The dense forest reverberated with the sound of pounding steps as Garm, Kiba, and Konohamaru appeared to be running from something or someone, their Three-Headed Wolf Transformation undone. The trio darted from tree to tree, leaves rustled as their movements disturbed nature's rest. Behind them, a determined group of cultists pursued, their tattered red hoods and their bandage covered faces marked them as low-ranking members of their sinister order.
Garm glanced at his companions, his eyes hardened with resolve. "I'll draw them away. You two go and find someone strong enough to deal with them."
Kiba scoffed, directing a look of irritation towards Garm. "No way! Just hold on a bit longer and I'll figure something out!" Akamaru barked in agreement, his eyes reflecting Kiba's stubbornness, almost as if their eyes were mirrors reflecting the same soul.
But Garm was adamant in his choice. He fearlessly veered off, cutting through the trees and taking a separate path forged out of the deep sense of loyalty he has for his comrades. "There's no time for that! Just go!" he yelled over his shoulder as he gradually drew further away from them.
His sleek black fur blended seamlessly with the shadows of the forest, making him nearly invisible as he moved. He left behind a barely noticeable trail, subtle enough that only a trained ninja could follow.
The cultists, unaware that the group had split, assumed that they had taken the same path. Eventually they found the subtle clues Garm left behind, they continued their pursuit with mechanical precision. Their breaths fogged the cold air as they closed in, behind their bandage-covered faces their eyes' reflection were empty, soulless even. "The dark one is growing weak, yet the rest remain strong," one stated flatly. They moved with a hunter's finesse, driven by a single-minded purpose to hunt their prey.
High above, hidden within a tree thick with leaves, Kiba and Akamaru perched on a sturdy branch, frustration etched on their faces. "Dammit," Kiba muttered, clenching his fists. "We're too weak, we can't take those undying bastards down! We need help."
Akamaru whined softly but nudged Kiba, signaling his agreement. With a final, reluctant glance towards the cultists' direction, they slipped away into the forest, determined to find an ally shinobi that could aid them.
Garm, meanwhile, forged ahead through the dense forest. His young, untrained legs ached, but he forced himself onward, coating his legs in a layer of protective steel. Driven forward by sheer willpower, he headed northwest. The terrain grew increasingly treacherous. The climate shifted dramatically, and soon, the dense foliage gave way to a barren, snowy landscape. The air grew colder, the wind slipped through his fur, the chill sunk deep into his bones, but Garm pressed on, each step a testament to his unyielding resolve.
He paused occasionally to catch his breath, his breath forming visible puffs in the frigid air. Each time he stopped, the red hoods closed in, relentless in their pursuit. The snow began to fall heavily, transforming the world around him into a white, silent expanse.
Garm pushed through the unforgiving landscape, his paws sinking into the thick, powdery snow. With each labored step, the cold gnawed at him, piercing through his fur and seeping into his bones. His breath came out in ragged puffs, visible in the frigid air. The layer of steel that covered his legs did little to shield him from the relentless chill, only adding to the weight dragging him down.
The trail he left behind was unmistakable, each footprint a clear guide for the cultists who pursued him. As exhaustion took its toll, his steps grew increasingly unsteady, the harsh elements battered his already weakened body.
Finally, his strength gave out, and he collapsed into the snow. The layer of steel cracked open and broke apart, his life hung at the mercy of the frozen land. The icy crystals bit into his fur and numbed his limbs. Above him, the clouded sky seemed indifferent, offering no respite.
The red hoods, their dark figures now visible on the horizon, moved closer with eerie, mechanical precision, their bandage-covered faces betrayed no emotion as they closed in on their fallen quarry.
Not far from where Garm lay, a mysterious man clad in a red kimono moved through the snow, a rabbit dangled by its feet from a stick he held over his shoulder. He walked with a steady gait, seemingly unaffected by the chilling cold. As he approached, he noticed Garm's prone form in his path. The man paused, his expression shifted momentarily before continuing on, dismissing Garm as another casualty of the harsh environment. He stepped over him and continued along his path.
The red hoods, spotting the man, shifted their focus towards him. "There's another", "We'll offer his body to Lady Aiko aswell,", "in the name of Lord Jashin", they said in unison. Weapons drawn, they rushed towards him, their movements almost fluid in their sinister coordination.
The man heard the crunch of snow underfoot and stopped. He sighed deeply, as if annoyed by the interruption, and casually dropped the rabbit to the side. Placing his hand on the hilt of his katana, he waited, his body relaxed yet alert.
The red hoods lunged at him with their weapons raised high. In a confusing display, they seemed to simply pass him by, as if their bodies had stiffened into unmoving statues. But as their feet touched the ground once more, their bodies split into countless pieces, blood sprayed across the pristine snow and their weapons cluttered to the ground, The mysterious man hadn't moved, or so it seemed, his blade remained sheathed.
Two of the cultists were left alive, they did not charge in along with the others, their expressions left unseen, hidden beneath their hoods. Without hesitation, they slit their own wrists, performing a dark ritual. Their blood pooled together, "Cursed technique: dark blood return" a dark energy spread from their spilt blood on the ground. The swordsman watched, his eyes narrowed in confusion. He took a step to the side avoiding the dark power as passed by him and engulfed the scattered remains on the ground, a dark curse reanimating the fallen.
The bodies of the cultists began to mend, flesh and clothes stitching back together. The swordsman cracked a grin. "Well, that's new," he muttered, a piece of straw shifting between his teeth. "I guess even an old man like me hasn't yet seen all there is, but..."
With a flick of his thumb, he slightly unsheathed his blade. A powerful gust of wind erupted from the motion, whipping the settled snow into a violent storm. The snow in the air was dyed red as the cultists were torn apart, their boddies scattered by the fierce wind. "It's nothing special."
As the snow began to settle, the swordsman dug through the snow and retrieved his stick and rabbit, seemingly undisturbed by the violence. He continued on his path, but then he paused, spotting Garm once more blocking his way. The young wolf lay almost completely buried in snow, a faint shiver the only sign of life.
The man sighed, a look of resignation crossing his rugged features. He crouched beside Garm, brushing the snow away. "You just had to end up blocking my way again, huh?" he muttered, lifting Garm with surprising gentleness.
Carrying Garm over his shoulder, the man set off towards a village in the distance, his stride hurried unlike before. The snow continued to fall around them, a silent witness to the events that had transpired.
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