Praise from Orochimaru
Of the thirty-four bandits, only nine were still alive—and not a single one had even managed to lay a finger on Senyu.
This was the power of a ninja.
Ordinary civilians, no matter how hardened or experienced, were ultimately powerless before even a genin trained in lethal combat.
Take Hatake Kakashi, for instance—he graduated from the Academy at five, earned his Chūnin rank by six, and was already killing enemy shinobi before most kids learned multiplication.
In the blood-red lens of Senyu's Sharingan, the remaining bandits looked like they were running in slow motion—like turtles scrambling through molasses.
Senyu closed the distance between himself and one of the stragglers in a blur, his katana slicing cleanly through the man's neck with surgical precision.
The bandit continued to run, unaware his body was already separating from his mind.
As his vision tilted, he found himself staring back at his own headless corpse, realization dawning in those final flickering moments.
That's... my body? So I've been...
He never finished the thought.
His last clear sight was Senyu's face—young, emotionless. A child. Just a kid.
Killed by a child.
In the next life... I swear, I'm gonna become a ninja too. And then I'll rob only rich people.
Clinging to that absurdly hopeful thought, his consciousness faded into the void.
Senyu's blade danced through the field like a ghostly reaper, counting softly with every kill.
"Five..."
The eerie, childish countdown echoed in the ears of the remaining bandits, each number tolling like a funeral bell. Their fear was palpable—thick enough to drown in.
Each scream, each gurgling plea, was another soul severed.
By the time Senyu reached "Three," two of the bandits simply gave up. Exhausted by the chase, broken by fear, they dropped their weapons and stood still, accepting their fates.
Senyu didn't hesitate.
His katana swept through the air twice. Two heads hit the dirt.
"Two..."
Now only the bandit leader remained.
He'd bolted the moment he saw his men die like pigs at a slaughterhouse. He wasn't sticking around for that horror show.
Panting, limping, he muttered to himself as he neared the village's edge.
"Damn it! They actually hired a ninja to deal with us? I'll kill whoever it was! Torture them slowly..."
He spat blood.
"The stash we robbed today... gone. All of it. Guess I'll cut my losses. Still got some coin from last time. Can't stay in the Land of Rice Fields anymore. Need to head to the Land of the Moon. Start over. Build a crew... sack a few border villages..."
His monologue died abruptly.
Something tugged at his ankle.
Looking down, he saw it—thin wire.
His breath caught.
His instincts screamed, his heart skipped a beat. But when he saw it was just a wire, he chuckled nervously.
"Just some wire... must be a leftover trip trap."
Then he saw it.
A half-burned strip of paper on the ground.
A single word inked onto it.
爆 — Explode.
"Oh, it's just a—wait. Paper?! An explosive tag?!"
BOOM.
The explosion rocked the alleyway. The shockwave hurled him like a ragdoll, slamming his body into a nearby wall.
He tried to stand—his vision swam.
Pain. Searing, unrelenting pain.
He looked down.
His right leg was gone.
Nothing below the knee but blood and shredded muscle.
"Aaaaaaah! M-my leg! MY LEG!"
He collapsed, clutching the wound, howling in agony.
That's when he saw him.
Senyu approached slowly, the glow of his Sharingan like two cold coals burning in the dark.
The bandit leader froze.
Time stopped.
His voice caught in his throat as that haunting gaze bore into him.
Senyu raised his katana, placing the tip gently at the man's throat.
"Zero," he whispered.
Steel met flesh.
A red spray painted the air, and with it, the bandit leader's delusions of power bled out with his final breath.
Senyu flicked the blade, casting off the blood in an arc. Then he wiped it clean against his sleeve and slid it back into its sheath with a sharp click.
"Phew…"
It was done.
Thirty-four enemies eliminated. Without mercy. Without error.
Truth be told, they had been no match for him.
Had he used Thunder Breathing, he could've ended them all in seconds. But that wasn't the point. This was a test. A mission assigned directly by Orochimaru—to evaluate a month's worth of training.
Using Thunder Breathing would've invalidated the purpose of the exercise.
Still… applying ninjutsu in live combat felt different from practice.
It felt natural.
As he turned to leave, Senyu sensed a familiar, snake-like presence.
Orochimaru stood behind him, half cloaked in shadow, golden eyes glinting with amusement as he surveyed the carnage.
His lips curled into a satisfied smile.
"Well done," he said. "You've learned to mask your presence well. Your ninjutsu execution was sharp—fluid. And your tactical thinking? Quite effective. Water Release to manipulate the terrain... Lightning Release for direct kills... You've begun to understand the synergy of your elements."
He stepped over the bandit leader's corpse, unbothered.
"Your trap placement was methodical. Pre-set explosive tags to prevent escape. A commendable approach."
Praise. From Orochimaru.
Senyu blinked.
He'd grown used to harsh criticism. Brutal breakdowns of every flaw. Every misstep.
This... was the first genuine praise he'd received in weeks.
He couldn't help but smile, just a little.
Orochimaru wasn't finished.
"But what I truly appreciate," he said, voice like silk over steel, "is your habit of striking the neck. Beheading. Throat slitting. You understand the anatomy of finality. A pierced heart might leave your enemy flailing for seconds. But the severing of the head or throat?"
He made a slicing motion with his fingers.
"Immediate incapacitation. No room for counters. No margin for error. Efficient. Lethal. Beautiful."
Senyu scratched his nose sheepishly.
Now that he thought about it, that had become a habit.
And the cause?
Thunder Breathing.
A style forged to kill demons—creatures whose only weakness was their necks. Every form honed to strike precisely there.
Now, Orochimaru—one of the most feared shinobi in the world—had called it a good habit.
Senyu smiled again.
For the first time in a long time, the praise meant something.
And it felt good.