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Tokyo Sick Love Story
Tokyo: Becoming the Perfect Male God Starting with a Rented Boyfriend
Naruto Ōtsutsuki Versus
When Susanoo webbed under the 100-Type Guanyin, when Amaterasu came apart in the statue's hands, when Amenotokotachi could not hold Netero long enough to matter, Ronin had the answer.
The only way through a defense made of speed was the front.
He would break the 100-Type the way Netero had broken the armor.
No.
Harder.
The only tool he trusted for that job was Naruto's signature.
Netero's rhythm changed the instant the Super Great Ball Rasenshuriken took shape. Palms met. Then one arm snapped out and pointed at Ronin.
The Guanyin rose behind him, vast, unhurried. Both hands lifted and slammed together. The next beat they were already over the Susanoo's head.
The cracked armor gave.
Ronin did not watch the palms finish the job. He turned in the falling shell and threw.
The Rasenshuriken went straight at Netero.
He already knew the old man's next move. After a hit like that, Netero had to clap again.
The hands overhead vanished. A fresh Guanyin stood at Netero's back and slapped the spinning sphere from the side.
The palm came apart.
The Rasenshuriken did not slow and did not turn.
Something tight settled on Netero's face.
More arms poured out. The sphere drowned in an airtight wall of gold.
Lightning crawled over Ronin's skin. Lightning Style Chakra Mode locked in.
The Rasenshuriken would not be enough by itself. Birdsong started in his right hand.
Lightning Style: Chidori.
He was gone the moment the sound peaked.
A short fight was already a fantasy. Mode on meant he was ready to spend.
The Guanyin hammered the Rasenshuriken into detonation less than two kilometers from Netero's body.
The gap was that wide because Netero had been backing up while the hands worked. He had felt what was inside the sphere.
Arms of the 100-Type shattered in the blast. That had not happened since the day he made the thing.
The feedback hit him as a hard, sudden drop in Nen.
It only made him hungrier.
He had never wanted an opponent who folded after one exchange. He wanted someone who might actually put him down, and he wanted every ounce of the work that took.
The shockwave was still thinning when a blue streak entered his eyes.
Fast.
The kind of fast that only Fist-Listening made fully visible.
Time stretched. Every twitch arrived late and complete.
Transmutation, maybe.
He stopped caring what category Ronin was.
Palms together. The Guanyin struck.
Ronin went flying, punched into the hanging water, and came out of it faster than he had gone in.
The statue did not pause. Palm after palm. Ronin kept leaving the air.
The distance kept shrinking.
Twenty meters. Nineteen. Eighteen.
Every time the hands threw him, he landed closer.
The Yin Seal on his brow had already opened. Blood ran. Without the Strength of a Hundred knitting him back together as he broke, the 100-Type would have taken him apart.
He did not stop.
One thought left in his head.
Faster. A little faster. Faster than that.
Too fast.
That was the only read anyone else had.
People still clawing out of the water could not track the exchange. They saw gold behind the Chairman. They saw a blue arc where Ronin should have been.
Shizuku, Neon, and Abachi had gone still. Their eyes were already behind the fight.
Beans' mouth hung open. He had not believed anyone could stand even with Netero.
In Trick Tower's monitor room Lippo was on the floor. He did not get up. He stared at the feed.
What had he invited onto his roof.
Ten meters.
Closer.
That was also the wall. The Yin Seal was nearly dry. Repair started losing the race against damage.
Something ugly and stubborn kicked in his chest.
Was that it. Could he not touch the man. Was there another lever.
The next slap sent him out again. He let go of the arm that held the Chidori. A sealing scroll was in his hand instead.
He tore it as he came out of the water. Shadow clones burst from the paper and died in the same breath.
Clean chakra slammed back into him. The Strength of a Hundred took it and put his body together.
He exploded forward and stole another half meter.
Less than ten.
The corner of his mouth went up. He could see the edge of a win.
More than ten scrolls were still on his back. The three on the sideline were carrying more. If the tank kept filling, the match might actually be his.
Then his pupils tightened.
The water that had been taking stray palms all this time finally failed and came apart.