Naruto : Infinite Buff

Sheets of rain lashed through the trees, drowning the earth in water. The world grew slick with mud, the darkened branches shaking as if to rid themselves of the relentless downpour.

The forest soaked in the cold, each drop seeming to pull the night deeper into its heart, into the waiting oblivion.

The mist mingled with the rain, becoming something heavier, suffocating—like the forest itself was alive, breathing with a slow, monstrous pulse.

Amatsu moved through it all. Silent. Invisible. He was a shadow among shadows, his silhouette just another distortion in the torrential rain. His eyes gleamed in the darkness, sharp and intent.

The rain washed away all sound. All scent. All trace of his presence.

Except for his eyes.

Amatsu stood deep within the forest, where the trees grew thick and the shadows stretched endlessly. The rebelion he had seeded in their camp was already blooming into chaos—he had no need to check. He knew. Their forces had turned against each other, their leadership fractured.

Now, only these nine remained. Elite orphans. Trained killers. They thought themselves predators, laying a trap, making just enough noise to draw him in.

Foolish.

They weren't luring him.

They were only marking themselves as prey.

The guy paced the perimeter of the forest, shoulders tight with unease. His breath came quick and shallow, barely contained between clenched teeth. He was young—fourteen, maybe younger. His sword hand twitched every few seconds, fingers restless against the hilt.

He glanced over his shoulder. Again. And again.

"Fucking bastard," he muttered under his breath, voice barely above a whisper. "Think you're some damn ghost? Just come out already..."

Silence.

The forest swallowed his words whole.

Then—the air changed.

A pale mist curled along the forest floor, twisting around his ankles. It slithered between trees, thickening with each breath he took. Cold. Damp. Clinging to his skin like unseen fingers.

His breathing quickened.

"What the fuck...?"

The mist deepened, swallowing the trees, stretching outward like a living thing.

His vision blurred. Shadows twisted at the edge of his sight, shapes that didn't belong. His heart pounded.

A droplet of sweat slid down his temple.

"He's not real. He's just fucking with us. He's just—"

A shift. A whisper of movement.

His breath stopped.

He turned—too late.

A hand clamped over his mouth, crushing his scream before it could form. His entire body jerked, muscles spasming as cold steel slipped between his ribs.

The pain barely registered.

His heart stuttered. Then stopped entirely.

The blade twisted—once, twice. Slowly. Cruelly.

His fingers twitched uselessly against Amatsu's wrist, nails scraping at skin. But there was no struggle. No chance.

He had died the moment Amatsu decided it.

The boy's body sagged, eyes wide, unblinking. A final breath shuddered from his lips, more instinct than life.

Amatsu lowered him gently. No sound. No evidence of struggle.

The mist curled tighter, thickening around the corpse. He placed the body against a rock, positioning the head just so—tilted slightly toward the path.

As if still watching.

As if waiting for his comrades.

The glassy, lifeless eyes reflected the moon.

By the time the others found him, the body would still be warm.

And by then—

Amatsu would already be hunting the next.

Five minutes later, they found him.

It wasn't the sight of the corpse that stopped them first. It was the unnatural stillness—the way the forest seemed to hold its breath. No chirping insects. No rustling leaves. Only silence, thick and suffocating.

A sharp intake of breath. Someone cursed under their breath.

The leader, a hard-faced girl with a cruel mouth, knelt beside the body. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed two fingers to his throat. Pointless. The boy's skin was still warm, but there was no pulse.

"Dead," she said.

Scar-Nose, the brash one, clenched his jaw. "Fuck." His voice was harsher than intended. "How? We were just—"

A gust of wind.

A whisper of movement in the trees.

It was nothing. And yet—

Someone saw something.

A flicker of shadow, barely visible through the tangled branches. Gone the moment eyes focused. But it had been there. Watching. Waiting.

The youngest of them, a wiry boy with hollow cheeks, took a step back. His breath hitched. His fingers tightened around his weapon, but the grip was wrong—too tense, too afraid.

"This isn't right." His voice came out weak, almost swallowed by the silence. "This isn't a fight. It's… it's something else."

Scar-Nose rounded on him, angry. "Shut up." His voice was too loud, trying too hard to be steady. "It's just some coward picking us off one by one. We stick together, we—"

Crunch.

A soft sound. Barely audible.

But it was there.

Somewhere behind them, past the trees. A footstep.

The leader's head snapped up, eyes narrowing into the dark. But there was nothing. No movement. No figure.

Only the feeling—that something was still there. Watching. Smiling.

Scar-Nose turned slowly, gripping his blade too tightly. His breath came faster. The others shifted, huddling together now, backs almost touching.

Amatsu wasn't in sight.

And that was the worst part.

He could be anywhere.

He could be nowhere.

Or he could be right behind them.

Fear led to mistakes. A moment of doubt, a glance over the shoulder at the wrong time.

Amatsu used it.

A snap. A single branch breaking in the distance. Not too loud—just enough to make them listen. Just enough to plant the seed.

A shadow flickered between trees. A trick of the eyes? Or something worse?

Then—a soft patter.

A droplet of something dark. Red. Splattering onto the leaves. Fresh.

Scar-Nose swallowed hard, fingers locked white around his blade. "The fuck was that?" His voice barely concealed the tremor beneath it.

The leader exhaled sharply, forcing herself to keep control. "Check it out."

Two of them moved. A boy and a girl. Reluctant, but obedient. The perfect prey.

They stepped forward, scanning the darkness. Leaves crunched underfoot. One turned his head, peering into the void between the trees. The other kept her blade raised, breaths coming fast.

They didn't return.

At first, the others only noticed the silence. A suffocating absence of sound, as if the forest itself refused to acknowledge what had happened. Then, a metallic tang reached them.

And then—they saw.

The two were hanging.

Ropes looped around their throats, suspending them from a thick, gnarled tree. But they weren't just strung up like discarded corpses. They were posed.

Feet planted firmly. Hands at their sides. Heads bowed slightly, like loyal soldiers still waiting for orders.

Only their slit throats betrayed the truth.

For a moment, no one spoke. No one moved. The horror of it was absolute. Personal. This wasn't just killing.

It was a message.

One of the younger orphans gasped, choked—then turned and vomited onto the ground.

The sound was too loud. The moment was too fragile. Terror crawled into their bones.

And somewhere in the trees, unseen, unheard, Amatsu smiled.

They snapped.

The last threads of discipline unraveled, ripped apart by the sheer, crushing weight of terror.

The five remaining orphans had lost all pretense of control. Fear had sunk its claws deep into their flesh, gnawing at their reason.

"He's just one man!" Scar-Nose snarled, more to himself than anyone else. His breathing was ragged, his grip white-knuckled on the hilt of his sword. "We find him, we kill him."

No one argued. No one had the strength.

Then—a whisper.

A flicker of movement. There. Just beyond the trees.

Their bodies moved before their minds could process.

They gave chase.

They stormed through the undergrowth, weapons drawn, boots hammering against dirt and rotting leaves. They needed to see him. Needed to fight something. Because if they didn't—

The fear would consume them whole.

Two of them ran ahead, reckless, desperate to be the first to land a strike. Amatsu let them. He let them think they were gaining ground. He led them straight to the jagged ravine, a pit of ancient rot and sharpened stakes.

They didn't see it.

They didn't realize.

The moment their feet crossed the edge—

SNAP.

The ground beneath them collapsed.

The first didn't even have time to scream. He plummeted like dead weight, his spine shattering on impact. A sharpened stake drove clean through his back, ribs snapping like brittle twigs.

The second survived. Barely.

A spear of splintered wood had run him through the abdomen, pinning him upright like a grotesque puppet. His breath hitched, gurgling, choking. Blood flooded his mouth, dripping in thick ribbons between his trembling fingers.

His eyes found the ledge. Hope.

He clawed at the dirt, weak, desperate. "P… please…" His voice was a wet, broken whisper. A child's final plea.

Amatsu crouched above him, watching. Silent. Expressionless.

He did not offer comfort. Did not acknowledge the suffering.

He simply reached down—and pushed.

The boy's body slid further onto the spike.

The impalement finished.

A final, shuddering scream—cut short by a sickening, wet gurgle.

Then, silence.

The scent of blood, thick and cloying, filled the air. The bodies twitched once, then stilled.

Amatsu stood, stepping over the edge of the pit without a glance back.

Three left.

---

The last three survivors didn't run.

They had given up on chasing ghosts. Huddled together, backs against each other, blades trembling in their grips.

"This isn't right," one whispered, voice barely holding together. "This isn't a fight—it's a slaughter."

Scar-Nose clenched his jaw so hard it ached. "Shut up," he growled. Not out of conviction, but out of fear. Fear that the words were true. Fear that they were already dead.

The leader forced her voice steady. "We set the trap. We just need to lure him in."

They thought they still had control.

Amatsu was already watching.

From the branches above, from the shadows beyond their sight, he observed their trembling hands, their frantic movements. They scrambled, reinforcing the deadfall mechanism—sharpened spikes laced with poison, a single rope rigged to trigger the collapse.

They were careful. Precise. Believing that if they just planned well enough, if they just stuck together, they could survive.

They didn't realize Amatsu had already altered it.

He had been there before them.

The mechanism no longer worked the way they expected.

When the leader took her final breath, steadying herself before stepping back to prepare the lure—

Snap.

The trigger activated.

But it didn't fall outward.

The deadfall collapsed inward.

Sharpened stakes burst from all sides, faster than the mind could comprehend.

There was no time to react.

No time to scream.

Three bodies pinned like insects to a corkboard.

Scar-Nose's mouth opened, but no words came out. His ribs were skewered in three places, his own weight dragging him deeper onto the spikes.

The leader's head twitched, eyes wide with horrified realization, but her body was already giving out.

The last one? He lived just long enough to scream.

The sound was raw. Gut-wrenching.

It echoed through the trees.

And then—silence.

Amatsu remained where he was, unseen.

Watching.

Waiting.

The hunt was over.

One remained.

A boy—no older than thirteen.

He stood frozen, his breath ragged, his body trembling as he stared at the broken corpses of his comrades. Wide, wet eyes reflected the crimson-stained spikes, the lifeless expressions, the twisted, unnatural positions of the dead.

His dagger slipped from his fingers.

He could have fought.

But his body refused to move.

A shadow fell over him.

Silent. Inevitable.

Amatsu stepped forward, the soundless hunter, his presence alone suffocating.

The boy flinched. A tiny, broken thing trembling before a storm.

Amatsu knelt. His voice was low, cold—a whisper that cut deeper than any blade.

"Run."

The boy's breath hitched. His legs buckled once, then twice—then, finally, instinct overtook reason.

He stumbled, fell, scrambled away on all fours, sobbing. He did not look back.

Amatsu did not kill the weak.

The weak killed themselves.

It was an execution.

The forest had devoured them. Their bodies, once full of arrogance and purpose, now lay in the dirt, stripped of meaning. The night had swallowed their blood. The wind carried no mourning, only the stench of death.

By morning, the last survivor would reach the enemy camp.

He would stumble through the gates, pale, hollow-eyed, drenched in sweat. His breath would come in ragged gasps, his legs giving out beneath him as he collapsed.

He would sob.

He would tremble.

He would whisper the truth.

"We were never the hunters."

"We were never even the prey."

"We were nothing but corpses waiting to be claimed."

Some would refuse to believe him. Warriors who had never known true fear would mock him, laugh at his terror. Call him a coward. A disgrace.

But then, they would see his eyes.

Wide. Empty. Dead.

And they would understand.

He had already died in that forest.

His body had made it back. But his soul?

Amatsu had left it behind.

He was already gone.

This was never a battle.

It was an execution.