A dark, luxurious room.
Still the same six consortium leaders.
The man sitting in the center picked up the remote, clicked it off, snap, and shut the TV. He didn't want to keep watching.
He tossed the remote onto the coffee table, lit a cigar, took a deep drag, and with the smoke he exhaled came a few quiet words, "Admit defeat."
Yes, admit defeat.
The Sky Army Project, failed.
The Akatsuki assassination, failed.
The Warsaw City rebellion, failed.
Three failures in a row. They truly had no other options left.
From the beginning, they'd wanted to kill Ryosuke. Later, they only wanted to grab their money and run. You could say their mindset had sunk lower and lower, but even such a humble wish could no longer be fulfilled.
Tokugawa Shingen was not the newly risen Oda Ieyasu.
Perhaps, in terms of governing a nation, Oda Ieyasu could outmatch Tokugawa Shingen by ten streets. But when it came to maintaining control and balance between the nation and the financial groups, that fat dead man Tokugawa Shingen was far better.
He had firmly seized the lifelines of countless industries belonging to the major consortiums. As long as he lived, the Land of Wind would not fall into chaos, and the consortiums would never be able to safely withdraw their assets.
Or rather, the people of the consortiums could leave if they wanted. Go wherever they pleased. Tokugawa Shingen couldn't stop them, nor would he care.
But their money, their resources, all had to obediently stay behind.
The consortiums launched the Warsaw City rebellion because they didn't want to become pigs, having their flesh slowly sliced away by Tokugawa Shingen and handed to Ryosuke piece by piece, just to buy time.
But if they were to "leave empty-handed"…
They'd rather be pigs.
At least before the meat was all carved off, they were still standing proudly at the top of the food chain.
So… they could only admit defeat.
The six men stood up one by one. "This generation, it ends here, I suppose. Let's hope that a hundred years from now, when Ryosuke is dead, our families will still exist."
"Best wishes."
"Best wishes."
They shook hands, each one of them, then left the dark room as their subordinates waiting outside hurried forward.
Almost at the same moment, the six men, faces expressionless, issued their orders, "Negotiate with Tokugawa Shingen. Tell him to start carving up someone else first. We'll lie down like dogs if we have to, and live on..."
"...until Ryosuke is dead."
"Yes, sir."
The subordinates acknowledged, then hesitated and asked, "What about the Kurosaki trio?"
All six consortium leaders froze.
"…Who?"
———
The consortium had surrendered.
But Monk Faichi was still fighting desperately.
He was bare-chested, surrounded by fragments of what had once been a barrier.
Faichi's plan was simple, use the barrier to defend against Rasa's attacks, then release his chains to bind Gaara.
As long as he could unleash the One-Tailed Shukaku, no one in this city could stop him.
Not even Ryosuke.
He had gone over this plan countless times during meditation, convinced there wasn't a single flaw.
But when the two of them actually clashed, Monk Faichi realized, something was wrong.
Why was Rasa's speed faster than his chains?
Why could the flying gold dust shatter his defensive barrier?
"This isn't logical." Monk Faichi gritted his teeth.
But he failed to consider, if he truly could defeat Rasa in a one-on-one fight, how could he have remained a nameless nobody for so many years?
How could Sunagakure, a village built on the strategy of nurturing elite ninjas, have ever treated him like a fringe figure?
In this cruel ninja world, maybe other kinds of geniuses could be buried, but not the kind who could fight and kill.
Rasa said coldly, "You tried to kill my son. So if I kill you now, wouldn't that be what your Buddhists call karma?"
Veins bulged on Monk Faichi's forehead. His jaws clenched tight, teeth grinding audibly. His eyes were full of unwilling rage.
"My entire life's work is in beast manipulation, Rasa! I refuse to accept this!"
"If you still have the pride of a strong man, the dignity of a Kazekage, then give me Gaara!"
"Let me control the One-Tail, and we'll fight a fair, honest duel!"
At those words, not only did Rasa freeze, even the just-returned Granny Chiyo stood stunned.
Rasa pointed at Faichi and turned to Chiyo.
"What model of idiot is this one?"
"Must've chanted himself stupid," Chiyo rolled her eyes.
Rasa shook his head, done wasting breath. He raised a hand, and in the air, golden sand gathered into a massive palm that came crashing down toward the monk.
"I refuse! I refuse!"
The golden hand slammed Monk Faichi into the ground. When the dust settled, all that remained was a splatter of blood, like a fly swatted dead.
With Faichi's death, the unsettling pipa music ceased at last. The abnormal chakra fluctuations inside Gaara's body gradually returned to normal, and he finally woke from his coma.
The horrors from his dream were hazy, forgotten, but he remembered leaning against his father's back. The same stern father who had always, in that dream, protected him.
Gaara opened his eyes, saw Rasa, and tears streamed down his face. He spread his arms.
"Father…"
But what greeted him wasn't an embrace, it was a slap across the head.
Rasa said coldly, "A man should act like a man. Stop that crying."
The warmth that had just bloomed in Gaara's heart was instantly shattered.
'So… it really was just a dream, huh?'
Gaara shrank back timidly, standing off to the side.
Rasa opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end, he didn't know what. So, just like countless times before, he ignored his son's unspoken longing.
He turned to Chiyo, who was holding a puppet with Mukade's face attached to it.
"That thing you were fighting before, it was Mukade's puppet?"
Chiyo tossed the puppet to the ground. "A small trick."
"The real Mukade ran away?"
"Ran?" Chiyo made a gun gesture with her hand, pointed in one direction, and smiled slyly.
"He can't run."
———
[A Kilometer Away, Inside a Civilian House]
Mukade's eyes snapped open, his face twitching as fear lingered. "Damn that old hag… she's got some skill."
They'd exchanged only three or four moves before Chiyo found the flaw in his puppet control and crushed his remote link with ease.
"Had your fun? Then time to end it."
He gathered his things, ready to leave. But just as he reached for the door...
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Thud!
Four distinct knocks.
"Who's there!" Mukade barked.
Outside came a clear, childish voice, "Do you want to build a snowman?"
He frowned, crept to the door, and peered through the keyhole, a puppet spider crouched outside, a bomb strapped to its abdomen, its timer ticking down.
"Shit."
That was the last word he spoke.
BOOM!
The explosion tore him apart.
Chiyo lowered her hand, chin lifted slightly.
"Told you. He can't run."
———
Kurosaki, galloping through the desert on horseback, knew nothing.
He didn't know Ryosuke had halted the slaughter in Warsaw City.
He didn't know his two companions, no, partners, were already dead.
He didn't even know that, just minutes ago, the consortium had already chosen to surrender.
All of Kurosaki's attention was on escape.
Under the bright moonlight, his steed thundered across the sand, his gray-black cloak fluttering wildly behind him, laughter echoing in the wind, wild and untamed.
How could he not laugh?
Decades of patience, crawling, clawing through countless failures, humiliations, and setbacks…
At last, Kurosaki saw his turning point.
Thinking of the glorious life awaiting him, he burst out laughing uncontrollably.
"Hahahahaha!"
Then it was as if a meteor had crashed beside him.
Kurosaki was thrown from his horse, tumbling hard across the desert sand until he finally came to a stop.
He knelt on the ground, looking up, his pupils reflected a figure slowly descending from the sky.
Ryosuke didn't even glance at him.
He simply reached out, laying a hand on the frightened horse. The trembling beast calmed under his touch.
"R-Ryo… Ryosuke!"
Kurosaki wanted to run.
But his legs wouldn't obey. He stayed kneeling, motionless, like livestock awaiting slaughter.
'No. I won't be livestock! I'll become a dragon! I'll rise above everyone!'
That twisted obsession, the one that had driven Kurosaki to commit countless inhuman acts, pushed him to stand, trembling, on unsteady legs.
The earlier impact had left his insides mangled. Still, he looked at Ryosuke standing atop the dune, tending to the horse, and turned to flee, stumbling downward.
Then...
Dark green mold began to spread across his skin.
His flesh and muscles crumbled like crushed wafers, flaking away bit by bit.
He turned his head, there, beside Ryosuke, stood a dark green specter, silent and still.
Another step, and more of his body disintegrated. From his thin fingers, the bones beneath could already be seen.
"What… what kind of ability is this?!"
He froze in terror.
The moment he stopped moving, the decay of the mold of youth ceased.
But he was standing on a sloped dune, even if he did nothing, gravity pulled him slowly downward.
And with that slight descent, his skin, his flesh, his bones continued to rot and crumble.
Kurosaki screamed in agony, reaching toward Ryosuke, only to find the hand he raised upward hadn't decayed at all.
So… climbing upward stops the rot?
Despair swallowed him whole.
Below, hellish decay. Above, the merciless demon.
His life was supposed to be reborn under the dawn. So why… why was this night endless torment?
"Your turn now, Kurosaki," Ryosuke said softly, still stroking the horse's mane. "How will you choose?"
"I'll give you one chance, if you can stand before me, I'll let you live."
Dangling on the edge of despair, Kurosaki saw a glimmer of hope.
"Really?"
Ryosuke didn't answer.
But Kurosaki had no choice. It was his only path forward.
He dug his rotting, crumbling hands into the sand and began to climb, just as he had done all his life.
But the sand kept sliding beneath him. His decayed body was sluggish and weak. Every few meters he climbed, he'd slip back down again.
And every time he slipped, the mold ate deeper into him.
By the end, no intact patch of skin remained. His legs were completely rotted through from endless climbing and falling.
His flesh was torn and foul, his face monstrous, teeth falling out, skin gone. Any normal person would've died from pain long ago.
But Kurosaki refused to die.
He wanted to live, to bask in glory and riches.
Finally, legless, driven only by twisted obsession, he crawled to Ryosuke's feet. His throat was shredded; his voice came out broken and muffled, "Let… me… go…"
Ryosuke looked back toward Warsaw City. "When I think of all those people you deceived, those poor souls who burned their lives away fighting…"
"I had planned to wait till you reached me, then kick you back down, let you taste what it's like to die in lies."
He paused. "But now, I've changed my mind."
Crouching, Ryosuke infused Kurosaki with a pulse of Ripple energy, awakening his final spark of life. Then he shut down the mold of youth, mounted his horse, and glanced down at him.
"Enjoy your life at the 'top,' Kurosaki."
He flicked the reins, and the horse trotted off toward Warsaw City.
Kurosaki lay there.
He had no legs. His entire body was rotted through. The pain he'd ignored in his obsession now surged all at once, making him writhe on the sand.
'But… I survived! I'll become a dragon!'
Then, he heard birds.
Above, vultures circled in the moonlight, white wings like messengers of death.
And from the ground came rustling, lizards, ants, centipedes, and scorpions creeping out of the sand, drawn by the smell of blood and flesh.
"No… stay back… get away…"
His hoarse screams echoed across the desert.
But no one cared.
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