Chapter 51: The Path of the Killer
Genjutsu?
The thought flickered through Ryuzen's mind as he held Hinata, but he dismissed it almost immediately.
Despite possessing Kage-level combat power, only he knew how limited his abilities were outside of swordsmanship. Ninjutsu? He knew the Three Basic Techniques and the Shadow Clone Jutsu—nothing more. Taijutsu? The Body Flicker Technique, which wasn't even truly taijutsu. Genjutsu? He could break genjutsu, but he hadn't mastered a single illusion technique, not even at the lowest C-rank level.
Without his swordsmanship and his two types of Haki, Ryuzen's actual strength barely reached elite genin level.
There was no way he had unconsciously cast a genjutsu on Hinata. His chakra hadn't been consumed at all.
But the feeling of physical strength being drained... the mental exhaustion...
Wait.
Ryuzen's eyes widened slightly.
Could it be... Haoshoku Haki?
The possibility sent excitement surging through him.
It made sense. It explained everything.
Haoshoku Haki—the color of the Supreme King—could burst forth unconsciously when the user's emotions ran high. Even the user themselves might not realize what was happening. He had been immersed in the spiritual world, experiencing Mihawk's victories, feeling the thrill of battle through the Great Swordsman's memories. His emotions had been elevated, intense.
If he possessed the qualities of a king, an involuntary burst of Haoshoku was entirely possible.
The realization hit him like a wave.
He grabbed Hinata, lifted her easily, and placed her on the futon. Then he lowered his head and captured her lips, pouring all his excitement and exhilaration into the kiss.
If he truly had Haoshoku Haki, it meant more than just gaining another powerful ability. It confirmed his theory—that the inheritance template wasn't simply granting him Mihawk's powers piece by piece until reaching one hundred percent. It was a system that allowed him to obtain power from another world, guided by the swordsmanship and combat experience of the world's greatest teacher.
The state he had entered during the massacre—that perfect clarity, that enhancement of the Breath of All Things—that was his swordsmanship. Not Mihawk's. His own, shaped by Mihawk's teachings but fundamentally belonging to Ryuzen.
Hinata, overwhelmed by the intensity of his kiss but sensing his joy, wrapped her arms around him and responded as best she could.
Two days passed.
August 8th. Morning.
The sky hung heavy and gray, dark clouds blocking the sun completely. Konoha had lost its usual liveliness and prosperity. Every street, every building, every face carried a palpable sadness that seeped into the air itself.
Nearly every ninja in the village—jōnin and genin alike, even the Academy students and trainees—wore black. So did countless civilians.
Ryuzen and Hinata had set aside their usual attire. No white scarf, no red scarf. No kimono, no lavender jacket. Both wore simple black clothing as they arrived at the gathering point early.
Under Kurenai Yūhi's guidance, Team 8 followed the procession to the memorial service. One by one, they approached and placed white chrysanthemums before the photograph of the Third Hokage, paying respects to the man who had guided Konoha through decades of peace and war.
Heavy rain began to fall.
Standing in the line, Ryuzen felt like an observer watching someone else's body go through the motions.
His face showed no sadness. No pain. No silent tears streaming mingled with rain.
Others around him—even those whose expressions remained stoic—radiated grief he could perceive with his Kenbunshoku. Their hearts were heavy. Their spirits mourned.
Ryuzen felt nothing.
He didn't understand why he had become like this.
In his previous life, he had felt sadness watching a dying puppy. He had experienced empathy, connection, the full range of human emotions.
But after coming to this world... after taking on Mihawk's role in the spiritual world... after experiencing killing for the first time... something had begun to change.
When he killed the Demon Brothers, his emotions hadn't fluctuated at all. Instead, he had felt excitement.
When he faced Zabuza, he had shown no mercy. When Haku's tragic story unfolded, he had felt pity but no urge to intervene.
In the Chunin Exam preliminaries, he had killed Akamatsu without caring what anyone thought.
But back then, he had still exercised some restraint.
Two days ago, that restraint had shattered completely.
He had killed sixty-six people without hesitation. Without mercy. Without pause.
The scenes still replayed in his mind sometimes—the severed limbs, the spraying blood, the sounds of bodies falling. They didn't sicken him. They excited him. Made his blood burn.
Even now, standing at a funeral for a man he had respected, he felt nothing but a detached acknowledgment that this was a significant event.
Ryuzen knew something was wrong with him.
He had embarked on the path of a killer. His emotions were being slowly corrupted by the very act of killing.
The violent energy of combat brought him to an unprecedented state of clarity. The Breath of All Things expanded and sharpened when he killed. His swordsmanship reached new heights in those moments of bloodshed.
But that same violence could easily push him to extremes.
If he let the killing intent control him—if he became addicted to the state it granted—he could lose himself entirely. He could become a murderer who killed not for purpose but for pleasure. Someone who couldn't control his own emotions. Someone who would snap at a glance, draw steel over an insult, kill over the smallest provocation.
Is this my swordsmanship, then?
He watched another white chrysanthemum placed before the Hokage's photograph.
This path I'm walking... this is what it means to be a killer.
His hands, hidden in his sleeves, clenched slightly.
Then I'll walk it without fear.
The thought didn't scare him. Didn't give him pause. His state of mind had become rock-solid over six years of training and killing. He had identified the danger—the potential for the violence to consume him—so now he simply needed to find ways to manage it.
Fear wasn't useful. Regret wasn't useful. Only forward motion mattered.
The memorial service ended. Ryuzen took a deep breath of rain-fresh air and walked home with Hinata.
The moment they entered the apartment, Hinata turned to him with worried eyes.
"Ryuzen-kun... are you alright?"
He pinched her nose gently, forcing a smile. "What could be wrong with me?"
"I don't know how to explain it." Her gentle concern radiated from every word. "I just feel like your emotions have been... unsteady lately. If something's happening, please don't hide it from me. We can bear it together, can't we?"
Ryuzen looked at her—at this girl who had stood by him for six years, who had grown strong beside him, who loved him with a devotion that asked nothing in return.
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.
"Don't worry," he murmured against her hair. "I'll be fine."
Even if only for her, he thought, I won't let the violence control me.
I'll master this path.
I'll master myself.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing blood from the streets, preparing Konoha for the rebuilding to come.
Inside, two figures held each other in the quiet, finding comfort in simply being together.
Ryuzen's eyes, when they opened again, held the same determination as always.
But beneath it, something darker stirred—a killer's hunger, waiting for the next opportunity to be unleashed.
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