If one thinks Azula, her Uchiha army, and that handful of Senju and Uzumaki were the only ones having a good time, he will be completely wrong.
The real party at Kiri was being thrown by one man: Murasaki.
The only person coming close to matching his sheer, unadulterated joy was Tsunade, who was busy elsewhere politely turning Yuki clansmen into art.
At a spry eighty-something, Murasaki had long ago made peace with the fact his glory days were a relic of the Warring Clans era.
Sure, his Uzumaki genes were basically the world's cheat code for vitality—a cool 120-year warranty, if life came with those.
But his personal warranty was void, a thousand times void.
He'd treated his lifespan like a suggestion box, shredding years with every forbidden technique he'd ever gleefully performed.
Reaching a hundred was a pipe dream, but hitting eighty? In the ninja world, that made him a walking, grumbling museum exhibit.
His one true gripe? The modern Uzumaki. Since Konoha's founding, they'd traded relentless training for relaxed brunches.
Instead of inventing world-altering seals, they were perfecting the art of the afternoon nap. An embarrassment of talented youngsters, and what did they have to show for it? The fewest Kage in clan history!
It was enough to make a veteran spit his tea.
But the attack by the village coalition? This revenge on Kiri? It was the wake-up call the clan needed. The lazy haze was burning away, replaced by the good old-fashioned terror of impending doom.
Nothing like a little genocide attempt to get the blood pumping and the research notes flying again.
Not that he'd admit it out loud, but the other glorious motivator was pure, petty spite.
Watching those Uchiha show-offs flex their Sharingan all week in sparring matches had lit a fire under every Uzumaki backside.
Add the ever-righteous Senju to the mix, and suddenly the three founding clans were in a silent, brutal competition for 'Least Disappointing Progeny.'
The Uzumaki would not be bringing up the rear.
And just to sweeten the deal, the universe had gifted him two parting presents before his final curtain call. First: two little monsters in the making, who reeked of future Madara and Hashirama-level drama.
Second, and most importantly: one last, glorious fight.
Speaking of which…
A bone spear whistled past his ear, close enough to part his hair. Murasaki couldn't stop a cracked, joyful grin from spreading across his face.
His opponent was the young Patriarch of the Kaguya clan. All feral and pointy accessories. The 'boy' had been trying to punch through his Diamond Chains for what felt like an age.
"Any day now, youngster!" Murasaki cackled, still hard. "Or are your bones getting brittle? My great-grandchildren throw harder than that!"
Ryūkotsu was having the worst day; it was, in a word, a catastrophe.
In two words: a catastrophic, rage-inducing, insultingly inconvenient catastrophe.
He'd planned everything (he believed so)! Invaders attack the village? Excellent.
He'd wait for them to carve through a few expendable civilians, swoop in as the magnificent, bone-shattering savior, enjoy a decent scrap, and maybe 'accidentally' crumble a certain annoying Akiko's house in the process.
It was a simple plan.
The problem was the invaders. Without exaggeration, they were the most incompetent, brain-dead, philosophically confused invaders in the history of shinobi warfare.
Instead of pillaging, they were practically politely waiting for the village defenders to line up. It was like watching a siege conducted by an overly courteous door-to-door merchant.
Ryūkotsu, hidden in the wings, had to physically stop himself from storming out and screaming, "WILL YOU MORONS JUST KILL SOMEONE ALREADY?!"
But whatever, the village defense was organized now, and that meant he could finally fight.
His target was some dusty old fossil with wild red hair who led a people to attack the clan; it was simply an easy warm-up.
Except the warm-up had now lasted five infuriating minutes, and the old man wasn't even winded. He was, in fact, daydreaming.
The thing that made him waste so much time, without a doubt, was the shining golden lattice of chakra chains.
He wasn't a scholar—books were for people who lacked the ability to turn their bones into projectile weapons—but even he knew about this: the Uzumaki's Adamantine Sealing Chains.
The old man—Murasaki, someone had yelled the name—was serenely inside his barrier, looking less like a warrior and more like a gardener contemplating a particularly interesting weed.
He caught Ryūkotsu's murderous glare and offered a faint, placid smile.
Ryūkotsu saw red. A smile?! This was a fight! A sacred, brutal dance of shattering and blood! Not a tea ceremony!
There was no barrier he could not break. That was what he believed when he heard about the Adamantine Chains, but now he had wasted five whole minutes before breaking the barrier, not even the chains.
But it no longer mattered.
"You can no longer hide, relic!" he spat, cracking his knuckles with a sound like snapping fingers. "I hope you aren't only capable of hiding behind trinkets."
Talking was heresy to a Kaguya; action was prayer, and Ryūkotsu was feeling devout.
He lunged, a whirlwind of pale death, all earlier frustrations forgotten in the pure anticipation of feeling an old man's bones yield to his own.
Across from him, Murasaki had stopped daydreaming. The gentle, absent-minded look in his eyes solidified into something calm, focused, and deeply, dangerously patient.
He had not survived the Warring Clans era by being a mere barrier-user. And while he might think the Kaguya were a clan of spectacularly unsubtle lunatics, he was not arrogant. He knew one thing for certain: to lead lunatics, you had to be the strongest lunatic of them all.
Not only was his own body not at its best, but even if it was, the body of the Kaguya patriarch wouldn't be much worse than his.
Sure, Uzumaki vitality was no joke; you could stab one, and they'd thank you for the extra ventilation.
But the Kaguya had the ninja world's toughest body. Their bones were harder than a miser's heart, turning basic ninjutsu into disappointing tricks.
Fighting one was like trying to drown a brick.
That's why Murasaki's Adamantine Sealing Chains weren't just for show; they were part of a chakra- and stamina-draining plan.
It was a loss-loss business, sure, burning through his own reserves, but he was an Uzumaki. His chakra recovery wasn't just fast; it was the best.
So when Ryūkotsu finally lost his cool and lunged, Murasaki didn't dodge. Why would he?
Sure, he could fight long-range, but close-quarters was where an Uzumaki's love for a good tussle really shone.
Of course, first he had to make sure his opponent was properly exhausted, because all Kaguya clan members were damn good at close-range fights.
As the man bulleted toward him, Murasaki didn't flinch. A single golden chain shot forward like a laser guide.
The beauty of it was in the follow-up: the rest of the chains hung back, a hair's breadth behind the first. Dodge the spear, and you'd impale yourself on the spears behind it.
Ryūkotsu, to his credit, didn't turn into a pincushion. With a nasty crack, a bone sword sprouted from his arm, deflecting the first chain in a shower of sparks, then he twisted, parrying the second wave.
But his devastating charge was now an awkward standstill. And the chain he'd just slapped away was already recoiling, hungry for another bite, forcing him into a graceless retreat.
Everyone knew the scary secret of the Adamantine Chains: touch them, and they'd seal your chakra away. Ryūkotsu wasn't keen to find out whether they could handle a Kaguya patriarch's monstrous reserves. The memory of that barrier they'd created earlier was answer enough.
Some experiments are best left untried.
All this calculating took less than two seconds. The moment his feet left the ground in retreat, Ryūkotsu retaliated. Mid-air, he thrust his hands toward Murasaki, ten fingers aimed like gun barrels.
"Ten-Finger Drilling Bullets!"
Holes puckered at his fingertips. With a swing of his arm, he fired. These spiraling, shrieking projectiles tore the air with a sound like a thousand angry hornets, drilling straight for the smiling Uzumaki.
Murasaki was a man who appreciated the subtle art of passive-aggressive gardening—but being a standing target was not being passive-aggressive. Sure, his chains were fast, but they weren't 'outrace a barrage of hypersonic bone bullets' fast.
Luckily, he didn't need to be.
As Ryūkotsu's attack screamed toward him, a manic grin plastered across his face, Murasaki simply did what any sensible, over-powered Uzumaki would do: he cheated.
Pop.
Another shimmering Adamantine barrier materialized in front of him. The bone shards slammed into it with the sound of a hundred dinner plates shattering… and then… nothing, just sparkles.
Ryūkotsu's grin evaporated, replaced by a sputter of pure, unadulterated confusion. "Another one?! You just—! That's—! CHEAP!"
"You break one, I make another. It's the circle of life, really," Murasaki mused, his voice dripping with the calm of a man who had just refreshed a webpage. Of course, there were reasons he didn't spam this technique.
First, the chakra cost was obscene—if every Uzumaki could chain-barrier like this, they'd have conquered the world through annoying invincibility.
Second, and more importantly, where was the fun in that? He'd been waiting fifteen years for a decent scrap; ending it with a glorified turtle strategy was just poor fightmanship.
But defense was just the opening act, because while Ryūkotsu was still short-circuiting, Murasaki moved.
He didn't recall his brilliant chains. Instead, he channeled raw power into his legs—the kind of earth-crushing, Senju-style enhancement the Senju clan was famously known for. What is strange about an Uzumaki using Senju techniques?
(END OF THE CHAPTER)
Got caught up with something bad yesterday, here's today's chapter, there should be double chapters if we reach the 500 power stones tomorrow, which is very likely.