The forest had lost all color, as if even the sky had gone dull.
Shadows tore through the darkness. Shinobi fleeing at full speed, breath ragged, fear etched deep into their faces.
"Why... why is the Crimson Black Shadow here?!" a rogue shinobi screamed as he ran. Every rumor he’d ever heard crashed down on him at once. No defeats. No survivors.
He should never have taken this job. Never. From now on, if he saw a Leaf shinobi, he’d turn around and run the other way.
That was... assuming he could escape.
He glanced back.
The distance was shrinking.
Too fast.
Despair flooded his eyes. Running was pointless. If that was the case, then—
The rogue spun around, hands flying through seals, face twisted with madness. "Then take everything I’ve got!"
A straight-line burst of fire roared from his mouth, engulfing the pursuing figure.
"Haha—!" He laughed wildly. "Got him! So much for the Crimson Black Shadow—!"
The laughter froze on his face.
His body toppled forward.
His head rolled the other way.
Fujimoto Tōma appeared beside the corpse, blade already clean. He glanced at the body with mild curiosity.
That was his "life’s work"?
C-rank Fire Style: Dragon Flame Technique.
A single C-rank jutsu.
For a rogue shinobi, that was actually respectable.
Still.
Three down on this route. That direction was clear.
Time to switch.
Tōma vanished.
When he reappeared, he was already cutting across a different path. On the way in, he’d scattered Flying Thunder God kunai across multiple escape routes.
He’d learned the pattern by now.
The moment enemies recognized him, they ran. Even with his speed, wiping them all out in one straight chase was inefficient.
So he planned ahead.
Predict escape routes. Mark them. Kill the ones running opposite his approach first. Then jump across directions using Flying Thunder God.
Simple.
Just practiced.
Over the past year and a half, his chakra reserves had grown rapidly. At the same time, the cost of Flying Thunder God had dropped with mastery.
For the first time, the technique no longer felt suffocating to use.
Lightning flashed.
Tōma ripped a marked kunai from the ground and surged forward again. His Lightning Release acceleration no longer crackled loudly. No wild arcs. Just a faint streak of light, barely visible.
Perfect control.
Ahead, four figures came into view.
They hadn’t fully scattered. Probably hoping to fight together if caught.
They’d noticed him.
And they hadn’t expected him to arrive this fast.
Panic broke out.
Shuriken flew like rain.
Normally, rogue shinobi would never waste tools like this. Every piece of metal cost money. But when death loomed, nothing mattered anymore.
Tōma didn’t dodge.
Lightning hummed around him.
The shuriken slowed. Stopped. Then began to orbit his body as if caught in an invisible current before clattering neatly into his hands.
The rogues stared in horror.
That was their hard-earned money.
How was he doing this?
Tōma glanced at the pile of crude shuriken. Not great quality, but turning them in would still earn something. Not bad.
The answer was simple.
Electromagnetism.
An electromagnetic field pulsed around him. A year and a half of experimenting with a "railgun" concept had produced more than one trick.
If the projectiles were stronger, blocking them outright would be harder. That’s why small iron fragments spun within the field as well, ready to intercept.
And if all else failed—
Flying Thunder God existed for a reason.
Since the field was already active, Tōma didn’t waste it.
A bullet-shaped metal slug slid from his pouch and floated in front of him.
The rogues’ eyes widened.
Tōma raised a finger.
Flick.
The electromagnetic field erupted. The slug vanished in a streak of light, accelerating to lethal speed.
At the same time, his seals completed.
"Ninja Art: Shuriken Shadow Clone Technique."
The single projectile split mid-flight.
Dozens of streaks tore through the air.
There was no time to dodge. No time to form seals.
Their bodies were perforated instantly, torn apart before sound could catch up.
Tōma watched calmly.
If the original Railgun user saw this, she’d probably scoff at the power.
But for him?
It was enough.
When speed reached a certain point, could anyone really dodge, even if it was fired right in front of them?
He turned away as the bodies collapsed.
"Four left."
His figure vanished.
He didn’t bother checking the corpses. Anyone who could fool his chakra perception deserved to escape.
So far, no one had.
You couldn’t flee without using chakra. And if you used chakra, he’d feel it.
Elsewhere.
A group of rogue shinobi slowed to a stop.
"We... we got away, right?" one asked shakily, looking to their leader.
The man at the center was a special jōnin. Sweat soaked his back, but he forced a smile. "Looks like it. Guess the Crimson Black Shadow was just a rumor."
"Yeah," another chimed in quickly. "Boss, you’re basically a jōnin. You didn’t even need to be scared of that kid. If we’d fought him, his jutsu would’ve been ours."
The leader laughed, but there was no confidence in it. He knew better.
That boy had killed a true village jōnin alone.
Talking was easy. Fighting was suicide.
They’d survived by being cautious.
This time, though—
The leader stopped.
His smile died.
He landed slowly, legs stiff.
The others followed, confused, until they saw his face.
Terror.
They turned.
A figure stood ahead of them, sword in hand, waiting.
Not chasing.
Waiting.
Silence swallowed them whole.
How?
They remembered clearly. He’d gone in a different direction.
Was that a feint?
No. That didn’t explain this.
Tōma smiled faintly. Four enemies together. Convenient. No need to hunt them one by one.
He gripped his marked kunai and spoke, voice flat and merciless.
"Congratulations."
"You chose the worst possible route."