The appearance of the second barrier was a shockwave that rippled through the valley in perfect, utter silence. Three hundred shinobi, moments before poised to deliver a swift and brutal massacre, froze mid-step. Their collective focus, which had been a tightening noose around the thirty Konoha soldiers, shattered against the sudden, impenetrable wall of blazing crimson light. The air, already thick with mist and tension, now hummed with the potent, thrumming energy of the new dome, a sound like a monstrous, sleeping beast breathing. The sickly purple light of the pentagon barrier was now challenged, its oppressive gloom pushed back by the aggressive, bloody radiance of Renjiro's defense.
On the cliff edge, the real Toma and Hiro, overseeing their clones' work, stiffened. Ogata's hands, which had been casually crossed, clenched into white-knuckled fists.
"The Crimson Ray Formation…" Hiro muttered, the name a soft, incredulous breath stolen by the wind. Inside, he was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. The initial, professional part of his mind was stunned by the sheer audacity and skill.
'He planted shadow clones… before we even arrived? He anticipated a trap within our trap? How deep does his foresight go?'
A sliver of genuine, grudging admiration followed. This was not a simple barrier; it was a master-level fuinjutsu, a technique of immense complexity that required perfect chakra control and theoretical knowledge far beyond most jonin, let alone a teenager.
But this admiration was instantly swamped by a rising tide of cold, furious frustration. Their plan, meticulously crafted by three villages, was being systematically dismantled by a single boy. He was chipping away at their certainty, turning their overwhelming advantage into a precarious stalemate.
'It is almost done, we only need one more step,' Hiro thought, clinging to the one card they had left to play. 'So this should end soon.'
Inside the purple pentagon, Renjiro's voice cut through the hum of the barrier, calm and taunting. "Now what are you going to do? You were banking on taking them as hostages to control me while you finish whatever you are preparing, right? That was the point of this whole theatrical display, wasn't it?"
Toma's and Hiro's clones within the barrier exchanged a look of pure fury. Their gambit had been called out, laid bare. With twin grunts of effort, their hands flashed through a series of hand signs.
Two openings appeared on opposite sides of the purple barrier.
"All units! Enter and eliminate the target! Now!" Ogata's voice roared, the order echoing across the valley.
The spell of stillness broke. With a collective battle cry that finally drowned out the waterfall, the army of three hundred surged forward like a tidal wave, pouring through the two openings into the pentagon barrier. They flooded the space, a sea of grey, beige, and brown uniforms, their weapons drawn, their intent murderous. They charged the single, solitary figure standing calmly at the centre.
Within the safety of the blood-red Crimson Ray barrier, the Konoha shinobi could only watch, their hearts in their throats. For those without the Sharingan, it was a horrifying blur of movement and colour. But for Akira Uchiha, her own tomoes spinning, the scene was rendered in terrifying, high-definition clarity.
"What is he doing?" she whispered, her voice tight with anxiety. She wasn't asking the room; it was a plea to the universe.
The Renjiro clone standing nearest to her didn't turn its head, its gaze fixed on the spectacle beyond the red wall.
"He is stretching," it answered, its tone utterly matter-of-fact.
Akira blinked, sure she had misheard. "He's what?"
This time, Arata, who could only see a chaotic mess, turned. "What's happening? What did you say?"
The clone sighed, a sound of mild exasperation. "He's stretching."
Through her Sharingan, Akira saw it clearly. As the horde descended upon him, Renjiro was ignoring them. He jumped lightly on the spot, then twisted his upper body from side to side. He extended his arms out and began making slow, deliberate circles forward, then backwards. It was the kind of routine warm-up one did before a light sparring session, not a fight for survival against impossible odds.
"Why the hell is he stretching?!" another squad leader, a Nara, yelled, his voice cracking with panic.
Another one of Renjiro's clones, this one leaning against the inner wall of the red barrier, finally looked over. "Before working out, don't you stretch?" it asked, as if it were the most obvious question in the world.
The sheer absurdity of the statement created a pocket of stunned silence within the red dome. On a logical level, it made a perverse kind of sense—one should always warm up before exertion.
But juxtaposed against the reality of three hundred enemy shinobi bearing down on them, it was so utterly, profoundly out of place that it short-circuited their fear momentarily, replacing it with bewildered disbelief.
'Even his clones are trying to calm us down,' Arata realised, a wave of understanding washing over him.
The nonchalant act, the frustratingly simple answers—it was a deliberate performance designed to bleed the panic from the situation, to force them to trust in their captain's incomprehensible confidence.
"But why didn't he just rush out of the barrier when the entrance opened?" a young chunin asked, voicing the question on everyone's mind.
The clone answered, its voice losing its casual edge and taking on a lecturing tone.
"The barrier is woven from the Five Elements Seal. Its primary function isn't just to restrict chakra; it destabilises the chakra network itself. The little chakra he still has access to is erratic, volatile—almost impossible to control for precise jutsu or high-speed movement. Trying to shunshin out could have backfired catastrophically." The clone paused, its gaze serious.
"Furthermore, the three masters outside are undoubtedly preparing a finishing move. They opened the barrier not out of desperation, but because they are confident their ultimate technique is nearly ready. Him staying inside is a calculated risk."
"So his only option is to rely on taijutsu against all those shinobi?" someone asked, half-concluding, half-doubting.
"Yes," the first clone replied. "And the enemy shinobi are likely not affected. They probably have the counter-seal, the Five Elements Unseal, applied to them, allowing them to operate at full capacity within the barrier."
While this explanation circulated, Arata's mind raced down a different path. The clone's words had unveiled a deeper, more painful truth. Something else was holding Renjiro back. It wasn't just suspicion of a finishing move.
It was them.
The thirty Konoha shinobi in this red bubble. They were the hostages the enemy had failed to take. If Renjiro attempted some grandiose, unpredictable escape and failed, if he fell, this Crimson Ray barrier would vanish.
They would be left exposed, and he would have died for nothing. His captain was fighting with one hand tied behind his back because his other hand was holding them up. The frustration was a physical ache in Arata's chest. They weren't allies; they were burdens. And the thought of their captain dying to protect his burdens was unbearable.
Back inside the purple pentagon, the first wave of enemy shinobi reached Renjiro. Punches and kicks flew at him in a blur. But Renjiro was a ghost. His body weaved and flowed with an impossible grace, every move minimal, every dodge precise. His Sharingan traced every trajectory, predicting attacks before they were even fully launched. He was a leaf on the wind, untouchable.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, his bo staff materialised in his right hand. The familiar weight was a comfort. As he continued his fluid dodging, the air shuddered with the sound of polished metal as twin, foot-long blades snapped out from either end of the staff. Out of pure habit and a desire to maximise the weapon's reach and power, Renjiro tried to channel chakra into it.
The effect was not what he intended.
The unstable, volatile chakra that the barrier had left him—the wild, untamable energy the clone had described—surged into the staff not as a controlled flow, but as a violent, explosive burst. There was no grace to it. It was pure, raw force.
The staff "SHOOMED" outward, expanding with terrifying speed and violence. In a split second, the six-foot staff became a thirty-foot monstrosity of gleaming metal. The movement was so sudden, so utterly unexpected, that the shinobi pressing in on him had no time to react.
The result was instantaneous and gruesome.
The two extended blade-tips, now fifteen feet away on either side, shot through the densely packed crowd. They didn't slice; they impaled.
A dozen shinobi were caught completely off-guard, the elongated staff spearing through bodies, armour, and bone with horrific ease. They were lifted off their feet, skewered together like grotesque kebabs, their screams of shock and agony cut short or erupting into wet, choking gurgles.
Renjiro stood holding the base of the massively elongated staff, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. He gave the staff a slight, experimental twist, making the impaled bodies shudder grotesquely.
'Maybe,' he thought, his eyes glinting with a feral light as he surveyed the frozen crowd, 'this chakra instability won't be a problem after all…'