"Ban... banzai..."
A feeble, trembling voice pierced the deathly silence of Totsuki Academy.
Students who'd been scared half to death by the apocalyptic battle moments ago turned toward the sound on reflex.
The Nakiri sisters, Megumi Tadokoro, Soma Yukihira... all the culinary students who attended Totsuki were already here.
Alongside them, Kaguya Shinomiya, Kotonoha Katsura, and the other students from Shuchiin Academy had been brought to shelter under official arrangements.
Every neck in the room swiveled in unison, eyes locking onto the man who'd produced that cry.
Silver-haired, past sixty, with a face carved in rugged lines beneath a thick, weathered beard. Senzaemon Nakiri. Grand Master of Totsuki Academy.
He was on his knees.
No one had seen him drop. But there he was, forehead slamming against the floor, his towering frame shaking uncontrollably.
"Banzai! Banzai! Susanoo-sama! Banzai!"
The shouts rattled the air. Alice Nakiri froze on the spot, utterly baffled, and sidled up to her cousin Erina. "Erina," she whispered, face blank with confusion. "What's wrong with Grandpa? Has he gone senile?"
Erina was no less bewildered, but she understood the old man's temperament better than her cousin. It took her only seconds to piece it together.
Their grandfather had always been deeply traditional, a man steeped in Japan's ancient legends and classical mythology.
Not blindly superstitious, but reverential toward the stories passed down through the centuries.
Makoto Nishikado had spoken the name "Susanoo" aloud, then unleashed power capable of leveling cities.
In Senzaemon's mind, the young man on that screen had already merged with the storm god of legend, the divine slayer of serpents.
The Totsuki students hadn't recovered from the surreal sight when the Shuchiin students went rigid with a shock of their own.
Because right there in their line of sight, Shuchiin Academy's headmaster, Adolphe Pescare, had also dropped to both knees. Facing southwest, toward Nishikado's location, the old man bowed again and again, his aged throat erupting with the same fevered cry:
"Susanoo-sama! Banzai!"
To these men of the older generation, steeped in tradition and hardwired for reverence, Makoto Nishikado was no longer a terrorist or a wanted criminal. He was a god walking the earth.
Meanwhile, an ocean away, atop the Statue of Liberty.
The colossal grey-black titan crashed down from above, its massive body dropping squarely onto America's most iconic monument. Lady Liberty shattered beneath it like porcelain, rubble and dust erupting skyward.
Overhead, half a dozen news helicopters that had been drawn by the cataclysmic commotion circled without pause.
The camera crews inside had lost all composure, swinging their lenses around to capture footage that would shake the entire world.
When the feed reached command, showing Susanoo's towering form sitting enthroned on the crushed remains of the Statue of Liberty, every senior official watching went white as chalk.
Even the most hawkish military representative pressed his lips together, trembling from head to toe.
None of them had imagined Nishikado could move this fast, crossing an ocean to arrive on their homeland.
Use nuclear weapons?
No. Absolutely not. That was mutually assured destruction. The terrorist was already here. Launching a nuke now would be suicide.
While America's leadership spiraled through peak panic and indecision, the terrifying grey-black phantom of the divine titan slowly dispersed, its glow fading to nothing.
All that remained was Makoto Nishikado, sitting alone atop the massive pedestal Susanoo had left behind.
He cast a lazy glance at the helicopters circling above, then spoke.
"Ready for round three?"
Every person holding power in the world's foremost superpower stared at that casual, unhurried figure on their screens, and collectively hit a wall of despair.
They agonized. Launch the nukes or don't. Fight to the bitter end or fold.
Two fatal problems held them back.
First, Nishikado was standing on their soil. America's core industries, its financial foundations, all of it concentrated right here.
One Tsar Bomba would do more than fail to kill the enemy; it would reduce their own power base to ash. Truthfully, these men in charge couldn't care less if the country, or even the world, burned to rubble, so long as they kept their grip on power. But that grip needed a foundation to stand on.
Second, Nishikado's calm was terrifying. The man had laughed while obliterating fleets and leveling cities. Did he have something worse in reserve?
Any other day, America's leaders would never have given a foreign threat a second thought. But after witnessing the inhuman power Nishikado had displayed, they couldn't afford the gamble. Not anymore.
"General, Agent Smith has arrived."
A sharp-postured aide strode to the five-star general's side and reported in a low voice. The general whipped around to see a hard-eyed man in a tailored suit entering the military command center, face grim.
"General. I bring orders from the President."
Ten minutes later, Fox News launched a worldwide simultaneous broadcast. The camera pointed straight at the heart of American executive power: the White House.
Under the gaze of billions, Makoto Nishikado sat across from a heavyset man with hair like an unruly cornstalk, exchanging signed documents.
Moments ago, the two sides had formally signed a non-aggression treaty.
Nishikado pledged not to strike American soil again. America guaranteed it would no longer interfere with any of his actions, and publicly recognized the entire Asian region as falling under his sole authority.
"Pleasure doing business."
The heavyset man forced a lopsided grin and handed the signed agreement across the table with both hands.
Nishikado smiled faintly. "I wouldn't have minded continuing."
A collective shudder rippled through every mogul and power broker assembled in the room.
The titans of American industry and government, figures who'd swaggered across the global stage unchecked for decades, now trembled before Nishikado like quail cornered by a tiger, too terrified to breathe.
Across the world, the downtrodden citizens of every small nation long bullied and exploited by America erupted in celebration.
Under Fox News cameras rolling the entire time, Nishikado boarded a luxury jet America had arranged specifically for him.
He'd casually mentioned he could fly back on his own, but the Americans had insisted, adamant about sending him off with the highest honors as a show of good faith.
Alone in the vast, empty luxury cabin, Nishikado finally let the mask drop. He sank into his seat and exhaled a long, slow breath.
They bought it.
The truth was brutal. His stamina was gone. His Chakra reserves scraped the bottom of the barrel. Forget flying back across an ocean; maintaining basic consciousness was a struggle.
Without true Uchiha blood, forcing a Perfect Susanoo into existence had already pushed him past his limit. He couldn't sustain it for long.
His endurance was only marginally better than Kakashi's. Kakashi could at least keep the Sharingan passively active on a daily basis, while Nishikado could manually switch his off, but that was the extent of the advantage.
Neither of them possessed the innate Uchiha bloodline that let someone like Sasuke Uchiha or Madara wield a Perfect Susanoo freely and indefinitely.
If America caught even a whiff of that secret, the retaliation would be swift and absolute.
So after obliterating those two destroyers, Nishikado hadn't stopped to rest. He'd wrung every last drop of energy from his body and dragged himself across the Atlantic.
He knew the predators on the other side of that ocean too well. The moment they sensed weakness, they'd pounce without mercy.
His only way out was to make them believe he still had cards left to play.
Next time, I'll finish you all off.
He closed his eyes and began the slow process of recovery.
Training couldn't stop. He needed to strengthen his body further, drastically improve how long he could maintain Perfect Susanoo. And the next time he entered the Reincarnation Game, he had to find a way to break through to a new level of power.
Hours later, the jet touched down smoothly at Tokyo's Haneda International Airport. His Chakra and stamina had recovered to roughly half.
That brief rest had done its work.
The moment he stepped off the boarding stairs, the sight before him gave him pause. The airport terminal was packed wall to wall.
Half wore dark blue police uniforms. The other half, black suits.
"Susanoo-sama! Thank you for your service!"
At the front stood a gaunt, grey-haired old man with a slicked-back pompadour, leaning on a cane carved with mythical bird motifs. Behind him, over a hundred bodyguards in black suits formed ranks with military precision.
Around them, domestic and foreign reporters had swarmed into a frenzy, camera shutters firing in a blinding cascade of flashbulbs that turned the terminal bright as noon.
"Who are you?" Nishikado's tone was flat.
A middle-aged man with neatly cropped brown hair and a police uniform hurried forward from beside the old man, his posture so deferential it bordered on groveling. "Susanoo-sama, this is Japan's current Prime Minister, Premier Ooka."
Nishikado's gaze drifted to the brown-haired officer, settling on the badge pinned to his chest. The name engraved on it was clear: Hakuba.
Hakuba?
His eyes moved to the insignia on Hakuba's shoulder: a five-pointed cherry blossom badge, the highest rank in Japan's police hierarchy.
Superintendent General of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police.
A hint of amusement tugged at Nishikado's lips. "Oh, the Superintendent General. Here to arrest me?"
"N-no! Of course not!"
Hakuba flinched so hard his entire body jerked, bowing deep on reflex. His voice shook. "I am so terribly sorry! We had no idea who you truly were, and we committed countless offenses against you! I've already drawn up plans to disband the First Investigation Division as an apology! Would that be satisfactory?"
"Identity?" Nishikado raised an eyebrow. "What identity?"
"Susanoo-sama, the entire world has now witnessed your divine might. There's no need to hide it any longer!" Prime Minister Ooka's face had flushed scarlet with fervor, his voice thick with fanatical reverence. "You are the reincarnation of Susanoo himself, or perhaps his chosen agent in the mortal world! You saw that Japan was suffering, and you descended to save us!"
Agent in the mortal world? Nishikado resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This old man's been watching too much Ultraman.
He had zero intention of humoring the delusional geezer. He turned to leave.
Then Ooka said something that froze him mid-step.
"Of course, we completely understand that you didn't wipe out America in one stroke, my Lord! Your grand vision must be to start from the smaller nations nearby and work your way up, correct? First Korea, then the Philippines, then China, then Russia, and finally back across the Atlantic to finish America off..."
Crack.
A crisp, wet snap cut through the air.
Ooka never finished his sentence. The entire terminal went silent.
Hakuba, the bodyguards, the officers, the reporters with their cameras still raised, the millions of Japanese citizens watching from their living rooms. Every last one of them froze, minds going blank.
The Prime Minister, who'd been speaking with such brimming confidence a heartbeat ago, now stared backward over his own shoulder at Hakuba, his neck twisted like a wrung-out towel.
"Say anything like that again, and everyone here dies."
Nishikado lowered his hand, voice quiet but laced with the kind of killing intent that made the air itself feel heavier.
He'd been content to ignore these people.
But the look on Ooka's face, that presumption that they were on the same side, turned his stomach.
You use whatever works. Whatever kills. Susanoo, Super Saiyan, Magnetic Force... the source didn't matter. Only the result.
Wielding your weapon does not bind me to your cause.
Someone's gotten a little too comfortable.
These fools needed a reminder.
Without another glance behind him, Nishikado strolled toward the terminal exit.
Behind him, the Prime Minister's twisted body finally crumpled to the ground with a heavy thud.
The airport, roaring with noise moments before, had gone so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
A few seconds later, the reporters snapped out of their daze and hammered their shutters in a frenzy.
This was front-page news.
________________________
*The Bonus Chap*
Ain't no way we gona lose to Chicken_God in Powerstones.
EVERY 40 POWERSTONES = 1 BONUS CHAPTER