Chapter 36 - The Raid on the Supply Convoy (2)
There was no choice in the matter. That was simply how things worked. If you didn't throw out a few bold words before a fight, you were just another faceless grunt—one without a single line of dialogue to be remembered by.
So, Kazane did the same. He turned to the enemy leader, Hikari, and shouted,
"You're surrounded! Don't resist, or you'll die..."
His words started off lighthearted, almost playful, but as he finished speaking, his tone dropped, turning unnervingly cold. He let out a quiet chuckle, flashing his teeth in a grin that carried a sinister edge.
"You little brat! Do you have any idea who you're talking to?!"
Among the four Iwa-nin present, the most hot-tempered of them, Jonin Mahiru, couldn't hold back any longer. His anger boiled over as he unsheathed the katana on his back and charged toward Kazane, intent on cutting him down.
"I'll take care of him," Kazane remarked casually, already stepping forward.
The glint of the approaching blade piqued his interest. Mahiru's stance and footwork were solid—this wasn't just some brawler with a sword. He was a trained swordsman. Kazane smile widened. That made things more interesting.
Before Fugaku could give any orders, Kazane drew his own sword and dashed forward to meet his opponent.
The battle erupted in an instant.
Jonin-level fights were never drawn-out affairs of careful maneuvering—they were fast, decisive, and ruthless. In the blink of an eye, everyone had already found their respective opponents, weapons clashing and jutsu being exchanged.
Fugaku took immediate control of the battlefield, executing the Uchiha clan's signature shuriken techniques to restrict Hikari's movements. His Sharingan spun, analyzing every motion, waiting for the perfect opening. The moment Hikari dodged the incoming blades, Fugaku struck—his genjutsu took hold.
"A member of the Uchiha clan?"
Hikari's expression darkened as his body stiffened for a fraction of a second, his mind being pulled into an illusion. He had heard the rumors about the Uchiha, their deadly precision, their overwhelming strength—but hearing and experiencing were two different things entirely.
The Uchiha had long since been known as the mightiest clan in Konoha, but after the village was founded, they had been relegated to policing duties, rarely seen on the battlefield.
And now there was an elite Uchiha Jonin standing before him? That was bad news.
Hikari clenched his fists. He needed to break free—he needed to warn Kurotsuchi about this immediately.
Meanwhile, Uchiha Izumi was already facing difficulties. Her opponent, the Jonin Daishi, had disappeared from sight almost instantly.
Ninjutsu: Camouflage Concealment.
The technique allowed Daishi to blend seamlessly into his surroundings, vanishing from sight like a chameleon. Izumi's Sharingan flickered as she scanned the area, but the technique was too refined. The moment she lost track of Daishi's movements, she was forced onto the defensive.
Further away, Uchiha Kōtan was handling his own battle with far more ease. His opponent, Sumaji, was a Special Jonin proficient in Earth Release, but against an Uchiha, that meant very little.
The fight quickly fell into a monotonous cycle.
Genjutsu—break free—take damage.
Genjutsu—break free—take damage.
Sumaji was helpless, his resistance breaking down as Kōtan exploited his weaknesses relentlessly.
Kazane, meanwhile, was in the thick of his duel with Mahiru.
His swords moved in complex patterns, weaving in and out with rapid precision. The fluidity of his movements was mesmerizing—each strike seamlessly flowed into the next, making it impossible to predict where the next attack would come from.
Mahiru gritted his teeth, struggling to keep up.
"How… How is this possible?! Where is he getting this strength from?!"
The moment their blades clashed, Mahiru nearly lost his grip on his sword. The force behind Kazane's attack was monstrous. He barely managed to redirect the impact, twisting his body to absorb the shock, but he knew one thing for certain.
If he kept trying to match Kazane's strength directly, he would lose.
Strength alone wasn't the only deciding factor in a fight. Mahiru needed to remind this boy of that.
"Shadow Clone Jutsu!"
Mahiru disengaged with a quick retreat, the force of his last clash with Kazane still reverberating through his arms. But instead of pressing the attack immediately, he capitalized on the momentary gap to weave a series of rapid hand seals. In the next instant, three identical copies of himself materialized, each gripping a katana and charging at Kazane from different angles.
Any ordinary opponent would have hesitated—faced with multiple assailants, most would instinctively fall back or shift to a defensive stance. But Kazane simply smirked, unfazed.
"Three-Sword Style: Tornado Slash!"
With a sudden burst of motion, he spun on his heel, his three blades carving through the air in a violent whirlwind. The edges of his swords gleamed as they cut through their targets with surgical precision.
Poof! Poof! Poof!
Three dull bursts echoed across the battlefield as the clones were effortlessly dispelled, their bodies vanishing into wisps of smoke.
Mahiru barely had time to process what had happened before a sharp pain erupted in his arm. A thin red gash marred his flesh, blood beginning to seep through his sleeve. He staggered backward in shock. He had been fast—but Kazane had been faster.
And he wasn't done.
Kazane saw the opening immediately. Without giving his opponent a chance to recover, he activated Lightning Release Chakra Mode, flooding his body with surging energy. His muscles tensed, his speed increasing to an entirely different level. The ground cracked beneath his feet as he kicked off, closing the gap between them in an instant.
"Three-Sword Style: Demon Slash!"
Mahiru's eyes widened as he realized the danger. He had underestimated Kazane's sheer speed and precision, and now he was paying the price. He barely managed to react, attempting to pivot and dodge.
Too late.
Kazane's two swords locked onto Mahiru's weapon, trapping it in place. In that split second, Mahiru's gaze flickered toward the third sword—the one clenched between Kazane's teeth.
A blade that moved independently from his hands.
It came down like a guillotine.
Mahiru's survival instincts kicked in. He made the only choice he could—he abandoned his weapon, releasing it entirely in favor of a last-ditch escape. His fingers twisted into a seal, and in a flicker of speed, his body vanished into the distance. Body Flicker Technique.
But even that wasn't enough.
Schlick!
The unmistakable sound of steel slicing through flesh echoed through the night air.
Despite his desperate maneuver, Mahiru hadn't escaped unscathed. Kazane's blade, Wado Ichimonji, infused with Haki, carved straight through his shoulder, leaving a deep, gaping wound. For a brief moment, his body twitched—but he couldn't even react before the slash continued downward, slicing through his torso in a clean, merciless stroke.
Blood splattered across the dirt as Mahiru's lifeless body fell in two separate halves.
An elite Jonin of Iwagakure, one of the village's core combatants, had perished on a simple supply route.
Kazane exhaled slowly, his breath steady. If this had been a truly formidable elite Jonin—someone of Fugaku's caliber, for example—Mahiru might have had a better chance. His strategy of using clones could have worked, creating an opening and forcing a drawn-out battle. Against a traditional shinobi, that plan might have succeeded.
But against a pure swordsman like Kazane? It was meaningless.
Swordsmanship wasn't just about technical skill—it was about instinct. Kazane didn't need to think about where Mahiru's blade would go next; he could feel it. Every shift in stance, every tightening of muscles—it all told a story before the attack even began. Add in his overwhelming strength and the unpredictability of his three-blade style, and the outcome had been decided the moment Mahiru chose to fight him head-on.
Sheathing his blades with a smooth motion, Kazane took a quick glance across the battlefield.
Fugaku and Hikari were still locked in a relentless genjutsu battle, their minds waging war on a plane unseen by others.
Kōtan was overwhelming Sumaji, his opponent already bleeding heavily from multiple wounds. Sumaji's mouth dripped with crimson, his staggered movements making it clear he wouldn't last much longer. Even if Kazane didn't intervene, Kōtan would secure victory before long.
But Izumi—Izumi was in serious trouble.
She was facing off against Daishi, one of Iwa's elite Jonin. Unlike the others, Daishi wasn't reckless. He was patient, calculated. He had kept himself concealed for most of the fight, forcing Izumi onto the defensive.
Izumi's body bore multiple injuries, but the worst was a deep gash running across her back—so deep that white bone was faintly visible beneath torn flesh. Her movements had slowed considerably.
She wouldn't last much longer.
And Daishi knew it.
The Iwa-nin wasn't in any hurry to finish the battle. He was waiting—waiting for the exact moment Izumi made a fatal mistake. There was no need to rush. The battle was already decided.
Or so he thought.
Daishi's chance came.
Izumi, breathing heavily, reached into her pouch and flung a handful of shuriken in multiple directions, hoping to force Daishi out of hiding. The moment the projectiles left his fingers, Daishi made his move.
In a blur of motion—he appeared behind Izumi in an instant, his blade already thrusting forward, aimed directly at Izumi's heart.
This would end it.
But just as the attack was about to land—
Daishi's instincts screamed at him.
A chill crawled up his spine, spreading through his entire body like a warning bell ringing inside his skull. His honed battle sense, the very thing that had saved him countless times before, now whispered something undeniable.
Death was coming.
His body reacted before his mind even registered what was happening.
He abandoned his attack. He didn't even stop to consider why—he just knew. If he continued that strike, he would die.
His body flickered to the side, a desperate evasion fueled purely by survival instinct.
And in the very next moment—
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