Chapter 165: The Storm's End and the Beast's Awakening
"THIRTY-SIX CONSECUTIVE STRIKES: STORM'S END!"
With that roar, Kyūmiya Emon's entire being became a vortex of power. An astonishing tide of chakra erupted from his core—pure, razor-sharp Wind Nature chakra. It wasn't just cloaking him; it was infusing him. A light cyan, whirling tempest enveloped his body, forming an armor of living, shrieking wind. The armor was intricate, almost organic, and radiated a pressure that made the air itself feel thin and cuttable.
"This is…!" Hatake Sakumo's eyes narrowed, his earlier calm hardening into focused intensity. He had not anticipated his opponent holding such a potent, self-developed trump card.
"Konoha's White Fang!" Emon's voice echoed from within the cyclone. "This is my own creation! A technique where Wind Release chakra permeates every cell, every muscle fiber! Most use Lightning Release for stimulation, but I mastered the Wind! In this state, my physical potential is unleashed! My speed, my power—they have already breached the threshold of a Kage! At this moment, I AM a Kage!"
As he spoke, the ninjato in his hand drank in the chakra, its edge becoming a line of unbearable, concentrated sharpness that seemed to blur reality itself.
Swish!
He vanished. There was no blur, no tell-tale shunshin pop—just an absence, then a presence right before Sakumo's face. It was a speed that bypassed perception.
Pure instinct saved Sakumo. His body dissolved into a crackling bolt of lightning, darting aside.
But Emon was the wind itself now. He flowed with him, attached to him. Sakumo's lightning-fast retreat was matched step for step by Emon's gale-force pursuit. The afterimages began to appear—not illusions, but the ghostly trails of his impossible velocity. One, two, three… eighteen distinct afterimages of Kyūmiya Emon materialized in the air, forming a perfect, whirling cage around Hatake Sakumo.
"First Strike!"
"Second!"
"Third!"
"Fourth!"
"…"
The calls were not taunts; they were declarations, each one punctuated by a slash that was less a sword stroke and more a localized, horizontal hurricane. The attacks came not from one direction, but from all eighteen points simultaneously, a dazzling, overwhelming storm of cyan light crisscrossing the sky. Each consecutive strike built upon the last, layering force and ferocity like the rising tide of a cataclysmic storm. The air screamed, torn to shreds.
White Fang, within this maelstrom, became the unshakable eye of the hurricane. He was a leaf in the tempest, yet he was also the ancient tree rooted to the bedrock. His movements were economical, flawless. The White Fang blade was everywhere at once—a flickering silver parry here, a deflecting arc there, a counter-thrust that forced a feint. He yielded to the overwhelming force, redirecting it, using its own momentum to survive. But to any observer, the picture was clear: Kyūmiya Emon was a relentless, howling gale, and Hatake Sakumo was being buried under it.
On the battlefield, the shift in momentum was palpable. Suna ninja, seeing their champion dominate the legendary White Fang, roared with renewed bloodlust, attacking the Konoha lines with savage frenzy. Conversely, a cold dread began to seep into the Konoha ranks. Their commander, their pillar, was on the defensive.
Sakumo ignored it all. His world had narrowed to the eighteen blades, the screaming wind, and the next micro-second. He breathed, he moved, he parried.
"How long can you hold?" The voice of Emon came from all eighteen afterimages, a chilling chorus. "The Thirty-Six Consecutive Strikes… each blow is stronger than the last. There is no escape. Only endurance… or annihilation."
The very space around their duel had become a deathtrap. Residual sword energy, razor-sharp wind blades, and chaotic, churning air currents created a lethal dome hundreds of meters wide. No one, friend or foe, could approach. It was a field of absolute devastation born from the aftermath of a single man's sword art.
At the Suna command post, the Third Kazekage watched, a rare flicker of admiration in his cold eyes. Kyūmiya Emon was the captain of Suna's ANBU, a man who had once been a contender for the Kazekage seat itself. But his obsession was the sword. He believed the burden of leadership would dull his edge, so he had stepped aside, choosing the shadows to perfect his art. It was only the death of his beloved younger brother, Jirō, that had drawn him back into the light, seeking vengeance. Emon had even gifted Jirō the prized Kusanagi blade. With that legendary weapon in hand now, his assault would be even more terrifying.
Fate is fickle, the Kazekage mused. But today, it favors Suna.
He glanced sideways at Iwa's Nōhei. "Your Jinchuriki remains idle. Why?"
Nōhei forced a tight smile. "Patience, Lord Kazekage. The main event is about to begin."
On a distant hill overlooking the carnage, two observers watched from the shadows. Uchiha Madara and Black Zetsu.
"Madara-sama, this battle is proving more… entertaining than anticipated," Black Zetsu noted.
Madara's expression was one of profound boredom. "It is the scrabbling of insects. Barely worth the attention."
"Hah! As expected of Madara-sama! Even this scale of conflict is beneath your notice," White Zetsu's voice chirped from the same form.
"Has the Rakshasa appeared?" Madara asked, his single Sharingan scanning the field with disinterest.
"No trace of his chakra signature has been detected. It seems he is absent from this engagement," Black Zetsu confirmed.
"Heh. Let us watch a little longer. If the Rakshasa does not deign to join this farce…" Madara's voice trailed off, his gaze shifting and locking onto the red-armored figure amidst the Iwa ranks. "The Five-Tails Jinchuriki…"
A slow, predatory smirk touched his ancient lips. If Rakshasa did appear, he would ensure the boy received a proper… introduction to the realities of this world.
On the front lines, Tsunade, Jiraiya, and Orochimaru had momentarily halted their own assaults, their attention locked on Sakumo's desperate defense.
"I say, is the captain going to be alright? Should we… intervene?" Jiraiya asked, uncharacteristic worry in his voice.
"Hahaha! You, Jiraiya? If you blundered into that storm, you'd be diced into fertilizer by the residual wind blades before you took three steps. You might even die," Orochimaru sneered, though a calculating glint was in his serpentine eyes as he assessed the technique.
"Hey! I'm plenty strong! I haven't even shown my best stuff yet!" Jiraiya shot back, puffing out his chest.
"Hidden Shadow Snake Hands!"
Without warning, Orochimaru's arm shot out, his sleeve disgorging a torrent of sleek, black serpents that streaked towards a cluster of Suna chunin, fangs dripping venom.
"Ugh, so gross!" Jiraiya shuddered, despite the effectiveness of the attack.
THUMP! CRUNCH! AAGH!
A new sound cut through the battle noise—not the clash of steel or the boom of ninjutsu, but the wet, heavy impacts of bodies being brutally batted aside. A wave of concussive force rippled through the Konoha left flank. Jonin and chunin alike were sent flying like ragdolls, limbs bent at unnatural angles, armor crumpled, blood spraying in arcs.
"What now?!" Tsunade barked, her head snapping towards the disturbance.
Through the settling dust and rain, a figure advanced. An Iwa-nin clad in ornate, red samurai-style armor. White, superheated steam hissed from the joints of his armor with a low gururu rumble. And most chillingly, sprouting from his back, lashing and whipping with mindless, terrible force, were three massive, pale tails covered in coarse white fur.
It was these appendages—each as thick as a tree trunk—that had casually swatted aside seasoned Konoha jonin as if they were flies.
"What… what kind of monster is that?!" a Konoha chunin gasped, scrambling backwards.
The Five-Tails Jinchuriki, Gōki, had entered the fray. The beast within was stirring, and its gaze was fixed on the densest concentration of Konoha's elite.
(End of Chapter 165)
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