198

High in the sky, Aizen was now a faint dot against the stormy backdrop. The torrential rain continued to pour relentlessly, adding to the despair below.

Rasa and Pakura stood amidst the chaos, drenched, battered, and thoroughly defeated. The fire of rage that had once burned in their eyes had now dimmed, replaced by a weary helplessness.

"Rasa…what do we do now?" Pakura gritted her teeth, the frustration and exhaustion clear in her voice. She hated the words even as she spoke them, but it was the truth—Aizen had outclassed them in every way.

Rasa, still silent, clenched his fists. The weight of the battle, the humiliation, and the inevitability of retreat bore down on him like a mountain. After a long moment, he finally spoke, his voice heavy with defeat.

"For now…we retreat. If we stay, we'll die here at his hands," he admitted, his head bowing slightly as if the very admission aged him years.

Pakura's fists trembled at the words, but she nodded reluctantly. They couldn't win. Not against him.

"Damn him," Rasa muttered bitterly, his voice barely audible over the rain.

The memories of Aizen and Namikaze Minato's earlier conversation resurfaced in their minds. The confidence in their voices, the way they'd discussed their plan with such certainty—it had been galling at the time. But now, standing amid the wreckage of their failure, Rasa and Pakura realized how utterly outmatched they had been.

They could already imagine how the story would spread across the ninja world, a tale of humiliation for Sand Shinobi.

"Did you hear? Konoha's Aizen and Namikaze Minato infiltrated Sand Shinobi's ranks, wiped out their elites, and sent Rasa and Pakura running like cowards!"

"Sand Shinobi's leaders couldn't even stand up to Aizen alone? Pathetic…"

The thought alone made Rasa's chest tighten with rage and shame. His failure was now etched into the annals of history—a personal disgrace that would echo across villages.

Determined to save what was left of their pride and lives, Rasa and Pakura turned to flee. Rasa gritted his teeth, silently vowing revenge.

"Aizen," he thought bitterly, "one day, I will repay this humiliation a hundredfold."

Pakura bolted in the opposite direction, aiming for the edge of the rain's coverage, hoping to escape the oppressive reach of Aizen's Cutting Rain.

But Aizen wasn't finished.

"Running already?" Aizen's voice rang out, dripping with mockery. High above, a sly smile crossed his face as he began weaving seals with a casual confidence.

"Secret Art: Water Burst Clones."

The surrounding Water Jades writhed unnaturally, morphing and coalescing into humanoid forms—each clone shimmering with an ethereal, liquid-like consistency.

With a flick of Aizen's hand, the clones surged forward like hunting predators, splitting into two groups to pursue Rasa and Pakura.

Lightweight and swift, the clones moved with unnatural speed, flying through the air as if unbound by gravity. Within moments, they intercepted their fleeing targets, landing directly in their paths.

Rasa gritted his teeth as the Water Burst Clones surrounded him, their relentless speed and precision making escape impossible.

"Magnet Style: Golden Sand Waves!" he roared, summoning the last reserves of his chakra to create a powerful surge of gold dust aimed at the clones.

The wave rushed forward with incredible momentum, but the clones, nimble and unyielding, dodged effortlessly, leaving the attack to crash harmlessly behind them. They retaliated with speed, their arms forming lethal water blades that sliced cleanly through the sand wave before closing in on Rasa.

As two of the nearest Water Burst Clones approached, their molecular structure shifted wildly, releasing a burst of concentrated energy.

Rasa's pupils shrank in shock.

"Boom!"

The resulting explosion tore through the area, engulfing it in a dense cloud of sand and smoke. Rasa emerged from the wreckage, coughing and battered. His quick use of the Sand Substitution Technique had saved his life, but just barely.

Amidst the choking smoke, Rasa tried to mask his presence, hoping to use the cover to escape. But the clones were unrelenting. Their incredible perception tore through the smoke, homing in on Rasa's location with uncanny precision.

"Not only are they fast, but their sensory abilities are absurd!" he thought, gritting his teeth as the clones herded him back toward the center of Aizen's Cutting Rain technique.

Within moments, Rasa found himself standing back-to-back with Pakura, both of them battered and exhausted. Her expression mirrored his—a mix of frustration and grim determination.

The clones closed in, their deadly precision making escape seem like a fleeting dream. Despair began to take root in Rasa's heart. His Magnet Style techniques, weakened by the relentless effects of Cutting Rain, were almost useless. Even retreating underground was a death sentence, as the gold dust, now stripped of chakra, would weigh him down.

"Rasa," Pakura's voice cut through the despair like a sharp blade, resolute and unwavering. "You need to go. Use the Sand Diving Technique and escape while I hold them off."

Rasa froze, the weight of her words sinking in. "But… I won't be able to get far in this sand. They'll—"

"It doesn't matter," Pakura interrupted, her eyes burning with determination. "I'll buy you time. One of us has to survive this."

Her words were final, leaving no room for argument.

Rasa hesitated, torn between his pride and the grim reality of their situation. His lips moved as if to protest, but the look in Pakura's eyes silenced him.

"Go!" she shouted, her voice echoing with both urgency and resolve.

Rasa's eyes burned as he took one last look at her. "Pakura…" he murmured, his voice heavy with guilt. Then, swallowing his pride, he dove into the sand, using what little strength remained to escape.

As the clones moved to pursue, Pakura stepped forward, her body radiating heat as her chakra surged.

"None of you are getting past me!" she yelled, her voice defiant despite the overwhelming odds. The clones rushed toward her, but she stood firm, a deathly smile spreading across her face as she prepared for one final stand.