The anger on Momochi Zabuza's face had long since vanished, leaving only muscles twisted by extreme shock. His eyes, always filled with ferocity and killing intent, were now wide as bells, reflecting thousands of identical Naruto Uzumakis radiating ominous red light.
In the shadows of the corner, Sasuke's breathing grew heavy. His body tensed unconsciously against the wall.
Within the Sharingan, each of those thousand Narutos possessed an independent, enormous reserve of chakra—enough to drive one to despair. They were not phantoms, nor were they Genjutsu. They were real, tangible beings with mass and killing power. They stood in perfect formation, without conversation or unnecessary movement, like killing dolls freshly produced from an Arsenal, waiting only for the command to activate.
What he felt was not fear, but a sick, almost twisted longing. He wanted to know how he could become as powerful as Naruto.
The thousand-plus Shadow Clones moved at the exact same moment. Without a single shout, they turned in perfect unison. Forming groups of three to five, they rapidly split into hundreds of tactical squads and silently surged from every exit of the shipyard like waves of crimson floodwater bursting through a collapsed dam.
They did not leap across rooftops like shinobi. Instead, they hugged the ground and raced toward every corner and every village in the Land of Water with steady, highly efficient strides. There was no unnecessary noise throughout the entire process, only the faint rustle of cloth and the dull echo of countless footsteps striking the damp earth.
The army's departure took away that suffocating pressure, yet left behind an even deeper shock.
Inside the shipyard, the remaining ronin stared at one another. Their expressions shifted from anger to shock, then confusion, before finally becoming the reverence of survivors who had narrowly escaped death.