Chapter 32: The White Fang's Gaze
In Konoha, the last light of sunset bled across the Hokage Tower's windows.
Inside his office, Sarutobi Hiruzen worked through a stack of documents, the smoke from his pipe coiling in the amber light. Standing nearby, reviewing a separate set of scrolls, was Hatake Sakumo, the White Fang, Captain of the ANBU. The paperwork involved resource approvals for the black ops—personnel vetting, equipment allocations, the grim logistics of the shadows.
"Sakumo, Ragnar has formally joined ANBU, correct?" Hiruzen asked without looking up, taking a contemplative pull on his pipe.
"That boy? He has been inducted. However, given his age and lack of field experience, I placed him as a probationary candidate," Sakumo replied, his voice calm and precise.
"A probationary ANBU?" Hiruzen paused, then chuckled softly. "Not a bad approach."
Ragnar possessed power, yes, but he was still a child. Raw talent needed tempering, and experience was a forge he had yet to enter. Truthfully, a great village like Konoha never lacked for prodigies. The true rarity was a prodigy who lived long enough to fulfill their potential. Most ninjas, even gifted ones, had to claw for resources mission by mission, especially in the ruthless crucible of ANBU. Reaching true, peer-surpassing strength was a long road paved with more than just victories.
"Geniuses always carry a certain… arrogance," Sakumo stated, his tone neutral. "This period will serve to grind that down. There is no need for the Hokage to be overly concerned."
He had been on mission during the academy tournament and knew of Ragnar only through secondhand reports—a "genius," limited to rumor. In his view, the more gifted the individual, the less they should be coddled or given special treatment. This was precisely why, despite being in ANBU for over a week, Ragnar had received no special audience with him. To a Kage-level shinobi like Sakumo, a genius was simply a ninja with a slightly higher starting point. His current task was observation—to see what substance lay beneath the rumors.
POOF.
A masked ANBU operative materialized in the office, kneeling immediately. ANBU did not use doors; efficiency demanded the instantaneous arrival of the Body Flicker.
Sakumo and Hiruzen both looked up.
"Report," Sakumo commanded. All ANBU matters fell under his purview.
"Captain. Hokage-sama. The probationary candidate, Ragnar, is currently engaged in duels on the Dark List roster at headquarters. He has achieved ten consecutive victories. The matches are ongoing," the operative reported, his voice filtered but clear.
"What? The Dark List? Ragnar?" Sakumo's usually composed demeanor fractured for an instant, disbelief coloring his tone.
He had instituted the Dark List—a internal ranking system via combat meant to hone the best of the best. Those who earned a spot on it were elites among elites, even by the standards of the Five Great Nations. And he was being told this new recruit, this child, had won ten fights in a row? How long had he been there?
"You are certain of this?" Hiruzen asked, taking a long, slow draw from his pipe before exhaling a cloud of smoke.
"I would not dare misreport, Hokage-sama. The entire ANBU contingent is currently… attentive," the operative confirmed.
"Hah! That boy… he certainly has a talent for making waves wherever he goes," Hiruzen mused, a mix of amusement and concern in his eyes.
Hatake Sakumo's expression, however, had settled into one of serious gravity. "With your permission, Hokage-sama, I should attend to this."
"Go. See for yourself," Hiruzen waved a hand.
In twin puffs of smoke, Sakumo and the reporting operative vanished.
...
Konoha ANBU Headquarters – Dueling Arena
The cavernous space, usually echoing with isolated silence, now hummed with a rare, focused energy. Dozens of masked operatives were gathered, a significant portion of the active roster. Such a congregation was almost unheard of in the normally fractured, secretive world of the black ops.
On the scarred floor of the arena, the battle raged.
"Earth Release: Earth Dragon Bullet!"
A ninja wearing a mask of cracked, dark earth slammed his palms to the stone floor. The ground shuddered, fracturing as a massive, serpentine dragon of rock and soil erupted upwards, coiling five meters into the air. It was a B-rank technique, formidable and heavy with crushing power. The earth dragon roared a silent challenge, then plunged downward like a landslide given life, its maw aimed to swallow the red-masked figure whole.
"Well timed!"
"Armament Harden: Spiral Force!"
Ragnar first employed Moon Walk, kicking off the air itself to ascend and meet the descending beast. His arms darkened to black iron, fists clenched. White vapor, a byproduct of immense compressed power, leaked from between his fingers. He channeled the crude Spiral Force compression—around 15% now—focusing it into the point of impact.
BOOOOM!
The black fist met the dragon's forehead. For an instant, space seemed to freeze around the impact. A visible dome of distorted air—a "domination field" of Armament Haki—flared, crackling with dark, lightning-like streaks of released energy.
CRACK!
A web of fractures exploded across the earth dragon's stony head. But Earth Release was renowned for its endurance. The dragon, though damaged, held.
The Black Earth ninja, though horrified by the defensive show, saw an opening. He's in the air. No leverage for a second strike. When he lands—
"Moon Walk."
Ragnar didn't fall. He stepped on the air again, a whirlpool of force appearing beneath his foot as he pushed off an invisible platform, repositioning himself for another angle of attack.
Impossible! The Black Earth ninja's confidence shattered.
"Armament: Iron Fist!"
Ragnar's second punch was a meteor strike from above. It hammered into the dragon's "neck." The combined might of Level 3 Armament and the penetrating Spiral Force proved too much. The construct didn't just break; it disintegrated into a shower of gravel and dust.
SHAVE!
Before the dust could settle, Ragnar was a blur. A gust of wind was the only warning before the cold, unyielding point of a blackened fist pressed against the Black Earth ninja's sternum. One more ounce of pressure would mean shattered ribs and a ruptured heart.
"I yield!" the ninja gasped, the words tearing from his throat.
Thirteen consecutive victories.
A palpable wave of murmuring swept the silent observers. "Who is he?" "He wasn't on the roster before." "His combat power… it's at least special jonin level." "He might be invincible below the captain rank."
In ANBU, hierarchy was everything, and respect was paid in blood and victory. The Rakshasa mask had just earned a formidable measure of both.
Ragnar, his breathing only slightly elevated, checked his internal status. The experience gains from thirteen high-stakes duels against skilled opponents were substantial: 7,200/10,000 EXP. A massive leap. He would process it later.
He decided to step down. The point had been made, and his body, while far from spent, needed to integrate the lessons learned.
As he turned to leave the arena floor, the crowd of masked operatives near the entrance suddenly stilled, then parted with a deference that was both instant and absolute.
A man walked through the opening they made. He wore no mask, but his presence commanded more awe than any porcelain visage. His features were sharp, his hair a striking silver-white. He moved with a lethal, effortless grace, and the air around him seemed to sharpen, to become as keen as the legendary blade at his back.
Hatake Sakumo, the White Fang, had arrived.
His calm, assessing eyes settled on the blood-red Rakshasa mask standing alone in the center of the ruined arena.
(End of Chapter)
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