27: ZELDRIS, THE DEMON KING
The next day, Mirror could be seen clearly—jumping from tree to tree across a secluded forest.
Multiple figures spiraled around him, numbering in the tens—almost fifty.
Tsunade's words still echoed in his head.
"I petition for Mirror to be granted the rank of Anbu captain."
Expectedly, her words had created a lot of discourse—a newly promoted Anbu being promoted to captain was absurd.
So a bet was made. If Benimaru could defeat all of them, he would be granted the rank of captain.
Of course, most Anbu didn't take it seriously. The majority didn't know his identity and assumed he just bought his way in.
Big mistake.
The fist of a nameless Anbu was caught by Mirror, who proceeded to knee him in the gut to knock him out.
"Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!"
A large fireball spiraled toward Mirror, but he was prepared.
He yawned.
"Too weak."
It was because of her that he was in this situation—he might as well enjoy himself.
It's been a while since he let loose.
Gripping his sword handle, he slashed the fireball into two—all without moving an inch.
A sword slash permeated the air; a nameless Anbu had tried to slice his head off—but Mirror caught his blade with a finger.
The Anbu struggled against Mirror's firm grip, the latter simply chuckling at his struggle.
He mocked,
"You have potential. Maybe in another thousand years you would beat me."
Mirror spun around, kicking the Anbu by the side—causing his body to crash against a tree.
The sight of the remaining Anbu filled Mirror's vision—less than thirty remained.
Realizing that sneak attacks were ineffective, they came out of hiding—hoping to overpower him with pure numbers.
But the eyes of the Anbu members had changed.
No longer the mocking gaze which had filled their egos just moments prior.
They were now filled with a sort of reverence and respect—which could only be gotten through power.
The goal had been achieved. Whether Mirror won or not was irrelevant.
After this, if he wanted the title—none would dare argue.
At the end, fifty elite Anbu lay defeated, and a soon-to-be Anbu captain stood over them.
CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.
In the corner of his eye, the image of three people could be seen.
Mirror's eyes twitched. Tsunade was the reason he was in this mess, but he had to admit—he had fun.
Walking with her was Shizune, holding the small form of Tonton—the pig.
A hand covered Shizune's mouth as she gaped at the scene—this was incredible.
Her eyes scanned Mirror. From what Tsunade had told her, the boy was only thirteen years old.
Yet from what he had shown now—he could defeat her without effort.
A wave of recognition washed over her. It was to be expected.
In the ninja world, whoever had power was greatly respected—and feared.
Tsunade assessed the boy top to bottom—a smirk hinting at the corner of her lips.
Even through all that, the boy hadn't a scratch on him.
It was remarkable.
"Since Mirror has won the bet, he is to be promoted to Anbu captain. Effective immediately."
Her voice was concise, leaving no room for argument.
A few days later, word reached Benimaru that Naruto had left the village—going on a training journey with Jiraiya.
Sasuke had engrossed himself in training, determined to surpass both him and Mirror.
Kakashi had taken him on as a full-on protégé, and Sakura had surprisingly begun training under Tsunade—wanting to become a medic.
The sight of Benimaru laying on his bed was slightly disturbing.
Hand on his chest, his breathing uneven and abnormal.
His hand shot up suddenly, gripping his head tightly—a grave migraine tore through him.
Although he was sweating buckets, a smile still graced his lips.
"Everyone's getting stronger. I can't afford to slack off."
He spoke softly to himself, another headache approaching, causing him to scream in pain.
In that moment, his shadow extended—forming someone—no, something.
The person wasn't tall; in fact, he could be called short.
He wasn't of any grand stature, but…
His mere aura was terrifying.
To the point where Benimaru, who had surpassed the power of a Jonin, was sent to his knees from pure pressure.
His head practically glued to the floor as his eyes bulged in shock—he couldn't move.
The figure had a regal—almost majestic—feel to him.
Like he was a god.
A short sword strapped to his waist and two iron gauntlets on his fists.
He wore a red shirt with black pants, his shirt open—clearly exposing his chiseled muscular frame and physique.
As clear as day, a demon mark was etched above his right eye.
The person took a single look at Benimaru's submissive form.
"And you dare call yourself my blood? This is pathetic."
His voice was laced with obvious disdain, but Benimaru could barely even look up.
"Who… are… you?"
He choked out, barely able to speak under the weight placed on him.
The figure scoffed.
"You don't even know who I am?"
He asked, genuinely curious. Taking Benimaru's silence as confirmation, he continued,
"My name is Zeldris, the Demon King."
Staring directly into Benimaru's eyes, he smirked.
"And your grandfather."
The Ryota's eyes widened in pure shock. His grandfather—the Demon King, someone Chandler described as a god—had come to meet him.
Zeldris didn't bother waiting for Benimaru's response. He never fancied small talk. He was here to make a point—nothing more, nothing less.
"You are to return to the Demon Realm with Chandler. That's an order."
His tone was firm and strong as he prepared to leave.
"Wait."
Benimaru said, barely managing to stand on his feet—legs wobbly, arms shaking.
"If I'm really your grandson, then I have to prove myself, right? I'll take you on here and now."
Zeldris's gaze shifted almost immediately—from a calm and uncaring look to an enraged expression.
He admired the fact that his grandson wouldn't back down but…
He was just so weak.
Fighting him was an insult.
He saw Benimaru entering a fighting stance. Did he really think he could win?
In a blur, the Ryota vanished, appearing in front of Zeldris with a right hook.
SLICE.
Blood spattered to the floor.
Benimaru didn't see it, didn't feel it—only heard it.
In that instant, his arm had been severed so cleanly, and so precisely—his brain couldn't even process the pain.
Benimaru's dismembered hand was gripped tightly by Zeldris, who held it like a trophy.
"Disappointing."
He tossed the hand in the air; slimy black goo grabbed it and attached it back together.
"You reject your demonic heritage. That is the reason for your weakness."
Just like that, Zeldris was gone. His presence faded—but the effect he had on his grandson would never truly fade.
CHAPTER END
POWER STONES