Speed.
Power.
Hardness.
If taijutsu were divided into Strong Fist and Gentle Fist, then what Hagoromo used was without question the Strong Fist.
Compared to the Gentle Fist's flexible, flowing movements and internal damage, the Strong Fist was simple and brutal—its purpose was straightforward:
Smash your opponent's head in.
Fast. Accurate. Ruthless.
That was the most precise description of Hagoromo's earlier attack.
Yet in truth, Hagoromo was not a pure power-type ninja. His body had not undergone the kind of long-term, extreme, self-destructive training that someone like Might Guy endured. If he tried to fight using Guy's methods alone, his taijutsu would fall short.
So why had that attack been so devastating?
Long story short—
Hagoromo wasn't using pure taijutsu.
He was using taijutsu enhanced by ninjutsu.
More specifically, Lightning Release–augmented taijutsu.
By combining Lightning Release with physical jutsus, he stimulated his cells, increasing bodily activity and amplifying striking power, granting him terrifying instantaneous burst force.
In other words, wherever his physical body fell short, Lightning Release compensated.
Black-clad and moving in a straight, high-speed line, Hagoromo's silhouette cut through the rain like a stroke of ink across parchment.
His posture was low, his footwork rapid. On the soft, muddy ground, he left only shallow footprints—and flickering arcs of residual lightning that refused to dissipate.
That movement tore his hood loose. Rain soaked his hair, already standing in an unnatural state.
The Lightning Release coursing over his body weakened as Hagoromo came to a halt.
There were three enemies in total.
One had already been eliminated.
The remaining two stood on the branch of a massive tree ahead, looking down at Hagoromo.
Both wore wide-brimmed hats that concealed their faces.
But one of them—
Was strong.
Because moments earlier, that man had evaded one of Hagoromo's attacks.
After incapacitating the first enemy while in his Lightning Release state, Hagoromo had immediately charged the second, intending to finish the fight in one breath.
Instead, the opponent dodged with ease and instantly widened the distance between them, showing no intention of engaging in close combat.
Fast.
That was Hagoromo's conclusion after a single exchange.
"Konoha ninja… well done."
The man spoke.
Even the distant thunder rumbling through the sky couldn't drown out his strange voice—hoarse, rough, as though his throat were lined with sandpaper.
His tone carried genuine praise.
There was no anger. No grief.
As if the man Hagoromo had just killed meant nothing at all.
Which made sense.
Many shinobi who lived through prolonged warfare lost any concept of companions. Coldness often meant survival.
Though Hagoromo couldn't see his face, judging by his build and bearing, the masked man was around thirty.
The other enemy, however, had no face covering and looked far younger.
Combined with the one who'd been instantly killed, it was obvious—the masked ninja was the leader, the core fighter. The dead one had been little more than fodder.
The enemy felt nothing over his subordinate's death.
Hagoromo felt even less.
Moments later, Asuma and the other two arrived behind Hagoromo. Asuma leaned close and spoke quietly.
"They're from the Fūma Clan."
Hagoromo frowned beneath his mask.
He had assumed they were Amegakure ninja. He hadn't expected mercenaries from the Fūma Clan.
Still, Hagoromo trusted Asuma's judgment. In matters like this, Asuma's knowledge far exceeded his own.
"The Fūma Clan attacking us?" Hagoromo asked aloud. "Konoha isn't at war with you."
Useless words.
Once combat had begun, it would only end when one side was dead.
Even if Hagoromo possessed the legendary art of Talk no Jutsu, his proficiency was nonexistent.
He was merely using the exchange as cover—one hand hidden behind his back, silently issuing commands to his teammates.
Multitasking at this level posed no difficulty for him.
From Hagoromo's assessment: the masked ninja was dangerous. The other one was much weaker—stronger than the one already dead, perhaps, but only marginally.
His instruction was simple.
Asuma, Kurenai, and Aoba would handle the weaker enemy.
Hagoromo would take on the masked one alone.
"Heh," the masked man chuckled. "Do ninja really need reasons to kill each other?"
His voice was low and suppressed, as though attacking them had been nothing more than a passing whim.
Hagoromo didn't believe that for a second.
"Mercenaries, then," Hagoromo said calmly. "Without a village, this is the only way you can take part in a shinobi war."
For clans like the Fūma—who had lost their village long ago and were rejected by the major ones—war required justification.
And that justification was money.
Their presence here, aiding Amegakure against Konoha, meant only one thing:
A bounty.
A bounty placed by Amegakure on every Konoha ninja killed.
That didn't mean loyalty.
They were mad dogs—biting whoever paid. Taking Rain's money didn't stop them from killing Rain ninja later and selling those heads elsewhere.
"You can think of it that way," the masked ninja replied. "But honestly, I just enjoy killing."
Agreement—or not—it was unclear.
The masked man was about to continue when the subordinate beside him suddenly leaned over and whispered something in his ear.
The masked ninja chuckled.
"Well now… who would've thought there was a celebrity among you brats?"
He tilted his head slightly.
"The White Fang of Konoha?"
Hagoromo: "..."
What?
What the hell?
Since when was he that famous?
And even if he were, he hadn't revealed anything identifying. Surely they couldn't have recognized him just by hair color and age.
That made no sense.
Plenty of shinobi had white or light-colored hair.
But—
White hair.
A young Konoha ninja.
And hand-seal-less Lightning Release.
Hagoromo himself hadn't paid much attention to how unusual instant, no-seal Lightning Release really was—
But in truth, it was an exceptionally distinctive trait.
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