CHAPTER 141: THE BUDDHA DESCENDS
Silence, then a deafening roar of blood in the ears.
The Suna jonin hadn't been pummeled into paste like the genin. But the result was just as final. Carved apart by a sword of living lightning, they fell, one after another, into the crimson mud. The rain pattered on their still forms, washing nothing clean. These were the high-value assets of a village, the seasoned commanders, the pillars of Suna's military might. Snuffed out in the blink of an eye. Their final expressions were not of pain, but of utter shock—the disbelief of veterans who thought they had seen every horror war could offer, only to be shown a new one.
HISSS—!
A collective, sharp intake of breath came from the surrounding Iwa jonin. Their advance had turned to stone. Terror, cold and liquid, poured down their spines. That speed… it wasn't shunshin. It was a natural phenomenon. That swordsmanship… it wasn't a technique. It was an execution.
The shockwave rippled outwards, touching every watching shinobi.
Outside the immediate kill zone, Senju Nawaki—who had moments ago been worried for Ragnar—stood utterly dumbstruck. This was the boy who'd graduated a few months ahead of him? The 'Academy genius'? One sword. Seven jonin. The math broke his concept of reality. The proud, boisterous blood of the Senju felt suddenly thin and insignificant.
"Ragnar… you truly are the one I admire! My ultimate rival!" Nawaki whispered, though the words felt hollow even to him.
Namikaze Minato, hearing him, gave a small, resigned shake of his head. This child will learn. Some peaks are not for climbing. They are for gazing upon from an impossible distance. Even Minato's own fierce, unyielding will to improve felt a chill. The goal wasn't to catch up anymore. It was to not be left so far behind as to be forgotten.
Across the Konoha lines, the chunin and jonin who didn't know Ragnar's dual identity wore masks of pure, uncomprehending shock. They stared at the field, at the boy who had just redefined 'jonin-level threat' in a single stroke.
Jiraiya's face was a masterpiece of conflicted emotion. His mouth worked soundlessly. I knew you were strong. I knew you were Rakshasa. But this… this is a different category of being. One sword, seven kills. How do you even measure that kind of power?
Even Hatake Sakumo felt the impact. He'd known the reports, heard the second-hand accounts of Rakshasa's deeds. But seeing it firsthand was a different truth. That sword… it was brutally efficient. No flourish, no wasted motion. Pure, distilled killing intent given form through speed and edge. It was a style he recognized—it had the ghost of his own Hatake kenjutsu principles within it, refined and sharpened to a terrifying extreme. He felt a surge of fierce, paternal pride. In a way, this was his legacy, carried forward and surpassed.
But the pride was edged with a cold sliver of dread. Power like this didn't just win battles. It changed destinies. It drew fear not just from enemies, but from allies. Konoha… what will we do with a sun this bright?
On the field, Chiyo's shriek of recognition cut through the murmurs.
"IT'S YOU! IT WAS YOU ALL ALONG!"
The pieces had finally slammed together in her mind. The overwhelming fire. The ruthless, efficient slaughter. The sheer, arrogant force of will. It wasn't just familiar. It was a scar on her soul.
Rakshasa.
The masked ANBU demon who had humiliated her, destroyed her puppets, and sent her fleeing. He wasn't some grizzled veteran. He was a boy. A boy with a face of ice and the power of a calamity.
If it was Rakshasa… where was the infamous demon-blade Yama? A disguise, then. A deeper deception.
The revelation burned through her last shreds of tactical caution. "ALL ELITE JONIN! MOBILIZE! FOCUS FIRE ON THAT TARGET! I WILL LEAD!" Her voice was a guttural scream. She wasn't just commanding anymore; she was summoning a vendetta. Every elite Suna jonin within reach was called. This was no longer about the battle; it was about erasing a personal humiliation.
Seeing the shift, Hatake Sakumo's protective instincts flared. His face hardened. "Intercept the Suna reinforcements! Do not let them swarm him!"
"YES, SIR!"
A phalanx of Konoha's own elite jonin blurred into motion, aiming to cut off the Suna surge.
But from the Iwa flank, Onihira's cold voice rang out. "Block them. This is our chance."
Iwa's elite moved as one, a wall of earth and muscle slamming into the Konoha interceptors. This war was still two against one. Onihira had seen the same truth as Chiyo: this variable, 'Ragnar' or 'Rakshasa', was an existential threat. If the Suna elder and her best could eliminate him, the cost was worth it.
"DAMN IT! MOVE!" Tsunade roared, her fist smashing forward with Strange Power. An Iwa jonin met it with arms hardened to stone. The rock shattered, the arm beneath it mangled, but the man held his ground, buying precious seconds.
The battlefield fractured. A massive brawl erupted between Konoha and Iwa elites. And in the center of the storm, a tightening circle of Suna's strongest, led by a vengeful Chiyo, closed around Ragnar.
"Don't expect your friends to save you, Rakshasa!" Chiyo spat, her fingers already twitching, puppeteer strings of chakra glowing at her fingertips. Dozens of elite Suna jonin fanned out, seals forming, weapons drawn. "This is an overwhelming disparity! You are alone!"
Ragnar, who had watched this furious rearrangement with detached interest, finally spoke. His voice was calm, almost bored. "Have you ever witnessed the power of a god?"
"A… god?" Chiyo blinked, the non-sequitur throwing her. A cold, primal warning bell began to toll in the depths of her mind.
"You think a handful of elite jonin and a broken old puppet-master can kill me?" He shook his head, a faint, pitying smile on his lips. "Chiyo. You underestimate me to a degree that is insulting."
"WHAT?!"
"HOW DARE—!"
The exclamations burst from the surrounding Suna jonin, their rage momentarily overwhelming their fear.
Ragnar closed his eyes for a single heartbeat. When he opened them, they glowed with an inner, golden light.
"Golden Buddha Release."
VWOOOOM—!
An intense, blinding eruption of golden light burst from his body, so bright it drowned the gloomy daylight. It wasn't fire. It was pure, dense, radiant energy.
From within that light, a form expanded. Not an illusion. Not a chakra construct. A presence.
A colossal, towering figure of a seated Buddha, wrought in shimmering, solid gold, materialized behind and around Ragnar. It was hundreds of feet tall, its head brushing the low-hanging clouds. Its features were serene, majestic, and utterly implacable. One hand rested in its lap, palm up. The other was raised, fingers gently curled in a mudra of sublime power.
The Daibutsu. The Giant Golden Buddha.
It didn't move. It simply was, occupying space with a weight that seemed to bend reality itself. The rain ceased within a hundred-yard radius, vaporized by the radiating aura. The muddy ground beneath it cracked and smoothed into polished, dry earth.
The entire battlefield—the clashing elites, the commanders on the hills, the wounded, the terrified—fell into a silence so profound it was a physical force.
All eyes, wide with a terror beyond comprehension, were locked on the divine, golden colossus that now dominated the center of the Land of Rain.
And seated in the lotus position at the heart of the Buddha's chest, tiny yet the undeniable center of it all, was Ragnar. His eyes glowed with the same golden light as the statue.
He looked down at Chiyo and her assembled elites, his voice echoing with the resonance of a temple bell.
"Now. Let us discuss this 'overwhelming disparity.'"
(End of Chapter)
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