The symphony of destruction orchestrated by Iwa's Explosion Corps had reached a fever pitch, a cacophonous opera of concussive blasts and shrieking metal. The Konoha camp was a landscape of craters and fire, shrouded in a thick, acrid haze that stung the eyes and choked the lungs. Panic had been the first commander, and it had reigned supreme. But now, a new conductor stepped onto the podium.
Uchiha Fugaku did not shout. He did not need to. His presence became a focal point, a rock in the raging river of chaos. He stood atop the husk of a shattered supply wagon, his Sharingan whirling with cold, calculating fury, absorbing the entire battlefield in a single, sweeping glance.
He saw the patterns—the launch points of the explosive spheres, the subtle chakra distortions of the buried crystal mines, the isolated squads of maroon-clad shinobi who believed themselves hunters.
He raised a single hand, and a nearby chuunin, desperate for direction, saw it. Then another. And another. Like iron filings drawn to a magnet, the scattered, terrified shinobi of the First Division turned toward him.
His voice, when it came, was amplified with chakra, cutting through the din not with volume, but with absolute, unwavering authority. "First Division! Defensive Formation Delta! Now! Earth chakra users to the front! Barrier teams, support flanks! All others, by squad, advance and suppress!"
The effect was instantaneous. The panicked flight ceased. Training, drilled into them through years of harsh discipline, overrode instinct. Shinobi, who moments before had been scrambling for cover, now moved with purpose. Earth Release users slammed their hands on the ground, and walls of solid rock erupted from the tortured earth, providing cover from the incoming explosive spheres. Barrier teams from lesser clans wove their defences, creating shimmering domes of energy that intercepted the projectiles.
"BOOM!"
A sphere detonated against a rock wall, showering debris but leaving the squad behind it unharmed.
"WHUMP!"
Another hit a barrier, the energy field flickering but holding.
The counter-attack had begun.
Fugaku was no longer just a commander; he was a predator. His Sharingan locked onto a three-man Iwa cell preparing to launch another volley of Charged Spheres. Their hands were weaving the signs, their chakra coalescing. Fugaku's eyes narrowed. A subtle, almost invisible pulse of chakra lanced out from him.
The lead Iwa shinobi's hands froze. His eyes, visible even from a distance, went wide and unfocused. To him, the world had changed. He no longer saw the burning Konoha camp. He saw his two comrades transform into Konoha assassins, their faces twisted in murderous grins, kunai raised to strike him.
With a guttural scream of betrayal, he turned and unleashed his fully formed Explosion Release sphere not at the Konoha lines, but point-blank into his startled teammate.
"KABOOM!"
The two Iwa shinobi were vaporised in a blast of their own making, their shocked cries cut short.
Fugaku was already moving, his genjutsu a weapon of perfect, insidious efficiency. He trapped another in a loop where every step he took triggered a phantom crystal mine, causing him to freeze in terror, an easy target for a Konoha shinobi. He ensnared a third, making him see his fellow corps members as allies, luring him into the open where a coordinated lightning attack from a Sarutobi team reduced him to a charred husk.
Across the battlefield, the various clans of Konoha, now organised, began to showcase their unique strengths. A team of Senju shinobi, their vitality immense, acted as unstoppable battering rams.
Earth Spikes, thick as pythons, erupted from the earth, snaring Iwa shinobi and dragging them into the ground before they could arm their explosives.
A Sarutobi fire team worked in perfect harmony, their Great Fireball jutsus not aimed to kill, but to herd—to force the Explosion Corps into pre-designated kill zones where Aburame insects swarmed them, their chakra-draining abilities neutralising the delicate control needed for their techniques.
A lone Hatake, white-haired and fierce, moved like lightning himself, his tanto a blur. He didn't give them time to form hand signs, engaging in close-quarters combat where their explosion release was a liability.
Every parry, every dodge was followed by a lethal strike, his speed rendering their area-of-effect attacks useless against a single, hyper-fast target.
From the shadows, operatives of the Shimura faction worked with cold precision. They didn't engage directly. They used substitution tricks and misdirection, planting explosive tags of their own on the corpses of the fallen. When an Iwa shinobi would approach to confirm a kill, the body would detonate, a grim irony that spread paranoia through their ranks.
The balance of the battle, once terrifyingly tilted, began to shift. There were only fifty members of the Explosion Corps, but each was a walking artillery piece. Against a disorganised mob of hundreds, they had been gods of war.
But against a coordinated army of nearly a thousand, their advantage dwindled. They were specialists, and specialists have weaknesses. Their long-range bombardment was neutralised by barriers and earth walls. Their traps were being revealed and avoided. Their close-range defence was poor. The relentless, disciplined pressure from the reformed First Division was like a net closing around them, slowly suffocating their destructive potential.
Amidst this organised chaos, Uchiha Daichi fought like a force of nature. He was a whirlwind of motion, his katana moving faster than the eye could follow, deflecting thrown explosive spheres with perfectly timed strikes that sent them careening back toward their throwers. His fire jutsus scoured the battlefield, not to kill, but to flush enemies into the waiting formations of his clansmen.
He saw their leader, Gando, the severe-faced man who had sown so much chaos. Gando was attempting to retreat, to reposition his dwindling corps for a final, desperate stand. He created a crystalline shield to block a volley of senbon, the sharp needles shattering harmlessly against the hard surface.
A cold, grim idea formed in Daichi's mind. He flickered to the side of a fallen Iwa shinobi, one whose torso was riddled with Aburame beetles. With a single, powerful motion, he kicked the corpse into the air. As it sailed toward Gando, Daichi's hands were a blur, slapping a dozen explosive tags onto the body's flak jacket mid-flight.
Gando, seeing the projectile, sneered. A pathetic tactic. He formed a hand sign.
"Bakuton: Suishō Kabe!" (Explosion Release: Crystal Wall)
A thick, multifaceted wall of clear, super-hardened crystal erupted from the ground before him, a flawless and impenetrable defence.
The corpse slammed into the crystal wall and detonated.
"KKKRRRAAAASSSHHH-BOOOOOOM!!!!"
The explosion was colossal, a concentrated sun of fire and force that completely engulfed the crystalline barrier. Shards of superheated crystal were blasted in every direction, scything down several nearby Iwa shinobi. The shockwave knocked men from their feet for yards around.
When the fire and smoke cleared, the crystal wall was gone, vaporised in the epicentre of the blast. Behind it, Gando stood, slightly scorched and breathing heavily, having reinforced his personal defence at the last second, but otherwise unharmed. He had contained the blast, but the cost in chakra was evident.
Daichi landed softly a few yards away, his clothes untouched by the inferno he had just engineered. He looked at the panting, furious Iwa commander, then at the devastating result of his own defensive technique. His lip curled in utter contempt.
"Pathetic," Daichi muttered, his voice dripping with disgust that carried clearly across the sudden, ringing silence. "You can dish out destruction from the shadows, but you can't even take a taste of your own medicine without flinching."
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