Ringo Ameyuri fights like a goddamn wildfire on steroids—wild, flashy, and straight-up apocalyptic. She's a blazing lightning bolt tearing through a graveyard of enemies, leaving nothing but scorched earth and that eerie silence after a massacre.
Raw power, breakneck speed, and destruction so pretty it hurts to watch. You're scared shitless and hooked.
Uchiha Makoto melts into the shadows, black eyes slicing through the night, drinking in every second of the carnage. The admiration in his stare? Thick as hell.
No wonder the official databook "Jin no Sho" calls her a "Lightning Genius." He's running the numbers in his head, cool as ice.
This chick's Lightning Release is light-years beyond her age—makes veteran jonin look like they're playing with sparklers. It's in her blood, the way she weaves thunder into taijutsu and kenjutsu like it's poetry. Instant bursts, untouchable speed—no surprise the Mist whispers, "If Ameyuri locks onto you, Death's already got your table booked."
His gaze slides over her deceptively pint-sized frame.
He knows the deal: she's legal—full adult—just stuck with a baby face and a height that screams "jailbait." Total opposite of his own situation.
Legal loli. Cute.
Pair that with her "fuck everything" fighting style—savage yet graceful—and you've got lethal moe on steroids. His brain's in overdrive, dissecting her like a lab rat.
Talent like this? Dodge the early grave fate, and shadow-level's a lock. Push her limits? Top-tier shadow, easy.
A gem like that under his thumb? Priceless.
A dark glint flickers in his eyes—schemes stacking like Jenga.
Then—bam—Ameyuri whips her head around like she felt his stare in her soul. Two bolts of pure thunder shoot through the dark, nailing his hiding spot dead-center.
Her grin's all predator—curious, cocky, and hungry. She licks that razor-sharp fang, voice crisp as shattering glass but dripping with kill-vibes: "Yo, creep in the dark! Eyes too hot for comfort—show over yet?"
"Done gawking? Get your ass out here and let big sis take a look!"
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing like a cat spotting a laser. "Tch, tch—tonight's luck is wild. Thought I was just scrapping some Iwa trash… then you show up. Big fish."
"The legendary Black Flash?!"
"Hehe… my heart's racing. What a gift."
Makoto blinks, eyebrow arch. No hesitation—he steps out like he owns the night. Moonlight spills over him, carving sharp lines on a face too pretty for war. Eyes deep as black holes, calm enough to freak you out.
Ameyuri sizes him up, grinning like a kid on Christmas. Way hotter than the blurry wanted poster. Young, but those eyes? Ancient. Wrong.
"It's you."
Her fingers crush the sword hilt, knuckles white with hype. "You coming quietly back to the Mist? Or do I fry you crispy and drag your ass like roadkill?"
Makoto chuckles—lazy, teasing. "Confidence? Love that."
"Damn right!" CRACK!
She points to the sky—BOOM—a lightning pillar thick as a house rips down, aiming to skull-fuck him into next week. No warm-up; straight to murder.
But the second it's about to kiss his hair—ZZZT—blue lightning explodes off Makoto.
"Lightning Chakra Mode—engage."
He blips—teleports twenty meters out. Where he stood? A smoking crater, dirt flipping like it's pissed.
The thunderclap hits late, rattling trees, leaves raining.
Ameyuri's eyes ignite. Finally. Someone who can play in her sandbox.
"Lightning Release: Thunder Rush!"
White lightning erupts—she's a damn missile. Ground scorched in her wake.
Makoto sidesteps; the boulder behind him? Sliced clean, edges bubbling.
"Not bad," she laughs, blades dancing like angry hornets. White lightning arcs seal every dodge.
Makoto weaves through the storm like it's a light drizzle, blocking with chakra-clad arms. "I don't do pointless fights. Later."
Lightning surges—he's a blue comet shooting away from the village.
"Running? Coward!"
She flicks her wrist—three downed Iwa nin? Vaporized. Then she's gone, chasing.
Hunter and prey? Who's who?
Two streaks—blue and white—rip through the forest, neck-and-neck. Sparks fly where they clash.
"Black Flash just runs? Pathetic!" she taunts.
Makoto ignores her. He baits, not the other way. He's luring her far from the Mist—Obito's radar's a bitch.
Fifteen minutes later, deep in a mountain-ringed valley, he skids to a stop. Spins. Faces the white comet.
"I don't fight without stakes," he says, smirk sharp. "Win, and you're mine. Lose, and I'm yours. Deal?"
Her red eyes blaze. Fangs bite her lip—yes. "Done!"
This is how you leash a battle junkie.
She's thrumming—someone who matches her speed, her lightning. Blood singing.
Makoto reaches into thin air—rip—pulls a gleaming chakra-metal ninjato from his [Player Inventory].
"Chidori Blade."
Blue lightning screams up the blade—thousands of chirping birds, edge humming with murder. Air crackles, hair stands.
Ameyuri's eyes pop. "Fuck yes."
Her sword answers—white lightning howling. The blades resonate, air trembling, blue-white sparks spitting.
"Fight—hard!"
CLANG!!!
They collide—light blinds, sound shatters. Shockwave flattens grass, cracks stone. Trees topple like dominoes.
Makoto's young, but Lightning Mode forged him into a tank. Every swing's a freight train.
Ameyuri? Future Seven Swordsmen material. Her cuts are art—precise, vicious, perfect. She's pushing him back.
She's a ghost—dodging, weaving, untouchable. Blades carve the valley: trees bisected, stone melted, ground scarred.
Makoto tries tagging her with Flying Thunder God—left hand sneaking. She dodges like she knows. Battle instincts? Demonic.
"What's wrong, Black Flash? This it?" she cackles, blades a white blur, netting him.
He's losing ground in swordplay—but smiling.
"Chidori Sharp Spear."
Lightning morphs—extends, condenses. A twenty-meter blue lance erupts, screaming sideways at her waist, air shredding.