Chapter 161: Prelude to a Clash of Blades and Beasts
The Land of Rain offered another of its miserable, waterlogged plains for the theatre of war. This area, closer to the hinterlands, was a vast expanse of emptiness broken only by occasional low hills. The perpetually low sky wept upon it, filling depressions with murky puddles and turning the ground into a treacherous, sucking mire. The rain fell in a constant, dreary rhythm, a futile attempt to wash away the old stains of blood already seeping into the mud.
The second large-scale clash between the three Great Villages began not with a roar, but with a grim, methodical grind.
Shinobi from Konoha skirmished with mixed forces of Iwa and Suna. This was not the all-out, cataclysmic engagement of before, but a probing action—a bloody feeling-out. Less than a thousand combatants from each side were committed to the initial field, while reinforcements from all three villages gathered like storm clouds on the horizon, steadily swelling the numbers at the rear.
For Iwagakure, command once again fell to Tsuchikage's aide, Nōhei. For Sunagakure, the presence was far more imposing. Standing before his assembled shinobi, clad in the formal royal robe bearing the character for 'Wind,' was the Third Kazekage himself. At his side stood a masked figure whose posture and aura marked him as the captain of Suna's equivalent to ANBU—a man of significant, lethal skill.
The Suna forces were a statement. They had come in strength, with intent.
"Kyūmiya," the Third Kazekage said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Are you certain you can handle Konoha's White Fang?"
"Fight him, Lord Kazekage, and you will have your answer," the masked ANBU captain replied, his tone clipped.
The Kazekage called him Kyūmiya. His full name was Kyūmiya Emon. The Suna-nin Kyūmiya Jirō, who had fallen to Ragnar's blade not long ago, was his younger brother. The Kyūmiya clan was an anomaly within Sunagakure. While most Suna shinobi specialized in Wind and Earth Release for long-range bombardment, the Kyūmiya were masters of the ninjato, incorporating the swift, cutting essence of Wind Release directly into their blade techniques. Their strikes were said to be as fast and unpredictable as a desert gale, earning Kyūmiya Emon the epithet 'Swiftwind Swordsman' in certain circles.
"A pity," the Kazekage murmured, his eyes on the distant Konoha lines. "If your brother Jirō still lived, and still wielded that Kusanagi blade… your strength, Emon, could have been honed to a Kage's edge."
The Kusanagi swords were legendary artifacts, forged by a now-vanished clan. When Suna had moved against the Kusanagi, they had seized only one of the famed blades; the others were lost to history. That single sword had been wielded by Jirō, and his death had seen it pass to Konoha's Rakshasa—a fact that festered like a wound in Emon's soul.
At the mention of his brother, a flicker of cold fury passed behind Emon's mask. He had come to this rain-swept hell for two targets: Hatake Sakumo, to test his clan's art against the legendary White Fang; and the ANBU Rakshasa, to avenge his brother's death.
Across the muddy field, Hatake Sakumo observed the enemy deployment from the Konoha command position. His expression was granite, his aura that of a blade sheathed in ice—contained, but promising instant, lethal release. The initial fighting involved primarily chunin, a low-level contest of attrition.
"Tsunade. Jiraiya. Orochimaru," Sakumo's voice cut through the damp air, calm and decisive. "Form three spearhead teams. Take our jonin and commit them to the field. Now."
"Deploy the jonin so early, Captain?" Tsunade questioned, a frown on her face. "We're showing our hand quickly."
"We are forced to," Sakumo replied, his gaze never leaving the enemy mass. "Time favors their consolidation. They are prepared. Better we seize the initiative, force their trump cards into the open on our terms." He paused, his instincts prickling. "Note the composition. The Kazekage leads Suna personally. Yet Iwa is still commanded by Nōhei. Their force is smaller, seemingly weaker than before. That is illogical. They are hiding something."
A cold knot of foreboding tightened in his gut. Ragnar was absent from this engagement by his own design. Unless catastrophe struck, he wished to keep the boy's overwhelming power in reserve. The credit from the first battle was monumental; to pile more upon it risked creating a legend too frightening for the village's own politics to contain. If possible, Sakumo would end this himself, even at a steep price.
"Understood," Tsunade conceded, her jaw set.
"Finally! My blood's been itching!" Jiraiya cracked his knuckles, a fierce grin spreading across his face.
"Heh." Orochimaru's tongue flicked out, a fleeting, predatory gesture. The chaos of open battle was a perfect laboratory for his dark curiosities.
"Konoha jonin!" Tsunade roared, her voice carrying across the ranks. "Forward!"
She was the first to move, a golden blur exploding from the camp line and hurtling into the fray. Jiraiya and Orochimaru followed, their distinct energies flaring—one a boiling fountain of vitality, the other a creeping, cold malice. Behind them, the rest of Konoha's elite jonin surged forward, figures leaping from trenches and treelines, descending upon the battlefield like avenging spirits.
The war escalated in an instant.
"Jonin already? Konoha is impatient," the Third Kazekage observed, a hint of surprise in his tone.
"And… no sign of the Rakshasa?" Nōhei squinted, trying to pierce the rain and chakra distortions. "What game is Sarutobi's dog playing now?"
"No Rakshasa…" The Kazekage's lips thinned with a flicker of disappointment. "A shame. But no matter." His eyes turned to Nōhei. "Unleash your beast. Let's see what Iwa has been hiding."
Nōhei nodded, a grim satisfaction in his eyes. He turned to the silent, red-armored figure beside him. "Gōki. Join the battle. Leave none of these Konoha jonin alive. Crush them."
The Five-Tails Jinchuriki, Gōki, gave no verbal response. His face was a placid mask, his eyes holding a depth that was less human, more primordial. He simply stepped forward, his movement heavy, deliberate. A squad of Iwa jonin fell in around him, not to fight alongside him directly, but to form a support and containment net—handlers for a living weapon.
The Third Kazekage watched the Jinchuriki move out, a calculating glint in his eye. Let's see what this 'secret weapon' is truly capable of. He then glanced at his own champion. "Emon. It is time. Test the mettle of the White Fang for me."
"As you command."
In a burst of speed that kicked up a spray of mud, Kyūmiya Emon vanished from the Kazekage's side. He reappeared in the dead center of the no-man's-land between the armies. As he moved, wind gathered around him—not a natural breeze, but chakra given furious form. It whipped around him in a shrieking vortex, picking up grit and shards of stone, shaping them into invisible, cutting blades. With a contemptuous flick of his wrist, he sent a scything wave of this wind-blade tempest towards a cluster of Konoha chunin. They barely had time to scream before being torn apart.
He planted his feet, his ninjato held lightly at his side. The wind howled a dirge around him.
"Death is like the wind," he intoned, his voice carrying an eerie, lonely clarity over the din of battle. "It is always with me."
Then, he raised his blade, its point aimed unerringly at the distant, silver-haired figure of Hatake Sakumo. It was an invitation. A challenge. A duelist's gauntlet thrown down in the oldest tradition of warriors. To refuse was to admit cowardice, to lose face and morale before both armies.
Hatake Sakumo, a swordsman to his core, saw the challenge for what it was. He would not, could not, refuse a direct call from a peer of the blade.
Crack!
A bolt of silver lightning seemed to tear across the battlefield. One moment Sakumo was at the command post; the next, he stood twenty meters from Kyūmiya Emon, the mud settling quietly around his feet. No words were exchanged. None were needed.
He reached over his shoulder, his movement fluid and practiced. The famed White Light Chakra Short Blade slid from its sheath with a soft, deadly whisper. As his fingers closed around the hilt, crackling blue-white lightning erupted along its length, arcing and spitting with contained, murderous energy.
The duel between the Swiftwind and the Lightning had begun.
(End of Chapter)
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