Ino and Shikamaru exchanged a glance for a brief moment—one of those quick looks, almost invisible to anyone who didn't know them. There were no words, because there was no time. But there was understanding. There was the memory of training, of smaller missions, of arguments over strategy and, above all, there was the urgency of those who know that if they hesitate, the next opening might be the last.
Without saying anything, Ino surged forward.
She drew shuriken between her fingers in a fluid motion, as if the metal were already part of her own body. Her steps were light and firm at the same time, and before the distance closed too much, she hurled the blades toward Kabuto. It wasn't an attack meant to kill—it was pressure, tempo, an attempt to force a reaction, pull out a pattern, provoke the smallest mistake.
Beside her, Shikamaru was already moving too.
His fingers interlaced and separated with speed, seals forming precisely, almost automatically. His eyes, however, didn't follow his hands; they were locked on Kabuto, studying every shift of weight, every subtle change in posture, every detail that might betray the enemy's intent.
"Kagemane no Jutsu."
Shikamaru's shadow stretched across the ground like a silent black tongue, racing toward the opponent. It was a treacherous advance: it made no noise, demanded no contact, didn't need brute strength—just reach.
Kabuto, seeing the shuriken and the shadow coming at the same time, reacted with unsettling lightness.
He jumped.
A short, efficient leap, perfectly calculated. The shuriken sliced through the air where he had been, and the shadow missed by a hair, scraping empty space. In that same instant, still airborne, Kabuto was already forming seals at a frightening speed—clean hands, fast, without hesitation, as if that jutsu were etched into him as deeply as breathing.
"Nehan Shouja no Jutsu."
The moment he spoke the words, the atmosphere seemed to change texture.
White feathers began to fall from the sky—soft, slow, beautiful in a way that felt almost wrong for that moment. It wasn't like snow; it was lighter, more delicate, and precisely because of that, more cruel. The first feather drifted near Ino's face, and it was as if a warm mist tried to seep into her thoughts.
Sleep came fast.
Ino felt her eyelids grow heavy as if someone had placed stones on them. She tried to breathe in deep, force her body to obey, bite her own tongue—anything to keep herself awake. For a second, she managed it—just enough to take one more step, just enough to realize the world was slipping away, as if she were drowning inside her own head.
Then her will failed.
Her knees buckled, and she hit the ground with a dull thud, unable even to soften the fall. The shuriken didn't matter anymore, the fight didn't exist anymore—there was only that sensation of being pulled downward, into a dark place that was far too comfortable.
Shikamaru felt the drowsiness hit as well.
It was like a heavy blanket trying to crush his consciousness. The temptation to close his eyes came with a strange warmth, a lying promise of rest. But unlike Ino, his mind didn't accept it without a fight. It was precisely in situations where everything seemed lost that Shikamaru's brain accelerated—not out of courage, but necessity.
He analyzed.
Feathers. Drowsiness. Area genjutsu. If he insisted on Kagemane, he'd go down too. If he tried to drag Ino without breaking the effect, he'd only haul dead weight and get caught the same way. The answer had to be immediate, simple, and efficient.
Shikamaru abandoned the jutsu without hesitation, cutting the shadow's extension off mid-advance. Instead, his hands shifted into a new seal, shorter, more direct.
"Genjutsu Gaeshi."
In an instant, the slow fall of the feathers seemed to shatter, as if the air had given up on the illusion. The outline of the world sharpened again, and Shikamaru took advantage of the opening: it was all he needed to move.
He sprinted to Ino—fast, no wasted motion. He dropped to a knee beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder, channeling chakra with steady force, making the energy "wake" her body, pushing the genjutsu out as if expelling a toxin.
Ino jolted awake.
She sucked in a breath all at once, like someone breaking the surface after being submerged too long. Her head throbbed, her muscles felt sluggish, and the confusion still echoed hard. Her eyes swept the area urgently, trying to piece together what had just happened.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice slightly hoarse, the words escaping before she could fully organize her thoughts.
"You got caught in a genjutsu," Shikamaru replied—no drama, no extra explanation. It was blunt because it had to be.
Ino swallowed, jaw tightening, feeling a quick, bitter shame try to rise—only to crush it before it could grow. Not now. They didn't have that luxury.
Neither of them said anything else.
Because it wasn't necessary.
Their silence wasn't empty; it was heavy with understanding. Both of them knew the situation was complicated—maybe even desperate. Kabuto wasn't a common opponent. The way he moved, the calm with which he reacted, the ease with which he'd cast an area genjutsu—everything screamed a difference in level. And at the same time, the fight itself had already made it clear there was no real room to retreat.
All they could try to do was keep going.
——————————————————
On the other side, the sound was different.
There were no feathers drifting down slowly, no treacherous silence of a genjutsu spreading through the air. There was impact. There was the snap of metal cutting the wind. There was the friction of shifting footwork, and that constant feeling that any opening—no matter how small—would be punished decisively.
Asuma was trading blows with Orochimaru.
He was an experienced jounin, and it was precisely that experience that made everything worse—because he knew. He knew too much. He could recognize the difference in strength without needing more than a few exchanges. He could feel, in the opponent's posture, that this wasn't a "balanced" fight, nor a duel at the limit, but a cat-and-mouse game where the cat was simply having fun.
They had a 4v3.
On paper, it was an advantage. In practice, it was almost a joke.
The difference between them wasn't numbers; it was an abyss.
As he dodged an attack and repositioned, Asuma searched for alternatives. A plan that didn't rely on winning, but on surviving. A path that didn't demand equal force, but might—maybe—buy time. Yet every passing second seemed to prove that time was exactly what Orochimaru didn't need.
Then a voice reached Asuma's ear—soft and venomous at the same time, like a snake sliding far too close.
"You should just stop all this and hand the boy over. That way you can still save yourself and your other two students."
Orochimaru said it with an expression of delight, as if savoring the dilemma. As if watching a Konoha jounin—an adult man, trained, used to death—being pressed by an impossible choice was the most interesting part of the fight.
Asuma didn't answer.
Answering would be admitting the offer had weight. It would give Orochimaru exactly what he wanted: space inside his mind. And Asuma couldn't allow that. He couldn't lose even a fragment of focus.
He only channeled chakra into his blades.
The chakra concentrated, vibrating, giving the weapon a sense of cutting that felt more "real" than the metal itself. He lunged at high speed, closing the distance with an aggressive burst, and struck with a clear intent: cut Orochimaru in half, end the conversation and the threat—even if the hope of that was small.
The strike landed.
For an instant, there was the feeling of impact, the confirmation of the cut passing through something solid—and Asuma almost let a thread of relief be born.
But in that same moment, Orochimaru vanished in a burst of smoke. The strike split what remained: a wooden log in his place.
The log was cleaved cleanly in two, and the "victory" revealed itself for what it was: a trap, a provocation, a demonstration of control. Asuma clicked his tongue in irritation—not only at the mistake, but at the cold way Orochimaru toyed with it.
Orochimaru reappeared at a safe distance, as if he'd simply decided to be there. The smile still sat on his face—too wide, too calm—and his tongue slid out and back in, wet and serpentine, reinforcing the feeling that Asuma wasn't dealing with an ordinary human, but with something that imitated humanity for pure entertainment.
"You're still far from being enough, kid. Sen'ei Jashu."
Orochimaru extended a hand, and from his sleeves, snakes burst out like living arrows.
They shot toward Asuma with speed and aggression, mouths open, fangs bared, bodies twisting through the air as if space itself were water. It wasn't a simple attack to dodge. It was multiple, irregular, designed to saturate and force mistakes—a living wall coming from every angle.
Asuma reacted fast.
His body moved on instinct and training, weight shifting from one leg to the other, arms cutting in precise arcs. He slipped past some snakes by centimeters and sliced others before their fangs could reach him. The chakra on his blades made the difference: every strike had to be clean, final, because hesitating meant getting grabbed.
Even so, one snake found the opening.
A bite caught him in the left ribs, punching through his defense in the instant he twisted his torso to avoid another. Pain flared like fire—sharp and immediate—tearing an involuntary groan from him. Before he could even process it, another snake sank its fangs into his right calf—an electric shock shooting up his leg, making the muscle tremble.
Asuma clenched his teeth.
The pain tried to steal his movement, to pin his body down, but he didn't let it. With brute effort and discipline, he kept cutting. One strike, two, three—snakes splitting apart, recoiling, getting severed, until the pressure eased enough for him to regain a sliver of space.
He finished cutting the last ones coming at him.
Then, for a second, the weight of the effort dropped onto him. His chest rose and fell hard. The air felt too short. His breathing came out ragged, and his whole body protested—not only from the wounds, but from the fact that he was fighting someone who clearly wasn't even going all out.
Orochimaru, on the other side, still wore that same smile.
As if all of it were nothing more than a simple game to him.
And it probably was.
(Early access chapters: see the bio.)