Shu Shiraishi's gaze remained fixed on the chipped short sword.
The sword was lodged in its bloodstained scabbard. The half-exposed edge looked like the teeth of a rusty saw.
Several strands of blackened flesh were wedged tightly into the largest notch, giving off a foul, bloody stench.
This was the Hatake Clan's heirloom short sword, renowned throughout Konoha.
Now it was no different from a piece of scrap iron.
Hatake Sakumo followed the Hokage's gaze and looked down.
He saw the scraps of flesh on the blade.
His face flushed red in an instant.
He quickly raised his right hand and covered the hilt and guard.
The bloody mud on his palm smeared onto the wrapping around the hilt, making it even dirtier.
Sakumo's Adam's apple bobbed heavily.
He wanted to hide the sword behind his back, but the movement was awkward while he was kneeling on one knee.
"Lord Hokage."
Sakumo's voice was hoarse, as though his throat were clogged with dry sand.
"I have failed you. There were a lot of those bandits, and their bones were hard."
He lowered his head.
"The blade suffered heavy wear in battle. I've made a fool of myself before you."
Shu Shiraishi didn't get angry.
An ordinary refined-steel sword would chip after cutting through a few bones.
That was the physical limit of the material.
In the face of heavy industrialization, anything hammered out in a traditional smithy was scrap iron, even if it was a family heirloom.
"Get up," Shu Shiraishi said.
Sakumo hurried to his feet. His knee joint gave a dull pop.
Dried mud fell from his leg to the ground.
"If the sword won't do, just get another one."
Shu Shiraishi turned, his military boots treading on the gravel path.
"Follow me."
Sakumo was taken aback.
He had expected a scolding for damaging his weapon.
He hurried forward a couple of steps and followed Shu Shiraishi.
The two passed through the chaotic No. 2 construction site.
The air was thick with choking lime dust and the burnt stench of electric welding.
Akimichi Chōza was striding past above their heads with a steel beam on his shoulder, shaking the ground.
Behind the No. 1 machine-tool workshop
stood a row of single-story buildings freshly cast in concrete. The walls had yet to dry completely and were still dark gray.
Shu Shiraishi walked to the building on the far right.
He gripped the heavy iron door handle with one hand and pressed it down hard.
The hinges lacked lubricating grease.
They gave a strained creak, and the smell of rust hit his nose.
There were no windows in the room.
A low-wattage incandescent bulb hung overhead, casting a dim yellow light.
A strong smell of machine oil mixed with a burnt odor rushed out.
It made Sakumo blink several times.
On several rows of iron shelves along the wall
lay various failed mechanical projects Orochimaru had cobbled together over the past three days.
There were gun barrels that had burst and Chakra compression pumps that leaked oil. Scrap iron littered the floor.
Shu Shiraishi walked to the innermost row of shelves.
He reached out
and drew a sword from the top of an iron shelf.
The blade was completely black, without the slightest reflection.
It was straighter than a traditional katana, with a thick spine and no sign that its edge had ever been sharpened.
It looked like a flat iron rod.
A finger-thick insulated black cable ran from the end of the hilt.
The other end of the cable was connected to a square black iron box.
Two thick canvas straps were attached to the box.
Shu Shiraishi picked up the box
and casually slipped the straps over his shoulders, settling the box against his lower back.
Holding the black sword in one hand, he turned around.
Sakumo stared at the cable, utterly bewildered.
Ninja swords favored lightness and agility, and the art of drawing the sword sought to kill in a single strike.
How could anyone swing a sword with such a bulky thing dragging behind it?
"Your family's White Fang," Shu Shiraishi said as he walked to the center of the room,
"relies on you infusing it with Chakra and coating the blade to make it sharper."
He kicked aside a discarded gear at his feet.
"Once the Chakra cuts out, or you run into a hard bone, the sword's done for."
Shu Shiraishi raised the black sword.
"This is called the High-Frequency Vibration Blade."
His thumb found the inside of the hilt.
There was a red plastic button there.
He pressed it hard.
"Click."
The air in the room suddenly erupted.
"Bzzzz-!!!"
A shrill, piercing buzz rang out.
It was like tens of thousands of hornets beating their wings beside their ears at once, loud enough to pierce their eardrums.
An ache shot through Sakumo's ears.
He instinctively turned his head and clamped his left hand over his ears.
The vibration left his head ringing.
The black straight blade changed.
Visible ripples appeared in the air along its edge.
They spread outward, layer after layer.
The Chakra battery pack at Shu Shiraishi's lower back poured out energy.
The blade was vibrating violently at a frequency of tens of thousands of times per second.
The vibrations were too slight for the naked eye to see the blade shaking.
Only a warped, blurred outline in the air could be seen.
Shu Shiraishi walked to the corner.
A solid steel ingot discarded from the factory construction lay there.
It was more than half a meter thick, its surface covered in reddish-brown rust, like a heavy little iron block.
He gripped the vibration blade's hilt with both hands.
He did not refine his own Chakra.
His legs bent slightly, and he put his waist into the motion,
driving his arms.
The black sword swung toward the half-meter-thick steel ingot
and slashed down diagonally.
There were no sparks from clashing metal.
No deafening clang.
The instant the blade touched the rusty ingot,
it was like a red-hot carving knife slicing into soft butter.
"Shh-"
A brief, grating cutting sound rang out.
The black blade passed through the half-meter-thick solid steel without the slightest resistance
and emerged from the other side of the ingot.
The blade stopped in midair.
The high-frequency buzz continued, stirring up a gust of hot air.
The ingot on the floor looked untouched on the surface.
Shu Shiraishi raised his left leg
and kicked the upper part of the ingot with the sole of his military boot.
"Clang."
A heavy triangular block of steel slid off and crashed onto the concrete floor,
raising a small puff of dust.
The cut surface was exposed beneath the dim yellow light.
Sakumo stopped breathing altogether.
He slowly lowered the hand covering his ears.
His eyes were wide, and the veins around them bulged.
The cut surface was as smooth as a mirror.
There were no burrs, no chipped edges.
It even had the bluish sheen of polished metal.
As if his soul had left him,
Sakumo dragged his feet over.
He crouched in front of the ingot
and reached out with his right index finger, intending to touch the smooth cut.
The instant his fingertip touched the steel,
"Hiss!"
He jerked his hand back.
A white blister had formed on his fingertip.
The terrifying heat generated by the blade's high-frequency vibrations and friction had all remained in the cut.
It was frighteningly hot.
Sakumo's legs gave way,
and he fell onto the dusty concrete floor.
He looked down at the chipped heirloom short sword at his waist,
then at the half-meter-thick steel ingot that had been cut in two on the floor.
The understanding he had gained over decades as a swordsman
was crushed to powder by this brutal cutting machine.
Chakra conduction? Swordsmanship?
They were all a joke before absolute physical high-frequency vibration.
Human bones. An enemy's chain mail.
Even the most powerful defensive Earth Style Wall
wasn't worth a sheet of thin paper before this blade.
Shu Shiraishi flicked his thumb
and switched off the red button.
The piercing buzz vanished instantly, and the room returned to a dead silence that left their ears ringing.
The distorted air around the blade settled, and it became a straight piece of black iron again.
He took the battery pack off his back
and tossed it, along with the black sword, to Sakumo on the floor.
"Catch."
Sakumo hastily reached out with both hands.
He was used to the weight of a katana.
The iron box and blade landed in his palms,
and Sakumo's wrists dropped sharply.
They nearly crashed onto his thighs.
It was too heavy. With the high-density Chakra battery added, it weighed twice as much as the odachi.
He hurriedly tensed his forearms and clutched it tight.
Shu Shiraishi stood under the light, watching him.
"There are still a few groups of wandering samurai causing trouble on the border of the Land of Fire."
Shu Shiraishi's voice was cold, as though he were arranging to have a pile of garbage cleared away.
"The daimyo is still secretly sending them food, counting on them to cause trouble for Konoha."
He pointed at the black blade in Sakumo's arms.
"Take it."
"Go find those samurai who are still resisting."
There was not a trace of emotion in Shu Shiraishi's voice.
"Kill them all."
Sakumo held the heavy iron box and straight sword in his arms.
He paid no more attention to the useless ancestral scrap iron at his waist.
He turned on his knees and dropped heavily onto the rough concrete floor.
His back was ramrod straight.
In his somewhat weary eyes, two flames as sharp as blades burned anew.
"Yes, sir!"
Clutching the sword, Sakumo strode out of the armory.
His figure disappeared into the glaring sunlight outside the door.
From then on, there was no White Fang in the Shinobi World, only...