The Cloud ninjas had completely encircled Akira, leaving a wide ring around him, a silent and tense battlefield poised for violence.
Many among them were elite swordsmen, honed through years of warfare and bloodshed. Now, several of these blade-wielding warriors stepped into the circle, slowly beginning to orbit Akira, their eyes cautious, hands trembling despite their training.
They remembered vividly the nightmare they had just witnessed. Moments earlier, Akira had charged into their ranks like a living tempest. A single punch from him had hurled a man dozens of meters. In mere minutes, he had single-handedly incapacitated hundreds. Not one of them had so much as scratched him. It was a massacre—brutal and one-sided.
Still, the pride of the Cloud Village burned hot. Even with sweat dripping from their brows and fear tightening their chests, they gritted their teeth and surged forward. Six swordsmen leapt at Akira, attacking from all directions, their blades a flash of steel and desperation.
But Akira did not flinch.
Sound Release chakra coursed through his armor as it morphed and extended into two thin, deadly blades—his signature "Sound Blades."
Lowering his body with controlled grace, Akira spun midair like a vortex of death. In the blink of an eye, the Sound Blades clashed with the Cloud ninjas' steel, slicing cleanly through their weapons—and then their bodies. Blood sprayed into the air, and six more warriors collapsed with screams of agony.
Earlier, when his Sound Blades failed to pierce the Third Raikage's skin, Akira had briefly doubted their value. Now, seeing their efficacy against ordinary foes, his confidence was renewed.
Yet the Cloud ninjas showed no sign of retreat. Instead, they came in waves, their bodies hurtling forward with weapons raised. Kunai and shuriken flew at Akira from every angle.
He didn't dodge.
The Sound Release chakra armor shimmered as it deflected each projectile effortlessly. Then came another dozen enemies, some leaping into the air, while others burrowed underground with Earth Release, hoping to strike from below.
Akira smirked.
He had already sensed their movements with his heightened perception.
"Golden Bell Shield!" he commanded.
A rotating shell of chakra erupted around him, forming a bell-shaped shield that deflected all incoming attacks. But the trap wasn't over—ninjas emerged from the earth beneath his feet, aiming for his blind spots.
"Golden Bell Break!"
Suddenly, the shield exploded outward in a concussive wave, scattering enemies like leaves in a storm. The blast cleared a massive perimeter, leveling the battlefield. Those closest were thrown aside with shattered ribs and crushed armor; even those at the edge of the radius coughed blood as internal injuries took hold.
Then came another wave. "Water Release: Great Waterfall Technique!"
A torrent surged toward him. Akira's eyes narrowed.
"Earth Release: Multiple Earth Walls!"
With rapid hand seals, a fortress of earthen walls rose around him, halting the cascade like a dam. Water battered the walls but could not break them. From behind the water jutsu users emerged a team of Lightning Release specialists.
"Lightning Release: Surge!"
Electricity coursed through the wet battlefield, targeting the Earth Walls. Akira grinned as he perceived their plan.
"Sound Release: Vibration Ejection!"
A burst of chakra blasted from the base of the walls, launching Akira into the air just before lightning struck his position and reduced the stone to rubble. As he soared, more enemy jutsu lit the sky.
"Lightning Water Dragon Bullet!"
Multiple lightning-infused water dragons lunged toward him. Akira twisted midair.
"Vibration Ejection—again!"
With each hand thrust, a shockwave launched him further, evading the snapping jaws of the dragons. He glided across the sky, then landed softly on the far edge of the battlefield.
His expression turned solemn.
"I've seen enough," Akira said, his voice calm but firm. "The strength of a great nation's shinobi is admirable. I will make sure our own village's ninja rise to that level. But for today... this ends."
"Multiple Shadow Clone Technique!"
Twenty clones materialized around him, each masked and cloaked in black—his Sand Crossings.
Together, they moved into formation. Hands opened, chakra pulsing in the air.
"Sound Release: Multiple Air Vibration Waves!"
Invisible shockwaves of sound exploded outward. Though they traveled at the speed of sound, the Cloud ninjas had expected an attack.
"Water Release: Multiple Water Wall Technique!"
But they chose wrong.
Akira nearly laughed. "Fools. Water can carry sound—it doesn't block it. Earth would've protected you."
The sound waves blasted through the water walls like they weren't even there. The front lines fell first, clutching their heads and writhing in agony. Internal organs shook violently within their bodies, blood pouring from mouths and noses. Minds went blank, bodies collapsed.
All around, Cloud ninjas vomited blood and fell to the ground, helpless. Of the 1,500 who once stood tall, only a handful remained—those who had been assigned to evacuate the injured Raikage.
They turned, looking back from the hill they'd fled to, eyes wide in disbelief. Behind them lay a field of fallen comrades.
Akira stood alone amidst the chaos, a silent storm who had spent his fury. He looked over the battlefield with eyes of steel, his cloak fluttering in the wind like a victory banner.
He had chosen not to kill the Raikage—out of pragmatism, and perhaps mercy.
But he had sent a message louder than thunder:
The Sound Village, and its enigmatic Sound Shadow Akira, were not to be underestimated.
The samurai of the Land of Rice Fields had begun to cheer at some unknown moment, their voices rising in waves of celebration. They had been holding their breath ever since Akira, cloaked in black with his identity hidden, felled the mighty Third Raikage in a staggering display of strength.
Initially, they'd believed that the battle would end with the Raikage's defeat. Relief had begun to bloom in their hearts. But the illusion of peace shattered the instant someone from the Cloud Village cried out, "Lord Raikage has been killed!"
A chill fell over the samurai like a winter wind. They knew what the Raikage meant to the Cloud Ninja. He was not merely a leader, but a symbol—a living embodiment of their pride and will. His fall was equivalent to the assassination of their own Daimyo. Surely, the Cloud forces wouldn't accept this. Surely, they would retaliate.
And they did.
Despite the agreed terms, the Cloud Ninja launched a furious counterattack. They surged forward like a tidal wave, surrounding Lord Akira with the fury of betrayal. The samurai wished to help—some even drew their blades—but they were bound by orders. Not one move was to be made without Lord Akira's command.
And then, to their disbelief, they watched one man turn the tide.
With chakra-blades forged from pure sound and a defense more advanced than any fortress wall, Akira dismantled the onslaught of 1,500 elite Cloud Ninja. He was poetry in motion and terror incarnate. Punches that shattered ribs. Shields that exploded with counterforce. Waves of sound that brought seasoned warriors to their knees.
The samurai could not hold back any longer.
"Long live Lord Akira!" they cried in unison, tears gleaming in their eyes. They had just witnessed a miracle.
Yet what struck them most wasn't just Akira's power, but the eerie composure of the one hundred black-robed ninja who stood between them and the battlefield. These warriors, clearly Akira's subordinates, hadn't moved a single step. Not when the Raikage fell. Not when Akira was swarmed. Not even when the battlefield erupted in chaos.
Their stillness spoke volumes.
The samurai had long believed that ninja were fickle and undisciplined, slaves to their own ambitions. But these warriors were statues of loyalty. They radiated a cold, formidable confidence in their leader. When Akira had released his Sound Release technique, the blast of auditory force had been so fierce that even the samurai in the rear had clutched their ears in agony. But the black-robed soldiers held firm, unmoved, their formation as sharp as ever.
The samurai were awed. Not only was Lord Akira a warrior of terrifying might, he had also forged an army that exuded discipline and respect.
After the last devastating wave of sound felled nearly every remaining Cloud ninja, Akira appeared once more—this time before the final four survivors.
Only four remained.
Three stood defensively while the fourth, a frail medical kunoichi, tended to the fallen Raikage. As Akira approached, the three rose with defiance in their eyes, despite their broken bodies and faltering limbs.
Akira frowned.
He observed them closely: an elderly man whose trembling hands betrayed more than fear—perhaps illness; a one-eyed warrior hobbling on a cane, his body ravaged by past battles; a young man who, despite his youthful face, wheezed like a dying bellows. Only the medic behind them looked stable, though so thin she seemed made of glass.
Akira sighed inwardly. "A logistics squad," he muttered. "Why are you still here?"
He lifted a hand and said, with no real venom, "You should retreat. You can no longer fight."
But the three veterans did not move. Instead, they drew their weapons, defiant to the end.
"We are Cloud ninja," said the young man, his voice cracking. "We will never..."
The sentence dissolved into a violent coughing fit. Akira instinctively stepped forward, halfway ready to help.
"You remind me of someone," he murmured, amused. "Ever heard of a guy named Hayate Gekko from Konoha?"
But the humor faded quickly. Akira slowly raised his hand again, more out of ritual than necessity.
"Very well. Out of respect for your courage as shinobi, I'll send you off gently."
The air trembled around him. Even these hardened remnants of the Cloud flinched, knowing what that motion meant. The same hand had just brought down an entire army.
Just as the wave of chakra was about to erupt, a sharp cough rang out—not from the young man, but from behind him.
The Third Raikage had awakened.
The frail medic backed away as the old warrior, bloodied and bruised, raised his torso slightly and coughed again, pain etched into every feature.
Akira paused.
"Ah, so the great Raikage lives," he said, smiling under his mask. "I'm glad. For a moment, I was worried I'd accidentally killed you. I'm a man of peace, after all. I'd hate for our nations' relations to suffer."
The Raikage stared at him, half-lidded eyes brimming with a mix of exhaustion and disbelief.
Peace-loving? Was this child joking?
Raikage turned his gaze. Around him lay the broken bodies of his elite ninja—limbs askew, blood staining the ground, groans of agony rising like a mourning chant. This was the work of someone who claimed to avoid violence?
Akira, noticing the look, raised both palms.
"Hey, don't look at me like that! They attacked first. We had a deal. I win, and you leave. They broke that promise. I simply defended myself."
He tilted his head, almost sheepish. "I didn't hit them too hard. Only about a hundred or so are severely injured. Maybe half of those can still be saved. Maybe... forty or fifty are beyond help. But senior, surely you won't go back on your word over such a small thing?"
The Third Raikage groaned, then waved a hand dismissively. "Cough... Don't worry. I'm not a man who breaks promises. Once my men can move, we'll leave the Land of Rice Fields."
He looked long and hard at Akira, eyes narrowed. He couldn't see past the hood or the mask, nor could he discern the boy's identity. But the voice, hoarse as it was, was young. This warrior—this monster—was barely into his twenties.
Strength. Intelligence. Leadership.
The Raikage had no choice but to admit the truth to himself: this was the new generation. The future had arrived. Perhaps it was time for the old guard to step aside.
But one final concern burned in his mind.
"Also," he said, voice hesitant, "can we not talk about... that part?"
Akira blinked. "Which part?"
The Raikage subtly held up a finger.
Akira laughed. "Ah, got it. Secret's safe with me."
And in that moment, though no more words were spoken, a rare moment of mutual respect passed between warrior and warrior—one young, one old, both legends in their own right.