The central plaza of Amegakure was a slaughterhouse under the dying light of sunset.
Rain pounded the cracked stone tiles relentlessly, turning pools of blood into diluted crimson rivers that snaked toward the overflowing gutters. Bodies lay scattered—Hanzo's elite guards, their black armor rent and twisted, limbs contorted in final agony.
The massive form of Ibuse, the poison salamander summon, slumped nearby, its scaled hide punctured by ethereal chains from Nagato's Deva Path, toxic fumes still hissing faintly from its gaping maw.
In the midst of this carnage stood Minato Namikaze, untouched and unyielding. His white cloak billowed in the gale, flames embroidered in crimson seeming to flicker with their own inner fire.
The rain, which soaked everything else to the bone, curved away from him in an invisible barrier—a testament to his chakra's absolute dominion. Blue eyes, cold as arctic depths, fixed on the broken figure before him.
Hanzo the Salamander knelt in the mud, his once-imposing armor cracked like eggshell, respirator mask shattered and dangling from his bloodied face.
The self-proclaimed demigod of Amegakure, the man who had ruled through fear and poison for decades, was reduced to a whimpering shell. His hands clawed at the ground, fingers digging furrows in the wet earth as he gasped for breath.
"Please… mercy," Hanzo rasped, voice a guttural wheeze through blood-flecked lips. "I… I am Hanzo! The unyielding! Spare me, and I will serve! The village… it's yours! All of it! Just… let me live!"
His screams had started moments ago—high, piercing wails that echoed off the towering metal spires when Minato's Rasengan had shattered his guard's formation in a vortex of wind and light.
Now, those screams devolved into desperate, broken pleas. Hanzo's eyes, wide with terror, darted from Minato's impassive face to the golden aura that enveloped him, a chakra cloak so dense it warped the air, making the rain evaporate on contact.
Minato loomed over him like a god descended from myth. His power was not mere strength; it was an elemental force, incomparable, as if the universe itself bent to his will. A single step forward sent ripples through the puddles, not from impact, but from the sheer pressure of his presence.
Hanzo's subordinates—those few who still drew breath—stared in abject horror. They had worshipped their leader as a demigod, the invincible Salamander who tamed poison and crushed rebellions. But now, facing Minato, it was as if they beheld the architect of creation itself. One by one, weapons clattered to the ground: kunai, swords, poison vials.
They dropped to their knees, foreheads pressing into the mud, bodies trembling not from the cold rain, but from the overwhelming dread that a flick of this man's finger could erase them all.
From the shadows of the surrounding towers, Yahiko, Nagato, and Konan watched, their faces etched with awe.
They had fought alongside Minato before, trained under his guidance, convinced that their shared hardships and the power of the Rinnegan had narrowed the chasm between them and their lord.
How wrong they were. Yahiko's fists clenched at his sides, his revolutionary fire dimmed by the realization: Minato existed in a league beyond mortals. "He's… untouchable," Yahiko whispered, voice hoarse with reverence. "We thought we could stand as equals one day. But this… this is divinity."
Nagato, leaning on his mechanical frame, felt the Rinnegan pulse in his eyes—a gift from Minato's own machinations years ago.
Yet even that legendary dojutsu paled against the Yellow Flash's raw supremacy. "All paths lead to him," Nagato murmured, echoing his earlier words, but now with a depth of conviction that bordered on worship.
"We chose right. He will forge the future we dreamed of—a world without pain, under his rule."
Konan stood between them, her paper wings slightly unfurled beneath her cloak, rain sliding off the chakra-infused sheets.
Her amber eyes fixed on Minato with a mixture of adoration and something deeper, more primal. The sexual tension that had simmered in the underground chamber now ignited in her chest, a heat that defied the storm.
Watching him command the battlefield, his body a perfect instrument of power—broad shoulders, lithe muscles coiled like springs—she felt a flush creep up her neck. Her breath came in shallow bursts, imagining those hands, which could end lives with a touch, tracing her skin instead.
"Our god," she breathed, the word laced with longing. "He makes the impossible… inevitable."
The allies scattered throughout the plaza—Akatsuki operatives, hidden rebels, even defected shinobi from neighboring lands who had pledged to Minato's cause—felt the same pull.
Whispers rippled through their ranks: "We've chosen the right leader." "He'll lead us to a better tomorrow." "Look at him—nothing can stand against that." Their awe was palpable, a collective intake of breath as Minato raised a hand, chakra flaring brighter.
They had seen his strategies unfold, his alliances forged through charisma and force, but this raw display cemented their loyalty. Minato wasn't just a conqueror; he was salvation incarnate.
Hanzo's enemies, those who had suffered under his regime, emerged from hiding now. Starved villagers, orphaned children, scarred warriors—they gathered at the plaza's edges, eyes wide.
For years, Hanzo had been their nightmare, a demigod who poisoned wells and executed dissenters. Now, seeing him beg, they felt a cathartic rush. But it was Minato who transfixed them. His presence radiated assurance, a promise of liberation.
One old woman, her face lined with decades of hardship, fell to her knees and wept. "The rain… it parts for him," she sobbed to her companion. "He's come to end our tears."
Back in the center, Hanzo crawled forward on all fours, dignity shattered. "I built this village! I protected it from the great nations! You… you're a monster from Konoha! What do you want? Power? Wealth? Women? Take it all! Just spare me!"
Minato's expression remained unchanged—serene, almost bored. He had heard such pleas before: from daimyo in their opulent halls, from clan heads in bloodied battlefields, from lovers who thought submission could sway him.
Mercy was a tool, not a virtue, and Hanzo had outlived his usefulness. "You ruled through fear," Minato said, voice cutting through the storm like a kunai through silk. "Fear of poison, of betrayal, of the endless rain. But true power… true power inspires awe."
With those words, he extended a single finger. A Rasengan formed in his palm—not the swirling blue orb of old, but a golden vortex infused with his evolved chakra, crackling with lightning and wind. Hanzo's eyes bulged in terror. "No! Please! I'll kneel! I'll swear fealty! Lord Minato, I beg—"
The plea ended in a gurgle.
Minato's strike was swift, merciful in its speed if not its intent. The Rasengan connected with Hanzo's chest in a flash of yellow light, vaporizing armor, flesh, and bone in an instant. The tyrant's body crumpled, lifeless, into the mud—a hollow shell where a legend once stood.
Silence fell, broken only by the rain's patter. Then, from the towers, the old bells rang—deep, resonant tolls that hadn't sounded in years. Konan's agents had done their work. The peals echoed across Amegakure, signaling the end of an era.
Yahiko let out a triumphant shout, pumping his fist. "It's done! Hanzo is dead!" Nagato closed his eyes, a rare smile touching his lips, as if sensing the shift in the world's balance.
Konan moved forward first, drawn like a moth to flame, her steps quickening until she stood at Minato's side. "My lord," she said, voice husky with emotion—and desire. "The village is yours. We are yours."
Minato turned to her, his aura dimming slightly but still potent. He placed a hand on her shoulder, the touch sending a shiver through her frame. "Rise, all of you," he commanded, voice projecting across the plaza. The kneeling enemies—Hanzo's remnants—looked up, faces pale. "Swear your oaths now, or join your master."
One by one, they prostrated themselves fully. "We pledge to you, Lord Minato!" a captain cried, voice breaking. "Guide us!"
The villagers surged forward, cheers rising like a tide. "Minato! Minato!" The name became a chant, drowning out the storm.
From a nearby rooftop, a hidden observer—a spy from a rival village—watched in disbelief. He had come to assess Hanzo's strength, but now he fled, heart pounding.
"He's no man," the spy muttered to himself, leaping across rain-slicked beams. "He's a force of nature. The other nations… they have no idea what's coming."
Back in the plaza, Minato surveyed his new domain. The Land of Rain, once a mire of despair, now pulsed with potential under his rule.
He would rebuild it—not as a haven for tyrants, but as a bastion in his growing empire. Resources from its endless storms, shinobi honed by hardship, all bent to his vision of a unified world.
Yahiko approached, eyes shining. "What now, my lord? The borders? The daimyo?"
Minato's smile was faint but genuine. "We consolidate. Train. Expand." His gaze shifted to Konan, who hadn't moved, her body language screaming unspoken wants.
"And celebrate."
That night, as the rain lessened for the first time in memory,
Amegakure feasted. Bonfires lit the plazas, stories of Minato's godhood spread like wildfire. In the underground chamber, now a makeshift throne room, Konan poured sake with trembling hands.
"To the future," she toasted, her eyes locking with his.
Minato raised his cup. "To loyalty."
As the others laughed and planned, Konan's foot brushed his under the table—a promise of more private devotions later.
The god who walked in rain had claimed another land, and with it, hearts unbreakable.
But in the shadows, whispers of greater challenges stirred. Word would spread to Konoha, to the other villages. Minato's enemies would rally.
Yet he welcomed it.
For in his league, none could compare.
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