The leader's eyes sank into hollow despair.
Only now did he truly understand what Hikaru's earlier words had meant.
They hadn't been words of mercy.
They had been the opening of a personal hell—one designed to make him live through death itself.
Each time his life ended and reignited, his body and soul were torn apart anew, forced through deeper and deeper circles of agony.
He screamed, throat raw:
"No… please, spare me—!"
But a thousand needles of pain shot through his limbs, stripping away all strength and will.
He could do nothing—nothing but writhe like a lamb bound to the butcher's block, drowning in terror.
In that darkness, pain found him again, a familiar and terrifying companion.
And within it, he saw them—
the children he had doomed.
Their innocent faces twisted by hatred, their small voices echoing in his ears, laughing—a warped, mocking laughter that clawed at what was left of his sanity.
Reality and hallucination merged into one unending nightmare.
His mind shattered completely, sinking into an abyss of pain without end.
And still, the torment repeated.
Each resurrection renewed the curse, dragging him through another round of living death.
By the time he revived again, his eyes were lifeless—vacant, hollow.
Even when the searing pain returned, he could no longer react. His spirit was gone.
Only then did Hikaru stop.
For Chinatsu, Orochimaru, and the others, the method was cruel—but not beyond comprehension.
In the shinobi world, information often required extreme measures.
Hikaru's version, however, operated on an entirely different level—refined, dreadful, and absolute.
"Who were you selling the children to?" Hikaru asked, voice devoid of emotion.
The leader's frail body trembled.
Even drained of life, his fear of Hikaru was instinctive.
"S‑Sakura Country…" he stammered. "The buyers came from Sakura Country."
"Sakura Country?" Hikaru frowned slightly. "And what do they want with the children?"
He didn't wait for an answer. The motive didn't matter. The identity did.
With a flick of his fingers, fire engulfed the man once more.
This time, the leader didn't scream. Instead, a faint smile of relief touched his lips—as if welcoming death.
At last, the cycle had ended.
"Since you've been watching for quite some time," Hikaru said suddenly, turning his gaze toward the shadows, "why not come out and join us?"
No one was surprised. They had sensed the hidden presence all along.
From the darkness, a young Taoist in a traditional robe stepped forward. A faint, wry smile curved his lips.
He clasped his hands and bowed politely.
"Zhang Zhiwei of Dragon Tiger Mountain. Greetings, honored ones."
Despite the humility in his tone, his posture carried calm confidence and practiced grace.
Zhang Zhiwei had originally been traveling with his master to attend a birthday celebration at the Lu Family estate when he heard rumors of missing children.
He followed the trail here—and had witnessed the entire scene.
The self‑immolating technique was impressive enough.
But resurrection? That defied every law of Daoist cultivation he knew.
He had always considered himself unmatched among the younger generation—yet he wasn't arrogant.
And the man before him… stood far beyond his comprehension.
Hikaru studied the young Daoist with interest.
As one of The Outcast's central figures, Zhang Zhiwei's younger self was someone Hikaru had wanted to meet.
"Attack me," Hikaru said calmly.
Zhang Zhiwei blinked, caught off guard.
He looked up, meeting Hikaru's gaze—searching for a hint of jest. None came.
"Senior… forgive me, did I hear that correctly?" he asked carefully.
He wasn't one to fear battle, yet a cold pressure coiled around his heart.
This "young man" before him—no, this ancient existence—was something else entirely.
That youthful face, he realized, was probably nothing more than an ageless disguise, much like the legendary Left Ruo Tong's.
Hikaru nodded. "Attack. I want to see your strength."
Though his tone was even, there was no room for refusal.
Zhang Zhiwei exhaled, then smiled faintly.
Underneath that polite grin, the fighting spirit of the Monkey King within him stirred.
"Then… forgive my offense, Senior."
In an instant, golden light burst from his body—dense, radiant, and pure.
The brilliance condensed into a solid aura that rippled through the courtyard.
With a flash, he shot forward, lightning‑fast.
The gap between them vanished in a heartbeat.
He struck—
a clean, disciplined punch aimed straight at Hikaru's abdomen.
Boom!
The impact echoed—but Hikaru didn't move.
Not a step. Not a flinch.
To him, it was little more than a breeze.
"Good speed," Hikaru said mildly. "But your power is lacking."
The words froze Zhang Zhiwei mid‑motion.
He withdrew quickly, pupils constricting in shock.
He had already assumed this "Senior" was beyond him—but the reality was beyond imagination.
Instinct screamed danger.
He leapt back, retreating in a blur—just as an invisible blade of wind sliced cleanly through the spot he had stood a heartbeat before.
Hikaru raised an eyebrow, faintly impressed.
Even elite Jōnin from the Hidden Leaf might have failed to evade that counter.
For one so young, Zhang Zhiwei truly lived up to his future title—Heavenly Master.