Moonlight spills like liquid silver over this godforsaken valley, miles from the Mist's chaos. Two shadows blaze in like twin thunderbolts, skidding to a halt on jagged rocks.
They both know the drill: duke it out near the village? ANBU swarms like flies. Here? Perfect kill-zone.
Boots hit dirt—boom—fight's on, no hello.
After a brutal blur of steel and sparks, Makoto spots the gap. Fist clenched, Storm Release chakra compressed tight—humming like a swarm of pissed-off birds, all that murder packed into his knuckles.
"Done."
"Storm Style: Power Fist."
No mercy. The glowing haymaker slams into Ameyuri's soft gut.
"Oof!"
Dull thud—not gore, but chakra detonating inside her. Eyes bug out, power gone. She ragdolls backward like a kite in a hurricane, crashing into a boulder fifteen meters out.
"Cough—blech!"
Blood sprays—chin, shirt ruined. Her chakra-metal sword clatters free, stabbing the scorched earth, blade whining like it's mourning.
Fight's short. Ameyuri leveled up since last time—deadlier cuts, slicker lightning, intel on Makoto. But he? Leaps and bounds. Stats juiced, Storm Release mastery, battle rhythm on god-mode.
The valley's trashed: craters, cracks spiderwebbing out, ozone stinking like a busted transformer. Blue arcs dance on the dirt like angry fireflies—mini thunder-dome.
Ameyuri slumps against the rock, gasping. Every breath stabs her gut. Worse? That Storm chakra fried her nerves—legs went numb, hair standing like she stuck a fork in a socket. And… fuck… a warm trickle soaked her pants.
Brain bluescreens. Shame tsunami-hits harder than the punch. Face goes nuclear—red to ears.
Makoto strolls up, breathing hard but smirking like he sees everything. "Still wanna go?"
"Hell yeah! Next time I'll—" She glares, trying to roar over the humiliation.
Whoosh—he lunges. Arm snakes her waist like iron, yanks her up before she blinks.
Flips her face-down over his knee like a misbehaving kid.
"What the—?! Let go, Black Flash—please—!"
She thrashes like a feral cat—hissing, kicking. Useless. He's a wall.
SMACK!
His hand—big, calloused—lands firm on her ass, tight pants no shield. Crisp echo bounces off the rocks.
Everything stops. She freezes, soul shocked. The sting? Bad. The fresh gush between her legs? Worse. Full-on soaked now.
"Ah!"
SMACK—SMACK!
Two more—measured, not brutal. Pain flares, shame obliterates.
"Lose? Own it. Take your hits straight."
"Lesson for jumping me without sizing up. Next time? Harder. Prep for failure."
He pauses, dangles the carrot: "Beat me? Do whatever you want to me."
Lets go. Casual as brushing lint.
She springs up like a jackrabbit, stumbling back, hands guarding her ass. Face dripping red, eyes watery—rage, shame, and a weird thrill she hates.
Glares daggers, lips quivering—no words. Stomps, snatches her sword, limps away—wet, wrecked, mortified.
Makoto watches her vanish. Eyes the distant Mist. More recruits? Or bounce to Konoha.
---
Days blur by, chill vibes at the onsen inn. Sulfur steam, training grind—but personalities clash like cymbals.
Break time. Hong Lian chugs water on the porch, glaring where Makoto and Ameyuri peeled off earlier. That midget challenging her Makoto? Pisses her off. Flips her blue hair, fuming.
Cue Ameyuri—limping out, hand on her still-stinging ass, face flushed, eyes dodgy. Still reeling.
Spots Hong Lian. Brat mode activates. Chin up, electric sneer: "Yo, Princess Crystal? Sipping alone?"
"Weak? Train harder. Don't wanna nick those dainty hands on your shiny, useless rocks—hilarious."
Hong Lian slams her cup. "Better than a shortstack swinging a sword taller than her, getting spanked like a toddler every time!"
"SHORTSTACK?!"
Direct hit. Ameyuri's face cycles red to blue. Glances at her sword—fuck, it is taller.
CLINK! Blade half-out, lightning crackling. "Wanna die, Crystal Bitch? I'll split you and your junk rocks!"
"Try it!" Hong Lian's hands fly—pink crystals blooming, eyes arctic. "My blades cut deep!"
Air thickens—chakra clash, dust swirling. Blood's about to spill.
Then—soft voice, like spring breeze: "Whoa, ladies—hot out? Tempers flaring?"
Nonou glides in with a tray of fresh fruit, mom-smile dialed to 11. Slides between them, sets it down.
Picks a juicy pear, hands it to Hong Lian: "Cool off, sweetie. Your training's killing it—everyone sees. But rest up. He'd hate you burning out."
The "he'd hate" melts Hong Lian. Grabs the pear, chomps like it's Ameyuri's head.
Turns to the hissing gremlin. Biggest, sweetest melon: "You too, hun—big fight, big drain. This'll perk you right up."
Leans in, whisper-conspiracy: "He told me earlier—your Lightning's scary now. That fearless edge? Chef's kiss."