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Chapter 33: The White Fang's Measure
A profound silence fell over the ANBU assembly. In the wake of the fierce duel, all the masked operatives—candidates and full members alike—instinctively parted, forming a clear aisle. As one, they offered a crisp, respectful salute to the man who had just arrived, the undisputed master of these shadows: Hatake Sakumo.
Sakumo acknowledged them with a slight, almost imperceptible nod and a wave of his hand, dismissing the formality. He strode through the parted crowd, his focus fixed on the lone figure standing amidst the wreckage of the arena.
This was the first true meeting between Ragnar and the White Fang, though Sakumo had heard the boy's name more than once.
For Ragnar, it was his first sight of the legend in person. Though still relatively young, Sakumo's striking silver-white hair made him instantly recognizable in Konoha. His features held a clear, sharp resemblance to the future Copy Ninja, Kakashi—the stamp of lineage was undeniable.
"Captain," Ragnar said, his tone respectful, filtered to neutrality by the Rakshasa mask.
As the ANBU commander, the White Fang had no need for a mask. His identity, his reputation, was his shield and his weapon. While the historical records of Hatake Sakumo were sparse, his legend spoke volumes—a shinobi of immense power and principle, whose tragic end, choosing comrades over a mission, marked him as a hero undone by the very codes he upheld. Some whispered of darker conspiracies, that a man of his strength and stature, a potential candidate for the Fourth Hokage, might have been a threat someone needed to remove. Ragnar pushed such thoughts aside. Speculation was a luxury. Survival was the current mandate.
"No need for formalities here," Sakumo said, a faint, surprisingly kind smile touching his lips. His eyes, however, were actively assessing, scanning Ragnar from head to toe, and he gave a small, approving nod. It was hard to reconcile this calm, approachable man with the stories of "Konoha's White Fang," whose drawn blade was said to be the last light his enemies ever saw.
"Quite the debut. How many consecutive victories?" Sakumo asked, his voice conversational.
"The ANBU is full of talented operatives, each with unique skills," Ragnar replied, his tone measured. "I became carried away and issued challenges. By luck, I managed thirteen wins. The other operatives showed considerable restraint." It was a calculated humility. He didn't need to alienate potential allies—or future knives at his back—with arrogance.
As expected, his words caused a subtle shift in the atmosphere among the watching ANBU. The rigid tension eased slightly. Being soundly defeated by a newcomer was one thing; having that newcomer openly acknowledge your skill was another.
Sakumo's smile widened a fraction. This one is shrewd, he thought. The boy was likely the youngest person in the entire complex, yet he carried himself with a veteran's poise. It was easy to forget his age.
"Honesty is better than false modesty," Sakumo stated. "I need to gauge your talent and potential for myself. It will determine your future placement and duties within ANBU."
He paused, letting the implication hang. His eyes, sharp and experienced, saw beyond the surface. His intuition whispered of dormant potential in this red-masked boy, but intuition required verification.
"..." Ragnar processed the statement for a half-second. The meaning was clear: Sakumo wanted to test him. Personally.
The ANBU Captain himself? The duels had been stimulating, a valuable pressure test, but facing Hatake Sakumo was an entirely different proposition. This was a bona fide Kage-level combatant. The gulf in power was oceanic. Sakumo's legendary swordsmanship was said to be a white flash that simply ended conflicts. Was this about reasserting authority? A morbid desire to humble a rising star? Or…
Or it's guidance. Sparring and direct critique from a shadow-level master were rarities beyond price.
After a moment's internal debate, Ragnar followed Sakumo to the center of the arena. The surrounding ANBU operatives didn't disperse; if anything, they drew closer, eager for the unprecedented chance to observe their captain in action, even a casual one.
While they had been talking, the Earth Release user from the previous fight had already repaired the shattered floor with a series of jutsu, leaving it smooth and unmarked once more.
"Begin," Sakumo said simply, taking a relaxed stance a few meters away. "Attack me. Use your strongest method. Better yet, use any method you believe can reach me."
His meaning was clear. Against someone of his caliber, tricks were meaningless. Only raw, applied force mattered.
Ragnar knew, with cold certainty, that none of his current attacks could truly threaten Hatake Sakumo. Not even the Phoenix flames. In a real encounter, he would be dead before he could process the thought.
But this was a spar. A chance to measure the distance to the summit. He would hold nothing back.
Without a word, he exploded into motion.
"Shave!"
The air cracked at his origin point, the stone beneath his feet cratering. He became a blur, a streaking afterimage that materialized at Sakumo's right flank, a hardened fist already hammering toward the jonin's ribs.
BOOM!
Sakumo's eyes held a glint of appreciation. This speed… it surpasses most chunin. To him, it was still comprehensible, almost leisurely. He shifted his weight, a minimal, elegant drift to the side, and Ragnar's fist passed through empty air.
Ragnar didn't halt. He layered Armament Haki over his next strike, then the next, a relentless barrage of black fists seeking any opening. Sakumo didn't block, didn't parry. He simply wasn't there when the attacks arrived, his movements so fluid and precise they seemed to bend space around him.
For the first time, Ragnar felt a flicker of profound frustration—the nauseating sensation of his power striking nothing but air, his efforts dissolving into uselessness.
The gap was real, and it was vast.
Changing tactics, Ragnar stopped targeting the man. If Sakumo could evade him, he would destroy what Sakumo was standing on.
He pivoted, dropped his stance, and drove a fist—sheathed in Level 3 Armament and charged with 15% Spiral Force compression—directly into the stone floor.
"Break!"
KABOOOM!
The impact was seismic. The entire arena bucked like a living thing. A cataclysm of force erupted from the point of impact. The stone didn't crack; it vaporized into a cloud of pulverized dust. Concentric waves of concussive white air rippled outwards, visible and destructive.
Hatake Sakumo, for the first time, was forced to act. The ground he was standing on ceased to exist in an instant, transformed into a flying storm of deadly shrapnel. He flickered back, a clean retreat, evading the blast zone with effortless grace.
But the sheer, indiscriminate, terrain-shattering violence of the move made him pause. A wry, almost nostalgic thought crossed his mind.
Such a brutish, overwhelming style… it really does remind me of someone.
(End of Chapter)
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