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Batman in Konoha. Chapter 50
🕑 Added 2025-07-17 19:57:50 +0000 UTCIn the heart of the Land of Hot Springs stood an arena — a massive stone bowl where wealthy tourists paid good money to watch fighters hack each other apart with swords. There were no politics here, no games like the Chūnin Exams where shinobi fought for village honor and clan prestige.
This was a show. Brutal, spectacular, and vivid — a spectacle made for the crowd.
At the same time, it was a live showcase for those who sold themselves as weapons. Mercenaries, bodyguards, chakra users — anyone could step into the ring and prove their worth. All it took was paying the fee to the arena’s director.
But today was different.
Today, for the first time in years, every ticket had been sold.
The arena buzzed like an agitated hive. There wasn’t a single empty seat in the stands. Vendors carrying baskets of food and drinks weaved between the rows, and the air smelled of fast food and adrenaline. In the VIP section, cordoned off by red velvet rope, sat daimyōs of minor nations, powerful merchants, even a few leaders of wealthy clans.
Everyone had come to witness the battle of legends. Steel against steel. Kurosawa versus Kusanagi.
High above the arena, in a glass-walled viewing box overlooking the entire spectacle, sat Fugaku. His hands were clasped in front of his face, the Sharingan spinning calmly in his eyes. He wasn’t a participant in this duel, but he felt like its director.
He mentally replayed how quickly everything had come together.
It had only been a day since his conversation with Mifune.
First — a visit to the arena’s director. Full rental for one hour: a significant amount, but nothing unmanageable. Then — a marketing agency. He spared no expense. Within hours, the city was blanketed with posters. Runners, criers, merchants with megaphones — all shouting about the battle that would happen only today, a match “greater than any Kage fight,” where legendary swords, rarer than chakra beasts, would clash.
Tickets sold like an avalanche.
Fugaku wasn’t surprised when the profit turned out to be four times the expense. He knew how the market worked. Money was a secondary concern. The real goal ran deeper: to rekindle interest in the sword, in the art of swordsmanship, in a discipline where it wasn’t chakra that decided the outcome, but skill with the blade.
It wasn’t his business, but Fugaku gave it his all. Once he took on a task, he always saw it through.
The show began right on schedule. Two samurai with ordinary swords entered first. Their fight was a quick but technically sound warm-up — fodder for the crowd. The audience roared. Every time one blade rang against another, waves of applause and gulps of sake followed.
But then came the main event.
Two figures stepped onto the stone arena, its pale tiles gleaming under the sun.
"To the left — the wise Kurosawa!" the announcer cried, gesturing to Mifune, clad in dignified armor, his warm gaze radiating the calm confidence of a master.
"And to the right — the elegant Kusanagi!" the announcer nearly howled with excitement, pointing at Mikoto, graceful as a panther, dressed in a dark kimono shimmering with fiery undertones.
For showmanship, they had chosen to introduce the combatants by the names of their blades. It worked: the audience responded better to legend than reality. No one knew who Kusanagi truly was. No one suspected that behind that poised figure stood a kunoichi of Kage level — and even less so, an Uchiha. That had been the plan.
Meanwhile, in the viewing box, beside Fugaku, sat another observer — a shadow clone of Mikoto. She had activated her Sharingan as well. Mikoto couldn’t use jutsu during the fight — the rules allowed only swordplay — but the clone hidden in the shadows could record every second of the match.
The announcer slowly exited the arena. By the rules, the fight couldn’t begin until he had vanished behind the safety door. These were the final seconds of calm before the storm — the moment when the fighters took their stances, frozen in anticipation of the first strike.
Mifune made no unnecessary movements. He simply rested his hand on the hilt of his katana. Kurosawa was still sheathed. But everyone knew: if you were within range of his blade — you were already dead. Witnesses swore it wasn’t bravado, but fact. His speed was frighteningly inhuman.
Mikoto, however, stood differently. Wrongly. Strangely. And — mesmerizingly.
She raised her sword above her head with her right hand, rested the flat of the blade on the open palm of her left, and pointed the tip directly at her opponent’s chest — as if she had drawn a target and prepared to strike it. That stance didn’t belong to any samurai school. Not even to any shinobi style. It was something of her own. A provocation and a challenge.
The click of the door below — the one the announcer had vanished behind — sounded like a starter pistol. The fight had begun.
At that very moment, Kusanagi’s blade stretched.
The sword shot forward like a crossbow bolt, slicing through the air with a taut hum, aimed straight at the opponent’s chest. Mifune reacted instantly: in the same motion he drew Kurosawa from its sheath, he deflected the lunging blade. The air shuddered. The two swords met — and the clash released a burst of chakra, dazzling and ringing, like lightning striking a bell.
The crowd erupted.
This wasn’t just a fight. This was a duel of enchanted blades — and the audience loved it far more than shinobi battles with their endless tricks and cryptic techniques. Here, everything could be seen. Everything could be heard. Everything felt real.
The pace picked up.
Mifune moved like a river — restrained, but stronger with every strike. His style was traditional: both hands on the katana, steady steps, sharp torso rotations, strikes like waves — strict, precise, confident.
Mikoto was the opposite. She danced. She leapt, flipped, spun — as if her body had no weight. She tossed the sword, caught it mid-air, pivoted on her heel, and glided like lightning on a tightrope. Every thrust was a gamble, every jump walked the edge, every turn felt like she was balancing above a void.
Mifune waited. He watched. He measured.
And at last — he stopped holding back.
Kurosawa ignited in a surge of blue chakra. Mifune raised the blade horizontally before him and began to spin it — fast, so fast that a half-dome formed in the air, made of pure chakra. It shimmered, vibrated, pulsed like a half-formed Rasengan.
He charged.
A wave of chakra rushed ahead of him, disintegrating every stone in its path into dust. The audience held its breath.
Mikoto didn’t meet it head-on. She... ran.
She bolted in the opposite direction, toward the arena wall. She sprinted straight up the vertical surface like a shadow, pushed off, flipped in the air — and dove from above. The sword struck like a wasp.
Kusanagi slashed downward and pierced Mifune’s shoulder — but met his pauldron.
Sparks. Metal rang. A step back.
And the fight continued.
They fought for ten more minutes without slowing.
The crowd no longer roared — it breathed in sync with the duelists. Some gasped, some stood up, some clutched their sake cups with trembling fingers, forgetting to drink.
And then — the creak of the door. The announcer stepped back into the arena. The fight was over.
The fencers, panting, sweating, but with a cold light in their eyes, stepped apart. Rules were rules.
“The match is over!” the announcer proclaimed. “By point total — the winner is Kurosawa!”
The crowd murmured in disapproval. They had clearly wanted a different victor.
“But by audience vote — the crowd favorite is Kusanagi!” the announcer quickly added, smoothly steering out of the tension.
The crowd cheered. Excitement returned.
Fugaku, watching from above, allowed himself the faintest smile. Just as planned. Mifune had to win officially — he was the one recruiting students. But Mikoto was meant to steal the show, become a symbol of something new, wild, and exhilarating.
Below, the fighters shook hands. No words. No bows. Just mutual respect.
Beside Fugaku, Mikoto’s clone flickered — and dissolved into smoke. All the data — every strike, every feint, every heartbeat — flowed into the real Mikoto, who was backstage at that very moment, already knowing the match had gone perfectly.
///
Fugaku lay on the wide bed in a hotel room. The lights were dim, a lamp on the nightstand casting soft shadows across the walls. In one hand — an open book on strategy. In the other — a cup of tea, long gone cold. From time to time, he glanced at the clock on the wall.
Two in the morning. Mikoto still hadn’t returned.
Finally, the door clicked open, and Mikoto entered soundlessly. Calm, graceful, a tired but satisfied smile on her face. Kusanagi in one hand, scrolls in the other.
Fugaku shut the book.
“How’s Mifune?”
“Oh, he’s thrilled,” she purred with feline grace. “After our duel, crowds swarmed the recruiters. Can you imagine? Crowds! Mifune’s sword school is entering its second golden age.”
“He got his win,” Fugaku muttered. “And now you got yours. But did you have to take those five hours of private training immediately after nearly slicing each other apart in the arena?”
Mikoto shrugged off her cloak and placed Kusanagi on the table next to a pile of scrolls.
“Strike while the iron’s hot,” she said, stretching like a drawn arrow, not a woman. “Tomorrow he’ll be surrounded by students again, or we’ll be gone. But right now... there was a window of opportunity.”
“We’re not leaving until we finish mapping the mountains,” Fugaku reminded her grimly. “The bats with the map haven’t returned yet.”
“Mm?” Mikoto glanced toward the window. “The mountains are vast. Let them explore. It’s not like we’re in a hurry.”
Fugaku set his cup down, about to say something — but stopped.
Mikoto climbed onto the bed like a predator returning to her den.
“I’m still wired from the fight,” she purred. “My heart’s racing. Chakra’s humming through me. Sleeping is the last thing on my mind.”
“What do you suggest we do instead?” Fugaku asked flatly — though his eyes said something else entirely.
“Mmm... remember in the basement, when you grabbed my wrists and pulled up my shirt? I know you were just checking the seal, but you were so... forceful. I liked it. I want to play that again.”
She pulled handcuffs from the nightstand.
Fugaku said nothing. He just grabbed her wrists roughly, flipped her over, and snapped the cuffs around the iron crest of the headboard. Mikoto exhaled in arousal.
“You’re completely at my mercy now,” he growled as he leaned over her.
“And no one will hear your moans.”
“Then you’ll have to silence me,” she whispered, arching up to meet him.
///
The next morning, the room was bright and warm. Soft golden rays filtered through the sheer curtains. Fugaku opened his eyes — and saw her.
Mikoto sat by the window in lotus position. Kusanagi rested on her knees. Her body was perfectly still, her breathing calm and steady. Sunlight streamed across her shoulders and hair, illuminating her like an icon in a temple of steel.
He looked at her — and understood.
She would never take the Man-Bat serum. Wings, claws, bestial rage — they would only get in the way of swordsmanship.
Mikoto had already chosen the path of the blade.
“You’re awake,” she said, opening her eyes and turning to him with ease. Her voice was soft, but charged with energy.
“Later than you,” Fugaku replied, sitting up in bed. “What were you doing just now?”
“One of Mifune’s teachings,” she explained readily, rising and handing him a fresh cup of tea. “You must greet the sunrise with your sword. And the sunset. It strengthens the bond between weapon and soul. The blade becomes not a tool — but the extension of your will.”
He took the cup and sipped, still watching her.
“I see you’ve seriously decided to become a swordswoman.”
“You saw how fast Mifune moved? How precise he was?
If not for my new muscles, he would’ve cut right through me.”
“Well then,” he said, setting the cup down, “I can help you gain speed.”
“Really?!” she climbed onto the bed, excited. “How?”
“Raikage’s technique. Lightning Armor,” Fugaku said calmly.
“To master it, you need lightning chakra — which you have. A strong body — which you’ve got. And a high chakra reserve — at this point, you’re probably second only to the Jinchūriki in Konoha.”
Mikoto froze. Then her face lit up with pure joy.
“Lightning Blade Mikoto,” she whispered, as if already hearing the title echoed in the Bingo Book. “Are you really going to teach me a technique like that?”
“Consider it an anniversary gift.”
She leaned in and kissed him. Slowly. Gratefully. Her fingers trembled slightly.
That morning, they decided to skip breakfast.
///
They returned to their hotel room after a hearty lunch at the restaurant. Both were in good spirits — the vacation was going perfectly.
But the moment they stepped inside, they froze.
At the window table, wings folded, a bat in a dark kimono was already waiting for them. Beside it lay a roughly rolled map, stained with dust, moisture, and dried blood.
“You were gone for forty-eight hours,” Fugaku said coldly, striding forward and snatching the map without ceremony.
“The caves were full of hostile creatures,” the guide reported, pointing to its torn pants leg and several gashes across its fur. “But I found what you were looking for.”
Fugaku unrolled the map and spread it across the table. The bat leapt nimbly onto the edge and began walking along the lines slowly, as if tracing a trail with its claw.
Mikoto stood nearby, leaning over the map with visible interest.
“Here,” the bat pointed to a symbol beneath a subterranean lake. “Underwater, there's a fuinjutsu inscription. Similar to the one you showed me — circular, with spikes and edge engravings.”
Fugaku leaned in closer, examining the map. His face remained stone-like, but a cold flicker of interest passed through his eyes.
“How do we get there?”
“There are three routes. Only one of them is wide enough for a human. The others are too narrow. You can expect to encounter spiders the size of dogs along the way. But I assume two S-rank shinobi can handle it.”
“Traps?” Mikoto asked without looking up from the map.
“None on the way to the lake. But at the lake itself, there’s a wooden golem. Large, old. I didn’t engage it, as you instructed. Also, there’s chakra in the water itself. The structure is unstable — it may react to interference. A trap, or a seal.”
“Understood,” Fugaku nodded. “You’re dismissed.”
The bat bowed — first to Fugaku, then to Mikoto — and vanished in a puff of reverse summoning smoke.
“Well then, darling,” Mikoto turned to her husband with a lazy smile. “Shall we do a little mountaineering on our last vacation day?”
Fugaku answered with a look — cool focus, tinged with amused approval.
“What kind of Uchiha would we be if we didn’t visit a dark, damp cave on our holiday?”
///
They moved deeper into the dark cavern, the dampness clinging to the air like a thin film. The Sharingans in their eyes replaced lanterns, outlining the tunnels, cracks, and small animal bones with perfect clarity.
Not a single spider crossed their path. Either they had gone hunting elsewhere — or sensed predators even worse approaching.
At last, the passage widened, and they stepped onto a ledge overlooking a vast subterranean basin. Below, a mirror-like lake stretched into the dark. A hundred meters ahead, the wooden golem towered — a colossal silhouette made of tangled roots, vines, and living wood. It stood still, but Fugaku could already sense the chakra humming inside it, like a buried generator.
“Unpleasant enemy,” Fugaku whispered, lying beside Mikoto. “I’ve fought wood-release constructs before. They don’t fall for genjutsu. They soak up ninjutsu like a sponge. And if you try taijutsu, you’re just giving them a chance to run you through with roots.”
“What’s the plan?” Mikoto asked softly, eyes locked on the giant.
Fugaku narrowed his eyes and pulled from his pocket a small bat bearing the Uchiha crest on its back and red Sharingan markings on its wings.
“Golems are like puppets. No mind — only programming. They respond to certain triggers: sound, chakra, enemy symbols. Our goal is to activate it from a distance. Let it waste its chakra attacking nothing.”
He released the bat.
Mikoto watched it with a look that blended admiration and approval.
The golem stirred. Its eyes lit up bright yellow, wooden joints creaked — and in the next moment, it lunged forward with startling speed. Massive roots lashed out toward the bat, but the creature evaded skillfully under Fugaku’s control. It darted around the lake, zipped above the water, vanished behind stalactite shadows.
For half an hour, the golem chased the decoy, striking at air again and again. Its movements grew sluggish, its chakra dimmer.
Finally, it froze on the shoreline, the entire structure trembling — then collapsed, crumbling into clouds of dust, leaves, and rotting wood.
“One of Hashirama’s watchdogs neutralized,” Fugaku muttered, staring at the remains. “Now only Tobirama’s trap remains. Water was his element.”
“Do you know what’s inside the lake?” Mikoto asked.
“No,” he admitted, eyes still fixed on the motionless surface. “But we’re about to find out.”
He moved his finger, guiding the bat. It gracefully lifted from his shoulder, gliding around the lake, its tiny claws brushing the surface. The water remained calm. No ripples, no chakra, no reaction.
“Hm,” Fugaku grunted. “Then let’s go deeper.”
He sent the impulse. The bat dove, pierced the surface, and began its descent. Everything appeared calm — until a certain point.
The lake exploded with life.
The water surged, roiled. A second later, the scout’s body was crushed by a sudden hydraulic blast. Blood, tufts of fur, and shattered wings floated to the surface.
Fugaku silently watched as the water went still once more.
“Now we know how the trap works,” he said flatly.
“Let’s just evaporate the rotten water to hell,” Mikoto suggested. There was no anger in her voice — only focus. “I don’t see another way to reach the bottom.”
“Fine,” Fugaku nodded. “Just control the flames. We can’t damage the fuinjutsu script on the lakebed. If it burns, we lose the weapon forever.”
They stepped up to the shore. The dead golem’s roots lay nearby, and Fugaku cast them a passing glance. Remnants of the legendary wood release genome, still laced with traces of Hashirama’s chakra. He promised himself to collect them on the way back — useful for experiments.
He and Mikoto formed hand seals at the same time. Twin streams of concentrated fire burst from their mouths, twining into a dragon. It struck the lake with a deep roar, searing downward to the very bottom.
The heat was so intense that nearby stalactites melted, and the air shimmered. Stone cracked under the temperature. Steam rose to the ceiling, veiling the upper reaches of the cavern.
Within a minute, all the water was gone. Not even a puddle remained. Only steam and scorched stone slabs remained, covered in glowing fuinjutsu script. The symbols pulsed with chakra, like a heart sealed in rock.
Fugaku jumped down first, his steps leaving faint trails of steam. Mikoto landed beside him, her eyes narrowing — already analyzing the seal’s patterns.
“This is an old design,” Fugaku murmured, inspecting the circular script. “Predates Konoha’s founding. We use more practical formulas now.”
He pulled out a thin, sealed scroll — one delivered to him personally by Konoha’s advisors. The symbols on the cover belonged to the Second Hokage. This was the key.
Fugaku unrolled it and formed a rapid sequence of seals. A sharp clap. A burst of smoke.
What emerged from the seal wasn’t an object — but a person.
A small figure. Slender. A nine-year-old girl. Wearing a worn black yukata with a faded Uchiha crest.
“This is what Hashirama was afraid of?” Mikoto asked, skeptical.
Fugaku said nothing. He didn’t like where this was going.
