Chapter 176: Challenging a Kage
A line of crimson arced through the rain-darkened sky, painting a grotesque portrait against the grey clouds.
Kyūmiya Emon's head sailed through the air, his expression frozen in that final moment of defiant fury, before landing in the mud with a wet, final thud. His body followed a heartbeat later, collapsing in a heap, dark blood spreading slowly beneath it like a dark halo.
The Swiftwind Swordsman. A quasi-Kage level master. A man who had dueled the legendary White Fang and, for a time, held his own.
And Ragnar had ended him in seconds. Effortlessly. Completely.
The battlefield held its breath.
Quasi-Kage level shinobi did not die easily. In the long history of ninja warfare, such deaths were rare, noteworthy events. Chiyo had escaped. Nōhei had survived. These were not ordinary fighters; they were the pinnacle of shinobi achievement, just one step below the Kage themselves. They all had tricks, escape routes, life-saving techniques honed over decades.
But Emon had none of that. He had only his hatred, his sword, and his pride. And against Ragnar, they had been nothing.
This was not just a loss of numbers. This was a blow to the very soul of Sunagakure.
Hatake Sakumo, still held at bay by the Third Kazekage's sand iron, watched the scene with a complicated expression. A silent sigh escaped him.
This boy… he never does things by half measures. Every time he acts, it shakes the very foundations.
Despite being enemies, Sakumo felt a flicker of something like sympathy for Emon. The man had been consumed by the sword, had dedicated his entire existence to its perfection. His Thirty-Six Consecutive Strikes was a masterpiece—a technique that would be remembered, even in defeat. And now its creator was gone, cut down by a boy barely old enough to be a genin.
What a waste. What a terrifying, necessary waste.
In the Suna camp, the Third Kazekage's composure shattered.
"KYŪMIYA!" His roar was primal, raw with fury and disbelief. His hands clenched into fists, the knuckles white. Around him, the sand iron stirred restlessly, responding to his turbulent emotions.
He launched himself into the air. A platform of black sand iron formed beneath his feet, carrying him swiftly across the battlefield until he hovered directly above Ragnar, looking down with eyes that promised annihilation.
Below him, Emon's body lay still. Headless. Beyond saving.
The Kazekage's gaze lifted, fixing on the calm figure below. "Rakshasa!"
Ragnar looked up, meeting the Kage's fury with an expression of utter indifference.
"First, you slaughter thousands of my shinobi. Now, you murder one of my quasi-Kage. The debt between us is beyond measure!"
Black sand iron swirled around him, condensing into countless triangular pyramids that blotted out the grey sky. The sheer volume of chakra required to control such a mass was staggering—a testament to why he was called the Strongest Kazekage. His aura pressed down like a physical weight, deep as an ocean, vast as a mountain range.
These sand iron pyramids were not simple projectiles. Even before impact, the malevolent chakra flowing through them was palpable. Upon striking a target, they could disperse instantly into millions of microscopic iron particles, invading the body, shredding organs from within. A death sentence wrapped in metal.
Ragnar's response was calm, unhurried. He raised the Kusanagi blade, its tip pointing directly at the hovering Kage.
"This is a battlefield. Life and death are the only rules. If you seek revenge…" His voice carried across the silent field, clear and cold. "Then be prepared to die alongside your vengeance. Kazekage of Sunagakure."
Arrogant!
The word screamed through every Suna ninja's mind. This boy—this child—was challenging their Kage. Directly. Openly. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Lord Kazekage! Destroy him!"
"Avenge Master Kyūmiya!"
"Show him the true power of Sunagakure!"
"He must not leave this battlefield alive!"
The kneeling ninja, emboldened by their Kage's presence, found their voices. They glared at Ragnar with hatred so pure it was almost tangible. They wanted his flesh. His blood. His annihilation.
Ragnar's gaze shifted from the Kazekage. It swept across the Suna ranks—a single, casual look.
And in that instant, every Suna ninja felt as if they had been plunged into an icy abyss.
The hatred in their eyes curdled into something else: fear. Jonin, hardened veterans of countless battles, felt cold sweat trickle down their spines. Their voices died in their throats. Their courage, moments ago blazing, crumbled to ash.
Silence returned.
One look. One single look had silenced an army.
In the Konoha ranks, Tsunade watched with a hand pressed to her face, though her eyes—peeking through her fingers—were fixed on the scene before her.
"This guy… he's actually challenging a Kage directly." Her voice was caught between exasperation and awe. "When did he become like this? When did he become so… much?"
She remembered the boy she had first met. The quiet, haunted survivor from a destroyed village. The one she had protected, taught, come to think of as a little brother. Now he stood alone against a Kage, and she realized with a pang that she could no longer protect him. He had surpassed her. The distance between them had grown vast.
But as she watched that black-clad back—slender, young, yet standing like an immovable mountain—she felt something else too. Pride. Fierce, overwhelming pride.
"That's my little brother," she whispered.
"The waves of the Yangtze River push forward," Jiraiya murmured, shaking his head. "The front waves die on the sand. I'm not even close to this kid. Challenging a Kage? I only dream about that."
"Ragnar-kun may well become a legend," Orochimaru said, his voice soft but intense. His serpentine eyes never left the scene, drinking in every detail. "A legend written in the blood of his enemies."
Above, the Third Kazekage's fury had congealed into something colder. More lethal.
He raised both hands.
The sea of sand iron behind him moved.
Thousands of triangular pyramids shot forward, a relentless, sky-darkening rain of metal death. Each one was harder than any ninja tool, forged from the purest iron particles drawn from the earth itself. This was not simple magnetism—this was the pinnacle of Magnet Release, a bloodline limit unique in the shinobi world. The Third Kazekage was called the Strongest Kazekage for a reason. If Gaara's sand was the ultimate shield, the Third Kazekage's sand iron was the ultimate spear.
The attack was inescapable. A rain of annihilation.
Ragnar watched it come.
He did not dodge. He did not retreat.
Instead, his feet planted firmly in the mud, and he raised one arm.
*"Armament Haki: Hardening."
In an instant, his entire arm transformed. The skin turned jet black, taking on a faint, metallic luster. It was not chakra—it was something else, something deeper. Will made manifest.
*"Strange Power Fist."
He drew back his blackened arm, muscles coiling with the accumulated force of a hundred precise trainings, a thousand battles, an unbreakable will.
And then he punched.
(End of Chapter)
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