Number 3 narrowed his eyes, still scanning the treeline. "Shanks is no longer in sight. He's entered the forest."
At that mont, the Root operative codenad Tiger returned, landing silently beside them. He gave a brief nod—ssage delivered. Number 3 acknowledged him with a glance, then turned his attention back to the trees.
One of the other operatives spoke quietly. "Is it possible... he sensed us?"
Number 3 hesitated for a mont. "Based on our intel, he didn't have sensory abilities that strong. But we can't assu that's still true. We stay sharp. Assu nothing."
The team nodded, every muscle on edge, their eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. The forest was quiet—too quiet.
Then, Number 3 stiffened. As a Special Jōnin, his senses were honed, and he felt it—movent. Subtle, deliberate, closing in fast.
"Be ready," he warned, his voice low and urgent. "Soone's approaching. Most likely Shanks Uzumaki."
In an instant, the team drew their short swords, forming a tight periter, prepared for a sudden strike.
But instead of a physical attack, a crushing pressure swept over them.
Not on their bodies—on their minds.
It hit like a wave, invisible but overwhelming. Knees buckled slightly, hands trembled.
Number 3's expression darkened. "This… this is his ability."
The ntal weight pressed harder, thick as fog, suffocating and relentless.
----
A few monts earlier…
Shanks moved like a shadow through the treetops, his body a blur as he leapt from branch to branch with practiced speed. Every step was calculated. Every motion silent. His focus was absolute.
Through his Observation Haki, he kept track of the enemy—four chakra signatures lurking in the distance. Root operatives. Watching. Waiting.
He had already made up his mind: he wouldn't hold back.
No slow build-up. No testing their strength. This ti, he'd strike fast and finish it before they had a chance to respond.
As he closed the distance, his eyes sharpened, and with a controlled breath, he unleashed it—
Conqueror's Haki.
A wave of red-hued energy erupted from him, crackling like heat lightning as it expanded outward. It wasn't wild or unfocused—Shanks kept the radius tight, precise, locked to a 100-ter field. More than enough to reach the Root team without wasting unnecessary chakra.
The forest around him seed to pause, leaves rustling under the pressure of his will.
As the wave of Conqueror's Haki surged outward, Shanks didn't pause. He imdiately channeled Armant Haki into his sword arm. In an instant, his right hand turned pitch black, gleaming faintly with hardened chakra. The blade he held followed suit, its surface darkening until it looked like a blade forged from pure obsidian.
He was moving fast now—closing in.
Through the gaps between the branches and leaves, he spotted them: three masked ninjas, each perched on a separate tree, holding short swords.
But Shanks' Observation Haki flared, and he sensed it—a trap, rigged into the branches between them. It had been laid deliberately. They'd seen him coming, or at least suspected he would. It was an ambush.
Smart.
Shanks ca to a silent stop, just behind the tree where the trap was hidden. His breathing was steady. His grip on the sword was firm.
Ten ters ahead, the Root ninjas stood like silent sentinels on their perch, unaware that he had already sensed their setup.
Shanks stood there, hidden in plain sight, his blade coated in black Haki, his will pressing like a storm.
Shanks' eyes locked onto the three masked figures ahead. One of the Root operatives had already collapsed to the forest floor below, motionless.
There was no need for guesses.
It was the effect of Shanks' Conqueror's Haki—a raw, overwhelming force of will that had knocked the weaker ninja unconscious before the fight even began.
Shanks maintained the pressure, his Haki pulsing subtly through the air. He wasn't just using it to knock opponents out—he was using it strategically, to suppress. Against Chūnin-level opponents, the ntal strain would slow their reactions, dull their instincts, shake their confidence.
And that was exactly what he saw now.
Of the three ninjas still on their feet, one—Number 3, the Special Jōnin—stood firm, though his jaw was tight and his breathing slightly heavier. He could endure the pressure, but even he felt it.
The other two weren't faring as well. Their stances were off, shoulders tense, eyes slightly unfocused.
As for the operative who had collapsed—Shanks didn't recognize him, didn't know his na. But it was, in fact, Tiger, the Root ninja who had earlier sent the ssage.
It didn't matter. To Shanks, they were faceless enemies behind masks. And one of them had already fallen.
Shanks gripped his sword with both power and precision. In one swift motion, he swung it horizontally—an arc of crimson energy burst forth from the blade, cutting through the air with a violent hum.
The red sword wave tore clean through the tree in front of him. The mont it struck, the trap rigged into the branches was shredded, and with it, several explosive tags were triggered. A sudden chain of detonations erupted, sending shockwaves through the surrounding trees and plunging the area into chaos.
Amid the smoke and falling debris, the crimson energy arc continued forward, unstoppable.
The Root operatives saw it coming and reacted instantly—splitting apart, leaping in different directions to avoid being cut down.
Shanks didn't hesitate. He used his Movent Technique, vanishing from sight in a blink, and reappeared on the left flank of Number 3.
The Special Jōnin had taken cover behind a tree after dodging the energy wave, just like the others. But to Shanks—using Observation Haki—he might as well have been standing in the open.
He moved without hesitation, targeting the strongest among them first.
Number 3 sensed danger at the last second and raised his short sword to block. Their blades clashed—but it was no contest. With a sharp crack, Shanks's blade cleaved straight through the defender's weapon.
The ancient sword Gryphon didn't slow. It sliced diagonally across Number 3's torso, cutting deep through his flak jacket and drawing a surge of blood.
It wasn't a surprise to Shanks. A legendary blade like Gryphon was forged for monts like this.
At the final mont, Number 3 managed to shift backward, just enough to avoid being cut in half. Still, the damage was severe. Blood stread from the wound, and his body staggered.
Then—he fell.
----
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