A single punch—
And a Sunagakure shinobi was sent flying.
The sheer force caved in his chest instantly, blood spilling uncontrollably from his mouth as his body crashed into the sand.
Natsuhiko stepped forward lightly.
A cold blade flashed, slashing down just inches from his back—
But in the next instant, a kunai appeared in his hand.
With a smooth turn of his body, the kunai—infused with a trace of chakra—pierced straight into the attacker's chest.
At the same time, Natsuhiko's right hand seized the man's sword arm and pulled sharply to the side.
Clang!
A crisp metallic sound rang out.
The shinobi's arm twisted grotesquely—
And the sword in his grip, forced into an unnatural arc, drove straight into another comrade's chest.
In the span of a heartbeat—
Three were down.
And Natsuhiko didn't pause for even a second.
With a light leap, he surged toward the scattered enemy forces.
Under the state Intermediate Sage Mode, combined with the enhanced sensory ability granted by his improved bloodline—
The destructive power he displayed was beyond imagination.
His speed.
His reflexes.
His strength.
His coordination—
All of it was brought to perfection.
And with his perception spreading across the battlefield, he could clearly grasp everything happening around him.
Even without specialized visual prowess—
He could anticipate danger and evade it before it even took form.
At this moment, Natsuhiko finally understood something.
Why, back then, even with the Mangekyō Sharingan—
Uchiha Madara hadn't been able to gain the upper hand against the Senju in pure taijutsu.
In fact, he had even been pushed back.
Beyond Hashirama's absurd regenerative ability—
It was likely this very state.
When your opponent matched you in overall capability—
And every minor disadvantage was erased by overwhelming recovery—
There was simply no way to win cleanly.
No wonder Madara often mocked Hashirama's fighting style as "inelegant."
It probably wasn't just criticism—
It was frustration.
You injure him, and he recovers instantly.
He injures you, and you can't do the same.
Who wouldn't find that unbearable?
Naturally—
That gap in the details became what Madara called "inelegance."
"But that only applies to someone like Madara…"
Natsuhiko thought calmly as he moved.
"Against someone with the Mangekyō—or even the Eternal Mangekyō—maybe that matters."
"But for everyone else…"
"Harming Hashirama was nothing but a dream."
And Natsuhiko was no different.
He neither intended—
Nor would he allow himself—
To be easily wounded.
—
Weaving through dozens of enemies, his movements were effortless.
Every attack directed at him became meaningless under his sensory field.
And his taijutsu—
Enhanced by Intermediate Sage Mode—
Unfolded in full.
In less than a minute—
Nearly ten Sunagakure shinobi had already fallen.
His speed was simply too fast.
So fast that they couldn't even lock onto him with ninjutsu.
Fear began to spread among them.
Because what Natsuhiko displayed—
Was overwhelming.
He hadn't even used the Flying Thunder God Technique.
And yet, with a single jutsu, he had shattered their formation and reduced them to chaos.
How could they not be afraid?
—
With a kick, he sent another shinobi flying.
At the same time, he drew a kunai.
A brilliant blue glow flared across its surface—
Chakra sharpened to a lethal edge.
In the next instant—
The blade sliced cleanly across a shinobi's throat.
Swift.
Precise.
Fatal.
Blood sprayed into the air.
But before a single drop could touch the ground—
Natsuhiko had already taken out an explosive tag and slapped it onto the man's body.
In the next instant, he kicked him away.
The Sand shinobi, clutching his throat as hoarse cries escaped him, was sent crashing beside the one who had been kicked earlier.
—
BOOM!
A violent explosion erupted.
Sand, stone, and blood were blasted into the air, mixed with shattered fragments of flesh.
In that instant—
The two of them were erased completely.
Not even bones remained.
—
Such ruthless brutality sent a chill through the remaining Sunagakure shinobi.
They had regrouped.
But at the same time…
They had already lost more than half their comrades.
And yet—
The enemy before them stood completely unscathed.
Not a single injury.
That overwhelming disparity was enough to drive anyone into despair.
Even so—
They did not retreat.
They couldn't.
Even as some of their hands trembled uncontrollably, they held their ground.
Because they were shinobi.
—
In the distance, the masked figure stood still.
He made no move to advance.
He simply… stood there.
And yet—
To every Sand shinobi present, he looked less like a man—
And more like a demon.
A walking embodiment of death.
—
"Afraid?"
Natsuhiko's voice suddenly broke the silence.
It was still as gentle and calm as ever—
As if he were speaking to old friends.
"Fear means you still have hope. A desire to live."
"Don't cling too stubbornly. After all… stepping over ants without killing them is a difficult kind of power to master."
"Stop spouting nonsense!"
The Sand commander shouted sharply, cutting him off.
"Yes, you're terrifying—but don't forget who you're facing!"
"We are shinobi of Sunagakure. We do not retreat."
"Even if we die—our village will avenge us!"
"Is that so? You're waiting for reinforcements, aren't you?"
Natsuhiko slowly drew his blade.
In an instant, a deep blue chakra glow spread across its edge.
"You know… what you call 'faith' isn't really faith in yourself."
"It's just dependence."
"And dependence… is the behavior of the weak."
"For a shinobi—especially in a situation like this—"
"That kind of belief is meaningless."
"What you should rely on… is yourselves."
"You delusional bastard! You won't leave the Land of Wind alive!" The commander clenched his teeth.
He knew his words had been twisted—turned against him.
But there was no time to argue.
Not now.
All he could do—
Was stall.
Hold this man here.
And wait for reinforcements.
That was their only chance.
"Whether I leave or not…" Natsuhiko let out a faint sigh. "…you won't be around to see it."
And then—
He moved.
His steps were slow.
But with each step, an overwhelming pressure bore down on the Sand shinobi.
The wind howled, carrying waves of sand through the air.
His cloak billowed behind him, dancing wildly in the desert storm.
"…Goodbye."
When he was less than ten meters away—
He spoke once more.
Softly.
"Though… I suppose we won't be meeting again."
His words had barely left his lips before his figure vanished, leaving only the echo of screams reverberating across the desert.
When Natsuhiko's blade silently sliced across the Sand commander's neck, blood gushed instantly, splattering across the sand.
The commander clutched at his throat, trying to speak—but the torrent of blood had already flooded past his vocal cords. Every attempt to call out was met with a bubbling, choking gush of red.
Natsuhiko watched it all calmly. The gruesome death of this shinobi stirred nothing in him.
Years in the ANBU had long desensitized him to scenes like this, and he had drawn blood many times himself.
Perhaps he still felt a twinge of disgust—but the empty sympathy that once nagged at him had long since vanished. Maybe this was what growth felt like.
With a casual flick, he shook the blood from his blade. Surveying the carnage scattered across the sand, Natsuhiko turned and continued forward.
The reason he had drawn these shinobi out wasn't just to test his strength or get a feel for his newly acquired powers—though that was part of it.
No—the main goal was far simpler: to elevate his reputation through this high-profile "breakout."
He had considered this strategy before arriving and had prepared himself mentally.
What surprised him was just how far the results had exceeded his expectations.
And that reinforced one thought more than anything: he would not leave quietly.
—
The promotion to ANBU Commander was, in large part, dictated by the will of the Hokage.
But there was a catch: the candidate needed not just the right credentials but also sufficient reputation and strength within the ANBU .
Natsuhiko wasn't very familiar with Murashima Takumi personally—but he knew the legends.
That man's position was bolstered by Sarutobi Hiruzen's support, yes—but a machine-like figure like him wouldn't maintain his seat through favors alone.
Without true accomplishments and power, even Hiruzen's backing would have been meaningless.
Natsuhiko coveted the Hokage's seat—but first, he had to become ANBU Commander.
Only by claiming that role could he advance openly and without reliance on luck or family connections.
He wasn't Kakashi, after all—he had no elite lineage, no fateful wind at his back.
The ANBU wasn't something you could simply walk away from. Kakashi was a rare exception; Natsuhiko wouldn't count on anomalies.
He considered only the path most suited to him.
—
"Still… things are about to get troublesome."
He lifted his gaze slightly, watching a hawk screeching across the sky. The main force of enemies was surely approaching.
And anger and caution burned in every one of their hearts.
After all, the first thing he had done upon entering the Land of Wind was slaughter dozens of shinobi in front of Ebizo, and then vanish without a trace for so long.
The prior defensive units had already proven how dangerous he was—and the intelligence he had gathered confirmed that his adversaries would not be few.
—
Forming a one-handed seal, several small lizards appeared before him.
Natsuhiko crouched slightly, whispering something to them.
At the same time, he marked each of them with a seal.
Only after finishing did he stand and continue forward.
His pace was steady.
Unhurried.
Yet within his perception, more and more chakra signatures were converging toward him.
—
"They're here…"
Crossing another dune, he finally glimpsed the Sand shinobi sprinting in tight formation toward him, and—just for a moment—a flicker of tension passed through his chest.
Indeed, he had gained power beyond measure, and his chakra flowed without restriction—but even so, Natsuhiko had never faced a scene like this before.
In the past, his missions had only ever put him against small squads of elite shinobi. He had never stepped onto a true battlefield, never seen such overwhelming numbers.
Fortunately, he had prepared his exit strategy ahead of time, and he quickly regained his composure.
Roughly counting, there were well over a hundred shinobi charging toward him. Among them, he even spotted a few figures from ANBU.
But Natsuhiko was far from easy prey. Even without wielding the legendary Wood Release of Senju Hashirama, trying to capture him now was almost impossible.
...
"Target spotted! I repeat, target spotted!"
"Do whatever it takes to catch him! If you can't, kill him—he cannot escape!"
"Everyone be careful! This guy can use space-time ninjutsu—watch out for ambushes!"
The moment the Sand shinobi laid eyes on him, their target was clear. Under their captain's command, a wave of them surged forward toward Natsuhiko without hesitation.
He watched them silently. For some reason, he was reminded of a moment sixteen years in the future: Uchiha Madara facing the Allied Shinobi Forces alone.
But unfortunately, he wasn't Madara—and these were not the shinobi alliance.
Drawing his blade slowly, he advanced.
The winds of the Land of Wind whipped up the desert sand, lifting his cloak and making it dance behind him in the storm.
His breathing remained steady. With every step, his chakra grew more concentrated, coiling tightly around him like a living aura.
Then, without warning, his pace quickened. His breathing shifted to a new rhythm, and at that same instant, his chakra surged like molten fire!
Strangely, the charging Sand shinobi seemed to slow down.
Their expressions shifted, some subtly, others with outright unease. A few clenched their kunai, swallowing nervously.
Here, before them, stood only one man—but his presence, his chakra, resonated so closely with nature itself that each shinobi who sensed it felt the weight of an overwhelming pressure.
"Watch out!"
A sudden shout from one of the shinobi jolted the others, shaking them back to awareness.
But by then, Natsuhiko had already closed the distance, silently appearing before the lead shinobi.
His blade struck like lightning, slicing cleanly across the man's throat.