And both brothers were right.
The Jonin unfortunate enough to face Todoroki suffered perhaps the most miserable death of them all.
He had just finished weaving hand seals, unleashing a rushing wave of water toward his opponent. But before the torrent had even closed half the distance, Todoroki raised his hand—and in an instant, both the water and the Jonin were encased in a block of solid ice. Frost spidered over stone and steel; the air turned needle-cold in a heartbeat.
With calm precision, Todoroki heated a single fingertip until it glowed red-hot, then tapped the frozen prison. A hairline crack webbed out from his fingertip, the only sound a crisp, glassy chirp.
The ice shattered like brittle glass—taking the man inside with it. His body broke apart along with the shards, scattering lifelessly across the frozen ground.
Elsewhere, the last of the Uzumaki siblings, Benimaru, confronted his own foe. True to his nature, he fought with razor-sharp precision, wasting neither movement nor breath.
But his Amegakure opponent unveiled something unusual—a ninja tool disguised as an umbrella.
His opponent, however, unveiled something unusual—a weapon cleverly disguised as a simple umbrella.
This was no mere canopy. Its skeletal frame concealed intricate mechanisms, its surface was plated with reinforced steel polished to gleam like obsidian. When Benimaru's blade slashed downward, the Jōnin flicked his wrist and snapped the umbrella open. Sparks screeched as steel met steel; the weapon absorbed the strike in full, deflecting it away with unnatural ease.
Then came the counterattack. From the umbrella's tip, a hidden muzzle split open and spat out a steel needle with the speed of a bullet. For a moment, death seemed certain. But Benimaru's reflexes—honed through years of relentless training and countless battles—were faster still. His sword flicked upward in a silver blur, deflecting the projectile with a ringing clang that echoed like a bell toll.
The Jonin then tilted the umbrella above his head, as if it were nothing more than a rain shield. But the weapon whirred ominously—its edges spun like a saw, unleashing a storm of needles that fanned outward in a deadly rain.
Benimaru snapped his fingers. A fireball, no larger than an egg, bloomed in his palm. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it into the oncoming storm.
The moment fire met steel, the sphere detonated in a booming blast. Flames erupted outward, the shockwave scattering the barrage harmlessly across the battlefield, needles clattering uselessly to the ground.
Even before the echoes faded, Benimaru had already conjured another fireball. This one he hurled straight at the Jonin.
The enemy turned his umbrella and braced it as a shield once more. The fireball struck the steel surface and exploded in a deafening roar. The force blasted the Jonin backward, boots skidding across torn earth as he fought to keep his balance.
But the Jonin never got the chance to recover. By the time he steadied himself, Benimaru's blistering speed had already carried him behind his opponent, sword poised in a lethal thrust. To the Jonin it felt like a skip in time—Benimaru there, then gone, then breathing at his back.
The Amegakure shinobi's instincts screamed at him—if that blade landed, it meant certain death. Yet his body betrayed him. The earlier blast still weighed on his movements, his balance unsteady, his legs sluggish.
In desperation, he tried to sidestep left, hoping to slip out of the strike zone.
But Benimaru was already there. Anticipating the motion, his sword veered with predatory precision, driving into the Jonin's side. The blade sank deep into his liver, cold steel erupting pain through his body.
Before the man could even cry out, Benimaru twisted and tore the weapon across his stomach in one ruthless motion. The sword ripped through flesh and muscle, bursting out cleanly from the other side.
The wound shredded the man's organs beyond repair. There was no hope of survival. He crumpled to the ground, choking out a few ragged breaths before death claimed him within seconds.
Makima's opponent, however, suffered a fate far crueller—death at the hands of his own comrades.
After breaking his spirit in combat, Makima bent the Jonin's will entirely to her own. Strings of invisible command turned him into her puppet, and she unleashed him upon his allies.
Because he had been one of Amegakure's elites—a trusted captain—his allies faltered. Confusion and disbelief paralyzed them. That hesitation cost them dearly. The puppet cut them down without mercy, his blade turning against those who had once fought at his side.
Even when they gathered their courage and tried to subdue him, it was hopeless. The Jonin never returned to himself.
At last, they hardened their hearts and struck down their own captain. But their resistance ended no differently than the others—slaughtered in turn, either by the Uzumaki siblings or by the merciless summons Makima unleashed.
At last, after an hour of relentless bloodshed, the battlefield fell silent. Nearly two hundred Amegakure shinobi lay dead, their bodies strewn across the scarred terrain.
The Uzumaki siblings stood amidst the carnage, chests heaving from exhaustion. The clash had been long and brutal, yet not a single enemy had escaped.
They made no effort to collect the corpses. Instead, they relayed the details of the battle to the Daimyō's son, who had been observing from his caravan only a few hundred meters away.
When he finally stepped onto the battlefield, the sight struck him like a hammer blow. Blood soaked the soil, corpses lay twisted in grotesque heaps, and the stench of iron thickened the air until every breath burned. His stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing at him, but he forced it down. His station demanded composure.
"You say they were Amegakure shinobi…" he began at last, voice low and steady despite the tremor in his chest. His eyes swept the field of bodies, searching for proof that wasn't there. "Yet I see no mark, no headband, no sign upon them."
Erza's reply was as unwavering as steel.
"They hid their symbols on purpose. But no other village could have assembled such a force for this ambush. From their coordination to their weapons, their jutsu, even their manner of retreat—there is no mistaking it. We fought them directly. We know."
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