Chapter 11: Shadows Shatter

The predawn cold cleaved through the forest, sharp enough to silence breath. Snow hung heavy on the branches, and the world felt suspended in that moment before a scream.

Minato stood motionless among the frost-laced shadows, porcelain mask firm against his face, Kushina's katana strapped to his back in its midnight-blue sheath—silver whorls swirling across the lacquer like whispered wind. His fingers lightly touched the hilt, the lotus-shaped guard cool under his palm.

He felt them before he saw them.

Seven chakra signatures surged through the trees—loud, fast, unchecked. They strutted from the woods like they'd already won. Jokes rang out, boots cracking crusted snow, cocky laughter echoing like broken glass in the stillness.

Their chakra armor sparked with overconfidence—high-grade Snow Country tech adapted by mercenaries who didn't even try to hide their bloodlust. They fanned out, eyes scanning lazily. Too slow. Too loud.

Raikiro led the charge, a lean man with a crimson mohawk and a jagged toothy smile. His armor flared with a volatile orange glow along the shoulders, reacting to his fire-based chakra. "Well well… little ANBU out for a morning walk," he sneered, spitting at Minato's feet.

Flanking him was Matsu, striking in her own way—tall, sinewy, clad in armor patterned like scales. Her blue hair whipped wild in the wind, burn scars twisted across her lips. "He thinks standing still makes him scary," she whispered, licking bloodless lips, eyes locked in hunger.

Gama—bulky, squat, with stubble like embedded wire and armor etched with crooked frog sigils—snorted. "I fuckin' hate Konoha snobs. All rules, no teeth."

Beside him, Tsume, every inch a predator—gaunt, pale skin, wild eyes and blackened armor wrapped in ragged tape. He flexed his fingers, revealing chakra buzz vibrating over cracked knuckles. "We gonna dissect this one slow?"

Dokuga, wrapped in bone-white fur and reeking of bad chakra, cackled and jittered behind them. His greasy purple hair fell into his eyes. "Kill 'im fast. Then we party."

Shiro said nothing, young and twitchy, blade dancing between fingers. His freckled face was too smooth, too happy. A twisted innocence clung to him like frost.

And last came Razan, towering, armored in jagged steel. The spiked pommel of his black warhammer rested against one shoulder as he adjusted his glasses like a scholarly reaper. "Make it quick, or stagger the kill. Don't care which. Just make it messy."

Minato didn't move. His voice was steady, low behind the mask: "You're far from the last warning you'll ever hear. Turn back. Now."

They laughed. Matsu tilted her head. "Hear that? Are you threatening us, ANBU boy?"

Raikiro let fire spark along his arm. "No, no… he's begging."

That's when Minato vanished.

The Dance of the Hummingbird-

It was like snow catching wind—barely there, then everywhere.

Minato split between them, not with raw force but with the controlled beauty of movement honed over decades. The hummingbird's rhythm—his rhythm—was precise, flowing, and sharp as edge-on ice. He twisted low, dragging one foot through snow as he pivoted, Kushina's blade drawn in a single whisper of steel. No chakra flash. No teleport. Just speed, awareness, and utter control.

Raikiro's flame-wreathed fist landed against nothing. Minato's katana cleaved him open at the ribs before the bastard registered pain. Blood hissed against the snow. Raikiro dropped with a grunt and a twitch.

Matsu attacked from the flank, wind chakra crackling to blades at her fingertips, but Minato was already airborne, sword sweeping across her back, rending through armor and skin. Matsu spun—but she wouldn't complete the fall.

Gama roared, charging like a bear, but Minato used his momentum, turning, dropping to a knee, and driving the lotus-pommeled katana up beneath the man's gorget. It split with a hollow crack—blood and breath escaping in equal measure.

Tsume moved fast, chakra claws slashing in quick arcs. "Got you now, bastard!" he howled. His swipe cut air. The hummingbird danced again—Minato vanished behind him, spun, and slammed a blunt-end strike across the back of Tsume's skull, then spun the blade in a liquid arc—clean, final. Arrogance didn't last long at short range.

Dokuga's lightning licked the trees, his crackling snarl lost beneath terror. "Fuck this! You're cheating! What the hell are you?" He flung exploding senbon—Minato corkscrewed between them, let one graze his arm on purpose, drove an elbow into Dokuga's throat, and carved a single, efficient line across the armor's weak point at the ribs. Dokuga collapsed, twitching. His blood cooked in his veins from his own chakra backfire.

Shiro smiled as he flipped a blade toward Minato's face—"It's all a game, right?"—and caught only wind. The katana glimmered for the briefest instant, so close to his neck he still wore a grin when his head hit the snow. The body followed.

Razan was last—he stomped forward, muscles bracing under spiked armor, warhammer raised. "Be smarter than they were, coward! Come at me and—"

Minato did.

A single arrow of movement. One heartbeat of silence. Minato slipped past the hammer's path, right into Razan's blind zone. He unsheathed the blade in a slow, impossibly tight arc, severed both armor straps and spine clean through in one whispering slash.

Seven.

They lay sprawled in red across the white—dead before they hit the ground.

Minato stood still at the center.

No flourish. No cruelty. Just necessity.

He bowed his head once—not in mourning, but in respect. The scent of blood soaked the wind. He slid the katana back into its sheath along his spine, bloodless once more.

Then it hit him.

A scream.

Far away—Sakura's voice, hoarse and raw. Then Yukie's turn, panicked, fighting. A chakra surge pulsed outward—vile, familiar.

Doto.

Minato's body tensed. He felt more than saw the abduction unfold: Fubuki slamming into Sakura with an ice-chakra elbow, freezing her mid-motion just as she reached for Yukie. Doto emerging from the smoke and chaos with the confidence of a tyrant, seizing his niece by the arm, dragging her into the blizzard, his armor sparking like blue lightning against her struggling form.

"No!" Sakura had screamed, leaping after them.

That's when Fubuki looped her in ice and dragged her too.

Gone.

Minato's growl boiled from his chest—a feral noise, primal and protective. His mask could not hide the fury that bloomed behind it.

He launched himself into the storm.

The Dance would resume.

But next time, it would be their terror—and blood—answering for what they'd taken.