Chapter 51: The Face That Shakes the World
"Give me some face, can't you?"
The voice was casual, almost conversational, yet it fell into the tense clearing with the weight of a law. A man had simply… appeared. No puff of smoke, no distortion of space, no tell-tale chakra flare. One moment, empty air; the next, an imposing figure standing casually between Ragnar and death.
Uchiha Chino kept his sword raised, his Sharingan spinning furiously, trying and failing to parse the arrival. Confusion warred with his murderous intent. Who? How? The man didn't radiate the typical, controlled pressure of a high-level shinobi. He seemed almost… relaxed. To ask for "face" at such a moment was absurd.
Ragnar felt a surge of fierce, vindictive relief that momentarily overpowered his pain. Finally. The gamble hadn't failed. The summoned entity had arrived, not with a cataclysmic entrance, but with an understated presence that was somehow more terrifying.
And it was him. The one some in his old world had jokingly called the "Face-Fruit" user. But there was no joke here. This was "Red-Haired" Shanks. A Yonko. A man whose very existence was a tectonic plate in the balance of an entire world's power.
He looked exactly as the fragmented memories suggested: the wild red hair, the three distinctive scars under his left eye, the short stubble. A simple white shirt under a dark cloak, billowing in a non-existent breeze. The iconic red prosthetic arm. The legendary saber, Gryphon, hanging at his waist in a plain scabbard. His posture was one of utter, unshakeable ease.
"Are you the one who called me here?" Shanks asked, glancing over his shoulder at Ragnar. His eyes held a spark of keen, intelligent curiosity, cutting through the nonchalance.
"Yes," Ragnar managed, spitting out another mouthful of coppery blood. "Red-Haired. Help me resolve this. Now."
"Fighting's such a pain," Shanks sighed, sounding genuinely put-upon. He turned his full attention back to Uchiha Chino, a disarmingly warm smile spreading across his face. "Hey, buddy. Seriously. Give me a little face here? I'm a big fan of peace. How about we all just… call it a night?"
Uchiha Chino's confusion curdled into anger and insult. This stranger, appearing from nowhere, exuding no discernible power, was treating him—a Jonin of the Uchiha, wielder of the Sharingan—like a noisy child. The arrogance was breathtaking.
"Stop your nonsense," Chino spat, his grip tightening on his ninjato. The blade gleamed lethally in the mixed light of fire and moon. "Who are you? Stay out of this if you value your life. Interfere, and I'll add your corpse to the pile."
"Tch." Shanks shook his head, the smile turning wry. "See? That's the problem. No one gives a guy face anymore."
"Face? Face?!" Chino snarled, his Sharingan burning. "Who do you think you are? I'll carve my answer on your bones!"
"I'm Shanks," the red-haired man said, as if introducing himself at a party. He pointed a thumb at his own chest. "You… don't know me, do you?" He seemed genuinely surprised, even a little disappointed.
Ragnar, despite the agony and the dire situation, almost choked. Of course he doesn't know you! We're in a different universe!
The Uchiha's pride, already frayed by the prolonged fight and Ragnar's stubborn defense, snapped. To be toyed with by this buffoon was the final straw.
"DIE!"
He became a blur of motion, closing the distance in a heartbeat. His sword flashed up in a perfect, decapitating iaijutsu draw, the edge singing a death knell so sharp it seemed to split the very molecules of the air.
Shanks didn't draw his sword. He didn't even brace himself. He simply… leaned. A slight tilt of his torso to the right. The killing slash passed through the space his neck had occupied a millisecond before, cutting nothing but air.
Chino's eyes widened behind the Sharingan. Impossible. My prediction—!
Enraged, he followed up. A flurry of strikes—thrusts, slashes, feints—a whirlwind of bladework that would have overwhelmed any normal opponent. His Sharingan mapped every possible counter, every dodge.
Shanks took two casual, almost lazy steps back. Then a step to the side. He swayed like a reed in a gentle breeze, and every single vicious strike missed him by a hair's breadth. He moved not with the frantic speed of a shinobi, but with the preternatural, economical grace of someone who existed just outside the flow of time.
As he moved, he offered commentary, his voice a calm rumble amidst the storm of steel. "Speed's not bad. But it's all show, no substance. Your power's scattered. You're a decent swordsman, I guess. But a true master of the blade? Not even close."
To Uchiha Chino, these words were scalding acid on his soul. His swordsmanship was revered within the clan! This… this vagabond was critiquing him?
"SILENCE!" Chino launched himself into the air, twisting his body, putting all his weight and chakra into a single, vertical cleave—a technique meant to split mountains. The ninjato descended, a silver streak fusing with the moonlight, a beautiful, deadly convergence of man and weapon.
"Now that's more like it," Shanks murmured, a flicker of real interest in his eyes.
For the first time, his right hand—his only hand—moved. It didn't flash. It simply lifted and settled on the hilt of Gryphon at his waist.
Shiiiiing—CLANG!
A sound unlike any metal-on-metal clash Ragnar had ever heard. It was clean, profound, and final.
Uchiha Chino was hurled backwards as if swatted by a giant, invisible hand. He crashed to the earth thirty feet away, skidding through the dirt, his sword spinning from his grasp. He lay there, stunned, his Sharingan desperately replaying the last moment. He had seen the hand move to the hilt. He had not seen the draw. He had not seen the block. He had only felt the world reject his attack.
Ragnar watched, his own breath caught. An invisible slash… No. Not just invisible. It was… conceptual. He didn't parry the sword; he parried the very intent to strike. The gap in their comprehension of "swordsmanship" was an abyss.
"W-What… was that?" Uchiha Chino pushed himself up, his voice raw. The phantom sensation of a blade at his throat was cold and real.
"Red-Haired," Ragnar called out, his voice urgent though weak. The clock was ticking in his mind. "No more games. End it."
Shanks glanced back, his playful demeanor fading into something more resigned. "Yeah, yeah. What a hassle." He turned fully to face Chino, his easy slouch straightening just a fraction. "Wanted to see what else you had. But orders are orders. Show's over."
Uchiha Chino felt the atmosphere change. The casual pressure solidified into something tangible, immense, and ancient.
Shanks took a single, calm breath. The red hair around his temples seemed to stir without wind. His eyes, previously warm and amused, hardened. A faint, crimson light ignited deep within the pupils.
"Conqueror's Haki."
Ragnar, whose own Conqueror's Haki was a roaring bonfire, felt his spirit tremble in recognition. What emanated from Shanks was not a bonfire. It was the sun. It was the ocean. It was the tectonic shift of continents.
The world bent.
Color drained from the immediate vicinity, leaving a monochrome landscape of grey and black. The very space grew dense, heavy, oppressive. It wasn't an illusion; it was the universe acknowledging a king.
The Haki didn't just emanate; it pulsed in visible, concentric waves of distorted air. Where the waves passed, reality submitted.
The forest groaned. Trees not already shattered by the previous battles bent inward, their leaves turning brittle and grey. The earth beneath their feet vibrated, fine cracks spiderwebbing out from where Shanks stood. Nearby, a wild boar that had been hiding in the underbrush let out a strangled squeal and collapsed, eyes white.
Farther out, the effect was no less profound. The river they had passed earlier, hundreds of meters away, ceased its flow, its surface boiling and churning as if in a pot. The waterfall's roar was silenced, the water seeming to hang in the air for a moment before crashing down in a disordered spray.
The sky itself seemed to darken further, clouds scudding away as if fleeing the presence below.
Uchiha Chino stood at the epicenter of this silent cataclysm. His Sharingan, capable of seeing chakra flow and predicting movement, was utterly overwhelmed. It showed him nothing but a crushing, formless weight of absolute will. His knees buckled. He tried to channel his own chakra, to fight back, but his system refused to obey. His proud Uchiha bloodline, his Jonin-level reserves, were like a candle against a hurricane. His vision swam, dark spots dancing. The pressure wasn't on his body; it was on his soul, insisting he kneel, he submit, he cease to be.
He fought it, teeth grinding, blood trickling from his nose and ears from the strain. He was Uchiha Chino! He would not be bowed by some… some…
Shanks took a single, slow step forward.
The wave of pressure doubled.
Uchiha Chino's sword arm, which he had raised in a last, pathetic gesture of defiance, dropped limply to his side. His legs gave way. He didn't just fall; he was pressed into the dirt, his face grinding into the soil. He could not move. He could barely breathe. All he could do was stare with uncomprehending terror at the boots of the red-haired man now standing over him.
Shanks looked down, no trace of the earlier warmth in his eyes. There was only a distant, oceanic vastness.
"See?" Shanks said, his voice now the only sound in the hushed world. "This is what happens when you don't give a guy face."
(End of Chapter)
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