The fog was suffocating.
Yashiro gripped his sword with both hands, scarlet Sharingan spinning fast — three tomoe flashing like sparks in the dark.
Shapes blurred inside the mist. Kirigakure shinobi darted like ghosts, half-seen, half-imagined. His eyes could track their speed, but not pierce the choking white curtain.
And then came the voices.
"Heart.""Liver.""Spleen.""Lung.""Kidney."
Mocking whispers slithered through the fog, circling him like predators.
"Which one do you want to lose first?"
It was a classic Kirigakure game: drown you in dread before cutting you down.
Yashiro didn't flinch. His Sharingan flickered restlessly, searching, refusing to give them the satisfaction of fear.
He hadn't even been supposed to be here. Originally, this was Fugaku's mission. But Yashiro had tagged along — because Jinzō's internal cultivation method had toughened his body and sharpened his eyes. That confidence pushed him into the thick of danger.
And he'd chosen this. Danger, death — none of it was unexpected.
A shadow flickered behind him. A kunai slid silently for his heart.
Yashiro's head snapped around, eyes blazing.
"I've already read your tricks."
The attacker's pupils shrank. A searing heat tore through his senses — the world around him twisted into an ocean of fire.
"Genjutsu… Sharingan—"
Too late.
Steel flashed. Yashiro's blade tore across his neck, ending his life in one merciless stroke.
"Idiot."
An old voice echoed out of the mist.
"Don't look into his eyes! Uchiha's Sharingan isn't just for show!"
Three more silhouettes lunged from the fog. Kunai whistled. Their footwork was soundless, their strikes coming from blind angles.
But Yashiro had fought Kirigakure assassins before. Experience spoke louder than eyes. Danger prickled across his skin — instinct sharper than even Sharingan.
His breathing shifted. A rhythm drilled into muscle and bone.
"Breath of the Rock."
Dust hissed out from between his teeth.
"Form One — Serpentine Bipolar!"
His sword slashed arcs through the mist, chakra flaring, shaping into stone axes and hammers. Two attackers caught the strikes head-on, forced back with violent crashes.
But the third?
"Breath of the Rock — Form Three, Skin of Stone!"
Chains of earth erupted around him, wrapping his body in a shell of defense. The last enemy's blade rang harmlessly off the rocky barrier.
Yashiro countered hard, but they slipped back into the fog. Always retreating, always watching. He caught their gaze — no flickers of genjutsu this time. They were cautious now.
He exhaled sharply. "Figures. Mist's assassination squad."
They didn't waste chakra on flashy ninjutsu. Just fog, silence, and blood. Kill, then vanish. A nightmare to fight, and worse to finish.
"Then I need to find Fugaku. Now."
He dropped low, sprinting.
"He's running! Stop him!"
Figures stirred in the haze.
"Breath of the Rock — Form Four! Rhyolite Rampage!"
Axes and hammers of stone spun into orbit, shielding him as he bolted deeper into the mist. Blades clashed against his weapons, but none pierced through.
Still, the fog thickened, disorienting, twisting directions until even Fugaku's chakra signature was lost.
A sharp crack split the air. Lightning tore through the haze.
"—!"
His axes shattered. Yashiro twisted aside, but the blast hurled him to the ground. He hit hard, rolling, vision jolting.
From the fog, a figure emerged.
A squat old man with a long blade and eyes colder than steel. His small frame should've looked comical — but the killing intent erased all doubt.
"Uchiha," the old man rasped, voice low and mocking, "where exactly are you planning to run? Looking for your comrades? Save him… in hell."
Yashiro pushed himself up, blade steady despite the ache. His eyes narrowed.
"I've heard the stories. The Three Ghosts of Kirigakure's assassination squad. Which one are you?"
The old man's lips curled.
"Do you even need to ask? I am the White Ghost of the Mist."
His body melted back into the fog.
And then the air itself sliced forward.
"Breath of the Rock! Form Two — Shattered Sky!"
Yashiro's sword slammed into the ground. Earth ruptured. Dozens of stone hammers erupted outward in a storm, smashing blindly through the fog. Screams and impacts echoed — a few bodies hit, but the White Ghost? Unclear.
Yashiro grit his teeth, memories flashing.
The White Ghost — swordsman. Same type as White Fang. Just slower, weaker. But the fog… that was his true weapon. Even White Fang had struggled against the three Ghosts combined.
But one-on-one?
There might be a chance.
His feet blurred, body splitting into shadow as kunai and blades slashed past him. Midair, he bit down on his sword hilt, freeing his hands.
"Earth Style! Flowing Earth River!"
The ground melted into a rushing river of mud. Hidden Mist-nin tumbled out of cover, exposed.
"Got you."
His eyes locked onto the old man.
"Breath of the Rock! Wu Zhixing — Walun Xingbu!"
His body dropped. The blade came down with brutal force.
Axes and hammers rained from the sky with the strike, detonating in violent explosions.
The White Ghost, momentarily bound by mud, couldn't slip away in time. The blast engulfed him —
—only for his body to dissolve into water, splattering across the ground.
Yashiro's grip tightened. The fight was far from over.