But it was no use. No matter how carefully one looked, there wasn't a trace of the enemy.
If this had been Iwagakure ANBU camouflage, there would have been clues—faint footsteps, a shift in the air, some disturbance in the environment.
Here, there was nothing.
No—there was.
From the corner of his eye, he caught it: a patch of snow, subtly disturbed. The shallow impression of weight pressing down, then carefully erased.
What mastery. To erase footprints to this extent…
That was it.
In an instant, the ninja struck. The flaw revealed itself in the transition between movements—the slightest gap, but fatal all the same. A flash of steel tore through the blizzard. The masked head flew, landing in the snow with a dull roll.
The illusion broke.
The phantom layer dissolved, exposing scattered tracks across the snow—and a figure quietly reclaiming her blade.
Kumogakure's shinobi had been trapped in the false layer, chasing shadows. Naori stood in reality. Split dimensions overlapping, making them blind to her presence.
A dimensionality-reduction strike.
The killing was clean. Naori gazed down at the corpses.
A pair of scarlet lines swirled faintly in her eyes before she slowly let them fade.
Never meet the Uchiha's gaze. That had been common knowledge since the Warring States era.
But before Naori, whether they noticed her eyes or not hadn't mattered.
She flexed her left arm. Scarlet threads of bio-steel gleamed from beneath her armored cuff—the kind that could slice a body into pieces in a heartbeat. A cruel technique, one she had developed together with Maki.
"Terrible…"
The hand on her sword hilt trembled.
What was terrifying?
Killing?
Herself?
Or this world?
Naori drew in a steadying breath, then turned and left. Behind her, the wind rose, howling. Snow gathered quickly, burying the dead.
The storm thickened. Murderous intent clashed on the mountain road ahead. On one side, a sheer cliff. On the other, a vertical wall of stone.
A lone figure in a hooded cloak advanced against the blizzard, facing four wary ninja. Her pace quickened, firm and unyielding.
At fifty meters, the four moved first. Kunai shot forward in a concentrated volley.
The figure sprinted with her sword drawn. The kunai struck, but instead of tearing flesh, they ricocheted away in a clear, ringing clatter. She didn't falter.
Seeing their ranged assault fail, the squad drew their blades. At ten meters, steel flashed like a second moon across the night sky.
The crescent slash carved the air. A genin's head was severed before he could react. Another leapt desperately upward, only to be bisected midair. The last genin fell screaming, clutching the bloody stumps of his legs as his cries scattered into the mountain wind.
The lone jōnin spared a glance at his fallen comrades. That heartbeat of concern cost him.
The cloaked figure was already upon him.
"You bastard!" he roared, slashing down.
What he met instead was a storm of steel.
A blizzard of blades and snow engulfed him, dazzling and merciless. His burly form staggered within the storm, lightning crackling across his frame, blood streaming from countless cuts.
The girl stepped free from the drifting snow.
"You're tougher than I expected," Hitomi said, her gaze sharp.
No substitution trick, no lightning clone could fool her eyes. She saw it—the Thunder Release Armor coating his body, his body vibrating with speed and chakra. He had survived the storm of blades.
"I thought I could finish you in one strike," she admitted, sheathing her sword. "If I'd been any slower, I'd be the one falling into the abyss."
The Kumogakure jōnin glared at her, lightning flickering over his wounds. "Dangerous swordsmanship. But can you keep up with me?"
He straightened, blood dripping from his body, and bared his teeth. "This is the fastest technique in the ninja world—Thunder Release: Chakra Mode!"
Hitomi's lips curved faintly. "So weak. The rumors don't live up to the reality."
Her hand touched her sword once more. Wind began to coil around the blade, reshaping it. The edge grew thinner, sharper, serrated gales spinning along its length like fangs. The howl of the storm became the sword's voice.
"Wind against lightning… let's see which prevails."
"You'll regret underestimating me!" the jōnin thundered, body flickering into pure lightning as he charged.
At the same time, Hitomi unleashed her storm.
The tempest was smaller than before, but far denser, every strike precise and concentrated.
The lightning could not stop. Even realizing the danger, it was too late.
The two forces collided. Steel and storm against speed and thunder.
Blood mist blossomed in the snow.
Hitomi swung his blade with a sharp arc, sheathing it in one smooth motion. The pieces of his opponent hit the snow with a dull thud.
"What's the use of speed if you can't kill with it?" she muttered, turning her gaze toward the young genin crawling desperately through the snow.
The boy's face was smeared with tears and snot as he dragged himself forward, inch by inch, refusing to stop.
Hitomi's grip on the hilt tightened.
He's just a kid… but he's still a ninja.
"I'm ready," Hitomi whispered, stepping closer. "Ready for the same fate. That's the resolve a shinobi should carry. Don't die crawling—don't die ugly, boy of the Cloud."
He raised his blade.
"Let me send you off. Sorry… and goodbye."
The boy clawed at the ground, but it was useless. A flash of steel—then silence.
Hitomi stood over the still body for a long moment. Then, wordlessly, she slid her sword back into its sheath and walked away. The wind and snow howled behind him like a grieving chorus.
Far across the battlefield, death struck elsewhere.
A strange white light tore through the storm. In one clean stroke, a ninja was cleaved in half. The wound smoked black, blood boiled away before it could spill.
That blade… the White Fang's thunder-charged short sword.
"Konoha's White Fang!" a veteran jōnin cried out, recognizing the name feared across the Five Nations.
The battle ended as suddenly as it began. His three comrades had been cut down in the space of a heartbeat—ambushed, killed before they could even blink. The enemy's speed was blinding.
Like lightning.
The lone survivor braced himself, forming seals, but the ground cracked open beneath him. Two wolfhounds erupted from below, their jaws locking tight around his ankles.
The white flash struck again. His head flew free, the flesh scorched as if half-cooked.
From start to finish, less than five seconds. A flawless execution.
White Fang knelt beside his companions, running a hand over their bloodstained fur with quiet fondness. He pulled out a pouch of secret dog food, feeding them as the wind raged around him.
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