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The battlefield had gone quiet. Not with peace, but with the kind of silence that only came before something far worse.
The masked shinobi they had fought and cut down now lay still across the ground, their bodies broken, their formations shattered. Yet the three men who remained—Minato Namikaze, Sakumo Hatake, and Might Duy—did not relax. Their instincts screamed at them in unison: this fight wasn't over.
From the far edge of the clearing, a figure emerged. Slow, deliberate steps pressed into the blood-soaked earth. His cloak was black, trimmed with faint silver that shimmered faintly even in the gloom. A porcelain-white mask concealed his face, marked only with a single red stroke angled across the eye. But his presence spoke louder than sight ever could.
It was suffocating.
The air grew heavy as though the world itself bent under this man's chakra. Not wild, not uncontrolled—tightly compressed, like a storm bottled into human form. Even Minato felt it pressing down on his lungs, a weight reminding him that this was no mere foot soldier. This was an Obsidian Elite.
"Stay sharp," Minato murmured, his voice steady but his hand flexing around the special kunai at his hip.
Sakumo's eyes narrowed, White Fang already drawn, its blade gleaming under the dim light. "So… they finally sent someone worth their name."
Duy clenched his fists, knuckles whitening, his chest still heaving from the last battle. But though battered, his eyes burned with the same unwavering fire. "Then we won't back down."
The elite stopped just short of the circle of corpses. His head tilted, gaze invisible through the mask, but his presence bore down like a predator inspecting prey. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady, and disarmingly calm.
"You shouldn't have come here."
A shiver crawled down Minato's spine. The words weren't a threat. They were a statement of fact.
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The First Exchange
The elite moved without warning. No wasted motion, no stance to telegraph his strike—he was simply there, inside the circle, blade sweeping toward Sakumo with lethal precision.
White Fang rose in perfect defense, the clash ringing sharp across the silence. The force rattled Sakumo's arms, pushing him back a step. Immediately, Minato vanished in a yellow flash, reappearing behind the enemy with his kunai poised.
The elite twisted, his blade deflecting Minato's strike as though he had anticipated it.
Minato's eyes widened. He tracked me… even while clashing with Sakumo?
Before he could press, the elite's foot snapped out, faster than Duy could blink, slamming into Minato's ribs and forcing him to retreat in a swirl of dust.
Duy roared, rushing forward. His fist exploded toward the elite's chest, power shaking the ground beneath them. The masked shinobi caught it with one hand. Caught it, as though Duy's raw force was nothing. Then with a twist, he flung Duy aside like a ragdoll.
The man wasn't just fast. He wasn't just strong. He was precise, each motion calculated and clean, like a blade honed to its final edge.
Sakumo attacked again, his sword a blur of silver arcs. For a moment, the two clashed in a whirl of sparks, steel ringing again and again. But each strike Sakumo landed was caught—either by blade, elbow, or shift of movement. The elite wasn't improvising. He was flowing. Every motion was part of a rhythm too smooth to be natural.
Minato landed lightly a dozen meters away, breath tight. His mind raced as fast as his body could move. No wasted steps. Every motion part of a cycle. He's fighting like… like a machine.
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Learning the Enemy
The battle stretched on, seconds dragging into what felt like minutes. Minato attacked from every angle with Flying Raijin, each teleport a blur of golden light. Yet time and time again, the elite turned, adjusted, and met him with flawless counters. Not faster—predictive.
It clicked.
"He's reading us," Minato called out, flashing away from a near-lethal strike. "Not our bodies—our patterns!"
Sakumo gritted his teeth, sparks flying as White Fang locked against the enemy blade. "Patterns?"
"He's trained to fight like this. A rhythm. No improvisation, no hesitation. Just… calculated flow." Minato's eyes narrowed, kunai spinning in his grip. "If we can break that rhythm, we break him."
Duy, pulling himself up from the dirt, spat blood and laughed breathlessly. "Then I'll smash his rhythm to pieces!"
Without hesitation, he charged again. His fists flew wild, less technique and more raw will, hammering at the elite with chaotic fury. The masked shinobi blocked each strike, but for the first time—his perfect flow wavered.
Sakumo saw it. "Now!"
He lunged, White Fang slashing in a sudden feint before twisting low, angling for the man's side. The elite blocked late, forced to stumble half a step.
Minato flashed. His kunai already littered the ground, forming a web unseen by the naked eye. In a blink, he vanished and reappeared, vanished and reappeared, chaining teleports into a storm of golden afterimages.
Steel screeched as the elite tried to follow—but his rhythm cracked under the strain. One misstep became two. Then three. And finally—
"Got you."
Minato appeared inside his guard, kunai burying deep into the elite's shoulder. Blood spattered across the ground as the masked shinobi staggered back, cloak torn.
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The Warning
For the first time, the elite was silent—not calm, but frozen. His rhythm broken, his perfection stained. He looked at the three before him, chest rising and falling in a slow, mechanical breath.
Then he straightened.
Without a word, his form blurred into smoke, vanishing as though he had never been there. Only his voice remained, carried on the air like a whisper that didn't belong to the wind.
"You are fast… but not enough. The storm will be ours."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Minato lowered his kunai, sweat running down his temple. His chest ached where the kick had landed earlier, but he barely felt it. His mind whirled. If this was just one elite… what are the rest like?
Sakumo sheathed White Fang slowly, his eyes grim. "They're not fighting to win. They're fighting to shape. To test us. To test him."
Duy clenched his fists tighter, trembling not with fear but frustration. "Ryuzen… they still have him. And we're wasting time here!"
Minato exhaled, forcing calm into his voice though his heart still raced. "No. Not wasting. We learned. Their rhythm can be broken. They can bleed. That means they can fall."
Yet as he looked into the distance, where the faint trace of storm-chakra flickered like a beacon, he couldn't shake the chill in his chest. Because if Ryuzen was in their hands—if Obsidian was molding him with this same brutal perfection—then every second counted.
The storm was calling.
And it was time to answer.
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Author's Note
⚡ "This was their first true clash with an Obsidian Division elite—and they only barely scraped a victory. Minato's brilliance shone, but the warning left behind is clear: Obsidian's storm is only beginning. Next chapter, the chase accelerates, and the truth of Ryuzen's capture begins to unfold."
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