The leader narrowed his eyes, something gnawing at the edge of his instinct. With a grim expression, he turned to the Chunin beside him and gave a low, urgent order:
"I feel like something's not quite right. Takahashi, stop and use your sensory abilities to check on the others. I have a bad feeling."
Takahashi, a Chunin, wasn't someone typically deployed on assassination missions—missions like this were for Jonin, elite operatives who specialized in swift and decisive executions. But this mission required someone with a very particular set of skills: advanced sensory ninjutsu.
That was why Takahashi had been selected.
Without hesitation, Takahashi slowed to a stop and began weaving hand seals, his fingers precise and practiced. He dropped to a crouch, centering himself as his chakra extended outward, probing the landscape with invisible tendrils.
He had to be stationary to do this—unlike the others who relied on instinct or visual tracking, his technique demanded complete stillness. It was why he hadn't been using it during the initial chase.
Moments later, his eyes flew open in shock. "Something's wrong, Watanabe-sama! The chakra signatures from Kimura and Shibazaki's groups... they've vanished!"
He looked up, eyes wide with panic.
"The only chakra remaining is ahead of us—Akira's! And the one Nozawa-sama's group is following!"
Watanabe's face darkened with realization.
"We've been tricked!" he growled, his fists tightening. "The one we're chasing is just a Shadow Clone. From the start, that kid never intended to escape. He split us up and is picking us off one by one. Kimura and Shibazaki... they're already in danger. Now he's targeting Nozawa. We have to move—now!"
Without a moment's pause, the two leapt into action, changing direction to rush toward Akira's real location.
Meanwhile, the Shadow Clone they had been pursuing halted. Its eyes flickered with sudden understanding—Takahashi must have used his sensory technique. Their plan had been discovered.
The clone didn't hesitate. It formed a series of hand seals and vanished in a puff of smoke, transferring its memories and knowledge back to Akira's real body.
Far away, in the middle of a heated battle, Akira's eyes flickered with new awareness. He was fighting Nozawa and a Chunin, but now he could sense two more Sand Ninja rapidly approaching.
He frowned.
If the two groups reunited, the odds would become overwhelmingly unfavorable. Two Jonin at once was no laughing matter.
He'd been conserving chakra, trying to drag things out and whittle down his enemies. But now, that restraint would only cost him. He had to finish this—fast.
He inhaled deeply and formed hand seals, calling upon a sinister jutsu he had learned from none other than Orochimaru.
"Ninjutsu: Thousand Snake Web!"
From beneath his sleeves and collar, a terrifying torrent of venomous snakes erupted, slithering across the ground like a wave of death. They surged toward the two Sand Ninja, hissing and snapping.
Nozawa's eyes widened. Even as a seasoned Jonin, he had never seen such a grotesque and overwhelming technique.
His comrade, the Chunin, was paralyzed with fear. The sheer visual horror of the snakes—dozens, then hundreds, writhing like a living tidal wave—froze him in place.
A moment later, two serpents sank their fangs into his legs, injecting venom that spread like fire through his bloodstream. He collapsed, writhing in pain.
Nozawa reacted quickly, forming seals.
"Wind Style: Sand Scattering Dance!"
A concentrated gust of wind blasted the snakes away from the Chunin's body, clearing a path and pushing the serpents back just enough to give them breathing room.
The Chunin, his face pale and drenched in sweat, dragged himself into a nearby tree to regroup with Nozawa.
Akira had already moved.
In the moment of chaos, he had repositioned. From his new vantage point, he formed another set of hand seals.
"Fire Style: Great Dragon Fire Technique!"
A massive, searing dragon-shaped inferno roared toward the Sand Ninja.
Nozawa countered.
"Wind Style: Compressed Air Bullet!"
It was a solid defense—but hurried, and far from optimal.
The two jutsu collided in a furious explosion. A wave of searing heat and blazing embers rippled outward. Though Akira had kept his distance, the two Sand Ninja weren't as lucky.
Their clothes caught fire, their skin blistered, and their energy began to evaporate with the heat.
The Jonin grimaced, clutching his arm. His skin was scorched and wrinkled, his muscles sluggish. His Chunin ally had collapsed, unable to continue.
Akira saw his chance.
"Multiple Shadow Clone Technique!"
Three clones appeared in rapid succession, flanking the weakened enemies.
Now it was Akira who had the advantage.
Where once eight Sand Ninja had surrounded him, now it was he who surrounded the two survivors.
"Four-Style Great Barrage!" all four Akiras shouted.
From each direction came a different elemental chakra attack—Fire, Lightning, Water, Earth. The techniques flew toward the two Sand Ninja in a deadly crossfire.
Nozawa tried to defend, but he was too slow, too injured. His expression shifted from grim determination to hopeless despair.
Then the world exploded.
The four elemental attacks converged in a cataclysmic burst of raw energy. The force of the blast sent shockwaves through the trees. When the smoke cleared, there was nothing left but the charred, incomplete bodies of the two Sand Ninja.
At that very moment, two figures arrived—Watanabe and Takahashi.
Watanabe's eyes locked onto the aftermath, his expression transforming into one of horror and rage.
"NO—!" he shouted.
His voice echoed through the forest. He stared at Akira, his glare filled with hate and disbelief.
They had come in full confidence, expecting an easy victory. Eight against one. Now, only two remained.
And Watanabe… Watanabe saw something else in those corpses. A personal loss.
"How dare you... hurt the people of my Sand Village!" he roared, fists shaking.
Akira stood calmly, arms crossed, his eyes sharp.
"Heh. You're the ones who came for my life," he replied, voice cold and clear. "What did you expect me to do? Bow my head and accept death?"
He took a step forward.
"This is war. Those who kill must be prepared to be killed in turn. Don't act so self-righteous."
He paused, eyeing the older man.
"Judging by your reaction... were they your sons?"
Watanabe's silence spoke louder than words.
Akira's voice softened, just slightly.
"Then you should have kept them away from a battlefield. Don't blame me for what your village started."
The forest was silent but for the smoldering leaves and the tension between the three shinobi.
The battle wasn't over. But the tide had already turned.
And Akira—like a storm wrapped in shadow—wasn't done yet.
Upon hearing Akira's words, Watanabe Jonin felt a cold weight drop into the pit of his stomach.
Nozawa—his one and only son. A secret child born from a long-buried affair with his neighbor's wife. No one knew. No one should have known. He had raised the boy under the pretense of a master-disciple relationship, carefully nurturing his growth while keeping the truth hidden deep beneath layers of duty and discipline. His own wife had been barren. Nozawa was all he had.
And now, he was gone.
Akira's voice, sharp and mocking, pierced the heavy silence that hung in the air.
"Oh? That look on your face… did I hit the mark? Was he really your son? Tsk, how unfortunate. An old man like you, having to bury someone so young."
The Genin beside Watanabe shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flitting between his superior and the corpse-strewn battlefield. He had always believed in the bond between master and pupil, but the crack in Watanabe's demeanor was too deep to ignore. Could it be true?
Watanabe coughed sharply, a poor mask for the crack in his composure. "Don't let him get to you. It's just a trick—empty words."
But Akira wasn't done. He stepped toward the fallen, standing beside the bodies of the two deceased Sand Shinobi. He kicked the Genin's head aside carelessly and turned to Watanabe.
"Is this your son? No answer? Then this must be him. Quite the talent, to be a Jonin at such a young age. Too bad he couldn't see how outmatched he was."
With a cruel, slow grind of his heel against Nozawa's lifeless face, Akira drove his point home.
"Bastard!" Watanabe's voice broke like thunder. His fists trembled, not with fear, but with fury. "Stop it!"
But Akira only pressed harder, his tone darkening as he met Watanabe's anguished gaze. "So it's true. He was your son. How pitiful... but don't worry. You won't be alone for long. I'll make sure you join him soon."
Akira's provocation wasn't just sadism—it was strategy. He'd gauged Watanabe's strength through his chakra and found it unremarkable, at least on the surface. But in Sunagakure, chakra didn't tell the whole story. The village was famous for its puppeteers, shinobi whose strength lay in ingenuity and surprise, not brute force. Akira needed to draw out every last trick before the real battle began.
As expected, Watanabe snapped.
"You damned monster! I'll kill you with my own hands!"
With a furious roar, he unfurled a scroll from his waist pouch, and with a single smear of his hand, four puppets erupted onto the battlefield.
Akira narrowed his eyes. "So he is a puppeteer."
The puppets were a mix of function and fear. One was sleek, with twin blades shimmering at its sides—clearly built for close quarters. Another loomed tall and heavy, its plating thick enough to repel chakra-infused strikes. The last two had stranger designs: grotesque shapes, their mechanisms concealed.
Watanabe sent the twin-blade puppet charging first, keeping the behemoth close by as a shield, while the other two flanked from behind, waiting for an opening.
Electricity sparked across Akira's skin as he engaged, his Speed Force blurring his form like a living lightning bolt. His Sharingan spun violently, tracking every thread, every motion. He ducked, weaved, and parried the puppet's relentless strikes, then slammed it with a supercharged punch. The puppet reeled, but its reinforced body withstood the blow.
As it staggered, the twin blades detached and shot forward, guided by chakra threads. Blade Assault—an advanced technique. But with the predictive power of his Sharingan and his superhuman speed, Akira danced away unscathed.
Then, from the corners of the battlefield, the remaining puppets struck.
The left one opened its mouth—senbon shot out in a metallic hail. On the right, the grotesque puppet belched a rolling fog of noxious purple smoke, drops of acid sizzling into the earth.
Akira, anticipating the ambush, quickly formed hand seals. But he didn't dodge. He let the onslaught hit him head-on.
Poisoned needles pierced his flesh. The venom-laced smoke enveloped him, hissing against his skin. His body collapsed, riddled with holes, his face twisted in pain.
Watanabe exhaled, tension draining from his shoulders.
Then the corpse opened its mouth.
Far wider than humanly possible, the jaw stretched unnaturally, and from the abyss within, a hand reached out. Then an arm. Then Akira himself emerged—untouched, whole, shedding his damaged shell like a serpent shedding its skin.
Orochimaru-style Body Replacement Technique.
He stood tall, eyes glinting with cold malice, his body steaming with residual chakra. His gaze turned serpentine, lips curling into a chilling smile that mimicked Orochimaru's infamous leer.
Even Watanabe flinched.
The Genin, however, crumbled.
He dropped to his knees, eyes wide in primal terror, breath caught in his throat. When Akira twisted his face into a grotesque grimace and lunged forward suddenly—more as a mockery than a strike—the Genin shrieked, falling back with a wet splatter as a dark stain spread across his trousers.
Akira laughed softly, voice low and venomous.
"Not bad for a performance, right?"
Watanabe stared at him, hatred burning bright beneath his sorrow.