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Chapter 49: The Hunter in the Aftermath
Silence.
Not the quiet of peace, but the profound, ringing stillness that follows a cataclysm. The echoes of thunder and the scream of steel had faded, leaving only the smell of blood, ozone, and freshly-cut wood.
The Thirty-Six Pound Phoenix. A technique to cut away the troubles of life, leaving only purity… or nothingness.
Armani remained standing, frozen in the final moment of his heroic charge. His powerful body trembled faintly, a statue of arrested violence. His pupils were wide, staring at nothing. Sweat and blood mingled on his skin. His lips moved, forming soundless words—a final curse, a question, perhaps a prayer.
Psssshhh—!
Then, the delayed eruption. Dozens of fine red lines blossomed across his body like crimson flowers opening in fast motion. Blood misted the air in a gruesome haze. The lines deepened, becoming trenches, and the mighty frame of the Thunderstorm Beast of Kumo collapsed. He fell to the churned earth, a ruin of meat and cloth, only his eyes retaining a flicker of furious, fading consciousness.
Huff… Huff…
Ragnar exhaled, the sound ragged in the sudden quiet. He leaned heavily on Yama, the demon blade planted in the soil like a crutch, and half-collapsed to one knee. Every breath sent fire through his broken ribs. His vision swam. This… had been the limit. A true, elite jonin pushed to his own absolute edge.
He forced himself up. Walked, each step an agony, to where Armani lay. He raised Yama. Sentiment had no place here. Only certainty. The enemy's head must be separated from his body.
"What…" Armani gurgled, blood bubbling at his lips. "…was that sword style?"
"Thirty-Six Pound Phoenix," Ragnar answered, his voice hollow with exhaustion. "A life is full of troubles. This blade cuts them all away."
"Ha… good." A terrible, wet smile stretched Armani's face. "You… will surpass the White Fang."
The acknowledgment from a dying warrior of that caliber held a strange weight. Ragnar said nothing.
"One… last thing," Armani whispered, his gaze growing distant. "The Jinchuriki… where…?"
Ragnar paused. He glanced towards a seemingly ordinary, half-burnt log near the edge of the clearing. "Come out, Kushina."
Poof.
A puff of white smoke. The log transformed, revealing Uzumaki Kushina, curled tight, her red hair stark against the soot. She'd been there the entire time, hidden by a basic Transformation Jutsu maintained by her own small but tenacious chakra, exactly as Ragnar had instructed in their first, frantic second of contact.
Armani's dying eyes saw her. Understanding, and a final, grim admiration, flashed within them. So clever… from the very start… The light in his gaze winked out. The last breath left his body.
Ragnar lowered Yama. It was done.
Then his own strength failed. The world tilted. He fell backwards, but instead of hard ground, he landed against something soft.
"RAGNAR!"
Kushina was there, having sprinted over. She caught him awkwardly, easing him down to lean against the splintered base of a felled giant tree. Her face was a mess of dirt, tear-tracks, and utter terror.
"Ragnar, please! Please don't die! This is all my fault! I was stupid, I wandered too far from the village, I—! If you hadn't come for me, you wouldn't—!" Her words dissolved into choking sobs, her tears dripping onto his torn shirt.
Ragnar's body was a symphony of pain, but none of it was immediately fatal. The Phoenix regeneration was already knitting at the edges, a slow, soothing warmth in his core. What he needed more than anything was stillness. Rest.
"Stop… crying," he managed, his voice a rough scrape. "Cry any more… and you'll finish what he started. Let me… rest."
Kushina hiccupped, a wet, half-sob, half-laugh escaping her. She clamped a hand over her mouth, nodding furiously.
Silence fell again, deeper now. Ragnar closed his eyes, letting his Awareness Haki turn inward, monitoring the damage, channeling what little energy he had towards the most critical breaks. His recovery rate, boosted by Haki and the Mythical Zoan, was monstrous. A night of true rest might see him functional, if not whole.
Kushina sat rigidly beside him, her small body trembling with spent adrenaline and resolve. He fought for me. Now I protect him. Her eyes, wide and fierce, scanned the ruined perimeter. She was the sole sentinel.
Hours bled together in the deep forest night. The moon crossed the sky. Exhaustion, emotional and physical, is a tide that drowns all vows. Despite her fierce determination, Kushina's head eventually nodded. She slumped sideways, her temple coming to rest gently against Ragnar's uninjured shoulder, her breathing deepening into the rhythm of sleep.
Rustle.
Ragnar's eyes snapped open.
Pain flared, a white-hot reminder of his state, but it was secondary. His Observation Haki, even depleted, had pinged. A presence. Not approaching with haste, but with deliberate, chilling slowness. A hunter who knew the prey was wounded.
He sat up, a suppressed grunt escaping his lips. The movement jostled Kushina awake.
"Mm… Ragnar? What's…?" she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.
"Get behind me," he ordered, his voice low and tense. He pushed himself fully upright, every muscle screaming in protest.
"Ragnar? Who's there?" Kushina whispered, fear returning to her voice as she scrambled to her feet behind him.
He didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the tree line.
Rustle… Crunch…
A figure emerged from the shadows, walking with an almost casual gait into the moonlit carnage of the clearing. He was tall, wearing the standard Konoha flak jacket over dark clothes. A forehead protector gleamed on his brow. A long, straight ninjato was strapped across his back. He moved with the lethal grace of a seasoned predator.
Konoha. The shape, the gear—it was unmistakable. But the aura… it was cold. Malicious. This was not a rescue.
Kushina saw the leaf symbol and a flicker of hope ignited. "A Konoha ninja! We're saved—"
"Quiet," Ragnar cut her off, not taking his eyes off the man. "Stay where you are."
The man stopped twenty feet away, his face still in shadow under the canopy. He let out a low, appreciative whistle as his gaze swept over the scene—the bisected forest, the gruesome remains of Armani, the battered eight-year-old standing defiantly in the center of it all.
"I never would have believed it," the man said, his voice smooth, conversational. "Armani. The 'Thunderstorm Beast.' A jonin whose reputation reaches even our village. And here he lies, carved up by… a child. Even I would have struggled to take him down. Remarkable."
"Let me guess," Ragnar said, his own voice flat, devoid of fear. It was a mask. Inside, he was calculating survival odds that were plummeting by the second. "There's only one clan in Konoha with a reason to stalk me out here. Uchiha."
The man chuckled, a dry, unpleasant sound. "Sharp. Yes. I am Uchiha Chino. Uchiha Shirou… was my son."
He stepped fully into a shaft of moonlight. His face was sharp, aristocratic, etched with cold lines of grief and vengeance. His eyes, previously hidden, now glinted with unholy light.
With a deliberate slowness, his pupils dilated. One tomoe spun into existence, then another, then a third. Three tomoe in each eye, spinning lazily, bathing Ragnar in their scarlet glow. An oppressive, evil-feeling chakra rolled off him in waves, thick with hatred, far surpassing anything Ragnar had felt from the chunin or even Armani. This was the focused malice of the Sharingan, wielded by a true jonin of the Uchiha clan.
The final enemy had arrived not from a foreign village, but from the heart of his own.
(End of Chapter)
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