The moment Arata Itsuki's words fell, the jōnin whose heart had been pierced was instantly engulfed by a storm of crackling blue lightning.
In the blink of an eye, the man was no longer human—his body blackened and shriveled into a shape barely recognizable, like human charcoal.
The air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt flesh, confirming beyond all doubt that this time the man was truly dead—not a feigned death like Arata's earlier ruse.
With the electric waves heightening his senses, Arata could easily detect movements around him. Naturally, their ambush had no chance of success.
In fact, before the four attackers had even located him, Arata had already sensed their presence. His earlier appearance had been nothing but a decoy—a lure.
And in the instant he truly appeared, the four-man squad was reduced by one.
The remaining three instantly realized the danger they were in. None dared to underestimate him again. They flickered backward in unison, widening the gap between themselves and Arata.
From the reports they'd received—and from what they had just witnessed—there was no doubt.
Arata Itsuki was a close-range specialist.
And the best counter to such an opponent was to keep distance and suppress him with ninjutsu.
Having felled one of them, Arata's sharp gaze swept over the three who remained. Their formation was solid, coordinated—a sign of experience.
But no matter how tight the formation, it could not bridge the gap in speed.
Their hand-seal sequences might be quick, but Arata now commanded the speed of lightning itself. Even if his mastery of the fruit's power was not yet complete—unable to match the raw speed of true lightning—it was still far beyond the reach of any ordinary jōnin.
Among the three, however, the one at the front caught his attention. The man's chakra signature was deep, layered, and difficult to read. There was only one explanation for that—
He was an Elite Jōnin.
In Konoha, during the turbulent years around the Second Great Ninja War, there were fewer than ten shinobi who bore that title.
Each was a pillar of their clan—a true cornerstone of the village's power.
And yet, one of them had been sent to assassinate him.
Arata couldn't help but sneer inwardly.
A mere Tokubetsu Jōnin like him was now being hunted by a squad that even Kage-level shinobi would treat with caution.
After all, Elite Jōnin were not to be taken lightly—they often possessed secret techniques powerful enough to kill even the strongest if given a single opening.
Danzo, that old fox, Arata thought grimly. You're even more cautious than I imagined—sending an Elite Jōnin after me.
Holding his breath, Arata steadied himself. He hadn't wielded this newfound power for long, and prolonged combat wasn't an option.
This needed to end—fast.
A thunderclap split the air.
And in the same instant, Arata's figure vanished.
The three remaining shinobi instinctively leapt back, hands flying through seals in a desperate attempt to complete their jutsu.
But two of them weren't fast enough—before their signs were even halfway done, Arata's shadowed form appeared right before one of them.
The man's face twisted in horror. He began forming the Substitution Jutsu—but before the first seal was even finished, Arata's sword flashed, severing his head cleanly.
The head spun through the air, tracing a disturbingly graceful arc before thudding to the ground.
Even as it rolled, the man's wide eyes still held disbelief—unable to accept that such blinding speed could belong to a mere Tokubetsu Jōnin.
Before the severed head even struck the dirt, Itsuki was already beside the next target.
This one was different.
The moment Arata lunged, the man's body dissolved into a translucent apparition that shot straight toward him!
Arata's eyes narrowed. He twisted aside at once, narrowly dodging the ethereal form.
He knew this jutsu.
"Dan Katō!"
It was the Ghost Transformation Jutsu—a forbidden jutsu capable of attacking a target's mind while possessing their body.
Arata's own spiritual strength wasn't particularly high; being caught by that would be fatal.
So even Katō Dan was working under Danzō, huh? That explained everything.
If Arata hadn't interfered in this timeline, Tsunade would have been utterly ensnared—controlled through Katō Dan, manipulated until his "death," and then driven to despair by the loss of her brother. She would have left Konoha broken.
Danzo's schemes run deeper than I thought.
But familiarity meant nothing in a fight for survival.
The Ghost Transformation Jutsu was powerful, but it still relied on the user's body.
While in spirit form, Katō Dan's physical body was defenseless.
Arata flickered once—appearing beside that motionless body. His sword gleamed.
In less than a heartbeat, Katō Dan's body was sliced cleanly in two.
The floating spirit wavered, then collapsed inward, drawn back into its sundered vessel as the jutsu broke.
The Elite Jōnin who led the squad stood frozen.
His entire team—wiped out in mere moments.
A chill crept up his spine.
That terrifying speed… that unhesitating precision… that killing intent—
It all reminded him of Konoha's White Fang, Hatake Sakumo.
White Fang—the only shinobi in the village whose power stood just below Hiruzen Sarutobi and Danzō Shimura. Even the Kage of other nations treated him with respect—and fear.
The Elite Jōnin's mind raced.
Wasn't Arata Itsuki supposed to be just a Tokubetsu Jōnin? When did his strength grow this much? Since when could he use Lightning Style?
Wasn't he supposed to be a ninjutsu idiot? Does he even have a lightning-nature chakra?
He had countless questions—but no chance to voice any of them.
Because Arata moved again.
Steel clashed with a resounding clang.
This time, his sword didn't find flesh—it met the shining edge of the Elite Jōnin's katana.
As expected of a veteran from the Warring States Period, the man's taijutsu was formidable, and bolstered by his superior chakra control, he barely managed to block the strike.
That one exchange told him plenty.
Arata's strength didn't come from raw power—his strikes were driven by impossible speed and precision.
Yet his sword… was far sharper than any normal weapon. The clash had left a jagged notch in the Elite Jōnin's own sword, though both were made of the same metal.
"Lightning augmentation, huh…" the man muttered grimly.
Arata's expression darkened.
As expected, an Elite Jōnin was no ordinary opponent.
Even with his unmatched speed, the man's instincts and experience allowed him to read Arata's movements, if only barely.
He was certain the Elite Jōnin didn't have the Sharingan—he was tracking Arata purely through sight and battle intuition.
Facing such a warrior, Arata didn't dare hold back.
He exploded into motion, unleashing a storm of slashes from every conceivable angle.
The Elite Jōnin had no choice but to defend, retreating step by step beneath the relentless storm of blades—
completely unable to strike back.