Hello, everyone, how are you? Author here, and first of all, I want to say thank you very much, because I have 170 collections and 40,000 views on this work, which makes me very happy and shows that people are enjoying it. This encourages and inspires me to continue. I planned to make this chapter 5,000 words long, as I said before, but today, when I was about to finish it, something unexpected came up and I won't be able to finish it until Saturday, so I'm releasing this one, and the next ones will be 5,000 words long, as I said.
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"Here, you will learn combat—not assassination. No more hiding, no more attacking only with an advantage. Those are the methods of the weak. I do not deny their efficiency, but tricks matter naught before true strength. I will teach you to face that which is stronger than you… and kill it head-on. I will teach you to dominate the battlefield until reality bends to your will, and not the other way around."
Kushina paused. The ensuing silence was not empty; it was heavy, thick with expectation. The luminous veins beneath the floor pulsed once, as if answering the authority in her voice.
"To many," she continued, "the essence of combat is simple. Raw. Direct. Pathetic in its limitation."
She raised two fingers, her crimson silhouette imposing against the sanctuary's darkness.
"Kill… or be killed."
Her tone carried no contempt, only a cold observation.
"Which remains true. Life is built upon it; every being seeks survival above all else. It is the most primal, basic instinct. Most creatures who deem themselves strong never escape this cycle. They fight believing the peak of mastery is simply to be the last one standing. That merely eliminating an opponent or surviving a massacre is enough to call it victory."
She took a few slow steps across the field, the sound of her sandals echoing low on the obsidian, like the ticking of a marble clock.
"That line of thinking is functional, but it is simple. And because it is simple, it is dangerous. It creates efficient warriors… but disposable ones. Pieces on a board who win isolated battles only to lose the war without even realizing it was being waged."
Kushina stopped and turned to Indra.
"Killing the enemy resolves the immediate problem. But it does not control what follows. It doesn't stop another from filling the vacuum. It doesn't break the flow that birthed that threat in the first place."
Her gaze intensified, the crimson flames of her hair seeming to vibrate.
"And then there are the greatest fools—those who dare say the essence is 'survival'."
She let out a short laugh, a melodic sound but laced with a cutting mockery that made the air tremble. It was the laugh of someone who had seen empires fall while their kings 'survived' amidst the ashes.
"It's almost comical, little fox. Standing tall means nothing if the world around you remains hostile. If the structures that desire your downfall stay intact, your survival is merely a stay of execution. A gasp of air before the drowning."
She took another step closer, her presence now occupying every inch of Indra's personal space.
"Understand one thing, young Uchiha," Kushina said, any trace of softness now stripped from her voice. "The essence of combat is destruction. To dominate, you must destroy everything in your path."
She did not retreat. On the contrary, she advanced, her presence making the air so dense that the field's gravity felt light by comparison.
"Not just the enemy. That would be too simple. Too limited. It would be the mistake of an executioner, not a true Uchiha."
The Saint's beautiful white eyes suddenly bled into deep crimson, black symbols spinning in a hypnotic dance within her pupils. That gaze did not just see him; it pierced through Indra's flesh as if dismantling the gears of his soul, piece by piece.
"Destroy what sustains them. Destroy what protects them. Destroy what favors them. Destroy even the idea—the pathetic vestige of hope—that makes them believe they can stand before you. Destroy everything, whether it be the physical structure or the very rules that govern this world. Erase it all until nothing remains but the void."
Kushina raised her hand slowly, pointing a firm finger toward his eyes.
"These eyes…" she said, her tone now sharp as a razor's edge, "these cursed eyes were made to see everything in this world. Whether it be the truth hidden beneath lies, the flaws in the fabric of reality, or what destiny tried to keep concealed. They were forged to strip away the weaknesses of existence itself."
She leaned forward, her voice becoming a dangerous whisper that reverberated through the obsidian field like distant thunder, promising ruin.
"I will teach you to destroy what has been labeled indestructible. You will bring ruin to anything that dares cross your path. From this day forth, Indra, you will not be just a combatant... you will be the end of all things."
Kushina said no more.
The field responded before Indra could even process it. The pressure that had troubled him before suddenly expanded; it wasn't an impact, but an oppressive tide. Gravity crushed every joint and muscle fiber, testing how much weight that soul would accept before shattering. But Indra did not fall. He would never yield.
The two Zetsus remained on their knees, static as gargoyles under the sanctuary's cyan light. However, even before a verbal command from the Matriarch, one of them moved.
Indra felt the hostility instantly through his attribute, [Born of Pain]. It wasn't a sound or a visual cue; it was a needle of pure malice pricking the back of his neck, a frigid trail cutting through the viscous air before the first step was even taken. Like a biological alarm against danger, the Sharingan flared in his eyes, and the world suddenly slowed.
Or so it seemed to the youth. Reality did not slow down; it was Indra's perception that accelerated violently. To him, the world ceased to be a continuous flow and became erratic. Moments stretched in agony while others slipped through his fingers. There was no total clarity; though his perception had heightened, he lacked the capacity to grasp everything he saw.
Unlike the previous fight, where Kushina had held herself back to extreme levels, there was no mercy here. The White Zetsu moved to kill. If Indra saw the world "slow down," it was because the Sharingan was forcing his brain to process an avalanche of information in a fraction of a second.
Through the single tomoe spinning furiously, the Zetsu's advance became legible. Indra saw only isolated fragments of the attack: the abrupt shift in the center of gravity, the tension in the leg muscles before the lunge, the subtle start of the arm's arc. His eyes did not reveal mystical secrets—they merely delivered the raw data.
But for now, it would be enough.
The White Zetsu closed the distance, a pale blur moving with inhuman agility. Yet, to the single tomoe in Indra's eyes, the attack was no surprise. It was a construction of biomechanical signals. He captured the creature's raw mechanics: the abrupt twist of the spine, the weight shifting to the lead foot, and the sudden dip of the shoulder. These were the clear signs of a direct jab being loaded.
Indra did not wait for the impact. Based solely on those fragments, he tilted his head laterally—just enough for the blow to miss its mark. It was a minimal movement, a slight adjustment that ignored the creature's smiling face to focus on the physics of the strike.
The Zetsu's fist cut through the air, passing millimeters from his temple. The displacement was strong enough to ruffle his hair, but Indra was already in motion. As the punch whistled through the vacuum, he rotated his torso slightly, closing his guard and creating distance.
He did not let himself be shaken. His eyes remained fixed on the white body, tracking the arm's recovery and the next move. The Zetsu paused for a brief moment, its limb extended into the void.
The creature retracted its arm with fluidity, its leg fibers already contracting for a new charge. Indra kept his stance firm, the black symbol spinning as he sought the next opening.
Before the Zetsu could complete the first step of its new charge, Indra lunged. He broke the distance with an uncommon speed that no Aspirant had ever been capable of; his lineage granted him benefits that defied common sense.
The offensive was surgical, driven by the habits of an assassin.
Indra dove into the Zetsu's guard, delivering a short, sharp punch directly to the solar plexus. The impact, however, had little practical effect. The youth felt the solid density of metal hitting thick flesh. The creature was only slightly pushed back, but its balance was compromised. Before it could recover, Indra rotated his hips for a second strike: a hand-chop, emphasizing his nails, aiming for the side of the neck to collapse nerves and blood flow.
These were automatic gestures aimed at killing as efficiently as possible. But even as he pierced the neck, all he received in response was a mocking grin.
Instead of the familiar tearing of nerve endings and the warmth of human blood vessels, Indra felt a cold and grotesque mimesis of life. Despite the puncture, there was no expected crimson spray; instead, only drops of a milky white fluid welled up.
It was proof of the Zetsu's superhuman physiology: before the youth could even retract his hand, the creature's pale fibers contorted and the wound closed instantly, treating the lethal strike as a mere nuisance.
Realizing the lack of effect, the youth retreated and composed a sequence aimed at incapacitating rather than killing, alternating between punches and low kicks, targeting joints with technical aggression. Through the Sharingan, he saw every micro-adjustment of the white aberration and anticipated them. A lateral kick struck the creature's knee, followed by an upward elbow to the chin.
However, the physical disparity began to take its toll. In a grotesque movement, the Zetsu performed a rotational strike, displacing its own spine to achieve an angle impossible for a human. The punch came from an inhuman trajectory; Indra's Sharingan captured the movement with absolute clarity, but his body simply could not keep up.
He tried to cross his arms in resistance, but the impact was devastating. The brute force made his forearms tingle instantly, losing partial sensation, and he was thrown back by the shock of the blow.
Indra recovered his balance with difficulty, his arms still vibrating from the impact and his chest heaving with heavy breaths. On the other side, Kushina let out a nasal chuckle, laced with a mockery that stung more than the Zetsu's blow.
"Oh, come on, Indra! What was that?" She tilted her head, her gaze overflowing with biting sarcasm. "You're showing me exactly what happens when an assassin has no advantage. It's cute seeing you try to hit vital points with all that precision only for it to amount to nothing. Look at you: cornered and with nothing left to do."
She took a step forward, her crushing presence seeming to flatten the air around them.
"Assassins. Haven't I told you their problem yet?" she continued, her voice growing colder. "They're lethal, sure. Great at killing someone weaker or someone whose flaws you already know. But without a real advantage, they're nothing more than insects. And here you are, bare-handed, brawling with someone much stronger. You're only standing because of the Sharingan, and even that was never going to last long. Only the strong fight unarmed, Indra, and you clearly aren't one of them."
As if her will were crystallizing, the ground of the field trembled violently.
Black blades and shafts erupted from the obsidian soil. Longswords, spears, and daggers of cruel shapes—made of deep rock with cyan veins pulsing within—surfaced like the teeth of a starving monster. The blue glow reflected on Indra's pale face, highlighting the sweat and frustration in his eyes.
"Pick them up," she commanded, her authority now vibrating in his very bones. "Clean hands are for the few. Stop acting like a disposable pawn and start fighting for real. Weapons are extensions of your will; a way to impose destruction where your body fails miserably.