The cold, damp earth reeks of dirt and her own blood, drilling straight into her nose. Ringo Ameyuri's sprawled flat on her back in the clearing, chest heaving like a busted bellows. Every breath yanks on muscles that feel like they've been through a meat grinder—pain sharp and real.
Night wind cuts across her skin, stealing the battle-heat, leaving goosebumps in its wake. But that chill? Nothing compared to the ice in her gut.
Lost.
The once-in-a-century Lightning Genius of the Mist—the chick who makes enemies and allies piss themselves—just got her ass handed to her by a kid younger than her.
The truth stabs like a poisoned kunai, venom spreading fast—burning shame, and a flicker of oh shit awe at his freakish talent she refuses to admit.
Her vision's blurry, but that hand—Black Flash's hand—cuts through the haze like a spotlight. Long, defined knuckles. The same hands that dismantled her every move with some weird jutsu and swordplay that made her look like a genin.
Now it's creeping toward her sprawled-out body—curves on full display from the fall—with lazy, predatory swagger.
Fuck… I'm done…
A choked whimper crawls out her throat, pupils shrinking to pinpricks of pure terror and rage.
She wants to fight—blast him point-blank with lightning—but her chakra's bone-dry, body a limp puddle. Can't even twitch a finger.
Her brain's a horror reel: Mist's brutal rumors about captured kunoichi. She never thought this punk would eye her loli ass like that…
In the village, everyone treats her like a kid. He looks at her like prey. The realization twists something weird in her chest.
Better to die clean than get humiliated!
She screams it in her head. Death sounds sweet right now.
She's a boss bitch—maybe has a tiny, buried crush on this pretty-boy prodigy who outclasses her. But forced? Conquered? That'd shatter her pride worse than any blade.
Deep down, she's fantasized about her on top—taking him.
Not this. Not a lamb to slaughter.
"You little shit! If you dare force me—" She sucks in a ragged breath, voice hoarse but vicious, trying to mask the breakdown. "I'll kill myself. You get nothing but a cold corpse to cry over!"
She bites her lip bloody, every nerve screaming, waiting for the guillotine.
Makoto's face? That infuriating half-smirk—kid teasing, but eyes old as sin.
His gaze scans her twitching limbs, her defiant-desperate face. Then the hand—slow, deliberate—heads straight for the kill zone below her belly. Fingers brush the soaked fabric of her pants, a ghost of air that's worse than a punch.
Ameyuri's done. Eyes slam shut, lashes shaking like leaves in a storm. Tears prick—held back. It's over…
But… nothing.
The hand stops—one centimeter from contact. Heat radiates through the cloth, a torturous tingle that makes her core clench.
Then—pfft. A soft, mocking laugh from above.
"Tch. All that big talk… and you're just a keyboard warrior when it counts~"
BOOM. Shame explodes. Her eyes snap open—blazing. Cheeks crimson.
"You—bullshit!!"
Voice shaking with fury and something else. "Wait 'til I'm back on my feet—I'll pin you down and drain you dry! Make you beg to know what real power feels like!"
Classic bratty loli—mouthy, zero filter. But flat on her back, powerless? It's comical. Kinda… hot?
Like a kitten hissing while pinned by the scruff.
Makoto's grin widens. Gotcha.
Typical tsundere gremlin. Won't cry 'til the coffin's nailed.
But force it? Nah. Break the spines on this wild rose slow—antagonism to resignation to wanting it. That's the long game.
One-and-done vs. forever? He's not a dumbass.
Different girls, different plays. Taming a Mist prodigy? Worth way more than a quick fuck.
"Oh?" He drawls, wiggling the hovering fingers—fake-out. She freezes. "Loser eats dirt. Ninja rules. You got zero leverage. I do what I want."
She chokes—can't argue. Bites her lip, turns away. Shoulders shaking, breath ragged.
Good. Don't push her to suicide—jackpot gone.
He dials it back. "Concede?"
Worse than a beating. Admitting defeat? Gutting her pride.
Lips tremble. Cheeks burn. Finally—through gritted teeth, barely audible: "…I… concede."
"Good." He pulls the hand back. Tension melts from her body—relief, but wary.
"I won't screw you over. Stick with me. Do three missions. Details TBD—no suicide runs. After? Stay or go. Your call. Deal?"
Way better than rape, slavery, or death. Suspiciously nice.
She squints—searching for the trap. His eyes? Clear. Steady. In control.
Hesitates. Pros: Close to him. Study weaknesses. Level up. Then—revenge. Pin him down. Show who's boss.
Weird motivation sparks. "…Yeah."
Softer. Less humiliation, more plotting.
"Can you walk?"
She inhales—tries. Arms push—wobble. Gets halfway up, world spins, thud—back on her ass. Dust puffs. Face screams fuck my life.
Makoto watches—no mockery. Turns. Crouches. Back to her—solid, not broad, but strong.
"Hop on."
She blanks. Hands his back to a Mist elite? No fear of a kunai in the spine? Trust? Rare as hell in the Mist.
Then—humiliation. Carried by a younger kid? Reputation ruined.
"WHAT?! The great Mist Genius prefers crawling?" He doesn't look—teasing jab.
"You—!" Face nuclear.
But facts: Alone here? Dead meat.
Bites down. Revenge later. Endure.
Trembling arms loop his shoulders. Body presses—light, warm, stiff. Tiny tremors.
He hooks under her knees—cool fabric, slim bones. Stands easy.
Moonlight bathes the path. Makoto piggybacks Ameyuri toward the hot-spring town, steps steady as a metronome.