Chapter 42: The Price of a Ghost
Matt Dai's anxious, ragged voice echoed in Ragnar's ears, a stark contrast to the Jonin's chilling laughter. The gamble of the Eight Inner Gates had failed, its terrible price arriving too soon. The balance of the battlefield had tipped in a single, exhausting moment.
The resulting situation was brutally simple: Ragnar faced a wounded but enraged Kirigakure Jonin alone.
"Stop your useless noise!" the Jonin snarled. He stomped down hard on Dai's back, grinding his sandal into the larger man's spine, using his body as a footstool to vent his fury and humiliation. The anger was a living thing—anger at his brother's death, at being pushed to the brink by a Konoha genin, at the entire failed mission.
"Cough!" Dai choked, spitting a mouthful of blood into the mud. His body, wracked by the Gates' recoil, could offer no resistance. He was pinned, a testament to spent valor.
Ragnar's face remained an impassive mask. Inside, he was calculating. His muscles trembled with fatigue. The seven chunin had cost him dearly in stamina and chakra. A direct confrontation with even a depleted Jonin was a toss-up. But showing weakness was death. He forced his breathing to steady, his voice to remain flat and cold.
"If I were you," Ragnar said, his gaze locked on the Ghost Lantern ninja, "I wouldn't be making threats. I'd be retreating. Immediately."
"Retreat?" The Jonin's laugh was harsh, devoid of any real humor. "After you killed my brother? After you slaughtered my squad? Don't be absurd, brat."
"Look at the bodies behind me," Ragnar continued, his tone clinical. "Seven chunin. I killed them consecutively. My combat level, at minimum, is Special Jonin. You," he gestured with his chin, "are a Jonin, yes. But you've just fought a Kage-level technique. Your chakra and stamina are critically low. If we fight now, it will be mutually assured destruction. That serves neither of us."
The Ghost Lantern ninja's sneer faltered for a split second. His eyes, sharp with hatred, flicked past Ragnar to the grotesque circle of corpses. His own men. Seven of them, taken down by this… this child. The cold logic of Ragnar's words pierced his rage. The kid was right about the consumption. The twin Water Dragons and maintaining the Hydrification against that monstrous green barrage had drained him. He was running on fumes and vengeance.
But then, looking at Ragnar's young, determined face smeared with the blood of Kiri ninja, a deeper, more chilling realization took root.
Ten years old at most. This strength… this cold efficiency. A Konoha ninja. If he lives…
The image of Konoha's White Fang, a man whose very name brought dread to the Mist, flashed in his mind. This boy could become worse. A future calamity for Kirigakure. The murderous intent that had been hot and furious crystallized into something cold, absolute, and professional.
Ragnar felt it through his Observation Haki—a killing intent so focused and final it felt like a physical chill. Negotiation failed.
"My reserves are indeed low," the Jonin admitted, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "And the cost you paid for seven kills was not small. I can see your exhaustion. But you have a terrifying talent. To let you grow would be an unforgivable failure. Today, you stay here. Even if the price is my life."
"Ragnar, run!" Dai managed to croak out. With a final, agonizing surge of will, he wrapped his arms around the Jonin's ankle, clinging with the last of his strength. "I'm just a failure! You're Konoha's future! GO!"
"Let go, you pathetic worm!" The Jonin kicked viciously, breaking Dai's grip and sending him skidding through the mud. He didn't finish Dai off—a conscious choice. Killing the green beast would take a moment, a moment where the demon child might flee or land a fatal blow. The primary target was clear.
He turned his full, predatory attention back to Ragnar. "Now. It's your turn."
"Water Release: Hidden Mist Jutsu!"
His hands flew through seals with practiced speed. Not the massive, chakra-devouring techniques of before, but the foundational art of Kirigakure assassination. A thin, cold mist began to seep from the damp soil and the remnants of the water lake. It thickened with alarming speed, rolling in silent, opaque waves. Within seconds, the battlefield was swallowed. Visibility dropped to zero. The world became a cold, grey prison where sound was muffled and every shadow could be death.
In the art of silent killing, Kirigakure was unparalleled among the Five Great Nations. Konoha's ANBU were deadly, but in the mist, a Kiri ninja was a ghost. This was their element, bred by the ever-present sea fogs of their homeland. For an enemy, it was blindness, disorientation, and creeping panic.
For Ragnar, it was an inconvenience.
He closed his eyes. Observation Haki: Full Sense.
The greyscale world of intent and presence superimposed itself over the physical blindness. The thick mist was rendered irrelevant. He could feel the dense, pained chakra signature of Dai, crumpled nearby. And he could sense the Jonin—a pulsating, malicious point of energy, moving with silent, liquid grace through the fog, circling him.
Whoosh… Whoosh…
Shadows flickered at the edge of his Haki sense. The Jonin was testing, moving with the absolute silence of a master hunter. A kunai, thrown not for damage but to gauge reaction, whistled silently out of the grey, aimed at the back of Ragnar's neck.
Ragnar didn't turn. He simply tilted his head two inches to the left. The kunai passed through the space his neck had occupied and vanished into the mist.
Impossible! The thought, sharp with shock, echoed from the Jonin's position in Ragnar's mind. No sound. No chakra flare. How did he…?
Ragnar gave him no time to ponder.
He planted his feet, his right arm swinging back. Fatigue was a weight he ignored. Armament Haki, darker and more concentrated than before, sheathed his fist and forearm like forged obsidian. He located the Jonin's core through the mist, through the trees, with pinpoint accuracy.
"Spiral Iron Fist."
He didn't just punch the air. He punched the concept of the space between them, unleashing the compressed, rotating force of Spiral Power wrapped in an emission of Armament Haki.
BANG!
The effect was not a projectile, but a localized shockwave of pure, directed force. The air itself spiraled violently outwards from his fist. The thick, clinging mist in a cone-shaped area before him was not parted—it was violently shredded, hurled backwards as if by a sudden gale. A clear tunnel, littered with shredded leaves and dirt, was blown through the artificial fog, revealing the stunned Jonin fifteen meters away, his assassination posture broken.
Huff… Ragnar exhaled sharply, his arm trembling. White steam hissed from his pores where the Haki had been over-concentrated. The deep black coating on his arm flickered, growing patchy. His physical stamina was hitting its absolute limit. He was running on willpower and the dregs of his energy.
"How…?" the Ghost Lantern Jonin breathed, his astonishment plain. His ace, the mist, had been nullified not by a wind jutsu, but by raw, concussive power.
There was no more room for technique, for tricks. It was down to the last reserves.
Shave.
Even fatigued, Ragnar's burst speed was terrifying. He crossed the cleared space in a blur of motion that made his muscles scream in protest, appearing directly in front of the Jonin. No feints, no elegance. A straight, Armament-hardened punch aimed for the center of mass.
The Jonin's eyes widened. He couldn't dodge. He crossed his arms in a guard over his chest, bracing.
CRACK-THUD!
The impact wasn't just physical. The Spiral Force, even weakened, transmitted through the guard. A visible shockwave of energy erupted from the Jonin's back, splintering the trunk of the large tree behind him into pulp.
"Guh-!" The Jonin vomited a spray of blood, his arms going numb. But in that moment of impact, his body liquefied. His form collapsed into a splash of water that soaked into the muddy ground.
Water Clone? No… Hydrification!
A few meters away, another puddle of water coalesced, reforming into the Jonin. He stumbled, his face ashen, one hand clutching his chest. He was breathing in ragged, wet gasps. The water release had saved him from having his organs pulverized, but the concussive force had still transferred, leaving him with severe internal trauma.
"As expected of a Jonin," Ragnar said, his own voice tight with strain. He didn't pursue immediately. He was buying seconds, each one a precious commodity for his body to recover a sliver of energy. His mind, however, raced through endless calculations, searching for the single path to victory in their mutually exhausted state.
The Ghost Lantern ninja stared at this relentless child, a chill that had nothing to do with his injuries seeping into his bones. This wasn't a fight anymore. It was a duel of endurance between a wounded shark and a cornered wolf cub. And the wolf's eyes held no fear, only an endless, calculating cold.
(End of Chapter)
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