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The war had been raging for over a year and a half—a brutal, relentless conflict of attrition that had claimed countless lives. Day after day, it dragged on, each one bleeding seamlessly into the next, leaving villages and people broken, dreams reduced to memories. Hopes of a clear victory had long been abandoned, replaced by a stubborn, bone-deep resolve simply to survive. It was a war of endurance, a brutal test that left only ashes where ambition once burned.

Now, in this dense, mist-filled forest, the weight of the struggle bore down on Guy and fellow genin with a crushing intensity. The mist clung thickly to the trees, obscuring their vision and smothering sound. The silence was profound, almost unnatural, as if the entire forest held its breath, waiting. Guy sprinted through the trees, each step urgent, his breaths coming in sharp, desperate gasps that cut through the fog in shallow puffs. Around him, his fellow genin struggled to keep up, their expressions pale and drawn, eyes wide with terror. The horrifying realization weighed on them all: they were running for their lives.

What should have been a routine scouting mission had twisted into something monstrous. This was no ordinary ambush but a deadly game in which they were the hunted, and death itself chased them, personified in the infamous Seven Swordsmen of the Mist. These legendary killers, each a master of a unique and deadly weapon, were closing in on them with relentless, lethal intent.

Desperation clawed at Guy's mind, each thought racing. He clenched his fists even as he ran, frustration and fear wrestling for control within him. As the designated genin leader of this team, it was his responsibility to keep them safe, to guide them. And yet, here they were, utterly outmatched, the horror of their pursuers pressing down like a shadow they couldn't escape. No matter how fast they ran, he felt the weight of those looming figures—merciless, relentless, unstoppable.

Then, out of the swirling fog, a shadow darted, swift and silent as a specter, barely more than a flicker against the dense mist. Guy's eyes widened, a chill running down his spine. It hit him with the force of a physical blow: if they continued like this, fleeing blindly, they'd be picked off one by one, like prey too weak to resist the inevitable. He opened his mouth to warn his comrades, but his voice was lost to the mist—lost, that is, until a new figure emerged from the shadows.

"Father…" The name escaped Guy's lips in a breathless whisper, weighted with relief and tinged with desperate hope. His father had arrived—just in time. Duy, who was as constant and reliable as the sun, a man of strength and humility, had come to their aid. The sight of his father brought a sudden warmth to Guy's chest, easing some of the fear that had nearly overwhelmed him.

Duy stood there, calm and steady, his presence as reassuring as a deep-rooted tree weathering a storm. To Guy, his father was more than a shinobi; he was a pillar of unwavering resilience and strength, a symbol of determination and humility. While Duy was never the type to attract attention or praise as a shinobi, his quiet strength was undeniable—a strength that no enemy could shake.

Guy felt a hand rest on his shoulder, firm but gentle, grounding him in the chaos. He looked up, meeting his father's gaze, and in that moment, a strange calm settled over him. Duy's expression held that familiar warmth, softening the dread that had pressed down on him like a physical weight. The fear, the oppressive dread clinging to every breath within the chakra-heavy mist, loosened its grip.

"Guy…" Duy's voice was low and calm, resonating with a steady strength, like an anchor against the storm of fear raging within his son. His hand remained firmly on Guy's shoulder, a reassuring touch that spoke of comfort and stability. "I might not be a great shinobi in terms of power or skill," he began, his words deliberate, each one chosen to cut through the turmoil, "but my purpose has always been to protect you, to pass down the power of youth."

Guy's heart clenched as he listened, his father's words filling him with a strange mix of pride and sorrow. In Duy's eyes, he could see the depth of his resolve, the fierce protectiveness that lay at the core of his father's being. Duy's gaze softened, his pride in his son evident, his words steady and unwavering. "Today, I'll give you a gift you can be proud of. I'll show you that even the least of us can shine, if only for a moment."

The pride in Duy's voice was unmistakable, carrying the weight of his determination to protect his son, even at the greatest cost. Guy's heart ached with the realization of what his father was preparing to do. This was no ordinary mission; this was a final stand, a moment in which Duy would lay down everything to protect him. His mind screamed to protest, to stop him, but he found himself frozen, unable to voice his objection.

Duy offered him a small, reassuring smile, his hand squeezing Guy's shoulder—a silent plea for understanding. And then, with a breath that felt like a quiet acceptance of his fate, Duy prepared to move forward, his resolve solidified. He was about to step into the path of their pursuers, ready to face whatever came, to hold the line for his son's sake.

But just as Duy took that step forward, a sudden, firm grip clamped down on his shoulder, halting him mid-stride. Surprised, Duy turned, his eyes widening as he looked into the mist, into the shadows that had concealed a figure moving with the silence of a ghost.

Emerging from the dense fog was a man, his frame lean but filled with an intensity that made him feel almost otherworldly. He was just under six feet, his presence commanding without towering over others, carrying a strength and purpose that cut through the mist like a blade. A mask covered his face—a demon's visage, carved with sharp, angular lines that seemed to slice through the fog itself. The mask was painted a deep, blood-red, fierce and haunting, eyeless and expressionless, as if the man behind it had no need for sight. Beneath the mask, dark hair spilled out, blending into the mist and casting him as a creature half-conjured from the shadows.

Faint blue energy pulsed along his veins, visible where his skin caught the dim light, casting an eerie, spectral glow. His nerves and muscles seemed to hum with restrained power, the lightning enhancement coursing through him, subtle but alive, enhancing every motion. It was not an external flash of energy but an inner intensity that seemed ready to explode with deadly precision at a moment's notice.

"Your sacrifice is not needed today, Duy," the masked figure spoke, his voice low and steady, carrying a strength that felt unyielding, an anchor in the mist. Each word resonated with quiet power, confidence as unbreakable as stone. He didn't wait for a response, instead stepping forward with an ease that belied the tension in the air, blue energy flickering beneath his skin, the lightning within him amplifying every step with lethal, controlled precision.

In the flickering blue glow that pulsed along his veins, Duy saw something he hadn't dared to feel—a flicker of hope. This stranger, this demon-masked shinobi, had not come to die. He had come to fight.

Ahead of them, through the thickening mist, the Seven Swordsmen of the Mist began to emerge—each one a distinct figure, an embodiment of death wielding weapons of legend, their silhouettes fierce and dark. Their faces bore expressions ranging from twisted amusement to cruel anticipation, every movement promising brutality and pain. They had pursued the genin with calculated patience, and now, their prey seemed cornered.

Fuguki Suikazan loomed like a mountain, his massive frame dwarfing his companions. He was a living wall of menace, his posture a silent promise of merciless destruction. Slung over his shoulder was Samehada, the living blade, pulsating with a voracious hunger for chakra, as if it too sensed the energy around it. Bound in wrappings, the sword seemed to twitch and writhe in Fuguki's grip, eager to taste flesh. He said nothing, his cold, calculating gaze set firmly on his target, his expression betraying not the slightest flicker of mercy.

Beside him stood Jinin Akebino, his hand gripping Kabutowari, the Blunt Sword—a wicked combination of hammer and blade known for shattering armor, bone, and willpower alike. A dark, wild grin spread across his face as he looked at the masked figure, his gaze glittering with the thrill of anticipated violence. Jinin's fingers flexed around his weapon, already envisioning the carnage he would wreak. To him, every opponent was a shell, just waiting to be crushed and discarded.

To Jinin's right, Kushimaru Kuriarare moved with a slinking, predatory grace, his wiry frame seeming almost to melt into the mist itself. Slender and sinister, he wore his cruelty with practiced indifference, Nuibari—the Needle—hanging loosely in his grasp. His long fingers traced the thread of his blade, savoring the thought of weaving his enemies into his weapon's threads, binding them in a web of death. His expression was cold, detached, as if he were merely considering an art form, and his eyes lingered with morbid delight on the masked shinobi.

Beside him, Ameyuri Ringo clutched her twin Kiba blades, each one alive with the crackling charge of lightning that danced along their lengths. The raw energy reflected in her eyes, which sparkled with a fierce, bloodthirsty intensity. Her smile was predatory, almost playful, as if daring her opponent to challenge her. For Ameyuri, violence was more than a mission—it was a joy, an art she intended to paint vividly with the blood of anyone in her path.

Standing near her, Raiga Kurosuki held his own pair of twin blades, vibrating with an unearthly energy that harmonized with Ameyuri's. His grin was wide and wicked, a wolf's grin, radiating a chilling pleasure in the anticipation of bloodshed. His stance was casual, relaxed, but his eyes gleamed with sadistic delight, the thrill of the hunt evident in his posture. He relished the fear he could sense seeping through the mist, and his grip tightened with gleeful anticipation.

Further down the line was Jūzō Biwa, hefting the Executioner's Blade—Kubikiribōchō—a massive weapon suited only to those with the will to wield it. His fingers traced over its jagged edge, an almost loving caress of the blade that had cleaved through countless enemies. His smirk was dark and confident, an expression of twisted satisfaction. To Jūzō, the battlefield was a canvas, and each strike of his blade an artist's stroke, carving death into those who dared cross him.

Finally, Sanjiro Okami stood wild and untamed, gripping Hidaruma—a blade that burned as fiercely as the man wielding it. Flames licked along the weapon's edge, casting his face in an eerie, savage glow. His unkempt mane of hair framed his face, adding to the feral intensity of his expression. Sanjiro's grin was that of a beast, his eyes shining with dark mirth, already imagining the screams of his enemies as they fell to his flame. Each breath he took seemed to ignite his anticipation for the carnage yet to come.

The Swordsmen's smirks grew bolder as they took in the masked figure before them, their cruel laughter echoing in the silence. They exchanged glances, the air thick with their mocking confidence. One scoffed, another smirked, and a few outright laughed, their disdain clear in every movement.

"Who's this?" one sneered, his voice dripping with amusement. "Another fool come to throw his life away?"

"You're just a shadow," another mocked, his grin dark and sharp. "We'll cut through you like we did the rest."

But then, the masked figure took a single step forward, his blue-lit nerves visible through his skin, cutting through the mist like a cold fire. Their mocking smirks faltered as they took in the featureless, eyeless mask—the complete lack of humanity in its design unsettling even these seasoned killers.

"You were about to make my cherished comrade lay down his life to take yours and protect those he cares about…" the masked man's tone was laced with quiet fury, his words cold and final.

The swordsmen stilled, scoffing, their arrogance unyielding, yet there was a flicker of hesitation in their eyes.

"I made him a promise—to be his son's comrade and friend. When he made that request, he didn't think of himself… not for a single moment." His voice dropped, the anger sharpened into a blade. "I don't deserve a comrade like him."

The mist seemed to thicken, pressing down on the clearing as if holding its breath. Then, with a voice edged in wrath, he finished, "You'll pay in blood and steel."

In a single motion, he tossed a handful of seals into the air. Each one released a dense, inky black smoke that spread out, swallowing the clearing in darkness. The thick, suffocating smoke was absolute, an impenetrable shroud that obscured every trace of light, every detail, until all that remained was a profound, disorienting void. Within the fog, the Swordsmen could see nothing—only feel the tension prickling at their senses as they were plunged into a darkness so complete that even seasoned killers found themselves on edge.

And then, without warning, a thunderous crack split the silence.

The masked figure had moved—pushing off the ground with the full force of his strength. The earth beneath him shattered in an instant, splintering outward in violent cracks that tore through the clearing like a ripple from an earthquake. Stones and debris erupted from the impact, caught in the brutal shockwave of his launch, scattering blindly through the smoke and landing with resounding thuds. The force of it sent a seismic wave through the clearing, rattling the trees around them and dislodging leaves and branches in a chaotic cascade.

The sound was a brutal, concussive explosion that reverberated through the darkness, cutting through the smoke with an intensity that made the ground tremble beneath their feet. The Seven Swordsmen, legendary warriors who feared nothing, exchanged unseen glances, their confidence slipping as they registered the raw power of his first movement—a movement that shattered not only the ground but any illusion that this masked figure could be taken lightly.

Through the dense, blinding black smoke, flashes of blue ignited as he closed the distance, a blur of deadly precision moving unseen. His kicks and strikes lit up the darkness, each movement a flicker of blue from the internal lightning pulsing through his veins, faster than sight could follow. The power of his strikes resonated within the smoke, a relentless and unforgiving force, each blow carrying the weight of his wrath.

Then his voice rang out, calm and cold as death itself, cutting through the black haze. "Today, let us change your name… from the Seven Swordsmen of the Mist to the swordsmen that the Demon of Konoha devoured, protecting his cherished comrade."

For the first time in years, the Seven Swordsmen, feared across the land, felt something they had almost forgotten—a sliver of dread.

The Demon of Konoha had arrived.