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Battle with 7 Swordsman of the Mist

In the thick, black smoke, he felt them more than saw them—seven powerful adversaries, each distinct in the sensory web his abilities painted around him. They thought they'd found his location, zeroing in on him with a ruthless, synchronized confidence that echoed through the darkness. He could sense their taunts, even without hearing the words; their contempt practically radiated through the vibrations, each pulse of movement weighted with arrogance.

Fuguki Suikazan was a juggernaut, his movements sending heavy tremors through the ground as he charged, Samehada alive with a predatory hunger that matched its wielder's intent. The sword's pulsating chakra gnawed at the air, desperate for contact, an insatiable hunger that his own chakra seemed to taunt.

Close behind, Jinin Akebino moved with a savage glee, the thick, heavy energy of his Kabutowari vibrating as he swung it with lethal purpose. The blunt hammer-blade weapon sought to crash and shatter anything in its path, every swing building anticipation that reverberated through the smoke.

Then there was Kushimaru Kuriarare, a silent predator slipping through the shadows with Nuibari's thin threads slicing the air in delicate, almost reverent strokes. His movements whispered of a twisted elegance, as if he were weaving death itself around him, intent on binding

Through Echo Sense, their locations mapped themselves in his mind with pinpoint precision. He felt each one's subtle shifts, their stances vibrating through the ground, every movement bouncing back in waves that painted the air. He could "see" their footfalls as soft pulses against the earth, each shift in stance like ripples on a pond.

Vibration Awareness lent even more detail, allowing him to feel the weight behind each of them. He sensed the tension coiled in their muscles, the anticipation in the way they gripped their swords, prepared to unleash devastating blows. Every shift in their balance and every flex of muscle resonated through the air as a physical pressure, pressing back against him like an aura. It was as if he could feel their intentions through the slightest disturbances in the air around him.

Chakra Sensitivity filled in the rest, their individual chakra signatures glowing like heat sources in the darkness, each radiating with a distinct intensity. Some pulsed with the raw aggression of bloodlust, while others flared erratically with impatience or restrained caution. To him, these chakra signatures were like unique fingerprints, each one telling him not just who they were, but the way they fought and the threats they posed.

Each of the Seven Swordsmen stood out in vivid detail in his mind's eye, a series of layered impressions that converged to form a perfect awareness.

With a single, powerful push off the ground, the masked figure shattered the earth beneath him, a blur of speed and precision. He appeared before Fuguki Suikazan like a shadow given flesh, closing the distance in an instant. Before the larger man could even process the threat, a brutal kick struck his side—a blow so devastating it felt as though his ribs might have shattered under the impact. The force hurled Fuguki backward, the world spinning as he barely held onto Samehada, his grip slipping under the strain.

Disoriented, Fuguki struggled to regain his bearings, his senses dulled by the thick, smothering black smoke that surrounded him. He scanned the darkness, desperate to pinpoint his attacker, but there was nothing—no shape, no hint of movement. His allies moved cautiously through the haze, attempting to close in and support him, but each reached only empty air. It was as though the masked man had dissolved into the smoke, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.

Haruto didn't have to crush the ground as he moved, he was cable of moving stealthily.

A silent presence emerged behind him, slipping through the thick black smoke like a wraith. Fuguki's instincts screamed a warning, but too late—the eyeless demon mask glowed faintly in the darkness, a shadow he couldn't react to in time. He tried to turn, sluggishly moving through the dense air, but he felt the masked man's hand already surging with intense blue lightning, crackling with lethal purpose. The chakra coiled thick around his hand, the Enhanced Thunder Scalpel honed to a deadly, tearing edge.

Realization flashed through Fuguki's mind in a heartbeat. He's behind me.

In a desperate attempt to dodge, he twisted to the side, but the scalpel's edge sliced deep across his back. Agony seared through him, lightning-charged chakra ripping into his body and locking his muscles in place. His nerves screamed as blood surged from the wound, warm and thick, soaking through his clothes. He stumbled forward, every step a struggle to stay upright.

The wound wasn't fatal, but it was devastating. His body resisted him, nerves aflame as he tried to fight through the paralyzing pain, his senses reeling as he fought to keep control.

The six Mist ninja tightened their formation, shadows moving with purpose through the oppressive black smoke, their eyes locked on their target, their intent lethal. A smirk tugged at his lips, hidden behind the eerie, eyeless mask, as he sensed their approach. Finally, he thought, anticipation sparking within him as his hand lit up, glowing with fierce blue lightning that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. His chakra surged, coiling in his palms as he activated the Enhanced Thunder Scalpel, the energy flaring out, raw and charged.

As he began to spin, the energy morphed, his Thunder Scalpel shifting, stretching, dividing into nine tendrils of lightning in each hand. The whips crackled and hissed, arcs of blinding blue flashing out like the writhing tails of some vengeful beast. He spun faster, the lightning creating an electric storm around him, each whip carving deadly arcs through the dense smoke with a range of nearly nine meters.

To the Mist ninja, it was as if the air itself had turned against them, the darkness alive with sharp, glowing tendrils that lashed out, cutting through the smoke. The whips flickered like sentient lightning, each tail seeking flesh, unerring in its path. The crackling hum filled the air, overpowering every sound as the battlefield became a storm of blue death. Realizing the threat too late, four of them scrambled back, hurling themselves out of range with instinctive terror.

But Jinin Akebino and Sanjiro Okami, too close to escape, were caught in the deadly radius. The lightning whips found them, slicing through skin and bone with brutal efficiency. They didn't even have time to scream as the electric tendrils tore into them, their forms reduced to pieces, fragments of flesh and armor scattering as the thick scent of blood filled the air. It was hot and metallic, mingling with the acrid burn of ozone from the crackling lightning, painting the ground in dark, viscous red.

The remaining Mist ninja stumbled back, the reality of their situation settling in, horror etched into their faces as they stared into the heart of the storm. In the center of the swirling smoke and lightning, the masked figure stood like some vengeful specter, silent and deadly, the eyeless demon mask glowing faintly in the chaos.

Fuguki watched, a chill creeping up his spine despite the blood trickling from his own wounds. This wasn't an opponent they could face in this thick smoke, not with that relentless power swirling around him. Desperation broke through his steely composure, and with a voice strained by both pain and dread, he shouted, "Retreat!" His command cut through the air, carrying the urgency of a man who'd realized, too late, the mistake they'd made. Better to fall back and attack on their own terms.

As the Mist ninja scattered, each darting off like prey sensing an inevitable end, a cold, mocking laugh reverberated through the thick black smoke. "I'm still hungry for swordsmen," the masked figure taunted, his voice chilling and unhurried, echoing from every direction, as if the smoke itself carried his hunger.

Then he moved. His muscles, faintly outlined in an ethereal blue glow, pulsed with chakra, enhancing each step to impossible speed. He blurred forward, leaving cracks in the ground where his feet had pushed off, a ghostly blur of strength and precision. His first target: Jūzō Biwa.

Jūzō barely had a heartbeat to react before the masked man appeared in front of him, materializing like a shadow stepping out from the darkness. Blue-lit veins flickered under the mask, the light casting his eyeless demon visage in an eerie glow. Before Jūzō could raise the Executioner's Blade, a devastating punch landed directly on his face. The force shattered bone instantly, the impact so brutal that Jūzō's body crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap, his once-feared weapon clattering uselessly beside him.

Without a pause, the masked figure turned, his form blurring through the smoke as he closed in on Fuguki Suikazan, who had nearly reached the edge of the darkness. But Fuguki was too slow. The masked man appeared beside him, and with a quick, brutal strike to Fuguki's side, sent the hulking man stumbling backward. Fuguki's grip tightened desperately on Samehada, his large frame collapsing back into the dense fog, where the blue glow of his enemy was the only sign of where the next hit might come from.

The masked figure spun again, his movements sharp and fluid, each step cracking the earth beneath him as he lunged toward Ameyuri Ringo. Her twin Kiba blades crackled with static, but she didn't have a chance to raise them before he was upon her. A sharp blow clipped her shoulder, just enough to send her spinning back into the darkness. Her blades slipped from her hands as she fell, disoriented and bloodied, fighting to orient herself in the swirling haze.

Kushimaru Kuriarare attempted to blend into the shadows, slipping through the smoke in a desperate bid to escape, but the masked figure intercepted him with terrifying speed. A quick, grazing strike hit him hard enough to hurl him back, sending his wiry form spinning through the smoke. Nuibari dangled in a tangled mess beside him as he crashed into the ground.

Amid the chaos, Raiga Kurosuki managed to evade the nightmare closing in on them. His heart pounded as he sprinted, his only thought to escape this demon in the smoke. This isn't a man—it's a monster, he thought, desperation coursing through him as he pushed himself harder, leaving his comrades behind in his bid to escape the eyeless specter that had claimed so many already.

Back in the darkness, the masked figure stood amid the bloodied ground, the ethereal glow of his muscles and nerves casting an eerie light through the smoke, each defeated opponent a testament to the silent wrath he unleashed. The fear he instilled lingered in the air.

Duy's POV

rom a distance, hidden in the shadows of the forest, Duy watched, a storm of emotions roiling within him—an unsteady blend of awe, confusion, and disbelief. He had sent Guy and the other genin to retreat, determined to keep them safe, but he himself remained, rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes from the spectacle unfolding before him.

The scene was brutal. Thick, impenetrable smoke cloaked the battlefield like a living shadow, swallowing up every flash of movement, every glimpse of clashing steel and flesh. Each of the Seven Swordsmen attempted to retreat, their legendary poise replaced by raw desperation. But the masked figure drove them back relentlessly, forcing them deeper into the darkness with brutal, calculated precision. Duy could catch only flashes—an arm, a glint of steel, the barest glimpse of that eerie mask before it disappeared into the smoke once more. He couldn't see the full extent of what was happening within, but the sounds reached him nonetheless: sharp grunts of pain, ragged breaths, the sickening crunch of crushing impacts.

Duy's heart pounded, each beat thudding heavily in his chest as he tried to comprehend the figure standing at the center of this chaos. The masked man's words echoed in his mind, words that had gripped him with a haunting resonance: He asked me to be his son's comrade… he didn't think of himself for a moment. The phrase rang through him, stirring a memory long buried, now surging to the surface with a clarity that left him breathless. Only one person had ever come to him with such a request—a young man he had once entrusted with a promise as simple as it was profound.

"Haruto?" The name escaped his lips, barely a whisper, as if the thought itself were too surreal to speak aloud.

But… it couldn't be. The last time he had seen Haruto, he was shorter, nowhere near the six-foot figure now tearing through the battlefield with such lethal grace. Back then, Haruto's sight had been wrenched from him, stolen by Chiyo's cruel hands, his vision reduced to darkness. That loss had forced him into a quieter, more withdrawn existence, or so Duy had believed. Wasn't he a recluse now? And yet, here was this figure—this eyeless demon—moving with an awareness that seemed impossible for someone who was blind.

But there was something unmistakable in his movements, a familiarity that gnawed at Duy's memory. Each strike, every calculated motion radiated with the intensity and resolve he had once seen in Haruto. The force, the relentless discipline—it felt hauntingly familiar, as though he were watching a memory brought to life, someone he had known transformed by sheer, unbreakable will.

As Duy watched, realization crystallized within him, bringing with it a chill that seeped into his very bones. The name resonated in his thoughts, unspoken yet undeniable, a title that felt both foreign and fitting. In the smoky haze and the fury of battle, he could almost hear what the man called himself.

The Demon of Konoha.

A fitting name, indeed.