Maoyi kicked the stone door open with a thunderous crash. The heavy panel slammed into the wall, sending shards of rock and clouds of dust tumbling down.
He stormed into the dark, damp laboratory, the air thick with the stench of blood and chemicals—an angry gust of wind made flesh.
His gaze locked instantly onto the figure he hated most—Orochimaru.
That smug bastard, always hiding behind the title of the Third Hokage's disciple to throw his weight around the Root, now stood with his back turned, staring at something with mild curiosity.
Before him, strapped to a special chair, was a thin, trembling figure.His brother—Yakushi Jiro.
Rage surged through Maoyi's body like fire.
Jiro was just a medic, a logistics worker who couldn't even perform a proper offensive jutsu! And yet Orochimaru had dragged him here, accusing him of treason?
Unforgivable.
Absolutely unforgivable.
"Orochimaru!" Maoyi's voice cracked with fury. He stepped forward, each footfall pounding like the drumbeat of vengeance. "You vile coward! How dare you lay your hands on my brother—"
But his words caught in his throat.
Orochimaru turned slowly, his pale face calm, his golden eyes amused.
He didn't even look at Maoyi. Instead, he smiled faintly and said to Hiroki, in a tone as casual as small talk,"You don't seem surprised by his arrival. Did you notice him a while ago?"
The boy just nodded, calm and unbothered, as if Maoyi's dramatic entrance was nothing more than a fly buzzing around the room.
"Would you like me to deal with him for you?" Orochimaru asked next.
The words hit Maoyi like a slap across the face.
Deal with him?
Who were they talking about as if he weren't even there?
He—Danzo's most trusted sensor-nin, the Root's unseen dagger—had become a mere inconvenience in their conversation?
The humiliation burned through him.
They were just like those arrogant samurai and nobles basking in sunlight—looking down on the shinobi who bled and killed in the dark, without the faintest understanding of what true survival meant.
Then Hiroki made a single hand sign.
With a soft puff of smoke, a perfect copy of him appeared beside the original.
A shadow clone.
Maoyi's pupils contracted.What—was this kid planning to use a clone to fight him?
That thought was so absurd it made him laugh. What kind of insult was this?
Anger rose inside him, but so did something else—something strange and intoxicating. A kind of pride. A warrior's pride.
Like a samurai about to duel.
Yes… etiquette.
They should show respect to someone like him. They should bow, beg for mercy, tremble before him.
Maoyi raised his hands. Pale-green chakra flared around them, shaping into two blades as thin as glass—his signature chakra scalpels, the weapon that had ended countless lives.
But instead of charging forward, he found himself straightening his back, speaking coldly, almost ritualistically:"You two… don't even know the meaning of proper respect."
The words surprised even him.
What was that? That wasn't how a Root operative thought.
The Root's creed was clear: Nameless. Emotionless. Selfless.No speeches. No hesitation. Kill swiftly, without pride or anger.
So why was he thinking like this?
A flicker of confusion rippled through his thoughts—like a stone dropped into still water.
But the anger, the humiliation, the burning pride crushed it all away.
He was Danzo's sharpest blade.The elite among elites.He deserved to teach these arrogant fools their place.
Orochimaru's golden eyes narrowed, a playful glint shining in them.He didn't even bother to look at Maoyi anymore—his gaze shifted to the too-calm boy beside him.
"Interesting," Orochimaru murmured.
That single word sent Maoyi over the edge.
Without another thought, he lunged forward. The ground cracked beneath his feet as he vanished in a blur. His chakra scalpels sliced through the air, twin arcs of green light, heading straight for Hiroki's shadow clone.
The clone?
Why the clone? Why not the real one?
Before the thought could even form, Hiroki's clone inhaled sharply and performed a rapid string of hand seals.
"Wind Style: Vacuum Bullets!"
A volley of dense air projectiles whistled through the air, sharp enough to pierce steel.
"Pathetic."
Maoyi sneered inwardly.
He didn't even slow down. With a flick of his wrists, his scalpels danced—swish, swish, swish!—each blade cutting cleanly through the air bullets, slicing them apart like soap bubbles.
Too weak, he thought coldly. This brat's not even worth the effort.
The last wind bullet split harmlessly apart.Now, only the clone stood before him—close enough to kill.
He mapped out his next moves instantly:Left blade—horizontal slash to cut off escape.Right blade—straight thrust through the heart.Execution time: 0.1 seconds.
Perfect.
He moved—
And then… everything stopped.
It was as if his brain had been unplugged.The commands, the clarity, the lethal focus—all gone.
"What… what was I about to do?" he whispered.
The thought barely formed before a single wind bullet, fired at point-blank range, punched clean through his chest.