Chapter 39: A Feast and a Retreat
The stolen vitality of the Lion was a bonfire in Momiji's veins, but the Wood-ninja's blood… that was pure, potent lightning. It sang through his form, not just replenishing him but upgrading him. The severed, oozing wounds from the wooden spines pulsed and sealed with a speed he'd never experienced before, the flesh knitting with a resilience that felt borrowed, not innate. A new understanding of structure, of growth, of the link between life force and form bloomed in his mind. It was an echo of the Wood Release user's power, filtered through the Crimson Bramble and made his own.
This… this is what I needed.
He stood on the ravaged earth, the taste of Yamato's blood still a coppery memory on his non-existent tongue. The four Root figures had regrouped, but their formation had shifted. The Lion was a drained weight, slumped against the Earth Release user. Yamato was pale, his leg bandaged but his stance firm, his chakra still a dense, potent force despite the blood loss. The Water and Wind users flanked them, wary.
The calculus of the fight had changed. They were no longer hunters confident in their trap. They were defenders, guarding a wounded asset. And Momiji was no longer just prey with sharp thorns. He was something that had tasted their power and wanted more.
He didn't give them time to strategize. The idea came fully formed from the new well of energy within him—a larger, more brutal expression of his art.
"Blood Demon Art: Crimson Pillar."
The earth behind him didn't just sprout thorns; it convulsed. Three colossal pillars of crimson, woody flesh erupted, each thicker than a man's torso, studded with barbed protrusions the size of swords. The third was slightly stunted, a testament to the art's newness, but no less menacing. They weren't mere plants; they were extensions of his will made manifest, thrumming with stolen life and his own Ghost Qi.
As soon as they appeared, Momiji moved. With a flick of his wrist, the rightmost pillar became a battering ram, swinging horizontally with a sound like tearing canvas. It didn't aim for the ninja. It aimed for their fortress.
Yamato's eyes widened. "Scatter!"
The Root ninja leapt from the giant tree as the Crimson Pillar struck. There was no finesse, only overwhelming force. The dense wood of the artificial tree, capable of withstanding fire and blades, cracked like dry timber under the impact. With a deafening groan, the entire construct sheared in half and crashed to the forest floor in a thunderous avalanche of splinters and dust.
Chaos. Perfect.
Momiji pressed the attack. The left pillar swept low, not to hit the agile ninja, but to devastate the terrain. It gouged the earth, uprooting stumps, shattering bedrock. The shockwaves destabilized the ground, turning it into a treacherous, shaking morass. The Wind ninja, trying to reposition for a counter-attack, stumbled as the earth gave way beneath his foot. The intricate, hollowed-out network of Momiji's earlier, smaller thorns collapsed, creating hidden sinkholes.
"Don't let them combine!" Momiji hissed to himself, manipulating the two swinging pillars to herd the ninja apart. The third, smaller pillar remained near him, a revolving shield that intercepted a stream of Water Bullets and a slicing Vacuum Wave.
The Root team was competent, but they were on the back foot, reacting to a threat that had suddenly scaled beyond their expectations. The Fire ninja—the Lion—was useless, a burden. The Earth Release user was focused on stabilizing the ground for his comrades. Yamato was injured. The initiative was Momiji's.
His original Blood Thorns, the smaller, hungry vines, writhed back to life from the soil, taking advantage of the confusion. They were slower, but they were everywhere, a creeping sea of red seeking ankles and wrists.
The Wind ninja, evading a crushing sweep from a Crimson Pillar, didn't see the thin vine that lashed up from a fissure. It wrapped around his calf. He slashed it with a kunai, but three more took its place, their needle-points sinking in.
He didn't scream this time. He gasped, a hollow, surprised sound, as he felt the familiar, chilling drain. His chakra, his strength, began to leach away. He formed a seal for a substitution, but his fingers felt sluggish, cold.
"Fire Style: Dragon Fire!" Yamato shouted, spitting a torrent of flame not at Momiji, but at the vines ensnaring his comrade, forcing Momiji to withdraw them or see his connection burned.
It was a moment of distraction. The Earth Release user saw his chance. "Earth Style: Yellow Earth Swamp!"
The ground beneath the two largest, most destructive Crimson Pillars liquefied into a deep, sucking mire. The immense weight of the pillars worked against them; they plunged into the quagmire, their furious momentum arrested as they began to sink.
Momiji felt the strain immediately. Maintaining the pillars was a colossal drain, and now two were being immobilized. The backlash of their capture shot through his connection, a spike of psychic pain. He gritted his teeth, the maple patterns on his skin glowing fiercely.
He had to end this. Now.
He abandoned control of the sinking pillars, letting them solidify and become mere obstacles. All his focus narrowed on the Wind ninja, who was stumbling back, pale and weakened from the brief drain. He was the closest, the most vulnerable.
Momiji became a blur of crimson. He ignored the Water ninja's defensive spray, letting it sizzle against his skin. He weaved past a last, desperate wooden spike from Yamato. His world shrank to the fleeing Wind user's back.
His hand shot out, talons extended, aiming to finish what the thorns had started and consume this ninja whole to fuel his escape—
"It is almost time to wake up, is it not?"
The voice was inside his skull, calm, measured, and utterly freezing. It was the Ghost King. Shuichi Mayumi. It wasn't a question. It was a reminder. A verdict.
The driving hunger, the arrogant rush of new power, the vengeful fury—all of it evaporated under that cold, pervasive presence. Momiji skidded to a halt, his claws inches from the Wind ninja's neck. The ninja flinched, expecting death.
But Momiji was no longer there. He was back in the sewer, being judged. He was in the forest, forfeiting his reward. The Ghost King had been watching. And he had found Momiji's conduct… lacking.
Shame, cold and sharp, washed over him. He had been moments from losing himself to the hunt, from overextending into a fatal mistake. Konoha reinforcements were likely converging. The sun's approach was an unchangeable constant. He had won a tactical victory, bled them, terrified them, even claimed a new power. But to overreach now would be to spit on that victory.
With a snarl of frustration directed inward, not outward, Momiji changed his motion. Instead of tearing out the Wind ninja's throat, his hand snapped to the side, grabbing the man's arm. The Crimson Bramble's drain activated at maximum potency for one, brutal second.
The Wind ninja's eyes rolled back. He didn't even have the energy to cry out as a wave of life-force was violently ripped from him. Momiji didn't stay to consume it fully. He took a massive, energizing gulp of the ninja's essence, then flung the limp, gray-faced man towards his companions.
"A token of my… restraint," Momiji spat, his voice ragged.
He didn't look back. He dissolved into a swirling storm of crimson maple leaves and dark mist, retreating not with the arrogant slowness of a victor, but with the swift, purposeful haste of a soldier obeying a recalled order. He fled west, towards the deeper wilds and the approaching safety of absolute darkness, the Ghost King's silent approval a heavier weight than any Root pursuit.
On the battlefield, Yamato caught the collapsed Wind ninja. The man was alive, but utterly spent, his chakra coils feeling scorched and empty. The Water ninja helped the stumbling Earth user. The Lion was unconscious. The giant tree was rubble. Two monstrous crimson pillars stood half-sunk in a swamp like forgotten idols.
Yamato surveyed the devastation, his face grim. They had survived. They had even, technically, driven the target off. But it felt like anything but a win. They had been tested, broken, and drained by a monster that grew stronger by feeding on them. And it had left not in defeat, but because it chose to.
He looked toward the west, where the last crimson leaves had vanished into the forest gloom.
"Report to Lord Danzo," he said, his voice hoarse. "The target is confirmed as a hostile, blood-drinking entity. Designate it… Ketsueki Momiji (Blood Maple). Threat level: Kage. Priority: Extreme Containment or Elimination." He looked down at his own bandaged leg, then at his ravaged team. "And inform him… it is learning."
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