Meanwhile, in the southern border fort, Commander Batto's call of duty had rallied the patrols, chunins like genins towards the fight.
Commander Batto faced Zenitsu Takeda across twenty meters of churned earth, the Amegakure genins forming an impenetrable net around them and preventing the traitor from escaping.
The vice-commander's face was a mask of cold fury, his earlier shame burnt away by the adrenaline of being exposed. His katana was held in a flawless middle stance, its blade drinking in the scant light.
"You should have stayed in your tent, old man", Zenitsu spat, "You could have died in the borders as a tragic hero. A role model for all low-born civilian shinobi. Now, you'll just die as an obstacle. You know it better than all. If you fall, even this net of genins and chunins will not stop me"
Batto hefted his massive greatsword, Tetsu-no-Oto (Iron Sound). A prototype of the foundry, meant to replicate the lands of iron's greatest masterpiece. Partly made of black steel, partly made of chakra-conductive metal, it was an excellent B-rank greatsword, one that made him famous.
It was a brutish weapon, lacking the elegance of a Takeda blade, but it had monstrous weight.
"You betrayed your kin. Your village. For what? Status of a border commander?", Batto spoke, attempting to understand what could have led a proud Takeda to commit the ultimate felony, selling fellow shinobi to the enemy
"You low-born shinobi would never understand...", Zenitsu's voice cracked, "the Takeda elders were considering taking Ameruyi as a disciple. I merely wanted a future. A future where I was not just a sword for the Council of the rain"
He moved. There was no warning. One moment he was still, the next he was a silver streak cutting through the rain.
"Silent Rain Kenjutsu: Seventh Form – Silver Deluge!" (A-Rank)
It was the technique Ameruyi had used in her exam, but elevated to a masterpiece. Not a single cut, but a seamless, overwhelming series of thrusts and slashes that came from all angles simultaneously, a localized storm of blade-work. The air itself seemed to solidify into a cage of lethal intent.
Batto, for all his power, was a brawler. He roared, spinning his greatsword in a massive, defensive arc.
CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG!
Sparks flew like startled fireflies.
The sound was a deafening, rapid-fire peal of steel.
Batto was driven back, step by heavy step, his boots gouging trenches in the mud.
A line of red appeared on his cheek, another on his forearm. His flak jacket was shredded in a dozen places. He was blocking, but just barely. The precision and speed were inhuman.
Zenitsu flowed around a clumsy counter-swing, his blade dipping low.
"Silent Rain Kenjutsu: Fourth Form – Rippling Floor!" (B-Rank)
His sword didn't cut; it vibrated, channeling chakra into the ground. The earth at Batto's feet liquefied into a sudden, churning pit of mud and unstable chakra.
Batto's footing vanished. He stumbled, his greatsword swinging wide.
Zenitsu was already in the air, his blade raised for a final, vertical cleave—a perfect execution of "Silent Rain Kenjutsu: First Form – Falling Rain" (B-Rank), amplified by gravity and murderous intent.
"Die with the mud you command, peasant!"
Batto's eyes were wide. He was overextended, off-balance. He couldn't block.
Then, a voice, flat and calm, cut through the rain from the sidelines.
"Shikabane Hidden Art: Corpse Puppet – Explosive Tag Transfer."
Kirito Shikabane, Zenitsu's own disciple, stood with his hands in a rat seal. From the sleeves of his black robes, a water-logged, pallid arm, a severed limb he'd been carrying as a component, shot forward like a fleshy projectile. The explosion was massive, a testament to the Shikabane's mastery of fuinjutsu.
Zenitsu's perfect strike met not defenseless flesh, but a roaring explosion that blinded him, and wounded his chest.
Batto, sensing the shift, used the last of his falling momentum to shove his blade upward, shielding himself from the explosion.
KABOOM!!
The corpse-hand vaporized. The force blew both men apart.
Batto was thrown backwards, rolling through the mud, his armor smoking, his ears ringing. His greatsword scorched but his body mostly intact.
Zenitsu was flung sideways, his elegant strike utterly ruined. He landed in a crouch, his left arm hanging at a wrong angle, his fine robes blackened and torn. He stared, not at Batto, but at Kirito, his face a perfect painting of betrayed disbelief.
"Kirito… you… you corpse-loving psychopath! I raised you! I made you my disciple!"
Kirito adjusted his hat, his expression hidden but his voice eerily calm, "You went too far, Zenitsu-sensei. You betrayed the village. The Shikabane serve Amegakure. Not a Takeda's ambition. We remember who pulled us from the catacombs"
The moment of shock cost Zenitsu. From the shadows near the medical tents, where he'd been guarding Ameruyi's unconscious form, Tetsu acted. The chaos, the explosive shock, the raw emotion of Zenitsu's betrayal. It was a feast for his art.
He didn't need powder. The rain on his own mask mixed with his simmering fury at the man who had sold out his friend, his teammate.
A single, dark tear fell.
Plink.
From the pooled, bloody water at Zenitsu's feet, the Grief-Joy Demon surged forth. It was not the semi-formed horror from the exam. This was a wave of pure, concentrated dread, the feeling of a trusted blade turning in your gut, the crushing weight of friendship twisted into a weapon.
It didn't claw. It engulfed.
Zenitsu screamed. This wasn't a physical pain. It was his own mind turning against him. He saw the scorn in his father's eyes for his mediocre talent, the pity in Ameruyi's gaze he'd always imagined, the cold judgment of his ancestors for his treachery. The demon fed on his deepest insecurities, his hidden shame, and reflected it back a thousandfold.
His perfect kenjutsu stance broke. He dropped his katana, clutching his head, his screams becoming increasingly more violent.
Batto saw his chance. Pain forgotten, he charged. There was no finesse. No grand technique. Just the brutal, fundamental core of the Amegakure Corps kenjutsu, driven by a lifetime of survival.
"Amegakure Kenjutsu: Needle Sword Thrust!" (B-Rank)
But in Batto's hands, it wasn't a needle. It was a lance. His greatsword, Tetsu-no-Oto, shed all pretense of a swing. It became a single, focused line of force, a monumental thrust that concentrated all his weight, his chakra, his rage, into the point of the blade.
The air ripped.
Zenitsu, trapped in a trance by the Grief-Joy Demon, could not block it.
The tip of the greatsword took him in the center of his chest. There was a sound like a stone splitting. The blade punched through his back in a spray of crimson, pinning him to the muddy ground.
The Grief-Joy Demon receded, as if satisfied, melting back into Tetsu's shadow.
Silence, save for the hiss of rain on hot metal and Zenitsu's wet, choking breaths.
He looked down at the impossible width of steel protruding from his body, then up at Batto's grim face, and finally to Kirito's impassive, hat-shaded form.
"My own… disciple…", he gurgled, blood bubbling on his lips, "To think I would meet my end...in such dishonor"
Kirito said nothing. He merely gave a shallow bow to Batto.
Zenitsu Takeda's head rolled to the side, his eyes staring blankly at the weeping sky.
It was over.
The aftermath was a grim cleanup. The fort's loyal shinobi, led by Mumei and the Kirito Shikabane, rounded up the few genins who had been foolishly loyal to Zenitsu. The damage was contained, limited to the command tent and the training yard.
Batto stood leaning on his greatsword, now cleaned but forever stained. One of the Jōtaki medics was already seeing to the burns and cuts from the explosion and Zenitsu's opening salvo. He looked every one of his years.
It was then that Ryugo, Goto, and Yumi emerged from the treeline, their clothes sodden but their postures alert. Ryugo held the wolf mask of the Dotuki operative.
Batto's eyes, heavy with exhaustion, found Ryugo's. "Status?"
Ryugo stopped before him, his yellow-amber eyes reflecting the lantern light: "The Dotuki infiltrator is dead. Ameruyi is avenged"
He tossed the mask at Batto's feet. "He was… surprisingly talkative before the end. Intelligence has been secured"
Batto looked from the mask to Ryugo's impassive face. He saw the new steadiness in the boy's stance, the faint, crackling energy that seemed to cling to him. He'd changed in that forest. Batto didn't know how, but he recognized the look of a predator who had tasted significant prey.
"Good," Batto grunted, the word holding a universe of approval and grim acceptance. "The fort is secure. The traitor is dead. Thanks to your team… and yours", he added, nodding with respect to Goto and Yumi.
He looked around at the fort—wounded but unbroken. Then his gaze returned to Ryugo. "Mission completed, Team 11 Captain"
The words were a formal epilogue, another B-rank successful mission to their record.
Team 11, in just two and a half months, had gone from fresh academy graduates to the talk of Amegakure. At this point, they had already completed: 1 A-rank, 2 B-rank, 7 C-rank, and 12 D-rank missions. A tally that would make veteran chunin squads envious, born from a baptism of blood, lightning and betrayals.