Chapter 50: Fight!
The air tensed like a drawn bowstring. The moment Kiyoshi detected the shift in chakra, he shouted:
"He's not a merchant! He's a shinobi!"
BOOM!
Before the words even finished leaving his lips, the first enemy struck.
One of the cloaked assistants lunged toward Mikoto with a dagger coated in a thin, glistening liquid—poison. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement—just cold efficiency. Mikoto barely had time to react, twisting her body to deflect the strike. Steel met steel, sparks flying as she countered with a powerful riposte, sending her attacker stumbling back. Yet, there was no frustration on his face. No anger. Just an immediate recalibration, as if he were nothing more than a machine executing a program.
The so-called "merchant" shed his disguise in a burst of smoke, revealing dark tactical gear beneath. His features were sharp, emotionless—eyes empty, calculating. Without a word, his hands moved through rapid hand seals.
"Water Release: Cascading Spear."
The mist thickened and sharpened into piercing spears of condensed water, rushing toward them with deadly speed. There was no enjoyment in his actions, no malice—only cold precision.
"Move!" Ryota shouted, throwing himself into a roll as the deadly projectiles impaled the ground where he once stood.
Mikoto, reacting on instinct, swung her blade in a wide arc—a burst of wind chakra dispersing the water spears in her direction before she sprinted forward.
But the second assistant was already on her.
Kiyoshi focused, tracking their chakra. These weren't low-level smugglers—these were trained assassins. Their chakra control was too precise, their movements too coordinated, their faces devoid of any emotion.
And that meant one thing: this was a planned attack.
Ryota engaged the second opponent, a short but muscular fighter wielding twin daggers. The rogue moved with alarming speed, his movements unpredictable but eerily controlled. Ryota barely dodged a swipe aimed at his throat, countering with a burst of explosive tags, forcing his attacker back. The explosion rocked the battlefield, sending debris flying. Yet, the rogue showed no fear, no hesitation—he merely adjusted, resuming his relentless assault as though the explosion had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
Daichi had drawn his own opponent—a taller man, moving like a phantom, wielding a curved blade with lethal efficiency. Daichi gritted his teeth, trying to keep up with the relentless flurry of strikes. He dodged, barely avoiding a cut to his shoulder, then countered with a sweeping kick—only for the enemy to twist mid-air and land effortlessly.
"Tch—he's too fast!" Daichi muttered, attempting to weave signs for a jutsu.
But his opponent gave him no chance.
A sharp pain bloomed in Daichi's side as the curved blade bit into his flesh. He gasped, stumbling backward. His enemy did not relent. Another strike—Daichi barely managed to parry, but the force sent him crashing to the ground.
He rolled away just in time to avoid a downward stab that cracked the stone where he had been a moment ago. Blood dripped from his wound, his breath ragged. The enemy wasn't just fast—he was overwhelming.
Kiyoshi's mind raced. They had been set up. The explosion from within the outpost wasn't a coincidence—it was a coordinated distraction.
If they didn't end this quickly, more enemies could be lurking in the shadows.
The "merchant" smirked as he faced Kiyoshi directly. It wasn't a human smirk—there was no amusement in it, no emotion. Just the recognition of an equation being solved. "You're sharp, boy. A sensor, huh? That makes you the biggest threat."
Kiyoshi's instincts screamed just as the enemy flickered from sight.
"Behind you!" Mikoto's warning came just in time—Kiyoshi barely ducked as a blade sliced through the air where his throat had been.
The rogue moved faster than expected. Kiyoshi twisted, channeling chakra into his palm—a burst of force sending the attacker skidding back.
He didn't have the raw speed to match this enemy—but he didn't need it.
He could predict his movements.
Closing his eyes for half a second, Kiyoshi focused. The enemy's chakra pulsed before every strike. The pattern was forming.
Next attack—left diagonal slash.
Kiyoshi dodged before it even came.
Next—a feint, then a right-hand thrust.
He sidestepped, countering with a palm strike to the ribs.
The enemy staggered.
"How—?"
Kiyoshi already knew the answer.
"Your chakra movements are predictable," he said coolly. "You're fast, but I already know what you'll do next."
The rogue did not react with frustration or anger. He merely adapted, his strikes growing more refined, more precise. He had no ego, no pride—only the cold desire to complete his mission.
Then suddenly, he stopped moving entirely.
Mikoto turned just in time to see it.
The "merchant" had abandoned his fight with Kiyoshi—because something else had caught his attention.
A new presence.
A cold, terrifying chakra aura flooded the battlefield.
From within the outpost's inner area, where the explosion had first gone off—a new figure emerged.
A masked shinobi, clad in black, his chakra dark and suffocating.
The "merchant" and his men froze on the spot.
Even Ryota, who had been mid-strike, faltered.
"You're taking too long," the masked man said in a low, bone-chilling voice.
And then—the real fight began.
Kiyoshi had no time to process the chilling aura radiating from this new arrival. The rogue he had been fighting suddenly exploded into motion again, using the moment of hesitation to press forward.
A blur. A blade flashed.
Kiyoshi twisted his body—steel cut through empty air where his ribs had been.
The assassin was relentless. His movements had changed—no more wasted feints, no more hesitation. Every strike now aimed to kill.
Left. Right. Spin. Strike. Dodge. Counter.
Their battle was silent, a dance of death fought in the language of pure instinct.
Kiyoshi felt the wind shift before every attack, the minuscule chakra pulses in his opponent's body warning him a split second before the blade moved. He didn't need to see it—he felt it.
His enemy realized it too.
The assassin's attacks grew more erratic, faster, sharper. A spinning kick—Kiyoshi ducked. A downward slash—he parried with his forearm, pain flaring as steel met flesh. Blood dripped. He ignored it.
Then—silence.
The masked shinobi took a step forward.
And Kiyoshi knew—his fight was about to begin.