After exposing the ambush with a single devastating sword arc, Shanks didn't wait. He gave the masked assailants no time to regroup.
Though he didn't know exactly who they were, their malicious intent was clear—waiting quietly until after his battle with the Seven Ninja Swordsmen ended, like vultures circling a dying beast. But Shanks was no dying beast. He was the storm.
In a flash of red lightning, his body blurred across the broken field, darting between fallen trees and ruptured earth like a phantom. To the untrained eye, he was only a streak of crimson light.
He passed through five of the masked ninjas like a ghost—and in the next moment, thin red lines bloomed across their throats.
Their bodies collapsed in silence.
But before Shanks could continue his rampage, a metallic clang split the air. A blade collided with his, stopping his momentum. The impact cracked the ground beneath their feet, and shattered chunks of tree bark and earth exploded outward from the shockwave.
Shanks was momentarily surprised—this opponent had met his raw strength head-on and didn't fall. Until now, not even the members of the Seven Ninja Swordsmen had been able to do that.
Both figures leapt back, distancing themselves with wary precision.
Opposite Shanks stood a masked figure in a black cloak, still holding a drawn sword. But behind the mask, hidden from sight, a familiar pale face grimaced in momentary pain.
Orochimaru.
His right arm, which had just clashed with Shanks's sword, trembled ever so slightly, though he concealed it well. He thought grimly,
That physical power… he parried me without reinforcement. I'll have to avoid direct clashes. Repeated blows like that could shatter my bones.
Across from him, Shanks narrowed his eyes, sensing that the man in front of him wasn't ordinary.
Without wasting a moment, Orochimaru formed two hand seals with blinding speed—barely a second passed before he released a massive Fireball Jutsu, a roaring sphere of flame hurtling toward Shanks like a meteor.
Shanks didn't flinch.
He raised his sword and swung it vertically. A red arc of sword energy burst forth, slicing through the incoming fireball with explosive force. The fireball split in two, erupting on either side of him, flames scattering harmlessly into the air. But before the smoke could clear, a barrage of kunai and shuriken, each laced with explosive tags, came flying at Shanks from every direction—an ambush from all sides.
To an ordinary shinobi, death would be certain.
But to Shanks, whose Observation Haki wrapped around him like a sixth sense, every blade, every spark of chakra on those tags was already clear.
Even before the projectiles reached him, he had already chosen his path.
Cloaked in red lightning, he launched himself in a streaking arc toward one of the jonin lurking above in the treetops. The sound of metal striking metal rang out in quick succession—ding ding ding ding—as Shanks parried each incoming blade with effortless precision, his own sword a blur of motion.
Within an instant, he appeared in front of the startled jonin, who raised a short sword to block. The impact of their clash sent the jonin flying backward across the canopy. His weapon slipped from his grasp, spinning in the air.
And in that moment, Shanks let go of his own sword.
His hand snatched the falling blade mid-air, lightning chakra surging into it. He twisted his body with a snap and threw it like a thunderbolt.
The crackling blade tore through the air and struck the airborne jonin's forehead with devastating accuracy, shattering his mask and nailing him to the tree behind—lifeless, his body sagging as the blood soaked through his black cloak.
Shanks landed calmly on the ground below, his original sword still stabbed into the earth. He reached down and pulled it free with a smooth motion, red lightning crackling across the blade as it came to life in his hand again.
Before he could take a breath, another masked ninja emerged from the shadows, lunging at him in close quarters.
Too slow.
With one clean, effortless swing, Shanks bisected the man in a single stroke, the red light of his blade flashing through the trees like lightning.
He stood motionless, the forest silent but for the distant rustling of branches and the fading echo of death.
Just then, Shanks's Observation Haki flared—something was coming from beneath.
Without a moment's hesitation, he leapt back.
A massive snake erupted from the ground where he had just stood, its jaws wide open, snapping through empty air in an attempt to swallow him whole.
Shanks landed lightly a few meters away, his eyes narrowing at the serpent.
And in that instant, everything clicked into place.
The masked ninja who had clashed blades with him with equal strength.
The coordinated ambush timed perfectly with his fight against the Seven Ninja Swordsmen.
The snake jutsu—too distinct to be anyone else's.
Shanks exhaled a cold breath and laughed softly, his sword crackling with red lightning as he stared at the assembled shinobi.
"So, you're all from Konoha? What a reliable ally the Hidden Leaf is," he said, his voice laced with sharp sarcasm. "If Granny Mito were still alive… I wonder what she'd think, watching her village try to assassinate another Uzumaki."
Orochimaru stood among the trees, expression unreadable behind his mask. He wasn't surprised Shanks had figured it out—using snakes made it inevitable. But at this point, hiding their identity no longer mattered.
Their mission was clear.
Shanks had to die.
"Plan B!" Orochimaru barked.
Immediately, from the scattered ranks of the Root operatives, around thirty masked figures surged forward, their smaller builds and hesitations revealing their youth—just children, no older than thirteen or fourteen.
Each of them held short swords tightly in shaking hands, moving in unison like puppets—conditioned, programmed, and expendable.
Shanks's smirk faded. His gaze swept over the advancing wave of child assassins, and for a moment, a flicker of sorrow passed through his expression.
"So this is what Konoha has become…" he muttered. "Sending children to do the work of cowards."
But there was no room for mercy now—not with thirty blades aiming to take his life.
The lightning around Shanks pulsed, glowing brighter, responding to the surge of will behind his blade.
And then he moved.
----
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