Chapter 69: White Fang's Seal, Hokage's Order
In the command tent, after the others had filed out, a heavy silence lingered.
Hatake Sakumo took a slow, measured breath, his gaze—now holding a glint of profound amazement—settling on Ragnar. "I will report the facts of this engagement to the Hokage in full," he stated, his tone leaving no doubt. "Ragnar, you are dismissed to the ANBU barracks for proper rest. Even if it was the Eight Gates, the recoil is severe. The others are to return to their duties. Do not let vigilance lapse."
It was a clear, definitive end to the confrontation. He had reasserted his command.
Danzo's face was a rigid mask of displeasure, but he was a pragmatist. On the open battlefield, the White Fang's authority as supreme commander was absolute. To challenge it directly would be insubordination even he couldn't justify. With a final, venomous glance at Ragnar, he turned on his heel and stalked out, his cadre of Root ninja melting back into the shadows after him.
The other ANBU operatives saluted and exited.
Ragnar gave Sakumo a respectful nod, then followed Team Nine out into the relentless rain.
In the days that followed, a story spread through the Konoha camp like wildfire. It was fragmented, exaggerated, whispered in hushed tones during meal breaks and in the gloom of the barracks. The details were murky, but the core was electrifying: ANBU operative Rakshasa, alone, had annihilated an entire Iwa assassination squad of twenty, including two jonin.
No one used Ragnar's real name. In the ANBU, the mask was the identity. 'Rakshasa' became a new legend—a name that conjured images of a ruthless, unstoppable specter of death.
As Ragnar moved through the camp, he caught snippets of conversation.
"Look, that's him. The Rakshasa. To have that kind of power at his age…"
"They say he'll be promoted to squad leader for sure after this. Maybe even a squadron commander."
"The mission rewards… he'll probably get access to the Scroll of Seals. Can you imagine? Choosing forbidden techniques…"
The tones were a mix of raw awe and naked envy. Every shinobi dreamed of glory, of making a name that would echo through the shinobi world. This masked operative had achieved it in a single, bloody stroke.
But where there was envy, there was also hatred. Danzo's displeasure was a palpable, dark cloud over the command staff. He moved through the camp in a brooding silence, his expression thunderous, making subordinates scatter from his path. He had been publicly defied and then overruled.
Ragnar paid him no mind. Their paths were destined to clash. Danzo saw tools to be broken and remade. Ragnar was unbreakable. If the old warhawk wanted a war of attrition, Ragnar was ready. He was, ultimately, a man alone. He had little to lose, and a part of him almost welcomed the conflict—every enemy was experience, every confrontation a test. He found himself anticipating Danzo's next move.
On the third day, the summons came. A personal message from Hatake Sakumo: meet at the training ground behind the camp's northern ridge. Ragnar had a feeling he knew what it was about.
He found the White Fang there already, standing calmly as the misty rain swirled around the stark, rocky clearing.
"Captain," Ragnar greeted, offering a respectful fist-to-palm salute.
Sakumo turned, a faint, genuine smile touching his usually stern features. "You came, Ragnar."
"Your summons was clear, Captain. What did you need to discuss?"
"Direct. It suits you. Like your swordsmanship—efficient, without flourish." Sakumo's eyes held a knowing glint.
Ragnar kept his expression neutral behind his standard-issue mask (he'd left the distinctive Rakshasa mask in the barracks). "Captain, I'm not sure I follow. What swordsmanship?"
A ghost of a smile played on Sakumo's lips. "You're going to persist with that? The Eight Gates excuse might satisfy the rank and file, but it has holes you could march a battalion through. The wounds on those Iwa-nin were precise, clean cuts—the work of a master bladesman, not the chaotic, bone-shattering trauma of the Gates. And you show no signs of the catastrophic physical backlash. I've sparred with you, Ragnar. I've felt the strange power you wield. This was different. Sharper. Deadlier."
Ragnar was silent for a long moment, weighing the man before him. Hatake Sakumo was not Danzo. His honor was his compass. Finally, Ragnar let out a soft, conceding sigh. "It seems I can't hide anything from you, Captain. How did you know for certain?"
"First, the evidence on the battlefield didn't match the Gates. Second," Sakumo said, his gaze sharpening, "the lingering feeling on those corpses… I sensed a echo of it in the command tent, for just a moment. A pressure that had nothing to do with chakra. Now, I still don't fully comprehend how you achieved it, but I believe the tool was as important as the user."
Without another word, Ragnar reached into a sealed scroll on his thigh. He performed a quick release seal.
Pomf!
A cloud of smoke resolved into the form of Yama. The moment his hand closed around the black-wrapped hilt, Ragnar's entire bearing shifted. The competent ANBU operative vanished, replaced by an entity of cold, detached menace. An aura of subtle, dark malice emanated from the blade itself, causing the very light around it to seem dimmer.
"An evil blade," Sakumo murmured, his warrior's instinct immediately recognizing the weapon's nature. He had never seen its like. It wasn't just sharp; it was hungry.
"My success against the Iwa-nin was due in large part to this," Ragnar said, hefting Yama. "Its edge is peerless. It cuts through chakra-enhanced defenses, through earth, through steel, as if they were nothing."
"I see," Sakumo nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the sword. "I have seen the Kusanagi, wielded by one of the Sannin. In terms of presence, of inherent power… this is its equal, if not its superior in sheer menace." He tactfully did not ask where it came from. Some things were a shinobi's own business.
"Ragnar," Sakumo said, his tone shifting to one of grave sincerity. "Your talent is… unprecedented. Konoha is in a fragile state, growing but flawed. There are elements within it," he didn't name Danzo, "whose methods are… severe. I ask you to understand the larger picture. Do not let your conflict with one man color your view of the entire village. As long as I draw breath, he will not be permitted to touch you. You have my word."
The promise was simple, direct, and carried the weight of the White Fang's legendary honor. "Thank you, Captain," Ragnar replied, the gratitude genuine.
They spoke a while longer, of the war, of tactics, of the burdens of power. When they parted, Sakumo reached into his own vest and produced a small, tightly wound scroll.
"This contains some of my personal insights on the way of the sword. Principles of distancing, angle, and intent. It is not a technique, but a philosophy. You have the weapon. This may help you wield it with more than just strength."
Ragnar accepted the scroll, its significance not lost on him. It was a gesture of trust, of mentorship, and of investment in Konoha's future. He bowed slightly, a deeper gesture of respect than before. "I will not forget this, Captain."
As Ragnar left the training ground, the first real sense of belonging—tied to a person, not just a place—settled in his chest. He would remember Hatake Sakumo's kindness.
When Sakumo's detailed report reached Konoha, it sent shockwaves through the highest echelons of power. In his office, Sarutobi Hiruzen read and re-read the words, his pipe forgotten, a profound stir of emotion in his heart.
At that age. That result. Twenty Iwa-nin, two of them jonin…
Even with Sakumo's notes suggesting the 'Eight Gates' explanation was a cover, the sheer, undeniable fact of the accomplishment was staggering. What Konoha Genin, what Chunin, could claim such a feat? None. Not even Minato, at this stage in his development.
After a long, contemplative silence, Hiruzen issued three orders, his voice firm.
"First: All information regarding Operative Rakshasa, his capabilities, and this engagement is to be classified as Top Secret. Access restricted to Jounin Command and the Hokage's office only. No leaks."
"Second: Operative Rakshasa is hereby formally transferred from general reconnaissance to the ANBU Special Assassination and Tactical Squad (SATS). Codename remains Rakshasa. He is to be given missions commensurate with an elite jounin rating."
"Third: Draft a sealed mission scroll for Rakshasa. A high-value, high-deniability operation that leverages his unique talents. We are at war. A weapon of this sharpness must be used."
He paused, then added a final note, thinking of the future. "Upon the conclusion of his wartime service and his return to the village, Operative Rakshasa is to be granted select access to the Scroll of Seals. He may choose one advanced kinjutsu or forbidden technique for study, as a reward for exceptional service."
The war's end felt distant, a dream on a bloody horizon. But according to Sakumo's assessment, they now had an operative with the combat power of a seasoned, perhaps even elite, jonin. And he was only eight years old. That wasn't just a weapon. It was a potential revolution. A single jonin couldn't win a war, but one of such unimaginable growth potential… he could change the very course of history.
(End of Chapter)
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