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The warfront reeked of blood, ash, and fear. The ground was carved into trenches and scars, littered with the remnants of battles that no one sang about. Soldiers shuffled along the mud, clutching kunai with trembling fingers, their eyes not on the horizon where the enemy gathered—
but on the man standing among them.
Ryuzen.
His storm still hadn't left him. Not fully. Even as he breathed, faint arcs of lightning crawled over his arms like restless spirits. His body was still stitched by Tsunade's chakra, scars humming with the residue of the forbidden duel against Shinro. He should not have been here, not this soon. Every tendon, every nerve screamed at him. But war didn't wait.
Neither did fear.
The whispers crawled louder than the wind.
"He shouldn't be fighting yet."
"What if he loses control again?"
"That storm—he's not human anymore…"
Ryuzen closed his eyes. He had learned long ago that silence hurt more than blades. But here, silence was impossible. Every shinobi's breath around him was taut with suspicion. Allies stood near him, yet they edged their steps away, as if standing too close meant being swallowed.
And yet—when the horn blew, when the enemy came roaring across the valley, it was still him they looked at. The storm. Their weapon. Their curse.
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The Battle Erupts
The earth groaned before the human tide. From the rocky hills ahead, Iwagakure and Sunagakure shinobi descended like a rolling avalanche. Explosive tags lit the air in bursts of orange flame, kunai and shuriken raining like metal storms.
Ryuzen's chakra flared before his body could decide if it was ready. The storm answered his call violently, lightning erupting outward in a web of fury. The first wave of enemy shinobi never reached the front lines—their bodies convulsed midair, struck down by arcs that split bone and steel alike.
But even victory brought silence. His comrades recoiled at the sight.
He moved forward anyway. Not for them. Not even for Konoha. He moved because if he stayed still, his thoughts would drown him. The storm needed movement.
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Isolation in Chaos
The battlefield dissolved into fragments of hell. Clashes everywhere—sand whips cracking against steel, explosions carving the mud, screams swallowed by the roar of jutsu. Ryuzen cut through it all, but the further he went, the more he realized… no one fought beside him.
A wedge of empty space followed his steps. Konoha shinobi would rather fight elsewhere, even if it meant facing death without their strongest weapon. He was winning them battles—yet losing them trust.
The storm was not his alone anymore. It was a shadow cast over the village.
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The Hunter Arrives
The ground split.
An enormous wall of jagged stone erupted in front of Ryuzen, cutting off his path. From the rising dust, a figure stepped forward—armor scratched but intact, eyes like carved granite.
"Iwagakure sends greetings," the man said, voice heavy, calm, unhurried. "We have come not for Konoha's army. We have come for you."
Ryuzen narrowed his gaze. The man carried no fear, only certainty. Earth chakra bled from his every pore.
"Name," Ryuzen demanded.
The man bowed his head slightly, mocking. "Genshū. Stone's Edge. And today, Storm, I bury you."
Before Ryuzen could speak, the ground answered Genshū's will. Spikes of stone erupted upward, jagged fangs seeking to pierce flesh and storm alike.
Ryuzen moved, storm splitting the air in counter. Thunder clashed against stone, lightning shredding rock into molten shards. The battlefield shook as if nature itself had chosen sides.
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The Duel – Storm vs Stone
Genshū was unlike the waves of fodder Ryuzen had cut down before. His earth style wasn't just power—it was precision. He fought like a sculptor carving Ryuzen's death, shaping the terrain into cages, barriers, spears, and pits. Every step forward was met with shifting walls that sought to entomb him.
"Your storm is chaos," Genshū said mid-clash, his voice carrying over the thunder. "But chaos cannot last. Stone endures. Villages endure. Men like you burn bright—and then are gone."
The words dug deeper than the stone walls. They sounded too much like the whispers of his own comrades.
Lightning flared from Ryuzen's palm, a spear of storm that cut through three layers of stone walls. The two clashed in a maelstrom of raw nature—lightning boiling stone, earth grounding thunder. Every strike tore apart the battlefield, every miss killed dozens of soldiers around them.
The duel wasn't just between men. It was between philosophies. Chaos against endurance. Storm against stone.
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The Edge of Control
But the scars of Shinro still haunted him. His storm burned hotter than his body could hold. Every surge ripped at his healing wounds. His vision blurred with pain, arcs of lightning burning too wildly, scorching not just enemies but allies who strayed too near.
He saw the fear in their eyes again—his own people, flinching away even as he saved them.
Am I protecting them… or proving them right?
The storm crackled dangerously, wild, unstable. Genshū smiled grimly. "Yes. Lose yourself. Your own village already fears you. You are the perfect target. Kill yourself for me."
For a heartbeat, Ryuzen felt the edge—where storm turned from weapon to curse, where he could not tell if the lightning striking the ground belonged to him or the heavens themselves.
---
The Belief of a Comrade
And then—
a blur moved into the duel's orbit.
Might Duy.
He shouldn't have been there. His fists were wrapped in bloodied bandages, his breath ragged, yet his eyes blazed with the kind of fire only the foolish—or the pure—could carry.
"Ryuzen!" he roared. "You are not chaos. You are not a curse. You are my comrade!"
Genshū snarled and slammed his hands into the ground, spikes of stone erupting toward Duy. But Ryuzen's storm snapped instantly, intercepting every shard, burning them to molten dust before they touched his friend.
Something shifted. The storm that had been spiraling out of control suddenly narrowed, honed by the anchor of Duy's words. The arcs bent, sharper, steadier. For the first time, the lightning didn't feel like it was eating him alive.
It felt like it was listening.
---
Turning the Tide
Together, they pressed forward. Duy's fists, though not at full power, moved with unshakable rhythm, breaking through openings Ryuzen carved with lightning. Each strike was a heartbeat, each surge of thunder a drum.
Storm and fire of youth—an impossible pairing that shattered Genshū's precision. For every wall of stone he raised, lightning carved it apart, fists shattered the cracks, and the storm pressed closer.
At last, Ryuzen's palm pressed to the ground. His voice thundered:
"Stormfang Burial!"
Lightning split the battlefield, carving beneath the earth itself. Genshū roared as the ground betrayed him, lightning crawling through the very veins of his chakra. His stone walls crumbled, his stance faltered—
and Duy's fist found his jaw, breaking the duel.
Genshū staggered back, defeated but alive. His body flickered with burns, his breath shallow. With a snarl of rage, he sank into the earth, retreating into the fissures he had once commanded.
The duel was over. But the war was not.
---
Aftermath
The valley fell silent except for the crackle of fading lightning.
Konoha shinobi stared at Ryuzen—not cheering, not rushing forward. Just watching. Measuring.
Some saw salvation. Others saw a weapon too dangerous to keep unleashed.
And Ryuzen felt it. He had won. But every victory deepened the wedge between him and his people.
Duy clapped a hand on his shoulder, smiling through blood. "See? You are not a curse. You are proof… that even storms can have comrades."
But Ryuzen only looked at the horizon, where the smoke of enemy camps rose anew. He knew the truth whispered louder than any praise.
The war was not just against Iwa or Suna anymore. It was against the storm inside their own village.
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Author's Note
Eight readers. Twenty-two collections.
That number may look small to some—but to me, it means everything. Because it tells me one thing: the people reading this aren't casual. You're the rare few who didn't just stumble here… you stayed. You chose to carry this storm with me.
This chapter is heavy, violent, and raw because war isn't just a clash of armies—it's a clash of trust, fear, and survival. Ryuzen is no longer fighting for victory; he's fighting for how the world will remember him.
And you, the ones reading this now, are seeing the story before anyone else. You're part of the foundation. Someday, when more eyes find this, you'll be the ones who can say—"I was there when the storm was small."
Thank you for staying, thank you for feeling, thank you for collecting. You're not just readers—you're proof that this story is alive.
The storm isn't over. It's only growing. ⚡
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