Shanks's sword, still gleaming with the dense, obsidian sheen of Armament Haki, clashed once more with the team leader's weapon.
The sound of metal grinding against metal echoed like a thunderclap—but this time, it was different.
With a sharp crack, the team leader's blade—already chipped and weakened from their earlier clashes—finally gave in to the overwhelming force behind Shanks's strike.
The sword shattered at the point of impact, fragments spinning.
The team leader instantly made the decision to retreat, stepping back in a desperate attempt to create distance.
But Shanks, already reading his every move through Observation Haki, had anticipated this. The subtle shift in the team leader's stance, the twitch in his leg muscles—it was enough. Shanks knew exactly what he intended to do.
Without hesitation, Shanks surged forward. This time, he didn't opt for a sweeping slash—no horizontal or vertical arcs that could be dodged with a timely step. He went for a direct stab.
A thrust was faster, more controlled, and harder to escape from—perfect for someone trying to flee.
Just as the team leader moved backward, Shanks's blade pierced forward with lethal precision, driving straight into the man's chest.
The team leader gasped, eyes wide with shock, as the force of the stab halted his retreat entirely. Blood spilled from the wound, staining the remains of his flak vest, while Shanks stood close, unwavering, his blade buried in his chest.
The initial stab was shallow, but Shanks wasn't finished. He pushed forward, driving the blade deeper, intent on ending it. Naturally, the team leader wasn't going to let that happen without a fight.
He knew he couldn't retreat—Shanks's sword was faster, and his reaction sharper. So he chose offense as his last defense. With only half of his broken blade remaining, the team leader swung at Shanks's shoulder, aiming to force him back through pain.
But Shanks didn't flinch.
He gritted his teeth and pressed forward relentlessly. His sword pierced all the way through the team leader's chest, the tip bursting from his back in a spatter of blood.
Behind the mask, the team leader's expression twisted into a feral snarl. "If I'm going down," he growled, voice trembling with rage, "I won't let you win easily!"
He didn't stop his swing.
The broken blade struck Shanks's shoulder with a metallic clang—but by then, his shoulder was already sheathed in Armament Haki. The blow barely left a scratch—a shallow groove carved into the hardened black surface, but nothing more.
Shanks's face remained cold, his eyes burning with silent fury. He gave the team leader no chance to speak another word. With a sharp motion, he wrenched his sword downward, dragging the blade from the man's chest to his abdomen. Flesh split open under the force, and a violent gush of blood poured from the deep wound.
The scene was savage—unforgiving.
The team leader's body convulsed, clinging to the blade as if refusing to fall. But Shanks didn't hesitate. With a sharp grunt, he yanked his sword free—but the corpse shifted forward, its weight dragging toward him. Disgusted, Shanks raised his foot and kicked the dead man's body away, sending it collapsing to the blood-soaked ground with a thud.
His blade now free, Shanks stood tall amid the carnage, his breathing calm, his expression hard as stone.
Shanks had no time to celebrate—no time even to breathe. The battle wasn't over.
Without hesitation, he vanished in a blur of speed, reappearing behind one of the masked ninjas who had just regained consciousness after the overwhelming effects of Conqueror's Haki faded. The ninja barely had time to blink.
With ruthless precision, Shanks drew his blade across the man's neck from behind.
A sharp gasp escaped the ninja's lips before his body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Even before the body hit the dirt, Shanks was already moving—his focus locked onto the next target.
The masked ninjas were still dazed—their minds sluggish from the lingering effects of Conqueror's Haki. They had only just begun to regain awareness when death found them.
One by one, before they could even raise a weapon or utter a jutsu, Shanks cut them down with ruthless efficiency.
It was brutal. Unforgiving. But Shanks felt no remorse.
Not even a flicker of pity crossed his mind.
He knew—had these masked assassins reached his clan members, and had he not been there to stand between them—they would have shown no mercy. They would have slaughtered his entire family without a second thought.
And so, he gave them exactly what they deserved.
Shanks finally exhaled—a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of every sword stroke and every life taken. Slowly, the red aura surrounding him began to fade. He released his Conqueror's Haki, allowed the black sheen of Armament Haki to retreat from his skin. But his senses remained sharp, Observation Haki still active. He wasn't ready to drop his guard—not just yet. Not in a world where danger often wore silence like a second skin.
In his past life, the only things he had ever killed were a few stray mosquitoes.
Now, he had taken fifteen lives.
And it didn't sit right.
A dull tightness coiled in his chest, but he forced himself to breathe through it—deep and slow—steadying his emotions before they spiraled. It wasn't guilt he felt... not exactly. It was something heavier, stranger. A sense of irreversible change.
After a few more steady breaths, he turned toward Erza and the gathered Uzumaki clan members who stood at a cautious distance, eyes wide with a mix of awe and worry.
"Erza," he called out, voice calm but firm. "Bring me a scroll. And my sword's sheath."
Erza, who had been standing at a distance, didn't hesitate for even a second. She dashed toward the luggage the group had carried with them, quickly retrieving an empty sealing scroll. Along with it, she picked up the ornate sheath of Gryphon—Shanks's sword.
She ran back to him, her expression focused despite the chaos that still lingered in the air. Without a word, she handed over the sheath. Shanks took it with a nod, securing it at his left waist before sliding his blood-stained blade smoothly into it.
Then he spoke, his voice lower, tinged with sorrow.
"Seal Father's body in the scroll."
Erza's face flickered with pain, but she nodded silently. Kneeling beside the fallen form of Tatsuya Uzumaki, she formed a quick series of hand seals. The sealing technique activated with a soft shimmer of chakra. A gentle swirl of smoke enveloped the body, and a heartbeat later, Tatsuya's remains vanished. In their place, a glowing character etched itself onto the scroll—proof that the seal was complete.
A heavy silence followed.
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