The steppe trembled beneath ten thousand feet.
Konoha's shinobi surged forward in disciplined waves, their dark cyan vests a rippling sea against the brown earth. Arms tucked behind their backs, centers of gravity low, they moved with predatory grace. From above, they would have looked like a rushing tide of color and purpose.
From the opposite horizon, a yellow-brown wave advanced just as fast.
Jiraiya stood at the command post, watching the two forces converge. His expression remained grave. "The intelligence was accurate. Iwagakure has committed even greater numbers than the last engagement."
It was clear—Iwagakure was gambling everything on this offensive. The casualty projections were going to be grim.
The two torrents collided with a sound like thunder.
Iwa had learned their lesson. This time, their shinobi wore fur armor around their necks—crude protection, but enough to prevent the instant decimation they'd suffered before. Their strategy was surgical: avoid close-quarters combat, minimize direct confrontation, and force a war of ninjutsu instead. Fewer of their metal shinobi would fall if they could keep the fighting at range.
It was a defense strategy born of desperation. Since jinchuriki couldn't match Seiran and ordinary shinobi were just cannon fodder, their only play was to dig in and survive.
But Seiran saw through it immediately.
His Electromagnetic Manipulation rippled outward, subtly at first. The metal shinobi scattered across the battlefield—their armor, their weapons, everything ferrous—twisted and reformed under his will. In moments, they became something new: razor-sharp flying swords, sleeker and deadlier than any forged blade, with armor-piercing points that sang through the air.
Then he went to work.
A storm of metal blades swirled around Seiran like the technique of a legendary sword saint. Wherever he moved, Iwa shinobi fell. Blood painted the grass.
One desperate soldier slammed his hands to the earth.
"Earth Style: Multiple Earth Wall!"
Four rocky barriers erupted in a box around him, each one solid and thick. He'd sealed himself in a cage of stone.
Seiran almost smirked. The flying swords executed a sharp, coordinated turn and dove through the gap above the walls.
A scream cut the air. Plasma erupted from the opening.
You trapped yourself, Seiran thought coldly.
The Earth Wall was a sound technique—practical, reliable—but it suffered from one fatal weakness: it only worked while standing on solid ground. You couldn't throw up walls mid-air without first creating a platform beneath you. The Iwa shinobi had just buried himself alive.
Watching from the command post, Jiraiya felt something shift in his chest. The weight lifted slightly.
Good instincts. That's the kind of tactical thinking that wins wars. He nodded slowly to himself. He's worth an entire division.
"Hehan was right," Jiraiya said aloud, his voice carrying to those nearby. "His Magnet Release is every bit the equal of Ōnoki's Dust Release."
Seiran was already moving toward his next target when something cold touched the back of his neck.
Then heat—intense, rolling heat like a furnace door opening.
He launched himself forward without thinking. Behind him, the space where he'd stood erupted into magma. Molten rock churned and spat, radiating waves of thermal energy that scorched the battlefield.
When he landed, Seiran saw what he was facing.
A massive figure wreathed in magma armor, lava dripping from his frame like a walking volcano. Old Man Roshi. The Four-Tails jinchuriki, wearing Son Goku's power like a second skin.
Seiran's eyes narrowed. Both jinchuriki deployed to one battlefield. Iwagakure is serious.
He scanned the surrounding area for Han, but found no trace of the Five-Tails host.
"Where's Han?" Seiran called out, a note of mockery in his voice. "Still nursing his wounds? Feeling confident without him?"
Roshi's eyes flashed cold. Han had been devastated in their last encounter—only Koseki's preparation had kept him alive. Every detail of that fight had been extracted from Han during recovery, and it was burned into Roshi's mind.
He couldn't underestimate Seiran. He and Han were peers in many ways—one mastered Lava Release, the other Boil Release. One wielded the Four-Tails, the other the Five-Tails. Their strengths were roughly equal, their specialties different.
Han had been reduced to a cripple. Roshi wouldn't fare better in a prolonged engagement.
But his orders were simple: buy time. Ōnoki just needed him to delay.
Roshi inhaled deeply and stamped his foot. Magma erupted from the earth beneath him like a geyser, spreading outward in a molten wave toward Seiran's position.
Seiran vaulted clear, and the metal flying swords answered his will instantly, swarming toward Roshi like a school of predatory fish.
Roshi's chakra surged. His lava armor blazed brighter, more vivid. Metal struck armor in a shower of sparks and heat.
Good!
He staggered backward under the onslaught, but the lava held. The metal tips of the flying swords began to soften, to drip like candle wax, sizzling as they hit the scorched earth.
Roshi breathed easier. The lava armor was working. It was holding.
He raised his head with feigned indifference, ignoring the ache in his body. "Your Magnet Release seems overrated."
Seiran frowned. The old man had a point—Roshi's defenses were superior to Han's. The lava armor was more resilient than he'd anticipated. His flying swords, moving at twice the speed of sound, were still struggling to penetrate. Worse, the high temperature was melting the metal, turning each blade into a one-use weapon.
That's the problem with relying too heavily on metal.
Roshi drew in a massive breath.
"Lava Release: Burning River Rock Technique!"
A colossal fireball of magma erupted from his mouth, spraying outward in a continuous stream like a volcanic eruption given form.
Seiran moved with lightning speed, electricity crackling around his frame as he dodged. Each sphere of lava screamed past him, melting the grass where it landed.
Roshi kept coming. Magma after magma, relentless, uncaring whether he hit or missed. The goal was to drive Seiran back, to pin him down, to make him defend instead of attack.
"Trouble," Seiran muttered, his jaw tightening.
This old man was infuriating. All his strength was poured into defense—a walking bunker wrapped in lava, spitting projectiles from a distance like some kind of mobile artillery. He was playing turtle, staying safe behind his shell.
And he's terrified of close combat. Seiran understood why. Han had learned that lesson the hard way.
Seiran made a decision.
He shot straight upward, gaining altitude rapidly. Roshi's eyes widened below.
"What—?!"
From the sky, Seiran extended his will across the battlefield. The ground surrendered its metal to him—particles from fallen shinobi, fragments of weaponry, anything ferrous. They coalesced, reformed, became flying swords. Hundreds of them. Thousands. They filled the air above Roshi like a second sky, dense and terrible.
Roshi stared upward, his pupils contracting.
"You can fly?"
His voice cracked slightly. He realized, too late, the miscalculation he'd made. Seiran hadn't demonstrated flight during his battle with Han. Roshi had assumed he couldn't.
But if Rasa's gold dust could float—if it could soar—then why couldn't this man's metal?
The tide had shifted.
Roshi stood alone on the steppe, surrounded on all sides, with nowhere left to hide.
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