Metal dug into flesh, constricting against ribs like a vice. The tall shinobi's face drained of color as the pressure mounted, his breath coming in strangled gasps.
"You're using metal armor against a Magnet Release user?" he choked out, desperation creeping into his voice.
Beside him, the shorter shinobi floated in helpless confusion, arms flailing uselessly.
"Magnet Release? What even is that?" he gasped. "Can magnetic power really do this?"
Seiran raised his palm.
The pressure spiked instantly. Both men shot higher into the air, trapped in an invisible cage of force.
My control over electromagnetic fields improves every day, Seiran thought coldly. This is what it must feel like to be Magneto.
The tall shinobi gritted his teeth, hands moving frantically to form a seal—
Seiran flicked his wrist.
The metal armor contracted with a sickening crunch, compressing inward like a closing fist. Bone snapped. Organs ruptured. The men's screams cut through the forest, then stopped abruptly.
When Seiran released them, two broken shapes hit the ground hard enough to crack stone.
He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Metal armor against Magnet Release. Amateur hour."
The mistake was theirs—they'd relied on incomplete intelligence. The Silver-Faced Asura was a phantom in shinobi circles, someone who wielded strange weapons and revealed nothing. An enemy built a strategy on that foundation, and here was the result.
Seiran turned his palm toward the corpses. His eyes glowed faintly beneath his mask.
Red light bloomed. The metal armor began to glow, heat radiating in waves so intense the air itself rippled and warped.
"Electromagnetic Furnace."
Molecular acceleration. Simple physics, perfect for erasing evidence. Within seconds, only molten slag remained—fist-sized balls cooling rapidly against the forest floor.
"Thanks for the chakra metal," Seiran muttered, sealing the hardened scraps into a scroll.
He vanished into the canopy. More work awaited.
---
From a hillside perch, Seiran watched a group of raiders move down the forest road below. Blood stained their clothes. Their laughter carried—crude, vicious, satisfied.
"Never seen a haul like this!" one bellowed.
"The caravan was perfect. And those women..." Another laughed, his tone making Seiran's jaw tighten.
"Tomorrow we hunt again. Tonight we feast."
His hands clenched into fists.
These animals.
The Third Hokage had assigned him to purge the thief bands plaguing the Land of Fire's borders—weak individually, but cunning, scattered across the frontier between Fire Country and Grass Country. The black market had proven invaluable for tracking them. After weeks of work, he'd finally found their nest.
But they'd already struck a caravan.
The raiders continued down the road, oblivious.
Seiran dropped to the path ahead of them, blocking their route. Black robes hung loose over his frame. A silver metal mask caught the dying light, his eyes visible beneath—cold, reptilian.
The leader stopped mid-step, every survival instinct screaming warnings. He raised his hand, signaling his men to halt.
"Who the hell are you?"
Smart. Caution before aggression. A seasoned criminal's reflex.
Seiran didn't answer. He simply raised his fists.
Three silver claws slid out from between his knuckles, gleaming like fresh steel.
The leader's bravado cracked. "You're signing your own death warrant!" he snarled, drawing a sword.
Seiran moved.
The world blurred. His claws crossed—once, twice—and the leader's head tumbled backward through the air, eyes still wide with shock.
"Kill him! Kill him!"
The thieves rushed forward in a frenzy, weapons raised, blood-lust overriding fear.
Seiran punched the nearest one. His claws punched through ribs like paper. Blood sprayed—then stopped, drawn into the silver metal like water through a sponge.
A massive axe crashed down onto his spine. The impact rang like a bell, but Seiran barely stumbled. The attacker's arm went numb, his face going pale as he realized he'd hit armor.
"What—?"
Seiran twisted. His claws found the man's throat.
Beneath his robe, silver-white fluid flowed like mercury, solidifying into plating across his back and shoulders.
Right. I need to stop playing.
The claws felt awkward in his hands—too specialized, too limited. He'd been experimenting with the Magneto aesthetic on a whim, but this wasn't working.
The metal reshaped. The claws melted, reformed into a heavy fist sleeve that engulfed his entire hand.
The surviving thieves stepped back, fear spreading like contagion.
Then Seiran's body erupted in blue lightning.
He vanished.
Reappeared beside a thief.
His fist drove forward, and the impact shattered ribs and spine simultaneously. The man's body flew backward, leaving a crater of fractured earth where he'd stood.
Electromagnetic propulsion. The concept clicked perfectly. The magnetic armor let him apply electromagnetic force to his own mass, accelerating it to lethal speeds.
He was a human railgun.
"What speed is that?!"
Blue arcs traced through the air as Seiran moved. Each thief he touched became a projectile, launched backward through the forest like broken dolls.
"Why?! Why are you doing this?!"
One thief's voice cracked, all fight draining from his eyes.
Seiran looked at him coldly. "You prey on caravans. On civilians. You should answer for that."
Lightning flashed.
The screaming lasted only seconds.
---
Silence settled over the forest. The air reeked of blood and ozone.
Seiran's mask rippled, revealing his face beneath—young, unnervingly calm.
He looked toward the horizon as the sun dipped low. Something had shifted inside him. Maybe it had started when he'd faced the Mist shinobi alone. Maybe during his years in the black market.
But now it was undeniable: he was changing. Becoming something this world had made him—cold toward enemies, but burning with fury for the innocent who suffered their predations.
He was no longer a simple observer.