Naruto: King of Hell

Kakashi stepped forward and gently helped Santoryu's father to stand straight.

"There's no need to bow to me like that," he said quietly.

Then his gaze shifted to Santoryu. His voice turned colder.

"If you can't even manage basic ninjutsu, you have no business calling yourself a ninja."

Santoryu didn't flinch. He met Kakashi's stare head-on.

"I know you don't think I'm worthy," he said. "Most people in your position wouldn't. But I've trained harder than anyone knows—for a promise I made to my father. So I'm asking you: fight me tomorrow. Let me prove myself. Not just to you—but to him."

Kakashi exhaled through his nose. He'd seen this kid before—knew the type. Stubborn. Driven. Not the kind you could talk down.

He gave a reluctant nod. "Fine. I'll fight you tomorrow. But understand this—if you fall short, I won't hold back my opinion when I speak to your father."

Santoryu bowed slightly. "Thank you. I won't waste this chance."

With that, he turned and left with his father. Back at home, as the sky darkened, Santoryu began his evening training—just like every night. No shortcuts. No changes. Just the same relentless drive.

…

The next morning, Santoryu woke to the familiar chime of the system.

"Host," the system announced, "your sword crafting process is complete. Your swords are ready. And... I have a surprise for you. One of them is Wado Ichimonji."

Santoryu sat up straight, stunned. "Wado Ichimonji?" he echoed. "You're serious?"

"That is correct," the system replied.

He stared ahead, momentarily speechless. The Wado Ichimonji— 21 Great Grade Blades. Receiving such a sword wasn't just rare; it was unheard of.

"Thank you," he said finally. "Seriously. But... if you can forge one like this, can't you make all my swords Wado Ichimonji?"

There was a brief pause before the system answered. "No, host. That is not possible. I'm bound by restrictions. A blade of that caliber can only be forged once. Use it wisely. No recklessness."

The excitement in Santoryu's chest cooled a little. Still, he nodded to himself. It made sense. Power without limits never came without consequences.

He got out of bed and unsheathed the newly forged blades one by one. All the swords were beautiful.

Without wasting a moment, he headed to the courtyard where he trained daily. The morning air was crisp, the earth cool beneath his feet. He took his stance— Wado Ichimonji sword in his right hand, another in his left. Then he placed the third between his teeth.

The weight felt right. Balanced. Lethal.

Santoryu moved through his training drills with quiet focus, cycling through every Three-Sword Style technique he knew. Each strike, each stance, each movement was practiced again and again until the blades felt like extensions of his own body. In just thirty minutes, the new metal swords no longer felt foreign—they felt natural. Familiar. His.

When the practice ended, he wiped the sweat from his brow and headed inside. He pulled on his white shirt, tightened his green haramaki around his waist, and stepped into his black pants—an outfit nearly identical to the early style of the swordsman he admired most––Roronoa Zoro. He fastened all three swords at his right hip, then walked to the gate where his father was waiting.

Without a word, the two began their walk toward the training ground just few kilometres away from their home. Kakashi would be there, waiting.

And he was.

Kakashi stood in the center of the field, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But when he saw the three swords strapped to Santoryu's side, his brow furrowed.

"Why do you have three swords?" he asked, confused.

"I use a Three-Sword Style," Santoryu replied evenly. "That's why I carry three."

Kakashi's expression hardened. "Three-Sword Style? I've never even heard of something so ridiculous. And you—without a proper teacher—are trying to master that alone?"

His words hit like a slap, sharp and dismissive. But Santoryu had expected this. In a world ruled by ninjutsu and shaped by traditional swordsmanship, his path was unconventional—maybe even foolish to others.

He said nothing in return. Instead, he calmly drew all three blades—two in his hands, one clenched between his teeth.

No more words.

Only the fight.

Santoryu wasn't interested in holding back. From the very start, he activated the First Gate of the Eight Inner Gates, unleashing a surge of power that crackled through his limbs. He wanted to go all out—no testing the waters.

Kakashi, observing this bold move, gave a slight nod. "Alright," he said calmly, his voice steady. "I'll fight you using only my swordsmanship at first. Since your strength lies in the blade, let's see how your three-sword style holds up."

Without further warning, Kakashi lunged forward, his signature short sword, White Fang, flashing with lethal precision. Santoryu met the attack head-on, choosing to block with his prized blade, Wado Ichimonji. He hesitated to use the other two swords in this first clash—they were standard blades, newly forged by the system earlier that day. Like anyone with something freshly crafted, he felt a cautious attachment to them, not wanting to see them chipped or ruined in the opening exchange.

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