Ōnoki didn't trust easily, and Seiran knew it.
The Tsuchikage had issued strict orders—no metal on the battlefield. Every Iwa shinobi carried bone kunai, stone tools, earthen weapons. Anything to deny Seiran his greatest advantage. It was the same tactic that had nearly worked against Kakuzu on the Sand front lines: strip away the magnetizable arsenal, neutralize the threat.
A smart move. Just not smart enough.
Konoha's ninja had no such restrictions. Metal kunai flew in deadly arcs across the grass, and Seiran controlled them with surgical precision. Each throw curved around the earthen walls that Iwa threw up in desperation, each one finding its mark with sickening accuracy. Throats. Joints. The spaces between armor plates. One technique, infinite application.
The Konoha shinobi watching exchanged nervous glances. This kind of control wasn't natural. It was something else entirely.
The Iwa response came quickly—a wave of seals, a roar of commitment. Dense stone erupted from skin, coating bodies in layers of dense rock. The Art of Rock Armor transformed ordinary shinobi into giants, their features lost beneath angular, protruding stone. They shambled forward like mobile fortifications, taking the kunai strikes on reinforced shoulders and chests. Chakra flowed. The stone self-repaired. Eyes were protected by jutting shelves of rock.
Seiran watched them form a human wall and couldn't help the small smile tugging at his lips. Ōnoki really was a relic of a different era. Where Rasa had panicked and scrambled, the old Tsuchikage adapted. Methodical. Efficient. No wasted motion.
That respect lasted about three seconds.
A massive roar split the air—not a war cry, but something mechanical. Steam. Seiran blinked as he watched it: a figure wreathed in crimson armor, dragging a plume of white exhaust, barreling toward him like a freight train.
What in—
Electromagnetic Manipulation kicked in on instinct. Seiran sidestepped, and the armored figure screamed past, leaving a trench carved into the grass.
The steam dissipated. The armor stopped, inertia finally claiming it.
Han.
The Five-Tails jinchuriki. Perfect jinchuriki. The steam ninja.
Han's head turned with predatory slowness. "Faster reflexes than expected, Hyuga. Your luck ends now."
"My armor isn't metal," Han continued, his voice cold. "Don't waste time trying."
Smart. He'd done his homework—or Ōnoki had done it for him.
Seiran studied the red plating. It was sleek, efficient, definitely not standard shinobi wear. Built for something more than defense. The steam venting from the joints wasn't cosmetic; it was propulsion. This whole thing was a weapon system.
Not one he could control.
That was fine. He had other options.
The two stood apart, and the shinobi around them cleared space with the practiced urgency of veterans. A jinchuriki and a magnetic ninja in close quarters meant collateral damage for anyone careless enough to stay close.
Across the battlefield, Jiraiya caught the matchup and whistled low. "Minato! They sent Han after Seiran!"
Minato didn't even glance over. "Trust him."
"Trust him?" Jiraiya raised an eyebrow. "The kid's fought one perfect jinchuriki and barely—"
"He's not such a simple ninja as to fall," Minato said, and there was absolute certainty in his voice.
Han was already talking, his confidence bleeding through every word. "A Hyuga without taijutsu prowess? Unscientific. But according to our intel, you prefer range. Magnetic snares. Puppet work." He gestured at the red armor. "Out here, with nothing but steam and steel? I'm faster than you. Stronger than you. This ends with you on the ground."
The red armor suddenly hissed—a warning, a promise—and Han launched forward.
Seiran raised his hand. "Wait."
Han actually stopped, confused.
"I'll go first," Seiran said.
He took a deep breath, struck a pose that felt ridiculous and perfect all at once, and let the transformation flow through him.
Flame Dragon Armor, activate!
Fluid rippled across his skin, hardening into place. Red, silver, black metal interlocking in elegant patterns. The armor was finer than anything Han wore, more alive somehow, the joints articulated with impossible smoothness.
"Now we're matched," Seiran said, his voice distorted through the helmet. "Fair fight."
Han's jaw tightened. For a moment, Seiran thought the man might laugh.
Instead, the steam armor roared, and Han charged.
Seiran's perception went electric. The world became magnetic fields and bioelectric currents, and Han burned like a furnace in his awareness. The steam ninja materialized from the left, and Seiran pivoted, thrusting forward with a spear of compressed magnetism.
The impact rang like a bell—steam cushioning the blow, dissipating the force.
Han grabbed the shaft. "Die!"
The armor's output surged. He meant to tear the weapon away, to assert dominance through pure strength.
Seiran didn't resist. The spear dissolved into particles and flowed back into the armor.
Han's confidence cracked. "What—"
Seiran was already moving, already there, palm pressing against Han's chest.
"Electromagnetic Pulse."
The discharge was invisible but devastating. Han's armor systems screamed and died. The steam valves froze. For one precious second, the steam ninja was just a ninja—heavy, grounded, vulnerable.
Seiran's strike landed like a hammer on an anvil.
Han flew backward, impacting the earth hard enough to carve a trench. Dust swallowed him.
"So strong," Jiraiya breathed, watching the exchange.
"Seiran has dual kekkei genkai," Minato said quietly. "Electromagnetic Manipulation, and... something else."
In the Iwa camp, the shinobi were losing faith.
"He's actually contending with Han-sama—"
"We were told he was just a Hyuga kid—"
"He's the successor of the new generation," another voice cut in, grim. "The one Tsuchikage warned us about. If we'd underestimated him..."
The steam armor was already repairing itself, the damaged sections knitting back together. Han rose slowly, his breathing heavy, his eyes burning with something that wasn't quite rage yet. It was building, though.
"Kid," his voice emerged thick and dangerous, "you've actually made me angry now. Next, I'll use my full strength. I'll send you straight to hell."
"Then go first," Seiran replied, his armor flaring red-hot. Level 3 Electromagnetic Manipulation unfurled at full capacity. The air around him twisted with magnetic distortion. "I insist."
They charged together.
The collision shook the entire battlefield. Ground trembled. Wind scattered. When the dust cleared, both stood damaged but standing. Cracks spiderwebbed across Seiran's armor. Han's steam output was stuttering, unstable.
"Hah... Hah..."
Han was panting. The armor demanded an enormous energy toll, jinchuriki or not.
Seiran, by contrast, barely breathed. The electromagnetic armor was designed to absorb external energy and convert it. The longer the fight went, the stronger he became.
"Your steam is running out," Seiran observed.
"Then it's time to end this."
The armor disassembled—pieces floating free, spinning, compressing inward. The internal structure became visible, all electromagnetic coils and magnetic pathways, all spiraling faster, tighter, until the entire device became one compressed mass of pure magnetic force.
Blue-white light erupted.
"Super Electromagnetic Cannon!"
Han didn't hesitate. He reached into the steam armor's depths and pulled out a pill—something dark and ancient-looking. He swallowed it whole.
"Tailed Beast Chakra Mode!"
Red exploded outward, shattering the steam armor, consuming the man inside it. Chakra manifested as a cloak, tails of pure energy swaying behind him. His eyes opened, no longer entirely human.
"Five-Tails, lend me your power!"
The light ball descended.
Han roared and threw his own attack upward—a drill of red chakra spinning, ascending, colliding with the cannon in a cataclysm of force.
The shockwave flattened everything for a hundred meters. Grass shredded. Soil erupted. Shinobi from both sides were thrown like leaves.
When the light faded, a crater dominated the landscape.
Seiran stood at the rim, armor reassembled, perfectly still.
Han knelt in the center, one knee planted, the chakra cloak fading. The steam armor was gone entirely, reduced to molten slag. He looked up at Seiran, and for the first time, there was something like defeat in his expression.
"You... actually defeated me..."
Seiran climbed down into the crater, moving slowly. His legs were weak. Chakra reserves were nearly empty, and his body screamed with fatigue. But he was standing.
"I told you," he said quietly, "go to hell by yourself."
Han stared at him for a long moment, then laughed—a real laugh, breathless and bitter.
"Interesting... Konoha really does have a monster like you..."
He tried to stand. His legs gave out immediately.
A Konoha Jonin was already there, kunai at Han's throat, securing him with professional efficiency.
Han didn't resist. He just stared at the sky, looking hollowed out.
Seiran walked over slowly, each step an effort. Minato appeared at his side, supporting him before his legs could fail.
"You okay?"
"Chakra exhaustion," Seiran managed. "Just need rest."
"Well done," Minato said, squeezing his shoulder. "You've captured one of Iwa's pillars. This battle... we've won."
Seiran nodded, and the world tilted sideways.
"Seiran!"
That was the last thing he heard clearly—Minato's voice, sharp with concern. Then there was only darkness and the distant sound of shouting for medical ninja.
Experience +2500
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