In his quarters, Ragnar was in a state of deep rest, cycling his chakra and letting his body recover from the recent exertion. The peace was interrupted by the arrival of an unexpected, and slightly agitated, visitor.
Tsunade strode in, arms crossed over her chest, a frown etched on her face. She looked… put out.
"Sothing wrong, Tsunade?" Ragnar asked, genuinely puzzled. The mission was a success. Nawaki was safe. What was there to be unhappy about?
"What's wrong?" she shot back, her tone sharp. "You don't know?"
Ragnar stared blankly. "Should I?"
"You ca back! And you didn't tell ! I thought sothing had happened to you!" The words burst out of her, louder than intended, fueled by the lingering fear she'd felt listening to Orochimaru's account and Jiraiya's awful joke.
Oh. That. Ragnar's internal response was a flat line. "I forgot."
Tsunade opened her mouth, then closed it. The sheer, unvarnished honesty of it was disarming. Anyone else, she'd have called it a flimsy excuse. But this was Ragnar. Forgetting to report his safe return because his mind was already on the next task or simply dismissing it as irrelevant was entirely plausible. Cold, emotionally stunted, and now, socially oblivious. As his self-appointed older sister, a new wave of concern washed over her. With an attitude like this, will this kid ever find a girlfriend? She thought of Mikoto—a good girl, strong, from a good family. But Ragnar was about as receptive as a block of granite. All he seed to understand was training. What a waste of perfectly good potential.
"Alright, fine," she sighed, the anger deflating into exasperated fondness. Her voice softened. "Thank you. For Nawaki. Orochimaru told everything. Anything you want as a reward, na it. Your sister will make it happen."
"No reward needed." He paused, then a flicker of genuine interest appeared in his eyes. "How about you spar with a few rounds instead?"
Tsunade blinked. Spar? That was his counter-offer? No request for rare scrolls, special training, a favor? Just… a fight? Her mind, now attuned to his peculiarities, quickly arrived at the cynical truth: He sees as a training tool. A high-level experience pack to grind.
If she knew that was exactly what he was thinking, she might have punched a hole through the wall in frustration.
"No, absolutely not," she refused flatly. "You're way out of my league now. I like hitting things, not being used as a punching bag by my little brother who doesn't know his own strength."
She saw the flicker of disappointnt on his face, the clear sign that his 'experience farm' idea had been shot down. The sight almost made her laugh, despite herself. He really is hopeless.
Seeing his bored expression, Tsunade privately vowed that once this war was over and they were back in Konoha, she would have to initiate a re-education project. This outstanding boy—top-tier in looks, physique, and power—couldn't spend his entire life being this terminally uninteresting. She'd introduce him to so girls, get him so socialization. Fix his environnt.
"Oh, and Nawaki said he wants to thank 'Rakshasa' in person. You have to help with that," she added, rembering her brother's starry-eyed insistence.
"Mm." A non-committal grunt.
The period following the annihilation of the joint force was eerily quiet on the broader front. The aggressive harassnt from Suna and Iwa ceased almost entirely. The sporadic skirmishes died down. To the inexperienced, it might have seed like the war was winding down.
To the veterans, it felt like the air before a tsunami—a false calm, thick with gathering pressure. The lull was not peace; it was the eye of the hurricane.
In this vacuum, other players moved. Hanzo of the Salamander, ever the opportunist, seized the chance to reclaim territory ceded to both Iwa and Suna during their advance, consolidating his power in the Rain. The semi-independent samurai of the Land of Iron, led by Mifune, also made a play, challenging Hanzo's expansion. The resulting duel was short and brutal. Hanzo's poisons and ninjutsu overwheld Mifune's masterful, but ultimately mundane, swordsmanship. Hanzo spared the samurai leader, not out of rcy, but out of contemptuous theatrics—letting Mifune live to "witness the dawn of his mythic era." It was a humiliation that burned in the heart of the Iron Country, a stain on the honor of its warrior class.
During this deceptive quiet, Ragnar did not idle in the Konoha camp. He had a personal errand. The larger strategic picture of the Second War held little intrinsic interest for him, but his heightened senses and battle-honed intuition scread that the true, cataclysmic clash was imminent.
Before that storm broke, he needed to tie up a loose end. He had promised Konan and Yahiko he would return. More importantly, he was curious. In this altered tiline, with his intervention, had the third piece of that tragic trio already appeared?
He traveled light and fast, moving alone into the Rain Country's war-scarred interior. He soon arrived at the secluded hut where he had taught the two orphans the fundantals. The place was still occupied—supplies were present, the hearth showed recent use. But the children were gone.
Tap-tap-tap… THUMP!
A rush of footsteps, then the whistle of sothing cutting the air behind his head.
Ragnar leaned to the side without apparent effort. A small figure shot past him, a fist missing its target by inches.
It was a boy. His most striking feature was a shock of unkempt, deep red hair that covered much of his face. But the single eye that was visible from Ragnar's angle…
It stopped him cold.
A concentric circle pattern, like ripples in a pond frozen in ti. Rings within rings, radiating from a dark pupil, etched in a pale lavender sclera.
Rinnegan.
The na surfaced from his system-granted knowledge with absolute, chilling certainty.
The red-haired boy landed in a crouch a few ters away, instantly spinning to face him, body coiled with tension. Ragnar wasn't in his ANBU gear, appearing as just a tall, serious-looking youth. But the aura he naturally carried—a chill that spoke of blood-soaked earth and absolute finality—made him seem anything but ordinary.
Nagato. So the eting still happened. Fate drew the three of them together. Ragnar observed the boy who would one day beco Pain, the leader of Akatsuki, a pawn in a millennia-old ga, a life defined by loss and manipulation from cradle to grave.
"Who are you?" Nagato's voice was young, but hoarse with a wariness that belied his age. His Uzumaki lineage, combined with the preternatural senses of the Rinnegan, granted him an insight far beyond his years. The person before him radiated danger—a dense, cold pressure that dwarfed any threat he'd faced from starving bandits or stray ninja. This was no ordinary person. This was a predator.
"Who am I?" Ragnar's voice was calm, assessing. "I'm the owner of this place."
He kept his gaze locked on Uzumaki Nagato. A clinical curiosity sparked within him. Just how powerful is the bearer of the Rinnegan… right now?
(End of Chapter)
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