Watanabe glanced at the Chunin beside him, only to find the young ninja frozen in place, face pale and drenched in cold sweat. The sheer terror etched on his features was unnatural. Watanabe's heart skipped a beat.
Then he looked again—into Akira's eyes. The three tomoe of the Sharingan spun slowly, hypnotically, like a predator luring prey into submission. Realization struck Watanabe like a kunai to the chest.
"Genjutsu," he muttered under his breath. That had to be it.
Even if his comrade was inexperienced, a mere illusion shouldn't have broken him like that—unless it was from a master of the Sharingan. Watanabe quickly knelt, placing a hand on the Chunin's back, channeling his chakra in an effort to dispel the illusion.
Nothing.
The young ninja's eyes remained glazed, lost in the depths of an invisible nightmare.
Watanabe's brow furrowed. This was no ordinary genjutsu. He couldn't break it—no matter how much chakra he poured in. If this was the level Akira wielded casually, then Watanabe had to tread lightly. Eye contact was now a deadly risk.
But Akira? He didn't care that Watanabe had caught on. He had never intended to trap Watanabe in genjutsu anyway. That would be too easy—too boring. This wasn't about overwhelming his opponent with illusions. No, he wanted to test a technique he had been developing in secret, one that could change the tide of any battle.
Still, Akira had to be careful. Using it might drain his remaining chakra, and if that happened, even a stunned Chunin could become a threat. Wasting his Mangekyō Sharingan on these two wasn't an option. He needed to eliminate them cleanly and efficiently.
His eyes gleamed with lightning. Akira pushed more chakra into his legs, activating Godspeed.
In a blur, he vanished.
Watanabe's three puppets lunged to intercept—but Akira slipped through their formation like wind through leaves. He burst out the other side, hands flashing through seals.
"Water Release: Water Dragon Bullet Technique!"
A torrent of water surged forth, coiling and writhing into the shape of a massive dragon. It roared toward Watanabe, bearing down with crushing force.
Watanabe reacted instantly. He directed the unused puppet—his trump card in defense—to step forward. With a click, its arms unfurled like mechanical wings, chakra weaving into a glowing barrier: the Machine Light Shield Seal, an elite technique passed down through generations of Sand Village puppetmasters.
The water dragon smashed into the shield, sending spray in all directions—but the puppet didn't budge.
Undeterred, Akira followed up with a single shuriken, flung toward the puppet.
Then—more hand seals.
"Shuriken Shadow Clone Technique!"
The air shimmered.
That single shuriken split into dozens, then hundreds, a deadly swarm raining down upon the puppet and its master.
Metal shrieked. Wood cracked. The puppet was shredded by the onslaught, its once-pristine cloth wrapping torn to ribbons. The wind carried the remnants away, revealing the puppet's true form: armored in thick, interlocking carapaces. Its defense was formidable.
But it was slow. Too slow.
Akira's eyes narrowed. That was its flaw.
Several shuriken found gaps in the armor, flying past the puppet and straight toward Watanabe.
Watanabe deflected them with his own shuriken, unfazed. But he didn't pull the puppet back to defend himself. Interesting.
He trusted its armor—but only from one direction.
Akira's mind raced.
If he could get behind Watanabe, he could end this.
But Watanabe had begun his counterattack. The three offensive puppets darted forward, each one brandishing poisoned blades and extending arms. Akira dodged back, avoiding their reach.
His breathing was heavy.
He'd already used too many techniques—Shadow Clones, Flying Thunder God, multiple elemental releases. His chakra was nearly gone. Another jutsu, and he'd collapse.
Watanabe sensed it too. Victory shimmered before him. He pushed the offensive, controlling his puppets with surgical precision.
Akira gritted his teeth.
He had no chakra left. But that didn't mean he was finished.
His fingers brushed the seal on his forehead.
The Yin Seal.
A reservoir of chakra he'd been carefully stockpiling. This was the moment.
He released it.
In an instant, power surged through his veins. Lightning crackled around his limbs. His exhaustion vanished, replaced by overwhelming energy. His Godspeed ignited again, and he slipped past the puppets with ease.
Hands blurred through seals. Two more Shadow Clones appeared beside him, each taking a stance.
"Water Release: Water Dragon Bullet Technique!"
"Fire Release: Fire Dragon Bullet Technique!"
The twin dragons erupted—one of steam and strength, the other of searing flame—converging on Watanabe's position.
Again, the defensive puppet raised its shield.
The dragons struck, producing a violent cloud of steam and smoke.
A perfect smokescreen.
Watanabe's eyes darted through the mist. He knew. This wasn't the real attack.
Then he heard it—the chirping of a thousand birds.
His blood ran cold.
From the fog, Akira emerged, lightning roaring in his hand. The Chidori.
But not just any Chidori.
"Lightning Release: Chidori Super Strength Fist!" Akira shouted, his voice like thunder.
Watanabe panicked. He activated the puppet's final mechanism, causing its carapaces to detach and swirl into a massive shield in front of him.
Too slow.
Akira's fist connected.
Lightning screamed. The shield cracked, then shattered under the force. Watanabe barely had time to widen his eyes.
The Chidori burst through, slamming into his chest.
And for a moment, time stood still.
Then Watanabe's body collapsed, the scent of scorched fabric and ozone lingering in the air.
Akira stood over him, breathing heavily, his Sharingan slowly fading.
"You were strong," he whispered. "But not enough."
The battlefield fell silent.
Only the soft crackle of lightning remained.
Canvas Watanabe's eyes widened in disbelief. He had expected his puppet shield to hold—just long enough to fall back behind the bulk of its frame, to regroup, to survive. But the power of Akira's jutsu had far exceeded his estimation. In the blink of an eye, the shield was shattered, a storm of chakra surging past it like a tidal wave, cleaving through his defenses and striking him down.
A wet cough broke from his lips, blood spraying as he staggered, eyes burning with unwillingness. He fell slowly, as if gravity mourned the loss of his will. Akira stood opposite him, expression unreadable, watching as the man crumpled to the ground.
That made seven.
Seven lives taken.
A faint tremble coursed through Akira's fingers as he lowered his hand. He remembered the promise he had once made—so many years ago, in a world that now felt like a dream. Just after graduating from medical school, in a past life defined by sterile white walls and the quiet hum of hospital monitors, he had sworn to never harm another life. Ever.
But war, this world—it wasn't kind. The battlefield didn't care about oaths or sanctity. It cared about survival.
And Akira had survived.
He looked down at Watanabe's body, eyes softening. He placed it gently beside another—an older man, the Jonin he had killed earlier in the same battle. Father and son, reunited in death. A promise, however grim, fulfilled.
He let out a quiet sigh. "I'm too kind," he murmured, the irony not lost on him.
But there was still one left.
His gaze swept across the field, finally landing on the last of the eight who had pursued him. A young Genin—barely ten years old—still lost in the grip of Akira's genjutsu, drool at the corner of his mouth, eyes vacant. His chest rose and fell with steady breath. Alive.
Akira felt a pang of something sharp and bitter.
In his former life, children this age were in elementary school, preoccupied with cartoons and toy collections. Not blades and death missions. Yet here, they were assassins. Weapons.
But Akira didn't kill him.
Not out of mercy—no. The boy posed no threat. And more importantly, leaving him alive served a purpose. If no one returned, the nature of the battle might invite too much scrutiny. People might begin to ask dangerous questions.
About how one ninja could kill two Jonin, six Chunin and Genin.
About how Akira remained untouched, unharmed.
About eyes that saw too much.
So the boy would live. And he would tell the tale. One of a prodigious Konoha ninja who, through grit and genius, overcame overwhelming odds.
No whispers of the Mangekyo Sharingan. No shadows of suspicion. Only awe.
Almost every move Akira had made was calculated. The battle had flowed according to his plan. He'd used stealth and strategy to take down six of them before they realized what was happening. Only the final pair—Watanabe and the sensory-type Genin—had managed to sense something early.
But it wasn't enough.
Akira had unleashed nearly his full arsenal: the elemental jutsu he'd mastered—fire, water, wind, earth—alongside techniques learned under Orochimaru's cold instruction and Tsunade's careful mentorship. Even his own innovations, crafted through long nights and disciplined theory, had seen daylight. His genjutsu, subtle and cruel, had turned the tide where raw power could not.
And yet, he remained untouched.
Only his right hand ached—swollen from channeling his Chidori Superpower Punch, the pressure immense. His clothes, dusted in blood and sand, hung wrinkled on his frame. But his body? Whole.
And his chakra, thanks to the Yin Seal, was more abundant than before. He had released it mid-fight, but a good portion still lingered, threatening to dissipate into the air.
Waste not.
He moved swiftly through a series of seals, reconstructing the Yin Seal on his forehead and reclaiming what remained. Chakra, like muscle, could not be stored—only generated. But the seal offered him a loophole. A place to keep what others could not.
The battlefield fell quiet around him, only the wind stirring sand and cloth.
Then came the looting.
Akira wasn't one for plunder, but even he knew the value of rare tools and scrolls. The four puppets used by the final Jonin caught his attention. Intricate, deadly, and—thanks to his restraint—mostly undamaged. One bore a shattered armor plate, but the others remained pristine. He retrieved the sealing scroll from Watanabe's cooling body and reclaimed the puppets.
The others had little of interest. Standard-issue tools, a few coins. Nothing exceptional. Nothing dangerous.
He left the corpses untouched. They were part of the story he needed told.
A brilliant young ninja. No hidden power.
Nothing for the likes of Madara or Black Zetsu to covet.
As he resumed his journey toward Konoha, no further enemies shadowed him. Perhaps Sand believed eight had been enough.
But one question gnawed at him.
How had they known his route?
The mission was sealed tight. Only four others had knowledge of it—Minato, Kakashi, Tsunade, and Hiruzen. None would betray him.
Which meant the leak had come from higher up—or rather, deeper down.
Akira's thoughts turned dark. A name surfaced.
Danzo.
That old viper, with his quiet contempt for the Uchiha and all they stood for. Planting a spy among Konoha's higher-ups wouldn't be easy—not even for Sand. But Danzo didn't need to leak information to another village. He only needed to let the enemy do his work for him.
"It was you, wasn't it... Danzo," Akira whispered.
The how eluded him. The why was clearer.
Because he was too talented. Too seen. Hiruzen valued him too much. And Danzo? Danzo feared what he couldn't control.
Heaven was jealous of talent.
And so was Danzo.
At last, Akira found what he was looking for—a Flying Thunder God mark etched discreetly near a half-buried stone. The third he'd left.
Two-thirds of the way home. One-third remained.
He placed his fingers to the mark.
A glimmer of chakra flared.
He vanished.
Traveling by foot was behind him. The battlefield already distant, the scent of blood fading.
Only Konoha remained ahead.