Chapter 110: Idols and Arrangements
The forest was a pocket of deeper darkness within the night, quiet except for the rustle of leaves in a fitful breeze. Senju Nawaki waited, his small form practically vibrating with a cocktail of excitement and nerves. He was about to meet his idol. The figure who dominated campfire whispers and hushed, respectful conversations among the ANBU.
Since sneaking into the camp, the name he'd heard most often wasn't a Sannin's or the White Fang's—it was 'Rakshasa.' When Tsunade had been missing, and Hatake Sakumo, tasked with keeping an eye on the wayward Senju heir, had assigned ANBU to shadow him, Nawaki had overheard their terse communications. They spoke of Rakshasa with a tone reserved for forces of nature. Uncle Sakumo himself had praised the masked operative as "Konoha's future" and "a true hero."
That was what Nawaki wanted. To be Konoha's future. A hero in his own right. He was the Shodai's grandson, yes, but that was ancestral glory, a weight on his shoulders, not a crown on his head. He wanted to earn his own. He wanted to do something so great his sister would look at him with pride, not exasperation. He wanted to restore the luster to the Senju name with his own hands.
And from Uncle Sakumo's hints, this Rakshasa wasn't even that old! He was proof that youth and monumental achievement weren't mutually exclusive. In Nawaki's heart, Rakshasa had become the symbol of everything he aspired to be.
"You're the one looking for me."
The voice came from the darkness behind him, not loud, but cold. It didn't seem to travel through the air so much as materialize directly in his ears, like a thought from a frozen well. It raised the hairs on Nawaki's neck.
He spun around. A shadow detached itself from the deeper black under an ancient tree. It moved forward silently, making no sound on the damp leaves and twigs. It was less a person walking and more a patch of night given form and purpose. The black uniform, the armored plates, the cloak that seemed to drink the moonlight, and above it all, the stark, terrifying red of the Rakshasa mask.
He had arrived.
"R-Rakshasa!" The word burst from Nawaki's lips, equal parts exhilaration and primal fear. The aura radiating from the figure was palpable, a chilling pressure that made the very air feel thicker, colder.
"I heard you were looking for me." The voice from behind the mask was flat, devoid of any inflection that could be called human. Ragnar observed the boy—the bright, determined child whose fate, in another timeline, was a bloody smear on the ground, a catalyst for despair.
War was cruel, but it was an impartial butcher. It didn't care about lineage. Naruto Uzumaki had been an outcast. Nawaki Senju was Konoha's golden prince, the Shodai's direct descendant, with access to resources and tutelage most could only dream of. With his bloodline, his potential was staggering. He could have been great. And then he was gone, his death a pebble that started an avalanche of tragedy for the three who would find his body.
"Yes!" Nawaki managed, forcing his trembling body to stand straight. He met the blank, painted eyes of the mask. "I admire you! I look up to you! Lord Rakshasa… please, accept me as your younger brother!"
"You are weak." The dismissal was absolute, a statement of fact as immutable as gravity. "Every enemy who has died by my hand was stronger than you."
As he spoke, an invisible wave of killing intent—not directed, merely leaked—spilled from him. The temperature in the small clearing plummeted. Nawaki's breath hitched, forming a pale cloud in the suddenly frigid air. His lungs burned. The weight felt physical, pressing down on his small shoulders.
"I-I can get stronger!" he gasped out, defiance battling the instinct to flee. "I will get stronger! Strong enough to even surpass you one day, Lord Rakshasa!"
The words were brave, shouted against the crushing pressure.
"Then come find me when you are."
A final sentence, delivered with the same dispassionate cold. Then, with a soft shwip of displaced air, the dark figure was simply gone. No smoke, no afterimage. One moment present, the next, absent.
The pressure vanished. Nawaki's knees buckled, and he hit the damp forest floor, gasping for air as if he'd been held underwater. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his back, cold under his clothes. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. The gulf between them was so vast it was laughable. Rakshasa could have snuffed him out without a thought.
But the encounter hadn't broken him. It had forged his resolve into something harder.
From the trees, Tsunade stepped out, a frown on her face. "That brat, scaring Nawaki half to death…" she muttered, a mix of annoyance and concern warring within her. She approached her brother. "Nawaki? Are you alright?"
Nawaki looked up, his face pale but his eyes blazing with a new, fierce light. "I'm… I'm fine, sis!" He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling only slightly. "Did you see? That power! That's what I need!"
He clenched his fists so tight his knuckles turned white. "I will become strong! Strong enough that he has to acknowledge me!"
Tsunade's heart swelled with a complex pride. The fear was gone, replaced by determination. The meeting, while harsh, had done its job. Now, to channel that determination properly.
He needs a teacher, she thought, her mind clicking into pragmatic mode. Me? No time, and my style doesn't suit him. She ruled herself out. Sakumo? He's commanding a war. Not an option. Jiraiya? She shuddered. Absolutely not. She wouldn't hand her sunny little brother over to that walking bad influence.
Her thoughts landed on… Ragnar? A vision of Nawaki's bright, open face hardening into Ragnar's impassive, calculating mask made her immediately reject it. No. She wanted her brother to grow, not become a different person entirely.
That left one. Orochimaru. She knew him. He was a genius, a master of virtually every field of ninjutsu. Yes, he was… eccentric. Morbidly curious. But beneath that cold exterior, she knew there was a twisted sort of loyalty, a care for the few he considered his. He was responsible. And he wouldn't fill Nawaki's head with nonsense about bathhouses and 'research.'
It was decided. Orochimaru would take him on. Nawaki, blissfully unaware of the silent, sibling-mandated apprenticeship being arranged for him, was still buzzing from his encounter with a ghost.
The rhythms of the camp settled into a tense, waiting pattern. Minato trained diligently under Jiraiya. Nawaki, once Tsunade strong-armed Orochimaru into agreement (with many hissed protests about 'disrupting my research'), began his lessons under the serpent Sannin, who found the boy's vibrant life force a curiously refreshing subject. Tsunade split her time between medical duties, checking on both her brother and Ragnar.
Ragnar himself became a listener, a silent pillar as Tsunade unloaded the day's frustrations, gossiped about camp life, or reminisced about simpler times. He offered little in return, but his presence seemed to be enough. Between her visits, he took on missions—simple reconnaissance or patrol duties that posed no challenge. Mostly, he trained. His power had leapt forward in violent bursts; now he needed to solidify it, to understand the new dimensions of his strength, to make the Devil Fruit's flame and the Buddha's potential as much a part of him as his own heartbeat.
The war entered a lull. The Rock and Sand, licking wounds from their recent, shocking defeats, grew cautious. The brutal efficiency of 'Rakshasa' had introduced a new variable, a risk they couldn't yet calculate. The calm, however, felt deceptive, the tense silence before a larger storm.
Half a month passed in this uneasy quiet.
Then, a summons from Hatake Sakumo, marked urgent.
Ragnar secured his mask, shouldered his cloak, and left his quarters, the familiar weight of Yama a comfort at his side.
Konoha Camp – Command Headquarters
The atmosphere inside was thick with a different kind of tension. Hatake Sakumo sat at the head table, a scroll open before him, his expression grim. Jiraiya stood to his side, arms crossed, his usual levity absent. Pacing back and forth like a caged animal was Tsunade, her face a mask of agitated worry.
"The Tsuchikage has made his move," Sakumo said, his voice low and heavy. "He's formally allied with Sunagakure. Combined forces are mobilizing at the border."
"Damn it all!" Tsunade snapped, stopping her pacing to slam a hand on the table. "And of all times, Nawaki has gone missing! He left the camp perimeter!"
"Tsunade, calm down. We'll find him," Jiraiya said, his attempt at reassurance falling flat.
"Calm down? How can I be calm?!" Her voice was edged with genuine panic, the big-sister terror cutting through the Sannin's composure.
At that moment, the tent flap opened. The crimson Rakshasa mask appeared, then the rest of the cloaked figure entered.
Jiraiya's eyes flicked to the new arrival, a flicker of vague recognition passing through his mind—something about the posture, the way he moved—but it was gone before he could grasp it, obscured by the mask's imposing anonymity.
Ragnar's masked gaze swept the room, taking in Sakumo's gravity, Jiraiya's tension, and Tsunade's distress. He focused on his commander.
"What's the situation, Captain?"
(End of Chapter)
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