Despite the genuinely horrifying cost associated with the Forbidden Tier Two Jars, Kakashi felt a profound sense of tactical satisfaction. To acquire such immense, albeit temporary, power in mere minutes was an unparalleled achievement. He quickly resumed opening the remaining jars, his initial mortification over the picture book now replaced by a cold, calculating resolve.
The pattern continued: most of the techniques and artifacts drawn came with a severe, often debilitating, price. He pulled several Potential Pills and Enhancement Techniques clearly derived from cultivation worlds; these promised staggering, immediate boosts to strength, followed by periods of profound weakness, or in some cases, serious, prolonged physical damage. The forbidden nature ensured that every reward was balanced by an equivalent, painful drawback.
Aside from the terrifying "Horrific Copy Eye" trial card, Shen Mo had strategically seeded the Tier Two series with one more major "grand prize" specifically designed to be immediately useful in this chaotic clash of fates.
A short sword, forged from a dark, unfamiliar substance, materialized within one of the jars.
The sight alone brought a predatory gleam to the eyes of Sasuke and Naruto. They knew the unspoken rule of the Jar Merchant: weapons appearing in Tier Two containers were rarely ordinary steel.
They carried special, powerful effects. They recalled Tsunade's unique protective cross and Naruto's own "Gloves of Justice"—or the truly lucky pull, where a cutting-edge firearm might suddenly appear.
"The Dorjeri's Sword Scales—this short sword—and the Copy Eye originate from the same world," Shen Mo's explanation reached Kakashi's ear, carrying an almost theatrical note of fatalism. "Kakashi, it seems fate insists on tethering you to that particular, chaotic dimension."
Kakashi's visible eye twitched in involuntary protest. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with a world that dealt in demonic, sanity-shattering power and humiliating picture books. He scrutinized the wickedly sharp short sword, asking the crucial question:
"Does this weapon share the same flaw? Madness?"
The thought of an item that would turn his students against him was his primary fear.
"Worry not," Shen Mo seemed to anticipate his paranoia. "The Sword Scales will not induce insanity."
"That is a relief," Kakashi sighed, the tension easing slightly from his shoulders.
"However," Shen Mo added with utterly deadpan delivery, "to activate its power, you must first puncture your arm with the blade. Then, for maximum effect, you must powerfully rotate the blade left, right, up, and down a few times inside the wound. Once properly activated, your hand will transform into a dragon's claw, capable of spewing focused, fine flames."
The Merchant finished with an utterly insincere flourish: "Comparatively speaking, the cost is insignificant. You are indeed quite lucky, Kakashi."
Kakashi's arm instinctively recoiled, a nervous tic seizing his muscles. Puncture the arm? Rotate it? Was drawing a painful, self-mutilating transformation truly considered "insignificant" by this Merchant's standards? What bizarre realm was this where ritualistic self-harm was a common combat preparation?
"Are you regretting your choices, Copy Ninja?" Shen Mo's disembodied voice floated, amused, in the air directly above him. "It is too late for retreat. I warned you: the Jar's fate is fair, if brutal. If you seek massive power with minimal initial investment, you must pay the remaining price yourself."
Shen Mo, despite his amusement, knew the importance of this balance. Immediate, overwhelming power could not be granted without a counterbalance, or the entire cosmic economy would collapse.
Kakashi stared at the strange, menacing short sword. He began to perceive the Jars not just as items, but as omens. The chaotic act of opening them seemed to foreshadow the tumultuous fate that awaited him.
He glanced sidelong at Rin, his revived comrade, then at the determined faces of Sasuke and Naruto. The initial panic, the internal tremor of dread, slowly subsided. The outcome didn't matter as much as the process.
"...No, this is precisely what I required."
He picked up the short sword, his gaze hardening. If a price had to be paid for their protection, if a ritual of pain was required to gain the necessary edge, then he would pay it willingly.
Meanwhile, Zabuza and Haku had finalized their purchases. Zabuza, ruthlessly pragmatic, had only sold low-tier, rarely used ninjutsu, retaining all his high-level abilities. He had spent his small capital entirely on Haku, whose primary strength was speed. Haku's draws, even from the Tier One Jars, were significant, including a potent martial arts movement technique: the Spirit Fox Movement Technique—a method of slipping through defenses like an elusive, uncatchable fish.
The final moments of preparation were drawing to a close.
"Time is up," Shen Mo's voice descended from the water dome, ringing like a gong.
"It seems neither party wishes to place a bet."
Indeed, despite the aggressive rules, neither side had placed points into the Witness Betting System. They were all too aware of the possibility of resurrection—why risk their remaining points on a battle that might simply require a later, costlier resurrection? The initial purpose of the betting, Shen Mo mused, was truly meant for scenarios of deep-seated, personal hatred where both combatants sought the absolute, final destruction of their enemy.
"Then, is there any equipment that you wish to place in Deposit?" Shen Mo inquired.
"Deposit," Kakashi and Zabuza affirmed instantly.
No intelligent shinobi would risk their rare, valuable Jar-obtained equipment being plundered by the victor should they fall. The storage cost was negligible—a little over ten thousand points—a small fee for protecting their assets.
"Excellent!" Shen Mo's satisfaction was palpable as the system confirmed the transactions. He had successfully established the principle that valuable services—even the secure storage of items—could be monetized. He anticipated that, in the future, the very service of "resurrection insurance" would become a lucrative, point-based commodity.
As Shen Mo confirmed his plans, a faint, unsettling smile touched his lips. This first Stage of Destiny needs to be truly unforgettable.
"The final countdown to battle begins! All members, prepare yourselves!"
Shen Mo raised his staff, waving it in a sweeping motion, and the water flowing around him began to display a one-minute timer.
Then, as if speaking to the very air, Shen Mo added a chilling, casual remark:
"The first Stage of Destiny in this new world must have an audience."
"Audience?" Kakashi and the others exchanged stunned, confused glances. Who could possibly be watching them in this bizarre, sealed-off arena?
At that precise moment, the reality of their situation fractured.
A rupture tore open in the colossal water barrier above the sky. It wasn't a crack in the seal, but a deliberate rent in the fabric of space itself. Instantly, an indescribable mental pressure surged down from the gaping void—a pressure so profound, so utterly alien, that every person, even the high-level shinobi Kakashi and Zabuza, instantly collapsed, their limbs shaking uncontrollably.
Boundless fear, anxiety, madness, and frenzy screamed through their minds, an echoing cacophony of nightmarish murmurs and demonic roars. Every instinct urged them to look into that tear in reality, believing that visual confirmation would somehow stabilize the chaotic onslaught of emotion.
But a deeper, primal intuition, a terrifying clarity from the very bottom of their souls, shrieked a warning: Don't look! To witness what is beyond is to perish!
The extreme, debilitating contradiction between the instinctive urge and the existential warning brought them all to the brink of mental collapse. They were suffocating under the weight of an unseen, incomprehensible presence.
Fortunately, the exposure was agonizingly short-lived.
"Be mindful of your influence. You are only authorized to observe."
A new voice—calm, utterly cold, and unimaginably powerful—came from somewhere beyond the rift, addressing the unseen entity responsible for the psychic assault.
With a final, sharp wave of Shen Mo's hand, the horrifying mental pressure instantly receded like a massive tide. The shattered fragments of their minds slowly knit back together, the memory of the sheer terror fading into an unsettling, indistinct haze, as if the moment had never occurred.
Gasping, their backs slick with cold sweat, the combatants slowly pushed themselves up. They looked up at the rent in the sky, but now, there was nothing but endless, pulsating darkness beyond the barrier.
The audience, whatever it was, was gone.