Disrespecting Her? Unforgivable!

The air grew colder as a dense mist started enveloping the area, making it harder to discern their surroundings. A voice, deep and mocking, echoed eerily from within the thick veil. "To think I've been noticed by a pair of little girls," the voice mused, oozing derision.

Tensing, Samui and Mabui instinctively closed in, positioning themselves in front of the younger shinobi, ready for whatever challenge this mysterious figure posed.

"Well," the voice continued, seemingly amused, "since they are Hyuga, I suppose it's still acceptable."

Not one to be easily intimidated, Ryomaru called out confidently, "If you know they're Hyuga, why bother with the mist? Are you just trying to show off, or are you genuinely this foolish?"

The voice scoffed, a hint of annoyance creeping in. "You're too weak to speak to me with such disrespect."

Suddenly, the air grew tense as a massive sword hurtled through the mist, spinning rapidly and aimed directly at the group. Its intent was clear: to split them in two. Thanks to the keen perception of Hinata and Hanabi, the team was immediately alerted.

"Move!" Hanabi shouted, her voice sharp.

Everyone stepped back just in time, narrowly avoiding the lethal arc of the blade. The sword embedded itself into a tree with a thud, its sheer size and weight causing the ground to tremble.

Then, on that very sword, a figure appeared, materializing from the mist. His tall, muscular form was evident, even from a distance. Bandages obscured the lower half of his face, revealing only his dark, penetrating eyes. Those eyes locked onto Ryomaru and his team, emanating a cold, chilling aura. His spiky black hair was adorned sideways with a forehead protector, and his attire was distinct with the striped pattern reminiscent of Kirigakure.

Temari clenched her fan, her stance defensive. "Who are you?"

Samui's gaze hardened, recognition evident in her eyes. "Zabuza Momochi," she spat out the name with evident distaste. "The so-called 'Demon of the Hidden Mist.' What brings you so far from your swamp?"

Zabuza's eyes danced between her and Mabui, his amusement evident. Even behind his mask, the hint of a grin was unmistakable. "Funny, I was thinking the same about you. Oh, and by the way, I've heard quite the sordid tale about the Raikage and some Yuki Clan bitch he had his way with."

Ryomaru's ice-blue eyes darkened at the insult, and the air around him seemed to grow tense, his chakra palpably agitated. The derogatory reference to his mother was not something he would take lightly. Sensing his escalating anger, Samui quickly reached out, gripping his shoulder. "Ryomaru, control yourself!"

Zabuza's grin grew broader, thoroughly enjoying the stir he'd caused. "That's the name! Ryomaru." He stared down Ryomaru with a malevolent glint in his eyes. "I won't finish you here. Instead, I'll take you back to the Mist so they can dissect you like an experiment. After that, I'll come looking for your bitch of a mother."

Ryomaru's piercing ice-blue eyes fixed intently on Zabuza, and the surrounding air seemed to sizzle with electricity. Strands of his raven-black hair floated upwards, seemingly pulled by an unseen force, while arcs of lightning crackled around him, lending a surreal, ethereal glow to his visage.

"Stay back," he murmured, the hint of a growl underlying his otherwise calm voice. The aura emanating from him was so potent that even the surrounding trees seemed to shy away, their leaves rustling in a frantic, whispering dance.

Hanabi instinctively moved forward, concern evident on her face. But as she drew near, the electric field surrounding Ryomaru pushed her back. "Don't," he warned, his voice echoing a coldness she had never heard before. "I can't control this technique entirely. I don't want to hurt you."

Confusion and shock registered on Hanabi's face, but what left her more shaken was the indifference of both Samui and Mabui. The two fiercly doting guardians merely observed the confrontation, showing no intention to interfere. Frantically, she sought their aid, "Aren't you going to stop him?"

Mabui, her usually gentle eyes now hardened, met Hanabi's gaze. "This is a matter of his honor, Hanabi. If he believes it's worth laying down his life for, then so be it."

Hinata, though evidently concerned, remained rooted to the spot, her white eyes full of turmoil. The bond of trust between her and Ryomaru was evident. She believed he could handle this, yet the fear of losing him was palpable. Temari, on the other hand, muttered under her breath, "I swear, if things go south, I'm jumping in. No way am I letting that he get himself killed."

Zabuza seemed to revel in the electrically charged atmosphere, his sinister laugh echoing through the trees. "So, the young pup wants to play? Very well."

From the moment Ryomaru had first seen an image of Zabuza's face in his consciousness, a peculiar emotion had overtaken him. It was a sense of loyalty, a tug of fealty, and it bothered him deeply. Ryomaru's loyalty was unyieldingly reserved for one person alone — his mother, Miori. The very idea of giving anyone else such prioritization, especially someone who seemed like an emotional parasite, was infuriating. The mental demand Zabuza's image imposed on him felt invasive, like a command to surrender his will and autonomy. He abhorred the sensation.

The air crackled around Ryomaru, pulsating with raw energy. Streams of lightning erupted from him, illuminating the surroundings with an eerie glow. The erratic currents of electricity occasionally scorched his skin, leaving minor burns and cuts. This technique was still nascent for Ryomaru, not fully refined or mastered. The pain was a testament to that. But pain was inconsequential in the face of the burning rage within him.

Yet, when Zabuza had the audacity to insult his beloved mother, it was the final straw. That raw, unrefined power coursing through him now had a singular purpose — to defend the honor of the one he loved more than life itself.

His voice, though barely above a whisper, carried a weight of fury. "No one — and I mean no one — speaks ill of my mother and goes unpunished."

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