Power Stone Goals from now on: I always post a minimum of 5 chapters. Henceforth the following are the goals:
Every 150 powerstones, I upload an extra chapter.
If we hit top 30 in the 30-90 days power stone rankings, thats 1 more chapter
If we hit top 10 in the 30-90 days power stone rankings, thats 1 more chapter
If we are top 5...well lets get to that first. Happy readings!
Chapter 80: Too strong…
The moment stretched, soundless and charged. I didn't wait for an invitation.
I slammed my fist forward—into nothing but air.
Except it didn't stay empty. The sheer pressure behind the blow ignited the space around it, flame erupting from the displaced oxygen as a horizontal wave of fire carved a path toward the Mime. The air burned. The light twisted. A serpent of combustion tore forward, the ground beneath it singeing from the heat.
The Mime's eyes widened, but not with fear—more like a theater actor preparing for a final act. It hunched down, folding its enormous frame in a bizarre, compressed squat that should've been comical if it weren't so terrifying. Its knees bent at impossible angles, shoulders pulled tight, arms wrapping inward as if trying to disappear.
The flame hit.
And simply vanished.
No impact. No deflection. No smoke. It was as if the world had blinked, decided the attack never existed, and moved on.
I didn't hesitate.
I flashed forward, my body propelled by the Seventh Gate, my footfall never touching the ground. I materialized at the Mime's position and drove my fist straight into its abdomen.
The impact was thunderous. The Mime's body folded inward like paper, its torso crumpling beneath the force of the strike. A moment later, it launched backward in a blur of distorted space, crashing into a nearby mountain with earth-shattering momentum.
The mountain groaned.
Cracks burst outward from the point of impact like spider legs across a window pane. Chunks of stone rained down. The air rippled.
The Mime, now embedded into the cliffside, began to 'cough.'
It was fake. Theatric.
It clutched at its chest and mimed a melodramatic fit, waving one hand limply as if asking for sympathy, the other thumping its chest with exaggerated gasps. No sound emerged. Just motion. Just performance.
I didn't care.
I leapt.
My body shot into the sky, arcing like a comet before I angled downward, foot spinning outward, chakra brimming along my heel as I descended toward the Mime's face with a full-speed aerial kick.
Just before contact, the Mime raised a single hand.
Not fast. Not defensive. It moved like it was brushing away dust—slow and casual.
And from that motion, a shimmering, glassy wall erupted in front of it.
My kick struck.
The barrier didn't even flex.
A shockwave burst outward instead, throwing up stone, ash, and raw force in a thirty-meter radius. The ground cratered beneath us, air exploding from the point of impact like a pulse.
But the Mime remained untouched.
I flipped backward, skidding across the dust-coated ground, then adjusted my footing. I didn't give the Mime a chance to breathe—not that it needed one.
I turned sharply, chakra blazing along my arm, and drove another punch forward—this time from a standing position, a clean, focused strike meant to break defenses.
The Mime raised its hand again.
This time, it didn't even move the rest of its body. Just that one pale, white-gloved hand held aloft like it was gesturing to stop a child from running.
Another barrier.
It formed instantly—this time thicker, humming slightly with some strange non-chakra resonance. My punch connected with it, and the shockwave was even larger than the last. A tidal wave of compressed air shot outward, hurling debris, shattering the top layer of stone around us.
But once again—the Mime remained untouched.
And still, it smiled.
The Mime tilted its head as it stared at my clenched fist, the one that had shattered the air moments before. There was no fear in its black, sunken eyes—only curiosity. It leaned slightly closer, examining my hand like a child inspecting a strange insect.
Then it adopted a new posture.
One arm folded under the other. Its thin fingers rested beneath its chin. The classic 'thinking man' pose. It didn't move. It didn't blink. It simply contemplated.
I tensed.
Then it snapped its fingers.
I flinched back.
My body instinctively launched into a backward jump, propelled by chakra-fueled muscle. I didn't know what was coming, but I didn't want to be standing still when it arrived. Fear flared through me in a rare, pure form—because when something like that acts with intent, you don't wait to find out what it means.
But then it clapped.
A slow, deliberate clap of its long-fingered hands.
And my body stopped.
Not from shock.
Literally.
Stopped.
Mid-air.
Suspended in space, like a marionette with its strings suddenly frozen. I could see the ground. I could feel gravity. But nothing responded. Not my limbs. Not my chakra. I was frozen.
The Mime began walking toward me, a proud bounce in its step like an actor preparing for a final bow.
And then—
Thunk.
It slammed face-first into the very barrier it had summoned earlier—the same translucent wall it had conjured to block my strikes.
It reeled back, arms flailing comically, then began rubbing its forehead in slow circles, performing exaggerated pain. Were I not suspended and horrified, I might have laughed.
But the Mime wasn't done.
It quickly skipped to the side, circling around the barrier until there was nothing between us.
It was coming straight for me.
And I couldn't move.
I couldn't breathe.
My heart pounded, but I couldn't even twitch in response.
And in that moment, a storm of thoughts erupted inside me.
This thing froze me. In the middle of motion. No jutsu. No chakra. It clapped—and I stopped.
What was I doing here?
This mission—this so-called quest—it said Kage-level minimum. But I was beginning to realize there was no "minimum" here. There was no safety net. No balance or fairness. Just... survival.
What if my account gets deleted?
If I die here, what happens? Would I wake up in the real world? Would my character be lost?
What happens to Matatabi?
Would she be trapped? Released? Erased?
What about my guild?
They depended on me. They didn't know what I was doing—what I'd gotten myself into. I was supposed to lead them into the future, not vanish into some monochrome nightmare.
And what about the real world?
The danger approaching outside the game—the one only a few of us truly understood. It wasn't just corruption or AI control; it was something much worse: the possibility that chakra, jutsu, and bloodlines would begin manifesting in the real world.
In a world already ravaged by nuclear fire, with power-hungry remnants of humanity clawing for dominance, the arrival of shinobi abilities wouldn't bring salvation—it would bring extinction. If I disappeared now, who would prepare them? Who would protect the innocent from the second fall of mankind?
I had taken this risk because I thought I could handle it.
But now?
Now I was starting to regret everything.
And the Mime?
It just smiled wider.
Like it could taste my doubt.
I was still frozen in mid-air, my body held in an invisible cage of performance and madness, unable to breathe or move. The Mime approached with deliberate steps, its expression a mockery of delight, like an actor gleefully delivering the climax of a scene only it understood. My heart pounded in my ears. My chakra surged, chaotic and wild, and for a moment, I thought I could still break free.
Then the Mime did something unexpected.
It raised one hand, its long fingers stretching forward with theatrical flair. The tips hovered over my chest—not touching, not striking—just hovering. Then it pinched the air, as if plucking a string no one else could see.
And I felt it.
Like a candle being snuffed.
The aura of the Eight Inner Gates—the roaring firestorm of energy that had sustained me, strengthened me, transformed me—was gone.
In a single, absurd gesture, it was pulled from me.
Not drained. Not sealed. Removed.
A rush of air collapsed in my lungs as my body sagged, still suspended but no longer burning with power. My limbs lost their tension. My muscles felt heavier. Slower. Mortal.
And then the real horror began.
Memories started slipping.
First it was the techniques—the exact rhythm of the gate releases, the feeling of my heart unlocking new thresholds. Gone.
Then it was the training—the endless hours pushing my body past the brink, the words of Guy, the philosophy of strength through willpower.
Gone.
It was as if someone had cut out that entire section of my life, pulled it from my soul, and tossed it into the void.
A system notification popped up in my field of vision, cruel and absolute.
[8 Inner Gates Jutsu – Destroyed]
WHAT?!
My mind reeled.
The Eight Gates weren't just a skill. They were a cornerstone of my identity—of how I fought, how I survived. Without them, I was weaker than I had been.
I didn't just feel panic. I felt loss.
A cold, suffocating void opened in my chest where once there had been certainty. I searched through my skill registry, my memory, my muscle, for any trace of the Gates. Nothing remained.
Not even the theory.
"Matatabi," I whispered inside the mirror of our bond. "Can you feel it?"
There was a pause.
Then her voice, low and unnerved. "It's like the technique never existed. I... can't even remember you using it myself."
That terrified me more than anything.
I floated there, in that monochrome prison, my limbs trembling, the blood in my body slowly beginning to thicken, to slow, to fail. The Eight Gates didn't just give me power—they regulated chakra flow. They kept my organs functioning at enhanced speeds. They gave my body a structure that let me survive Matatabi's power.
And now they were gone.
Without the gates, nothing was regulating the surge within me—no technique, no structure, no safeguard. My body no longer knew how to circulate chakra at that scale, and without it, nothing was supplying oxygen. The fire turned inward—not just burning me, but suffocating me from the inside out.
I could feel it happening.
My hands twitched uselessly. My legs, once pillars of force, sagged with weight. My vision blurred.
This wasn't just defeat.
It was checkmate.
I had lost.
There was no last-minute reversal, no clever seal hidden on my palm, no power surge from a friend bursting through the barrier.
It was just me.
A shinobi with no weapons.
No breath.
No hope.
And the Mime?
It bowed again, like the show was over.
But I wasn't clapping.
I was dying.
(Authors note: Wow, seems like I left it at a bit of a cliffhanger, come on guys imma need some Power stones to release the next chapter)
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Authors note:
You can read some chapters ahead if you want to on my p#treon.com/Fat_Cultivator