Shanks's body went cold before it even hit the earth. For an instant, the battlefield froze—the wind, the sand, even the distant clangs of weapons.
Then Minato's voice tore the silence apart.
"SHANKS!!!"
He tried to run toward him. Jiraiya grabbed his shoulder, but Minato ripped out of his grip, chakra flaring with panic.
Sakumo didn't shout, didn't cry. His face emptied of emotion as he stepped forward. His blade hummed—wind chakra wrapping around it so sharply that the air itself distorted.
One heartbeat later, he was gone.
fssht
He reappeared behind Onoki, blade already at the Tsuchikage's throat.
Onoki jerked his head aside at the last possible second, narrowly avoiding decapitation. Sakumo's blade sliced cleanly through the tip of his ear as he shot upward into the sky.
"Tch… you're fast, White Fang…" Onoki muttered through his teeth, clutching the side of his face. Blood dripped down his cheek.
Sakumo didn't look up. He stared at Shanks's body instead—motionless, eyes half-open, expression still tense from the moment of death.
I was too late, he thought. Too slow. If I'd moved faster…
Jiraiya stepped beside him, face dark.
"Damn it… damn it…" he whispered. "That brat… he actually—"
Minato finally reached the body. He knelt down, shaking, hands hovering uselessly over Shanks's chest.
"Come on," Minato whispered. "You always get up… You always stand back up… Shanks… please…"
There was no breath.
No heartbeat.
Nothing.
Above them, Onoki hovered, pale and furious, half of his face sliced open. His missing arm was a ragged stump. Yet his eyes carried no hesitation.
"You Leaf brats… do you understand what you've cost me today?" he growled. "Hundreds of my men… my arm… my face… All this because of a single child of Konoha."
Sakumo finally looked up, his eyes empty.
"You talk too much."
Onoki snorted. "And yet… you've only lost one. I suppose that's a fair trade. Even if that one was a prodigy."
His gaze sharpened when he looked at Minato, Jiraiya, and Sakumo.
"Konoha breeds monsters. Three here… two more on the other fronts… If you're allowed to grow, each one of you will rival a Kage."
He exhaled.
"That's why this ends now."
He raised his remaining hand.
"Dust Release: Detachment of the Primitive World Technique… Final Shot."
The Octagonal Prism formed instantly, humming like a living thing. The three Leaf shinobi scattered at once.
"MOVE!" Sakumo ordered.
The beam fired downward, erasing everything in its path—stone, soil, trees, corpses, armor—everything.
Minato turned back in horror.
"SHANKS—NO!"
The attack consumed the body instantly. Not even ash remained.
Minato's scream cut through the explosion. Jiraiya clenched his fists so tightly blood ran down his palms. Sakumo's blade trembled, and for the first time in years, he wanted to kill someone without hesitation.
But Onoki was already gone—fleeing, a shrinking spot in the sky.
Minato fell to his knees.
"He… he's gone… He's really gone…"
Jiraiya placed a hand on his shoulder and swallowed hard.
"Get up, kid. We need to regroup. Shanks wouldn't want us standing here crying."
Minato wiped his face, breathing unevenly. But he stood.
Sakumo returned to the surviving Konoha forces. Their faces were pale—several unconscious from Shanks's earlier Conqueror's Haki release.
"We secure the field," Sakumo said. His voice was firm, but the exhaustion beneath it was obvious. "Collect every unconscious shinobi—ours and theirs. Don't leave anyone for the scavengers."
The shinobi obeyed without question.
Jiraiya walked among the wounded, checking vitals. Minato silently dragged unconscious soldiers to safety, avoiding everyone's eyes.
After everything was done, Sakumo allowed them five quiet minutes to mourn. No speeches, no ceremonies—just silence, the wind blowing over a field that had lost too many.
Then he sat down, pulled parchment from his pouch, and began writing the report for the Hokage.
His hand hovered over the name Shanks, unable to write it.
He trusted me… Shanks looked up to me… and I couldn't protect him.
He forced himself to continue.
In Konoha, the Hokage's office felt colder than usual.
Hiruzen read the report once.
Then again.
Then a third time.
Shanks.
His nephew.
His sister's child.
The boy who joked about becoming "stronger than all the old men in Konoha."
Gone.
The pipe in Hiruzen's hand cracked down the middle. Ash fell onto his desk.
After a long silence, he whispered only one sentence:
"…Notify the family."
He stood, but his legs felt heavier than they had in years. Being Hokage meant losing countless shinobi. He had accepted that long ago.
But losing family…
That wound didn't close.
Meanwhile, far from the battle, Onoki had been flying for two hours. His breathing was rough, uneven. His missing arm throbbed sharply and the deep cut across his face burned with every gust of wind.
He finally landed in a small desert clearing, nearly stumbling.
"Damn… brat…" he muttered, applying first aid. "You should have died quietly…"
He tied a makeshift bandage around his shoulder, swallowed some soldier pills, and drank from a dented canteen.
Fifteen minutes of rest. That was all he could spare.
Two more hours to reach Iwa, he thought. If I collapse before that, I'm done.
He forced himself to stand.
The desert suddenly went silent.
No wind.
No insects.
No shifting sand.
A cold, unnatural shiver crawled up Onoki's spine.
"…Who's there?"
No answer.
He turned slowly. Nothing. Just empty dunes.
"Tch… nerves," he muttered.
He took one step forward.
And a blade pierced through his back.
"AGH—!"
Blood filled his mouth as he twisted his head.
Standing behind him was a kid—completely naked, skin pale, hair bright red, a disturbing tattoo pulsing across his arm like something alive. His eyes were hollow. His smile was wrong.
Onoki choked out one last, horrified word:
"Y—YOU!!!"