Chapter 89: Hatake Sakumo
"Actually," Sakumo said softly, brushing the rain from his shoulder, "I prefer fried rice to ramen."
Uchiha Kagami blinked, confused. "What on earth are you talking about—"
"I mean," Sakumo interrupted casually, as if chatting over tea, "I don't really like ramen. Too many rules. Fried rice is simpler."
He spoke lightly, his tone almost detached, as blood splattered across the soaked earth. Half a body lay broken in the downpour before him.
There was no metallic scent. The fragments of flesh shimmered briefly, then reversed in time, reforming whole once more—Uchiha Kagami stood again, clad in his white haori.
Before he could move, countless invisible blades sliced through the rain, their edges so sharp they parted water itself. They shredded Kagami's form into pieces, scattering fragments like petals in the storm.
Leaning lazily against the porch pillar, Sakumo's hand rested on his sword hilt. His furrowed brow carried an expression not of rage—but mild irritation.
"Don't you think ramen's a bit exhausting?" he continued conversationally. "There's always someone teaching you how to eat it properly—turning it upside down, adding soy sauce, stirring this or that. Too many steps."
White lines flickered once more through the rain. Kagami's reformed body exploded again, scattering into a fine red mist before pulling itself back together, only for the cycle to repeat.
His face grew paler each time. Each resurrection came faster—but so did the next death. In those five seconds, Kagami died and returned five times, the rhythm of his agony set to the downpour.
The man before him—the same one Aizen once spoke of with respect—watched from under the porch, sighing faintly as the rain hissed on his sword.
"Now, fried rice," Sakumo mused. "That's freedom. No one tells you how to make it. Just toss in what you want, and eat it hot. I like that. It's simple… honest. No rules."
Another flash—another cut. Kagami's throat split open. He tried to speak, but blood drowned the words.
Sakumo kept talking.
"The Uchiha were always fond of ramen, weren't they? Tradition, form, discipline. But lately, you've been leaning toward fried rice too—something freer, less bound by form. I understand that. But…" He smiled faintly. "It's not really good news for me. Fried rice's best eaten alone. Sharing it just ruins the flavor."
Rain pounded harder, washing away the crimson.
"Compared to a life bound by laws, hatred, and pride," Sakumo said quietly, "I've realized what matters most to me is peace. A good meal. A quiet day. Don't you agree?"
He gripped his sword again, and as the moonlight reflected in his tired eyes, the Uchiha before him reassembled—only to be crushed once more into mud.
"You—"
His throat was severed again by a strand of invisible wire.
"In the end—"
His vocal cords were sliced apart.
"Speaking of—"
His lips shattered under the unseen blades.
"What!"
His jaw split open, air hissing through the ruin of his face.
In the storm's heart, Kagami was no longer human—his body trapped in an endless cycle of butchery and restoration, pieces endlessly torn apart and reformed inside a one meter sphere of death.
Watching the grotesque display, Sakumo sighed and shook his head. A faint, almost sympathetic smile crept onto his weary face as a cold gleam flashed across his half lidded eyes.
"What's the matter?" he said softly. "You wanted to strike first, didn't you? But now, facing the man who protects his son, is dying too easy for you?"
Kagami's mangled body twitched, his form barely recognizable.
"What's wrong?" Sakumo asked with mock gentleness. "Where's the Uchiha pride now?"
He chuckled lightly, scratching the back of his head. "Frustrating, isn't it? Don't be too hard on yourself. It's not really my doing anyway. Just a little trick from my Zanpakutō."
He straightened slightly, tapping the hilt. "She's always in a released state—'Shikai: Shattered Dreams.' A good girl, really. Almost as good as Kakashi."
His tone darkened as he continued, matter of factly explaining the horror.
"Once released, it becomes an invisible blade that spins around me at high speed—about as fast as my peak draw speed back in my prime. Not quite as fast as I am now, but it has a special gift I envy."
He raised his hand, tracing an invisible circle in the air.
"It ignores all defenses. From a spatial standpoint, it slices anything within ten meters of me. No exceptions."
Another slash of white lightning illuminated the blood mist.
"I can't summon gravitational torrents like Aizen," he admitted, "but I can divide a mosquito into seventeen even pieces in midair. My blades strike twenty one times per second at a flight speed of four hundred meters per second. And there are ten of them."
Rain ran down his cheek like tears.
"Because it's an infinite release type, I don't need to think about it—or expend chakra. I could stand here with you all day."
He gave a small, almost apologetic smile.
"(Explaining one's ability is part of the rules of combat here, after all. We mustn't forget to provide data for Aizen.)"
Hatake Sakumo looked at Uchiha Kagami—his body nearly unrecognizable, torn apart again and again by invisible blades in the raging storm—and let out a faint sigh.
He drew a small bottle of sake from inside his haori and, without even pretending to reach for his sword, pulled out a worn cup from his breast pocket. Sitting beneath the awning, he poured a glass and raised it toward the mangled figure before him.
While Kagami's body was shredded and reformed under the relentless dance of invisible edges, Sakumo drank quietly, watching.
From the head, limbs, and torso to the very nerves and blood vessels—every part that could be cut was dissected again and again by the unseen blades spinning through the air. The agony went beyond flesh. It reached the soul.
Uchiha Kagami's mouth opened in a silent scream. His vocal cords had been severed too many times to produce sound. No one would ever hear the torture that echoed through his mind.
Only Sakumo watched him—the once proud captain of the Sixth Division—now a helpless, kneeling figure repeatedly carved apart beneath the storm. He drank another mouthful of sake, his expression unreadable.
After a while, when Kagami finally stopped moving, the white haired man looked down at the bottle in his hand. There was only a little left. He gave it a shake and muttered, almost regretfully,
"You're really unlucky, Uchiha Kagami. To have nearly immortal power and still run into someone like me—a natural counter to you."
Kagami lay sprawled across the cold stone street, gasping like a dying animal. His pupils trembled, then slowly dilated. The rain pooled in the cracks beneath him, washing away the crimson that spread from his body.
Sakumo exhaled softly and stepped out from under the awning.
The rain did not touch him. An invisible barrier surrounded his form—a faint, spherical shimmer that separated him from the storm entirely. He walked forward until he stood over Kagami, bent down slightly, and looked into his fading eyes.
"You believed too much in Konoha's Will of Fire," he said quietly. "You trusted the Second's words. You thought that if your clan was cursed, it was your duty to cleanse it. You never questioned the curse itself."
He looked at Kagami's broken body and frowned slightly.
"For most of Konoha's shinobi, that kind of faith is admirable. But for me..."
Sakumo's voice grew heavier.
"For someone who already died once because of that same faith… it's just painful."
He clenched his jaw, memories flashing behind his eyes—memories of guilt, of a young boy with silver hair and a hollow stare.
He believed the village's judgment. He believed that dying for its ideals would clear his name. But all it did was leave his son alone to bear a burden no child should ever carry.
That was the one sin Hatake Sakumo could never forgive—his own.
So when Uchiha Kagami threatened him by invoking his son's name, something inside the old man cracked.
"Actually," he murmured, "I didn't plan on killing you. If you hadn't mentioned my son, I would have taken you straight to Aizen."
He crouched beside the unconscious Uchiha, grabbed him roughly by the hair, and began to drag him through the rain like a carcass.
"But you threatened me using my son. I lost him once," Sakumo said, his voice low and cold. "And I'll never lose him again. So I'll take you to Aizen myself—"
He smirked faintly, his voice barely audible under the storm.
"—as a loser."
They turned into a narrow alley, the shadows around them rippling unnaturally. From beneath their feet, black mud seeped upward, coiling around their legs. The moment it touched their skin, their figures began to sink and fade.
As the black substance swallowed them whole, both vanished from sight—drawn instantly through the shadows to another place.
The sudden shock jolted Kagami awake. His body trembled violently from the pain, his vision spinning as he was dragged across the floor.
When his sight cleared, he saw the faint glow of lanterns, shelves lined with scrolls and notes, and countless diagrams scrawled on every wall.
It was a room filled with knowledge and madness.
And in the very center, under the soft light of a lamp, sat a familiar figure in a white haori—calm, poised, and writing quietly.
Aizen Sōsuke.
The man who should have been dead.
He pushed up his glasses and smiled gently, his tone almost welcoming.
"Ah, Kagami-kun," Aizen said, setting down his pen. "I was starting to think you wouldn't attend this little gathering."
Kagami's mouth opened, but no sound came. His body finally gave out, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed into unconsciousness.
The last thing he saw before the world faded to black was Aizen's serene smile—warm, knowing, and terrifyingly alive.
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