Chapter 211 - Eyes, Ears, Nose, Tongue, Body, and Mind—The Six Roots of Man
Under Kazane's finely honed Observation Haki, every single one of Jiriku's attacks looked sluggish—telegraphed, disjointed, almost pitiful. No matter how hard Jiriku pushed himself, how fast he moved, or how fierce his strikes, Kazane effortlessly read through them all, sidestepping with the poise of a seasoned dancer weaving between falling leaves. Each blow failed to so much as ruffle the hem of his clothes.
Jiriku's relentless offense became increasingly desperate. To an outsider, it looked like a lumberjack flailing in a dense forest, chopping wildly at branches and tree trunks—yet never once nicking even a strand of Kazane's hair.
At this rate, if they lived in a world with two bears, someone might've already shown up, pleading with Jiriku to become their master—his effort was admirable, even if the results were nonexistent.
After several exhausting minutes of fruitless strikes, Jiriku realized something critical: his stamina was draining fast, while Kazane hadn't even broken a sweat. If this went on, he'd collapse from exhaustion without ever landing a single hit. Gritting his teeth, he made a choice. No more probing. No more hesitation. He was going to stake it all on one decisive blow.
With a deep breath, he stepped back and roared, "Welcome Approach—Thousand-Armed Murder!!"
Behind him, a radiant golden statue surged into existence. Towering and resplendent, the Thousand-Armed Kannon took form, its serene face a stark contrast to the chaos about to unfold. A fraction of a second later, its countless fists ignited with power and exploded forth in a storm of divine violence, descending upon Kazane like a golden monsoon.
"Hmph," Kazane scoffed, his tone filled with icy disdain. "And even a grain of rice dares to shine in the sun."
Rather than panic, he grinned.
Both of Kazane's arms darkened with the dense hue of Armament Haki. Instead of drawing a blade, he turned his hands into weapons—his palms flattened and sharpened into edge-like extensions through sheer Haki control.
"No-Sword Style—Black Rope Great Dragon Twister!"
He crossed his arms and spun them in opposite directions. From beneath his feet, a howling black vortex erupted, tearing through the air with a primal scream. The vortex spiraled upward like a demonic cyclone, the center calm and still—its eye reserved for Kazane.
Golden fists slammed into the tornado's outer walls, but their momentum broke upon impact, deflected and shredded like paper in a shredder. The entire battlefield shook from the clash of divine and demonic forces—golden light against void-black wind.
Still, Jiriku refused to relent.
With grit carved into his face, he pulled his hands into a prayer position, fingers shifting into the delicate orchid mudra. His lips pressed into a thin line as divine energy surged through him.
"Even if I can't beat you," he shouted, his voice echoing over the roar of wind, "I swear I'll land at least one hit today!"
His resolve materialized as radiant golden light behind him. The Thousand-Armed Kannon, now more defined and majestic than before, stood like a deity reborn. Its towering form stretched into the heavens—divine arms poised in unison.
"Hundred-Style Kannon: Grand Brahma Palm!!!"
Thousands of golden arms clenched into monumental fists. The earth itself seemed to tremble beneath their weight.
Then, with a furious cry, Jiriku launched the attack.
A thousand divine fists exploded forward as one, an avalanche of celestial fury crashing toward Kazane. The sky turned gold. Wind and clouds scattered. Even distant Konohagakure noticed the shift in the atmosphere—panic rippling through the village like a stone skipping across water.
Watching from afar, Might Duy and the others unconsciously took a step back, cold sweat forming on their brows. This was no mere sparring match anymore. This was a clash between gods.
Kazane's smirk faded into focused calm. He narrowed his eyes, analyzing the incoming wall of destruction. As the tornado spun faster, it began to emit black crescent-shaped slashes—each arc a flying blade of compressed wind and Haki.
The slashes cut cleanly through the first wave of golden fists, cleaving them apart with surgical precision. But the attack was unrelenting. As quickly as Kazane destroyed one volley, another wave surged in to take its place.
For the first time, Kazane felt pressure.
The whirlwind began to thin.
For just a moment, the golden fists pushed Kazane back—an unthinkable feat in the eyes of the watching crowd.
"Is Jiriku… actually forcing him to retreat?" one observer muttered.
No one had expected the underdog to push Kazane into a corner, even momentarily.
Then, from within the vortex, Kazane's voice cut through the storm like thunder.
"Eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind—these are man's Six Roots," he declared, his tone calm, almost instructional. "Add desire, aversion, and neutrality—each both pure and defiled—and you get the Thirty-Six Worldly Afflictions."
The slashes stilled. The tornado slowed.
"Jiriku, you've grown strong. You're worthy of respect. But I am a sword. You, a fist. In reach, in precision, in sheer power—I surpass you. You've come far, but this is your peak."
Might Duy blinked. "He's still talking like he's already won…"
The others remained silent. Even in the face of such overwhelming force, Kazane remained unshaken. That was just like him—always calm, always a step ahead.
Of course, they all knew Kazane was restraining himself. The duel had strict rules: no usage of forbidden arts or Eight Gates. Kazane wasn't even allowed to use Kage-level techniques. If he broke that rule, the match would've ended in a single breath.
Now, with the tornado dissipating and the golden fists closing in, Kazane stood exposed. The Thousand-Armed Kannon loomed over him like a divine executioner.
And yet, he didn't move.
Kazane drew his blade—Wado Ichimonji—from its sheath in a smooth, deliberate motion. The pristine white sword gleamed beneath the golden sky, its presence quiet and absolute.
He raised it above his head, the blade perfectly level with the horizon. His left hand gripped his right bicep tightly, steadying the strike.
He waited.
He would end this not with tricks, but with pure swordsmanship.
"Black Blade Style—One-Sword Style—Three Hundred and Six Worldly Phoenix!!!"
With a single mighty sweep, Kazane released a torrent of spiraling black slashes. Each blade spun like a vortex of death, hundreds of meters in length. They surged forward, not merely intercepting the golden fists—but obliterating them, scattering divine energy into fragments of light.
The slashes carved through the sky itself, parting the clouds in one breath, and slicing cleanly through the towering Thousand-Armed Kannon. What remained was a backdrop of dazzling blue sky, unmarred and infinite.
Kazane had aimed his strike skyward—for mercy's sake. Had he swung even a few degrees lower, the entire mountainside would've been flattened.
Jiriku fell to his knees, eyes wide. His towering statue dissolved behind him, reduced to particles of fading light.
All the pride he'd gathered from mastering his new S-rank technique—the belief that he could finally stand beside Kazane—vanished in an instant.
He hadn't even touched the man's sleeve.
Off in the distance, Might Duy and the others who had doubted Kazane stood in stunned silence. The wind carried only the echo of the black slashes, and the collective sound of jaws hitting the ground.
The silence lingered long after the winds had died down.
It took Jiriku a considerable amount of time to pull himself together. His breath still came in uneven gasps, and his body trembled—not from pain, but from the weight of crushing defeat. Eventually, he managed a wry, self-deprecating smile. Raising his head slightly, he looked toward the place where Kazane had stood, and began, voice low and strained:
"Boss, looks like I still have a lo—"
His words froze mid-sentence.
Because Kazane—who should've been standing nearly a hundred meters away—was no longer there.
Gone.
Vanished.
Jiriku blinked in confusion. "Huh?"
Before the thought could fully form in his mind, an ominous sensation surged up his spine. The air behind him grew icy, sharp with ill intent. A chill more primal than any battlefield danger gripped him.
A terrible premonition.
Then, from behind him, came the most sinister and theatrical of battle cries.
"Leaf's Secret Taijutsu Ultimate Technique—Thooooouuusand Years of DEATH!!!"
Jiriku turned his head in horror—only to be met with a blinding flash of pain erupting from his most sacred, vulnerable place.
"AAAAAARRRGHHHHHHHH!!!"
With a scream that echoed into the heavens, Jiriku shot into the air like a rocket, hands gripping his backside in reflexive agony. He soared several meters before plummeting back down, crashing into the dirt in a heap of pure suffering.
He writhed.
He groaned.
He twitched like a fish tossed onto dry land.
The onlookers winced in unison, every single one of them instinctively squeezing their legs shut. Even seasoned warriors, veterans of countless bloody battles, found themselves shivering in empathetic pain. The fear of that technique transcended age, rank, and even clan.
So fearsome was the Thousand Years of Death that no one who had ever experienced it walked away unscarred—mentally or physically.
From the sidelines, Uchiha Itachi watched the scene unfold. A distant, haunted look crossed his eyes. His posture stiffened, and his hands, usually as steady as his gaze, trembled slightly at the memory of his own encounter with that same accursed jutsu.
It had left an impression. A deep one.
Now, Jiriku had joined the unfortunate ranks of its victims.
And as he rolled across the ground clutching his backside, not even a whimper could escape his lips. The pain was that profound. The shame even worse.
Medical treatment?
Unthinkable.
Even if a nurse offered the finest care in all of Konoha, there was no way Jiriku was letting anyone examine that area. Some injuries a man had to endure alone. This was one of them.
It was, in truth, Kazane's playful punishment—a little price for Jiriku having dared to nearly steal the spotlight with his flashy golden technique.
But what Kazane didn't realize… was that in doing so, he had sparked something.
A darkness.
A seed of revenge. And from that seed would soon sprout a terrifying new force in the shinobi world.
A demon born of indignity.
For Jiriku, the trauma would forge a brand-new technique—his own countermeasure, one destined to rival even the greatest S-rank taijutsu in legend.
Secret Technique—Come Forth—Thooooouuusand Years of DEATH!!!