The cold wind brushed against Amatsu's skin as he stood motionless, his gaze locked onto the glowing text before him.
[Devour Sage Mode v1 (Locked) (Permanent)]
Effects:
2x All Buff v1
Devour and Assimilate
Wounds Do Not Bleed, Healed v1
Nature Chakra
False Death (Shedding Body Like a Snake) v1
Cursed Seals v1: Seals can track targets, and upon death, transform them into a fruit that increases strength when consumed.
He exhaled, feeling the changes woven into his very being. Strength coiled within his muscles—denser, sharper. He clenched his fist, and the air around his skin warped faintly, his body processing energy at twice its previous capacity. Every buff, every enhancement—multiplied.
Amatsu raised his arm and, with deliberate precision, slid a kunai across his palm. A shallow cut formed. No blood. No crimson spill, no wasted essence. The flesh simply did not bleed. He watched as the wound slowly sealed itself, closing as if time had rewound by mere seconds. Efficiency in healing—no excess regeneration, no wasted energy.
A breath. The sensation of Nature Chakra coursing through him was subtle, yet undeniable. The environment was no longer separate—it was part of him. The moisture in the air, the stillness of the earth, the unseen energy carried in the wind—it all resonated with his being, feeding into him, sustaining him.
Then, he willed it.
His skin peeled away—not torn, not damaged, but effortlessly discarded like a snake shedding its old body. The husk collapsed onto the ground, a perfect replica of himself, lifeless and still. False Death. His true body stood fresh beneath, unscathed, reborn in the same instant.
He lifted his gaze, his expression unreadable.
A lone hawk cut through the thick mist, its dark wings slicing the damp air. The sky above was slate-gray, choked with heavy clouds. It moved swiftly, darting through the dying light, a scroll tied to its leg.
Higanbana's crimson eyes flickered upward. Without hesitation, she stepped forward, her pale fingers extending. The moment the hawk swooped low—her hand shot out. A single, fluid motion.
The bird barely had time to react before she caught it mid-flight. It flapped once, twice, then went still in her grasp. Her touch was gentle. Not crushing, not harming—just firm enough to hold. She stroked its feathers, calming it, before slipping the scroll free.
Amatsu watched in silence.
Higanbana unrolled the parchment, scanning the words. Then, she turned to him.
"It's about Ryojin."
Amatsu said nothing. He only extended a hand. She placed the scroll in his palm.
His sharp eyes ran over the message.
Ryojin is being pursued.
The Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist are after him.
A faint, salty breeze rolled through the clearing. The mist curled around them, cold and heavy.
Higanbana hesitated. Then, softly, she asked,
"You'll go save him, won't you?"
Silence.
Amatsu did not answer immediately. His grip on the scroll tightened slightly before he let it drop from his fingers. The damp earth swallowed the parchment.
His voice, when it came, was calm. Indifferent.
"No."
Higanbana blinked, as if she hadn't heard him properly. She studied his face—the sharp, unreadable coldness in his dark eyes. Unmoved. Detached.
"But… he's—"
"—Going to die?" Amatsu finished for her, his tone flat. As if it were nothing more than a passing thought.
Higanbana bit her lip. She wasn't naïve. She knew what kind of person Amatsu was. But still, some part of her had expected him to care.
"I see," she murmured.
Amatsu turned away from her, gazing toward the horizon. The Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist… That was what mattered.
"I will go," he admitted. But before she could say anything, he continued,
"Not to save him."
He looked at his hand, flexing his fingers, feeling the quiet pulse of strength within him. His newfound power… untested, untamed.
"The Seven Swordsmen," he said, almost to himself, "are a perfect test."
The corner of his lips curled, just slightly.
"Let's see how far I've come."
_
The village was dead.
Ruins stood like skeletal remains, their charred bones jutting from the earth, blackened by fire and war. The rain came down in sheets, washing over the corpses that littered the streets, turning the ground into a slick, bloodied swamp. The air was thick with rot—flesh left to fester, the iron scent of spilled entrails mingling with wet ash.
Somewhere in the distance, water dripped from shattered rooftops. A faint, pitiful moan came from beneath a collapsed wall, the last breath of a man who refused to die just yet. But soon, even that sound would be swallowed by the storm.
Ryojin stood in the center of it all. Alone.
His breath was heavy, misting in the cold air. Blood ran down his arms, mixing with the rain, tracing along the Uzumaki chains that hung from his wrists. Wounds riddled his body—cuts, gashes, bruises—but he stood firm, golden eyes burning like embers in the dark.
Waiting.
For what? Another battle? Another corpse to add to the mud?
It didn't matter.
The storm raged. The village wept. And Ryojin, drenched in blood and rain, stood unshaken in the ruins of the dead.
Then they arrived.
Seven figures emerged, shifting shadows against the desolation. Their presence was suffocating, their movements unhurried. They walked like reapers, silent and inevitable, their legendary blades gleaming even in the darkness.
The air grew heavy. The battlefield itself seemed to shrink beneath their overwhelming aura.
Steel scraped against steel, a slow, deliberate sound as they drew their weapons. The noise echoed through the ruined village, drowning out the rain, the distant moans of dying men. The promise of death lingered between them. They did not speak. They did not need to.
They were the Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist.
And they had come for him.
In the history of war, none had ever survived facing all seven at once.
Ryojin didn't wait.
The battlefield, once filled with the ragged breaths of the dying, became silent.
Flames burst from his hands, igniting the battlefield. The fire roared against the rain, sizzling upon contact, creating a storm of steam and shadow. Golden eyes burned through the haze, filled with unrelenting fury.
His chains lashed forward, metal whipping against the air, crashing into steel. Sparks flew. The force of impact shattered the weakened ground beneath them.
The Swordsmen did not falter.
Fuguki Suikazan moved first, his hulking frame tearing through the mist like a living wall. Samehada pulsed in his grip, sensing blood, hungry.
Kushimaru Kuriarare struck next, Nuibari gliding through the air like a viper, needle-thin yet wicked, stitching death with every movement.
Jinin Akebino followed, Kabutowari raised high, its twin hammer and axe promising destruction with every swing.
Raiga Kurosuki blurred, Kiba splitting lightning through the storm, twin swords crackling with merciless intent.
Jinpachi Munashi laughed, the sound jagged as his explosive blade, Shibuki, primed to scatter blood and ruin.
Ameyuri Ringo's movements were like water, flowing, shifting, unpredictable. Her Kiba danced, slicing apart air, rain, and flesh alike.
Jūzō Biwa watched, his grip firm on Kubikiribōchō, the great executioner's blade gleaming with the promise of another kill.
They moved as one, splitting apart, attacking from every angle. Their coordination was terrifying—an unspoken unity honed through years of bloodshed. The ground trembled beneath their assault.
Ryojin spun, twisting his body to evade, deflect, strike. Every movement was raw, brutal, instinctive. The water illuminated the battlefield in fleeting glimpses—the glint of a blade, the reflection of golden eyes, the shifting mist that obscured everything beyond the immediate slaughter.
Swords clashed. Chains snapped. The rain hissed against the inferno.
And then the first blade found him.
Pain tore through his side. Cold steel sliced through flesh, parting muscle with ruthless precision. Blood, hot and thick, spilled into the storm. Ryojin gritted his teeth, the sting fueling his rage. But before he could recover, another attack came.
A second blade carved across his leg. His footing wavered. The mud swallowed his step, treacherous and unrelenting. The battlefield itself sought to pull him down.
Yet he grinned. A savage, unrepentant grin.
"You bastards sure live up to the stories," he rasped, spitting blood into the dirt.
Their response was silent. They did not gloat. They did not taunt. They were legends, and legends had nothing to prove.
Ryojin exhaled sharply, his body screaming, his vision pulsing with red. He knew the truth. He was losing.
But losing was not the same as surrendering.
His fingers flexed, flames coiling, refusing to die. The chains at his wrists trembled, responding to his will. If this was where he fell, he would make sure the earth remembered.
The rain poured harder. The mud thickened. And the battle raged on.
The swordsmen changed their rhythm. Slower. More precise. They were testing him now, pushing him to the brink. Ryojin fought like a caged beast, but even beasts had limits. His breaths grew ragged. His movements, a second too slow. Blood loss dulled his fire, blurred the edges of his vision.
They knew it. They could end it whenever they pleased. And yet, they waited.
Ryojin staggered back, barely deflecting a strike aimed at his throat. His mind raced, instincts screaming. He needed something, anything, to shift the tide.
And then, between the haze of pain and the endless assault, a thought surfaced.
Amatsu.
He had expected him by now. The bastard was always watching, always planning, always waiting for the perfect moment. But the battlefield remained empty.
No dark silhouette cutting through the mist. No cold, precise interference.
Ryojin let out a breath, half a chuckle, half a curse.
"That bastard... is he really not coming?"
The words were drowned by thunder. The swordsmen remained unmoved. The mist swirled. The rain fell.
His vision blurred. His body screamed. But still, Ryojin's fingers flexed, flames sputtering, chains trembling.
He had fought, killed, burned.
He was losing.
But he was not broken.
A jagged laugh scraped past his lips. "What's wrong? I thought you bastards liked a challenge."
No response. The swordsmen merely watched, their grips tightening on their legendary weapons. They didn't need to rush. The prey was already dying.
Then—something changed.
The mist, thick and suffocating, suddenly became still. Not just still—unnatural, as if the very air had frozen in place. The battlefield, once filled with the ragged breaths of the dying, became silent. No wind. No movement. Even the blood pooling beneath the corpses seemed to slow in its spread.
The Swordsmen stiffened.
A chill crept up Ryojin's spine. This wasn't normal. This wasn't the eerie quiet of a battlefield. This was something else entirely. Something wrong.
He's here.
Footsteps.
Soft, deliberate, cutting through the silence like a blade against flesh.
Ryojin exhaled sharply, his lips curling into a bloody grin. "Took you long enough."
The presence drew closer, revealing a figure with dark, sharp eyes—cold and unreadable. Amatsu stepped into the open, his movements unhurried, as if the chaos of the battlefield was nothing more than an afterthought.
For the first time, the Seven Swordsmen hesitated.
Small. Delicate. Barefoot.
Higanbana stepped forward, her crimson eyes soft yet unnatural, glowing against the darkness. The cold rain kissed her pale skin, but she moved without hesitation, untouched by fear.
Behind her, a shadow followed.
And in that hesitation, Amatsu smiled.
The Seven Swordsmen paused.
Even they, legends carved from blood and steel, felt it. A disturbance beyond the physical. A presence unlike any other.
His presence was not loud. Not hurried. But it was death itself—calm, steady, inevitable. He moved without urgency, but the weight of his arrival pressed against the battlefield like a vice. The mist clung to him, reluctant to release him, as if the very air understood what had arrived.t.
The Seven turned as one, their gazes locking onto Amatsu. Their unity wavered, a brief hesitation betraying their instincts. They had hunted countless men, slaughtered legends, carved their names into history with their blades.
But this was different.
They could feel it.
Not strength alone. Not skill. Not even killing intent.
Something worse.
Something that did not fear them. Something that did not acknowledge them as equals.
A predator among predators.
A wet chuckle broke the silence.
His sharp, dark eyes moved across the battlefield, sweeping over the ruins, the bodies, the mist-choked death that surrounded them. He was not distracted by Ryojin's injuries, nor the legend of the Seven before him.
He was analyzing. Assessing. Calculating.
Then, after a long pause, he spoke.
Quiet. Devoid of warmth.
"Not bad."
His gaze settled on the Swordsmen, as if finally acknowledging their existence.
"Let's Begin."