The remnants of the hurricane clawed at Kakashi's senses. Wind shredded the air, whipping ice-slicked stone and mud into a stinging slurry against exposed skin. The stone steps beneath him had liquefied into a treacherous torrent of mud and ice. His feet sank into half-melted mud, calves straining as he forced each step.
The ridge offered zero traction. The mud didn't just slide; it dragged. He planted his right boot, testing the density of the slush, but the ground gave way, forcing his knee to buckle awkwardly to avoid a snapped ligament. His arms flailed for a fraction of a second, seeking a balance point that didn't exist. He dropped his center of gravity, burning precious chakra just to adhere his sandals to the churning slurry.
Micro-fog clung to his lashes, shimmering with particles of displaced ash and volcanic dust. The damp fabric of his dark navy mask plastered itself across his nose and mouth. Every inhalation became a suffocating fight, a waterboarding effect that drew the cloyingly sweet, metallic grit of ionized dust deeper into his lungs. The ash coated his tongue, triggering a harsh cough-reflex that violently broke his breathing rhythm and spiked his heart rate. He gagged, his ribs aching as the chill settled into his marrow.
Aoi and Oboro flitted through the storm like phantoms, appearing and vanishing in curling fog. Kakashi's Sharingan spun, not with clarity, but with a searing, overloading burn. The visual feed jammed. The crimson iris struggled to process the sheer volume of data—rippling mist, the gleam of steel, the shifting mud—while genjutsu layered over reality, shattering certainty.
The eye throbbed, a hot needle of pressure digging behind his socket. Burst capillaries painted the edges of his vision red. False duplicates flickered at the edge of his sight in a nauseating strobe: Anko's silhouette moving with unnerving precision, Naruto swinging a kunai, the forest dissolving into an echo of his own kitchen. The flicker-fusion frequency of the Amegakure illusions clashed violently with the physical storm, forcing Kakashi to squint against a sudden, stabbing migraine.
A branch snapped violently, the sound twisting in his ears into the shape of his father's stern frame. His chest tightened; pulse spiked. Déjà vu tore at his concentration. He shook it off, a cold sweat breaking across his neck.
Breathing shallowly through the sodden mask, he flexed his fingers, feeling the fine tremor of muscles awakening in response to phantom threats.
Anko's sharp call sliced through the wind:
"Six! Low!"
Kakashi didn't look. He dropped his weight instantly, feeling the displacement of air above his head as a blade sheared through the space his neck had just occupied.
Aoi emerged, the Sword of the Thunder God crackling with electricity. Violet eyes caught in the diffused light, reflecting every drop of mist. He didn't swing again immediately; he let the yellow plasma hum, a jagged sneer pulling at his lips as he watched Kakashi fight to keep his boots from sliding out from under him in the muck.
"Look at you," Aoi mocked, his voice carrying over the wind. "The great Copy Ninja, drowning in a puddle. You protect the weak, yet watch the innocent burn. You reek of rotting hesitation, Kakashi. You call it justice, but I smell the fear sweating out of your pores."
The words hit like physical blows against Kakashi's bruised ribs. A sharp intake of breath snagged on the wet cloth of his mask. His heart rate stuttered. His fingers twitched against his kunai grip, the muscles in his forearms bunching as he braced against the sliding earth.
Anko's wrist adjusted, her bare shoulders flexing to keep the Fūma Kunai oriented toward the threat.
Oboro and Mubi pressed forward, dispersing into thin, shifting clouds. Kakashi's aching eyes followed the fog, his optic nerve burning as he tracked the ripples and currents of motion. Mud patches underfoot cracked thin ice; his toes slid, calves cramping painfully as he fought for balance before disaster could claim him.
"Three! High!" Kakashi shouted, his voice ragged and fragmented from the adrenaline dump. He pivoted, boots skidding dangerously over freezing mud. The hair on his arms bristled with static.
Black snakes erupted from the ground as Anko's curse mark flared. Each coil twisted in response to her blade. Sparks hissed against storm-wet stone, clinging to the chainmail sliding across her shoulders. She pivoted mid-kick, her toes slipping on the ice, calves screaming in protest. Her hips torqued violently, the slap-squelch of her foot connecting solidly with a water-logged clone, sending a spray of thick mud displacing into the air. A second strike followed, a low, sweeping kick that carried the burnt ozone tang of displaced energy.
Kakashi drew chakra to his hand. Raikiri. The electrical discharge didn't just hum; it vibrated as a fine tremor deep within his marrow. The moisture and wind conducted stray arcs of current along his pale skin, threatening to seize his own muscles if he didn't constantly manage his grounding in the treacherous mud.
He slashed a corridor through gusting debris. The feedback snapped along his biceps and shoulders, his blood thrumming violently against his capillaries as the volatile jutsu fought his control.
Aoi struck, lightning arcing toward Anko. Kakashi twisted, Raikiri splitting gusts and mist. Each step was a brutal negotiation with the earth: mud yielding, ice cracking, volcanic grit grinding painfully under his soles. His ankles wrenched, toes slipping frantically, his leg muscles cramping and firing in desperate, ragged bursts to keep him upright.
Anko's Fūma Kunai collided with Aoi's blade, forcing a staggered, jarring recovery. Sparks danced across puddles, fizzing against her chainmail. The bitter cold bit through her sweat-slicked skin; desperate, stuttering shifts of posture and foot placement kept her balance from failing entirely.
Aoi's smirk faltered, but his voice cut through the storm again, a serrated edge against the howling wind:
"You protect criminals and call it mercy! You'll drag a traitor home, but butcher strangers for a mission! You're no different than Orochimaru, Kakashi! You're just earlier on the timeline!"
Kakashi didn't respond. His chest compressed painfully, lungs tasting nothing but ozone, wet cloth, and pulverized stone. His grip tightened on his wrist, the micro-vibrations of the Raikiri pulsing dangerously into his bones. His burning eyes flicked over Anko; she pivoted again, legs bracing, the black ink of the curse mark flickering, her chainmail sliding heavily across her shoulders.
The hurricane's fury had broken, but the mud, ice, and debris kept moving. The mudslide shifted violently under Kakashi's boots; his toes slipped, his calves screaming in sustained agony, his breath shortening into desperate gasps. A loose tree limb sagged overhead, cracking faintly; his shoulders and neck knotted in painful tension to compensate for the overhead threat. Frost formed along the edges of the puddles, biting into his exposed skin, his toes slipping with every agonizing step.
Every inhalation drew the metallic ozone and cloying volcanic dust deeper. His throat burned, his eyes stung and watered continuously. The micro-fog clung to his lashes, freezing into heavy beads. His fingers cramped around the fading Raikiri, his nails scraping numbly against his own palm.
Kakashi's Sharingan throbbed, a continuous, agonizing ache. Ice, wind, fractured stone—all active hazards pressing relentlessly against his body's failing limits.
His ankles twisted painfully to absorb sudden slips; his calves burned with lactic acid; his back muscles spasmed as he shifted to avoid falling debris. Anko mirrored him, each ragged breath measured, every desperate foot placement fought for.
A loose limb swayed again.
Rocks cracked, sliding unpredictably over ice.
Feet sank, slipped, and fought for purchase. Each joint flexed preemptively, muscles screaming in protest against the terrain's constant betrayal. The sympathetic nervous system screamed as a heel slid three inches too far; the heart stuttered as a gust of wind threatened to topple them.
Kakashi tightened his stance, letting every agonizing vibration, every jarring slip, every freezing gust feed directly into his desperate fight for survival.
The storm's aftermath pressed against his skin, his lungs, and his screaming muscles, relentless—and he met it step by agonizing step.