Itachi lay on the ground, his breath shallow, his eyes closed as though he had surrendered to death. His Sharingan had dimmed, his body unable to rise any longer. Blood trailed from his lips, staining the dirt beneath him. He was prepared to embrace the end.
Yet, instead of feeling steel pierce his chest or a blade sever his throat, he felt nothing. His instincts made him force his eyes open, even with great effort. When his blurred vision cleared, the sight before him shocked him more than the pain wracking his body.
Indra Uchiha stood there, calm and towering, not striking him down. His lips curved into a smirk. The expression alone froze Itachi's heart.
"How could you die so easily?" Indra said coldly, his voice steady and cutting like a blade. "You think you can just close your eyes and leave? I'll decide how you die. I'll give you the most miserable death possible."
Itachi's bloodied chest rose and fell rapidly. His mind swirled, both stunned and shaken. He had expected Indra to finish him mercilessly. Yet, the fact that Indra deliberately refused to give him a clean death struck him harder than the physical pain.
Before either could say more, Indra's sharp senses caught movement. He turned his head slightly, golden tomoe spinning in his mutated Sharingan. He felt chakra signatures rapidly closing in. Many, more than a dozen… no, several dozens.
His gaze sharpened when the figures finally emerged from the treeline and rooftops, surrounding the battlefield. They wore identical clothing, black sleeveless garb, and each one's face was hidden behind cold, expressionless animal masks. Their footsteps were silent, their formation precise. Indra immediately recognized them.
"Root," he muttered, his smirk returning faintly.
As if to confirm his words, more masked figures appeared in the distance, closing in like wolves encircling prey. Indra didn't even flinch.
From behind them came an older figure, walking forward with a cane, his right arm hidden beneath his robes. His bandaged face and single visible eye locked on Indra. His expression was calm, but his steps carried authority.
Danzo Shimura.
Indra's smile grew sharper, his eyes glinting with cold amusement. Of all people, this was not who he expected to walk into this blood-soaked field tonight.
"Well, well," Indra said quietly, tightening his grip on his sword hilt. "The old dog himself arrives."
Danzo's eyes narrowed slightly when he took in the scene. He first glanced at Itachi's collapsed body, bloodied and broken, clearly having fought a battle that left him near death. Then he looked again at Indra, standing tall, unscathed except for a few superficial marks. The masked man Obito was nowhere in sight.
The situation was obvious.
But Danzo's expression did not reveal his inner calculations. Instead, he put on a righteous face, his voice steady and cold as he addressed Indra.
"Indra Uchiha," Danzo declared firmly. "How dare you injure a fellow village member so grievously? Look at Itachi—he is nearly dead by your hand. In the name of Konoha, and on behalf of the Hokage, I hereby declare you a traitor. I, Danzo, will personally capture you and deliver judgment."
His words echoed with false authority, his posture sharp and unwavering. To any bystander, it might have seemed as though he were the embodiment of loyalty to the village.
Indra, however, almost laughed aloud at the shameless display. He tilted his head slightly, his smirk never leaving his face.
"Danzo," Indra said in a teasing, mocking tone. "You think you can stand there and play righteous in front of me? Do you think I'll cower?" His Sharingan spun faster, catching the light, his golden tomoe gleaming with menace.
"I, Indra Uchiha—the head of Konoha's Guard and Patriarch of the Uchiha clan—suspect Itachi Uchiha of treachery. He conspired against his clan, against me, and betrayed his blood. As for you, Danzo…" Indra's tone grew sharper, his smirk stretching wider. "I suspect you as well—for disrupting the village's peace, manipulating from the shadows, and endangering Konoha's future. Seeing you appear here with Root members… how convenient. In the name of the Guard, I hereby declare you an enemy of the village. And I'll kill you personally."
Danzo's composure cracked for a split second. His visible eye twitched at the words. For a moment, he felt the sting of being forced into his own tactics, his rhetoric turned against him.
"This brat—" Danzo muttered in his mind, suppressing his irritation.
Then, regaining his calm, he snapped his fingers.
"Kill him. Spare his eyes," Danzo commanded, his voice low but absolute.
The Root members moved instantly, fifty of them spreading out into combat formation. Each mask turned toward Indra, their chakra signatures flaring as they prepared for coordinated assault.
Of the fifty, twenty radiated powerful chakra—elite jonin level. The rest were of chunin and jonin strength, but disciplined and deadly in formation.
Indra slowly drew his Kusanagi blade, the steel singing quietly in the air. He pointed the blade downward, his posture relaxed yet deadly. His smirk had faded, replaced with an expression of pure killing intent.
"Fifty Root dogs," he muttered, his voice steady. "This will be amusing."
Danzo's expression hardened.
"Go."
At once, the battlefield erupted.
The Root operatives moved with ruthless precision. Several jumped into the air, weaving hand seals at blinding speed. Fireballs roared to life, arcing downward toward Indra. From the ground, earth walls erupted, boxing him in. Lightning release crackled from another side, sharp lances shooting forward.
Indra moved.
His Sharingan spun rapidly, tracking every incoming attack. He stepped forward, his Kusanagi flashing once. With a swift slash, the air itself split, cutting through the first fireball and dispersing its flames into harmless embers. Another step forward, another strike—he shattered the lightning spear mid-air, the sparks scattering uselessly around him.
The earth walls closed in—but before they could fully trap him, Indra twisted his blade and rammed it downward, his raw strength shattering the rising wall into chunks of stone.
The moment he broke free, three Root members leapt toward him from above, blades drawn.
Indra's body moved in fluid precision. He sidestepped the first, his sword carving across the man's torso. Blood sprayed as the Root member fell. Without pause, Indra spun his wrist, parrying the second's blade and instantly counter-slashing through the man's neck. The third tried to stab downward, but Indra simply shifted his foot and thrust Kusanagi upward. The steel pierced the man's chest, exiting from his back.
In three breaths, three Root members were dead.
But the others didn't falter. Twenty more rushed forward, coordinating ninjutsu. Fire, water, and wind combined, roaring toward Indra in devastating waves.
Indra's eyes tracked everything. His blade danced, intercepting what could be cut, his body weaving perfectly between strikes. He didn't call upon ninjutsu. Not yet. He moved only with his sword, his kenjutsu unmatched.
He cut through another fire stream, his blade slicing so cleanly that the flames parted around him. He lunged forward, piercing through the throat of a Root jonin before pivoting and severing the arm of another.
Two more came from behind, one with a kunai, another weaving lightning release. Indra ducked low, his sword slicing the kunai-wielder in half at the waist. He then swung upward, severing the other's hand before driving the blade through his skull.
Blood sprayed across the battlefield, staining the ground.
The Root formation didn't break. They adjusted, retreating slightly, then surged forward again in waves. Their ninjutsu covered the air, the ground, and even attempted to strike from underground with earth release.
But Indra moved like a phantom, his Sharingan predicting every step. His blade tore through flesh, steel, and chakra alike. Every swing was efficient, every strike fatal. He didn't waste a single motion.
Danzo watched silently, his eye narrowing as Indra carved through his Root operatives one by one.
The moment Danzo's order fell upon the battlefield, the remaining twenty elite jōnin and the rest of the root operatives surged forward with murderous intent.
Their formation shifted immediately, creating layers of offense and defense, as if they had rehearsed this countless times in the darkness of Root's training grounds.
Some rushed ahead with blades flashing in the dim light, while others stayed behind weaving hand signs rapidly, preparing large-scale ninjutsu to pin Indra down.
Indra stood still, his figure tall and unshaken. The blood dripping from his blade and the corpses of the fallen Root members around him painted the ground in a gruesome sight, yet his face was calm, even carrying the trace of that same mocking smirk. His Sharingan spun furiously, analyzing every movement, every twitch of muscle, every chakra fluctuation from the incoming enemies.
He knew their tactics, their coordination, their precision—it was designed to overwhelm any enemy by sheer discipline. But to him, it was nothing more than fragile patterns waiting to be broken.
The first wave arrived, consisting of six elite jōnin. Their movements were fast, their chakra-controlled steps silent, their blades aimed at vital points—throat, chest, stomach, and arteries. They did not shout, they did not roar, they attacked in utter silence, embodying the cold, efficient killing style of Root.
Indra's grip on the Kusanagi tightened. With a swift sideways motion, he parried the incoming thrust from his left, his blade ringing against theirs. His body twisted immediately, and in that twist, his sword came across the neck of another attacker, slicing cleanly. The man staggered backward clutching at the wound, but Indra didn't spare a glance, his body already shifting toward the next threat.
A kunai aimed at his spine came flying with perfect timing, launched by a root operative who had hidden his presence until the exact moment. Indra tilted his head slightly, the kunai grazing past his cheek, then immediately stepped in, driving his blade through the chest of the attacker. Blood splattered across his armor, but he ignored it.
Simultaneously, the ground beneath him glowed with faint chakra marks. One of the jōnin had prepared an underground earth-style trap, attempting to bind Indra's legs in hardened rock. But Indra's eyes caught the faint signs of chakra movement underground before the trap could solidify. With one powerful leap, his body soared into the air, evading the binding, his cloak fluttering with the motion.
From the rear lines, a series of hand seals were completed. Five root operatives launched coordinated ninjutsu—giant fireballs from two, water dragon bullets from another, and earth spikes erupting from beneath him. The sky and ground themselves seemed to collapse inward with the combined assault.
But Indra did not falter. While still airborne, his sword gleamed as his chakra coated the blade. He swung once—an arc of sharp, concentrated chakra sliced through the incoming fireballs, splitting them apart before they could consume him. Then his body twisted mid-air, avoiding the water dragons as they crashed uselessly against the ruined terrain. When the earth spikes erupted, he planted his feet on one of them, using it as footing to launch himself forward instead of being pierced.
The sheer precision of his movements made it appear as though he had predicted every step of their combined attacks before they even happened.
The next wave of attackers rushed him as he landed among them. Blades clashed in rapid succession, sparks flying. Indra's swordsmanship was on a level beyond their comprehension; each slash, each thrust, was efficient, merciless, and absolute. His Sharingan eyes caught even the smallest hesitation, the tiniest delay in movement, and exploited it instantly.
One jōnin tried to block his downward strike with a reinforced kunai. The moment the kunai met his sword, Indra twisted his wrist, changing the angle and forcing the kunai downward, exposing the man's neck. Without hesitation, Indra's blade slid across the exposed throat, ending him in one stroke.
Another tried to attack from behind. Indra pivoted, stepping just enough for the blade to pass by his ribs, then turned with a horizontal slash that cut the attacker in half at the waist. Blood sprayed, staining the earth.
The more they attacked, the faster Indra's sword moved. His blade blurred into arcs of silver, carving through enemy after enemy. Even when shuriken and kunai flew from multiple angles, his sword deflected them with minimal effort. The battlefield was filled with the sounds of metal clashing, cries of pain, and the cold silence of Root's discipline breaking apart.
Despite their superior numbers and coordination, the Root members were being slaughtered one after another. Their ninjutsu couldn't lock him down. Their weapons couldn't touch him. Their teamwork fell apart under the pressure of one man's overwhelming skill.
Danzo, standing at the rear, watched with growing frustration. His face twisted into a scowl as he realized that Indra wasn't even using any ninjutsu, no fireballs, no lightning techniques, not even shadow clones—he was killing them all with nothing but a sword. Every operative he had trained for years, every shinobi molded into cold assassins under his hand, was being torn apart like children facing a predator.
"Useless," Danzo muttered under his breath, his fists tightening. "So useless against one man."
But still, he did not move forward himself. He watched carefully, analyzing, calculating, waiting for the moment he might exploit.
Back on the battlefield, Indra faced the last ten jōnin, who had regrouped and decided to go all out. They surrounded him in a circle, weaving seals simultaneously. The air trembled with their chakra. Flames roared to life, water surged, lightning crackled, and wind blades whistled through the air.
A combined ninjutsu assault from ten jōnin at once descended upon Indra. The flames spread across the battlefield, the lightning bolts split the air, and blades of wind cut toward him from every direction, leaving no escape.
Indra looked at them, his eyes glowing red with the spinning Sharingan tomoe. He did not step back. He did not retreat. Instead, he raised his sword with one hand, chakra surging into it until the blade glowed faintly. Then, as the combined ninjutsu neared him, he stepped forward.
His sword slashed once.
The flames were cut in half, split apart into harmless embers. The lightning bolts cracked and dispersed, the wind blades shattered, and the water streams were sliced as though they were paper. His single strike undid their entire combination, leaving them stunned.
Indra's body blurred as he dashed forward, his speed explosive. Before the first jōnin could even recover from the shock, Indra's blade pierced his chest. Withdrawing the sword in one smooth motion, he slashed to the right, cutting down the second. A spin and a downward strike ended the third.
The battlefield turned into a massacre. One after another, the elite jōnin fell under Indra's sword. They tried to resist, tried to counter, but every defense they put up was useless. His blade slipped through every guard, his movements impossible to predict, his eyes reading their every action.
The last two root operatives tried to flee backward, realizing the hopelessness of the battle. But Indra did not allow them to escape. His figure vanished from their sight, reappearing behind them in an instant. His sword sliced through both at once, their bodies collapsing into the blood-stained earth.
Silence fell.
The battlefield was covered in corpses, fifty Root members lying dead, their blood soaking into the ground. The only one left standing was Indra, his sword dripping with crimson, his figure tall and proud. His breathing was steady, his eyes calm, his smirk still present. He had killed them all—without breaking a sweat, without even needing to unleash his full power.
Danzo's face twisted further as he watched. His heart pounded with a mix of fury and dread. Fifty men, his carefully trained weapons, annihilated by one Uchiha with a sword. The scene burned into his eyes. He clenched his fists, the veins on his temple pulsing.
Indra slowly turned his gaze toward Danzo. Their eyes met, and in that gaze, Danzo felt a chill crawl up his spine. The smirk on Indra's lips was no longer playful—it was filled with murderous intent.
"You're next, old dog," Indra's voice carried across the battlefield, calm and cold. His sword dripped blood, his posture relaxed yet dangerous. "You've hidden in the shadows for far too long. Now, it's time for you to face judgment."
Danzo's breath hitched. He felt the killing intent radiating from Indra like a suffocating wave. For the first time in many years, he realized that he might not walk away alive from this confrontation.
And as Indra began walking toward him, stepping over the bodies of the fallen Root, the chapter ended in silence, with the tension between them reaching its peak.
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End of Chapter
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