Chapter 45: The Weight of a Shadow's Death
The figure that had lunged from the undergrowth lay crumpled against the tree, the trunk slightly splintered from the impact. Might Dai's kick, fueled by instinct and formidable strength, had been brutally effective. Against a normal foe, it would have been a fight-ender.
"Sigh." Ragnar couldn't help but shoot a look at Dai, a mix of exasperation and resignation.
Dai scratched the back of his head, his expression sheepish. "My apologies, Lord Ragnar! I thought it was another ambush! My youth reacted before my brain did!"
"By the uniform, that's Konoha ANBU," Ragnar stated, his voice dropping.
"WHAT?!" Dai's face paled under the moonlight. Striking a fellow Konoha ninja was bad enough. Striking ANBU, the village's hidden blade, was a potentially lethal mistake.
Ragnar moved forward, kneeling beside the slumped form. The figure's breathing was shallow, wet, and growing fainter. The life in them was guttering out like a candle in the wind. He carefully turned the body, his eyes going to the mask. It was one of the Twelve Zodiac masks—the Boar.
Recognition clicked. Not just any Boar. He'd dueled this ninja in the ANBU Crucible. Through the medium of Observation Haki, every person's spiritual "pressure" had a unique texture. This fading aura belonged to the same Boar-masked ANBU he had faced and defeated.
"It really is ANBU," Dai moaned, horror dawning. "I've killed him…"
"You didn't," Ragnar corrected coldly, his finger pointing to the center of the Boar's chest. "Look."
Even in the poor light, the wound was evident. A deep, precise puncture, cauterized around the edges by intense heat… no, by lightning. Faint traces of Lightning Release chakra still sizzled faintly in the ruined tissue. The attack had pierced directly through the heart. The Boar was still alive through sheer, stubborn willpower and perhaps—Ragnar noted clinically—a thicker layer of pectoral muscle that had slightly misdirected the blow from instantly destroying the organ.
"Ahem…!"
The Boar coughed, a weak, bubbling sound. His head lolled, eyes searching the darkness until they found Ragnar and Dai. His voice was a paper-thin whisper. "Konoha…? Am I… back?"
"Not yet. We're ninjas on a return mission," Ragnar answered, keeping his ANBU status hidden. "What happened here?"
A flicker of profound disappointment crossed the Boar's visible lower face. "I see… Please… remove my mask."
It was an odd request for a dying ANBU, whose identity was meant to die with the mask. But Ragnar complied, his motions gentle. He unhooked the porcelain Boar mask.
Underneath was a face far younger than expected, rounded with youthfulness, cheeks still holding a hint of childhood softness. He couldn't have been more than fourteen. In the dim light, his eyes, losing their focus, seemed to stare past them at the night sky.
"Death… is a ninja's fate," the boy whispered, his voice gaining a strange, distant clarity. "From the day I put on the mask… I lived in shadow. Killing… being killed… it's just a matter of time. To see the light… one last time… before the end… I have no regrets."
Might Dai stood frozen, a deep sadness etching his normally exuberant features. Ragnar said nothing, offering the silence the dying shadow deserved. These were the last words of a tool being returned to the box, finally acknowledging it had been a person.
"What happened?" Ragnar pressed, his voice low but firm. ANBU operatives dying on home territory signaled a severe breach.
"Kumo…" the boy gasped. "Kumogakure infiltrators… they took the Jinchuriki. Our squad… ordered to track… retrieve silently. Ambushed… heavy losses…"
Ragnar's blood ran cold. The Jinchuriki. In this era, in Konoha, there was only one candidate.
Kushina.
The incident from the vague history of his old world was unfolding before him. Kumogakure, seeking the Uzumaki clan's legendary sealing prowess and resilient bloodline, had made their move.
"Was there no larger pursuit? A retrieval team?" Ragnar asked, though he already suspected the answer.
The Boar gave a weak, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "Only our ANBU team… The Hokage… doesn't want this public… Konoha's weakness… can't be shown…"
The cold, political logic was stark. The Jinchuriki was a vital asset, but her public kidnapping was a devastating blow to morale during tense, pre-war times. A single, deniable ANBU team was the compromise: succeed in secrecy, or fail in silence. If they failed, Konoha could feign ignorance, avoid a immediate, all-out war it might not be ready for. Kushina would become a statistic, a tragic, unsolved loss.
The thought of Kushina—brash, loud, secretly kind Kushina—being discarded as a political casualty sent a jolt of something hot and fierce through Ragnar's cold pragmatism. He saw the bento boxes left at his door. The way she cheered for him with utter, uncomplicated faith. The silent cleaning of his empty home while he trained in the ANBU depths. In a world of calculations and survival, her actions were a stubborn, bright flame of genuine care.
The Boar's breathing hitched, then smoothed out into a terrible, final stillness. The light left his young eyes. His mission, in death, was complete.
"Lord Ragnar, what's a Jinchuriki? What's going on?" Dai asked, bewildered by the grave exchange.
Ragnar took a slow, controlled breath, banking the sudden fire in his chest. "Dai," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I have to go after someone. You cannot come with me."
"Why not? Two are stronger than one! My youth is ready to burn again!" Dai protested, clenching his fists.
"This is different. The side-effects of the Gates haven't left you; you're at half-strength at best. And these ANBU," Ragnar gestured to the bodies in the clearing, "were loyal shinobi of Konoha. They can't be left for scavengers. Bury them. Give them that dignity."
Dai opened his mouth to argue, but the truth of Ragnar's words sank in. In his current state, he would be a liability, not an asset. His shoulders slumped, then squared with resolve. "Understood. I will wait here for your return, Lord Ragnar."
Ragnar glanced at the moon's position. "If I'm not back by dawn," he said, his tone leaving no illusion about the odds, "don't wait. Return to Konoha and report what you found here. Omit my part in the chase."
The unspoken finality of it hung in the air. Dai's face hardened into an expression of fierce loyalty. "Lord Ragnar… you will come back. If anything happens to you… I swear on my life and my youth, Kumogakure will pay a price they cannot imagine!"
With a final nod, Ragnar turned. Shave.
He vanished from the clearing, becoming a streak of motion through the midnight forest.
Whoosh… Whoosh…
Ragnar moved like a ghost, his Observation Haki stretched to its limit, painting the world in shades of intent and lingering chakra. He followed the faint, fading trail of conflict—a scuff mark here, a drop of blood on a fern there, the residual ozone-smell of Lightning Release. The path led away from Konoha, towards the more remote, mountainous borders.
Another hard fight. The thought was a clinical assessment. A rescue against an unknown number of Kumo-nin, likely jonin-level to take on an ANBU team. The logical part of him screamed it was a terrible risk for a girl who, in the grand scheme of his survival, was not essential.
But Kushina was essential. Not to his plans, but to the faint, atrophied part of him that remembered what it was to have a connection not based on utility or fear. She was the only one who sought nothing from him but his existence. For that stubborn, irrational spark of light, he would walk into the darkness.
A mile from the estimated location, his Observation Haki screamed a warning—not of attack, but of presence. He killed his momentum, melting into the shadows of a rocky outcrop. He moved with agonizing slowness, every sense amplified.
In a small clearing ahead, under the bleak, silver moon, he saw her.
Tied tightly to the thick trunk of an ancient oak was Kushina. Her vibrant red hair was dulled by dirt and tears. Her head was bowed, but he could see the track of tears cutting through the grime on her cheeks. The usual fiery defiance was gone, replaced by a heartbreaking look of helpless despair.
"Kushina," he breathed, the word soundless.
His eyes scanned the area. Two figures in the distinctive attire of Kumogakure ninja lounged against trees on the far side of the clearing, seemingly taking a rest. Their postures were relaxed, but their positioning covered all approaches to their prisoner. They were professionals, confident after dispatching their pursuers.
Ragnar's mind began to work, cold and fast. Two visible guards. Were there more on patrol? In the trees? His Haki swept the area, detecting no other immediate hostile presences, but the range was limited by his exhaustion.
He assessed his reserves. Fatigue was a heavy cloak. His chakra was low. His Haki was stable but not at peak. The Phoenix flames within him, now at Lv4, simmered with new, volatile power, but unleashing them here could too easily catch Kushina in the blaze.
He needed a plan. A silent, precise, and merciless one.
The demon blade Yama felt heavy at his side, almost humming with anticipation. The technique, Thirty-Six Pound Phoenix, lay ready in his mind.
He would get one chance.
(End of Chapter)
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