Naruto : Infinite Buff

Night devoured the forest. A damp chill clung to the air, threading through the trees like unseen fingers. Amatsu moved without a sound, the faint glint of a kunai vanishing as quickly as it appeared. The tent barely rustled as he slid the letter beneath its flap. A single sheet, its edges rough, its surface marred by a streak of dried crimson.

Inside, the orphans stirred. A muffled cough. A shifting blanket. Then stillness.

Amatsu was already gone.

Higanbana waited where the shadows thickened. Her crimson eyes flickered with unspoken questions, but she did not voice them. Instead, her small fingers clenched the fabric of her sleeve. The wind carried the scent of burning wood from the distant camp, wrapping the night in tension.

A single nod from Amatsu. It begins.

She pressed the paper bomb against a gnarled oak, the rough bark scratching against her fingertips. The seal gleamed under the moonlight for just a moment before she stepped back, vanishing into the treeline.

The First Move – Fire in the Night

A beat of silence. Then—

BOOM.

The explosion split the night apart. Trees groaned, their trunks shuddering under the force. Embers danced like dying fireflies, ash curling through the air. The echo crashed through the valley, sending birds shrieking into the sky.

Shadows stirred in the distance. Flickering torchlight, the crunch of hurried footsteps.

Joji emerged first, the fire painting jagged lines across his sharp features. Then Ryojin, his golden eyes narrowing as he scanned the darkened canopy. Behind them, silhouettes peeled away from the camp—armed figures, their blades glinting like fangs bared in the dark.

High above, crouched on a thick branch, Amatsu watched. A faint curve touched his lips. Predictable.

"Go."

Higanbana hesitated. Just for a moment.

Her crimson eyes met his—uncertainty flickering, fragile as candlelight in a storm. But then, it was gone.

Trust. Unquestioning. Absolute.

She nodded, her voice soft as falling petals. "Come back."

Not a plea. Not a command. Just a certainty.

Amatsu said nothing. He didn't need to.

She turned, vanishing like mist swallowed by the night.

The last trace of her presence—a single, fading breath—was lost to the wind.

The hunt had begun.

Amatsu moved, his body a whisper against the wind. He bounded from branch to branch, never slowing, never faltering. The pulse of the chase thrummed beneath his skin, steady, calculated. Not too fast. Let them think they can catch me.

A presence loomed behind him—ten men, their formation tight, their breath controlled. Among them, a voice carried forward.

"We meet again."

Ryojin's words cut through the night, sharp as the blade at his side. There was no arrogance in his tone—only calculation, only patience. "What's your plan now?"

The silence that followed was colder than the wind.

"Careful." Ryojin's fingers curled slightly, a silent signal. "Don't rush in."

The others slowed. They knew.

A bead of sweat slid down the neck of one of the men, catching the moonlight before disappearing into his collar. Another adjusted his grip on his kunai, the faintest tremor betraying his nerves.

To chase without thought was to die. But to hesitate was to lose him forever.

The decision was made. Pursue, but conserve. Do not waste energy.

Hours passed. Then more.

The rhythm of the chase remained unchanged.

Until the first mistake.

A shinobi's breath hitched—faint, but enough.

His step faltered. Fatigue, creeping like decay, latched onto his limbs, dulling his speed. A fraction of a second slower. A fraction of a second weaker.

The ninja beside him noticed. His voice was low, urgent.

"Keep moving. Don't stop."

The fatigued shinobi swallowed, forcing his legs forward. "I—"

"Shut up. Breathe later."

Amatsu noticed.

His stride remained effortless, measured. Calculated. The others were tiring. Their bodies had already betrayed them. It was only a matter of time.

Then, it happened.

The air thickened.

From nowhere, a dense mist bloomed—rolling in like an unnatural tide, swallowing the forest whole. One moment, there was clarity. The next, nothing.

Sight was stripped away. Sound warped, dampened.

Panic set in.

"Careful," Ryojin snapped, his voice cutting through the creeping dread. "This isn't natural mist. This is his jutsu!"

The team slowed, bodies tensing. Their vision cut to nothing beyond a few feet. The mist clung to their skin—too cold, too heavy, too wrong.

"Tch. Damn it. He's controlling the battlefield." One of the jonin muttered, shifting his stance.

"Can't see shit," another growled. "Feels like it's getting thicker."

A third shinobi exhaled sharply, forcing calm. "If we can't see him, he can't see us either."

Ryojin clicked his tongue. "Idiot. He doesn't need to."

A single flick of the wrist.

From somewhere in the mist, a shuriken whistled. A shinobi instinctively raised his blade to deflect—a fatal mistake.

The shuriken wasn't aimed at him.

It struck something else.

A wire.

The instant the impact landed, kunai erupted from the underbrush, silent and merciless.

A strangled gasp. Metal punched through flesh. The first man staggered, clutching at the kunai buried in his throat. His body collapsed, blood darkening the soil.

No scream. No time to react.

The others barely had a moment to register his death before something lurched from the mist.

Low to the ground. Moving fast.

A blur of black.

The second man's kunai came up too late. Steel slid into his ribs, severing nerves, twisting deep. Amatsu ripped it free—flesh split, blood sprayed. A short, aborted cry.

A second body fell.

Ryojin's grip on his blade tightened. This isn't a fight. It's an execution.

Their enemy was unseen, untouchable. The mist wasn't just concealment—it was control.

"Regroup! Back to back!" Ryojin ordered.

They moved, trying to close ranks, but the mist shifted—warped—as if it had a will of its own. Footsteps were swallowed in the fog, sounds twisting in false directions.

Then came the third kill.

A soft snap. The sound of wire tightening.

A shinobi jolted as something coiled around his ankle. His breath hitched.

Then—he was ripped upward.

His body slammed against a branch, suspended upside down. His blade flailed, cutting at the wire, but the moment of struggle sealed his fate.

A shadow in the mist.

Steel bit into his exposed throat.

A violent spray of red.

His body convulsed once, then went still—swinging slightly in the air, blood dripping down like slow-falling rain.

Three dead.

Silent, efficient.

Panic cracked through the survivors. Their hands were slick with sweat. Breath came too fast, too uneven.

Another rustle in the mist.

One of them broke.

A shinobi bolted, his instincts overriding reason. Run. Escape. Live.

A mistake.

Before he could take his third step, steel hissed through the air.

Not at him—but at the ground.

A feint.

The kunai struck stone. Sparks ignited.

A heartbeat of distraction. A flicker of attention—just enough.

Amatsu was already behind him.

The man never even saw the blade.

Cold steel punched through his spine, severing the cord in an instant. A strangled croak.

Limbs went slack.

The body collapsed, twitched once, and then lay still.

The scent of blood thickened. Coppery. Suffocating.

Four dead.

Ryojin inhaled slowly, forcing composure into his lungs.

They were being toyed with. Isolated. Strangled by a battlefield that was never theirs to begin with.

The mist shifted again. A whisper in the dark.

Then—fire.

A sudden detonation. The mist flashed orange as an explosive tag erupted, sending concussive force ripping through the clearing. One shinobi was flung back, his body hitting the ground in a broken heap. His legs twitched. Then nothing.

Five.

The last man standing trembled. His breath came in shudders.

"I-I…" His voice barely formed, strangled by terror.

His grip failed. The weapon slipped from his fingers, clattering against the blood-soaked ground.

"No… no, this isn't—"

A shadow moved in the mist.

His breath hitched. His body locked up.

"Please—"

Cold steel whispered.

Silence.

The mist curled, shifting, revealing a figure standing just behind the final man.

No sound. No warning.

Just a blade—cold and efficient.

A clean slice.

The shinobi's head rolled before his body even collapsed.

Six.

Ryojin felt his stomach twist.

Surrender meant nothing to someone like Amatsu.

Six corpses.

Only five remained.

Ryojin's breath was slow. Steady. His fingers curled around his blade, but his stance was rigid. The other jonin shifted beside him, eyes darting, breaths controlled but edged with tension.

Then—movement.

Not a rush. Not an ambush.

A figure emerged from the mist, unhurried. His steps silent, deliberate.

Amatsu.

Cold. Untouched. His expression unreadable, as if the massacre moments before was a mere inconvenience.

He stopped, his gaze sweeping over them. Detached. Calculating.

Then, he spoke.

"Fools."

The word cut sharper than a blade.

"You followed. Knowing the forest was already mine. Knowing the traps were already set."

Silence.

Ryojin exhaled through his nose. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

The mist shifted. A corpse twitched—nerves firing one last, useless signal. Blood dripped from a severed throat.

Amatsu's gaze didn't waver.

"Ryojin."

A pause.

"How does it feel?"

Ryojin's fingers twitched.

Amatsu stepped forward. Slowly. Without fear.

"Watching them die."

A ragged breath from one of the jonin. A subtle flinch.

Amatsu's eyes flickered—reading them. Measuring them.

"One by one."

The mist pressed in, thick with the scent of blood. Of steel. Of inevitability.

Ryojin finally spoke. Low. Controlled.

"…You Can't kill all of us, all you killed so far only chunin half jonin level, these four are Jonin."

A slight tilt of the head. Amatsu's voice remained cold, almost curious.

Amatsu's lips curled—just slightly. Then, he laughed.

Low. Amused. Inevitable.

"I can't?"