Yan stepped out from the defensive line, and a wave of chaos erupted behind him.
Some people shouted, "Retreat! Retreat!" Some carried the wounded. Some glanced back at the lone figure walking forward, stood there in a daze for a few seconds, then were dragged away by those beside them.
He ignored the commotion behind him.
He kept walking. One step at a time. Steady.
Iwagakure's second wave of assault troops had mixed with the remnants of the first, forming a broad front roughly three hundred meters ahead of the defensive line. The footsteps of several thousand people blended together, pounding against the gravelly river valley floor with a dull roar.
Yan stopped a hundred meters from the defensive line.
He looked ahead. People. People everywhere. Densely packed.
He looked back. Konoha's ninjas were retreating according to his orders. Some ran quickly, while others slowly dragged the wounded along. The medical ninjas carried severely injured people who could no longer walk, staggering as they went.
Good. The distance was about right.
He moved.
Not by charging forward. Instead, both arms slowly rose and began to change color.
Starting from his fingertips. The color drained from his skin, revealing dark red, bubbling liquid beneath. The color was especially striking in the morning light—not ordinary red, but the dark red of iron heated nearly white-hot.
Lava.
Both his left and right arms completely turned to lava within two seconds. Dark red liquid flowed down his arms, and occasionally, small drops fell to the ground with a sizzle, scorching little pits into the gravel.
The air began to grow scorching hot. The temperature within three meters of him rose sharply.
Someone in the Iwagakure forces ahead noticed him.
"What is that—" An Iwagakure chunin pointed at the figure standing alone in the open,