Chapter 115: Harvest
When an elite jonin of Iwagakure unleashes a large-scale Earth Release ninjutsu, the result is geological warfare. For earth specialists, the very ground is a weapon, a foundation they can reshape with terrifying power.
Ishido's Tectonic Tilt was the pinnacle of such techniques. It wasn't an attack; it was the landscape itself rising in revolt. Hundreds of meters of soil, stone, and forest heaved skyward, a tsunami of solid matter carrying enough force to pulverize fortifications and bury battalions. On a frontal battlefield, it was a tide of instant death.
Against this cataclysm, Ragnar had used a single cut. A black slash, pure and absolute, that didn't just stop the technique—it bisected the concept of the attack itself. The earth-wave was not defeated; it was negated, split into two harmless halves that collapsed under their own weight.
The sheer, impossible finality of that cut left a psychic scar on everyone who witnessed it. For a moment, the world seemed fragile, as if all matter was just an illusion waiting to be parted by that blade.
It wasn't over. The aftermath of the slash didn't dissipate; it carved a deep, glassy trench into the ground. Suna-nin who had burrowed close to the surface for an ambush were caught in the extension of the cut. Muffled screams and sudden geysers of crimson from beneath the soil told a silent, gruesome tale.
"M-My Tectonic Tilt… broken? By a single sword stroke?!" Ishido stammered, his confidence cracking. A powerhouse like Orochimaru would evade or endure. This… this was contemptuous dismissal.
His shock cost him. The black blur that had been Rakshasa was already in motion, not away from the collapsing earth, but through it, using the falling debris as momentary cover. He emerged like a specter, Yama already descending in a silent arc for Ishido's neck.
Ishido froze, the chill of the blade's intent frosting his spine.
"Secret Technique: Puppet Substitution!"
Chiyo's hands twitched. Two nondescript combat puppets erupted from the earth on either side of Ishido, interposing themselves in the sword's path.
CLANG-SHRIEK!
Metal screamed as Yama sheared through the first puppet's reinforced torso, slowing only slightly before biting into the second. The sound was deafening.
The impact and the moment's delay snapped Ishido from his paralysis. At the same time, Chiyo's furious, chakra-threaded whisper hissed in his ear: "Are you waiting for a funeral? RUN!"
The alliance was one of convenience. Letting the Iwa force be decimated would weaken a rival. But Chiyo was a pragmatist. If the Iwa-nin broke here, Rakshasa would turn his full, terrifying attention to her Sand-nin. Ishido, a jonin, could serve as a valuable distraction—a shield to buy her escape. Cold, calculating, and utterly self-serving.
The two blocking puppets, already damaged, shattered under a second, casual flick of Yama. The blade continued its descent.
Ishido, reacting with the instincts of a survivor, threw himself sideways. It wasn't enough.
SHLICK.
A line of cold fire traced across his right shoulder. There was no resistance. His arm, from the deltoid down, separated cleanly from his body and thudded to the forest floor. The pain was a white-hot lance, but survival adrenaline drowned it out. An arm for a life. A fair trade.
"EARTH RELEASE: SWAMP OF THE UNDERWORLD!"
Gritting his teeth, his remaining hand slapped the ground. The solid earth beneath him liquified instantly into thick, clinging mud. His body began to sink rapidly, the mire pulling him down to safety.
"Retreat! All forces, retreat!" His roar was half-pain, half-command.
Seeing Rakshasa's focus on the Iwa captain, Chiyo acted. She didn't order a ground retreat. "Submerge! All units, underground withdrawal! NOW!"
Her remaining digging puppets whirred to life, tearing into the soil. The Sand-nin, trained for this, dove into the freshly made tunnels like rats into a warren. Notably, however, only the Sand-nin had easy access to the tunnels. A significant portion of the Iwa force—those not specialized in Earth Release or caught on the surface—were left scrambling on foot.
It was deliberate. The people on the ground were slower, more visible. Easier prey. They would soak up Rakshasa's attention while her Sand-nin melted away. Chiyo's retreat was a masterpiece of ruthless triage.
As she predicted, the crimson mask turned from the sinking Ishido toward the two dozen Iwa-nin now fleeing in panic across the ravaged forest floor.
SHWIP.
"Strange Power: Shave."
The ground where Ragnar stood didn't crater—it vaporized in a conical explosion of force and sound. He didn't run. He translated. One moment here, the next, he was a black line etching itself across the space above the sinking Ishido's head. The air itself seemed torn by his passage.
"Impossible!" Ishido's one remaining eye widened in pure horror. He was three-quarters submerged, only his head and remaining shoulder above the sucking mud. One more second. One more second!
That second was an eternity denied.
Yama fell. A diagonal, ruthless slash.
Ishido, trapped, could only raise his remaining arm in a desperate, instinctual block. Earth-natured chakra hardened his skin, forming a layer of rough, scale-like stone armor.
It meant nothing.
SHINK.
The black edge met the stone-armored limb and passed through without the slightest hesitation. Flesh, bone, chakra reinforcement—all were one substance before the demon sword's hunger. The arm parted. The cut continued, tracing a flawless line through neck and spine.
A head, its expression frozen in terminal disbelief, tumbled from the sinking torso. Blood fountained, painting the dark mud a vivid crimson before both were swallowed by the hungry earth. The captain of the Iwa ANBU Pursuit Squadron was gone.
Ragnar didn't pause to acknowledge the kill. His momentum was unbroken. He landed lightly, his masked gaze already sweeping over the other fleeing Iwa-nin—the ones Chiyo had so kindly left for him.
He moved again.
"Ittoryu – Iai: Shishi Sonson."
There was no grand flourish. Just the whisper of a draw and return. But in that whisper, black lightning flickered. Not one bolt, but a criss-crossing web of them, etched across the space between him and the nearest group of runners.
The Iwa-nin kept running. For a step. Then, confusion. They saw their own bodies, still moving forward, headless. Their perspectives had shifted. Dark spots bloomed at the edges of their vision as their brains tried to process the sight of their necks spurting crimson fountains.
"Ittoryu – Sanjuuro Pound Ho!"
Yama became a blur. Ragnar didn't swing at individuals; he swung at the space they occupied. Dozens of crescent-shaped slashes of black Haki and purple miasma roared forth, not as individual projectiles, but as a whirling, grinding storm of blade energy. It was a localized hurricane of pure cutting force.
The Iwa-nin caught in its periphery didn't stand a chance. They were dismantled. Kunai and armor were shredded. Bodies were not just cut; they were flayed, dismembered, turned into crimson mist and falling meat in the span of a heartbeat.
The forest floor, already scarred, became an abattoir. The air grew thick with the copper-sweet stench of blood and the acrid smell of voided bowels. Screams, short and sharp, were cut off almost as soon as they began, replaced by the wet, terrible sounds of disassembly and the final, heavy thuds of what remained hitting the earth.
A profound, chilling silence descended, broken only by the drip of blood from leaves and the last, gurgling sighs of the dying.
From their position further back, Nawaki and Orochimaru watched, transfixed.
Nawaki's face was pale, his earlier awe now tempered by visceral horror. "Th-this… this is the real Rakshasa," he whispered, his voice trembling. "A demon… They're not even fighting. They're just… being harvested."
Orochimaru's expression was unreadable, a mask of analytical intensity over a deep, unsettled core. He had seen death. He had dealt it in abundance. But this… this was different. This wasn't combat; it was systematic, industrialized eradication. The cold efficiency, the utter lack of passion or hesitation… What is that boy's heart made of? The question echoed in his mind, not with disgust, but with a terrible, fascinated curiosity. What forge of will and circumstance could produce such a perfectly lethal instrument at such a young age?
One by one, the screams and whimpers from the Iwa-nin faded. The only sounds left were the rustle of the wind through the gore-spattered trees and the soft, final twitches of the dead.
The clearing was a charnel ground. And at its center, standing amidst the carnage he had wrought, the Rakshasa slowly lowered Yama. The demonic blade was clean, having drunk its fill of blood and terror. He turned his head, the blank red mask seeking the last traces of chakra—the ones fleeing underground.
The harvest was not yet complete.
(End of Chapter)
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