Ryusei’s face turned grim again, the color draining from his expression.

Not even half an hour after clawing his way out of his last brush with death, he was once more staring into the abyss.

He hadn’t managed to dodge in time; he hadn’t expected Tenzo’s speed to spike that much.

The commander’s leg crashed into his ribcage with brutal force, bones cracking audibly, the impact lifting Ryusei off his feet.

His eyes widened from the shock, blood spewing from his mouth as air fled his lungs.

And before he could even recover, Tenzo’s poisonous palm was already surging toward his exposed back, venomous chakra writhing and hissing like a living flame.

“Is this… the end?” The thought echoed bitterly in his mind.

He couldn’t weave hand signs in time, couldn’t channel a jutsu fast enough. He was caught in an impossible position.

“Ryusei!!”

The cry tore through the chaos.

Kanae, who had just finished deflecting the storm of poisonous senbon with surgical precision, her Byakugan eyes and chakra-tipped fingers moving like a shield, looked up.

For a moment, her vision swam, not from exhaustion, but from something worse. Her heart lurched as if it had been pierced.

The sight of him, bloodied, lifted helplessly into the air, struck her like her world collapsing.

The battlefield noise dulled; all she felt was raw fear, a fear that mimicked her own death.

Her throat burned, her voice cracked, yet she still shouted his name, her arms trembling.

She had never realized until now how tightly he had already rooted himself into her world.

And it was that same moment Hisanori Gekko acted.

Kunai sliced through the air, glinting with chakra.

Tenzo flinched—too late.

His focus had tunneled onto Ryusei, his sense dulled from overloading his body into this super-state.

Hisanori’s chance had been building from the start, and he unleashed it with his signature technique:

“Vacuum Shuriken!”

The spinning shuriken cut the air so sharply it screamed, splitting the wind into lethal currents, coated in wind chakra flow.

Tenzo snarled, twisting to deflect, but the split-second distraction was all Ryusei needed.

Despite broken ribs, despite the taste of blood flooding his mouth, Ryusei twisted in midair.

His hand shot forward, chakra flaring bright blue, his palm crashing into Tenzo’s elbow.

“Shatter Palm!”

The bone cracked under the sudden force, Tenzo’s arm jolting violently.

The glove-hand—the one coated with poison chakra- snapped back, fingers twitching and useless for the moment.

Ryusei landed hard, stumbling, clutching his ribs as pain radiated through his chest.

He pressed his other hand against it, golden-green Yang chakra surging to stabilize the fracture, his breath ragged.

But his eyes were still sharp, still burning.

He straightened, glaring at Tenzo and shouting with all the force he could muster:

“Everyone, don’t give up! He can’t last in this state for too long!”

The words cut through the noise of battle, carrying a conviction that even Kanae and Renjiro felt in their bones.

Ryusei’s blood still dripped down his chin, but he ignored it, Yang chakra pulsing in his ribs as he prepared to fight again.

Tenzo’s face twisted, a mix of fury and disbelief.

Hisanori didn’t hesitate. He had already seized Ryusei’s opening once, and now, seeing his ally injured, he stepped in to become the main player, seize this opportunity, and not hold back anymore.

His hands flashed through signs, and in the blink of an eye, three shadow clones appeared beside him, moving in perfect unison.

Their speed was blistering, their motions elusive, each one leaving afterimages as they circled Tenzo like wraiths.

Their swords gleamed with wind chakra flow, every slash splitting the air with invisible edges.

Even their footwork blurred into crescent arcs, body flickers overlapping in dizzying patterns. Utilizing wind in some capacity.

It was the apex of his clan’s secret style — the Dance of the Crescent Moon.

Tenzo’s eyes narrowed. Even in his heightened state, the sheer layering of illusions and speed drowned his senses.

Sword after sword carved toward him from impossible angles, cutting through grass, stone, and air alike.

For the first time, his instincts faltered, and he moved back a step, trying to widen the distance.

But he had overlooked the boy with the broken ribs.

He had assumed Ryusei was out of the fight, too battered to move.

He dismissed the faint orange glow building in Ryusei’s palms as some childish chakra trick, nothing worth his attention.

His entire focus stayed on Hisanori’s shuriken feints and sword arcs.

That mistake was fatal.

Ryusei’s lips curled faintly, blood still at the corner of his mouth, as he forced his battered body forward.

He expelled nearly all of his remaining chakra in one desperate gamble, summoning five more shadow clones at once.

Each clone moved in perfect sync — not random flailing, but a formation they had practiced, sharpened, and polished before.

Together, they unleashed Ryusei’s strongest taijutsu arsenal in combination.

For example, one clone surged forward with the Coiling Serpent Fist, another slid low with the Flowing Willow Guard, a third rocketed upward with Shock Step, the fourth came crashing down with the Senju Heel Drop, and the last braced with a raw, brutal Shatter Palm.

Five angles, five killing and dynamic strikes, all converging as Hisanori’s clones sliced in from the other side.

Kanae’s voice rang out sharp and clear through the chaos, her Byakugan tracking every micro-shift in Tenzo’s stance.

“Left knee, chakra pooling! He’s pivoting—no, now his right shoulder—!” She guided them relentlessly, her tone edged with exhilaration.

She couldn’t hide it — Ryusei had survived. Her heart beat furiously in relief, every word she shouted for him sharper, steadier.

Renjiro moved beside her, blade flashing, cutting down stray strikes that might have clipped them.

Tenzo roared, his body straining under the combined storm.

Grass and roots erupted wildly around him, his scythe broken, his glove-arm trembling under Ryusei’s earlier Shatter Palm.

Even with his enhanced state, his movements slowed under the crushing barrage.

At last, his voice tore out — raw, bitter, full of venom.

“Damn you… damn Konoha! Damn all of you bloated clans and your cursed villages—!”

His scream was cut short.

Hisanori’s Crescent Moon blades and Ryusei’s clone formation struck together, overwhelming him in a flurry of steel, fists, and chakra.

Tenzo staggered back, blood spraying, his body torn and crushed from all sides.

And in that moment, the feared commander of Kusagakure’s special ops, the man who had terrorized Konoha’s lines, collapsed to the ground with a final, grudging curse.

They were all elated, but none mistook it for victory yet.

Their breaths came ragged, sweat stung their eyes, and every muscle screamed, but they had done it.

The commander of Kusagakure’s special ops lay broken at their feet.

Hisanori straightened, sword dripping, and cast Ryusei a long look — something different in his eyes now, a flicker of genuine respect where before there had only been wary appraisal.

“We don’t have time to celebrate,” he said sharply, though his voice carried a steadiness it hadn’t before. “I’ll reinforce the others. You—” his eyes went to Ryusei “—carry that bastard’s body where everyone can see it. Nothing will boost morale more than knowing he’s dead.”

Ryusei didn’t argue. He crouched, gritted his teeth against the ache in his ribs, and heaved Tenzo’s corpse onto his shoulder.

The weight pressed hard into his bones, but his narrowed eyes stayed calm. He knew exactly what message this would send.

They regrouped quickly, moving to support Shinku who was still entangling enemy guards with layers of genjutsu.

As the news spread from squad to squad, as more eyes fell on the fallen commander’s limp body slung across Ryusei’s back, the change was immediate.

Enemy morale faltered like a flame doused in water.

Kusa shinobi who had fought with fanatic resolve only moments ago now hesitated, their formation stuttering.

Murmurs rippled across the battlefield. Their “indestructible” commander was gone. The symbol of their momentum had been ripped out.

Meanwhile, Konoha’s side — battered, bleeding, backs pressed to the wall — surged with renewed fire.

Cries rose up, sharp and desperate, their blades swinging faster, chakra flaring brighter.

Even the two ANBU survivors who had been half-dead a moment ago straightened, their masks cracked and uniforms torn, but their eyes burning again.

Far off, Choza Akimichi glanced down from his towering form. His giant fists froze mid-swing as his keen eyes caught the sight of Ryusei with Tenzo’s body.

A booming laugh shook his chest, half disbelief, half exhilaration. “You damn brats actually did it!” he thundered, before plowing forward with renewed fury, his massive arms scattering Kusa shinobi like leaves.

High above, Yukino’s ink eagle dipped in a swoop.

Her brush flicked, releasing a barrage of ink-beasts, but her sharp gaze lingered for a moment on the young squad that had done what even she hadn’t.

Her lips pressed together, half a frown, half reluctant admiration.

She had already resigned herself to escape with Choza alone, perhaps a handful of survivors at best. Yet here they were, dragging the impossible into reality.

Even the group pinned with Okabe on the elevated wall rallied. Inspired by the sight of Tenzo’s corpse, the last five Konoha shinobi there roared in unison and pierced through their encirclement.

Earth walls crumbled, and suddenly the beleaguered defense had another pocket pushing back.

The tide didn’t reverse into victory — not yet. The Kusa shinobi didn’t retreat. Their numbers still pressed heavy, their blades still came in waves. But they had lost their head, and that was enough.

Ryusei, Renjiro, Kanae, Hisanori, and the two ANBU cut through the enemy lines like a spearhead, focusing on the sub-leaders who shouted orders and tried to salvage the formation.

Kanae’s Byakugan guided them mercilessly, Renjiro’s tanto flashing with lightning flow, Hisanori weaving wind-sharpened sword arcs, and Ryusei’s clones hammering strikes wherever her eyes told them to hit.

Every time one of those sub-commanders fell, the cohesion of the enemy line buckled further.

Choza strained, his Butterfly Mode glowing faint, his giant body slowing — but now, he was no longer fighting dozens alone.

Yukino’s ink summons surged in greater numbers, her eagle still soaring, bolstered by the shift in morale below.

They were still barely holding, but holding was enough.

And just when it seemed like the last of their chakra reserves might give out, the first whistles of kunai from beyond the ridge cut through the air. Konoha reinforcements had arrived.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep