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Batman in Konoha. Chapter 60
🕑 Added 2025-07-31 16:50:11 +0000 UTCDeidara hurled his explosive clay—and chaos erupted.
Everyone instantly scattered in different directions, as if they'd accidentally split into pairs. But Mikoto knew: it wasn't an accident. From the very first second the Akatsuki appeared in the house, her Sharingan had been analyzing them without pause. She read micro-movements, muscle tension, barely perceptible glances—and in an instant, identified priorities and patterns.
Kisame’s shark-like eyes slid toward her belt and sword with a predatory gleam. He had already chosen his prey.
As the first explosion lit up the air, Mikoto launched herself through a window, soaring through a sparkling rain of glass and snowflakes. Kisame, sensing the challenge, charged after her. They landed in the garden—in the inner courtyard, without ponds, without fountains, without streams. Not a drop of water.
A perfect place for her.
They stopped on a trampled patch of lawn between low bushes dusted with snow and rare flowers whose petals shimmered in the moonlight. Fireworks thundered overhead, the air thick with the smell of smoke, gunpowder, and pain. While others celebrated the new year, in the Uchiha household it was a fight to the death.
Mikoto slowly placed her hand on the hilt of Kusanagi.
"Kisame-san," she said, her voice cold, polite, and taut like a drawn string. "Are you more shinobi or samurai?"
Kisame grinned, baring rows of razor-sharp teeth.
"Mikoto-san," he replied in the same courteous tone, "I'm merely a servant of my sword. And it's hungry. I never deny it a meal."
"You hear your sword?" For a brief second, her voice held a flicker of respect.
"Samehada’s talkative." Kisame raised the massive blade, nearly alive, its scales twitching. "Right now it says your chakra... is poisonous and slimy. Like a snake’s."
Mikoto gave a faint smile.
"I'm more of a bat type." She narrowed her eyes. "I know Samehada’s cravings. It likes drawn-out fights. Blood, torn flesh, slow chakra drain. It’s a sadist."
Kisame nodded, clearly enjoying her words.
"And my Kusanagi is a killer. It doesn't play with its prey. It prefers a single, precise strike. One blow—and it's over." She tilted her head slightly. "I doubt we’ll be dancing for long."
Kisame licked his lips.
"Then it’s worth trying."
"How about some conditions?"
"Conditions?" His shark eyes narrowed—not in hostility, but interest.
"No shadow clones. No substitutions. Only body enhancement and swordplay. A duel. Let our blades… get to know each other better."
Kisame cast a brief glance back toward the mansion. Flashes, screams, impacts—all melding into the cacophony of battle.
"Five minutes ago, I would’ve said no. Would’ve gutted you quick and gone back to the mission. But after your husband shattered Tobi’s mask…" He spat into the snow. "That bastard swore he was Madara. Turns out he’s just a freak with a crumpled face."
Mikoto gave a quiet, amused exhale.
"He's no Madara. I would have recognized the real one instantly. Wrong height, wrong build, wrong shape of the eyes."
She straightened, drawing Kusanagi from its sheath. The blade sang through the air, and the snow drifted gently around her.
"So? Do you accept?"
Kisame swung Samehada around.
"How could I refuse a lady like you?" he grinned. "Samehada will enjoy chewing through your guts."
Two masters of the blade stood across from each other, like ancient warriors on a battlefield. Snow surrounded them, silence pressed in, the air thick with tension. Everything held its breath. Even the fireworks in the distance seemed muffled.
Kisame gripped Samehada with both hands, muscles bulging, as if stone had come alive under his skin. His body swelled with power—heavy, like the tide before a storm.
Mikoto widened her stance, one hand resting on Kusanagi’s hilt in a traditional samurai pose. Lightning armor flickered to life around her—an energy cloak crackling in the wind.
Strength versus speed.
Time froze.
A heartbeat—and they both lunged.
Samehada came crashing down like an executioner’s hammer, heavy enough to shatter earth. But Mikoto was already inside the arc of the blow—her step half a second faster. She slipped forward, body low and horizontal, and drew her blade in one fluid motion, like a flash of light. A sweeping upward slash.
Kusanagi cleaved Kisame in two.
The body didn’t fall right away. But even as it hung in the air, it dissolved into churning water that surged around Mikoto, sealing into the Water Prison Jutsu. A trap.
The real Kisame stepped out from the bushes, grinning.
"Nothing personal, Mikoto-san," he said with lazy satisfaction. "I do enjoy slicing enemies up, sure. But I enjoy winning even more."
"In that, we’re alike," whispered a voice behind him.
He turned. Inside the water prison, lit by flickers of lightning, floated only a thin, slimy membrane—shed skin. A decoy.
The real Mikoto stood behind him. Covered in that same slick film. In an instant, she struck.
Kusanagi flared with lightning—and it was over.
Kisame’s head flew off, and his body collapsed like a hunk of meat carved on a butcher’s table. Samehada fell nearby, its scales twitching once before falling still.
Mikoto stood over the corpse, perfectly balanced. A few drops of blood slid down the blade and vanished into the snow.
"We may honor the way of the sword," she said quietly, flicking the blood off with a sharp motion, "but above all—we're shinobi. And shinobi always deceive."
///
Shisui had chosen his target even before Deidara threw the bomb.
Amid the chaos, he singled out the enemy—one of the most dangerous, unpredictable, and above all, immune to genjutsu: Sasori. Shisui knew this killer puppeteer couldn’t be allowed to stay topside, near Sasuke or Hikari.
At the moment of the first explosion, Shisui grabbed Sasori by the cloak and leapt with him into the hole in the floor. Just as planned—there was a basement in the house.
They crashed down with a thunderous boom. Dust and rubble. Both rose instantly—then backed off to gain distance. The basement was spacious, with only a few dusty boxes in the corner.
Sasori broke the silence first.
"You paint?" His gaze drifted to Shisui’s waist, where ink brushes and vials hung. "So you’re an artist too?"
"Something like that," Shisui smiled slightly, turning sideways to keep the room in his peripheral vision. "Though unlike you, I don't turn myself into a painting. Or a puppet."
Sasori frowned.
"How did you know?"
"Your facial expressions are excellent," Shisui nodded, as if genuinely impressed. "Silicone skin? Convincing. But here's the problem—no subcutaneous fat. No micro-pulse. And my Sharingan sees all of it."
Sasori narrowed his eyes slightly. The next moment—his face lit up with anticipation.
"Useful eyes. After I kill you, I’ll take them for myself."
"And what are you going to do with them?" Shisui asked, genuinely curious. "You’re a puppet. You don’t even have optic nerves."
"You’ll become a puppet too," Sasori hissed. "Only the worthy join my collection. I’ll preserve you—as you were in this moment. Beautiful. Young. Almost alive."
With a dull thud, Sasori pulled a puppet from a scroll.
Shisui recognized it at once—from its silhouette, its details. The Third Kazekage. His Sharingan scanned the structure like a machine. Old intel from the Bingo Book—appearance, abilities, eye color. All matched.
So he wasn’t even surprised when a wave of iron sand surged toward him.
"So you’re the one who killed the Kazekage to turn him into… that?" A shadow of a smile touched Shisui’s lips, even a note of admiration. "We in ANBU had bets about his disappearance. I bet he was taken out by his own. Guess the guys owe me some ramen now."
"No more talking," Sasori snapped coldly.
He flicked his fingers—thin chakra threads flared into view.
Iron sand rose in a second wave, thicker, faster. Shisui vanished with a shunshin, not missing a beat. The sand slammed into the lab’s reinforced door, denting the metal.
Shisui reappeared near the wall, glancing at the damage.
"You’ll wreck the whole house like that," he muttered. "And they’ll make me do the repairs."
He pulled a long scroll from his belt, unrolling it on the move, and began drawing rapidly. Ink hit the paper with mathematical precision. Every line, every stroke—calculated by the Sharingan.
The iron sand chased him, but Shisui moved like a shadow, slipping through trajectories without a single wasted motion.
After ten seconds, the completed drawing shivered—and an ink-made machine slid free. A crude, heavy robot covered in bolts and gears. Instead of a chest, it had a massive vault door etched with the crest of the Hidden Leaf. An exact replica of one of Konoha’s central bank safes.
The robot swung the vault door open just as the iron sand reached it. The hatch slammed shut; the locks clicked. Something inside began to hum.
Sasori scowled. He tugged on the threads. But the sand didn’t respond.
"How is that possible?" he muttered. "Why isn’t it breaking free?"
"Look closer," Shisui said with a smirk. "That’s not a doodle. That’s an engineered beast. Twenty layers of defense, each one drawn down to the last screw. You couldn’t crack this safe with a Rasengan—let alone your sandbox."
Sasori’s face darkened.
"Fine. But that puppet holds far more than one trick."
From the mouth of the Third Kazekage extended a miniature cannon. His arms transformed into spiked maces, and a hatch in his abdomen began to open, revealing hooks and a retractable cable.
Shisui didn’t wait to see how that ended.
This time, he unsealed a scroll of pre-drawn designs. The ink flared to life.
Miniature robots burst out—dozens of them. Small, angular, each with its own design and weaponry. Some had blades for arms. Others had hidden launchers. All zipped across the floor on wheels.
They swarmed the puppet, and the next moment, the air filled with a mechanical roar. Missiles, grappling hooks, mines, and explosive spikes flew at the Third Kazekage. All of it—a marvel of engineering, forged from ink and fūinjutsu.
The battle now resembled either high art—or a child's game.
"This isn't fair," Sasori muttered, watching his puppet—torn, smoking—collapse into pieces under the robots' wheels. "You... have more troops. Let's fix that," he added, voice tightening. "I have a hundred puppets."
Shisui’s smile vanished in an instant. His fingers lit up—fūinjutsu drawn in midair, every symbol glowing with precision.
"Enough games," he said sharply.
The sealing sigil flared and struck Sasori. A pressure field slammed him into the wall with a crunch. A second later, the chakra threads vanished. Sasori sagged like a broken doll.
"Connection severed," Shisui stated, watching the body dangle limply.
He approached, studying the soul-core inside Sasori’s mechanical frame.
"Shame you weren’t around when I was a kid," he said with mock regret. "We would’ve ruled the sandbox."
///
Even before Deidara’s explosion rocked the house, Itachi had already chosen the psychologically easiest target—Hidan. All it took was sticking out his tongue, and the maniac was charging after him.
"I’LL KILL YOU!!" Hidan screamed at full volume, chasing Itachi.
Less than three seconds later, Hidan burst into the dōjō—scythe raised, eyes bulging with madness.
Itachi, perfectly calm, sidestepped. The arc of the scythe missed his temple by a hair and smashed into the wooden wall. A flicker—Hidan appeared on the handle. Shunshin technique.
"STOP RUNNING!!" the fanatic howled, like a man possessed. "JUST STAND STILL AND DIE FOR THE GLORY OF THE TRUE GOD!!"
Itachi activated his scalpel technique in silence. His hands glowed blue—surgical chakra dancing along his palms. He surged forward.
Hidan roared with glee and met the charge. His style was madness—wild, aggressive, dirty. But beneath it was technique. He could fight. Just not against the Sharingan.
In five seconds, Itachi was reading every move like a set of instructions.
He moved forward before Hidan even began his swing. In one motion, he slashed the chakra scalpel across his neck, striking the aorta with perfect precision.
Blood sprayed the ceiling, splattered the walls, his clothes, and Hidan’s face.
"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST DO, YOU BASTARD?!" Hidan screamed, choking and spraying blood like a fountain. "WHO’S GONNA CLEAN ALL THIS UP?!"
Itachi didn’t blink.
"Why aren’t you dead yet?"
He didn’t expect a coherent answer. True fighters didn’t spill secrets mid-fight. But he needed to confirm a theory.
"I’M IMMORTAL, AND YOU’RE SHIT!!" Hidan shrieked, spitting onto the floor. "I’LL CUT YOU FOR TEN HOURS STRAIGHT UNTIL YOU START BEGGING ME TO DIE! YOU’RE A CORPSE, RED-EYED LOSER!!"
Itachi watched in silence.
Blood kept pouring from the severed aorta. A puddle had formed at Hidan’s feet. His hands were shaking. His skin had turned pale. The wound wasn’t closing. No sign of regeneration.
"So... immortality without healing," Itachi noted coldly. "Pitiful."
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?!" Hidan roared. "I’LL DESTROY YOU! I’LL RIP OUT YOUR EYES AND SHOVE THEM UP YOUR ASS! AND THEN—"
He never finished. Itachi was already beside him.
The glow on his hands shifted—black lightning now curled around his fingers like veins of darkness. He struck the scythe. The metal blackened and crumbled into ash. Only faintly glowing fragments remained.
"YOU SON OF A BITCH!!" Hidan screamed, watching the weapon disintegrate through his fingers. "THAT WAS A GIFT FROM MY GOD!! I’LL KILL YOU FOR THAT!!"
"You still don’t get it?" Itachi looked him dead in the eye. "You’re a sack of meat. And I’m a surgeon."
He struck again. A precise jab to the temporal lobe. One hit—and it was over.
Hidan collapsed. His body convulsed violently. Foam dribbled from his mouth. Internal hemorrhage. A stroke. A fate worse than death.
"Interesting," Itachi murmured, stepping over the twitching body. "I wonder how the others are doing."
He wiped his hands—and moved on.
