Chapter 80: The Rakshasa's Answer
Time was a noose tightening around the Iwa hunters' necks. The failure to find Tsunade meant the sacrifice of their jonin and chunin was for nothing—a catastrophic waste in a war where every high-tier shinobi was a precious resource.
The Iwa forces had bled heavily in this war's opening stages. A full assassination squad wiped out with no culprit identified. Multiple jonin confirmed dead. The body count among lower ranks was a demoralizing secret. If they returned empty-handed after this massive investment, the wrath of the Third Tsuchikage, Ōnoki, would be a thing of legend. Punishment would be severe, a stain on their records forever.
"Captain! Blood traces, fresh! Sensory confirms it's the Konoha jonin, Tsunade!" a chunin panted as he reported to Iwato.
Iwato's eyes gleamed with fierce triumph. "She's close! She has to be! Expand the search! Comb every bush, every hollow! She's ours!"
The order sent a renewed surge of urgency through the thirty-odd Iwa-nin. The net, already tight, constricted further.
A few hundred meters away, nestled in her thicket of vines, Tsunade felt the net closing. The minor wounds she'd neglected to heal in order to conserve chakra now throbbed in unison, a chorus of pain sapping her focus. The chakra exhaustion was a deep, hollow ache in her bones.
So this is it, she thought, a grim acceptance washing over her. After seeing so many die… my turn finally comes. She'd found a potential sample for the Sanshōuo antidote, but getting it to Jiraiya now seemed a fantasy. Would Orochimaru be able to stabilize him? The doubt was a cold stone in her gut.
But Senju Tsunade did not know how to surrender. Sitting still meant capture and a gruesome death. If she was going to die, it would be moving, fighting for every inch.
Gathering the last dregs of her formidable will, she burst from the thicket. Not with a ninja's silent grace, but with the raw, desperate sprint of a cornered animal. She angled not towards the Rain border, but for a thinner section of the forest perimeter she'd scouted earlier.
The movement, a flare of chakra and sound, instantly gave her away.
"There!"
"After her!"
"Don't let the bitch escape!"
The hunt became a chase. Tsunade poured everything into her legs, the world narrowing to the trees blurring past. The forest edge was her mirage of hope. Get to the open ground, however suicidal it seemed, and maybe, just maybe…
But she knew. Even if she broke into the open, her chakra was spent, her body failing. The Iwa-nin would run her down like wolves. Unless Konoha support was waiting out there. And she knew, with a soldier's cold logic, that no support was coming. This was the hinterland. Konoha's reach ended miles ago.
Is this it? Grandfather… Grandma… I wanted to make you proud. I wanted to be Hokage. I wanted to yank that old monkey's beard so hard… The Senju name… can't end like this!
The pounding of pursuing feet grew louder, closer. Her vision began to spot. Her speed was a pathetic stagger. The end was a tangible presence at her back.
Then, a figure materialized directly in her path, dropping from the canopy above. A blur of motion, blocking her way.
An ambush! A flanking guard! Her mind, trained for combat, supplied the worst. Despair and rage fused into a final, defiant spark.
"I am Senju Tsunade! I will NOT fall here!"
With a raw cry, she threw a punch, but it was a ghost of her legendary strength, slow and weak. A hand, clad in black fingerless gloves, caught her fist effortlessly.
In that frozen moment, her eyes focused. Not on the Iwa forehead protector she expected, but on a familiar, demonic red mask. A black cloak. Konoha ANBU.
Relief, so sudden it was dizzying, flooded her. She sagged. Konoha. They'd come.
But something about the frame, the way he held her wrist… it was familiar. A half-remembered ghost from months ago. But the build was taller, broader. Ragnar? No, impossible. He's a boy in ANBU training, not…
The thought fractured as her body, finally acknowledging safety, gave out entirely. Her knees buckled.
The ANBU—Ragnar—moved instantly. He didn't let her fall. One arm slid behind her knees, the other around her back, lifting her with an ease that spoke of immense strength. He leapt down from the tree branch, landing softly in a small clearing just as the first Iwa-nin burst into view.
Tsunade, cradled in his arms like a child, managed a weak gasp. Her eyes swept the surrounding trees. No other ANBU masks materialized. Dread returned, colder than before. "ANBU… you're alone? Where is the squad? The support team?"
"Regrettably, it's just me, Lady Tsunade," a voice said from behind the mask. It was calm, young, and frustratingly, tantalizingly familiar.
Her heart sank. One. Against thirty. One exhausted kunoichi and one ANBU operative, against a full Iwa hunter-nin team with three jonin. It was a death sentence with extra steps.
Her pragmatism, honed by years at field hospitals, took over. "Listen to me," she whispered urgently, her voice thin. "You cannot extract me. Not like this. Take this." She fumbled at a sealed pouch on her belt, pushing a small vial into his hand. "The base toxin sample for the Sanshōuo venom. Get it to Orochimaru. And tell Konoha… we were ambushed by Iwa and Suna, Hanzo interfered. Now… leave me. Run. That's an order."
Ragnar looked down at the vial in his hand, then at the determined, resigned face of the woman in his arms. Even at death's door, her priority was the mission and her comrades.
He was silent for a beat. Then, his voice, still calm, held a note of absolute conviction. "A shinobi does not abandon a comrade for a mission."
He met her eyes through the slits of his mask. "Do you trust me?"
The question, so direct, so absurd in this context, left her speechless. Trust him? To do what? Perform a miracle?
Before she could formulate an answer, he shifted her weight. "Hold on tight," he instructed. "This might get a bit rough."
He set her down gently, her back against the trunk of a large tree. Then, he turned to face the closing circle of Iwa-nin.
He didn't adopt a defensive stance. He simply reached up and unfastened his cloak, letting the heavy, rain-sodden garment fall to the mud. He stood revealed in his standard ANBU blacks, the blood-red Rakshasa mask the only splash of color. The demonic visage seemed to drink in the gloomy light.
The Iwa-nin halted, forming a wide, cautious ring. They saw one ANBU and a barely-conscious Tsunade. Their confidence returned, tinged with bloodlust.
"KILL THEM!" Iwato roared from the rear.
The air erupted. A storm of ninjutsu and steel. Earth spears shot from the ground. Fireballs roared through the damp air. A cloud of shuriken and kunai, too many to count, filled the space between the trees, a metallic blizzard aimed at the two figures against the tree.
Tsunade, her eyes wide, could only watch the annihilation come. She closed her eyes, bracing for the impact.
Ragnar took one step forward, placing himself squarely between her and the onslaught.
He didn't weave signs. He didn't shout a technique name.
His hands went to his hips, where two scrolls were sealed. In twin puffs of smoke, Yama appeared in his right hand, its purple miasma coiling eagerly. In his left, a second, slightly shorter katana materialized—a well-made chakra blade he'd taken from a previous foe. It wasn't a Great Grade Sword, but it would serve.
The knowledge of the Two-Sword Style: Seventy-Two Pound Phoenix ignited in his mind, merging with his Observation Haki's perfect map of every incoming projectile, every chakra flare, every attacker's position.
To the Iwa-nin, he was a statue.
To Tsunade, he was a fool sacrificing himself.
To Ragnar, the world had slowed to a crawl, painted in the clear, precise colors of imminent violence.
He moved.
(End of Chapter)
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