Moyu watched the five bodies collapse from his own blows, a wild cry tearing out of him until the sound seemed to smear across their faces. He grinned, saliva at the corners of his mouth.
"Relying on the tricks of your three-legged cats and your crude restraints to pin me down—what a joke," he said, voice low and contemptuous. "Using your instruments of torment on me is a childish fantasy."
He turned his head and saw, just as predicted, the fists of Iruka and Ibixi closing in. Without shifting his stance, Moyu extended a hand and intercepted both strikes with effortless precision.
He blocked them as if opening a cracked door. "You two are getting reckless. Time to teach you a lesson," he said.
The presence radiating from him was not ordinary—Hōgyoku power hummed beneath his skin—so no mere fist could deal with it. Moyu looked at the two advancing men and, with a slow narrowing of his eyes, decided to temper his response. If he had unleashed the Hōgyoku fully, a single impact would have torn them apart, blood spilling from every orifice. He restrained himself, keeping the edge of that awful power just below the surface.
Even so, he turned, a sharp motion, and sent them flying with a kick that hurled both more than ten meters. They smashed against the far wall and slumped down in a ruined heap.
"You're too weak to read my memory," Moyu said, amusement and scorn tangled in his voice. "Pathetic. And since you've been so eager to play with torture tools, don't think I'll show mercy."
He crouched, scooped a handful of Huowu into his palm—embers of spiritual fire that trembled with intent—and intended to finish them then and there.
"My nature," he added, voice calm as a blade's edge, "is not to leave trouble unfinished. You've crossed a line; don't blame me for what comes next."
But before he could act, the two wounded men scrambled to their feet and bolted through the door without another word. They shouted over their shoulders as they fled, panic thin beneath their bravado. "Call for reinforcements from the department! Hurry, or they'll be gone!"
They were reputed to be formidable in their own right, a unified force in other places, and yet here they were—driven out by Moyu, their courage snapped. Moyu watched them go with a flat, almost bored expression. He sank onto a wooden chair and waited. The gardener would arrive soon enough; at worst, they'd handle the mess together.
Outside, Sasuke and Naruto—who had been keeping a quiet vigil—pushed the door and stepped in without hesitation. Relief flooded their faces when they saw Moyu intact.
"Ibixi is dangerous," Naruto blurted, eager to explain. "He can steal memories. That's why he's been stuck in the intelligence wing."
Sasuke nodded, grave. "Look at the torture implements on the walls. They enjoy those things. We were out there fretting that they might hurt you."
Moyu's expression softened just enough when he heard how they'd worried for him. He reached out and ruffled their heads, the motion small and almost tender.
"It's fine. They're nothing to me. You two should go home," he said. "This place will become a battlefield soon; I won't have you caught up and injured."
But the two boys—young, fierce in their loyalty—refused to leave. They clung to their resolve as though it were armor. No argument could pull them away; they insisted on staying until the end.
"Let us bear witness," they said in unison. "Someone discerning will come and see the truth."
Moyu had braced himself for their chorused defiance the moment he cracked the door, expecting shouts and uproar. Instead, he was met by calm. The Third Seat stood there, an unexpected presence like a warm spring breeze cutting through the tension.
"I believe what these two children say," the Third Seat murmured, voice quiet but steady, and in that single, measured sentence the room shifted. The impossible, dangerous quiet that follows a storm settled briefly as all eyes turned to the newcomer.
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