With his path of retreat blocked and his synthesis beast ensnared by that terrifying giant turtle, Hiruko's fear instantly crystallized into a murderous frenzy.
"Die!"
Hiruko let out a shrill scream, his hands weaving signs like a blur of lightning as his chakra boiled over. Veins bulged across his pallid face, and a dangerous, spectral light flickered deep within his pupils.
A thick cloud of black mist rose from beneath his feet, swallowing half his body, while blinding streaks of blue-white electricity began to crackle within the darkness. With a piercing sonic boom, five concentrated bolts of lightning shot out from the black haze—each carrying devastating piercing power, aimed directly at Menma's brow, throat, and heart.
"Storm Style: Thunder Cloud Inner Wave!"
Hiruko poured every ounce of his strength into this absolute Storm Style technique, an ultimate balance of offense and defense designed to end the fight in a single stroke.
Faced with this lethal barrage, the right eye hidden behind Menma's mask suddenly ignited with a brilliant crimson glow. Three pitch-black tomoe spun violently within the bloody iris.
Sharingan: Insight.
Under the absolute perception of the Sharingan's legendary dynamic vision, Hiruko's frantic hand signs, the intricate flow of his chakra, and the precise trajectory of those five lightning bolts were laid bare. Every minute detail reflected in Menma's mind like a frame-by-frame playback in slow motion.
Menma moved.
His body shifted with an unnatural, minimalist grace—sliding, tilting, and leaning back with the precision of a calculated machine. The five bolts of lightning, each capable of piercing reinforced steel, whistled past the edge of his robes. They didn't even graze the fabric.
Every lethal strike struck only empty air.
The savage fury on Hiruko's face was instantly replaced by a mask of sheer, stuttering disbelief. His killing blow... had been evaded that easily?
As Menma pivoted to avoid the final bolt, his right arm snapped out like a coiled spring. His fingers splayed, palm leveled directly at Hiruko's chest.
There were no hand signs. No long preparations.
Pure, compressed chakra condensed within his palm, spinning with a high-pitched, agonizing shriek. A pitch-black sphere the size of a basketball formed instantly, its surface dancing with dark red arcs of electricity. It radiated an aura of ruin and omen, the very light around it seemingly swallowed and warped by its presence.
Great Ring Rasenring!
The pitch-black orb reflected in Hiruko's widening pupils as the primal fear of death washed over him like ice water. He didn't even have time to wonder what this terrifying technique was; survival instinct alone triggered his full potential. He threw his body backward in a desperate, clumsy arch, channeling chakra into his feet to launch himself away like an arrow from a bow.
BOOM!!!
The black sphere of energy whistled past the tip of Hiruko's nose as he fell back, slamming into a steep rock wall meters behind him.
There was no earth-shattering explosion of flame—only a series of muffled, heavy thuds that felt like they could stop a man's heart. Then came a sickening, grinding sound as the rock was utterly dismantled by the sheer force, reduced to the finest dust. The solid rock face looked as if a giant, invisible mouth had taken a bite out of it; a massive, spherical hole over three meters in diameter appeared out of nowhere.
Edges were as smooth as glass; the depth was unfathomable. Countless hairline fractures spiderwebbed out from the crater, the stone "groaning" in a way that made the skin crawl.
Shrapnel grazed Hiruko's body like bullets, leaving trails of blood. He slammed into the ground, rolling several meters before coming to a ragged halt. Covered in dust and grime, his white restrictive suit shredded, his face was a portrait of raw, trembling terror.
If he had been a fraction of a second slower, it wouldn't have been the rock wall that was erased—it would have been him.
The fear of death finally ignited Hiruko's dormant savagery. He snapped his head up, his eyes bloodshot and filled with a hysterical, frantic madness.
"You monster!" he roared. His hands danced again, weaving signs even more complex and bizarre. His chakra boiled recklessly, a faint red hue bleeding through his pale skin.
"Storm Style Secret Technique: Demon Dragon Rain!"
As Hiruko screamed the name, circles of black thunderclouds rose from the ground, sweeping across the battlefield with sizzling currents. Even the sky began to change color! Deep, heavy clouds blanketed the craggy mountains, with serpents of lightning flickering within the gloom.
Menma did not give him another chance.
The moment Hiruko began the first sign, Menma vanished again. This was not the high-speed blur of a Body Flicker; it was a true disappearance, as if he had simply merged into the fabric of space.
Flying Thunder God Technique!
In the next heartbeat, Hiruko's vision blurred. The masked figure appeared without warning less than an arm's length away. It was faster than sight, faster than thought—leaving Hiruko's mind completely paralyzed.
Menma's right hand shot out like a flash. From his palm, a rod of concentrated, pitch-black darkness protruded. It was not a physical object, but a temporary manifestation of pure, highly condensed Yin-Yang Release chakra.
A black receiver, no longer than a finger, radiating an ominous, spectral glow.
Hiruko's pupils dilated in absolute horror. He wanted to block, he wanted to retreat, but his body couldn't keep up with that reality-defying speed. He could only watch as the rod—the fingertip of the Grim Reaper—lunged toward him with surgical precision.
Puchi!
A faint sound, like a needle piercing leather.
Hiruko's movements froze instantly. The black rod had pierced through his interlocked hands and pinned him directly to the stone wall behind him. The ferocity and madness in his eyes were instantly frozen, replaced by pure, incomprehensible shock.
He realized, to his horror, that his Storm Style jutsu had been forcibly aborted. The chakra circulation within his body was being violently disrupted; even the Chimera Technique began to thrum with an uneasy, rebellious agitation.
"What is this?!" Hiruko gasped.
The presence of the black rod didn't just interfere with his jutsu—it seemed to be devouring his very courage and will to resist. This was an unknown horror that even his Dark Style could not absorb. It completely shattered Hiruko's understanding of ninjutsu. Was there truly a technique in this world that Dark Style was powerless against?
Menma tilted his head slightly. The voice from beneath the fox mask was soft, yet it struck Hiruko's heart like a sledgehammer:
"I told you. I am interested in your Chimera Technique. Now... it belongs to me."
Hiruko remained frozen, cold sweat instantly drenching his bandages and restrictive suit. He could clearly feel the terrifying power within that black rod—it was unraveling his technique, perhaps even erasing his very soul.
The icy touch of death had pierced through his hands, freezing every thought of a counterattack. Hiruko stared at "Shura," a choked, rattling sound emerging from his throat, unable to utter a single word. Pinned to the stone wall by the black rod, he had lost all power to resist.