Re: The Secrets of Death [P]

Wed Sep 11, 2024 7:07 pm

Ashborn watched with a hawk’s intensity, every muscle and nerve attuned to the summoned entity’s presence. The air, thick with dark chakra, pulsed with palpable tension, like a serpent coiled to strike. The giant before them, towering even over Ayato, radiated raw power with each deliberate movement. Its red eyes, glowing with unsettling intelligence, scanned the room before locking onto Ayato.

Ashborn’s body tensed, his hand poised near his weapon, ready for any sign of aggression. He had faced many strange and dangerous situations, but this was different. The giant’s sheer size and imposing aura unsettled even the most seasoned shinobi. Though the entity had yet to display any overt hostility, Ashborn remained vigilant. Its gaze was calculating, revealing an awareness beyond mere instinct.

Amid the mounting tension, Ashborn felt a creeping fatigue gnawing at his chakra. The weight of the forbidden summoning had left Ashborn feeling depleted. He shared the burden of the ritual’s toll with his Kage, but where Ayato remained composed and unfazed, Ashborn struggled to keep his focus sharp.

"This ritual’s draining me dry. Ayato’s unfazed, but I can barely stay upright. If that thing makes a move, I need to be ready—focus, Ashborn. Keep your senses sharp."

As the giant took a deliberate step forward, Ashborn’s senses were on high alert. He subtly adjusted his stance, prepared to act at the slightest hint of aggression. Every movement of the creature was closely monitored. Should it show even the faintest sign of hostility, Ashborn would be ready to spring into action.

(WC: 256, TWC: 2271)

Thu Sep 12, 2024 8:07 am

Ayato’s voice cut through the oppressive silence with the precision of a blade, calm yet cold, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather rather than addressing the formidable figure before him. “Do you know where you are?” he asked, his gaze steady and devoid of warmth.

The summoned giant, a manifestation of forbidden power, loomed in the chamber. His physique was a testament to raw strength, every muscle taut and imposing. Wild blonde hair cascaded in untamed waves, and his red eyes burned fiercely as they locked onto the Hogokage.

“I know I’m not supposed to be here,” the giant growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble that echoed through the chamber like distant thunder. “But I won’t miss the chance to take your head off this time.”

He lunged forward in a blur of explosive speed, his massive fist cutting through the air toward Ayato’s head with terrifying precision. The distance between them vanished instantly, his knuckles poised to crush Ayato’s skull.

Ashborn’s hand instinctively moved to his kunai, ready to intervene, but Ayato remained eerily calm as though he had foreseen the attack. The giant’s fist halted mid-air, suspended by an invisible force, and confusion quickly turned to rage in his eyes.

From the shadows, Ibari’s laughter rang out, sharp and mocking. “Edo Tensei, huh? So I’m your summon now? Fortunate for you, a summon can’t turn on its master!”

Ayato’s gaze remained unflinching as the giant’s laughter echoed through the chamber. Silence followed, thick with the weight of forbidden power and unspoken truths.

As Ibari’s laughter died, Ayato spoke again, his voice filled with quiet authority. “You stand at a crossroads, Iron Tank. Return to your eternal slumber, or accept a second chance. I offer you a place in my village—a new division. The choice is yours.”

Ibari’s lips twisted into a sneer. “A choice? Don’t insult me, Hyuuga,” he spat, his red eyes gleaming with mockery. “You could turn my mind to mush and leave me a puppet. But fine, I’ll play along. At least you spared me the preaching about Ninshu and freeing my soul." He paused, his tone sharpening. “It’s better to serve in your world than face the void again. Will this ordeal weaken me, or do I keep my strength?”

Ayato’s gaze was unyielding. “Your strength remains intact.”

Ibari’s grin widened a flicker of wicked amusement in his eyes. “In that case, Ayato-sama, I’d offer my sword… pity I seem to have lost it.” His defiance lingered in the air, both a challenge and a concession.

With a nod from Ayato, the dark bindings dissolved, and Ibari’s muscles coiled, his power surging back through his body. He dropped to one knee, slow and deliberate, his right fist pressing against the cold stone floor—a gesture of reluctant acceptance.

Ayato watched him with an inscrutable expression, briefly acknowledging Ashborn. What knelt before him was not merely a warrior but a relic of battles past, now facing a new and uncertain fate.

Finally, Ibari spoke, his voice raw and defiant. “Let it be known—my spirit is far from broken. If I am to serve under your banner, it will be with the same fire I brought to my enemies. I didn’t choose this fate, but I will leave my mark.”

[WC: 542]

Fri Sep 13, 2024 9:44 am

Ashborn's grip faltered, his kunai slipping from his fingers and clattering against the stone floor, the sound sharp in the tense silence. Clumsy, he chastised himself, how many times have I held this blade, and now—of all moments—I drop it. Embarrassment surged, a flush creeping up his neck, but it vanished just as quickly when the resurrected warrior froze mid-attack. Relief washed over him like cold rain. The summoning had worked. Ayato stood as composed as ever, while the giant’s fist hung suspended, halted by unseen forces.

Ashborn bent down, retrieving his kunai, though his eyes never left the towering figure before them. The giant didn’t even spare him a glance, as if Ashborn were a mere shadow in the room. Who is this man? The pieces began to fit together, fragments of Ayato’s words. Iron Tank… The title stirred something deep in his memory—the man’s accent, harsh and unmistakable: Land of Wind. Ashborn had heard of him, a beast of a man, a juggernaut from the opposite side, during the final days of the Fifth Ninja War. Ibari, the Iron Tank. A name spoken in equal parts fear and grudging respect.

Ashborn held his breath, bracing for the inevitable explosion of violence. But instead, the giant knelt—slow and deliberate. It was disorienting watching a warrior of such stature, built for destruction, use his second chance at life to do what he did best: fight. Not with rebellion or brute force, but by seizing this resurrection as an opportunity to keep waging war, even under new terms.

As the weight of this realization settled in, Ashborn’s thoughts shifted. Could something be done about Ibari’s personality? The man had a mouth on him, sharp and insolent. Even in death, he carried that same bold defiance. Ashborn wondered if the body could be controlled, but could the spirit ever be made to follow without testing its chains?

The room grew still, the weight of the moment pressing down like a storm. Ashborn’s voice, when it finally came, was cold and steady. “If we can bend our former enemies to our will with this,” he said, eyes on Ibari, “our new adversaries will find their burdens heavier than they ever imagined.”

(WC: 368, TWC: 2639)

Yesterday at 3:52 pm

"And if all the ninjas in the realm perished," Ibari sneered, his lips curling with mocking glee, "I’d be the Lord Commander of your Nova Corps."

Ayato felt the sting of the jab but did not show it. The world was entirely of men like Ibari—warriors who fancied themselves above consequence, even above death itself. He had learned long ago that the loudest voices often masked the most profound fears.

“Some of them did,” Ayato replied, his voice heavy as stone. “A shame. Their worth outstripped yours a hundred times over.”

Ibari's smile faltered for a heartbeat; arrogance briefly cracked, but it returned swiftly, laced with mockery. “You’re not here to knight me into the Nova Corps, Lord Seventh?” he asked, his tone edged, daring Ayato to strike back.

Ayato’s gaze hardened, colder than the winter storms that had tempered him. “Not the Nova Corps,” he said, each word deliberate, cutting through the air with precision. “The Black Sun Division.”

He let the words settle like a heavy fog, his eyes unwavering. “And you are its first member.”

There was no grandeur in the title—just a quiet finality. Ibari would accept it, or he wouldn’t. In the end, it didn’t matter. The dead had no voice, no will. Only service.

Ibari's sneer returned, but now it turned toward Ashborn, the young warrior standing silently at Ayato’s side. “And who is this dwarf?” he spat, eyes gleaming with contempt. “My royal squire? Or some juggler here to amuse me in my resurrection?”

The insult cut like a blade, but Ayato responded colder and swifter. “This is Ashborn Yamaguchi,” he said, each word sharp as steel. “Lady Ootsu’s grandson and heir.”

For the first time, Ibari's bravado cracked. His grin wavered, and a flicker of recognition crossed his eyes, brief but telling. “That old crone is still alive?” His voice dipped, now shadowed with something more profound, as if her name alone conjured ghosts. “I figured you’d have sent her to meet her ancestors after that rebellion—either you or Lord Elderblade.” His chuckle was low, bitter. “That fight of hers made enough noise to wake the dead even in the Waste.”

Ayato remained silent, allowing the words to linger like frost. There was no need to defend Lady Ootsu. Like his own, her legacy was carved into history. She needed no defense, least of all from a man like Ibari.

Ibari’s sneer sharpened, his words dripping with cruelty as he regarded Ashborn. “Is this how you keep her in line, Ayato? By holding her grandson hostage? Let me give you a tip, Captain—she has no heart to break. You’d find more warmth in a stone.”

Ayato remained silent. Sometimes, silence cuts deeper than words. He knew Ibari’s game—testing for weakness, searching for cracks. Men like him, forged in violence, only knew how to destroy what others built.

Ibari, growing bolder in the quiet, let his voice drop, laden with menace. “Do you know who I am, boy?” His tone carried the weight of a bloody legacy, a name feared across the Land of Wind and beyond—the Iron Tank—an unstoppable force whose reputation was whispered on battlefields.

The tension in the room thickened, and Ayato could see Ashborn standing firm under Ibari’s piercing gaze. The boy still had much to learn, but there was iron in him—tempered by war, molded by fire. It was the same unyielding spirit Ayato recognized in himself. And at this moment, he knew Ashborn wouldn’t falter.

Ibari, however, was nothing more than a relic. A ghost of a bygone era summoned back for reasons beyond his pride. Ayato harbored no delusions about the man’s second life—it wasn’t about redemption or survival. Ibari was a tool, a weapon, just as he had always been—one to be wielded in the shadows.

[WC: 631]

Today at 10:41 am

Ashborn stood firm, his gaze locked on Ibari’s sneer, cold and unwavering. The tension in the room was palpable, thick as the shadows clinging to the corners. Ibari’s presence was imposing—The Iron Tank, once feared for cutting through armies like they were nothing. But Ashborn knew better. Legends, no matter how grand, were just stories—and stories could be rewritten.

“I know who you are,” Ashborn said, his voice sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade. “A kinslayer. A bastard.” The words were deliberate, heavy with provocation. Inside, Ashborn smirked at the irony—a dead man risen from the grave sneering at the living. The crow calling the raven black.

Ibari’s eyes narrowed, his sneer faltering for a moment. But Ashborn pressed on, his voice gathering momentum. “I am a Tokubetsu Jounin of Hoshigakure,” he declared, calm yet commanding. “Whatever you were in life—beast, legend, terror—you stand in my realm now.”

He could feel the ancient chakra thrumming in the air, his own power draping him like a mantle. Ashborn Yamaguchi, heir to a legacy of necromancers, was more than just a warrior. In this place, where life and death intertwined, the dead didn’t command—they obeyed.

“This is Yamaguchi’s realm,” he continued, his voice dropping to a quiet intensity that carried undeniable weight. “A necromancer’s realm.”

He stepped forward, his eyes boring into Ibari’s. The Iron Tank—once a feared force—was now little more than a tool, a weapon in the hands of those who knew how to master death. Ashborn, young though he was, knew this truth well: whatever pride Ibari clung to was the hollow echo of a man long dead.

“You may have torn through armies,” Ashborn said, his tone steady and controlled, “but here, in this place, the cards aren’t in your hands. They’re in mine. You serve at my will, whether you choose to accept it or not.”

The shadows seemed to shift, as if they too recognized the change in power. Ashborn was no longer the boy in this encounter, and Ibari was no longer the legend he had been. The past had shaped them both, but it was the present that determined who held true power. And in this moment, Ashborn Yamaguchi stood firmly in control.

(WC: 371, TWC: 3010)

Today at 1:58 pm

“A bastard,” Ibari rasped, savoring the insult like a bitter wine. “I've been called worse by men twice your size and ten times your wit. My father was a shadow before I knew how to grip a blade. Call me what you like—it makes no matter.”

He paused, letting the air settle, his gaze flickering with dark mockery. “Kinslaying? It’s nothing special. With how tangled bloodlines are, it’s a miracle any shinobi can swing a sword without spilling their kin’s blood. Sooner or later, every warrior faces family on the battlefield.”

Leaning forward, his eyes gleamed with malicious humor. “If my kin had been Ootsu Yamaguchi or Toneri Hyuuga, cutting them down would’ve been a luxury—a mercy, even.”

The grin on his face vanished, his tone hardening. “The world isn’t as simple as you believe, boy. War holds no honor, no clean lines between who lives and who dies. You think commanding the dead gives you power?” His eyes narrowed. “You’ve still got a lot to learn.”

Suddenly, a flicker of confusion crossed his face. His eyes darted toward Ayato, catching the subtle motion of a handseal being cast. Realization struck him like a blow—too late. His grin faltered, the certainty in his expression crumbling as his form dissolved into ash. The dark energy that had sustained him flickered out, unraveling him like a shadow at dawn.

Yet his voice remained steady, laced with dark amusement. “Well then,” he rasped, his body crumbling into dust, “Seems I’ve overstayed my welcome.” As the last of him disintegrated, his final words lingered, soft yet heavy with warning. “You’ve got a traitor and an invader at your side now, Seventh. What’s next?”

And with that, Ibari vanished, leaving only the weight of his parting words hanging in the chamber's silence.

[WC: 300]