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Chapter 50 - Chapter 50 : Red Drop

Chapter 50: Stable and Outrageous

"Genjutsu: Kasumi Jusha no Jutsu (Mist Servant Technique)!"

Qifeng's hands moved through the familiar seals, muscle memory guiding him as his chakra surged outward. The technique felt different this time—heavier, more viscous, like thick honey coating his spiritual energy as it reached toward the enraged Iwa-nin.

Tuhe's world tilted sideways.

One moment he was staring at this cocky Konoha brat, the next his vision warped like he was looking through a funhouse mirror. The kid's face melted away, features reshaping themselves into something far more terrifying. Pale skin, golden eyes, that serpentine smile that had haunted his nightmares for weeks.

"Orochimaru," he breathed, the name tasting like ash in his mouth.

But it wasn't just the Snake Sannin standing before him now. Konoha shinobi materialized from the shadows—dozens of them, blood-soaked and battle-worn, their eyes burning with the kind of hatred that only came from watching friends die. They moved with predatory grace, kunai gleaming, hands already forming seals.

"OROCHIMARU!!"

The roar tore from Tuhe's throat, raw and desperate. He could feel his fear trying to claw its way up from his stomach, and he shoved it down with pure rage. Better to burn than to break.

Qifeng watched from his perch on a jutting rock, noting how the Iwa-nin's chakra flared erratically. Perfect. Genjutsu worked best when the target was already emotionally compromised, and this guy was practically gift-wrapped for manipulation. Grief, rage, exhaustion—all the ingredients for a spectacular mental breakdown.

Tuhe's hands flew through seals, chakra pouring out of him like a burst dam.

"Earth Style: Earth Core Manipulation!"

The earth responded to his desperation with earth-shaking enthusiasm. The ground buckled and heaved, massive stone pillars erupting skyward while sinkholes opened like hungry mouths. The entire battlefield reshaped itself in seconds, a testament to just how much raw power this guy still had left in the tank.

Qifeng cursed under his breath and leaped backward, abandoning his planned attack. No point in being a hero when several tons of rock were rearranging the landscape. He'd learned long ago that discretion was the better part of not becoming pancake filling.

From his perspective, Tuhe looked like he was having an argument with thin air—lashing out at empty space, screaming at invisible enemies. But in the Iwa-nin's mind, he was winning. Each jutsu scattered the Konoha forces, each explosion sent Orochimaru retreating.

For a brief, shining moment, Tuhe felt like himself again.

Then the bodies reformed. Same faces, same positions, same hateful stares. Like a broken record playing on loop.

The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water. His wild eyes focused on the 'Orochimaru' standing calmly in the distance, and understanding crept across his features.

"Genjutsu," he snarled, teeth grinding together.

But Orochimaru just smiled that soul-freezing smile and began forming new seals. The whispered words carried clearly across the battlefield: "Genjutsu: Hell Viewing Jutsu."

The world multiplied. Suddenly there were dozens of Orochimarus, each one identical, each one wearing that same predatory grin. They surrounded him like vultures, close enough that he could smell the antiseptic scent that always clung to the Sannin's clothes.

Tuhe's hands moved instinctively toward another earth jutsu, but then—

*Pop. Pop. Pop.*

The Orochimarus burst like overripe fruit, and snakes came pouring out. Hundreds of them, writhing and hissing, covering every surface. They landed on his shoulders, his arms, his face. Some were as thick as his wrist, others no bigger than earthworms, but all of them had the same goal: to get inside him.

The first bite felt like liquid fire. Then another. Then dozens more, each one tearing through his clothes, his skin, burrowing into the wounds like they were returning home.

Tuhe lost it completely.

He clawed at himself, slapping and scratching, trying to get the snakes off. His hands moved without conscious thought, driven by pure revulsion. Every impact sent blood flying, every grab left gouges in his flesh. He could feel them squirming under his skin, and he dug his nails in deeper, desperate to root them out.

From his vantage point, Qifeng watched the Iwa-nin systematically destroy himself. Each frantic slap landed on unmarked skin, each desperate scratch opened new wounds. It was like watching someone fight their own reflection in a mirror, except the reflection was winning.

"Well," Qifeng muttered, taking a drag from his cigarette, "that's one way to commit suicide."

Blood loss did what logic couldn't—it brought Tuhe back to reality. The snakes vanished, the pain remained. He swayed on his feet, vision blurring as his body's emergency systems started shutting down non-essential functions. Like, apparently, staying upright.

He looked up at Qifeng, who was still standing on that damn rock like he owned the place. The kid hadn't even moved. Hadn't even broken a sweat.

Bastard.

Tuhe tried to summon his anger again, but it felt hollow now. Hard to maintain righteous fury when you were bleeding out from self-inflicted wounds. His body felt heavy, like someone had replaced his blood with wet concrete.

He'd been played. Completely, thoroughly, embarrassingly played.

Qifeng's hands came together again, and despite everything, Tuhe felt his stomach drop. "Genjutsu: Tree Binding Death."

The restraints manifested as wooden shackles, but they felt real enough. Bone-white chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles, covered in barbs that dug deeper with every movement. The more he struggled, the more they hurt. Basic psychology—make the prisoner complicit in their own suffering.

He was trapped, held upright like a scarecrow in a field of his own making.

Qifeng didn't move from his perch. Smart kid. Tuhe might be down, but he wasn't out, and they both knew it. The devastated landscape around them was proof enough of what he could do when pressed. Better to let blood loss do the work than risk a dying man's final gambit.

Minutes passed in silence, marked only by the steady *drip, drip, drip* of blood hitting stone. Tuhe's eyelids grew heavy. His breathing slowed. The world started to fade around the edges.

Finally, Qifeng made his move.

"Bone Release: Bone Spur Technique."

A bone spur slid from his palm, sharp as a blade and twice as deadly. He hefted it, judged the distance, and threw with all the casual precision of someone who'd done this before.

The projectile punched through Tuhe's chest with a wet thunk.

"Burst."

The bone exploded like a grenade, sending dozens of smaller spurs ripping through the Iwa-nin's body from the inside out. He went from human to pincushion in the span of a heartbeat, white bone jutting from every angle.

Qifeng finally climbed down from his rock, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Well, that was unnecessarily dramatic."

The headache hit him like a freight train. Genjutsu was like chess played at light speed while someone hit you with a hammer—it required constant mental calculation, emotional manipulation, and the kind of focus that left you feeling like your brain had been put through a blender.

"Note to self," he muttered, lighting another cigarette, "find a fighting style that doesn't make me want to lobotomize myself."

Still, he had to admit the results spoke for themselves. Two Iwa-nin down, zero close calls, minimal risk to himself. It was the kind of victory his old instructors would have called "boringly efficient."

He approached Tuhe's corpse, already mentally cataloging whatever supplies he could salvage. The war wasn't going to fund itself.

Then he saw it—a faint red glow emanating from the body, barely visible in the afternoon light.

"Huh." Qifeng tilted his head, studying the phenomenon. "Red aura. That's... that's quasi-Kage level."

He took a long drag from his cigarette, processing this information. On one hand, it explained why the fight had been such a pain in the ass. On the other hand, it meant he'd just taken down someone who could have given most jounin a run for their money.

"Well," he said to no one in particular, "at least I'm consistent."

He flicked the cigarette away and got to work. Bodies didn't loot themselves, and he had a war to survive.

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