"Flame Control!"
Black fire writhed across my vision, snarling like a starving beast. I directed it with a twitch of intent, and the flames surged toward Senju Seoma, each ember hissing for blood.
The man spat a curse and threw up another Water Style wall. It hissed, cracked… and went up in smoke the moment Amaterasu kissed it.
Same result. Every single time.
This guy is built like a tank, but he fights like a brick.
Senju clansmen who weren't born with Wood Style tended to follow a pattern: tough bodies, thick chakra, perfectly drilled Water and Earth Style combos. Great for bullying normal shinobi. Terrible against someone like me.
A reincarnator with a migraine, a Mangekyō Sharingan, and zero patience.
The flames cornered him again, burning through jutsu after jutsu, until the "shadow-level elite" of the Senju Clan looked like he'd stumbled into the wrong battlefield.
Good. Welcome to my suffering.
Seoma tried to backpedal, but the ground around us shuddered. A tremor rippled outward as I linked a fresh chain of seals. Chakra surged through my arms, hot enough to numb my fingers.
"What now?!"
Someone shouted from behind the smoke.
The answer arrived before I could offer a snarky one.
The battlefield exploded.
The earth cracked open in jagged lines as massive roots tore upward, thick as tree trunks. No Wood Style. Just raw Earth Style manipulation twisted through a chakra control trick I'd been refining for months. The kind of thing you invent when you don't have a clan bloodline and you're sick of dying.
The roots lashed out like serpents, dragging screaming Senju and Uchiha alike into the dirt.
"Earth Style: Root Surge."
My voice came out rough.
Chakra-enhanced roots, hardened and sharpened, acting like Wood Style without actually being Wood Style. Hashirama wouldn't lose sleep over this, but it got the job done.
"He can manipulate the ground like this…?!"
"Is that Wood Style?"
"It's not—look closely!"
Confusion rippled through the shinobi trapped between the roots.
Not my problem.
Seoma hacked at the roots with his blade, breath ragged, chakra leaking from every pore.
"Amamiya Raizen… you brat…"
He coughed red onto the dirt.
I vanished.
He flinched.
Too slow.
Susanoo materialized above him with a low metallic growl, its giant fist casting a shadow large enough to swallow a platoon. The air cracked as the fist slammed downward.
Seoma dove aside at the last possible moment. Veteran reflexes… but shaky. He hit the ground hard, rolled, gasped.
The fist smashed into where he'd stood, blowing a crater open.
Cold sweat ran down his face. He stumbled back, trying to put distance between us.
"You want to run now?"
My voice echoed from inside the ribs of Susanoo.
Too late.
The roots burst upward again, snaring his arms and legs. Seoma's eyes widened as the bindings snapped shut around him.
Susanoo's fist rose.
Then fell.
The impact shook the forest. Trees snapped. The roots shattered, and Senju Seoma flew like a broken arrow, tumbling through trunks until he hit the ground with a wet crunch.
He coughed, spat blood, forced himself upright.
His chest was caved in. His breathing was gurgling mud.
And somehow… somehow he stood.
"The vitality of the Senju Clan… seriously."
I muttered it despite myself.
Even ants shouldn't be this hard to squash.
Seoma tried to form a seal. Any seal. His hands trembled, refusing to obey. His chakra sputtered like a dying fire.
"…damn you…"
He staggered back.
I didn't answer him.
The air between my palms brightened as chakra compressed into a clean, sharp mass of white light. A jutsu built on precision, not bloodline miracles.
"Light Release: Severing Cone."
I launched it.
It pierced through the air with a ringing snap, wrapping Seoma in a cocoon of white radiance. His eyes widened—not with anger, but with the cold realization every shinobi meets at least once:
This is the end.
The light erupted.
When it faded, the forest settled into silence. The breeze carried ash and splinters of chakra-burnt earth across the battlefield.
And Senju Seoma was gone.
I exhaled once, long and thin.
…so that was my real power, huh.
I always assumed I was somewhere around Nagato-level. Strong, sure, but not a monster. Not a Madara or a Hashirama. Definitely not some mythical figure etched into the Warring States sky.
But here I was, standing over the remains of a seasoned shadow-level Senju… and I hadn't even gone all out.
Maybe this world should start being afraid of me too.