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Chapter 52: The Necessary Severance
The wind sighed through the shattered canopy. The clouds above, as if cowed, drifted away from the epicenter of the will that had just shaken the forest.
Beneath the overwhelming, kingly pressure of the Fourth Emperor Shanks, Uchiha Chino's resistance had been less than that of an insect before a boot. His eyes rolled back, showing only white, and he slumped face-first into the dirt, utterly unconscious. The proud Jonin, the vengeful father, was reduced to a crumpled heap, defeated not by a technique, but by the sheer, unbearable weight of another's spirit.
Conqueror's Haki. The aura exclusive to those with the qualities of a king. A spiritual onslaught that bypassed flesh and chakra to strike directly at the soul. In this world of ninjutsu, the closest equivalent was genjutsu, but this was different—less illusion, more absolute, existential command. It was terrifying in its simplicity.
"Solved?" Ragnar rasped, pushing himself up on an elbow. The display of power had been humbling, even to him.
"Nah," Shanks said, his immense presence receding as quickly as it had swelled. The color and sound rushed back into the world. He scratched his stubbled cheek, looking down at the unconscious Uchiha. "Just put him to sleep. Killing people… it's a hassle. I try to avoid it when I can."
Ragnar didn't argue. He knew the stories, fragmented though they were. Shanks was a pirate, a Yonko, but his code was peculiar. He sought no tyranny, protected the weak, and rarely drew first blood. He was more adventurer than plunderer, driven by a sense of freedom and curiosity that Ragnar, in his grim survivalism, could barely comprehend.
Shanks looked at Ragnar, then at the pale, watching Kushina. He unclipped a gourd from his belt and tossed it over. "Have a drink. You look like you need it. This place…" He tapped his temple, a faint frown on his face. "Feels strange. Off. Can't put my finger on it."
Ragnar caught the gourd. The action spurred a cascade of questions. Is this really him? A living piece of another world snatched here by the system? Or just a convincing copy?
System, he thought, the internal channel feeling strained. Is Shanks actually here from the One Piece world?
The system's response was immediate, cool, and informative in his mind. Negative. The summon utilizes a high-fidelity temporal projection sealed within the card, possessing the entity's full power and personality for the duration. At this level of existence, even a projection develops autonomous thought and will, indistinguishable from the original. The cardinal rule of absolute obedience to the summoner's command remains inviolate.
A projection with a soul, Ragnar mused. It made a strange sense. Power at that apex tier seemed to defy simple duplication. It was like a legendary weapon—even a perfect replica forged from its blueprint would carry an echo of the original's legend.
Satisfied, he uncorked the gourd and took a cautious sip. The liquid was not the fiery rotgut he expected. It was cool and sweet at first, like spring water from a high mountain, sliding smoothly down his parched throat. Then, as it settled in his stomach, a comfortable, spreading warmth bloomed, seeping into his battered muscles and aching bones. The sharp pain of his broken ribs dulled to a manageable throb. He took two deeper pulls before a hand snatched the gourd back.
"Hey, easy there! That's the good stuff!" Shanks said, clutching the gourd protectively.
"Uncle… who are you?" Kushina peeked out from behind Ragnar, her initial terror replaced by wary curiosity. The shared red hair created an unconscious thread of kinship. "A friend of Ragnar's?"
"Uncle?!" Shanks recoiled, feigning offense. "Do I look that old to you, kid?"
"He's a friend," Ragnar said shortly, ending the line of inquiry. Explanations were impossible.
Kushina, trusting Ragnar implicitly, relaxed. A smile touched her lips. "Oh, okay! Thank you, Uncle… I mean, Mister!"
Shanks sighed, then shrugged, looking out into the dark woods. "Well, kid, don't know why I'm here or where 'here' is, but my time's about up. Gotta go."
"We'll meet again," Ragnar stated, not as a hope, but as a cold prediction. The system had given him this card once. It could do so again.
"Bye, Uncle!" Kushina waved, a little sadly.
"Not an uncle!" Shanks called back with a grin. He took a few casual steps away from them, towards the deeper shadows. Then, without a flash or a sound, he was simply gone. The space he occupied felt emptier, as if a fundamental piece of reality had stepped out of the frame.
As soon as the immense, reassuring presence vanished, the grim reality of their situation rushed back in. The cold night air. The smell of blood and fire. The unconscious enemy on the ground.
Ragnar's expression, which had softened a fraction during the bizarre interlude, hardened into its familiar, glacial mask. He pushed himself fully upright, ignoring the protests of his body, and walked slowly towards the slumped form of Uchiha Chino. His hand went to the hilt of Yama. The demon blade seemed to hum in anticipation.
"Ragnar…?" Kushina's voice was small, fearful. "What are you doing?"
"Kushina," he said, not looking at her. His voice was flat, devoid of all emotion. "Start walking back towards Konoha. Don't look back. I'll catch up."
She understood. The color drained from her face. She opened her mouth to speak, to protest, but the look in Ragnar's eyes—ancient, weary, and utterly resolute—stole her words. She gave a tiny, jerky nod, turned on her heel, and began to walk, her steps hesitant at first, then quicker, as if fleeing the scene of a crime about to happen. She didn't go far, stopping just at the edge of the ruined clearing, her back turned, shoulders tense.
Ragnar stood over Uchiha Chino. The moonlight painted the scene in stark silver and black. "The ninja world is cruel," he murmured, to himself or to the unconscious man. "You live by the sword, you die by it. You came to kill. You failed. The consequence is absolute."
He was eight years old. He should have been dreaming of friends and games. Instead, he was a veteran of a dozen life-or-death battles, calculating the geopolitical fallout of murdering a clan elder. There was no child left in him, only the survivor.
Shing.
Yama left its scabbard. The pale blade reflected his own face—young, pale, smeared with blood and dirt, eyes like chips of flint. A wave of cold, deeper than the night air, emanated from the demonic steel. The temperature in the immediate vicinity plummeted.
There was no ceremony. No grand speech. Only the cold arithmetic of survival.
The sword flashed down once. A clean, definitive stroke.
It was not an act of rage or vengeance. It was sanitation. The removal of a persistent, lethal threat. The closing of a loop Uchiha Shirou had opened in the Forest of Death.
He wiped the blade clean on Chino's cloak, sheathed Yama, and turned away. He did not look at the body again.
Kushina was waiting a dozen yards down the path, trembling. She heard his footsteps and whirled around, her eyes wide. Seeing him whole, alive, the tension in her frame broke. A fragile, tearful smile appeared. "Ragnar… you're back."
"Mn," was his only reply. He walked past her, his gait stiff with pain and exhaustion. He found a large, intact tree at the forest's edge and leaned heavily against it, sliding down to sit at its roots.
He closed his eyes, replaying the last day in his mind. It felt surreal, a series of escalating nightmares. A simple, mis-graded C-rank. A Kirigakure assassination squad. Two Jonin—one a master of water, the other a storm of lightning. An ANBU team slaughtered. A kidnapping. A duel to the death against a Kumo elite. And finally, an assassination attempt from within his own village, thwarted only by a summoned king from another reality.
The chain of violence was relentless, each link dragging him deeper into the bloody heart of the shinobi world. He had survived by the skin of his teeth, by his Haki, by the Phoenix, by a demonic sword, and by a literal deus ex machina.
The adrenaline was gone. The willpower that had propelled him was spent. His body, pushed far beyond any reasonable limit, finally issued its veto.
"Ragnar?" Kushina's voice came again, closer now. She had crept near, seeing his stillness. "Ragnar, what's wrong?"
She called his name once, twice. No response. He didn't move.
A cold dread, colder than Yama's edge, gripped her heart. The thought she'd been pushing away since she first saw him covered in blood forced its way to the front of her mind.
What if… what if he's not just resting?
Tentatively, she reached out a shaking hand towards his shoulder.
(End of Chapter)
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