Chapter 34: The Short Blade's Edge(Bonus Chapter)
KABOOM—CRUNCH!
The once-orderly dueling arena, spanning hundreds of square meters, was a landscape of devastation. Few patches of the stone floor remained intact. At the epicenter, where Ragnar had struck, a crater three meters wide and a meter deep gaped open. He stood within it, dust settling around him like a shroud.
"Strange power?" Hatake Sakumo observed, his voice calm with recognition. "Tsunade passed it to you?"
"Yes, sir," Ragnar confirmed with a slight nod.
"That level of destructive force… it's on par with a B-rank ninjutsu," an ANBU near the front murmured.
"The captain actually had to avoid it," another whispered, awe tinting his voice.
The operatives were abuzz, their eyes fixed on the two figures. The sheer, terrain-altering violence Ragnar had displayed was staggering.
"Your skill is exceptional, Captain. Your Body Flicker is faster than sight. This was the only method I could devise to limit your evasion," Ragnar explained, his tone factual.
"And how many times can you replicate an attack of that magnitude?" Sakumo asked, a faint, curious smile playing on his lips.
"As many times as necessary," Ragnar stated, the claim absolute.
"Truly? Then let us continue," Sakumo said, and the last trace of amiability vanished from his face, replaced by the focused intent of a master swordsman.
SHAVE!
Ragnar was in front of him in an instant. This time, Sakumo didn't retreat. Seizing the opening, Ragnar wouldn't let it pass. The outcome of this spar was preordained, but he would make the process count.
"Armament Haki: Hardening!"
His fist turned to black iron, driving straight for Sakumo's jaw.
But it seemed to fall short, stopping a hand's breadth from the captain's face. A premature strike?
Yet, behind the Rakshasa mask, Ragnar's lips curled. Seeing that faint smile, Sakumo's instincts screamed. He jerked his head to the side.
SWOOSH!
A concussive fist of pure, compressed air—an invisible projectile of Armament force—whistled past his ear. A single, silver strand of hair, severed cleanly, drifted down to settle on the shattered stone.
Silence. A profound, breathless silence.
The ANBU Captain had been touched. His hair, cut by a probationary recruit.
"Invisible force projection?" Sakumo mused, genuine surprise flickering in his eyes. His assessment of the boy ticked upward another notch.
Ragnar felt a twinge of disappointment. He'd hoped the trick would land. It seemed even a surprise was insufficient.
Level 3 Armament Haki allowed for the basic projection of force—"emission." At this stage, it was weak, diffuse, but perfect for unexpected, mid-range strikes.
"Good," Sakumo acknowledged, his voice low.
SHING—CLANG!
The sound was one: the whisper of a blade leaving its sheath and the metallic finality of its readiness.
Hatake Sakumo had finally drawn his sword.
No one saw the motion. It was as if the blade had always been there, now simply made manifest. The white chakra short sword, White Fang, rested in his grip, its edge a line of pure, deadly light. Then, it moved.
It was a simple downward cut. No flourish, no wasted motion. It was the essence of cutting given form.
The ANBU observers hissed in collective shock. Their thoughts were a silent chorus: He's blocking it? He's trying to block the Captain's sword? That's White Fang! The blade that cuts through darkness! Nothing blocks it!
When the White Fang was drawn, the outcome was binary: death or severe injury. No one parried it. It was like facing a legendary technique—you evaded, you did not confront.
Ragnar did not evade. His fists, sheathed in the impenetrable black of Armament Haki, rose to meet the descending blade. In this moment, he felt a strange, defiant clarity. If my armor is absolute, then I am my own shield.
CLAAAAAAAAANG!
The sound was not of shattering metal, but of two absolute forces colliding—a titanic, ringing chime that vibrated in the bones of every watcher.
Terrible chakra, sharpened to a monomolecular edge, surged along White Fang's length. This was Hatake Swordsmanship: the flow of chakra honed into a cutting principle that could sever ninjutsu, earth, and fate itself.
The cut was deceptively quiet, as if it had stolen the sound from the world. Before its edge, all seemed to grow dim.
Ragnar poured everything into his Armament Haki. The power of Haki was bound by level, but it was also a manifestation of will. And in this moment, facing the legendary blade, his will—his survival instinct, his pride, his sheer refusal to break—surged like a tsunami. Adrenaline and spirit fused, forcing his Haki to burn brighter, harder, more.
His black fist met the white blade.
For a single, stretched heartbeat, the world ceased. Then, energy—visible, chaotic—detonated from the point of contact.
A dome of distorted force erupted, shoving the air outward in a visible shockwave. The ground trembled violently, new cracks lancing out from their feet like black lightning. From the point where fist met blade, tendrils of dark red and black energy—like corrupted lightning—arced out, scorching the stone where they landed and forcing the watching ANBU to stumble back, raising arms against the physical and psychic pressure.
The very light in the cavern seemed to dim, sucked into the struggle between the immovable black fist and the unstoppable white blade. A suffocating weight filled the space.
Hatake Sakumo felt the shift. His power… it intensified dramatically. Is this the true nature of his strange strength?
BANG!
But will could only bridge so much gulf. Reality reasserted itself. Ragnar's body was hurled back, skidding across the rubble. The black sheen on his arm flickered and faded, returning to normal flesh, now trembling and steaming faintly with released heat. He had pushed his Armament to its absolute limit, and it would need time to recover.
Sakumo smoothly sheathed White Fang, the blade vanishing with the same silent finality.
"I lose, Captain," Ragnar stated, his voice steady despite the tremors in his arms.
"Hah! You exceeded expectations," Sakumo said, walking over, his earlier intensity gone, replaced by open approval. "And did you truly believe you could win?"
"Of course not. If you hadn't restrained the blade, my arm would be severed." Ragnar offered a wry, tired smile. He understood the mercy that had been shown.
Sakumo looked at him, his gaze evaluative. "Your combat strength is firmly at the Elite Chunin level. Combined with that peculiar hardening technique and Tsunade's principles, you could hold your own against many jonin. Your combat instincts are sharp. Frankly, I have little to 'teach' you in the traditional sense."
He paused, his expression turning thoughtful. "However, the battle revealed a limitation. It is not a flaw in you, but in your approach."
"What limitation, Captain?" Ragnar asked, genuinely curious.
"Your methodology is… direct. Overwhelmingly so. You rely on monstrous power to bulldoze through problems. This serves you well now. But when you face true jonin-level opponents—those who wield wide-area destruction ninjutsu, who can attack from ranges your fists cannot reach—your advantage narrows considerably. My personal advice: when you have time, develop a signature technique. A ninjutsu, or a fusion of your existing powers, that complements your close-range dominance. It would grant you versatility, and with your foundation, the result could be… formidable."
He gave Ragnar's shoulder a final, firm pat—a gesture of respect from a master to a promising student—then turned and walked away, leaving the boy standing amidst the ruins, surrounded by the silent, watching masks, with a new seed of purpose planted in his mind.
(End of Chapter)
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