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The rain was a constant, drumming curtain, washing the world in shades of gray and gloom. It fell upon the valley floor, where a new, more visceral pignt now stained the water.
Blood and rain mingled, swirling into macabre, oil-paint puddles. The runoff was a soup of gore, carrying with it the detritus of the brief, brutal engagent: mutilated corpses frozen in final agony, faces etched with shock, and severed limbs—a grotesque still-life arranged by violence.
Ragnar held his finishing stance, the massive blade Yama pointed towards the earth. Rainwater stread down the dark steel, carrying thin ribbons of crimson to the ground. His young face, visible below the jawline of his mask, was a study in impassive calm. The downpour slicked his hair and soaked his ANBU uniform, but he seed as unfeeling as the stone around them. The hellscape he had created in a single, sweeping motion might as well have been the work of another.
One strike. That was all it took. A wave of black, Haki-infused cutting force had swept through the Iwa-nin ranks like a scythe. The elite chunin, monts ago a confident, encircling force, were now broken. Over half lay dead where they fell. The survivors were maid—missing arms, legs, clutching at deep, weeping gashes. Their coordinated assault had shattered before it truly began.
Yamanaka Kaiji, Abura Shigeru, and Captain Moonlight Swiftfire stood in defensive stances, their intended battle plans evaporating in the face of such overwhelming power. Shock was etched onto their features, visible even behind their own ANBU masks.
They knew Ragnar was strong. His ten consecutive victories on the Dark List were testant to that. But this… this was sothing else. These were not academy bullies or internal rivals. These were seasoned Iwa-nin chunin, hardened by border skirmishes. To see them dismantled so effortlessly, like training dummies before a master's blade, defied all their expectations. It was terrifying. It was awe-inspiring.
The two Iwa Jonin, Oishi and his muscular comrade Akazuchi, were montarily frozen, their expressions shifting from cruel anticipation to stark disbelief. Their eyes, sharp with experience, scanned Ragnar's masked form, desperately trying to place him. That sword skill… the raw, seal-less power…
"Akazuchi," Oishi said, his voice low and tense, cutting through the sound of rain and pained groans. "Such monstrous cutting power… in Konoha, there's only one na that cos to mind."
Akazuchi's face was grim. "The White Fang. But this isn't him. The build, the stance… it's wrong."
"It doesn't matter who he is," Oishi hissed, tactical clarity returning. "That strength is jounin-level, at minimum. We didn't trap an ANBU squad; we trapped a captain-class monster. Do not close! All units, long-range bombardnt! Eliminate them from a distance!"
The surviving chunin, about eleven or twelve of them, gritted their teeth against their injuries. Discipline overrode pain. Hands flew through seals with practiced, if pained, speed.
"Water Release: Water Dragon Bullet!"
"Water Release: Water Trumpet!"
"Earth Release: Earth-Splitter!"
"Earth Release: Rock Shower!"
"Earth Release: Earth Dragon Projectile!"
The air humd with chakra. The separate jutsu didn't just launch; they synergized, rging into a cataclysm. A tidal wave of mud and churning water, over thirty feet high, roared into existence, supported by a massive, coiling dragon of earth and stone that surged within it. It was a combined technique of terrifying scale, designed to crush and drown everything in the narrow valley.
"Fire Release: Great Fireball Jutsu!"
Captain Swiftfire reacted instantly, his hope to counter water with fire. His blazing sphere was impressive, but against the collaborative onslaught of over a dozen ninja, it was a candle against a flood. It was swallowed whole by the advancing wave without even a hiss.
Team Nine's limitations were laid bare. They were gatherers, trackers, infiltrators. Yamanaka's mind techniques and Abura's insects were useless against a wall of elental annihilation. They lacked the raw, large-scale destructive power to counter this.
"Ragnar! Shigeru! Kaiji!" Swiftfire barked, his voice edged with the calm of a man accepting fate. "On my mark, I will deploy fifty explosive tags into the base of that wave. The confusion might give you a five-second window. You run. Don't look back. One survivor is better than none."
A reconnaissance team deep in enemy territory had no reinforcents. Their only duty now was to ensure the intelligence in their heads didn't die with them.
"Captain, we fight together!" Yamanaka Kaiji protested, his loyalty warring with the logic of the order.
"The hive does not fear dissolution," Abura Shigeru stated calmly, his insects buzzing beneath his cloak in agitation.
Ragnar didn't even turn his head. His voice, cold and flat, cut through their debate. "No one is dying today."
The colossal wave crested, ready to smash down. The earth dragon within it opened a stony maw in a silent roar.
Facing the apocalyptic tide, Ragnar moved. He shifted Yama to his left hand, letting the tip drag in the mud. His right fist clenched. A profound, darkness deeper than shadow—Level 3 Armant Haki—sheathed his entire arm, compressing the very air around it.
Spiral Force. Compress. Focus. He willed the Strange Power principle, the rotational force coiling tighter and tighter in his fist, a vortex of pure physical power held in check.
Then he leapt. Not away, but up, eting the wave head-on. As he soared, Yama ca back into his right hand. The blade seed to drink the Armant Haki flowing from him, its demonic hunger translating his will into a sharper, deadlier edge.
"One Sword Style: Thirty-Six Pound Phoenix!"
He didn't slash at the water. He slashed at the technique itself. The black cutting wave that erupted from Yama was not just energy; it was a manifestation of Ragnar's indomitable will, shaped by the blade's own malice. It shot forward, a horizontal curtain of annihilation.
SHHHHKK-KRROOOM!
The sound was like the sky being torn in two. The towering wave of combined ninjutsu was split cleanly down the middle, the two halves collapsing inward with a thunderous crash. But Ragnar wasn't done.
He used the falling water as stepping stones, Moon Walk kicking off the very air, his body a black-and-red blur against the gray chaos. He descended like a thunderbolt, his still-clenched, Haki-encased right fist pulling back.
This was not a sword technique. This was pure, uncompressed devastation.
"Spiral Iron Fist!" he roared.
The punch didn't connect with the earth dragon; it connected with the space in front of it. An invisible, spiraling piston of force, amplified by monstrous strength and Haki, exploded outward.
BOOOOM!
The sound was a physical blow. The stone head of the earth dragon vaporized. Then its neck, then its body, disintegrating into shattered rubble under the concussive, drilling impact. The ground quaked violently, sending the already-injured Iwa chunin stumbling, their combined assault utterly broken.
In the heartbeat of disorientation that followed, Ragnar vanished.
Shave.
Level 3. At this range, it was teleportation. He reappeared beside a chunin who was clutching a bleeding stump, his eyes wide with confusion. Yama flashed. A head tumbled. The body hadn't even begun to fall before Ragnar was gone again.
He was a reaper in the rain. An afterimage of death. To the wounded chunin, he was a phantom—a glimpse of a red mask, the whisper of a blade through air, then darkness. Absolute speed. Absolute power. The supre sharpness of a Great Grade Sword. Against chunin, even elite ones, it was no longer a battle. It was harvest.
Flash. A bisected body.
Flash. A severed spine.
Flash. A deflected kunai sheared in half, followed by the man who threw it.
By the ti Jonin Oishi's scream of "STOP HIM!" fully left his lips, it was already over.
The rain continued to fall, washing over a new scene of carnage. The chunin squad, the ambushing force, was gone. Silence, save for the rain and the drip of blood from Yama's tip, settled over the valley.
Ragnar stood amidst the carnage, his blade held low. He turned his head slowly, the hollow eyes of the Rakshasa mask fixing on the two Iwa Jonin who remained. Team Nine stood behind him, their weapons half-lowered, caught in a stunned paralysis between horror and salvation.
The dynamic had irrevocably shifted. The hunters were now two. The quarry was a demon clad in Konoha black.
(End of Chapter)
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