Aburame Ryoma's Death

He walked about twenty steps.

Then he stopped.

Obito's footsteps halted. It wasn't fatigue, nor was it hesitation—it was because his senses had caught something. An exceedingly faint, nearly nonexistent killing intent. Not ordinary bloodlust, but an intent to attack deliberately suppressed to its absolute limit, almost blending into nature itself.

He had lived for as many years as he had sensed this kind of killing intent.

Every time, it had been at the edge of life and death.

His body reacted faster than his mind.

He did not phase through—it was too late. His opponent had chosen the timing with terrifying precision: the instant he defeated every Root member and turned to leave, the instant his attention was at its loosest and his reactions at their slowest. In that instant, his brain had not even registered the danger.

But his body remembered.

His body remembered every ambush from thousands of battles.

Obito's body abruptly shifted to the left, not by much—only half a step. At the same time, his right hand slipped out from his sleeve, three black rods already pinched between his fingers.

A black shadow stabbed out from the darkness behind his right side, grazing past his ribs. It was a hand—a bare, pale hand covered in a layer of dust too fine to see with the naked eye. Its fingers were pressed together like a blade, and the dust at its fingertips reflected an eerie gleam beneath the moonlight.

Nano-scale Kikaichū.

If that strike had landed, the insects would have invaded Obito's body in an instant. They did not need to touch his skin, nor did they need to bite him—as long as that hand came within three centimeters, the nano-insect swarm could spread through the air, enter his respiratory tract, and erode his nervous system.