Magnet Release: Iron Sand Great Funeral.
The technique was a Kazekage classic. Every Wind Shadow had to master it—not for prestige, but for survival. Because if you couldn't seal Shukaku when the damn thing went berserk, you were screwed.
The mechanics were brutally simple: bury the target alive, then lock it down with sealing runes.
No finesse. No elegance. Just results.
It worked on Bijū. It worked on people. Hell, it worked on anything you wanted six feet under.
In Suna, Rasa was the undisputed master. His gold sand was heavier than iron—more mass, more pressure, more crushing force. Jinghang came in second, but only because physics wasn't on his side.
Still, Jinghang had experience.
Three Bijū. Three separate battles. Each one taught him the same lesson:
Never assume you've won.
These things could move mountains. Flatten cities. You didn't "beat" them—you contained them. And even then, you kept one question in your head at all times:
What if this doesn't work?
The iron sand had been planted during the bisection. While Chōmei was regenerating, Jinghang had seeded the ground beneath it. Invisible. Waiting.
Now it activated.
Black sand erupted from below, engulfing Chōmei's massive form. The beetle-dragonfly hybrid thrashed, wings buzzing in fury, but the sand kept rising—layer after layer, compressing, hardening.
A pyramid took shape.
Thirty meters tall. Solid iron. And shaking.
Chōmei was still fighting. The structure trembled, cracks forming along the edges. It wouldn't hold forever.
Jinghang's hands blurred through seals.
Ink-black runes spread across the pyramid's surface—crawling, branching, connecting. Once they linked, the seal would be complete. Chōmei would be—
A kick slammed into Jinghang's guard.
The impact broke his concentration. His hands faltered. The seals collapsed.
Inside the pyramid, Chōmei surged.
The structure exploded. Iron sand scattered like shrapnel. Chōmei shot into the sky, wings a blur, shrieking in triumph.
Jinghang kicked backward—blind, instinctive.
His attacker dodged. Gracefully. Easily.
Jinghang turned.
The man was... familiar. Tournament familiar. Decent skills. Fourth place finish. What was his—
"Takigakure Jōnin Miyamoto."
The man bowed. Politely.
Jinghang blinked. "Oh. Right. You."
Human Path. The guy Nagato would eventually turn into a corpse puppet. But right now? Just a jōnin with solid fundamentals and a tournament medal.
"What, you want a rematch?" Jinghang glanced up at Chōmei. "Bad timing, pal."
Miyamoto waved his hands frantically. "No, no! I wouldn't dream of fighting you. I know my limits."
"...Okay." Jinghang stepped toward his Truth-Seeking Orbs. "Then I'm leaving."
"Can't let you do that."
Jinghang stopped. Turned. "Excuse me?"
Miyamoto's expression was pained. "We're at war. If I let you go, Lord Takikage will have my head."
Jinghang stared at him.
"So... what? You want me to stand here and chat?"
Miyamoto's face lit up. "That would be perfect!"
"Are you insane?"
"Just half an hour! Then you can do whatever you want—I won't stop you!"
Jinghang's eye twitched. "There's a Bijū flying around up there. Uncontrolled. You want me to—"
Iron sand shot from his pouch.
Iron Sand: Drizzle.
A hundred needles, each one lethal.
Miyamoto moved.
He hit the ground rolling—once, twice, eighteen times—dodging every needle with absurd agility. Then his hands blurred. Twin blades cleared their sheaths.
Two slashes. Cross-pattern. Backward iai.
The technique was advanced. Harder to execute. More power. The kind of skill that took years to master.
Jinghang bent backward, the slashes whistling past his face.
This guy's good.
Better than Kawashima, the old desert bandit. Maybe even—
"You think I won't kill you?!"
Miyamoto sheathed his swords. Bowed again. "I wouldn't dare presume! I just need half an hour—"
"I don't have half an hour, you—"
A voice cut through the chaos.
"Lord Kazekage."
Jinghang turned.
Black cloak. Red clouds. Orange hair.
The man—men?—stood a few meters away, expression blank.
"This one is... interesting. I'll handle him."
Jinghang exhaled. Finally. "He's all yours."
He stepped onto his orbs, rising into the air.
Miyamoto moved to intercept—
Pain appeared in front of him.
Miyamoto froze. Looked up at Pain. Then at Jinghang's retreating form.
His shoulders slumped.
"I was really hoping to avoid combat this war." He sighed. "You'll testify for me, right? That you stopped me? I didn't abandon my mission—I was prevented from completing it."
Pain stared at him.
Then: "...Fine."
Pain raised one hand.
"Shinra Tensei."
Miyamoto launched.
He spun through the air like a leaf in a hurricane, limbs flailing, before crashing into a sand dune fifty meters away.
Pain watched him disappear.
Then turned toward the sky.
Where Jinghang was already closing in on the Seven-Tails.
[Tactical Note: Miyamoto's "shameless bureaucrat" archetype = comedy gold amid war chaos. Pain's straight-man efficiency = perfect contrast. This is how you break tension without killing stakes.]
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