Chapter 37: Roots and Thorns
The world had narrowed to the scent of damp earth, the coppery tang of his own Blood Demon Art, and the muffled vibrations of the giant tree's roots probing the soil above him. Momiji, encased in his protective shell of crimson thorns, held himself perfectly still. His breathing, a function he no longer strictly needed but maintained out of habit, was shallow and silent.
Mu Dun. Of course it's Mu Dun.
The realization was a cold stone in his gut. He'd mistaken the precious cargo for a weakness. Instead, Konoha had sent a scalpel, one that could carve his forest of thorns into kindling. The fire had been a warning; a display of overwhelming force to flush him out. They'd turned his battlefield into a scorched, water-logged wasteland. Now, they stood atop their artificial monument, untouchable, waiting.
Through the subtle tremors in the earth, transmitted by the network of his remaining thorns, he felt it. The roots of Yamato's giant tree were not just anchoring it. They were searching. Thick, woody tendrils snaked downward and outward, prying through the soil with patient, deliberate force. They were still a distance from his hideout, but their direction was clear. Systematic. Inevitable.
His earlier plan—to hollow the tree from within—was laughable. The wood was dense, saturated with chakra. His thorns, for all their sharpness, were like needles against seasoned oak. Attacking it directly would only send a clear signal straight to the sensors above.
Five jonin-level opponents. One a Mu Dun user who hard-counters my primary art. Sunlight still hours away.
A familiar, bitter frustration welled up. It was the same feeling from the Ghost Game, facing Shuichi's disappointed gaze after his failed rebellion. The urge to lash out, to prove his strength through sheer, destructive will. But that had led to punishment. To humiliation. He had learned, hadn't he? Survival was the first victory.
Yet, waiting here was just a slower form of defeat. The roots would find him. Or they would simply wait until dawn, commanding the high ground, and let the sun do their work. He was trapped between a rock and a lethal sunrise.
His mind touched the periphery of the Blood Curse—the faint, distant presence of Shuichi Mayumi, a quiet storm of power somewhere to the west. A line of communication, open if he wished to scream for aid. The thought was acid on his pride. To call the Ghost King now, after being entrusted with a simple scouting mission and turning it into a siege… it would be an admission of failure far worse than any physical injury. He could imagine the calm, assessing look, the silent verdict. Insufficient.
No. He would not be the first Kizuki to fail so utterly.
He had to rethink. They saw him as a plant-type fighter, a poor imitation of Wood Release. They expected subterranean movement, thorn-based assaults. So, he would stop being that.
The Blood Demon Art: Crimson Bramble was versatile. The thorns were not just weapons; they were extensions of his senses, his conduits. And while he could not move his body horizontally through the earth, his power could travel.
Focusing his will, Momiji began to dissolve the thorn-cocoon around him. The crimson vines softened, liquefying into a thick, syrupy fluid that soaked into the surrounding soil. It was a reckless expenditure of energy, leaving his physical form exposed to the earth's pressure, but it was necessary. This blood-rich mud became his new medium.
Above, the Root ninja maintained their vigil. The Fire and Wind users scanned the bare, blackened perimeter. The Water user stood ready. The sensor-type, the one who had first pinpointed his general area, had his eyes closed in concentration. And Yamato, hands still in a seal, was a statue of focused control, his chakra mingling with the giant tree.
"Movement," the sensor ninja said abruptly, his eyes snapping open. "Not a body… chakra signature. It's… spreading. Diffusing through the groundwater and soil due west."
"He's trying to escape underground," the Fire ninja grunted. "Tenzō-sama."
Yamato's eyes narrowed. "He can't move that fast. He's separating his chakra from his body as a decoy. The main target remains. Maintain positions."
He was right, and he was wrong. Momiji's consciousness was riding that diffusion, a ghost in the seepage, but his physical form remained, buried and still. He was gambling everything on a single, nascent skill—a trait of his Ghost Qi he had only theorized about.
Stamina Drain was his primary trait, leeching vitality through his thorns. But Ghost Qi was malleable, shaped by will and need. His will now was concealment, to become one with the natural world, not just dominate it. As his chakra-infused blood mingled with the soil and the residual moisture from the water jutsu, he pushed his Ghost Qi to evolve, to mimic not the life of the forest, but its passive death—the decay, the silent, energy-sapping rot of fallen leaves.
On the giant tree, the sensor ninja frowned. "The signature… it's fading. Blending with the natural energy of the forest. It's becoming indistinct from the background rot."
Yamato frowned. This was unexpected. No ninjutsu or genjutsu he knew could achieve such perfect camouflage against a dedicated sensor. "He's still there. He has to be." With a pulse of chakra, he spurred the searching roots to dig faster, deeper, directly beneath the last known location.
Thirty feet below, dirt began to shift and compact around Momiji. A woody root-tip brushed against his leg. Now.
He activated the last reserve of thorns he had held back, not to attack, but to launch. From around his buried form, a dense cluster of thorns coiled into a spring. With a final surge of strength, he triggered it.
The earth above him exploded upward.
"Above!" a Root ninja shouted, kunai flying toward the spray of dirt.
But no figure followed. Instead, from the small, dark hole left in the ground, a single, whip-like crimson thorn shot out—not at the ninja, but at the base of the giant tree itself. It struck the dense wood and did not try to pierce it. Instead, it splattered, coating a patch of the trunk in a sticky, dark red fluid.
"What is this?" the Water ninja muttered, readying a seal.
Before anyone could react, the blood-like substance bloomed. Dozens of tiny, hair-thin crimson filaments sprouted from it, spreading across the bark like fast-growing lichen. They emitted no chakra signature, no malice. They just were.
Yamato, feeling the contact through his tree, stiffened. "It's not an attack. It's… a marker. A scent."
He was right. Momiji, his physical form now hauled unceremoniously through the soil by his last thorn-spring, was disoriented and drained, but alive. He had left a part of himself behind—a biological tag infused with the faint, persistent echo of his new "Rotting Earth" Ghost Qi trait. To a sensor, it would be a lingering, confusing smudge. To a tracker-nin, it would be a trail that led everywhere and nowhere.
The real Momiji was moving, not with speed, but with desperate, clawing slowness, away from the clearing. He was battered, his energy reserves critically low, but he was free of the immediate trap. The hunt was no longer a siege; it was a pursuit. And in a forest at night, even a wounded demon had advantages.
Back at the giant tree, Yamato lowered his hands. The roots ceased their movement. "He's gone to ground. His chakra signature is uniquely masked. Standard tracking will be difficult."
The squad leader, the Fire ninja, looked grim. "Lord Danzo's orders were to capture."
"The parameters have changed," Yamato said, his voice calm but firm. "The target has demonstrated high-level adaptive capabilities and evasion. A direct capture in these conditions presents unacceptable risk of loss or casualty. We shift to Containment and Harassment Protocol. We will dog him, deny him rest, and wait for his energy or the sun to finish him. Spread out. Use long-range attacks. Do not engage in his chosen terrain."
As the Root team melted into the shadows of the surviving trees, Yamato took one last look at the splatter of crimson on his creation. It was already beginning to dry, turning a dull brown, indistinguishable from old sap. A faint, decaying smell hung in the air.
Not Wood Release, Yamato concluded silently. Something older. Something hungrier. He filed the observation away. Danzo would want every detail. The mission was not a failure yet, but the prey had just proven it was far more dangerous than its file suggested.
Meanwhile, Near the Town
Shuichi Mayumi paused on the wooded path, Kagemi a silent shadow behind him, Tenmu floating lazily above. He tilted his head, as if listening to a distant sound.
"Master?" Kagemi inquired, her golden eyes scanning the peaceful surroundings.
"A shift in the connection," Shuichi murmured, his fingers lightly brushing the restored arm beneath his sleeve. "Momiji. He was cornered. He was afraid. Now… he is running. And he has changed. Slightly. A new flavor to his essence." A faint, approving smile touched his lips. "Good. Pressure forges strength, or breaks it. It seems he chose the former."
He resumed walking. The threads of his growing Kizuki were pulling taut. Momiji was in a race against dawn. Kyōshun was likely closing in on the Iburi girl. And in a cave somewhere, a crow-demon slept, digesting the remains of a vanquished clan.
All the pieces were in motion. He needed to be at the center when they finally fell into place.
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