Power Stone Goals from now on: I always post a minimum of 5 chapters. Henceforth the following are the goals:
Every 150 powerstones, I upload an extra chapter.
If we hit top 30 in the 30-90 days power stone rankings, thats 1 more chapter
If we hit top 10 in the 30-90 days power stone rankings, thats 1 more chapter
If we are top 5...well lets get to that first. Happy readings!
Chapter 76: Meeting the Guildmaster of Dark Dream
I remained where I was, surrounded by the smoldering remnants of what had once been a full enemy battalion, their bodies now reduced to twisted, blackened silhouettes scattered across the snow-laced field, their gear melted into the earth or reduced to slag under the sheer heat of my jutsu.
The air still vibrated with residual chakra, and the sky above seemed to hang heavier than before, as if bearing witness to what had transpired here. I let my gaze drift downward, taking in the scorched outlines of their once-proud forms, the flickers of steam still rising from where flesh had been, and in particular, the scattered remnants of what should have been high-grade weapons.
These weren't ordinary enemies. They weren't wandering mercenaries or aimless PvP scouters. These players belonged to the Land of Iron's military faction, which meant every single one of them had undergone the formal blacksmithing process—the kind that allowed each individual to commission a unique weapon forged by an approved craftsman under the strict regulation of the Shogunate.
I remembered how much effort I had gone through to acquire even a foothold in that system: a hidden blacksmith operating off-grid, a custom route built on obscurity and discretion, and even then, I was still waiting for the final piece of my own weapon to be complete.
These players? They had walked in and been granted what I had bled to find. Sigh...such is how a game works.
They won't be able to use Elemental Ninjutsu easily, just like I cannot use weapon-style easily.
Yet here, around me, was nothing left of their gear but warped metal and shattered hilts, the remnants too damaged to even recognize the weapons' original purpose. It wasn't their fault. It wasn't even the smiths' fault. It was the fault of fire—my fire.
The Flame Emperor's Halo amplified every single technique I had cast to a level so intense that not even forged steel, bound with chakra, could withstand its fury. The same flames that turned armor to mist had disintegrated decades of craftsmanship into dust and glowing ash.
I let out a breath, long and even, then deactivated the jutsu. The crown of fire that had hovered behind me—my blazing halo—flickered once before fading into nonexistence, taking with it the heat distortion that warped the air around my shoulders.
The moment it vanished, the pressure lifted. It felt as if the land itself exhaled with me.
From the ridge just beyond the path, I heard the steady footsteps of my client descending, his form silhouetted against the snowfall.
The man from before whom had asked me to finish this taks.
He paused at the edge of the devastation, eyes scanning the carnage with clinical detachment, though I noticed a brief twitch in his brow as the full weight of what he saw settled in.
Without hesitation, he crossed the field and stopped before me, extending a hand in the old-fashioned way. I took it.
"Thank you for completing the mission," he said, voice quiet, either out of respect or fear—it was hard to tell. "If you ever need more information or another lead, contact me through the same channel. We'll make sure it gets to you."
I gave a silent nod. No words were needed.
He turned and left as quickly as he had come, boots crunching over snow and bone.
I remained.
There was no reason to rush. I had no injuries to tend to, no chakra exhaustion to meditate through. The battlefield was mine in silence, and the mountain wind that curled through the valley whispered nothing but what I already knew: the storm was not over. It was just beginning.
So I waited.
I stood perfectly still amid the scorched earth and ruined steel, a lone figure beneath the falling snow, as if carved from the battlefield itself.
It took only 30 minutes.
And then, at last, a ripple.
My chakra field caught it long before my eyes could. A presence, faint but controlled.
Mid-Jonin level, from the way the chakra pulsed in layered waves—confident but cautious. They were still a fair distance away, weaving through the terrain slowly.
I didn't move, since this was probably the person whom I had asked to meet.
From the moment her footsteps breached the edges of my sensory field, I knew the person approaching was not just another cleanup squad member, nor a curious bystander drawn in by the gravity of a massacre, but someone of authority, of certainty, someone who understood the value of appearances and the weight of presence.
When she finally came into view, stepping across the last rocky embankment that framed the scorched battlefield, her figure emerged from the snowfall like a blade unsheathed—precise, sharp, deliberate.
She was shorter than I expected, barely 1.4 meters tall, but her stature was anything but diminutive. Her posture carried itself with a quiet kind of confidence that only those accustomed to commanding others in silence could possess.
Long strands of light blue hair flowed past her back in an ethereal cascade, glinting faintly with frost and chakra residue, strands occasionally lifted by the cold wind that swept through the now silent clearing.
Her eyes, half-lidded and unblinking, carried an expression that was neither hostile nor friendly—it was cold, analytical, and curiously distant, like someone trying to decide whether the person before them was a nuisance, a threat, or simply a particularly troublesome line of code in an otherwise perfect system.
She didn't bother with introductions.
Instead, she stopped three paces in front of me, her boots crunching softly over the burned soil, and with a voice as crisp and cool as the winter air said, "Well, you wanted my attention. Now you have it."
I didn't answer immediately. I took a slow moment to observe her, taking in the way her expression didn't falter, the way her breathing remained smooth, controlled, utterly unfazed by the battlefield around us, as if the corpses at our feet and the scorched armor still steaming in the snow were no more offensive to her sensibilities than dust on a polished floor.
So I said simply, "I'm assuming you're the Guildmaster of Dark Dream."
She said nothing.
But the silence itself, that still, composed refusal to correct me, was all the confirmation I needed.
"I'm giving you one week," I continued, my voice level, carrying neither anger nor urgency, just a finality that did not leave room for negotiation. "Vacate the Land of Iron. Pull your people out, dismantle every forward base, remove every spy, every merchant, every runner you've buried beneath the frost. If not, I will hunt every single member of Dark Dream down, and I will kill you."
The atmosphere shifted like the moment before a storm, when the pressure drops and the sky darkens and something primal within every living thing says: danger.
She didn't blink. She didn't raise a hand. But I could feel it, like a vibration through the earth—the tension, like glass just before it shatters.
And then she laughed.
Not a nervous chuckle or a short bark of disbelief, but a sharp, ringing burst of hysterical laughter that echoed across the valley like chimes made from shattered glass. It rolled out of her in waves, her whole body convulsing in mirth, head tilted back slightly, the sound sharp and wild and somehow more disturbing than any jutsu I had ever faced.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" she gasped through the laughter, voice lifting in incredulity. "Some wandering shinobi with a temper tantrum? A glorified solo player with a death wish? Just because you wiped out a single squad—" she gestured broadly to the blackened corpses littered across the valley, "—just because you bathed a few Chunin in flames and left their bones steaming in the dirt, what makes you think for even a moment that you could deal with the entirety of Dark Dream?"
Her laughter tapered off slowly, replaced by a sharp exhale and the flick of her gaze as it locked back onto mine, and though she was smiling now, her eyes held something else—an edge, a warning, a hunger for bloodshed.
I didn't respond.
I didn't need to.
I simply stood there, calm, immovable, watching her in silence, and in that silence, she found no purchase for her mockery, no weakness to exploit, just the quiet certainty of someone who meant every word they had spoken.
Because I didn't care if she believed me.
I only cared that she remembered.
She tilted her head slightly after my prolonged silence, as if reassessing something she had previously dismissed.
The smirk faded, not entirely, but enough to hint that the bravado was cracking just slightly under the pressure.
Perhaps it was the heat that still lingered in the air, or the unnatural stillness that clung to me like a second skin, but I saw the shift in her posture—the subtle pivot of her front foot, the slow recalibration of her weight, the faint twitch in the fingertips of her left hand.
She was preparing herself in the event I struck first.
Good.
Because that meant I wasn't the only one who saw this conversation for what it really was: a test of power, a measure of nerve, a clash of futures yet to unfold.
One wrong word, one misstep, and this valley would witness a second massacre.
But I didn't move. I didn't threaten again. I simply raised a single brow and let the moment stretch until it strained her composure.
"I see," she finally said, her voice calm now, no longer tinged with the echo of her laughter. "Then I suppose I should tell you: I'm not the kind of person who responds well to threats."
I shrugged.
"That's fine," I replied. "I'm not the kind of person who gives them twice."
"Then let me tell you this right now." She said in a calm tone, "I don't respond well to threats, I make them. I assure you if you do not vacate yourself from the Land of Iron within a week, I will hunt you down."
Another silence followed, heavier than the last. Around us, the world seemed to still entirely—no falling snow, no wind, not even the creak of burnt timber from the ruined tents. Just two figures facing one another on the precipice of something irreversible.
"And then. I will find where you are in the real world too. Trust me when I say I have the resources for that."
Without another word, she turned and began to walk away, her steps unhurried, her back exposed, as if daring me to strike.
I didn't.
I stood there, watching her disappear into the white veil of snowfall until the faint pull of her chakra signature slipped past the horizon.
She would remember.
And soon, so would all of them.
I didn't take her words to heart. After all, I was the one whom began this antagonistic relationship with Dark Dream. If I were to get offended by her threats, I couldn't consider myself as a careful player.
(Authors note: My friends asked me the question and I am now curious. If you were given the Death Note Irl, what choices would you guys make?)
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Authors note:
You can read some chapters ahead if you want to on my p#treon.com/Fat_Cultivator