Ren moved through the forest like a ghost, his skin tingling with every shift in the atmosphere.
The Kazeshira nerve pathways running beneath his skin acted like an organic barometer, picking up micro-variations in air density.
Two miles east, the air wasn’t just moving—it was tearing.
Ren slipped into the thick canopy of a massive cedar tree, masking his breath and suppressing his chakra to a absolute whisper.
Down below in a wide, muddy clearing, two figures stood opposite each other.
Madara Uchiha, his Sharingan spinning with intense, crimson malice, held a large windmill shuriken in his right hand.
Hashirama Senju stood fifty yards away, his expression solemn, his hands loosely clasped in front of his chest.
The air pressure between them was suffocating.
To a normal ninja, it felt like heavy intent; to Ren’s sensory skin, it felt like two distinct weather systems grinding against each other—Madara’s sharp, localized heat spikes clashing against Hashirama’s vast, oppressive density.
You shouldn’t have followed me, Hashirama, Madara growled, his voice cutting through the downpour.
“The clan elders know we’ve been meeting.
My father knows.”
“We can still make them listen, Madara!” Hashirama stepped forward, the mud beneath his feet rippling slightly as an absurd amount of chakra flickered beneath his skin.
“A truce isn’t impossible!
If the Senju and Uchiha put down their blades, the smaller clans won’t have to suffer anymore!”
‘Smaller clans like the Kazeshira,’ Ren thought coldly.
‘Hashirama’s idealism is grand, but it comes a decade too late for the people buried under these trees.’
Madara sneered, raising his blade.
“A truce?
Look around you!
The river is choked with corpses!
There is no peace in this world, Hashirama—only strength and the will to carve your own path!”
With a sudden burst of speed, Madara lunged.
He didn’t use a flashy Jutsu; he wove three hand seals in a fraction of a second—Snake, Ram, Monkey—and unleashed a torrent of flame.
Fire Style: Great Fireball Technique!
A sphere of roaring, crimson fire fifteen feet wide scorched through the rain, turning falling water straight into blinding steam.
Ren instinctively pressed closer to the tree trunk, using his sensory skin to read the shockwave.
The heat was immense, but what fascinated Ren was the form of the technique.
He watched Madara’s throat, shoulder muscles, and chakra pathways flex right before the release.
‘That hand seal combination…’ Ren memorized every micro-movement.
‘He condenses the Fire chakra at the diaphragm before releasing it through the Wind-assisted seal at the throat.’ Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Hashirama didn’t even draw a kunai.
He slammed his hands together.
Earth Style: Mud Wall!
A massive, dense slab of earth erupted from the soaked ground, absorbing the impact of the Great Fireball with a violent explosion of mud and steam.
Before the steam could clear, Madara was already above the wall, sword descending in a lethal arc.
Hashirama parried with an iron kunai, the collision of steel sending a shockwave through the air that shook the leaves of Ren’s tree.
Ren held his breath, his modern mind analyzing every frame of the fight.
He wasn’t watching two gods; he was watching two brilliant, unrefined prodigies carving out the fundamental blueprints of modern ninjutsu through trial and error.
Suddenly, Ren’s skin prickled violently.
A sharp drop in air pressure behind his neck triggered a cold wave of adrenaline down his spine.
Someone else was in the trees.
Ren slowly tilted his head, eyeing a shadow perched three branches away.
A Senju sensor scout, clad in iron shoulder plates, was watching the duel—and his eyes were slowly tracking away from Hashirama, turning directly toward Ren’s hiding spot.
Ren’s hand slowly drifted down to his stolen trench knife.