SHING
The shurikens shot forward at breakneck speeds. Despite the sheer pain coursing through his body, Kyojiro moved—his katana slicing the air, deflecting the blades around him.
From the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of the hopeful faces of those rooting for him. The women and children stared wide-eyed—some in amazement, others in fear.
Yet Kyojiro knew one thing clearly: if he fell today, they all would die.
The memories of the Hashira rummaged through his mind. His ideals… they were far closer to Kyojuro than he had ever imagined.
Protecting the weak.
Saving the helpless.
I might be a ninja who murders for a living—But I will always fight for justice, he swore silently, his eyes locking onto the Kiri Jonin.
Pain shot through his body as he pushed forward. His legs nearly buckled, his breathing quickened. I don't have much time. His Sharingan spun, capturing every detail—the Jonin's hand signs, that smug smirk etched into his face.
Kyojiro gritted his teeth. No longer will I ever fail to deliver justice. The fire ignited deep within his soul.
But he was too late.
The water surged from the Jonin's mouth in terrifying quantities. A massive wave roared toward him, the very air bubbling from its force.
His Sharingan darted toward the helpless women. He read their lips, their despair etched across their faces.
Please survive.
The water drowned out all sound, but Kyojiro didn't need to hear them.
THUMP
THUMP
His heart pounded like a war drum. His eyes sharpened.
Fire Breathing—Ninth Form: Rengoku.
Every muscle tightened, pain engulfing his body, yet he stood firm.
"Set your heart ablaze!" he roared, his voice breaking through the deafening wave.
BOOM!
The ground trembled beneath his feet. Cracks split the earth within ten meters, dust blasting outward—shaping into the faint image of a dragon.
His figure blurred forward, chakra wrapping his katana in a blazing aura.
SWISH!
His blade carved through the massive wall of water, cleaving a path no one could have predicted. Beyond the wave, his eyes immediately locked onto the true source of this nightmare—the Kiri Jonin, frozen in fear.
Last and final rule of Ninja combat, Kyojiro told himself as his figure closed the distance in a split second, his sword rushing forward. Exterminate these demons.
PUCHI.
His katana tore through the Jonin as easily as a knife through butter. The man's head fell, severed cleanly, his body collapsing like a broken doll.
Even in death, his eyes remained wide, disbelief etched in them.
Never—never in his wildest dreams—had he thought someone could cut through his jutsu.
.
.
.
The oldest among the villagers—the wife of the village head—stared at Kyojiro with reverence.
Her eyes remained wide, her breath caught as she witnessed that breathtaking, ferocious sword technique.
Through the dust, his silhouette burned like an omen.
A decapitated head.A body sprawled lifeless.And in the center—Kyojiro, standing tall.
He flicked his sword with practiced grace, blood scattering into the mist before he sheathed it with a sharp TICK.
His reddish-blond hair blazed like fire. And when he turned toward them, his Sharingan glowed crimson, piercing through the haze.
For the first time in her long, long life, the old woman saw someone burning as bright as the sun. Like hope itself had been reborn in human form.
But the very next second—
THUD.
Kyojiro collapsed to the ground, like a puppet with its strings cut. The old woman's frail body trembled, yet she forced herself to move with urgency.
The dust cleared, revealing the truth: Kyojiro's body was broken, covered in wounds. Her eyes softened at the sight of his youthful face. He is so young.
"Is Mr. Ninja okay?" a frightened nine-year-old girl asked, her voice trembling. The others mirrored her fear.
The old woman's voice, however, carried conviction. "He will be. We will make sure of that." She turned to the women. "Let's return to our village and heal this man."
.
.
.
"Brother… brother, wake up."
The haunting voice echoed in his mind. His little brother's call pierced the void.
"Brother, wake up!"
THUD.
Kyojiro bolted upright, his eyes snapping open. The sudden blaze of sunlight nearly blinded him.
Sun? Wasn't I fighting at night?
His senses sharpened instantly. His hand searched for his katana—only to find it missing.
Seconds passed before his vision adjusted. Then came the memory of that voice. Not my brother… Rengoku's.
He reassured himself silently. I know the story. He'll be fine. He'll grow up to be a great man.
A faint smile tugged at his lips as he examined the unfamiliar room. Bandages. His chest and arms were wrapped tightly. The sting of his bursting vessels was gone.
Footsteps approached. His eyes shifted to the door, where an old woman entered.
Seeing him awake, her face bloomed with a gentle smile. "Awake, young man?" she asked, her voice warm, grandmotherly.
Kyojiro nodded weakly. "Where am I?" he murmured.
"In our village, of course—the very one you saved," she answered, gratitude shining in her eyes.
"It was my duty," Kyojiro replied, conviction in his tone.
The old woman shook her head slowly. "I have lived a long life, son. I've seen wars… I know what most ninjas are capable of." Her gaze lowered. "Many would've left us without a second thought."
Kyojiro met her eyes steadily. "There might be some like that, ma'am… but there are also ninjas like me."
Her lips softened into a smile. "Very few, son. Very few."