Chapter 82: The Rakshasa's Dance
Killing was an ugly business. There was no artistry in it, only the crude, violent subtraction of life—a mess of blood, shattered bone, and final silence. No one of sound mind could truly love it.
Yet, as Ragnar moved, there was a terrible, sorrowful grace to the carnage. The sorrow was all for the men of Iwa. For him, in this moment, there was only the cold clarity of purpose.
The blood-red Rakshasa mask. The slender, ink-black sword that never seemed to stain. The beautiful, exhausted woman held securely against his chest. He walked—no, he flowed—through the battlefield as if traversing an empty plain. To move with such lethal purpose while cradling another… it was a dissonant image that chipped away at the Iwa-nin's morale. If a man could be born to this, to wield death so effortlessly, how terrifyingly free he must be.
In the wake of his initial assault, half the Iwa force lay broken on the ground. Most were chunin and genin—the future backbone of their village, now cut down in a foreign forest due to a fatal miscalculation. They had been sent to hunt a medic, not to face a demon. The disparity in intelligence, combined with Ragnar's shock-and-awe opening, had cost them dearly.
By the time the lead Jonin, Iwa Tsuchino, shook off his stupor and assessed the slaughter, it was almost too late. Almost.
"Earth Release: Dark Swamp Technique!" Iwa Tsuchino roared, his hands flashing through five seals in a second before slamming them onto the churned earth.
The ground beneath Ragnar's feet lost all solidity, instantly transforming into a vast, clinging mire of black mud. It sucked greedily at his boots, pulling him downward with surprising strength.
"It's a binding technique," Tsunade gasped, her analytical mind cutting through her fatigue. "Very sticky. Once you're caught, it's hard to break free through brute force alone."
Ragnar gave a slight nod. He knew this jutsu. The Iwa Jonin Akazuchi had used a similar one in their last battle. He'd broken free then with Moon Step's aerial mobility. But Tsuchino's swamp was wider, its pull more insidious. Even if he leapt free, landing elsewhere risked another patch of devouring earth.
"Fire Release: Wave of Fury!" The second Jonin, Iwa Shimu, didn't hesitate. His seals were a blur, ending with a deep inhalation. He didn't aim at Ragnar. He aimed at the swamp.
A torrent of searing orange flames vomited from his mouth, washing over the black mire. The effect was immediate and terrifying. The swamp didn't extinguish; it ignited. Flames mixed with the thick, tarry mud, creating a rolling inferno that spread across a hundred-meter radius. Thick, choking black smoke—a toxic mix of burning soil and chemical residue—billowed upward.
"A combined ninjutsu," Tsunade coughed, her face flushing from the intense heat rolling over them. "Earth and Fire. An Iwagakure specialty. The flames catalyze something in the swamp… it's not just fire, it's like burning pitch."
The air grew toxic and blisteringly hot. The swamp itself was now a weapon, a lake of fire and grasping tar.
Troublesome, Ragnar thought, his mind cool amidst the heat. I wasn't planning on revealing this yet. But against two elite jonin with coordinated tactics… playing with fire, are you? Compared to the Three Haki, this power is also quite… illuminating.
A change began within him. A scorching temperature bloomed from his core, radiating outward. Tsunade, pressed against him, felt it instantly—a volcanic heat simmering just beneath his skin, a contained sun that promised apocalyptic release. Yet, paradoxically, the heat radiating toward her was not harmful; it was a warm, protective blanket against the hostile flames around them.
"Yakigara no Kagami," Ragnar murmured, the name of the power fitting his lips.
He held Yama aloft. Golden-yellow flames, pure and intense, flickered to life along the demon blade's black edge, dancing in harmony with the Armament Haki. With a casual sweep of the sword, a ring of these golden flames erupted from the ground around them, forming a perfect, rotating firewall. The "Mirror of Charred Bones" not only held back the encroaching swamp-fire, it vaporized the choking black smoke before it could reach them, creating a pocket of clear, breathable air.
Moon Walk!
Seizing the opening, Ragnar kicked off the air, rising above the ring of his own flames and the burning swamp below. As he hovered, the transformation became more pronounced. His right arm from the shoulder down dissolved into swirling, living golden fire. Smaller tongues of flame orbited his body like loyal satellites. Part of him had become pure element, a being of flame wrapped around a core of relentless will. With the Rakshasa mask gazing down, he looked less like a shinobi and more like a wrathful deity of conflagration descended from myth.
Cradled in this infernal embrace, Tsunade could only stare. Surrounded by flame, yet perfectly safe. It defied every law of ninjutsu she knew. No seals. No chakra moldings I can sense. What is this power?
"It ends now," Ragnar's voice echoed, flat and final.
"Fire Fist."
His elementalized right arm drew back, then plunged downward. A colossal pillar of concentrated golden fire roared from his fist, spearheading toward the burning swamp. Within the pillar, the unmistakable silhouette of a giant, clenched fist made of molten fury took shape.
BOOOOOOM!
The Fire Fist struck the center of the Dark Swamp. Instead of feeding the flames, the golden fire consumed them. It was a purifying burn, a heat of a higher order. The tarry mud didn't burn; it was instantly, completely vaporized. A shockwave of superheated air radiated outwards, flattening the remaining flames and leaving behind only bare, scorched bedrock and wavering heat haze. The swamp was gone, erased as if it had never been.
The surviving Iwa-nin stared, their minds blank with disbelief. That… that jutsu just… erased a combined elemental technique? Jonin Tsuchino's tactical mind stuttered. Who is this? Hatake Sakumo uses a white chakra blade, not fire. This is someone else. Someone worse.
"Earth Release: Earth-Style Wall!" Tsuchino reacted on instinct, slapping the ground to raise a thick barrier against the residual heatwave. Even so, the scorching wind that washed over them was punishing.
The ground was clear. Ragnar landed softly, the flames receding from his arm back into his skin, though the air around him still shimmered with waste heat. He leveled his left palm, held open toward the clustered, shaken Iwa-nin.
"Hidaruma: Firefly."
His palm glowed with a soft, phosphorescent green light. From it, dozens of beautiful, harmless-looking fireflies of green light lazily drifted out, bobbing through the air toward the enemy.
The Iwa-nin watched, confused. The lights were pretty, almost peaceful, a stark contrast to the hellfire that had just rained down. A young chunin, nerves frayed, reached a hesitant hand toward one. "What are th—?"
"DON'T TOUCH THEM! GET BACK!" Tsuchino's shout was a raw scream of intuition.
It was too late. Five or six of the glowing fireflies had already alighted on uniforms, skin, and hair.
From behind the Rakshasa mask, Ragnar's lips formed a single, silent word.
Burst.
The fireflies detonated. Not with a roar, but with a series of sharp, concussive CRACKS. Where each had landed, a sphere of devastating green-yellow fire erupted, swallowing the unfortunate shinobi whole. The combined force of multiple explosions was catastrophic, easily rivaling a high-B-rank Fire Release technique.
"EARTH RELEASE: EARTH WALL!" Tsuchino and Shimu shouted in unison, reinforcing their defenses as the blast wave and shrapnel of stone and flesh rattled against their barrier.
When the dust and fire cleared, seven more ninja were down, either dead or dying from horrific burns, their agonized cries a fresh layer of horror on the battlefield.
Tsuchino's eyes were bloodshot, his breath coming in ragged gasps. They had come to capture one exhausted Sannin. Now, over half his men were dead, slaughtered by a masked phantom wielding powers he couldn't comprehend. A corrosive, helpless hatred filled his chest.
Ragnar lowered his hand. The faint green glow faded. While effective, the flashy display of the Burn-Burn Fruit's power felt… less personal. His gaze drifted to the black blade in his right hand. For harvesting the remnants of this threat, he preferred the intimate, final whisper of Yama's edge.
(End of Chapter)
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