The Amegakure Jonin's gaze dropped to the crimson-stained claw jutting from his chest. His breathing hitched.
He looked forward—Guy was gone. Before the shock could fully register, the claw slid free, warm blood spilling down his flak jacket.
Whirling around, he finally saw his killer. Guy stood directly behind him, his eyes calm, his hand still shifting back from its lethal, talon-like form.
The Jonin's knees buckled. "But… how—?" The question died on his lips as he crumpled to the ground, eyes glazed in bewilderment.
He never knew the truth—that Guy had used teleportation to reappear behind him in an instant, driving his transformed hand clean through his heart.
Across the battlefield, another clash was tipping toward its end. The Jonin locked in combat with Erza struggled to withstand the relentless rhythm of her sword. Every strike rang like steel on stone, each blow jolting his arms to the bone.
Blood streaked his uniform from multiple cuts, and his footwork faltered. His breathing was ragged, his guard slow—signs that Erza's steady, crushing offense was wearing him down beyond recovery.
Erza slid into a precise sword-drawing stance, her eyes narrowing. In the blink of an eye, she vanished—only to reappear behind the Amegakure Jonin as if she had never moved at all.
With quiet finality, she sheathed her blade.
A crimson fountain burst from the side of the Jonin's neck. His body went rigid for a moment, then collapsed to the ground in silence, lifeless before it hit the dirt.
Elsewhere, the Jonin facing Antares formed rapid hand seals. "Water Release: Rain Needle!"
The steady rainfall over the battlefield transformed into a storm of razor-sharp water needles, all converging on Antares from every direction.
Unfazed, he walked forward, his voice calm and dismissive. "These needles won't harm me in the slightest. You're just ruining my clothes."
The barrage struck him like a swarm of quills, but the projectiles sank only a few inches—piercing his overcoat, shirt, and pants, yet stopping dead against the layer beneath. Hidden under his garments, his body was shielded by dense, dragon-like scales that turned the attack aside without effort.
Then, without warning, his pace quickened. Step by step, his speed built until he became a blur, vanishing from sight. An instant later, he was in front of the Amegakure Jonin, his fist morphing into a scaled dragon's claw.
With a single, crushing blow to the chest, he tore a gaping hole clean through his opponent. The Jonin crumpled without a sound, dead before he could even comprehend what had happened.
A few meters away, Yoko stood poised, the thorny vine whip in his hand slick with rainwater. His opponent—a weary Amegakure Jonin—was breathing hard, a deep diagonal gash across his chest spilling blood that mingled with the downpour.
Without warning, the whip coiled back, shrinking and twisting until it became a single crimson rose. Yoko lifted it toward his face, inhaling slowly, though the heavy rain dulled its scent.
"I dislike this weather," he murmured, his voice carrying an almost lazy disdain. "It's been raining without pause since I entered the Land of Rain. But… you fought well. Let's end this here and now."
The Jonin's jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening around the sword in his right hand. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to steady his stance.
Then, dizziness struck—sudden, disorienting, and overwhelming. His fingers went slack, the blade slipping from his grasp. His knees buckled, sending him crashing to the mud.
Gasping, he looked down—and his blood ran cold. From the gash across his chest, thick green vines began to twist and writhe outward, sprouting at an unnatural speed. They coiled over his skin, forcing their way through flesh as though his body were nothing more than fertile soil.
In his final moments, memories flashed through the Jonin's mind—scenes from earlier in the fight, when Yoko's whip had lashed across his chest and, in the same motion, scattered a few tiny seeds into the open wound. They had seemed harmless then, barely worth a second thought.
Now he understood.
The dizziness, the weakness, the sudden collapse—all were symptoms of severe chakra depletion. The seeds had been feeding on him, draining him dry. He tried to piece it together, to will his body into action… but before the realization could fully take shape, darkness swallowed his vision.
Yoko turned away without another glance. Behind him, the corpse of the Amegakure Jonin was now an unrecognizable mass of wild, thorn-covered vines. They burst from the deep chest wound, from the sockets of his eyes, from every opening they could find—twisting his remains into a grotesque floral effigy.
A short distance away, a deafening crash split the air. Mereoleona was hurled backward, boots carving deep trenches in the mud as she skidded to a stop. Her forearms were crossed in front of her face, muscles straining to withstand the crushing force of a massive wave of pressurized water.
Her opponent—the commander of the Amegakure battalion—stood firm, his Jutsu still surging forward in an unrelenting torrent. For a brief moment, his gaze flicked to the monstrous tangle of vines that had once been his subordinate. His jaw tightened, but he forced the image from his mind and locked back onto the fiery warrior before him.
"The fire is inherently weaker than water," the commander declared, his voice cutting through the roar of the battlefield. "Give up — you can't win against me."
The massive wave pressing Mereoleona back finally broke apart, splashing into the mud at her feet. She straightened, her lips curling into a feral smirk.
"You're right about that," she said evenly. "But there's another truth… if the temperature of fire is high enough, it can turn any amount of water into steam in an instant."
The moment the words left her mouth, flames roared to life around her body. Steam hissed as the water soaking her clothes evaporated in seconds.
Then she moved.
With an explosive burst of speed, she shot forward like a flaming comet, the ground beneath her feet scorching in her wake. She slammed into the commander with a thunderous impact, his hastily raised sword barely intercepting her strike.
Her fists—wreathed in flames so hot they hardened into a near-metal shell—hammered against the blade without so much as a scratch to her skin.
The commander's eyes widened in alarm. He could feel it—the density of fire chakra in her fists climbing at a terrifying pace. The heat radiating from her hands was already warping the air between them.
Whatever she was about to unleash, it would not just burn—it would obliterate.
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