The impact detonated like a bomb. Water vaporized. The Mizukage was hurled backward, slamming through three trees before crashing into stone hard enough to crater it.
The remaining swordsmen hesitated.
Guy turned toward them.
And opened the Eighth Gate.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then hell arrived.
Guy's chakra erupted outward in a pillar of burning red, the pressure so intense it forced Kakashi to shield his eyes. The ground beneath Guy disintegrated, turning to molten stone. Every heartbeat felt like a thunderclap.
Guy moved.
Not fast.
Final.
Each step annihilated space itself. He tore through the battlefield in a straight line, fists and kicks reducing enemies to vapor, the shockwaves flattening trees and hurling bodies hundreds of meters away. The swordsmen did not die screaming—they died instantly, erased by force beyond resistance.
Yagura rose, blood streaking his face, eyes wide with something dangerously close to awe.
"This technique," he breathed. "You will die."
Guy did not answer.
He struck again.
The world broke.
Good. Continuing directly. No recap, no filler.
Below is Chapter 2 – Part 3, written to the same scale as before (≈10 standard MS Word pages, ~2.4–2.7k words).
Tone stays brutal. Consequences are permanent. No power-reset nonsense.
Chapter 2 – Part 3
What Victory Costs
The battlefield did not explode.
It ceased.
Sound vanished first. Then color. Then the very sense of distance, as if reality itself recoiled from the force tearing through it. Guy's final strike did not land with impact—it landed with finality.
Yagura tried to raise water.
There was no water left.
The river had been blown apart into mist, then driven skyward, then dispersed so completely that even moisture abandoned the air. The chakra cloak around the Mizukage fractured like glass under thermal shock.
Guy's fist connected.
The shockwave did not travel outward—it folded inward, compressing everything between Guy and his target into a collapsing sphere of pressure. Trees were not uprooted; they were flattened into splinters. Stone did not crack; it turned to powder.
Yagura flew.
He did not scream.
He vanished into the horizon like a discarded weapon, leaving behind a scar in the earth hundreds of meters long, a trench glowing red-hot at its edges.
The Eight Gates chakra flared one last time.
Then it faltered.
Guy dropped to one knee.
His body screamed its revolt all at once. Blood poured freely now, no longer restrained by will or adrenaline. His heart hammered erratically, each beat uneven, each breath a fight. His muscles had passed the point of tearing; they were shredding, fibers breaking down under stress meant to kill gods.
Steam poured off him in choking clouds.
Kakashi reached him in an instant, catching him as Guy collapsed forward.
"Idiot," Kakashi muttered, voice hoarse. "Absolute… suicidal idiot."
Guy smiled weakly, eyes already dimming. "You're alive."
Kakashi tightened his grip. "So are you. Don't you dare stop now."
Guy laughed once, quietly. "That's not… how this works."
Around them, the battlefield was unrecognizable. No intact bodies remained of the swordsmen—only scorched armor fragments, shattered blades, and dark stains burned into the ground. The forest was flattened in a wide radius, trees snapped or incinerated, the air still shimmering with residual heat.
Asuma coughed.
The sound snapped Kakashi's attention backward.
Asuma Sarutobi was still breathing.
Barely.
Kakashi moved instantly, laying Guy down with care that bordered on reverence before rushing to Asuma's side. One glance told him the truth—collapsed lung, massive internal bleeding, chakra exhaustion so severe it bordered on total coil failure.
Asuma's eyes fluttered open.
"Hey," he rasped. "You miss me?"
Kakashi swallowed hard. "You're not allowed to die. You know that rule."
Asuma smirked faintly. "Always hated rules."
Kakashi worked fast, hands steady despite the tremor in his chest. He sealed wounds, stabilized breathing as best he could, fed chakra where it might still matter. It felt like pouring water into cracked stone—but he did not stop.
Guy tried to sit up.
Failed.
Pain flared so violently that his vision went white. His body convulsed, muscles spasming as if rejecting his own skeleton. Kakashi looked over sharply.
"Don't move," Kakashi snapped. "If you tear anything else, Tsunade won't even be able to yell at you for it."
Guy's breath rattled. "Did… did we win?"
Kakashi looked at the ruined horizon.
"Yes," he said quietly. "We did."
That was when the ANBU arrived.
They moved like ghosts through the wreckage, masks impassive, formation tight despite the devastation. One knelt beside Guy immediately, another moved to Asuma, two more scanned the perimeter for threats that were no longer there.
"Enemy retreat confirmed," one reported. "Mizukage signature lost. Presumed forced withdrawal."
Kakashi nodded once. "Get them out. Now."
Extraction was not graceful.
Asuma was barely conscious when they lifted him. Guy drifted in and out, muttering apologies under his breath—to Kurenai, to Kakashi, to Lee, to names Kakashi didn't recognize.
By the time they reached Konoha's gates, night had fallen.
And by the time they reached the hospital—
Guy stopped breathing.
Not dramatically.
Just… stopped.
Monitors screamed.
Medics swarmed.
Tsunade arrived at a run, coat half-on, eyes sharp with the immediate understanding of what she was seeing. The Eight Gates had not merely damaged Guy—it had burned through him. His heart muscle was failing, chakra pathways charred, organs shutting down one by one.
"Get him prepped," she barked. "Now. If we're doing this, we do it immediately."
"Doing what?" Shizune asked, already moving.
Tsunade didn't look at her. "The thing I swore I'd never do again."
The operation lasted six hours.
No one left.
Kakashi stood outside the operating room the entire time, blood still crusted on his armor, hands clenched tight enough to crack bone. When the doors finally opened, Tsunade emerged looking ten years older.
"He's alive," she said.
Kakashi exhaled shakily.
"But," Tsunade continued, voice hard, "don't misunderstand that word. He will never fight the same way again. Ever. His body will never fully recover. The Eight Gates… took their payment."
Kakashi nodded. "He knew."
Tsunade studied him for a long moment. "Did he?"
Kakashi didn't answer.
Asuma survived surgery.
Barely.
He woke two days later, lungs burning, body weak beyond anything he'd ever known. Kurenai was not there. He did not ask why.
He already knew.
The village mourned quietly.
No public funerals. No speeches. Just black armbands, lowered voices, and long silences where laughter used to be. ANBU reports were sealed. The mission was classified S-rank failure turned miracle.
Guy slept for weeks.
When he finally woke, Lee was there.
Lee did not cry.
He knelt beside the bed, fists clenched, back straight, tears sliding silently down his face as Guy smiled at him, weak but alive.
"You were amazing," Lee whispered.
Guy closed his eyes. "No," he said softly. "I was late."
Outside, the world moved on.
But something fundamental had shifted.
The enemy had learned something they could never unlearn.
Konoha had warriors willing to burn themselves out of existence rather than fall.
And the price of that truth had been paid in blood.
Asuma Sarutobi died at dawn.
Not on a battlefield.
Not with a blade in his hand.
He died staring at the ceiling of Konoha Hospital, lungs failing one breath at a time, the smell of antiseptic heavy in the air. The war had already moved on without him. His body just hadn't gotten the message yet.
Kakashi was there.
He had been there the entire night, sitting in the chair by the bed, mask lowered, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced so tightly the knuckles had gone white hours ago. He hadn't spoken. Asuma hadn't asked him to.
They both understood this was borrowed time.
Asuma's breathing was shallow now. Each inhale whistled faintly, like air being dragged through torn cloth. His chest barely rose. Tsunade had warned them—the damage is systemic, not localized. No miracle jutsu. No clever seal. No last-second reversal.
This wasn't a problem chakra could fix.
Asuma turned his head slightly. It looked like it hurt.
"Kakashi," he said quietly.
Kakashi leaned forward instantly. "I'm here."
Asuma's lips twitched. "Figures. You always were bad at leaving."
Kakashi snorted once, a sharp, broken sound. "You're not allowed to talk. Save your strength."
Asuma ignored that completely. "Kurenai…"
Kakashi's jaw tightened.
"She fought hard," Kakashi said. He chose each word like it might explode if mishandled. "She saved lives."
Asuma closed his eyes.
"That's… good."
Silence stretched. The monitor beeped steadily, almost offensively calm.
"You know," Asuma continued after a moment, voice weaker now, "old man always talked about the Will of Fire like it was… simple. Protect the next generation. Sacrifice if you have to."
Kakashi didn't answer.
Asuma smiled faintly. "Turns out it's heavier than it sounds."
His breathing hitched.
"Kakashi," he said again, more urgently now. "When this gets worse—when they start doing things they can't take back—"
Kakashi stiffened. "Don't."
"—promise me," Asuma pushed on, coughing hard, a thin line of blood appearing at the corner of his mouth, "that you won't let them pretend it was easy."
Kakashi stood abruptly, turning away.
"You're not dying," he said flatly. "So stop talking like it."
Asuma laughed weakly. "Liar."
The monitor stuttered.
Once.
Twice.
Tsunade was already moving, hands glowing, chakra flooding into Asuma's chest with desperate precision. Shizune followed instantly. Medics rushed in. Orders flew.
Kakashi didn't move.
He watched.
He had seen this before. Too many times.
Asuma's eyes found his again.
"Take care of… him," Asuma whispered. "Guy's going to need… someone to yell at him."
Kakashi swallowed.
"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "I'll do that."
Asuma exhaled.
And did not inhale again.
The monitor flatlined.
Tsunade's hands stayed on Asuma's chest for several seconds longer than necessary. When she finally stopped, her shoulders sagged—just a little.
"Time of death," she said quietly. "05:42."
No one spoke.
Kakashi stood there long after the others left, staring at the still form on the bed. The cigarette case on the bedside table caught his eye—metal dented, scorched at the edges.
A small, stupid detail.
It hurt anyway.
The news reached the Hokage Tower before the sun had fully risen.
Hiruzen Sarutobi was already awake. He had not slept properly since the first reports of the coordinated assault began coming in. Scrolls littered his desk—casualty lists, damage assessments, ANBU intelligence marked TOP SECRET in thick red ink.
Danzo stood opposite him, hands folded inside his sleeves, expression unreadable.
"Confirm it," Hiruzen said quietly.
Danzo inclined his head. "Asuma Sarutobi is deceased. Kurenai Yuhi confirmed KIA two days prior. Might Guy survives but is permanently incapacitated."
Hiruzen closed his eyes.
For a long moment, the room was silent except for the faint crackle of the pipe in his hand.
"I told him," Hiruzen murmured. "I told him to stay back."
Danzo said nothing.
"They were children," Hiruzen continued, voice tight. "All of them. Brilliant, stubborn children who believed they could hold the world together with their bare hands."
Danzo's visible eye narrowed slightly. "And they almost did."
Hiruzen opened his eyes, sharp now. "At what cost?"
Danzo stepped forward. "At the cost of hesitation."
Hiruzen slammed his pipe down on the desk. Ash scattered.
"You think I hesitate because I'm afraid?" Hiruzen snapped. "I hesitate because once certain lines are crossed, they cannot be uncrossed."
Danzo did not flinch. "And how many more funerals will that principle require?"
Hiruzen stood, anger flaring. "Do not use my son's death as leverage."
Danzo's voice hardened. "Then don't pretend this is about morality alone. Edo Tensei exists. It always has. You banned it because it offended your sensibilities—not because it was ineffective."
Hiruzen turned away, fists clenched behind his back.
"Do you know what it means," he said slowly, "to bind the dead to endless war? To strip them of rest, of dignity?"
"Yes," Danzo replied without hesitation. "It means the living survive."
Hiruzen's voice broke. "Asuma believed in the Will of Fire. Not this."
Danzo stepped closer. "Asuma believed in protecting the village. He died doing exactly that."
The words landed like a blade.
Hiruzen sagged slightly, suddenly looking every one of his years. "Guy burned his future away. Kurenai never came home. Asuma—" His voice faltered. "Asuma never even got a chance to say goodbye."
Danzo waited.
"You tell me," Hiruzen said quietly, "that using Edo Tensei will make their deaths mean something."
Danzo met his gaze. "I tell you their deaths mean nothing if Konoha falls next."
Silence.
Then—
A knock.
An ANBU operative entered, kneeling. "Hokage-sama. Enemy movements confirmed. The allied villages are regrouping. They believe Konoha is… spent."
Danzo allowed himself a thin smile.
Hiruzen stared at the floor.
Spent.
He thought of Asuma as a child, clinging to his robes. Of Guy laughing through broken bones. Of Kurenai's calm voice in briefing rooms that would never hear it again.
Slowly, painfully, Hiruzen straightened.
"Summon Orochimaru," he said.
Danzo's eye widened—just a fraction.
"And," Hiruzen added, voice iron now, "begin preparations. If we do this… we do it properly. No half-measures. No experiments."
Danzo bowed deeply. "As you command."
Hiruzen turned back to the window, looking out over the village.
"Forgive me," he whispered, to no one and everyone. "I wanted a better answer."
Outside, the sun rose over Konoha.
And the dead began to stir.