Flame Breathing, Fifth Form — Flame Tiger.
Kyojiro's katana slashed through the air, its flaming arc carving a path of destruction toward the Kumo Jōnin. The man tried to block every strike at first, but the flurry was relentless—each blow flowed into the next, forcing his defense to crumble, revealing gaps in his stance.
Vulnerable places.
By the time Kyojiro's onslaught ended, the Jōnin's arms trembled violently, his muscles screaming under the pressure. The strain, the reflexive desperation, the sheer velocity of those attacks—it all left him gasping for control.
A droplet of sweat slid down his temple, trailing across the ridge of his jaw before falling. It drifted briefly through the air, tracing a slow descent toward his chest—until something shattered it apart.
A fist.
Kyojiro's hand shot upward, striking through the very opening the Kumo shinobi had left in that single moment of relaxation.
BOOM.
The sound echoed like a thunderclap. His monstrous strength—raw and untamed—smashed into the man's jaw with divine force, as though a celestial hammer had descended from the heavens. The Jōnin's body lifted off the ground, his neck twisting as though held together by threads.
His ligaments creaked. His vision dimmed. Darkness swallowed his consciousness.
Then, silence.
Kyojiro exhaled slowly, a faint sense of satisfaction flickering within him.
He turned, sliding his katana back into its sheath with a soft metallic click, and raised his eyes toward the three remaining Jōnin.
"Come," he muttered, voice calm but commanding.
The Kumo shinobi, who had spent the past minute analyzing the Uchiha's fighting pattern, felt an involuntary tremor in their hearts.
Immense strength, unmatched visual prowess, and swordsmanship reminiscent of a samurai.
It wasn't fear alone that gripped them—it was caution. If such a man were allowed to grow unchecked, he could one day rise to rival the White Fang of the Leaf.
Their gazes darkened.
Without another word, lightning crackled to life around their bodies, illuminating their silhouettes as they lunged forward. Their speed surged—reflexes sharpened by the electricity coursing through their veins.
They moved in perfect synchronization. One went for his neck, another for his spine, and the last for his groin.
Any other shinobi—even a skilled Jōnin—would have been overwhelmed.
But Kyojiro merely smirked.
He had just the technique for this situation.
Flame Breathing, Fourth Form — Blooming Flame Undulation.
His katana spun through the air in a graceful circular arc, the flames tracing its edge like a living serpent. The motion flowed effortlessly, deflecting every kunai with elegant precision.
Metal clanged. Sparks burst. In an instant, the coordinated attack was nullified.
The moment their kunai fell from their grasp, Kyojiro leapt forward. Both legs shot out straight, his twin kicks landing flush against two of the Jōnin's faces.
Yet credit where it was due—their reactions were sharp. Even caught off guard, they raised their arms at the last moment, taking the brunt of the impact through sheer instinct.
Still, the realization hit them all at once. Fighting this man in close quarters was suicide. Even three against one wouldn't guarantee victory—only unnecessary wounds.
The trio immediately backed off, repositioning themselves.
But one swordsman, the same Kyojiro had kicked earlier, seized the brief opening. Using his momentum, he lunged from behind, his blade glinting with murderous intent.
Kyojiro's senses screamed. His body tensed before his mind could react, goosebumps crawling down his back.
The blade was inches away from his spine—a clean killing thrust.
SWISH.
Instead of turning around, Kyojiro ducked, tilting his head to the side. He wasn't fast enough to evade at such close range, so he did the next best thing—he redirected the blow.
Steel tore into flesh.
The sword pierced his left shoulder, sending a shock of pain through his arm. He grunted but didn't retreat. Instead, he surged forward, ripping himself free from the blade.
His movements were fluid—unbroken.
He spun, katana blazing. Flame Breathing, First Form — Unknowing Fire.
Kyojiro's figure blurred, dashing forward in a line of flame. But something was different now.
Flame Breathing was meant for two hands. It demanded balance, precision, and raw power. Yet his shoulder, bleeding and half-frozen from pain, refused to move.
The attack connected, but the impact was weaker. His opponent held his ground, no longer buckling under Kyojiro's force.
For the first time in the fight, they stood evenly matched.
Kyojiro's eyes widened. Fuck.
But before he could reset his stance, the enemy retreated instantly—disbanding formation.
He didn't need to look to understand why. His instincts flared as chakra surged to his feet.
Body Flicker.
In the next moment, he turned, just as three brilliant streaks of lightning came crashing down toward him. The smell of ozone filled the air; static hissed against his skin.
Their power was immense, tearing through the battlefield, scorching the soil beneath.
Before the lightning struck, Kyojiro vanished.
His figure blurred out of sight.
The next second, the bolts collided, erupting into a massive crater and shrouding everything in a cloud of dust and smoke.
Kyojiro's eyes narrowed through the haze. A blind spot…
A spark of strategy ignited in his mind. His hands flashed through seals in rapid succession, forming a shadow clone in an instant.
He made sure the clone looked convincing—its arm missing, blood smeared across its body, as though it had barely survived the lightning strike.
But he wasn't done.
Instead of summoning more clones, he activated the Transformation Jutsu.
The jutsu allowed him to morph into any object he visualized, though it came with limits. The longer it lasted, the more chakra it consumed. And the smaller the transformed object, the easier it was to detect due to the leaking chakra signature.
But Kyojiro's plan accounted for that.
He transformed into a dark, flattened silhouette and pressed himself against the ground—thin as paper, blending perfectly with the battlefield's shadow.
A shadow to his own clone.
Effectively erasing the weakness of the Clone Jutsu.
Moments later, from the smoke and rubble, a wounded Kyojiro—missing an arm and barely standing—staggered forward. His breaths came in ragged bursts, blood dripping freely.
He charged headlong toward the three Kumo Jōnin.
To his imminent death.
Or was he?
.....
Tell me how you likes this fight scene and if I should keep writting like this.
Also any takes on the story, something I can more or better( other than romance )