Chapter 70: The Vortex and the Cube
Ōnoki's hands snapped together before his chest. In an instant, a stark, geometric white light surged into existence.
A transparent, cube-shaped barrier plummeted from the sky, directly toward Yuta's head.
Dust Release: Detachment of the Primitive World!
'Straight to the Dust Release? A Kekkei Tōta that transcended mere Bloodline Limits… Troublesome indeed.'
'Then let's see which is stronger: your Dust Release, or my technique—a fusion of Sage Art, the Spirit Transformation Technique, and the Rasengan!'
Spirit Transformation Technique, activate!
Sage Art: Spirit Devouring Vortex!
In the blink of an eye, Yuta's physical form was abandoned as his Sage Art Spirit Form materialized.
Just as the transparent cube was about to crush his stationary body, ten shimmering Spirit Devouring Vortexes bloomed into existence around him, forming a near-impenetrable shield.
Dust Release was a Kekkei Tōta, a fusion of Wind, Earth, and Fire natures. It trapped a target within a barrier, reduced them to their constituent atoms, and then unleashed a cataclysmic explosion.
The effect of the Sage Art: Spirit Devouring Vortex was even more absolute.
Tear. Destroy. Annihilate.
A complete erasure, from soul to flesh.
Yuta was eager to see what would happen when these two forces of ultimate destruction collided.
Before the astonished eyes of Ōnoki and the encircling Iwa-nin, one of the Spirit Devouring Vortexes orbiting Yuta shot forward at blinding speed, meeting the descending transparent cube head-on.
For a heartbeat, the world fell into an eerie, absolute silence, as if sound itself had been vacuumed from the air.
Then—BOOM!
A titanic roar shattered the stillness. A violent shockwave of pure energy exploded from the point of impact, scouring the earth.
Rocks were ripped from the ground and pulverized into a hail of gravel that shrieked through the air. Even the dozen elite jonin present were helpless against the force, hurled backwards dozens of meters.
Takahata Sugito's face was a mask of horror.
Since childhood, he had aspired to become Tsuchikage, vowing to be a shinobi as mighty as the Third, Ōnoki. With time, he had only grown to understand the gulf of power between them like a mayfly gazing at the vast sky.
Yet now, the mighty Tsuchikage-sama he revered had unleashed his proudest technique… and failed to kill a sixteen-year-old boy?
Floating in his Spirit Form, Yuta frowned.
'As expected of one of the pinnacle Kekkei Tōta in the shinobi world. Its power is impressive—definitely stronger than that S-rank Evaporation Violent Blast the Third Mizukage used.'
Unfortunately, the Spirit Devouring Vortex was still superior.
The next moment, the deafening roar of the explosion was abruptly cut off, as if severed at its peak.
The terrifying shockwave dissipated instantly. Aside from the ravaged landscape and the scattered Iwa-nin, it was as if the cataclysmic clash had never occurred.
Seeing this, Ōnoki's face betrayed outright astonishment. This jutsu… was inconceivable! It had always been him using Dust Release to disintegrate enemies. He never imagined he would see the day his ultimate technique was annihilated by another!
'What was this Jutsu?'
Ōnoki's sharp eyes cataloged the scene: Yuta in his spiritual form, his physical body left behind, protected by the nine remaining, lazily orbiting vortexes.
'A peculiar state. In such a form, the physical body should be the ultimate weakness. But now, it was guarded by those nine spheres of annihilation.'
'More importantly… could the boy use a technique of that scale nine more times?'
'Damn it!' Ōnoki cursed inwardly. 'What kind of monster is this? Sixteen years old, wielding a Jutsu that rivals—no, surpasses—Dust Release? Is he truly sixteen?'
In that single, brief exchange, Ōnoki reached his conclusion:
The Third Mizukage had indeed died by this boy's hand. This powerful, absolute technique alone was enough to threaten a Kage.
"I admit it," Ōnoki grated out, his voice hard. "You are formidable. It is a pity you were born in Konoha and have slaughtered my Iwagakure shinobi. Today, I will not let you leave this place alive!"
His expression hardened with resolve—only to shift again an instant later into one of sudden alarm.
Yuta, in his soul-like Spirit Form, was also floating in the air now. Under Ōnoki's gaze, he slowly brought his hands together in a seal.
Ōnoki didn't know what was coming, but a lifetime of battle screamed a warning. This ninjutsu… it was dangerous!
No hesitation!
Dust Release: Detachment of the Primitive World!
'Hmm?' Yuta's spiritual form glanced at Ōnoki, mildly surprised. The Tsuchikage's perception was sharper than expected, to sense the build-up of a completely different technique.
'Too bad. You can't stop me.'
Yuta ignored the transparent barrier falling toward his spiritual body and completed his hand seal.
A faint, ethereal glow shimmered across his Spirit Form.
In a spectrum invisible to Ōnoki's naked eye, thousands of microscopic threads of Sage Mode energy—Spirit Threads—peeled away from Yuta's form. The moment they separated, they shot outward in an indiscriminate, explosive radial burst!
Sage Art: Spirit Realm Thousand Kills!
Ōnoki's Dust Release barrier descended, only to be intercepted at the last second by another Spirit Devouring Vortex.
This time, there wasn't even the pretense of a struggle; the Dust Release cube simply winked out of existence, annihilated without a sound.
Ōnoki's face turned ashen. "What ninjutsu did you just use?!"
Yuta's spiritual form shrugged, an absurdly casual gesture in the midst of battle.
'Seriously, old man? Do I have to tell you? We're enemies, not sparring partners. What, are you as dense as Danzo?'
Ōnoki seemed to realize he'd asked a foolish question, but before he could berate himself, a shrill, agonized scream tore through the air from the ground behind him.
"AHHH!!"
"Guh—ACK!"
Only then did Ōnoki understand. Yuta's new technique hadn't been aimed at him.
It had been aimed at the dozen elite shinobi he'd brought with him.
'Damn it! A completely invisible attack?!'
"DEFENSIVE FORMATIONS, NOW!" Ōnoki bellowed, the order ripped from his throat by a surge of pure, cold dread.
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