Far in the distance, the three Sannin watched in silence, their eyes fixed on the two figures locked in combat. To an untrained observer, Shanks and Hanzo would have been nothing but streaks of motion, impossible to follow. But for shinobi of their calibre, the fight—though swift—was not beyond comprehension. They could trace each strike, each step, each feint and counter, their sharp eyes able to measure the shifting flow of advantage.
Still, what they saw left them unsettled.
Jiraiya's lips parted slightly in disbelief, Tsunade's eyes narrowed with keen focus, and even Orochimaru's usual composure flickered with intrigue. For all three of them, it was clear: the young clan head of the Uzumaki was no ordinary shinobi. Shanks's power, skill, and composure in the midst of battle left them not only surprised but undeniably impressed.
Tsunade's eyes widened slightly as she tracked the two blurs tearing through the battlefield. "He's incredible," she murmured, her voice laced with disbelief. "I didn't expect someone so young to possess that kind of strength."
Jiraiya, standing at her side, nodded gravely. "You're absolutely right. His power is astounding. On the surface, it looks as though he and Hanzo are evenly matched, trading blows at nearly the same speed. But if you watch closely…" He gestured toward the shifting clash of sparks and afterimages. "…Shanks is the one holding the edge."
He studied the rhythm of Shanks's movements for a few moments longer, then added, "It's as if he's predicting Hanzo's every strike before it even happens—reading the flow of the battle and reacting with precision. That foresight alone gives him the advantage. And more than that… Hanzo's greatest weapon, his poison, doesn't seem to be affecting him at all. It's almost like he's immune, just as his three siblings were."
Orochimaru's golden eyes narrowed, his voice cutting in with quiet correction. "No… it's not immunity." A faint smile curled at the corner of his lips. "Shanks isn't beyond poison. He'll suffer its effects if exposed, just like anyone else. But look closely—observe the space around him. There's a barrier, faint but unmistakable, two or three inches thick, surrounding his body. It shields him from the environment itself. The poison never touches him."
The Sannin fell silent again, their gazes fixed on the duel.
For fifteen relentless minutes, the battlefield echoed with the clash of steel and the roar of displaced air as Shanks and Hanzo collided over and over. Each strike rang out like thunder, each shockwave tearing deeper scars into the land. Neither gave ground, their silhouettes weaving in and out of the storm until, at last, they broke apart, separating to opposite ends of the churned battlefield.
Shanks stood tall, his expression calm. Though fine beads of sweat traced his brow, the falling rain disguised them, washing away any sign of exertion. His breath did not quicken—not because he was unscathed, but because his body did not breathe at all.
Across from him, Hanzo's shoulders heaved. Behind his mask, his breaths came heavy and strained, each one louder than the last. The fight was wearing on him. Despite his experience, despite his reputation, the relentless clash with the Uzumaki clan head was beginning to take its toll.
Hanzo steadied his breath, his sharp gaze never leaving the crimson-haired warrior before him. The storm hissed around them, but his words cut through clearly.
"Tell me, Uzumaki—do you have the ability to see the future? The way you move… the way you react… it's as though you already know what I will do before I've even done it."
Shanks gave no reply. His expression remained unreadable, his stance unshaken, his silence absolute.
In truth, Hanzo's suspicions were not unfounded. Shanks was drawing upon the highest refinement of his Observation Haki—future sight. Though his mastery was not limitless, his level allowed him to glimpse one second ahead, no more. Yet in a battle between fighters of such extraordinary speed, that single second was everything. It was the difference between evading death and striking clean.
That was why, for fifteen straight minutes, Shanks had met Hanzo blow for blow, his movements perfectly measured, his counters timed to the breath. While Hanzo labored, his body taxed by the pace, Shanks carried the battle forward without letting his body falter, his 'Lightning Release: Thunder God's Sword' sustained without wavering.
It wasn't that Shanks could not respond to Hanzo's question. He simply chose not to. Revealing his ability would serve no purpose; worse, he had already sensed the watching presence of the three Sannin at a distance. He would not lay bare his secrets before both enemy and potential rival. And beyond strategy, there was the simple fact of his nature: breathing was not something his body could do in the first place, and so he spared his words, conserving them for when they truly mattered.
But Hanzo interpreted the silence differently. His lips curled beneath his mask, his pride stung. In his world, even enemies acknowledged one another's strength, offering at least the respect of words before a clash. Yet Shanks offered him nothing. No acknowledgement, no answer—only quiet defiance.
Disrespect.
The thought burned through Hanzo's mind, anger simmering beneath the surface. And yet, at the same time, a grudging recognition settled in his chest. For Shanks to carry himself so, for him to dismiss the conventions most shinobi abided by—it was because his strength allowed it. Hanzo could feel it now, undeniably. Shanks stood as his equal… perhaps even as his superior.
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