Shanks's blade danced with ruthless precision. Each strike claimed a life—quick, efficient, and lethal. He showed no hesitation. These were not innocent children anymore—they were trained assassins, attacking with the intent to kill.
But as the battle continued, a shadow of confusion began creeping into Shanks's mind.
Why?
Why was Orochimaru, a man of intelligence and cunning, sacrificing so many young Root operatives? What was the true objective behind this onslaught? These weren't just numbers—they were resources. Tools that took years to mold. And Orochimaru never wasted tools.
Shanks kept cutting, but his Observation Haki scanned the fallen bodies with meticulous focus, searching for chakra irregularities, hidden seals, or traps.
Nothing.
Nothing unusual. No chakra flares. No lingering jutsu. Just corpses.
Finally, the last of the young attackers fell. Shanks stood in the middle of the clearing, his sword dripping with blood and red lightning flickering around him like an aura of death. The ground was littered with bodies—arranged in a loose circle, just as they had attacked: from all angles, surrounding him.
Shanks lowered his blade slightly and took a cautious step forward.
Then it happened.
A loud boom ripped through the air as one of the corpses directly in front of him detonated, sending a shockwave and debris flying. Only his instinct and Observation Haki saved him—he leapt back at the perfect moment, narrowly avoiding the blast.
But there was no time to catch his breath.
The explosion triggered another.
Then another.
A chain reaction.
Wherever he tried to retreat, a body exploded—trapping him inside a circle of fire and destruction. Each blast lit up the clearing, painting the night with orange and crimson bursts. Trees shattered, dirt erupted into the air, and the scent of charred flesh filled the battlefield.
Shanks clenched his jaw, activating more lightning chakra and reinforcing his body with Armament Haki. His entire body became enveloped in a dense shell of power, crackling red and black.
The first explosion hadn't hurt him. His combined defenses—Armament Haki and lightning chakra—were more than enough to withstand it.
But these weren't ordinary blasts.
Each subsequent explosion grew in intensity, pushing even him to his limit.
The shockwaves slammed against his defense, growing stronger with every chain reaction. Orochimaru's plan had been far more sinister than simple assassination. He was trying to overload Shanks's body, overwhelm his chakra control, and possibly distract or delay him for a follow-up attack.
By Shanks' estimation, nearly fifty explosive tags had detonated in rapid succession from one body. The concussive force rocked the surrounding terrain, uprooting trees and tearing open the earth in all directions. The air had become thick with smoke, dust, and the stench of scorched flesh and chakra-burnt soil.
Amid the chaos, Shanks turned his gaze toward Orochimaru, who stood calmly in the distance—hands locked in a precise seal, eyes narrowed in sharp focus. It didn't take much deduction to understand: Orochimaru wasn't just watching; he was orchestrating. The timing, the sequence, the amplification—this was all under his control.
Shanks's expression darkened.
He raised his voice over the roar of detonations, shouting,
"I'd expect nothing less from someone as cold-hearted as you, Orochimaru!"
Orochimaru didn't flinch.
He didn't even blink.
From his perspective, Shanks was already dead. There was no point in exchanging words with a corpse-in-waiting. To Orochimaru, conversation was a tool—one used only when it served a purpose. And in this moment, it was beneath him.
Shanks's voice faded as the next wave of explosions swallowed him.
A series of deafening booms echoed like thunder cracking through the battlefield. The ground trembled. Fiery blasts lit up the area like a storm of falling meteors. Chunks of burning earth scattered in every direction, and a shockwave rippled outward from the center of the inferno.
And then—silence.
A heavy stillness settled over the field, broken only by the crackle of flames and the faint rustle of burning leaves.
Orochimaru waited.
Patiently.
Finally, when the dust had mostly cleared and the air grew still once more, he stepped forward, his sandals crunching against charred debris. He made his way to the center of the crater—to the heart of where Shanks had stood.
There was no body.
Only a few tattered scraps of white fabric fluttered in the scorched soil—remnants of Shanks' shirt, barely hanging onto existence.
Orochimaru narrowed his eyes.
"He escaped."
The words left his lips in a whisper, not of surprise, but of deduction.
He had seen it. During the earlier explosions, he had observed how Shanks's skin had turned completely black—a hardening effect, like the Earth Release: Earth Spear technique.
If he had truly died here, there would have been something left behind—bones, fragments, a scorched corpse. But there was nothing.
Orochimaru didn't utter a single word about the deaths of the thirty or so Root ninjas who had just perished in a blaze of calculated sacrifice. There was no moment of silence, no sign of remorse—not even a glance spared toward their mangled corpses scattered around the scorched battlefield.
Because they weren't meant to live.
These were the rejected candidates, discarded after Root's brutal screening process. According to Danzo's philosophy, the strongest, most ruthless shinobi were forged through betrayal, loss, and killing their own. Ideally, these failed subjects would have been used in simulations—fighting beside promising recruits, only to be slain by them, their deaths fueling the merciless growth of the true Root elites.
But war demanded pragmatism.
There was no time to build monsters through slow indoctrination. So Danzo created death squads from these failures—mind-wiped, broken, and rebuilt solely to obey, to die on command. Their deaths held no meaning beyond utility. And for Orochimaru, they were no more than components of a jutsu—a means to test Shanks, distract him, wear him down, and, hopefully, kill him.
He clicked his tongue and said coldly,
"The mission to eliminate Shanks has failed. Let's go."
He didn't wait for acknowledgment.
He didn't explain.
He simply turned and blurred into motion—heading back toward Konoha.
The surviving Root operatives, without question or hesitation, followed silently behind him. No one dared look back at the corpses of their fallen comrades.
Because in Root, comradeship was a weakness.
And in Orochimaru's eyes, tools don't deserve mourning.
––––
In a secluded valley nestled a few kilometers within the borders of the Land of Fire, not far from the boundary of the Land of Hot Water, lay a dense forest. Hidden deep within this valley was the secret refuge of the Uzumaki clan. Within this sanctuary, in a cavern, a large summoning scroll rested on the stone floor. Etched into its surface was an intricate circular pattern—the Flying Thunder God summoning circle.
Without warning, a sudden burst of white smoke erupted above the scroll, and in an instant, Shanks appeared, his form materializing directly atop the summoning seal. His entire body was cloaked in a layer of gleaming black—Armament Haki covering him like armor. His clothes were in tatters, barely clinging to his bruised and battered frame, and in his right hand, he tightly gripped his trusted sword, Gryphon.
The protective sheen of Haki began to fade slowly, revealing Shanks' condition underneath. His skin was scorched in places, bruises littered his body, and a thin trail of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He was clearly injured—wounded from a battle that had pushed him to the edge.
Just outside the cave, Antares, who had been on watch, stirred the moment he sensed a familiar chakra signature flare within. His eyes snapped open, sharp with concern. Without wasting a second, he moved toward the cave's interior, where the faint glow of an oil lamp cast flickering shadows on the damp walls. There, under the dim golden light, he saw his older brother collapsed near the scroll, visibly weakened.
"Onii-san," Antares called out urgently, his voice laced with worry. "What happened? Why are you in this condition?"
Shanks, ever calm despite his state, managed a faint smile. "It's nothing too serious," he said, though the blood at his lips told a different story. "I was ambushed near the capital of the Land of Hot Water. Had to use the Flying Thunder God—Stage Zero—to make it back here in one piece."
This version of the Flying Thunder God was no ordinary technique. Known as Stage Zero, it was an advanced evolution of the Human Summoning technique—a result of over two years of meticulous research and experimentation by Shanks and Erza. Unlike the traditional version, which required external activation, Stage Zero allowed a marked individual to be automatically summoned in moments of extreme peril. The summoning circle inscribed on the massive scroll was the result of this very breakthrough—designed to bring someone directly to safety without the need for a summoner.
----
Want to get daily updates and read chapters on a daily basis? Then join my Patreon!
Patreon Link: https://[email protected]/Hkj822
Join Discord Link: https://discord.gg/Ab9HdNbK