The blades of vengeances have fallen swiftly. The shinobi are no more as 'Absolute Justice' has returned...now, it is the Samurai that rule the Five Major Nations!
But at what cost? Have they become the very thing that they despised the most...? Heroes and villains seem to change roles every day, but one thing is for certain - we yearn for our freedom, for days gone by where we flew the skies unhindered.
While the blonde-haired trespasser wanted to express dialogue, Haitsuchi had nothing else to say. Using the godly extrapolative perception of his Sharingan, the moment he would resurface from his dash, the Uchiha would rush in. Hand at the ready upon the hilt of his Katana, a quick, right-handed draw would send the curved steel upwards diagonally—cutting from his right hip, up to his left shoulder. With the intention to slice the intruder in two and coupled with the distance apart and the debauched timing for speaking, the Uchiha was confident his attrack would hit. Regardless; his eyes acted as a safeguard; he’d be well off enough to evade if need be, even moreso as the smoke dissipated quickly.
Oh. The man did not even want to talk. How pitiful. It is not as if he did not expect that, though. Nobody likes an Uchiha, especially a haughty one. Too bad, they were all egotistical. He did not like them, not one single bit. It boiled his blood that the man did not even speak, a grimace of resentment bolstering across his face. Another disrespectful and vile creature, meant for him to grave. Nemuru, having been cut off, decided to do something useful for once.
With his left hand, he drew his sword diagonally upon the atmosphere, mimicking the move of his opponent to block their attack, returning it with equal force. During this, his right arm hand been at work, and with a mere fidget, dropped the canister to the ground, already prepared to explode. It would illuminate the area, hopefully blinding his foe. He would raise his head with temporarily closed eyes until the rays settled, distorting ten meters backward over the gap in between the bridge, to the road.
The deflection wasn’t much of a concern for the Jōnin and he didn’t bother challenging the claim. As a swift breeze carried the opposition backwards and a dense flash of light clouded the field, Haitsuchi made a subtle backpedal. On his guard and using every sensory organ at his disposal to avoid being knocked off guard, he’d wait until the light faded. “Stop running.” He’d comment just loud enough for the other to hear. Sheathing his blade and turning around to face the opposite direction, he’d lower his guard. All the while, he didn’t recess his thoughts or awareness. Stopping at the end of the opposite side of the bridge, he’d wait.
“Why do you truly seek entrance into the Hidden Grass?”
It had not been like him to let his mind be lead astray by the allure of battle, but this one had been worth every moment he spent fighting, already knowing all of his tactics to be fruitless, though some useful. Nemuru had never told the man his reason for transferring his country. That had been a mistake on his part. He let his emotions get the best of him…or so it seemed. Stepping forward, and brushing off his clothing with open palms, he made sure to keep his eyes on the body of the man until they decided to deactivate their treacherous eye technique.
“I just travel around to different locations.”
eyes widening as he spoke.
“And your home happens to be one of those places.”