Chapter 108: Pressures and Preparations
Nawaki sniffled, gingerly touching his sore, undoubtedly reddened face. "Sis, you're really… aggressive." His attempt at a manly pout was ruined by the swelling. Hadn't they agreed no face shots?
"Aggressive? I'll show you aggressive if you don't straighten up!" Tsunade retorted, hands on her hips. "Lying at your age! Talking about being some 'boss'! Who's been filling your head with this nonsense?"
The heir to the Senju clan, their last precious scion, acting like a wannabe gangster on the front lines? It was a political and personal nightmare. Her glare, sharp as a scalpel, swiveled and landed on the most likely corrupting influence present.
Jiraiya, sensing the sudden, murderous chill, took two quick steps back, hands raised in surrender. "Whoa, Tsunade! Not me! I swear on my… my reputation! I just found out the kid was here myself!"
"What reputation?" Tsunade shot back, her voice dripping with disdain.
GACK. Jiraiya clutched his chest as if physically struck.
"Waaah! Sis, you hit me!" Nawaki wailed, the tears starting again. "Now tell me! Who is Rakshasa? Please!"
"I'm leaving." Ragnar's flat announcement cut through the familial drama. The spectacle had its amusing moments, but he had better uses for his time.
"Hey, wait, kid!" Jiraiya called, forcing his wounded pride aside. "Seriously, think about my offer! Become my student. I wasn't just blowing smoke." There was a genuine, if clumsy, earnestness beneath the bravado. He saw a rough-edged talent that needed direction.
"Yes, Ragnar," Minato added, his expression warm and open. A spark of friendly competition lit his blue eyes. "I didn't expect to see you here, but I'm glad. If we were both students of Jiraiya-sensei, we could spar, learn from each other. It would help us both grow stronger."
Ragnar paused, actually considering it for a breath. Minato's intent was pure. And Jiraiya's offer, for a civilian ninja in this era, was a golden ticket—direct mentorship from a legendary Sannin, a path to power and status most could only dream of. It was a kindness, poorly packaged but real.
He met Minato's expectant gaze, then glanced at Jiraiya's attempt at a wise, welcoming smile.
"Thank you," he said, his tone respectful but final. "But not now."
He turned and walked away, his retreating back offering no further explanation.
The forced smile on Jiraiya's face slowly melted away, replaced by a look of genuine, surprised disappointment. He scratched the back of his head, a hollow chuckle escaping him. "Hah… rejected flat out. Well, that's… that's something."
Minato watched his teacher's face fall. He's really hurt. He'll probably mope about this for days.
"Oh, get over yourself, Jiraiya," Tsunade snorted, though her tone lacked its earlier venom. "As if you could teach a little monster like Ragnar anything useful. If he'd said yes, would the student even need the teacher?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Jiraiya grumbled, his reflexive defensiveness kicking in.
"Nothing. Just that there are a lot of impressionable young shinobi in this camp now. Try not to be a complete bad influence." She turned her stern look on Minato. "Minato, it's fine to learn ninjutsu and tactics from him. Do not, under any circumstances, pick up his… other hobbies. Understood?"
"Understood, Tsunade-sama," Minato replied with a patient, slightly pained smile. His teacher's reputation certainly preceded him.
"Sis!" Nawaki tried one more time, tugging on her sleeve with his best pitiful-puppy look.
Tsunade ignored the whine. She simply reached down, hooked a hand into the collar of his shirt, and hoisted him off the ground like a misbehaving kitten. "You and I are going to have a very long talk about appropriate behavior and battlefield safety."
"Wah! Put me down!"
Later, In Ragnar's Quarters
The relative silence of his assigned room was a welcome blanket after the noise outside. Ragnar sat cross-legged on the thin sleeping mat, allowing his body to settle, his chakra to cycle smoothly, washing away the residual fatigue from the extended missions and battles.
He planned to leave the camp again in a couple of days. Having accepted Konan and Yahiko as students—a decision that still felt oddly purposeful, guided by a whisper of future significance—he felt a responsibility to check on them. The war was a grinding wheel; leaving two children alone in the Rain for too long was asking for tragedy.
His mind, however, didn't stop at the immediate. It stretched beyond the borders of the Second Shinobi War, towards shadows that loomed larger than any current battlefield.
Nagato. The Rinnegan. Black Zetsu. White Zetsu. Uchiha Madara.
These names and entities were not direct players in this conflict. In many ways, this war was a petty squabble to them, a background noise to their millennia-spanning schemes. But that made them infinitely more dangerous. The outcome of this war meant little in the face of their goals.
So far, there was no sign of Nagato. No trace of the red-haired,轮回眼-bearing orphan who would one day found Akatsuki. And Madara and Zetsu were undoubtedly watching from the deepest shadows, observing the carnage with the detached interest of gardeners noting which weeds were strongest.
Thinking of Uchiha Madara specifically sent a cold, clarifying pressure settling over Ragnar's heart. Not fear, but the acute awareness of a vast gulf.
His current strength was considerable. He could annihilate platoons, duel elite jonin and Kage advisors to a standstill or better. He had power that could influence the tide of a regional battle.
But Madara… the resurrected Madara of the Fourth War was an entirely different category of existence. A single man who faced down an alliance of eighty thousand shinobi not as an army, but as a farmer scything wheat. He didn't fight them; he styled on them. That was power that transcended the 'Kage' level. That was bordering on the mythological.
Even at his current peak, Ragnar knew a fight against a true, prime Kage would be a severe test. Against Madara? It would be a foregone conclusion. Annihilation.
"Tch." The soft sound of irritation escaped him. "No time to rest. No room for complacency."
The knowledge of those lurking, apocalyptic threats was a constant weight, a spine-stiffening pressure. It banished any hint of pride or satisfaction in his current growth. It was a merciless drill sergeant in his mind, screaming that he was not fast enough, not strong enough.
To control his own fate, to move freely in a world rigged with such ancient, monstrous schemes, he needed to be stronger. Stronger than the legendary Uchiha Madara. Stronger than the Otsutsuki clan that waited beyond the stars. There was no other path to true freedom.
First things first.
He pushed the grand, daunting scale of those future conflicts aside. Growth happened in steps.
"The Silver Treasure Chest from driving off Chiyo," he murmured. While it wouldn't hold a world-shaking reward like a Devil Fruit, the system was rarely wasteful. A Silver Chest always contained something valuable.
With a thought, the chest materialized in the air before him, its metallic surface gleaming softly in the dim light of the room. It hovered, silent and promising.
He focused, and the lid swung open without a sound. A brief, brilliant flash of light burst forth, lasting only an instant before fading.
Lying at the bottom of the now-vanishing chest was a single card, shimmering with a silver sheen.
Ragnar reached out and plucked it from the air. As his fingers touched it, information streamed directly into his consciousness.
Skill Card: Ittoryu – Iai: Shishi Sonson.
Description: A single-sword drawing technique of ultimate speed and precision. The movement is faster than the eye can perceive—faster than the brain can process. It combines explosive acceleration, flawless timing, and lethal intent into one motion. Not a slash, but a conclusion.
A faint, humorless smile touched Ragnar's lips. "Another one of Zoro's techniques. I must have some kind of affinity with that green-haired swordsman."
It made sense, in a way. The world of One Piece had many master swordsmen, but few had codified and named as many distinct, powerful techniques as Roronoa Zoro. The greatest of them all, Mihawk, often demonstrated that ultimate skill could be devastatingly simple—a single, perfect slash. This 'Lion's Song' was the epitome of that philosophy refined into a single, blinding instant.
It was a perfect addition. Not a wide-area attack, not a transformation. A tool for decisive, personal elimination. Speed, power, and finality, condensed into the draw of a blade.
He absorbed the card. Knowledge flooded his muscles, his nerves—the precise stance, the coiling of tension, the exact angle of the draw, the explosive release of kinetic energy. It wasn't practice; it was implantation, a blueprint for a technique now etched into his being.
He stood up, his hand resting lightly on Yama's hilt. He didn't draw it. He didn't need to. He could feel the new potential sleeping in his draw hand, a silent promise of a cut that would arrive before the thought of dodging could form.
One more step. One more tool. The path was long, the enemies at the end were titans, but he was moving.
Always moving.
(End of Chapter)
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