In the depth of the basin's stillness, the world moved not with chaos, but with calculation.
Pressure rippled outward from David --- not in bursts, not in flare--- but in consistent measured folds. His every breath layered tension into the air like the fabric of space was being tightly wound. The shinobi world wasn't just reacting -- it was shifting. Subtly. Strategically.
Above, beyond the mist-choked canopy, the stars themselves seemed to dim.
Not because of nightfall.
Because the world was bracing.
--
Far beyond the borders of the basin, in the chambers beneath a rain-slicked citadel, Hanzo of the Salamander sat in silent meditation. His breathing shallow. His eyes closed. Yet even from within the sealed confines of Ame's black-stone sanctum, his perception twisted toward the same report replayed through memory.
["He collapsed a chakra beast not with jutsu...but with weight. A pressure so deep, we couldn't seal it. Not even out field tags held. They bled out."]
["Did he speak?"]
["Only once. He said....'Give me room.'"]
Hanzo opened his eyes.
"They've sent us a false god."
He stood, his armor creaking.
"Then we'll test his divinity."
---
Meanwhile, in a different region of the continent, as the political threads of war stretched thin, the hidden villages stirred.
Iwakagure had received the first seismic readings-gravitational disturbances along fault lines that didn't correspond with tectonic activity. Earth style sensors were baffled.
Sunagakure had found birds migrating away from neutral zones. Genin patrol had vanished. Maps shifted without explanation.
Abd Konoha....watched quietly.
Within the corridors of the Hokage Tower, Minato Namikaze reviewed scrolls not written in code -- but in instinct. The accounts came from boarder scouts. Nothing written with chakra --- only sensory reactions.
A man with no chakra, no clan, no allegiance.
A pressure the world couldn't place.
Minato's hands hovered above the parchment.
"He's not using chakra. But his existence changes how chakra responds."
Jiraiya stood behind him, arms crossed.
"I've felt something like it before," Jiraiya murmured. "Once. In the deepest part of Mount Myoboku. Where pressure makes you remember your own weight."
Minato didn't respond.
because something deeper stirred in his chest.
Fear? No.
Anticipation.
--
Back in the basin, David had not moved.
But the world around him had.
He stood at the center of an ancient field that had, hours ago, breathed with the trees and birdsong. Now the land had stilled entirely.
No leaves fell. No water ran. Time had not stopped -- but it had thickened.
David raised his hand.
This mist curled backward.
He didn't command it. He didn't force it. His will impressed upon it -- and the world yielded. Not because it feared him.
Because it had nothing with which to counter.
There was no jutsu to seal will.
Only space to witness it.
He looked to the horizon.
Far away, he could feel the movements. Not chakra signatures -- but intentions. Several teams moving in triangulated advance. Military cadence. Formation spacing. They were close enough to observe but far enough to believe they were unseen.
David didn't pursue them. He let them come.
He was curious.
Not for violence.
For evidence.
--
A week passed.
The first of them came at twilight -- four shinobi in unmarked gear, no village insignia. Each one enhanced for stealth and interrogation. Root-trained. Probably remnants of a project that had never made it into the scrolls.
David stood before them.
They circled.
One moved.
It wasn't a clash. It was a conclusion.
The shinobi struck, and the 'Dirge' (Will-Manifested pressure) whispered through the field.
There was no light. No wave. No flare.
But the man collapsed.
Not struck--undone. His body folded in on itself like his momentum had betrayed hiw own spine. The air didn't ripple.
It refused to remember what had happpened.
The others hesistated.
David stepped forward.
"You're not here to learn," he said. "You're here to judge. So judge this---"
He vanished.
Not through speed.
Through density.
When he reappeared, two of them were already unconscious.
He stood above the last.
"You think I'm an anomaly," he said softly, "but I'm just clarity you weren't taught to see."
He didn't kill them.
He let them leave.
Because the story would travel faster than corpses.
And his legend wasn't built on death.
It was built on witness.
----
But witness alone could not explain what followed.
The world doesn not bend without consequence. And pressure, once released, demands equal violence.
It came first in the night.
Ten shinobi. No headbands. No orders spoken aloud. But their bodies moved like storm patterns --unified, violent, necessary. They dropped in silence surrounding the basin.
David sat at its center, unmoved.
The moment they landed, his body shifted.
Not in posture. Not in expression.
But in density.
The mist fled from him. The grass leaned flat. Their knees buckled before they realized why.
And then came the blood.
He did not warn them. He did not greet them.
He stood.
The first shinobi lunged, Kunai drawn. A clean strike to the neck -- cleaner than chakra could ever sharpen. The man died before his foot hit the ground.
Another screamed.
David met him.
This time, he didn't use Dirge. He moved through the man's technique, learning it mid-strike. The fist was caught. The elbow snapped. The rib cage folded.
Two more came. Together. Trained for tandem combat.
David took the blow to the shoulder -- let it sink in deep. His body cracked with pain. But 'Iron Pulse' welcomed it. Strength flooded him. Vision sharpened. Muscles tightened.
He broke them open.
Not just with strikes.
With intent.
It wasn't fury.
It was artistry.
Each kill was a brushstroke.
Each motion, an inscription of violence into reality's surface.
By the time the final three retreated, blood had painted the earth in arcs that glowed red beneath the moon.
David breathed, not heavily.
But reverently.
"The system will keep sending them," he whispered, voice low like the hum of a blade sliding free.
He looked at his hands -- covered in red, but clean of hesitation.
"So let it."
This world would remember him.
Not just as pressure.
But as slaughter incarnate.
The War God had only begun his ascent.