All the Kirigakure ninjas froze in place. Out of the eighteen Chūnin present, only two collapsed, unconscious before they even knew what hit them. The sudden effect of Shanks' Conqueror's Haki was unmistakable, but the results were underwhelming. He had expected more.
Ever since his Haki had reached level four, it carried a fifty percent chance of forcing Chūnin-level opponents to faint. Statistically, at least half of them should've been down. But here—only two.
For a moment, Shanks was puzzled. Then the realization struck him.
These weren't ordinary shinobi.
Kirigakure trained its ninjas through brutal means. To graduate from the Ninja Academy, students were forced to kill their classmates—children they had grown up with, trained beside, and shared meals with. That kind of ritual bred something else into them. Something hard. Something cold.
It was barbaric, no doubt—but it also forged an iron will.
And that will, Shanks understood, was the key. Conqueror's Haki targets those of weak resolve. It crushes fear and uncertainty, overwhelming those not strong enough to resist. But these Chūnin had already faced the ultimate test: taking the lives of their own friends to survive.
So it made sense now. Their minds were battle-hardened. Their wills fortified. That's why the majority withstood his Haki. And in a twisted way, Shanks had to respect that.
Even the two Jōnin felt it—the weight pressing down on them from Shanks' Conqueror's Haki. It wasn't overwhelming, but it was there, like a heavy hand gripping their shoulders. Still, they managed to keep their composure.
Gritting their teeth, one of them barked out a command, his voice cutting through the tension:
"Why are you hesitating? Keep attacking! Move!"
The Chūnin hesitated no longer. Conditioned to follow orders, they surged forward toward Shanks. But their bodies betrayed them. Though they advanced, their movements were sluggish, stiff—like they were pushing through invisible currents. The Conqueror's Haki hadn't knocked them unconscious, but it had definitely rattled them. Their balance, timing, even the precision in their attacks—all of it was off. Their strength had taken a hit.
Shanks, on the other hand, was entirely unaffected. In fact, his presence seemed to intensify. He had activated the Thunder God's Sword, channeling Lightning Release into the blade. Though only partially invoked, the jutsu had already amplified his speed significantly.
In a flash, he vanished.
A streak of red light cut across the room, a blur too fast for the eye to track. Then, just as suddenly as he disappeared, Shanks reappeared exactly where he had been standing, his blade humming with energy.
The only evidence of his movement was the lingering crimson afterglow.
The moment Shanks reappeared at his original position, the aftermath of his movement became violently clear.
Every Kirigakure Chūnin in the room was suddenly hurled through the air, as if struck by a shockwave. Bodies slammed into walls, crashed against stone pillars, shattered wooden doors, and were launched clean out of windows. The grand hall was instantly reduced to chaos—splinters, broken tiles, and blood scattered across the floor.
The attack had been too fast for any of them to respond. Too precise. Too lethal.
All of the Chūnin—except the two Jōnin—were dead.
Each fallen ninja bore a clean, fatal wound. Most had deep slashes across their necks or chests. Even the two who had collapsed earlier from the effects of the Haki now lay lifeless, their throats opened while they were unconscious. Shanks hadn't shown them mercy. The moment he moved, it had already been over.
The two Jōnin had barely managed to react. They saw a blur—a crimson flash—and instinct kicked in. One raised his sword just in time to parry the strike, but the force behind it was brutal. He was sent flying, crashing hard into the far wall. His sword arm bent at an unnatural angle, broken from the sheer impact of Shanks' blow.
The other Jōnin had chosen to evade rather than block. He twisted his body mid-motion and narrowly avoided a direct hit, but Shanks' blade still grazed him, leaving a shallow but painful cut across his chest.
Both men were still alive—but shaken. The massacre had happened in an instant. And now they were alone.
The two Jōnin locked eyes, their expressions grim but resolute. They didn't need words. After months of fighting side by side on missions, they had developed a quiet understanding—an instinctive sense of each other's next move.
The one with the broken sword arm gritted his teeth and switched his blade to his left hand. It felt awkward, but he could still fight. The other formed a hand seal over the wound on his chest. In an instant, the entire hall was swallowed in thick, swirling fog—the Hiding in the Mist Technique, a signature move of Kirigakure's assassins.
Visibility dropped to zero. The dense white mist blanketed everything.
But Shanks remained exactly where he stood—calm, composed, unshaken.
His Observation Haki cut through the mist like it wasn't even there. To him, the fog was meaningless. He could see their movements clearly, as though watching them in daylight.
The wounded Jōnin slipped into the mist and circled around behind Shanks with practiced silence. He moved like a shadow, careful not to disturb the air around him. And to his delight, Shanks hadn't moved. No reaction, no defense. He was wide open.
A thrill of hope surged in the Jōnin's chest.
He lunged.
But before the blade could reach its mark, he saw it—a faint red glow.
A thin, searing arc of energy raced toward him, moving faster than thought. It passed clean through his body and continued on, slicing a deep gash into the stone wall behind him.
He didn't even register the pain until his world tilted.
The next instant, he collapsed in two pieces.
Shanks was already turned to face him, his sword lowered, glowing faintly with residual lightning. He hadn't even taken a step.
The Jōnin never saw it coming. His death was clean, immediate, and absolute.
----
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