Chapter 81: Two Blades Against the Storm
The world narrowed to the cascade of steel and earth screaming toward them.
Ragnar's mind, honed by Observation Haki Level 4, didn't see individual attackers. He saw a flowing, lethal tapestry. Thirty-two distinct chakra signatures, a web of murderous intent. Eighteen shuriken and kunai, spinning from three different angles. Four Earth Release: Rock Shower jutsus condensing above, about to rain house-sized boulders. Two Earth Release: Earth Dragon Bullets surged from the ground, their maws of compacted soil snapping hungrily. A Fire Release: Great Fireball Technique roared in from the left, while a Fire Release: Phoenix Sage Fire Technique peppered the air with dozens of smaller, guiding flames. A final, massive Fire Release: Fire Dragon Flame Bullet coiled and lunged, completing the kill box.
The combined assault was deafening, a maelstrom of elemental annihilation that would overwhelm even a seasoned jonin. The air itself grew hot and thick with dust and the promise of vaporized flesh.
Through it all, the eyes behind the Rakshasa mask remained utterly calm.
I am not what I was, the thought was a cold anchor in the storm.
In his arms, Tsunade's body went rigid with resignation. She could only squeeze her eyes shut, bracing for the impact, the searing pain, the end.
"Watch me kill them," Ragnar's voice cut through the din, flat and certain as a tombstone. "Then I'll take you home."
In the next heartbeat, his free hand shot out, fingers curling in a grasping motion.
Bang!
A puff of white smoke erupted. The demon sword Yama materialized into his waiting grip. Instantly, a familiar, chilling purple energy—the blade's own malicious aura—seeped from the guard, swirling around his wrist. Ragnar didn't fight it; he channeled it. He raised Yama slowly, deliberately. Pitch-black Armament Haki, now shot through with the faint, pulsing crimson veins of Level 4, flowed from his arm, down the hilt, and across the pale blade. In an instant, the white steel turned an absolute, light-swallowing black.
Facing the apocalyptic wave of techniques, Ragnar held the sword one-handed and swept it forward in a clean, horizontal arc.
Vwoom!
A crescent of pure darkness tore through the bright chaos. It was a slash that seemed to carve a fissure in reality itself, a line of void where nothing existed. The condensed, destructive energy focused into a razor-thin plane that shot outward.
BOOM!
The collision was not an explosion, but a silent severance followed by catastrophic unmaking. The fireballs, the rocks, the streaming shuriken—everything frozen in the path of the black light was split perfectly in two. The halves trembled for a microsecond, their structural integrity annihilated, then collapsed into harmless chakra motes and falling debris. One sword stroke had erased the incoming doom, cutting a swath of clean air through the heart of the bombardment.
The shockwave of the slash's passage didn't stop there. It continued, a devastating horizontal gale that sheared through the towering trees flanking the battlefield. Dozens of ancient trunks groaned and splintered, toppling away to the sides with earth-shaking crashes. In a single move, Ragnar had flattened the forest into a sudden, brutal killing field nearly a thousand meters long.
Silence, thick and disbelieving, fell over the Iwa-nin. Their hands dropped from their seals. Their eyes, wide with primal terror, were fixed on the masked figure standing amid the settling dust and wreckage. What… what kind of technique was that? No hand seals… just a sword swing… The thought echoed through every mind. Elite Jonin Iwagakure Tsuchino, the mission commander, felt a cold sweat trace his spine.
But it was far from over.
In Ragnar's arms, Tsunade's eyes snapped open. Her mind, moments ago clouded with fatalistic acceptance, was now a whirlwind of stunned confusion. That voice… that presence… it's familiar… But the sheer, overwhelming power of the display short-circuited her memory. Since when did Konoha have an ANBU this monstrous? Even at my peak, my strongest punch couldn't clear a field like that… A fierce, desperate hope kindled in her chest. This… this Rakshasa… he might actually…
Ragnar lowered Yama, the tip of the ink-black blade pointing casually at the churned earth. An aura of absolute, unassailable dominance radiated from him—one man standing firm against a platoon.
"ANBU," Tsunade forced out, her voice tight but analytical. "Your power is incredible. But fighting over thirty Iwagakure shinobi alone, including multiple jonin… it's too much. Even the White Fang would find it difficult. Don't let pride get you killed. Disengage. Retreat with hit-and-run tactics. That's an order."
Ragnar gave a slight nod, acknowledging her advice. But his gaze never left the staggered enemy line. He raised Yama again, settling into a loose, ready stance. "Sometimes," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the wind whistling through the newly cleared space, "there's no difference between one enemy and thirty. It's just a matter of one swing."
He paused, the chill in his tone deepening, fueled by a cold fury at these men who had hunted his comrade, his 'Sister Tsunade', to exhaustion. "If one swing isn't enough… you just take another."
"What? Don't you dare do anything reck—" Tsunade's warning was cut off.
"Hold on," Ragnar commanded.
Tsunade's arms instinctively tightened around his neck.
Shave!
In a burst of speed that blurred the air, Ragnar vanished from his spot. He didn't retreat. He shot forward, a crimson and black streak that placed him squarely in the center of the scattered Iwa-nin formation. He was a wolf who had leapt into the sheepfold.
His voice, cold and devoid of all mercy, rang out like a death knell. "Itto-Ryu Secret Technique: Thirty-Six Pound Phoenix!"
Yama became a blur. Not one slash, but thirty-six arcs of compressed, Haki-hardened air erupted from Ragnar in a spiraling vortex. They weren't mere wind; they were blades of pure force. The ground erupted. Iwa-nin were ripped from their feet, hurled into the air by the concussive whirlwind, their formations shattered into chaos.
Moon Walk!
Ragnar kicked off the air itself, ascending. Yama descended in a clean, vertical line. A Chunin still tumbling through the air was cut cleanly in two, a horrific spray of blood marking Ragnar's path.
Shave! Shave! Shave!
He became a phantom of vengeance. He flickered from one point of chaos to another—behind a ninja desperately forming a seal, beside another trying to rally his comrades. Each appearance was punctuated by the brief, deadly flash of Yama's black edge. A head tumbled free. A torso separated from its legs. An arm, severed by a near-miss, spun away.
"Aghhh!"
"He's too fast!"
"Don't cluster! Spread—urk!"
Screams of pain and shouts of panic melded into a horrific chorus. Bodies fell, one after another, painting the scarred earth crimson. The most unnerving fact for the surviving Iwa-nin wasn't just the speed or the terrifying sword. It was that he was doing all of this while holding a woman. The sheer, inhuman strength and balance it implied froze the blood in their veins.
Pressed against his chest, Tsunade could only watch. The world became a dizzying rush of motion, the coppery scent of blood, and the solid, unyielding strength of the man carrying her. Behind the fearsome Rakshasa mask, a killer moved with brutal, elegant efficiency, a reaper harvesting lives in a blossoming field of scarlet. Despite the horror, despite the gore, a traitorous, powerful flutter beat against her ribs. Her breath hitched.
Who… who in the world are you?
(End of Chapter)
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