Naruto : Infinite Buff

Hanzo moved through the forest, his pace steady, unwavering. The canopy above swallowed the moonlight, leaving only shifting shadows against the damp earth. The air was heavy—thick with silence.

Without breaking stride, he flicked his fingers. A shinobi knelt, parchment already unfurling. His brush moved swiftly, ink bleeding into the fibers in sharp, decisive strokes. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

Another ninja extended his arm. A bird perched on his wrist, talons digging into leather. Its dark eyes gleamed under the faint torchlight, unblinking. Waiting.

The parchment was secured. Hanzo's voice was cold, absolute. "Send it."

A flick of the wrist.

Wings snapped open. The bird shot forward, disappearing into the black void above. No rustling leaves. No wind. Just a blur swallowed whole by the endless dark.

The ninja who released it exhaled, lowering his hand. "It will reach the base soon. Hanzo-Sama"

Hanzo didn't look back. "We move."

No words of doubt. No hesitation. Their mission was clear—return, prepare, and kill.

The forest stretched ahead, vast and silent.

By the time the bird arrived, their blades would already be drawn.

---

A few hours later.

A deep groan echoed through the camp as the massive iron gate trembled. Metal scraped against stone, the sound grinding through the air like the slow breath of a waking beast. Rain dripped from the rusted edges, forming dark pools on the muddy ground.

Joji stood unmoving, his sharp gaze fixed on the widening entrance. Beside him, Ryojin shifted, rolling his shoulders. His golden eyes flickered in the torchlight, barely hiding his impatience. The storm overhead cast long, jagged shadows across the assembled shinobi behind them.

They had been waiting.

The orphans huddled near the edges of the camp, whispering among themselves. Their voices, hushed and uncertain, wove into the rhythmic patter of the rain. "What's happening?" "Why now?" "Is something coming?"

A gust of wind carried their unease through the ranks of trained warriors standing at attention. Their hands rested on weapons, fingers flexing over hilts, over kunai, over the cold steel they would soon wield.

Then—movement.

Beyond the iron gate, silhouettes emerged from the misty darkness. Amegakure jonin. Their armor was slick with rain, their faces unreadable, their presence sharp as blades. They moved with discipline, their steps firm, their postures rigid with urgency.

One stepped forward. His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent beneath it. Respect? Fear? Perhaps both.

"Joji-sama, Ryojin-sama."

Joji's eyes remained cold, unreadable. Ryojin, by contrast, exhaled loudly, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.

"Speak." Joji's voice cut through the night, leaving no room for delay.

One of the Amegakure jonin extended a gloved hand, a damp scroll resting between his fingers. Rain dripped from the parchment, the ink smudged slightly at the edges.

"A message from Hanzo-sama. Please read it."

For a moment, no one moved. The weight of Hanzo's name pressed against the air itself.

Ryojin clicked his tongue, stepping forward in a blur. His fingers closed around the scroll, yanking it from the jonin's grasp with no regard for formality. He turned it over once, sniffed, then tossed it to Joji.

"Here. You do the reading, our strategist."

Joji caught it without looking, his fingers already working to unroll the damp parchment. His expression didn't change as he scanned the words, absorbing each stroke of ink with calculating precision.

Then, he spoke loud.

"Hanzo-sama will take this personally. We are going to kill Amatsu. Prepare for battle."

Silence.

A deep, stretching silence, thick as oil. It settled over the gathered shinobi like a funeral shroud. Rain tapped against steel, against wood, against mud, filling the void left by Joji's words.

The orphans shrank back, their whispers dying in their throats. Some of the younger ones clutched their thin cloaks, their wide eyes darting toward the elite warriors standing before them.

Among the shinobi, tension pulsed like a living thing. It ran through them in subtle ways—fingers tightening on weapons, shoulders squaring, measured breaths taken and released.

Then—

A laugh.

Low, sharp, and filled with something wild.

Ryojin grinned, golden eyes alight with anticipation. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if itching to summon the fire and chains that slumbered beneath his skin.

"Finally." His voice carried through the night, crackling with excitement. "I was starting to think we'd just sit around while that bastard strutted through our lands."

Joji remained still, his mind already working through the possibilities. Hanzo is moving personally. That means no loose ends. No second chances.

He glanced at the gathered shinobi. Some nodded, their faces hardening with resolve. Others swallowed, shifting uneasily. Not everyone had faced Amatsu before. Not everyone understood the kind of opponent he was.

But none of that mattered. Orders were orders.

"Begin preparations immediately." Joji's voice was calm, absolute. "I want every unit armed and briefed before the next hour. Ryojin, oversee the mobilization. We move at Hanzo-sama's command."

Ryojin scoffed. "Yeah, yeah. Just don't slow me down with your planning. We all know how this ends."

Joji didn't respond. He didn't need to.

The shinobi moved, their hesitation vanishing under the weight of duty. Weapons were checked, armor tightened, formations established. The orphans watched in silent awe as war unfolded before them, as men prepared to march toward bloodshed with the same practiced efficiency as sharpening a blade.

The storm overhead rumbled, distant thunder rolling through the forest.

---

The dense forest whispered with the faint rustling of leaves. A thick mist curled around the gnarled roots, devouring the ground in an eerie, shifting embrace. From the darkness of the canopy, a pair of dark eyes and crimson eyes gleamed.

Amatsu crouched in silence, his presence seamlessly woven into the night itself. Behind him, delicate fingers clung to the fabric of his kimono. Higanbana, small and ghostly in the moonlight, pressed against his back, her warmth a stark contrast to his calculating mind.

"Brother Amatsu…" she whispered, her voice like falling petals. "What should we do now?"

Amatsu's gaze remained fixed on the distant camp beyond the mist. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, their dim light barely penetrating the murky dark. The enemy was preparing. The air was thick with the scent of steel, oil, and bloodlust.

"We will prepare more traps," Amatsu murmured. His voice was calm, emotionless. A decree, not a suggestion.

Higanbana tilted her head, her long black hair spilling over her shoulders like liquid night. "More? But we already set so many." Her soft voice carried no doubt—only curiosity, only trust.

Amatsu's golden eyes flickered. "It is not enough."

He had laid countless traps before, subtle snares woven into the terrain with surgical precision. But against a force of this size, failure was not an option. More layers were needed. More contingencies. His survival demanded it.

"Give me the wires," Amatsu ordered.

Higanbana blinked, then nodded. She pulled at the folds of her kimono, revealing a neat bundle of wires, knives, and stolen trinkets—trophies looted from the corpses of the eight orphans Amatsu had slaughtered.

She offered them to him with both hands, her crimson eyes wide and trusting. "Here, Brother."

Amatsu took the bundle without hesitation. His fingers moved deftly, sorting through the materials with mechanical efficiency. Every scrap had value. Every piece of metal, every length of wire—tools of death, instruments of survival.

Higanbana watched him with quiet admiration. "You always think ahead," she murmured, voice barely audible over the wind. "It's why we're still alive."

Amatsu did not respond. There was no need.

The weight of survival was a constant, pressing burden. To hesitate, to miscalculate even once, was to invite death. He understood this truth better than anyone.

With practiced ease, he began to weave the new traps, his hands moving with inhuman precision. Wires coiled around branches, hidden blades nestled beneath leaves. Every step his enemies took would be a gamble, every movement a risk.

Higanbana crouched beside him, her delicate fingers helping to tie the loops, threading the deadly wire through unseen crevices. She moved with quiet grace, an extension of Amatsu's will.

She did not ask why. She did not question. She only followed.

A moment passed in silence, the only sound the whisper of steel against wood. Then Higanbana tilted her head, a thoughtful glimmer in her eyes. "Do you think they're afraid, Brother?"

Amatsu didn't look up. "Fear is irrelevant."

She hummed softly. "I think they are."

Her small hands twisted a wire taut, securing it with a flick of her fingers. "They will step into our traps. They will fall, scream, struggle… and then they will die...." Her voice was light, almost dreamy.

Amatsu finally glanced at her. Higanbana smiled sweetly, her crimson eyes shining with something unreadable.

He exhaled slowly. "It does not matter what they feel."

She nodded as if she understood. Perhaps she did.

The final trap was set. The forest had become a web of unseen death, a labyrinth of inevitable destruction. Amatsu rose to his feet, the night folding around him like a second skin.

"Higanbana," he murmured.

She perked up. "Yes?"

"Let's move."