Renmaru turned toward Shibuki, "Go and fortify the base. Make sure all defences are in place,"
Shibuki gave a single nod. He didn't offer words of encouragement or doubt—just understanding. "Understood."
With practised efficiency, Shibuki turned on his heel and strode off. He passed a few lingering shinobi posted on the upper ramparts and gave them terse instructions as he went, the authority in his voice unmistakable.
One could already hear the beginning murmurs of elemental jutsu being activated as he prepared to lock the stronghold down with his unique Lava Release techniques.
Renmaru watched his comrade disappear into the network of reinforced walkways and staircases that led deeper into the outpost. For a moment, he remained rooted there.
Then, exhaling slowly, he allowed his muscles to loosen. With a controlled run-up, he sprang forward, leaping from the balcony with the fluid grace of someone who had danced along battlefield edges far too many times.
The wind rushed past his ears as he descended. His body twisted midair, adjusting his centre of gravity, and with a clean thud—THUP—he landed in a crouch just outside the primary entrance of the base. The ground trembled ever so slightly beneath the impact, dust scattering from the stone beneath his feet.
Without even pausing to assess the area, Renmaru surged forward again, his form blurring in rapid flickers as he scaled the outer wall. He landed smoothly atop its edge before launching into another long leap, arcing out over the cliffs like a raven freed from its roost.
When he touched down once more, a few hundred meters away and beyond any visible perimeter of the base, he straightened slowly. The landscape stretched before him—stark, silent, and rugged.
He turned back to look at the stronghold—his stronghold, even if only temporarily under his watch. From this distance, he could now see the faint glow rippling along its walls: a soft, molten-orange sheen that signified Shibuki's chakra beginning to lace itself into the already present volcanic rubber he had used to form the base.
"Lucky bastard," Renmaru murmured under his breath, an amused glint in his eyes. "Shibuki's Lava Release is really versatile."
He rolled his neck, shaking out the last remnants of stillness from his limbs. Now it was his turn. His mission was clear, and there was no room for hesitation.
'It's time to prepare the battlefield,' he told himself.
Renmaru reached into the pouch strapped to his thigh and retrieved a single soldier pill—a small, round capsule the colour of ash and earth. Renmaru didn't hesitate. He placed it on his tongue and bit down. It cracked between his teeth with a bitter crunch, unleashing a wave of medicinal sharpness that rushed down his throat like fire. Almost immediately, he felt it taking effect: a surge of warmth flooding his limbs, his chakra coils pulsing with renewed vigour. His body tingled as his reserves began to fill.
'I'm going to need every ounce of strength for this,' he thought grimly.
Renmaru exhaled slowly and brought his hands together. Then, with fluid precision, he began to move through a long and intricate sequence of hand sing—twenty-one in total.
Each sign carried with it a pulse of intent, his chakra flowing and bending through his hands like ink on parchment. Tiger. Ox. Rat. Boar. Ram. And repeat. The old rhythm returned to his muscles like an ancient ritual, each sign a lock that, once opened, let his chakra twist and deepen into new forms. By the time he reached the eleventh seal, the wind had begun to stir more violently around him, dragging the edges of his flak jacket and pulling strands of his hair across his face.
By the seventeenth sign, a low hum filled the air—then came the crackle.
"Bzzzzzt!"
Tiny arcs of purple lightning flickered to life between his fingers. They danced across his knuckles and leapt from hand to hand, snapping like electric veins.
With each subsequent hand sign, the lightning grew stronger, more ravenous, wrapping up his arms like serpents of living voltage. His chakra wasn't just moulding into a jutsu—it was becoming a storm.
His body glowed with that distinct, unnatural hue of high-density chakra, the kind only attainable through refined control and sheer power. It shimmered against the landscape like violet glass shattering reality.
At the final sign—Ram—Renmaru slammed his palms together.
"Ka-Boooom!"
The sound of the clap echoed across the grounds, a bone-rattling crack that sent birds flying from distant ridges. The energy that had enveloped him surged violently upward in a single stream, a spear of purple lightning that pierced the sky. The clouds above hadn't been ready. They cracked apart under the force of it, spiralling as the bolt split the heavens in half. For a moment, the world flashed white.
Renmaru stood firm as the last remnants of the bolt climbed into the clouds. He lowered his hands and released a long, measured breath, the kind one takes before battle begins. His eyes, now glowing faintly with charged chakra, drifted shut for a moment. He could feel it in the air—nature responding.
Then came the wind.
It wasn't just strong—it was aware.
It howled through the ridges and buffeted the stones, whipping around Renmaru like a cloak of unseen spirits. His chakra had resonated with the environment, calling on the elements, and they answered like old allies. Dust rose in spirals around his feet as the air churned into a vortex. The ground trembled beneath him. From far above him, clouds began to converge unnaturally, as though being pulled toward his location by invisible strings.
Black clouds began to stretch and coil across the sky, layered and heavy, collapsing into themselves as they thickened. The blue of the noon was gone. In its place was a roiling sea of darkness, broken only by the rapid flicker of lightning flashing deep within its belly.
Renmaru raised his chin, watching it unfold with calm detachment. 'It's beginning.'
Then, with a sudden pressure drop that made the eardrums pop—
"Plink…"
A single drop of water struck his shoulder.
"Plink-plink-plink."
Three more, and then the heavens opened.
The rain fell in sheets, first a steady patter, then a soaking cascade. It doused the ground, splashing off rocks and soaking the dirt into mud. But it didn't dampen the intensity of the lightning. If anything, the storm seemed to feed it. The air shimmered with raw energy, the interplay of water and electricity forming a symphony of chaos.
Lightning danced across the sky, violet and white bolts slashing down in unpredictable arcs, illuminating the battlefield like camera flashes. Thunder rolled endlessly, not in brief peals but in continuous growls that shook the earth and rattled bones.
Renmaru stood still amidst it all, completely unbothered by the downpour. His clothes clung to his shoulders, plastered to his body, yet he remained regal, rooted like a monument to war. The wind twisted around him, and the light in his eyes didn't fade. He was part of the storm now.
Back within the Kumo stronghold, the storm's birth had not gone unnoticed.
From the high ramparts of the eastern wall, Shibuki stood soaked to the skin, his arms folded across his chest. Behind him, a few shinobi had stopped mid-task, staring with wide eyes at the celestial chaos erupting outside their walls.
They weren't inexperienced shinobi—not entirely—but the sheer scale of what they were seeing humbled even the veterans.
Shibuki didn't turn. But his voice cracked like a whip.
"This isn't a damn puppet show! Get back to your stations, now!"
The shinobi scrambled, startled into motion by the sharpness of his tone. Orders barked from his mouth like the crack of kunai against stone, and soon the patrols and barrier teams were moving again, rushing to reinforce chokepoints, finalize sealing formations, and finish Shibuki's own lava reinforcements on the base's interior.
Only after ensuring everyone was back in place did Shibuki allow himself to glance back toward the maelstrom outside.
Lightning split the sky again, illuminating Renmaru's distant figure. His silhouette stood proud and unmoving against the tempest he had conjured. He looked almost ethereal, a figure from legend standing against the might of heaven.
Shibuki narrowed his eyes and let out a short, amused breath.
"Lucky bastard," he muttered, more fond than bitter. "He always likes to show off."
And yet beneath the words, there was respect. Because Shibuki knew: this was no mere show. This was a warning to any enemy foolish enough to enter their territory.
The storm had a name.
And it was Renmaru.
=====
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