The air reeked of blood and ozone. The shinobi scrunched their noses, eyes wary and sharp. None of them blinked when the wind howled past, nor when the wall of dust before them was finally blown apart.
Their hearts hammered in their chests as they took in the sight of Kyojiro Uchiha—the fiery-haired shinobi who had nearly caught them all off guard—now standing half-broken, looking as if one foot was already in the coffin.
His once-blond hair, now tinged and matted with blood, burned a deeper red under the lightning-streaked sky. His eyes, stripped of the Sharingan's glow, looked dull, empty—ordinary.
His right arm was gone, reduced to a stump of bone and shredded flesh, blood dripping freely down his body. Yet even in that broken form, there was something unyielding in his gaze. A fire that refused to die out.
Despite their urge to scoff at him—to dismiss a crippled man still daring to fight—they couldn't.
Even the swordsman who had attacked him from behind earlier felt his throat tighten as Kyojiro, single-armed and staggering, charged straight toward him.
He raised his sword, lightning flickering around his body, his stance solid despite the turmoil within.
To survive the combined attack of five Jōnin and still keep going… Whoever you are, you deserve respect.
But respect didn't win wars. And respect never turned enemies into friends.
As soon as Kyojiro entered striking range, the man lunged forward, his blade slicing toward the wounded Konoha shinobi.
And then, he felt it.
A cold, invisible presence—like the soft claws of death—loomed behind him.
His breath hitched. Sweat poured down his spine in rivulets. His eyes flickered downward instinctively—and froze.
Beneath his feet stretched a shadow darker than the night, writhing as if alive.
His pupils widened. Alive?
And then he saw them—two crimson orbs glowing from within the darkness, revolving like twin suns drenched in malice.
His body screamed in panic. No way—this, how could I have misread—
SWISH
SLICE
"Keurgh—!" A mouthful of blood burst out, splattering across the ground. Pain tore through his body as a sharp blade carved through his throat. His hands trembled; his eyes went wide.
The wounded Kyojiro—the one charging helplessly—flickered and vanished.
Only the real one remained, standing behind him.
SWISH
Kyojiro twisted his katana in a perfect 180-degree arc, and the blade sliced clean through the man's neck.
THUD.
The head rolled across the ground before stopping at the feet of the remaining three Jōnin.
For the first time that night, Kyojiro saw fear in their eyes.
I'm coming for you.
Flame Breathing — First Form: Unknowing Fire.
BOOM.
The ground split beneath his feet as chakra burst outward, cracks spiderwebbing in all directions. In the blink of an eye, Kyojiro vanished, reappearing beside the leftmost Jōnin.
His blade swept horizontally, aiming straight for the man's neck. But before it could reach flesh, the other two unleashed their ninjutsu.
Bolts of lightning flashed across the field—faster, brighter, deadlier than before.
Kyojiro's Sharingan whirled, pupils darting to his right. In his eyes, even lightning seemed sluggish.
I see... They're all ninjutsu specialists. The closer I am, the weaker their jutsu becomes.
He stomped his foot into the ground and shifted instantly, dodging the lightning bolt by a hair's breadth. His hands blurred through signs.
Fire Style — Fireball Jutsu!
A colossal orb of flame burst from his mouth, roaring through the air like a miniature sun. The Jōnin were caught completely off guard, scattering apart in panic.
Lightning coated their bodies again as they moved, their speed impressive—for ordinary Jōnin.
However… I am far from ordinary.
Kyojiro's eyes locked onto the one who had separated from the others—isolated, exposed.
CRACK. BOOM.
He launched forward, closing the distance in an instant. His katana descended with brutal precision.
CLANG!
The Jōnin barely blocked in time, kunai meeting steel midair. The force of the clash vibrated through both their arms.
With only one hand, Kyojiro's swordsmanship had lost its raw power—but not its precision. His strikes came fluid and unpredictable, each one testing his opponent's rhythm.
SWISH. BOOM. CLASH. TING.
Their weapons danced in a storm of sparks and motion. Within seconds, they exchanged dozens of blows—yet Kyojiro's superiority in technique was undeniable.
Tilting his head to dodge a straight jab, Kyojiro twisted, chakra surging into his limbs. His body moved on instinct, honed by a lifetime of battle.
BOOM!
"Keurghh!" the Jōnin screamed as Kyojiro's heel crashed into his ribs, the back kick nearly caving in his left side. Bone cracked under the pressure, the sound sharp and sickening.
Before the man could even recover, Kyojiro spun in midair. His sword carved through the wind in a perfect circle before cleaving downward with terrifying momentum.
SLICE!
By the time Kyojiro landed, the man had been split diagonally from shoulder to hip.
Blood and viscera spilled onto the ground, steaming in the heat of the flames. The Jōnin's eyes remained open, wide with disbelief—even in death.
Kyojiro turned away, jaw tightening. Despite the carnage, despite the blood dripping down his body, there was no cruelty in his gaze.
May you rest in peace... even if I'm a hypocrite for saying it.
His shaken heart hardened once more. Idealism was a luxury he could no longer afford. There were still two Jōnin left—and both were moving.
They had already regrouped, launching a barrage of shuriken toward him, aiming to keep him trapped.
Kyojiro's hands blurred. Body Flicker.
His figure vanished, reappearing at the far end of the field, dust spiraling around him. He grabbed his katana once more with his remaining hand, blood dripping down his forearm.
Fire Style — Fireball Jutsu!
Another massive orb of fire roared from his lungs, its heat searing the battlefield. His chakra reserves thinned with each breath, his body growing heavier.
But he wasn't done yet.
To end this—to truly take down two skilled Jōnin at once—he had to give it everything.
His hands blurred again, fingers forming a familiar sequence of seals.
Fire Style — Phoenix Sage Flower Nail Crimson!
Kunai left his hand, glinting under the firelight before being enveloped in swirling crimson flames.
The air trembled from the heat as the burning weapons shot forward like meteors.
Kyojiro's chakra plummeted to half of what remained, his breathing ragged—but his focus unbroken.
This battle was far from over