But Hanzo was not the kind of man to let such a disrespect unanswered. His hands blurred as he pulled several kunai from his pouch, each one trailed by the ominous glint of an explosive tag. With a sharp flick of his wrists, he sent them flying toward Shanks in a precise barrage, the steel blades cutting through the air like a swarm of deadly wasps.
Shanks, however, remained calm. With his observation haki active, the battlefield unfolded before him in perfect clarity. Every trajectory, every arc, every subtle shift of the kunai was already laid bare to his senses. He knew which blades would demand his sword, which could be avoided entirely, and which would pose no threat at all.
Without taking even a single step from where he stood, Shanks brought his sword into motion. The blade flashed with controlled precision, deflecting the kunai that came too close while his body tilted just enough to let others whistle harmlessly past. His movements were fluid yet economical, every strike and shift calculated to conserve energy while maintaining absolute control of his ground.
One by one, the deflected kunai clattered away, while those flung to the outer edges of his position detonated in a rolling semicircle of fiery blasts. The shockwaves tore through the clearing, and the roar of the explosions crashed like thunder. Hot air and pressure swept over Shanks, whipping at his cloak and tugging at his hair, though his stance remained unshaken.
Through the haze of smoke and the acrid sting of scorched air, Shanks narrowed his eyes. I can't keep holding my breath forever, he thought grimly. I need to clear this poisonous air soon and take in fresh air. If I delay inhaling for even ten more minutes, my body will start to falter. And against an opponent like Hanzo, even the smallest lapse could mean defeat.
With that thought pressing in his mind, Shanks shifted his stance. His sword arm tightened, and then—without warning—he unleashed a storm. The blade swept around him in a furious rhythm, striking in wide arcs, each slash birthing a crimson wave of sword energy that tore outward in all directions. To the untrained eye, it looked wild, even reckless, as though Shanks had abandoned precision in favor of blind ferocity.
But there was nothing random about his movements. Each streak of energy carried a hidden intent, and many of them were directed squarely at Hanzo. Forced to recognize the danger, Hanzo leapt backward, retreating with sharp, deliberate steps. By the time Shanks ceased his assault, Hanzo had been driven nearly a hundred meters away, far from his original position.
The battlefield, meanwhile, had changed completely. The sheer force of Shanks' 360-degree slashes tore deep gouges into the earth, carving jagged gullies in the ground like scars etched by a wrathful god. The shock of his strikes churned the very air, creating violent currents that swept outward in every direction. The poisonous haze that had clung so stubbornly to the field was shredded and forced away, replaced as the displaced air above came rushing downward.
It wasn't a perfect vacuum, but the effect was close enough. The suffocating miasma was expelled, and fresher currents descended, swirling into the area around Shanks.
At last, he released the barrier of Conqueror's Haki that had shielded him from the toxins. His chest heaved as he finally drew in great gulps of clean air, the breath burning his lungs after nearly twenty minutes of holding back. The exhaustion of both battle and restraint weighed on him, and his breaths came heavy, the sound sharp in the tense silence between them.
Hanzo, however, was far from deceived. Though he had initially scoffed at Shanks' seemingly erratic swordplay—Has he lost his mind, squandering such strength so recklessly?—understanding now dawned on him. His sharp eyes narrowed as the truth became clear: every "random" slash had been calculated, not to strike him down immediately, but to alter the very battlefield itself.
From their vantage point in the distance, the Legendary Sannin were quick to grasp Shanks' true intent. Jiraiya, Tsunade, and Orochimaru each recognized the precision behind his seemingly reckless storm of strikes. What astonished them even more was the sheer consistency of his power—those crimson sword slashes were not only devastatingly strong, but Shanks was able to unleash them in rapid succession without showing signs of faltering.
It was a display that made his strength undeniable. In endurance, he reigned supreme. In sheer offensive might, he showed no weaknesses. Even against Hanzo's deadliest weapon—his poison—Shanks had already demonstrated reliable counters, shielding himself with his haki barrier and reshaping the very battlefield to breathe safely again. To the Sannin, it became clear: whether the fight dragged on for hours or was decided in moments, Hanzo was outmatched in every measure.
Hanzo himself was not blind to this reality. Standing at a distance, he felt a heavy weight press against his chest as he assessed his opponent. Pride demanded he resist, yet his calculating mind whispered the truth—this was not a battle he could win. Against Shanks, the odds of victory were slim, and the possibility of death loomed far too close for his cautious nature to ignore. For a man like Hanzo, who had built his reign on cunning survival, the thought of gambling his life recklessly was abhorrent.
And yet, retreat carried its own price. His reputation, his authority in Amegakure, his image as an unshakable leader—all of it demanded that he stand his ground.
In a sudden blur of movement, Hanzo closed the distance, his form appearing no more than twenty or thirty meters from Shanks. The tension in the air thickened instantly, like the moment before a thunderclap.
"Let's settle this," Hanzo declared, his voice hard and resolute. "One final attack—everything we have. Let the outcome decide this battle once and for all. If we continue to fight as we are, it will drag on without end."
Shanks fixed his gaze on Hanzo, his expression calm yet edged with steel. "I doubt a single exchange will be enough to decide the outcome of this battle," he said evenly. "But if that is what you want, then so be it. I'll meet you head-on."
As the words left his lips, the faint sparks of lightning that had been idly dancing along his frame suddenly flared to life. The crackle grew louder, brighter, until his entire form seemed wreathed in living thunder. His sword thrummed with raw energy, the dark sheen of Conqueror's Haki wrapping around it, deepening the deadly aura it radiated.
Across from him, Hanzo readied himself with equal intensity. His grip tightened on his weapon, kusarigama, the metal trembling under the force he poured into it. A blaze erupted, fire coursing along the length of the blade until its heat was so fierce it evaporated the raindrops before they could touch him. Steam hissed and curled upward, shrouding him in a ghostly veil as the flames roared brighter, a deadly counter to Shanks' lightning.
Shanks layered Armament Haki over his weapon, the blade shifting to a pitch-black gleam, dense and unyielding, every inch of it promising destruction.
Then, without warning, both men launched forward in a blur.
The collision was cataclysmic. Red lightning and searing orange flames clashed in a violent explosion, the impact ringing out with a deafening boom that shook the ground beneath them. A blinding light burst forth, flooding the battlefield with radiance so fierce it turned dim day into bright day for a fleeting instant.
Even the Legendary Sannin, watching from afar, were forced to shield their eyes. The brilliant flare obscured their sight, leaving only the roar of energy as proof of the titanic clash. Hidden spies from other villages, who had crept close in hopes of witnessing the battle's conclusion, were likewise blinded, their vision swallowed by the overwhelming storm of light and sound.
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