Just moments earlier, while the Jōnin with the broken arm had launched his silent sneak attack on Shanks, something else had been set in motion.
Unseen behind the cover of the mist, the second Jōnin—the one with the chest wound—had begun weaving another sequence of hand seals. His voice was low and focused as he whispered the name of the jutsu under his breath:
"Thousand Flying Water Needles of Death."
The technique was already in play before the first Jōnin had made his move.
Thousands of water-formed needles had silently materialized from the surrounding mist, suspended in the air like a swarm of invisible daggers. Neither Shanks nor the attacking Jōnin was aware of them—hovering above, poised to strike.
The true intent of the mist wasn't just concealment. It was deception.
The Jōnin still hidden in the fog had never intended a coordinated attack. He was using his partner—his fellow Jōnin—as a disposable distraction. The moment the injured swordsman engaged Shanks, it triggered the release.
A rain of death would fall from above—targeting the area where Shanks stood, and by extension, where the other Jōnin had placed himself in close quarters.
The strategy was ruthless.
But this was Kirigakure. Sacrifice wasn't a last resort; it was baked into their philosophy. Efficiency came first. If a comrade died in the process, so be it. The mission—and survival—always took priority.
If the Jōnin who had just been cut down by Shanks had known that he was being used as bait, he would have raged in betrayal. But deep down, had the roles been reversed, he would've done the exact same thing.
That was the truth of Kirigakure. Trust was a luxury they were never taught to afford.
The Jōnin who had cast the Thousand Flying Water Needles of Death believed he had gone unnoticed. He thought the mist provided enough cover. He thought Shanks—despite his strength—couldn't possibly sense a trap set silently above him.
But he was wrong.
Shanks, through his Observation Haki, had already sensed the dense cluster of deadly needles suspended just beneath the ceiling. He could feel the malice behind them, the murderous intent woven into their formation. Even as he cleaved through the attacking Jōnin, splitting him clean in half, he knew what was coming next.
The instant the corpse hit the floor, the needles rained down.
Shanks moved without hesitation.
He spun in place, swinging his blade in a wide, fluid arc—a full 360-degree slash. In response, a circular wave of crimson sword energy erupted from his weapon. It expanded outward in a perfect ring, growing in diameter with explosive force.
The energy scythed through the falling needles, vaporizing them on contact. They never even had a chance to reach him.
But the attack did more than just destroy the projectiles.
The raw force of the expanding slash generated a violent gust of wind that ripped through the entire hall. The thick mist that had cloaked the room moments before was swept away in an instant, leaving the space clear and exposed.
When the haze vanished, the remaining Jōnin stood frozen in shock. He had just watched his technique—his trap—fail completely. And worse, at a distance, he could now see the broken body of his partner.
Split in half.
Lying in silence.
Shanks stood in the center of the room, calm and unscathed, his blade still covered in red lightning.
And now, there was no more mist to hide behind.
The Jōnin stood frozen, watching the last of the mist vanish, and the full extent of Shanks' power laid bare before him. A chill crept up his spine. His hands trembled slightly. He swallowed hard.
His will faltered.
For a brief moment, the pressure of Shanks' Conqueror's Haki intensified. As fear took hold, his mental defenses began to crack. A part of him admitted the truth he didn't want to face—he wasn't a match for this man. Not even close.
But with a surge of effort, he wrestled his emotions back under control. He forced himself to move.
Without a word, without even a glance back, he turned and ran.
He didn't get far.
He had barely crossed the threshold of the building when the world around him began to spin. His vision blurred, and then sharpened—just long enough for him to see a grotesque image:
A headless body stumbling forward... and Shanks standing a few steps ahead of it, his sword already lowered.
Shanks had moved so fast, so decisively, that the Jōnin never even saw the blade. Just the result.
With that final strike, the fight was over.
Shanks exhaled calmly and deactivated the Lightning Release: Thunder God's Sword. The crackling lightning around his blade faded away. He slid the sword back into its scabbard with a quiet, deliberate motion.
Then he formed a quick hand seal—Shadow Clone Technique.
In a flash, four identical copies of Shanks appeared beside him. They wore the same black pants and boots, white shirt, and long black overcoat bearing the red Uzumaki emblem. Their crimson hair shifted slightly in the breeze.
Shanks tossed a storage scroll into the air.
"Gather all the bodies of the fallen Kirigakure shinobi and seal them in this."
The clones caught the scroll mid-air, nodded in unison, and disappeared instantly, blurring into motion.
Within minutes, they returned. The hall was clean. Every corpse sealed and stored away in the scroll.
Shanks gave the next order, his voice calm but cold:
"Search for the scattered presences I sensed when I entered this village. If any of them are Kirigakure ninja—kill them on sight. Bring back their bodies."
After issuing the command, Shanks and his shadow clones split up, each heading toward the chakra signatures he had sensed earlier—weak traces that barely registered above Genin or Chūnin level.
What they found was unexpected.
Roughly sixty percent of those scattered individuals were retired shinobi from the Land of Hot Water. These were men and women who had long since laid down their weapons, returning to their homeland to live out their days in peace.
The remaining individuals were former defenders of the village—ninja who had gone into hiding to escape the oppressive grip of the Kirigakure forces that had seized control. They had been biding their time, hoping for an opportunity—or a miracle.
Shanks gave them one.
He told them plainly: every last Kirigakure ninja occupying the village was dead. He had eliminated all of them.
The news hit like a cleansing wave. Some were stunned, others broke into tears. Gratitude radiated from every face. For the first time in months, perhaps years, they felt safe.
By then, it was already past midnight. The sky outside was still and dark, and the adrenaline from the battle had long worn off.
Shanks decided to stay in the village for the night and resume his journey at dawn.
One of the retired shinobi—a former Chūnin who now ran a small restaurant in the village—stepped forward and offered Shanks a meal. The man was humble, graying at the temples, and clearly accustomed to a quieter life now.
Shanks accepted.
But he wasn't careless.
Even as he sat down to eat, his Observation Haki remained active, quietly reading the man's intentions. There was no malice. No deception. Just warmth and gratitude.
So Shanks ate. The food was simple but nourishing—cooked with care.
As they spoke, the retired shinobi, learning that Shanks planned to stay the night, extended another offer:
"You're welcome to stay at my home. It's not much, but it's quiet. Safe."
----
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