Dead. Fucking. Silence.
Even the rowdy night wind ghosted around this storm-release-plowed hellscape like it was scared to linger.
Lush valley? Torched to crispy black stumps. Dirt flipped like a warzone, ground sparkling with leftover lightning flickers—earth's nasty scars.
Air so thick you could wring it out. Only sounds: distant waves slapping shore, and Kirigakure's pint-sized thunder loli—Ringo Yuri—huffing like a busted engine from shock, burnout, and pure rage.
This hush? Lasted maybe three seconds.
Then—boom—
"You… you YOU LITTLE SHIT! FUCKING BRAT AAAAAHHH—"
One spark in a grease fire. Yuri exploded.
"Height"? Her ultimate berserk button. Makoto's casual, surgical roast—low damage, maximum insult—jabbed that sore spot like a red-hot needle.
Her battle-flushed face went tomato-red. Steam-practically-puffing-from-head levels of pissed.
Shame-lava nuked her brain. Exhaustion waves? Pain stabs? Temporarily deleted.
"I'MA RIP THAT SMARTASS MOUTH OFF! NO MORE WORDS, EVER!!"
Kid voice roaring, cracked from fury. Chakra? Bone-dry. Muscles? Screaming. Doesn't care.
One thought: Use every last drop to carve fifty slashes across that smug punk's face—see if he stays chill then.
She yanks her chakra-metal blade from the scorched dirt—overkill sway, tiny body wobbling.
Furious stomp—CRUNCH—crater in cracked earth.
Squeezes the dregs of lightning chakra. Blade sparks weak, unstable arcs—pathetic pops.
Then launches like a pissed-off cub, do-or-die vibe cranked, straight at chill-as-fuck Uchiha Makoto.
Speed's trash compared to peak, but that desperation? Sharper than any prior strike.
Makoto stands pat. Black eyes flicker rare confusion. Why's she so mad…? Short girls got perks, tall girls got perks…
Reject loli fetish—start with you. Makoto? Exempt. Yuri's legal loli.
Watching her charge, he smirks micro. Inner monologue: Storm release AOE and mid-range control? Checked. Time to test this kekkei genkai in knife-edge close-quarters hell.
Wrist flips—exotic chakra-metal blade back in hand.
Mind surges. Storm chakra—water-natured, indigo glow—floods the blade like a creek.
Instant wrap: gorgeous, deadly light. Dense buzz—water hum + lightning screech. Storm Release: Chidori Blade—his upgraded Thousand Birds Blade.
CLANG—ZZZZZT!
Blades clash under dim moon. Ear-splitting metal scream + chakra annihilation static.
Blue-white arcs vs. indigo particles—fireflies on crack, splashing wild, strobing the arena.
But this knife dance? Different flavor from pure lightning slugfests.
Makoto's swordplay: heavy, lethal, economical. Straight for vitals—no flair.
Storm chakra? Adds nightmare twists.
Indigo blade acts alive—sticky liquid, binding/corrosive. Invisible wet tentacles snag Yuri's blade and wrist.
Every swing feels like hacking mercury—heavy drag, speed tanks, chest tight like drowning. Want to puke.
Then—snap—flex to rigid. Compressed indigo lightning needles erupt from clash points or wrist flicks. Peacock fan of death-sparks—silent, vicious, threading defense gaps.
Weird. Unfair. Way beyond straight lightning blade tech she knows.
Yuri's freaked. Frustration blooms like weeds.
Lifetime lightning sword prodigy—used to flash-decide life-or-death.
Never met a counter this slippery, variable, built to shit on pure lightning users.
Her proud kenjutsu and taijutsu? Choked. Forced full defense—blade flailing, death by a thousand cuts.
Makoto's edge? Maggot on bone. Always finds the micro-gap in transitions.
Rip! Rip!
Her already trashed ninja fit gains new vents. Tiny cuts pile on arms, back, thighs.
Not deep—ninja toughness holds—but storm chakra's numb/corrosion? Stacks. Slow boil, draining her near-empty tank, grinding her will.
Sweat-drenched, hair plastered, breathing ragged bellows. Arms heavier each block. Vision blurs—sweat + fatigue. Heart hammering like it's escaping.
Scale's tipped. Hard.
Moments later—
CLANG!
Blade flies—defeated spin, plants meters away. Last spark dies.
Yuri staggers back, legs buckle—thud—sprawls starfish, staring at clearing stars.
Chest heaving like torn lungs. Muscles wailing. Can't twitch a pinky.
Sweat-soaked rags cling—dust, blood, char. Peak pathetic vulnerability.
"Huff… huff… no… no more… you… you're too fucking strong."
Voice hoarse, drained, defeated but… weirdly no hate? Just post-brawl emptiness… and a sneaky relief?
Like a pent-up goddess finally filled to bursting.
She side-eyes Makoto—panting, sweaty, but ramrod straight, juice left. Mutters, self-loathing: "You win… happy?"
"Kill me, torture me… or whatever sick shit… your call. I'm done fighting. Bet's off."
Voice fades, exhaustion thick. Eyelashes tremble. Muddy fists clench—then flop. Not as chill as she acts.
In bloody Kiri? Losers get worse than death.
Young loli prodigy? Notorious. This OP, asshole-mouthed, younger-looking mystery kid—what's her fate?
Intel torture? Lab rat? Or… worse—stripped dignity, probed?
Post-loss paranoia freezes her core.
Eyes dart to blade—suicide?—but curiosity wins. Heart races harder.
Makoto strolls over, looms. Moonlight spills—smudged but pale cheeks, wrecked yet weirdly tempting broken-doll vibe. Heartstring-tugger for sure.
He crouches. Eyes calm, scalpel-sharp—scan heaving, half-developed curves… torn gear flashing snowy skin, seeping cuts.
His gaze pierces—like seeing through cloth. Yuri's muscles lock reflex—then melt. Eyes slam shut, lashes quake—tension, shame, fear.
Fangs bite busted lip—blood taste. Tries brave-martyr face.
But burning ears, quivering tiny frame? Panic sold out.
Prime jailbait energy.
Makoto's finger—cool, deliberate—traces a shallow storm-gash on her thigh. Checking urgency.
Skin twitches like a spooked critter.
His smirk widens. Voice low, post-fight gravel: "Kill you?" Chuckle. "Waste a freak-talent, 'lively' personality, distinctive cutie like you?"
"One slash? Too damn wasteful. Against my… 'sustainable development' policy."
Pauses. Eyes linger on budding curves—contrast to baby face. Tone drips innuendo.
"As for 'whatever'… heh. Your build? That suggestion's real constructive."
"How to handle a defeated chick ninja… got a bold, fun-ass idea brewin'."
Words tickle her nerves. Loaded stare—filthy images detonate in her virgin brain.
"FUCK! This bastard! It's EXACTLY that nasty shit he's thinking!"