The battlefield was far from quiet, yet it felt as though the world had suddenly hushed in reverence—or perhaps disbelief. In the middle of the scarred terrain, flanked by smouldering earth and splashes of blood-soaked soil, sat an image so bizarre and brazen that it seemed to still the air itself.
Renjiro—young, composed, utterly unfazed—sat in perfect lotus posture atop the unconscious bodies of Yumi and Takako. The two kunoichi, once the pride of the Suna detachment, now lay limp and unmoving beneath him. Their limbs were sprawled awkwardly, heads tilted to the side, their flak jackets and shinobi tunics dusted with ash and dirt. Renjiro's back was straight, his palms resting lightly on his knees, as though he were the only person in the world not embroiled in battle.
His eyes were closed, face relaxed, breathing slow. One might have mistaken him for a monk meditating atop two stone effigies—if not for the grotesque absurdity of his seat.
For a moment, everything else faded.
Konoha shinobi who spotted the sight faltered mid-motion. Blades stilled, jutsu were half-formed. Whispers spread like a slow-burning fire through the squads.
"Is he really…?" one chunin muttered, brow furrowing beneath his hitai-ate.
"Did he kill them? Are they… dead?" another asked, half in awe, half in horror.
Their voices were hushed as if speaking too loudly would provoke the scene into vanishing or growing even more surreal.
"No way. But… sitting on them like that?" a medic-nin murmured, her eyes wide with disbelief and a hint of morbid amusement. "
The reactions were mixed. Some Konoha shinobi were visibly unsettled, their brows drawn tight, not quite sure if Renjiro's antics should be praised or condemned. Others smirked, stifling laughter, adrenaline making their nerves fray at the edges. To many, the image was galvanizing—proof that their captain, however unconventional, was untouchable.
But across the battlefield, in the Suna ranks, the effect was devastating.
A ripple of disbelief passed through their forces, spreading faster than any enemy attack. The Suna shinobi who had been locked in combat paused, faltering in their strikes.
The sight of their commanders—Yumi and Takako, feared even among their own—defeated and used as a seat was more than demoralizing. It was humiliating. Debilitating.
A young Suna genin, no older than fifteen, stared from behind a half-collapsed boulder, his knees trembling beneath him. He had idolized Takako for years—had even trained under her, dreamed of one day earning her approval. Now, all he could see was her limp body, her weapons scattered in the dirt like forgotten trinkets.
'Is this what defeat looks like?' he thought, heart pounding in his ears. 'If they were crushed so easily, what's stopping him from killing all of us?'
His grip on his kunai weakened. His chest tightened, and a shameful thought slithered into his mind:
'Should I run? Should I surrender?'
He wasn't alone. All around him, Suna shinobi felt the tremors of fear eroding their confidence. Some glanced sideways, hoping someone would bark orders, rally them—but the chain of command had crumbled with the two bodies now lying beneath Renjiro.
Back with the Konoha forces, Uchiha Shoda stood tall amidst the chaos, sweat streaking down the side of his face, his kunai glinting with fresh cuts of steel-on-sand steel combat. Blood—not his—dripped from its edge. For a moment, his gaze drifted across the battlefield and locked on Renjiro.
A bark of laughter escaped him, unbidden but genuine.
"Hah! That's our captain for you," he said aloud, the amusement threading through his otherwise battle-hardened voice. He turned toward his squad, several of whom were catching their breath after a heated exchange. "Look at that! He's out here making a damn throne out of enemy commanders. Let's wrap this up before he decides to finish the entire battle himself."
His voice wasn't just a command—it was a spark. It cut through the haze of fatigue, the sting of minor wounds, the adrenaline crashes and the creeping doubts. His squad straightened with newfound vigour. Inspired by Shoda's confidence, they raised their voices in similar cries:
"Squad five, move up—finish the formation!"
"Push them back! We've got this!"
"Don't let the Captain show us all up!"
Like a chain reaction, morale surged across the Konoha lines. The tide of battle shifted not just with steel or chakra, but with belief—belief that they could, and would, win.
Meanwhile, at the very centre of the battlefield, Renjiro remained unmoving. To the untrained eye, he appeared disengaged, serene, perhaps even uncaring. But nothing could be further from the truth.
Inside, his consciousness was alive—sharp as steel, coiled like a spring. His chakra field pulsed outward, not in a destructive wave but as a gentle, almost invisible web of awareness, seamlessly connecting his chakra field to the barrier.
'Good… The field's stable. Let's assess.'
His mind swept across the barrier, his chakra senses brushing against the unique chakra signatures of each squad. He felt the sturdy, rhythmic pulse of Squad Three's formation—tight, methodical, advancing steadily. Squad four had scattered chakra signatures, some flickering with strain—likely minor injuries. He noted it, shifting his attention again.
'Squad Seven... no fatalities, but chakra's thinning. One of them—Anzai, I think—is nearly drained.'
His brow furrowed slightly, barely perceptible from the outside. Even through his finely tuned control, emotion seeped into his thoughts.
'Damn it. I should've ended Yumi and Takako sooner. That fight dragged on longer than it needed to. My job is to carry the burden, not pass it to my subordinates.'
He clenched his right hand ever so slightly.
'No more delays.'
As he dove deeper into the field, his awareness sharpened. He filtered through the noise—non-threatening chakra patterns, already-defeated foes, unconscious allies—and honed in on the distress signals. A genin's pulse fluttered rapidly beneath a collapsed tree limb. A jōnin's chakra surged erratically, on the verge of overexertion. Another was leaking chakra from a wound—slowly, steadily, and fatally.
Renjiro's eyes opened.
They weren't wild or frantic. They were focused.
And then—flick.
He vanished.
The spot where he had sat moments before was left marked only by the impression of his weight on the kunoichi's clothes.
In a blur, he reappeared beside the trapped genin, her face pale and breath ragged beneath the massive sand spike pinning her leg. Her eyes widened in panic before recognition washed over her.
"C-Captain—!"
With a burst of strength, he drove his palm into the branch.
"Crack!"
The spike splintered like glass. He scooped her up with one arm, pressed a stabilizing seal over her thigh, and disappeared again.
—flick!
He landed beside a struggling Konoha shinobi who was fending off two Suna enemies, his stance shaky. With a look, Renjiro sent out a low-frequency genjutsu that staggered one opponent mid-motion. He intercepted the other's kunai with the clang of metal against metal, driving the enemy back with a precise rotation of his wrist. The Konoha shinobi dropped to one knee, breathing hard, and looked up.
"Renjiro-senpai…"
"You're not dying today," Renjiro said simply. "Fall back to the medics. Go."
He vanished again.
He was a blur now, a ghost of war. To his allies, he was salvation manifesting in the nick of time. To the enemy, he was a phantom—a flickering shadow that arrived just long enough to snatch away victory. He moved with no wasted energy, every flicker perfectly calculated. Each second saved another life.
To the Suna shinobi, the psychological blow was unbearable.
"He's everywhere," one murmured, backing away. His arms trembled, his grip loose on his sword. "That's not normal. He's not normal."
Another looked around desperately, noting the collapsed forms of their comrades, the silent fall of jutsu as morale slipped. "We can't win this… We have no leaders left. They're… they're gone…"
Even those who had once resolved to fight to the bitter end now hesitated. One by one, they began to retreat—or fall.
By the time Renjiro returned to the centre of the field, dragging the last injured shinobi out of the crossfire, the battle was no longer a clash. It was a rout.
The last pockets of resistance were swept aside by the reinvigorated Konoha forces. Those Suna shinobi still standing surrendered with shaking hands or were knocked unconscious by precise, nonlethal strikes. Within minutes, the once chaotic field fell into an eerie, quiet order.
The sounds of clashing weapons and roaring jutsu had been replaced by the moans of the injured and the murmurs of relief.
Renjiro, his breath even and presence steady, walked back across the blood-soaked field to where Yumi and Takako still lay. He didn't say a word as he approached them. He merely lowered himself back into his lotus position, eyes closed, atop the unconscious duo—one slumped face-down, the other twisted unceremoniously beneath him.
When the final Suna shinobi was subdued, and the last cries of battle had faded into memory, Renjiro's voice rang out clearly across the field.
"Now let's clear up"
It wasn't loud, but it carried.
=====
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