Above the Battlefield
The Seven-Tails' wings were a blur—frantic, desperate. Every time it glanced back and saw Jinghang still there, still gaining, it pushed harder.
Jinghang grinned, riding his Truth-Seeking Orbs like a surfboard through the sky.
This is actually pretty fun.
Iron sand shot from his pouch in bursts—testing shots, keeping pressure. Chōmei dodged, weaved, climbed higher. The chase painted streaks across the clouds.
Below, the real battle continued.
Miyamoto drew his twin blades. Again.
Pain stood ten meters away. Expressionless. Unmoving.
The calm was terrifying.
From the beginning, Pain had one mission: kill Shimura Danzō. The "Fourth Hokage" who'd destroyed Amegakure. Everything else was secondary.
But there'd been... complications.
Nagato needed height. His chakra receivers worked best from elevated positions, with Konan guarding his real body. The tallest structure on the battlefield had been Jinghang's flagship—the 001, with its observation tower piercing the sky.
Perfect positioning.
Except Jinghang had vacated it. Given Pain the space. Moved to another vessel with the Raikage.
And then Danzō had attacked.
The 001 was too flashy. Too obvious. It became the primary target. Danzō and Amemiya had torn into it with everything they had.
The flagship was rubble now.
Fortunately, Konan had shielded Nagato. They'd hidden in the wreckage, maintaining control over Pain's body. But the delay had cost them.
Over an hour. Wasted.
By the time Pain repositioned, the battlefield was chaos. He'd been searching for Danzō when he'd spotted Jinghang—the Kazekage—being harassed by some Taki jōnin with commitment issues.
Jinghang could've ended it in seconds. But he didn't have seconds to spare.
So Pain had intervened.
Not out of kindness.
Out of curiosity.
This Miyamoto was... fascinating. A pacifist forced into war. A man who wanted to survive in an era that demanded sacrifice.
Pain had embraced suffering. Let it reshape him. Transform him into something greater.
But Miyamoto? He was afraid of pain. Avoided it. Negotiated with it.
Pain's lips curved—barely. Not quite a smile.
Let's see how long that lasts.
The Fight Resumes
Miyamoto charged.
His blades flashed—twin arcs of steel, crossing mid-strike. An X-pattern slash, executed backward while airborne.
Pain had never fought a true samurai. The technique caught him off-guard. He twisted, dodging most of it—
The blade aura grazed his throat.
Pain's hand shot up, covering the wound.
Miyamoto landed. Pressed forward. His swords became silver whirlwinds—each strike precise, powerful, backed by years of training. This wasn't some academy graduate with a blade. This was a master.
Pain drew a black receiver rod. Parried. Retreated.
Miyamoto's confidence surged. His blades sang.
One strike. Full power.
The receiver rod shattered.
Miyamoto's swords scissored inward—crab claws aiming for Pain's midsection—
"Shinra Tensei."
Miyamoto launched backward, tumbling through the air.
Before he could land—
"Banshō Ten'in."
Miyamoto reversed direction. Pulled toward Pain like a magnet.
This kekkei genkai is INSANE—
"Shinra Tensei."
"Banshō Ten'in."
"Shinra Tensei."
Miyamoto lost count. Lost his swords. Lost his lunch halfway through.
His vision spun. His stomach churned. He was a yo-yo in Pain's hands.
Please. Just. Stop.
Pain's hand closed around his throat.
Miyamoto dangled, feet kicking uselessly.
"You're skilled." Pain's voice was flat. Empty. "But your philosophy... I don't like it."
Miyamoto tried to speak. Couldn't. The grip was iron.
His right arm moved—fast.
Elbow strike. Pain's wrist. The grip loosened for a second—
Miyamoto twisted. Pulled back. Trapped Pain's arm under his own. His free hand shot up, gripping Pain's skull.
The reversal was flawless.
Miyamoto's voice was steel. "This technique? Soul Extraction. One pull, and your soul leaves your body. You'll be dead before you hit the ground."
Pain glanced up at the hand on his head.
"...You messed up my hair."
"I'M NOT JOKING!"
Pain's expression didn't change. "Then why haven't you done it?"
Miyamoto's grin was sharp. Desperate. "Because you're already dead."
Pain tilted his head. "...Explain."
"That cut. My blade." Miyamoto's confidence built with every word. "It grazed your trachea. Small wound, sure. But it's there. I've been using swords for years—I know what I hit."
He gestured at Pain's covered throat. "That's why you're holding your neck. You're bleeding internally. In this environment? No medical support? You've got fifteen minutes. Maybe."
Pain considered this.
"...Interesting theory."
"It's not theory! It's anatomy!" Miyamoto's voice rose. "Look—we don't have to do this. You're dying. I'm outmatched. Let's just... walk away. No grudges. No deaths. We both survive."
"I have a question."
Miyamoto blinked. "...What?"
"If my trachea is severed..." Pain's tone was curious. "How am I speaking?"
Miyamoto froze.
"I... you're..."
"Your swordsmanship is precise." Pain removed his hand from his throat.
The wound was visible. Clean. Shallow.
And not bleeding.
"What..." Miyamoto's face went white. "What are you?"
Pain's smile was cold.
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