Chapter 62: Level Four
Yama's slash, a bloom of black and deadly force, had not just cut through the wave; for a fleeting instant, it had seemed to sever the very fabric of the downpour, leaving a silent, dry scar in the air before the rain rushed back in to fill the void.
Now, the valley floor was a canvas painted in hellish hues. Bright crimson stained the mud, blood and rainwater churned into a murky, pinkish broth. It was no longer earth and stone; it was a bog of flesh and terror. The fallen Iwa-nin were like gruesome flowers scattered in the muck—bloody, broken blossoms that spoke only of violence and an end. There was no beauty here, only the stark, nauseating reality of slaughter.
In the span of a few heartbeats, it was over. The coordinated ambush, the elite chunin squad—all of it was swept away by Ragnar's whirlwind of steel and will. From the first world-cleaving slash to the earth-shattering punch and the final, ghostly harvest, the battle had been decided before the two Iwa Jonin could even fully process their shock.
Cutting down chunin was, for Ragnar in this moment, no more difficult than cutting through damp parchment.
Oishi and Akazuchi, the two jonin who had been calmly discussing tactics moments before, now wore masks of frozen disbelief that quickly melted into dawning horror. Their analytical minds, trained to assess threats in seconds, had been outpaced by the sheer speed of annihilation.
In the center of the carnage, Ragnar stood, a lone, dark figure in the rain. The ground around him was pitted and broken. The corpses of the Iwa-nin were not neatly arranged; they were thrown about like discarded dolls, none of them whole, their final expressions locked in various stages of shock, fear, and agony. His speed had been a blur, but the results were brutally clear.
Behind the Rakshasa mask, his breath came in slightly faster draws. The mask itself, with its demonic leer, seemed to drink in the surrounding death, transforming him from a teenage soldier into an avatar of carnage—a Shura stepped from myth into the muddy reality of the Land of Rain.
Behind him, Moonlight Swiftfire, Aburame Shigeru, and Yamanaka Kaiji stood utterly still, their earlier shock hardening into a cold, sobering awe. The rain plastered their hair and uniforms to their skin, but they didn't feel it. Their minds reeled.
This was Ragnar's true strength? This wasn't a promising rookie they had been babysitting for a month. This was a veteran executioner, a force of nature who killed with an efficiency that was both breathtaking and terrifying. The quiet, focused boy who trained relentlessly and followed orders… that persona now seemed like a flimsy veil over this. For a full month, they had shared a camp, shared watches, shared silent meals with a being who could unleash this. A cold sweat, unrelated to the rain, trickled down their spines.
But he's on our side, the thought surfaced, a fragile anchor in the storm of their realization. It's the Iwa-nin who should be terrified.
Ragnar adjusted his grip on Yama. His breathing was steadying already. The fight had been intense but brief, relying predominantly on his monstrous physique, Haki, and the sword's innate power. His chakra reserves were barely touched. Compared to the desperate, extended brawl against the Kiri team, this was cleaner, more efficient. The relentless training, the tempering of his body by the Three Hakis—it was all paying off. Every battle, every brush with death, forged him stronger. The man of this moment was always superior to the one of yesterday.
And he was not done. The two jonin before him radiated power, but their aura lacked the desperate, lightning-charged intensity of Kumo's Armani. Jonin were not a monolith; there were tiers within the rank. Ragnar's confidence, cold and hard, settled in his gut. He could still fight.
Ding!
Slain: 18 Iwagakure Chunin.
EXP +7,200.
Total EXP: 12,800 / 50,000.
The system's notification was a clinical confirmation of the harvest. Combat killing was the fastest path. And with a tense standoff against two jonin looming, now was not the time to hoard resources.
Upgrade.
Without a moment's hesitation, he willed 10,000 experience points into his Armament Haki.
Armament Haki: Level 3 → Level 4.
The change was instantaneous and profound. A spark, like a flash of deep red light, ignited in the dark pools of his eyes. A wave of power, dense and potent, erupted from within his core and flooded every muscle, every sinew, every cell.
Thump… Thump-Thump… THUMP!
His heart hammered against his ribs, a war drum accelerating its beat. The rush of blood in his veins became a roaring river, a tangible sound to his enhanced senses. An invincible pressure, subtle yet immense, emanated from him, causing the very rain to distort as it fell near his body.
"This guy… he's in a league of his own," Oishi muttered, his earlier seriousness hardening into grim focus. "We hooked a big fish, but this one might be a sea king."
"Did you feel that?" Akazuchi murmured, his eyes narrowed. "Just for a second… the one in the Rakshasa mask. His presence spiked. It's… heavier."
They were jonin. Veterans. The elite power of a Great Village. Shock was one thing; surrender was not in their vocabulary. Ragnar was a formidable, unknown variable, but they had faced monsters before on the battlefield.
Ragnar flexed his fingers around Yama's hilt. The upgrade wasn't visible on the surface, but he felt the difference in the density of his will, in the potential thrumming in his limbs. Level 4 Armament was a qualitative leap. He was ready.
The slaughter of the chunin was now a backdrop. His focus, sharp as Yama's edge, locked onto the two remaining threats. No words were necessary. No grand declarations. He was Konoha ANBU, designation Rakshasa. They were Iwagakure jonin. On this rain-soaked field in a proxy war, that was the only identity that mattered. The air grew colder, the oppressive tension thickening until it was harder to breathe than the humid rain-air.
The members of Team Nine stood as statues, their mission forgotten, their roles irrelevant. They were now merely witnesses to a clash that would decide if they walked out of this valley.
The battle reignited.
"Earth Release: Earth-Style Decapitation!"
Oishi's hands flew through seals with blurring speed. The ground at Ragnar's feet trembled violently.
Ragnar's Observation Haki screamed a warning. He shifted his weight to leap back—and his feet stuck fast.
"Earth Release: Swamp of the Underworld!"
Akazuchi's jutsu completed a half-second later. The solid earth beneath Ragnar's boots instantly turned into a thick, clinging gray morass, sucking at his legs like greedy mouths. The coordination was flawless—a control technique to immobilize, followed by the killing strike from below.
The ground ruptured. Dozens of spear-like stone spikes, sharper than any kunai, erupted from the mud in a deadly forest, aimed to impale him from crotch to skull.
A perfect jonin-level combo. Against almost any ninja, it was a death sentence.
A grim, unseen smile might have touched Ragnar's lips behind his mask.
"Moon Walk."
He didn't try to pull his legs from the swamp. He simply kicked. The explosive force generated by Level 3 Shave techniques, directed downward, turned the clinging mud into a crater. With consecutive, thunderous booms against the air itself, he propelled himself vertically upward, leaving the stone spears to clash together in the space he had occupied.
Hanging in the air, he looked down at the two jonin. His arms crossed in front of him.
"Armament Haki: Level Four. Hardening."
A deeper, more profound darkness than ever before sheathed his forearms. This wasn't the flat, obsidian black of Level 3. This was a black shot through with faint, pulsing networks of dark crimson, like cooling lava seen through a crust of basalt. It radiated a palpable heat, warping the air around it. It looked less like an armor and more like the concentrated, solidified fury of a volcano.
He hovered above them, a demonic figure against the storm clouds, his newly ascended power waiting to be unleashed.
(End of Chapter)
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