The forest was too quiet.
Not the natural stillness of dusk, but a silence heavy with intent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath as masked shinobi stepped from the mist, their movements precise and uniform, blades glinting faintly in the twilight.
They formed a perfect circle around Minato, Sakumo, and Duy.
Every step they took was measured. Not one moved faster than another, not one stood taller or looser. It was as though they were limbs of a single body, eyes hidden, breaths even, weapons angled in uncanny synchronicity.
Sakumo drew his blade with a whisper of steel. "They're trained to act as one." His gaze swept the circle. "Not Obsidian… but their shadows."
Duy cracked his knuckles, sweat already dripping from his brow, though his grin was unwavering. "Then we'll break the circle. Simple as that!"
Minato's hand slipped into his pouch, pulling free tri-pronged kunai marked with complex formulae etched into the steel. His eyes, cool and unblinking, studied the ring of masked shinobi not with fear but with calculation. Every stance, every spacing, every twitch of a wrist or shift of a foot was weighed and mapped in his mind.
"Their formation is airtight," he murmured. "If we strike randomly, we'll be swallowed."
"And your plan?" Sakumo asked.
Minato's lips curved into the faintest smile. "We turn their circle into a web."
The Encirclement
The masked shinobi did not attack immediately. They moved in increments, closing the ring tighter, their blades raised in silent ritual. The air thickened with chakra suppression seals hanging faintly in the mist, dampening the flow of energy, slowing even breath.
Duy shifted uncomfortably. "Feels like chains on my lungs."
"They've prepared this ground," Sakumo said. His eyes narrowed. "If we falter, they won't even need to kill us. The seals will bleed us dry."
Minato crouched low, kunai spinning between his fingers. In a blur, he flicked one to the far left, another to the far right, each sinking into the dirt with a dull thunk. He threw more in quick succession, a pattern only he understood, weaving steel into geometry.
The masked shinobi did not react. They let the kunai fall, as though they were nothing but useless clutter.
But Minato's seals hummed faintly, invisible threads stretching between them, the beginning of a net only he could step into.
"Stay close," he said quietly, and then, as the circle closed, the first clash began.
The First Clash
The masked shinobi moved as one. No war cry, no roar of anger—just motion, blades flashing like mirrored waves. The entire circle collapsed inward in perfect unison, steel angled to leave no gaps.
Sakumo met the strike head-on. His blade sang through the air, parrying, slicing, countering. Sparks flew as steel kissed steel. He twisted, turned, and cut three down in a breath, yet the circle shifted seamlessly to fill the space.
Behind him, Duy roared, fists slamming into the ground. Earth cracked, throwing up chunks of stone he used as cover and weapons alike. His punches broke barriers, shattered shields, sent enemies flying back—yet still they returned, relentless, silent.
Minato vanished. One blink, and he was gone, reappearing behind a masked shinobi in a golden flash. His kunai sliced across an exposed tendon, dropping the enemy before they could react. Another flash, another strike, another enemy crumpling.
But for every one he cut down, two more stepped into the formation, blades locking in place, seamless as a machine.
"They're not fighting to win," Minato realized as he reappeared between seals, sweat beading his brow. "They're fighting to stall."
Sakumo's blade clashed against three at once, sparks scattering. "Then we break them before they bleed us dry!"
Sakumo's Edge
The White Fang moved like a shadow of inevitability. His blade was not wild nor flamboyant, but terrifyingly precise. Every swing cut exactly where it needed to, every motion flowed into the next.
But beneath the calm precision, his mind wrestled with doubt. Was this reckless? Was he gambling Konoha's future for one boy? For a storm that might one day destroy them all?
He saw Minato's back, golden hair gleaming as he vanished and reappeared, vanishing and reappearing, always a step ahead, always carrying the burden of strategy. He saw Duy, fists torn and bleeding, yet still swinging with the desperate will of a man who had nothing but loyalty to give.
Sakumo's grip tightened. Doubt could wait. Right now, all that mattered was survival.
He cut down another shinobi, then another, his blade gleaming white in the mist. But the circle would not break. It bent, shifted, absorbed his fury like the ocean absorbs a stone.
Duy's Burning Will
Duy staggered, chest heaving, blood running down his knuckles. The suppression seals pressed on his body like chains, each strike slower than the last, each breath like fire in his lungs.
But he remembered Ryuzen's eyes. Not pitying. Not mocking. Seeing him as strong, as worthy.
"I won't let you down!" he roared, slamming his fists into the earth. The ground split in jagged lines, breaking the rhythm of the circle.
He launched forward, body a blur of green, fists hammering into armored chests, shattering masks, breaking the machine's flow. For every strike he landed, his body screamed with pain—but he didn't care. Pain was proof he was still standing.
"Break me if you can!" he shouted, blood spraying from his lip. "But I'll keep swinging until my last breath!"
His defiance carved space where there was none, buying Minato the seconds he needed.
The Flash of Victory
Minato's kunai web was complete. Dozens of seals gleamed faintly in the mist, unseen by all but him. He crouched low, fingers brushing one marked kunai, golden light flickering across his hand.
"Now," he whispered.
He vanished.
In less than a heartbeat, he appeared behind one shinobi, kunai sinking deep. Before the body hit the ground, he was gone again, reappearing across the circle, striking another. Then another. Then another.
Flashes of golden light erupted across the battlefield, a storm of motion too fast for the eye to follow. Every mark was a doorway, every flash a death sentence. The circle faltered, masks breaking, blades dropping.
Sakumo pressed forward, cutting into the cracks Minato carved. Duy roared, fists smashing into gaps with unstoppable force.
The circle collapsed.
One by one, the masked shinobi fell until silence reclaimed the forest, broken only by the harsh breathing of the three who remained standing.
The Aftermath
The ground was littered with broken masks, steel glinting faintly in the dying light. Minato stood at the center, chest heaving, his kunai still glowing faintly. Sakumo's blade dripped with enemy blood, and Duy staggered, fists trembling, sweat pouring down his face.
But none of them lowered their guard.
Minato's eyes scanned the shadows, his senses sharp. The faint trail of storm-chakra stretched north, pulling him onward. They were close. Too close to stop.
And then, the mist shifted.
A single figure stepped forward. Not like the masked shinobi—this one carried presence. His armor was darker, heavier, etched with faint lines that glowed like embers. His mask was smooth, expressionless, yet his chakra radiated pressure that bent the air.
He stopped a dozen steps away, voice low and steady.
"You've come too far."
His head tilted slightly, almost curious. "Turn back… or be buried here."
The silence that followed was colder than steel.
Minato stepped forward, eyes burning with golden light. His voice was calm, unwavering.
"Then show me the grave."
The wind howled. The storm was not over. It had only just begun.
Author's Note
⚡ The Circle of Blades has fallen, but a new enemy stands revealed—an elite of the Obsidian Division, radiating power beyond the masked shadows. Minato has declared his resolve, and the next battle may be his most dangerous yet.
Next: The First Obsidian Clash.