The End, a Gruesome Conclusion

Sato Jiro's scream tore through the smoke.

Takuma whipped around.

He saw something he would never forget for the rest of his life: another enemy had driven a kunai through Sato Jiro's right shoulder from behind, pinning him to the sideboard of the ox cart. His hand was still trembling, fingers hooked around the edge of a shuriken as he tried to throw it.

A second kunai pierced his back.

Sato's body went rigid, then went limp. The shuriken slipped from his loosening fingers.

"Sato—!" Yamada Kenta's voice came from the other side. It was a ragged, distorted roar. The instant Sato fell, Yamada's rhythm broke. His Clone Technique was half a beat too slow.

The enemy closed in, and his kunai found the real one.

Yamada looked down at the blade protruding from his abdomen. His lips moved, as if he wanted to say something. A glimmer of white light lit in his hand.

Takuma's mind went blank.

Yamada Kenta, who had always been so serious he seemed rigid.

Sato Jiro, whose aim was so terrible he had nearly hit the back of Takuma's head.

They were both dead.

Ten seconds. Only ten seconds had passed from the moment Sato was pinned to the sideboard to the moment Yamada fell.

A buzzing filled Takuma's ears. It surged up from deep within him, scorching and uncontrollable, as if something were boiling in his veins, ready to burst through his skin.

Seeing Takuma standing motionless, Iron-Spike Man thought he was paralyzed with fear. He licked his cracked lips, pushed off the ground, and lunged at Takuma, the iron spikes on his fingers aimed at his throat and heart. He had forced down his fear, and a predator's instincts had taken its place. So what if the kid could heal? Smash his head in and see if he could grow it back.

The spikes pierced Takuma's left shoulder.

Takuma didn't dodge. He reached out and grabbed Iron-Spike Man's wrist, his fingers closing around it. The sound of bones breaking rang out clearly.

Iron-Spike Man's eyes flew wide. He looked down at his wrist. Takuma's fingers had sunk into his flesh like five iron clamps, and the agony of splintering bones shot up his arm and straight to his brain. He tried to wrench his hand free, but couldn't move. Takuma held his wrist with his left hand and drove a kunai upward between his ribs with his right.

Iron-Spike Man grunted and tried to strike back with his left hand, but Takuma was faster. He pulled out the kunai and plunged it into the same spot again.

Iron-Spike Man's breathing turned to a wheezing hiss, and pink foam spilled from the corner of his mouth.

"You..." Iron-Spike Man's voice was muffled. Blood and foam seeped between his teeth. "...What are you...?"

Takuma released his wrist and clamped a hand around his throat.

"You're the monster." Takuma repeated what he had said earlier, then let go. The body hit the ground. He turned toward Scarred Man, who was locked in combat with Namiashi Raidō.

The battle between Scarred Man and Namiashi Raidō had reached a fever pitch. The other ninja had already been dealt with, and both men were wounded. The blade had sliced away the sleeve on Namiashi Raidō's left arm, exposing a gash deep enough to show bone. Scarred Man had also taken a kunai to the ribs, and blood ran down his pant leg.

But Scarred Man had heard Iron-Spike Man's dying scream. From the corner of his eye, he'd seen his last subordinate go down too—the kid who used the Three Body Technique had grabbed one of the enemies with an Explosive Tag just before he died, taking them both out. Of the five of them, only Scarred Man remained.

There was no grief on Scarred Man's face. Wandering ninja didn't form attachments. When someone died, they died; the living kept working. But his gaze had changed.

Scarred Man suddenly grinned. He reached into his clothes and pulled out a stack of Explosive Tags—not one, but a whole stack.

Namiashi Raidō's pupils contracted. He sprang backward.

The blast hurled Namiashi Raidō through the air. He adjusted his posture midair and barely managed to land on his feet. But the shock wave's reach was too great. The heart of the explosion was right beside the ox cart.

Takuma threw himself forward.

He didn't know what he was thinking. Yamada was dead; he knew that. There would be nothing left of his body after an explosion like that; he knew that too. But his body had already moved, charging into the heart of the blast, as if he could snatch something back from the flames.

The fire devoured everything.

The shock wave slammed Takuma into the ground. He landed on his back, and all the air was forced from his lungs. The buzzing in his ears reached its peak, and the sky spun before his eyes. Branches, dirt, and stones rained down, pelting him.

Someone hauled him up from the ground. It was Namiashi Raidō. Blood still ran from his left arm, and his face was pale. He gripped Takuma by the back of his collar with his right hand and dragged him out of the blast zone.

The flames had died out, leaving a charred crater in the earth. Only half the ox cart remained, and pieces of cargo were scattered across the ground. Chubei and the two workers had taken shelter on the other side of the cart. They were covered in cuts from flying stones, but they were alive.

The bodies of Yamada Kenta and Sato Jiro were gone.

Scarred Man had used the Explosive Tags to blast his own body to pieces, mixing it with the last traces of Yamada. There was no way to tell which ashes belonged to the enemy and which to his comrades.

Takuma knelt on the ground.

His knees sank into the mud, and the stones dug into his shins. The wound the iron spikes had made had already closed, new tissue wriggling beneath his skin as it repaired itself. Dozens of cuts from the explosion's shrapnel were healing at the same time. Beneath his tattered clothes, his skin was returning to smoothness at a visible pace.

He couldn't feel any pain. It wasn't the numbness brought on by healing, but something deeper and heavier than physical pain, lodged in his chest and leaving him unable to breathe.

Namiashi Raidō stood beside him, using his uninjured right hand to hastily bandage his left arm. He said nothing. This taciturn Special Jonin had seen too many deaths. He knew that words couldn't soothe some things.

The caravan workers searched the ruins for supplies they could salvage. The old merchant, Chubei, sat beside what remained of the ox cart, covering his face with both hands as his shoulders shook. All the cargo was destroyed, and the entire venture was a loss. But he was still alive, which made him far luckier than those who had died.

Fine rain slipped through the canopy and fell on the charred earth and Takuma's tattered clothes. It washed away the blood still on him, diluting it into pale red droplets that trickled down the lines of his skin.

Takuma lowered his head and looked at his hands.

It was the first time since he'd crossed over that he had killed someone with his own hands. He felt none of the fear or revulsion of a first kill.

He suddenly remembered the last time Sato had thrown a shuriken. It had been in the training field. Sato's shuriken had veered thirty degrees off course, grazing the back of Takuma's head before lodging in a wooden post. Yamada had sighed beside them and said, "When are you going to improve your aim?" Sato had scratched his head with a silly grin and said, "Next time, I promise. Next time."

The rain grew heavier. Takuma knelt in the muddy water, rain dripping from his hair onto his face and mingling with his tears, impossible to tell apart. His body kept healing. Wolverine's Healing Factor, combined with the Senju Bloodline's regenerative power, repaired every wound at a speed far beyond that of an ordinary person.

"Let's go." Namiashi Raidō's voice came from above him, brief and devoid of any unnecessary emotion, though softer than usual. "We can't continue the mission. We're going back to the village."

Takuma looked back at the charred crater.

This was the first time since arriving in the world of Naruto that he truly understood this wasn't a manga, and it wasn't a story he could start over. The dead wouldn't come back in the next episode. His teammate with the terrible aim would never again scratch his head and grin on the training field.