Vizem
patreon
Chapter 87 - Overkill and Underthought
🕑 Added 2025-08-09 10:33:00 +0000 UTC"You know what the real tragedy is here?" I asked the dead, the dying, the silence, and the frozen land. The words came out easier than they should have, my head swimming from chakra exhaustion. "This isn't the kind of battlefield I grew to love."
Blood pooled beneath three—no, four—crumpled forms scattered across the ice like broken dolls. The others were somewhere else, burned, mangled, or buried in ice. The metallic scent mixed with the sharp bite of frost in the air.
"Where's the soft flesh?" I continued, swaying slightly on my feet. "Where's the warm breath of a woman? All I've got here is cold corpses and...." My breath came out in visible puffs, the temperature inside the dome having dropped to something that belonged in a morgue.
A hunter-nin lay face-down near the eastern wall, his spine bent at an angle that would make a chiropractor weep. Ice crystals had formed in his hair, his left side charred.
"Though I suppose—" I paused, blinking slowly as another wave of dizziness hit. "—I suppose I'm to blame for this mess too, aren't I?" The admission tasted bitter, or rather, I wanted it to; I was just numb. "Hindsight's a real bitch like that. Could've done things differently. Could've not killed your second there for starters."
The man in question decorated the western wall like abstract art.
"But in my defense," I gestured vaguely at the carnage, nearly losing my balance, "there were so fucking many of you. Which brings up an interesting question...why?" I fixed my gaze on Wolf-mask, whose breathing had devolved into wet, rattling gasps. "Nearly thirty elite shinobi. All for one missing-nin?"
Two more bodies lay crumpled near where the dome's entrance had been—or used to be. The ice had sealed itself after my team's escape, trapping us all in this frozen mausoleum.
"Seems a bit... excessive, wouldn't you say?" The words slurred slightly as fatigue pulled at my consciousness. "Like bringing a siege engine to kill a spider…. no, no, that’s not a good metaphor, but you get the point? Overkill much?"
Wolf-mask's response was a bloody smile that stretched across his now visible features—sharp cheekbones, a narrow jaw, and pale skin that looked almost gray in the dome's blue light. Maybe late thirties, with dark hair matted to his skull by sweat and blood.
“Oh, are you one of those types?“ I raised an eyebrow, studying his expression with the clinical detachment that came with blood loss and exhaustion. "Needs to get at least one last dig in, even while drowning in your own blood?"
I looked around. The discarded mask lay a few feet away, the painted wolf's snarl now nothing more than ceramic fragments scattered across crimson ice. I started toward it, then, when I made to bend and grab it, I stopped with a sharp intake of breath.
Looking down, I found a katana protruding from my left thigh like the world's most inconvenient bookmark. The blade had gone clean through, and I could see the bloody tip poking out the other side.
"Well, that explains the lightheadedness," I muttered, prodding at the wound with professional curiosity. "Adrenaline's a hell of a drug, isn't it?"
I missed it? When didn’t I miss it?
They'd ganged up on me—even with clones, the Frozen Domain, and the Firehand technique and all the jutsu I could throw at them, it had been a struggle to fend them off.
I had Guy-sensei to thank for that; if not for his torturous taijutsu training, I might not have survived. Fortunately, I hadn't needed to open any gates. I never did, and with better luck, I would never have to.
With a grunt of effort, I gripped the katana's handle and pulled. The blade came free with a wet sound that made my teeth ache, blood immediately welling from both sides of the wound. A quick application of basic medical jutsu sealed the worst of the bleeding—field medicine at its finest.
"Sorry about this," I said to the mask-less Wolf-mask, using the bloodied katana to spear his discarded mask and lift it to eye level. "But I need to borrow your sword for a moment."
The ceramic was surprisingly intact despite everything, the wolf's painted features unmarred by cracks.
"Nice craftsmanship," I observed, turning the mask in the dim blue light of my ice prison. "Blood'll come right off with some hot water and soap." I paused, then shook my head with a rueful laugh. "But this isn't the type of battlefield I prefer, and this sure as hell isn't the type of trophy I’d like to collect."
With casual disregard, I flicked the katana forward. The mask sailed through the air and landed near Wolf-mask's prone form with a soft clink. His eyes—the only part of him still capable of movement—tracked its arc with predatory focus.
Wincing, I reached into my jacket pocket with my less-injured arm. Everything fucking hurts. My shaking fingers found the familiar texture of green silk, now sodden with blood from a cut along my ribs that had bled freely into my pocket.
Kushina's panties. Already ruined by salt water, now thoroughly contaminated with my own blood.
I pressed the fabric to my nose and inhaled deeply. Nothing. Just the copper tang of blood and the stale sting of seawater. That scent—the one that had clung, warm and shameless—was gone. It used to be there. A bold tang of iron and crushed berries, like wild strawberries trampled under a boot, chased by something softer—cinnamon maybe, or burnt sugar—sweet, but not delicate. Fierce. A smell that clawed and stayed in the throat.
Now, nothing but blood and salt. A crime, trully.
But if I squeezed my eyes shut hard enough, concentrated past the pain and exhaustion, I could almost bring her back. Her smell, wild and heated, the rustle of her long, fire-red hair, that porcelain-peach skin flushed and damp, and that tight, pulsing cunt wrapped around me like it never wanted to let go.
A shuddering breath comes out as mist.
I wanted to run back to Konoha right now. Storm into the Hokage's house, bend her over her kitchen table, or against the wall, or on the floor, and fuck her until I mark her inside out, and half the village heard her moans. If Minato killed me afterward, so be it—at least I'd die with the memory of her cunt clenching around my cock one last time.
A wet, choking sound interrupted my increasingly depraved fantasy. I opened my eyes to find Wolf-mask convulsing slightly, blood bubbling from his lips. But when I looked closer, I realized he wasn't on his dying breath. Well, not literally, or was it literally?
He was laughing.
"Huh." I studied his face with bemused curiosity. "Are you seeing your life flash before your eyes? Must be one hell of a highlight reel if it's got you giggling like a schoolgirl." I glanced down at the bloodstained silk in my hands, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. "I'm almost jealous. Wish my life was..."
The words died in my throat. What did I wish? That I'd found something—someone—worth more than quick fucks and empty conquests? That I could feel a genuine connection instead of just physical satisfaction? That I wasn't so goddamn alone despite all the bodies I'd warmed my bed with?
I sound like a whiny little bitch. Better not to finish those thoughts.
With considerable effort, I limped toward Wolf-mask, doing my best not to wince with each step. It wasn't right to let him suffer like this. Whatever game he was playing, whatever secret had him smiling at death's door, he deserved a clean end.
I pushed chakra into the remaining jutsu paper on my forearm, feeling the familiar weight as my fire technique materialized. The construct crackled with contained energy, eager to deliver its payload.
"Nothing personal," I said, raising the flaming appendage high above his prone form. "Never was. You should've just walked away when I asked nicely. But I get it—can't let your comrades' deaths go unanswered. Or your boss’s orders unfollowed. Professional pride and all that." The words came out hollow, tired. "I'm sorry it came to this."
The fire technique hung suspended for a moment, ready to teach him for the nth time why they called me the Red Claw. But something in his expression gave me pause.
People on the brink of death were usually honest. Fear stripped away pretense, leaving only raw truth behind. But Wolf-mask wore the smile of a victor—the kind of expression you only saw on someone who'd already won.
Either his life really had been that fulfilling, or the blood loss had driven him completely delusional, or—
Instinct screamed a warning just as something fast and deadly cut through the air behind me. I spun around, ignoring my body's protests, and launched the fire technique at the incoming projectile.
The construct hit its target dead-on but didn't even slow it down. The trajectory didn't change by so much as a degree.
Split-second decision, I detonated the technique early, hoping the explosion would at least deflect whatever was coming for my head.
The blast was so close I had to shunshin backward to avoid being caught in my own attack, the sudden movement sending fresh waves of agony through my injured leg.
What the fuck was that?
The explosion settled with a final echo that bounced off the ice walls like a death knell. Where Wolf-mask had been lying, now there was just a crater of melted ice and scattered debris. At least I hoped he hadn't suffered much in those final moments. Oh, who am I kidding?
Through the smoke and steam, a figure materialized on the far side of the frozen land.
And I cursed my life to the way back to the previous world.
Short. Deceptively young-looking despite clearly being an adult. Messy grey hair that fell asymmetrically across his face, one side spiking up with careless precision. Pupilless pink eyes. And that scar, a stitched line running from under his left eye all the way down his cheek like someone had tried to split his face open and failed.
He wore the standard Kiri forehead protector, but everything else about his outfit screamed 'I'm not like other shinobi.' Grey sleeveless shirt, mesh armor underneath, topped with a green poncho that made him look like some kind of militaristic farmer. The turquoise sash and matching apron only added to the bizarre ensemble.
Fuck me.
Yagura Karatachi. The Fourth Mizukage. The man who'd turned Kirigakure into a blood-soaked nightmare, who'd orchestrated purges that made the Uchiha massacre look like a family disagreement.
And he was standing in my ice dome, looking at me like I was an interesting specimen he wanted to dissect.
They are not hunter-nin, I realized. Those fuckers were Anbu escorting their Mizukage.
Fuck! Fuck! No wait, if the puppet is here then—
I glanced around the ice dome, my eyes darting to every shadow and crevice, gritting my teeth at my absolutely shit luck.
The puppet master couldn't be far behind, could he? Obito might already be watching from some dimensional pocket, pulling strings with those Sharingan eyes while I stood here bleeding like an amateur.
Fighting a controlled Kage was terrifying enough; knowing that every move, every decision was being calculated by the bastard who'd orchestrated the darkest timeline made my skin crawl.
Nothing, this serves nothing. I breathed out. It seemed my karma had finally caught up. Or was it the world deciding it was time to right its course, remove the anomaly?
Honestly, I thought with the kind of dark humor that came with imminent death, I wouldn't mind if the world decided to kill me right now—provided it came with a guarantee that it would right the course of fate and ensure the child of prophecy would still save the shit.
Either way, I was thoroughly and completely screwed.
Sadly, the world has yet to give any guarantee.
Comments
Istan T
Okay, I actually liked this fight. It didn't go into much detail, but it did show why he's a jõnin and what he's developed so far. For the classic , he's looking strong. But even with the gates, it feels like he's gonna need more. Maybe after reporting everything to Minato, Minato might take an interest and make Eishin his student? I'm not sure if Minato would go for someone already at jōnin level, but minato techniques would be great for eishin, and it'd definitely make things more interesting with Kushina around
