Three Thousand Worries

The man before him possessed no special techniques, rarely even resorting to the five basic elemental ninjutsu. He relied solely on a seasoned, ruthless swordsmanship that consistently forced Minato Namikaze to break off his rhythm at critical moments, leaving the Yellow Flash struggling to find his footing.

This man, who appeared little older than Minato, seemed to have endured a century of slaughter; he was a machine that had never ceased killing.

Only such a history could forge such keen reflexes and combat instincts.

Minato had seen this quality in those few ninja who had miraculously survived the Warring States period.

Unfortunately, those old men could not withstand the erosion of time, becoming dull blades—full of experience, yet physically frail. Their experience had become nothing more than a garnish to mask their decaying bodies.

But the man before him was a sharp, incredibly experienced blade.

This "speed" was not the kind Minato possessed—a speed that transcended space—but rather a speed that was perfectly timed.

Minato was quite confident in his own velocity; on a battlefield where he had scattered his kunai, he could outrun light itself if he so desired.

But what of it?

Even if the speed of space-swapping allowed an observer to see Minato appearing in different places simultaneously, it was ultimately just an illusion left by spatial displacement—a trick the eyes played on the brain.

Yet Uchiha Tenshen did not even need to use his eyes; he could locate Minato's landing point with his eyes closed.

With a lifetime of life-and-death experience, Tenshen's muscle memory guided his blade to land exactly where Minato was forced to defend.

How terrifying. How many people must one kill to possess such a chilling intuition?

Minato felt that this man had likely been killing since the moment he could first hold a blade.

A young man could not possibly have such experience, and a man in his prime with such experience could only have attained it through endless slaughter.

Little did he know, Uchiha Tenshen was already an old man in his seventies or eighties, possessing the ability to remain forever young due to a unique talent.

But aside from his age, Minato's other guesses were not far off.

Indeed, he was a ninja who had spent his entire life locked in mortal combat.

Yet, such talent was not enough to make him stand out under Uchiha Kei.

As one of the Iga Ten under Uchiha Kei, every member possessed a lifetime of combat experience. Tenshen, who specialized only in swordsmanship, held little advantage in a world like the ninja realm, where even traditional shinobi were considered extraordinary.

As one of the first ninja to serve Kei, Tenshen had once sparred privately with the late Hatake Sakumo to earn sufficient recognition.

He had failed that day, though the man known as the White Fang of the Leaf claimed it was a draw.

But Uchiha Tenshen knew that had it not been for his own regenerative abilities allowing him to dull Sakumo's blade, he would have been the first of Kei's subordinates to fall.

In other words, had Sakumo possessed a better blade—even just a chakra-infused one—he would have sliced Tenshen to ribbons.

Kei, who witnessed the fight, jokingly remarked that Tenshen was a "fifty-fifty" fighter; whether facing Kage-level experts like Sakumo and Minato or ordinary Jonin, the result was always the same.

He couldn't win, but he couldn't be beaten.

Hearing Kei's assessment, the eighty-year-old man felt deeply ashamed, but the white-haired man had been delighted, scratching his head and expressing great appreciation for Kei's evaluation of Tenshen.

"Fifty-fifty, sounds pretty impressive. Maybe I should rename Kakashi."

Do not misunderstand; this was not Sakumo being a sore loser, unable to take down an opponent after a day and a night of fighting and resorting to petty insults.

The custom here was that if one admired someone, they would name a close junior after that person or something related to them.

Just as Fugaku's youngest son was named Sasuke, which was the name of Sarutobi's father.

It seemed that through that day of combat, Sakumo had come to truly admire Tenshen.

Now, that stoic yet cheerful man had passed away, and Tenshen, as the man who had fought the White Fang for a day and a night, wanted to weigh the capabilities of the man who shared the White Fang's reputation: Minato.

Even though the White Fang was dead, Tenshen hoped not to see that man's reputation tarnished by politics.

Failing to save that man was a matter of stance, but upholding his reputation was a matter of camaraderie between men.

Since the Flash shared the same renown as the White Fang, he naturally had to possess the strength to match that title.

With a flash of his blade, he struck away the kunai Minato had thrown, which was intended to probe the area where the Flying Thunder God might fail under the pressure of constant combat.

"Sakumo, if you had wanted, I could have sent you off myself. You didn't need to choose such a humiliating end through suicide."

At that moment, the image of that white-haired guy with the squinting, smiling eyes surfaced in Tenshen's mind.

Tenshen swung his blade. It moved like a streak of white light, landing precisely where Minato was about to materialize.

Minato dodged the strike with a movement that defied human anatomy, yet the blade still managed to slice through his clothing.

That was not the scary part; the terrifying thing was that Minato had only been struck once, yet there were two distinct cuts on his body.

How terrifying! It's as if I've been locked in by the blade's momentum!

The first strike had cut his clothes, and the second mark—the origin of which was unknown—had left a laceration on Minato's abdomen.

It's not that his strike wasn't strong enough, but that I dodged just fast enough.

Minato was stunned.

What surprised him even more was that he could have avoided this strike using the Flying Thunder God, but intimidated by the momentum of the blade, he had instinctively relied on his physical reflexes instead.

In other words, the arrival of danger had trapped him in an even greater peril; he had failed to make the correct choice.

"This is somewhat like Senior Sakumo's swordsmanship. The senior was truly formidable; his blade leaves one with nowhere to hide!"

Minato recognized it—this was the White Fang's blade.

Nostalgia for a departed friend plunged Tenshen into a profound, ethereal state.

The Iga Clan, believers in the Buddha of the Future, finally had a bright future—a future Tenshen was willing to sacrifice his life to secure.

Yet, with this newfound beautiful life came worries that arrived right on schedule.

The human world was never a pure land; having finally found a bosom friend in this world, a friend who did not care about the darkness he carried from his past, that friend had still died due to persecution.

Just like the fate of the Iga and Koga, they had been persecuted by those high above like marionettes on strings.

Is this what the filthy human world is?

Deep in the darkness, Tenshen had thought he was long accustomed to it and could start anew, but when faced with injustice once more, he still felt that heaven and earth were heartless.

People, after all, are fond of those entirely different from themselves.

Tenshen was a man who would stop at nothing for the Iga; for the sake of the clan, he had once attempted to violate Oboro, and for the sake of the clan, he had brutally murdered Kagerou.

Although these were matters of a past life, these memories made it impossible for Tenshen to integrate with his companions and enemies who had also been reborn.

Even his adopted son, Koshiro, feared him more than he respected him.

Because they all knew that the Tenshen who would once do anything for the Iga would now do anything for Uchiha Kei.

And the thought of what that "anything" entailed was enough to make one shudder.

Just then, a man with no guile but immense martial prowess had appeared in Tenshen's life.

He fought Tenshen, admired Tenshen's combat experience, and exchanged techniques with him without reservation.

They would drink because they fought, and they would fight because they drank.

And now, this man was gone.

Then, let me, Tenshen, carry his swordsmanship and make this world tremble.

Bang.

One strike.

A strike that caught up to space itself.

Tenshen's Three-Tomoe Sharingan spun rapidly, a [-] even appearing in its center, as his Konoha forehead protector fluttered alongside his yellow hair.

A voice echoed through the air.

"White Fang Secret Technique, Three Thousand Worries!"

"Slash."