Termination, A Tragic End

Sato Jiro's scream tore through the smoke.

Takuma whipped his head around.

He saw a scene he would never forget for the rest of his life—Sato Jiro had been run through the right shoulder from behind by an enemy's kunai, pinning him to the side of the ox cart. His hand was still trembling, fingers hooked around the edge of a shuriken, trying to throw it.

A second kunai pierced his heart.

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

"Sato—!" Yamada Kenta's voice came from the other side, a shredded, distorted roar. The moment Sato fell, his rhythm shattered. His Clone Technique lagged by half a beat.

The enemy lunged forward, the kunai finding the real body.

Yamada looked down at the blade tip protruding from his abdomen, his lips moving as if he wanted to say something. A flash of white light ignited in his hand.

Takuma's mind went blank.

Yamada Kenta, who was always so serious he was rigid.

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

They were both dead.

Ten seconds. From the moment Sato was pinned to the cart to the moment Yamada fell, only ten seconds had passed.

Takuma's ears were ringing. A scorching, uncontrollable hum surged from deep within his body. It felt as if something were boiling in his veins, ready to burst through his skin.

The Iron-Spike Man saw Takuma standing still and assumed he had been paralyzed by fear. He licked his cracked lips, pushed off the ground, and lunged at Takuma, his ten iron spikes aimed at Takuma's throat and heart. The fear he had felt moments ago was suppressed, replaced by the instinct of a predator. So what if this brat had a Healing Factor? He would smash his head in and see if he could grow that back.

The iron spikes pierced Takuma's left shoulder.

Takuma did not dodge. He raised his hand and grabbed the Iron-Spike Man's wrist directly, closing his five fingers—the sound of shattering bone was clearly audible.

The Iron-Spike Man's eyes widened. He looked down at his wrist; Takuma's fingers were buried in his flesh like five iron clamps, and the agonizing pain of fractured bone shot straight to his brain. He tried to pull away, but he couldn't move. Takuma held his wrist with his left hand and drove a kunai from his right hand upward into the man's ribs.

The Iron-Spike Man let out a muffled grunt. His left hand tried to strike back, but Takuma was faster. He pulled out the kunai and stabbed it into the same spot again.

The Iron-Spike Man's breathing began to hiss with escaping air, and pink foam bubbled from the corners of his mouth.

"You..." the Iron-Spike Man's voice was slurred, blood foam surging from between his teeth, "...what exactly are you..."

Takuma released his wrist and grabbed him by the throat.

"You're the monster," Takuma repeated his earlier words, then let go, letting the corpse fall to the ground. He turned and walked toward the Scarred Man, who was locked in combat with Namiashi Raidō.

The battle between the Scarred Man and Namiashi Raidō had reached a fever pitch. The other ninja had already been dealt with, and both men were wounded; the sleeve of Namiashi Raidō's left arm had been sliced away, revealing a deep, bone-reaching wound. The Scarred Man had also taken a kunai to the ribs, blood streaming down his pant leg.

But the Scarred Man had heard the Iron-Spike Man's dying scream. He saw out of the corner of his eye that his last subordinate had also been finished off—the brat who used the Three Body Technique had hugged one of them with an Explosive Tag before dying, taking them both down together. Of the five, only he remained.

There was no grief on the Scarred Man's face. Rogue ninja did not cultivate attachments; if they died, they died, and those who lived kept working. But his eyes had changed.

The Scarred Man suddenly grinned. He reached into his robes and pulled out a stack of Explosive Tags—not just one, but an entire stack.

Namiashi Raidō's pupils contracted, and he leaped backward.

The blast wave of the explosion sent Namiashi Raidō flying; he adjusted his posture in mid-air and landed precariously. But the shockwave's radius was too large, and the core of the explosion was right next to the ox cart.

Takuma lunged forward.

He didn't know what he was thinking. Yamada was already dead, he knew that. He knew that nothing would remain of the body in an explosion like that. But his body had already moved, rushing toward the center of the blast as if trying to snatch something back from the flames.

The fire consumed everything.

The shockwave slammed Takuma hard against the ground. He landed on his back, all the air squeezed from his lungs. The ringing in his ears reached a crescendo, and the sky before his eyes spun. Branches, dirt, and gravel fell like rain, pelting him.

Someone dragged him up from the ground. It was Namiashi Raidō. His left arm was still bleeding, his face pale, and he hauled Takuma away from the blast zone by the back of his collar with his right hand.

The flames of the explosion had died out, leaving a charred, deep crater in the ground. Only half of the ox cart remained, fragments of cargo scattered everywhere. Chubei and the two laborers were hiding on the other side of the cart; they were battered by flying debris, but they were alive.

The bodies of Yamada Kenta and Sato Jiro were gone.

The Scarred Man had used the Explosive Tags to blow his own body to pieces as well, mixing them with the final traces of Yamada, making it impossible to tell which ashes belonged to the enemy and which to his comrade.

Takuma knelt on the ground.

His knees sank into the mud, gravel digging into his shins. The wound where the iron spikes had pierced him had already closed, new tissue writhing under the skin to repair itself. The dozens of cuts from the explosion's shrapnel were healing in sync; beneath his tattered clothes, his skin was returning to smoothness at a speed visible to the naked eye.

He felt no pain. It wasn't the numbness brought on by the healing, but something deeper, something heavier than his physical body, clogging his chest and making it impossible to breathe.

Namiashi Raidō stood beside him, using his functional hand to crudely bandage his left arm. He didn't speak. This taciturn Special Jonin had seen too much death; he knew there were some things words could not soothe.

The caravan laborers rummaged through the ruins for usable supplies. Chubei, the old merchant, sat beside the half-wrecked cart, his hands covering his face, his shoulders shaking. The cargo was completely destroyed; this business trip was a total loss. But he was still alive, which was already far luckier than those who had died.

A fine drizzle pierced the canopy, falling onto the charred earth and onto Takuma's tattered clothes. The rain washed away the residual blood on his body, turning it into pale red droplets that trickled down the lines of his skin.

Takuma lowered his head and looked at his hands.

This was the first time he had killed someone since transmigrating. There was no fear or nausea from his first kill.

He suddenly remembered the last time Sato had thrown a shuriken—it was at the training grounds, where Sato's shuriken had veered thirty degrees off course, grazing the back of Takuma's head before pinning into a wooden post. Yamada had sighed nearby, asking when he would ever practice his aim. Sato had scratched his head and grinned, saying, "Next time for sure, next time for sure."

The rain grew heavier. Takuma knelt in the mud, the rain running down his hair onto his face, mixing with his tears until he couldn't tell which was which. His body was still healing; Wolverine's Healing Factor, combined with the restorative power of the Senju Bloodline, was repairing every wound at a speed far beyond that of an ordinary person.

"Let's go," Namiashi Raidō's voice came from above, brief and devoid of any extra emotion, though his tone was a fraction lighter than usual. "The mission cannot continue. We are returning to the village."

Takuma looked back at the charred crater one last time.

This was the first time since he had transmigrated to the world of Naruto that he truly realized this was not a manga, nor was it a story that could be reset. Those who died would not be resurrected in the next episode, and his teammate with the terrible aim would never scratch his head at the training grounds again.