Chapter 55 – The Final Two
At Nan's words, Watanabe's heart sank.
Nozawa… was indeed his son. Born not from his wife, but from a shameful affair with the neighbor's wife—something no one else knew.
Watanabe's own wife had never borne him children. Nozawa was his only bloodline, his sole heir.
From childhood, he had doted on the boy, raising him not only as a son but as a disciple, shaping him with his own hands. Nozawa had not disappointed—young, gifted, already a jōnin.
But how…? Watanabe's mind reeled. How does this brat know?
He was a man of status in Sunagakure. If such a scandal ever spread, his reputation would be ruined beyond repair.
Nan caught the flicker of unease in Watanabe's expression and let out a mocking chuckle.
"Oh? That look on your face… Did I guess right? One of them really was your son?
My apologies then—how cruel it must be, for white hair to bury black."
The subordinate jōnin standing beside Watanabe glanced at his leader, suspicion stirring.
Everyone knew Watanabe and Nozawa were master and disciple. But that reaction… Could it be… more?
Watanabe's composure cracked. He coughed deliberately, trying to mask his awkwardness.
"Don't be distracted. It's just this brat's trick."
By now, Nan had sauntered over to the corpses of the fallen Sand ninja.
He nudged the dead chūnin's head with his foot and looked at Watanabe.
"This one your son?"
No response. Nan smirked and shifted his boot onto Nozawa's face.
"Ah, so it's this one then. A pity. So young, already a jōnin… and yet stupid enough to cross me."
He ground his sandal against Nozawa's lifeless features, tauntingly rubbing it back and forth.
Watanabe's fury boiled over.
"You bastard! Stop it at once!"
But Nan only pressed harder, eyes gleaming as he sighed in mock pity.
"So it's true, then. He really was your son.
Haa… I can imagine your grief. No one deserves such pain. But don't worry—I'll send you to join him soon. A father and son, reunited in the afterlife."
It was deliberate provocation. Nan wanted Watanabe enraged.
On the surface, the Sand leader seemed no stronger than the corpse at his feet—his chakra reserves unimpressive, far below Nan's. But strength wasn't always measured in chakra.
Sunagakure had its share of specialists: puppet masters, shinobi whose true threat lay not in raw energy but in hidden weapons and deadly techniques. If Watanabe was one of them, the danger wouldn't come from his chakra levels at all.
Better to force him to reveal his hand now than risk a hidden counter later.
And indeed—Nan's insults worked.
The jōnin could stomach his son's death in battle. But to see the boy's corpse desecrated—his face ground beneath an enemy's heel—was intolerable.
Watanabe's rage erupted.
"You accursed bastard! I'll kill you with my own hands!"
With a furious shout, he tore a scroll from the pouch at his waist.
Watanabe unfurled the scroll. With a swift motion of his hand across its surface, four puppets burst forth in a plume of chakra smoke.
Nan narrowed his eyes.
"So, he is a puppet master. Just as I thought."
That explained the discrepancy. A puppet master's strength couldn't be measured by chakra alone.
If his creations were powerful enough, even an ordinary jōnin—or in rare cases, someone at Kage-level—could be overwhelmed.
But Nan found the odds slim. He had never once heard of a puppet user named Watanabe gaining renown.
Activating his Sharingan, Nan carefully studied the four constructs.
One was slim and agile, twin blades gleaming in its hands. Clearly, a close-combat type.
Another was massive and heavily armored, its lumbering frame built for defense.
The last two… their designs were bizarre, function unclear. Nan would have to test them in battle to see their purpose.
Watanabe, consumed by rage, sent the first puppet charging—twin blades flashing. The bulky defensive puppet stayed by his side, while the other two odd-looking puppets hung back, waiting for their moment.
Crackling lightning erupted across Nan's body as he dashed forward, colliding with the bladed puppet.
With Divine Speed amplifying his speed, close-quarters combat had never been a weakness—whether against human or puppet.
Though puppet attacks were unnatural, erratic, and often deadly to the unprepared, Nan's Sharingan provided perfect tracking, and his speed left little room for surprise.
He slipped past the puppet's swipes and struck with a monstrous strength punch. The blow would have eviscerated a man… yet the puppet only skidded across the ground, its strange material barely dented.
As it tumbled back, its twin blades detached and spun through the air, tugged by chakra threads—attacking independently in a whirling arc.
"So, even puppets can wield Chakra String: Flying Blades…" Nan muttered.
But under the gaze of his Sharingan, their trajectory was child's play. He weaved aside with ease.
The bladed puppet regained its stance, lunging forward once again—only this time, the two strange puppets closed in from either side.
From the left puppet's mouth extended a gun-like barrel.
From the right puppet's abdomen split open, twin cannons sliding into position.
The trap was sprung.
Shuriken-like rain fired from the left—hundreds of poisoned senbon, a Sunagakure specialty.
The right spewed a billowing cloud of violet gas, droplets of liquid sizzling against the earth wherever they fell—acidic, corrosive, and undoubtedly toxic.
Pinned by the bladed puppet, Nan was engulfed. Senbon riddled his body, purple smoke swallowing him whole.
Watanabe's lips curled in triumph—only to freeze.
The "shredded corpse" of Nan suddenly gaped open, its mouth stretching unnaturally wide—too wide for any human.
A pale arm reached out from within. Then a head. Then a torso.
A new Nan slithered free of the ruined husk, shedding it like a serpent leaving its old skin behind.
"Orochimaru-style Body Replacement Technique…!"
This forbidden technique was Nan's favorite of all he had stolen from the Snake Sannin. Emerging with serpent-like, cold-blooded eyes, he deliberately mimicked Orochimaru's chilling aura.
Such grotesque theatrics had a purpose. The sight of an enemy reborn from their own discarded flesh was often more terrifying than any direct attack. Fear itself could cripple.
Watanabe, a seasoned elite jōnin, did not flinch. But his subordinate—still unblooded, still young—was trembling violently, unable to even meet Nan's gaze.
Nan smirked. At least the performance hadn't gone to waste.
Suddenly, he twisted his features into a monstrous, ghoulish grin—directly at the terrified chūnin.
It shouldn't have worked. A trained shinobi should never fall for such a childish trick.
But whether from Nan's earlier cruelty or the sheer terror of his Orochimaru-like rebirth, the young ninja broke. He collapsed to the ground with a scream, legs shaking—a warm, humiliating stain spreading beneath him.
Nan chuckled darkly.
"Pathetic…"