Chapter 91: A Moment's Decision
BOOOOOOM!
The sound was apocalyptic, a localized thunderclap that shook water from leaves and sent birds screaming into the gloomy sky. The earth roared in protest, cracking open like a giant's skull under Ragnar's fist. Fissures raced outward, jagged and deep, turning solid ground into a treacherous, shattered landscape of upturned stone and clods of soil.
Jiugong Jiro's Phantom Kill technique, a masterpiece of speed and illusion, was rendered useless in an instant. Its foundation—a flat, predictable surface—was gone. The nine afterimages flickered, blurred, and dissolved like mist as the very terrain they relied on ceased to exist.
Shave!
Ragnar moved in the same breath. Ruthless efficiency.
The remaining sword shadows and phantom strikes, already destabilized, were crushed into nothingness by the lingering shockwave of his punch, popping like soap bubbles.
"Impossible!"
The real Jiugong Jiro, forced out of his hiding place within the technique, stumbled on the uneven ground, his eyes wide with shock behind his mask. He hadn't anticipated an attack that didn't target him, but the very stage of the battle. It was a brutal, simplistic counter that spoke of overwhelming confidence in raw power.
Instinct took over. He channeled chakra into the Kusanagi Sword, its seals blazing, and used a sweeping slash not to attack, but to propel himself backward, putting distance between himself and the crater's epicenter. He was a tactical fighter; facing an unknown, brute-force power head-on was folly.
In that brief exchange, Ragnar had already measured his opponent. With the Kusanagi Sword in hand, this Suna Special Jonin operated at the level of a full jonin, bordering on elite. The blade itself was a force multiplier. It wasn't just sharp; its material was otherworldly, capable of channeling and amplifying chakra in ways that made even Hatake Sakumo's White Fang seem mundane. This was one of the legendary artifacts, with its own lore and secret techniques—the sword rain, the extending blade, the manifestations Orochimaru would later master. It was a treasure.
And in the shinobi world, treasures belonged to the strong. Courtesy was a luxury; power was the final arbiter.
A cold, palpable intent coalesced around Ragnar. It was the杀气 (shāqì) – killing intent – of a survivor, refined through countless life-or-death struggles. It pressed down on the clearing, making the already chilly rain feel like needles of ice.
Jiugong Jiro felt it, and his own intent hardened in response. He, too, had recognized the demonic aura of Ragnar's Yama. This was a clash not just of shinobi, but of legendary blades.
"Use your strongest technique," Ragnar's voice cut through the oppressive atmosphere, flat and absolute. "Or die with the next move."
Jiro didn't answer. Words were wasted. For the true finishing stroke, he needed unity with his sword—a state of pure, singular purpose.
He settled into a basic, fundamental stance. Both hands gripped the Kusanagi Sword's hilt, holding it horizontally before his chest.
Buzz…
Chakra, visible as a shimmering white aura, surged from his hands and flowed along the blade, igniting the ancient seals. They glowed with a fierce, cutting light. This was Chakra Flow, a high-level skill demanding perfect control, and he executed it flawlessly.
As the luminous edge solidified, an immense, razor-sharp pressure filled the air. It felt as if the sky itself could be split. The very concept of 'cutting' became tangible, a cold promise of dissolution.
Slowly, Jiugong Jiro raised the sword overhead. His momentum crested, his entire being seeming to transform. He was no longer a man with a sword; he was the embodiment of a single, perfect cut. This transcended ninjutsu; it was pure swordsmanship, akin to the martial arts of the samurai of the Land of Iron.
Ragnar didn't interrupt. He respected the strike enough to meet it head-on. His own will gathered.
The sword flashed.
Jiro's eyes, visible through his mask's slits, gleamed with finality. He became an afterimage, a streak of light too fast for normal sight—a genuine, short-range teleportation powered by pure intent and chakra.
Ragnar's own blade rose. Yama, in his grip, underwent a transformation. The pitch-black Armament Haki swirled with the innate, malevolent purple energy of the demonic sword. They merged, creating a blade that was black as void, shot through with pulsing violet veins—a weapon of absolute destruction and ancient malice.
Observation Haki, Level 4: Future Sight.
His mind expanded, then focused to a needlepoint. The world became a series of flickering possibilities—branching paths of the next half-second. He saw the angle of the Kusanagi's descent, the micro-adjustments in Jiro's wrist, the trajectories of splashing rain. He saw the one true path to victory amidst a thousand paths to mutual ruin.
0.5 seconds of foresight. It was an immense drain, sapping his mental energy, making his vision swim at the edges. But he saw it. The intersection.
Shave!
He didn't move; he appeared somewhere else. A black and violet aurora tore through the space between them. For that fleeting moment, the world dimmed. The rain, the forest, the sky—all color bled away, leaving only the stark, bloody palette of an ancient battlefield, a vista of timeless sorrow and violence.
A single, crescent arc of darkness, drawn by Yama, was the only thing that existed.
CLANG!
A sound—clean, final, the ringing of a bell tolling for the dead.
The aurora faded. The bloody vision receded. Reality snapped back.
Ragnar and Jiugong Jiro had passed each other. They now stood with their backs to one another, frozen.
Ragnar let out a slow, controlled breath. Sweat beaded on his brow beneath the mask. The mental fatigue from forcing that half-second of foresight was profound, a deep weariness in his soul. He smoothly slid Yama back into its scabbard.
Behind him, a thin, perfect red line appeared across Jiugong Jiro's throat. His eyes, wide with the shock of the cut he never saw coming, glazed over. The Kusanagi Sword trembled in his slackening grip, letting out a faint, mournful chime, as if grieving for its fallen master. Then he crumpled forward, lifeless, onto the shattered earth.
"He's… dead." The Uchiha woman's voice was hushed, awed. The battle had ended not with a prolonged clash, but with a single, definitive moment of supreme skill and power.
"He is," Ragnar confirmed, his voice slightly strained. He walked over, pried the Kusanagi Sword from Jiro's fingers. The blade felt warm, humming with latent power.
He turned, the legendary sword in one hand, his gaze settling on the woman who had been Tengu. "Now. Tengu. Your true identity."
She met his eyes, the Sharingan now deactivated, leaving them a deep, honest black. After a moment of silent conflict, she spoke, her voice clear in the falling rain.
"I am Uchiha Mikoto."
(End of Chapter)
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