Chapter 89: Sound of Rain, Shadow of Sword
The heart of the Rain Country. Rain fell in a constant, mournful sigh. Even under the dense canopy, it found a way through, a persistent drip-drip-drip onto the sodden forest floor. But inside the cave, behind the curtain of vines, it was an island of dry warmth.
Tsunade sat cross-legged, eyes closed, cycling her chakra through meditation. The wounds on her body were crudely bandaged, not yet healed—a risk for infection.
After a long while, she let out a slow breath and opened her eyes. She glanced at Ragnar, who was leaning against the stone wall nearby, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. "My chakra reserves are nearly restored," she announced.
"Hn," Ragnar grunted, not looking up.
"Next, I need to treat my injuries," she said, her tone implying the obvious.
"Hn." Another non-committal sound.
A visible tick mark throbbed on Tsunade's temple. Her fist clenched. The urge to smack this suddenly-infuriating little brother was overwhelming.
"THEN GET OUT!"
Ragnar's head snapped up, genuine confusion in his eyes. "What?"
A moment later, understanding dawned. Her injuries were extensive, crusted with blood and grime from days of pursuit. The smell… was less than fresh. He subtly crinkled his nose.
That tiny gesture was the final straw. Tsunade saw red. "OUT! NOW!" she pointed a trembling finger at the cave entrance.
"Sister Tsunade… it's pouring outside," Ragnar said, his voice flat.
"You—a ninja who carves through Iwa jonin like they're practice dummies—are scared of a little rain?!" she shot back, rolling her eyes so hard it hurt.
"Tch. No one loves an orphan," he sighed with exaggerated melancholy, shoulders slumping as he turned and trudged out of the cave.
Tsunade watched him go, a wave of exasperated fondness washing over her. That brat… She shook her head, then brought her hands together. A soft, green glow—the Mystical Palm Technique—illuminated her palm as she gently pressed it against a deep gash on her side.
Outside, Ragnar had no intention of peeking. He remembered the stories—the legendary pervert Jiraiya's near-death experience after a similar attempt. Some lines weren't worth crossing, even in curiosity. Besides, at his core, he was still a nine-year-old in a body and mind pushed far beyond its years. Tsunade's trust, treating him as an adult, was a privilege he wouldn't violate.
He leapt onto a sturdy branch overlooking the cave mouth. The rain was a constant patter on leaves, a rhythm that filled the world. He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to listen.
He let his Observation Haki, Level 4, unfurl like an invisible net. He didn't just sense chakra or malice. He listened—to the rain. Each drop's journey, its impact, the way it pooled and trickled. His perception expanded, blending with the natural symphony. For a moment, he felt a profound connection, as if the 1,500-meter sphere of his awareness was an extension of his own body. The efficiency with which he passively drew in wisps of natural energy, converting them to nascent senjutsu chakra, seemed to double. Here, in the heart of the storm he'd helped create, he found a strange, powerful peace.
Absolute awareness…
Huh?
A discordant note. A familiar chakra signature, flickering and weak, blipped into the edge of his perception. It was moving erratically, pursued by another, sharper, more aggressive signature.
Why is he here? And in trouble… Ragnar's mind calculated swiftly. Tsunade was vulnerable, mid-healing. He couldn't leave her unguarded.
His hands formed the familiar seal. "Shadow Clone Jutsu."
A puff of smoke, and an identical Ragnar stood beside him on the branch.
"Guard Lady Tsunade. Do not let anyone approach the cave," the original ordered.
The clone grinned, a confident, cocky smirk that was pure Ragnar. "Relax, boss. Even as a fraction, I can handle any stray jonin who wanders by. Their head will be a new ornament for this tree."
Ragnar gave a curt nod. Shave! He vanished, a streak of black and red shooting through the rain-washed trees.
The clone watched him go, then chuckled to itself. "Heh. Showing off again…"
A Clearing, Several Hundred Meters Away
The scene was one of grim pursuit turned standoff. Konoha ANBU Operative 'Tengu' stood, breathing heavily, her black uniform torn in several places, revealing pale skin beneath and stains of dark blood. Her mask, shaped like a long-nosed goblin, was cracked.
Facing her was a figure also clad in dark attire, but with the distinct insignia of Sunagakure on his shoulder guard. Suna ANBU, Jiro of the Kunomiya Clan. The hunter had become the hunted.
"You're among the better Konoha hounds I've put down," Jiro stated, his voice a dry rasp. "But you're outmatched."
In his hands, he held a sword. It was a straight, double-edged blade of simple, deadly elegance. Along its length, faint, glowing seals pulsed—the mark of the Kusanagi Clan's legendary craftsmanship. A Kusanagi Sword. How it came to be in Suna's possession was a mystery, but its power was not. It elevated Jiro, a Special Jonin, to the lethality of a full-fledged combat jonin.
Tengu knew she was in trouble. The difference in rank was bad enough. The sword made it a death sentence. She'd only survived this long through agility and desperate luck.
Jiro didn't waste time. He raised the Kusanagi Sword, chakra flaring along the seals. "Secret Technique: Shadow-Killing Dance!"
He brought the blade down. Not a physical slash, but a release of chakra that warped perception. The air around Tengu shattered into a thousand overlapping afterimages of the gleaming sword, a cage of lethal illusions raining down from all directions. It was genjutsu woven into kenjutsu, a masterpiece of deception.
Tengu's body froze. She couldn't tell which was real! In that split second of panic, instinct overrode ANBU protocol.
"Sharingan, open!"
Behind the cracked Tengu mask, her eyes swirled, transforming into a vivid, bloody red. Two tomoe spun frantically in each iris, striving to pierce the illusion, to find the one true blade amidst the myriad false ones.
The thousand swords wavered, blurred. Her vision focused, tunneling. There! One blade, silent and true, was arcing toward her throat, hidden within the dazzling display.
She threw herself backward with all her strength, a desperate, graceless dodge. The real Kusanagi Sword whispered past her mask, the wind pressure finishing the job on the cracked ceramic. The mask split in two and fell away, clattering on the wet stone.
She had avoided the kill, but she was off-balance, exposed. Jiro was already flowing into his next strike, his speed now fully unleashed. She couldn't dodge again.
Clang!
A black-gloved hand shot out from beside her, fingers closing like a vice around the descending Kusanagi blade, stopping it cold a foot from her face.
Tengu stared, breath catching in her throat. The shock of the save was eclipsed by the shock of recognition as she saw her savior's profile.
How… how is he here?
Jiro's eyes widened behind his own mask. He tried to pull the sword free. It didn't budge.
Ragnar, the Rakshasa mask firmly in place, ignored him for a second. His gaze flicked to the ANBU operative he'd just saved.
With her mask gone, her face was fully visible. Pale skin, strands of dark hair plastered to her forehead by rain and sweat, and a pair of brilliant, spinning Sharingan eyes wide with shock.
It was Uchiha Mikoto.
(End of Chapter)
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